Counting Heads

by David Marusek

  Moreover, Meewee had left the question dangling. So he said, “Sheets, towels, robes—I took as much as I could carry.”

  Wee Hunk guffawed and said, “I’ve set aside a room for you overlooking the fields. Would you like to go there now?”

  Under the surface, this was an identity challenge. Meewee replied, “Yes, please. I would like to get settled in.” Then in turn, he challenged the mentar’s own integrity, “Do you happen to have an extruder on the premises? I need to make some new apparel.”

  Wee Hunk responded positively to both layers of inquiry, and as he led Meewee through the warren of rooms, he secretly briefed him on events of the last dozen hours: Ellen’s head had been installed in a hernandez tank in a cottage at the clinic, evangeline hires were with her now with continuity counters embedded in their hats, no progress had been made in tracking down Eleanor’s assassins or Ellen’s abductors, and efforts to find an independent revivification specialist had thus far been fruitless.

  The Starke Manse, for all its impressive size, managed to retain a homey ambiance. The arbeitor led Meewee to a suite of rooms that was easily double the size of his executive quarters. More room than Meewee knew how to occupy.

  “I’m pleased to see that the metalanguage has kicked in,” Wee Hunk said in plain English. “And with no lasting harm done to your health. Your sudden command of Starkese is impressive, but there is no need to use it or to glot while we are here. The manse is double canopied and shielded against all forms of espionage. It’s more secure here than in many null rooms.”

  Wee Hunk jumped off the arbeitor and assumed a full-sized appearance. He opened a small scape showing the interior of Ellen’s clinic cottage, with four of the eight evangelines present. Two of them were preparing to leave, and the scape split into two, one remaining inside the cottage, and the other following the departing companions down a path to South Gate.

  “You said she’s not doing well?” Meewee said, zooming in on the skull inside the hernandez tank.

  “No, not well at all. Critical neural functions have not resumed. Concierge says the doctors have no explanation but are guardedly optimistic.”

  “Damn, I wish we had our own doctor.”

  “I’m still looking for one,” the mentar said, “but all of the thousands of qualified revivificationists practicing in the UD are either employed by or on retainer to the Fagan Health Group, and thus are unacceptable. Fagan has a solid lock on the specialty in the West. Perhaps one of your old Birthplace contacts outside the UD would be useful.”

  “I’ll look into it, but there’s not much call for revivification in famine countries.”

  In the scape, a medtech entered the cottage and went to the tank. He checked its controller, then climbed a ladder and dipped a small vial into the tank for a sample of the amber amnio fluid. After marking the vial, he dropped it into a pocket and proceeded with other monitoring tasks. Meanwhile, in the other scape, the two off-shift evangelines reached the South Gate gatehouse and were processed through. On the other side of the gatehouse a Starke limo waited for them.

  “I’ll debrief them as soon as the car leaves the grounds,” Wee Hunk said.

  “You mentioned something about continuity counters. What are those?”

  “Something like time code generators. The Roosevelt Clinic, as we saw in the nustscape last night, is a self-enclosed environment. It, like this house, is double canopied and shielded. All transmissions to and from the clinic must pass through a gatekeeper, which happens to be Concierge. While it’s true that I’ve been watching Ellen continuously, how can I trust the images and data that Concierge is feeding me? When the evangelines leave the mentar’s domain, I’ll be able to compare the time log in their hats to my own records. Any tampering whatsoever with my surveillance will show up.”

  “Clever.”

  The evangelines boarded the limo, which drove up the drive to the parking lot and jumped into the air. Once outside clinic space, a miniature Wee Hunk appeared on the seat opposite them and said, “Good afternoon, myren. How did your first day go?”

  Mary said, “Good afternoon, Myr Hunk. It went well, I think. Concierge is very nice.” Then she added, “Will she ever recover?”

  “Ah, Myr Skarland, that’s a difficult question. The doctors are troubled by Ellen’s lack of improvement but aren’t ready to panic yet. According to their experience with such cases, there is a five-day window in which a cryogenically frozen brain may regain consciousness, with the rate of recovery proportional to the cube of the inverse of days since thawing.”

  Mary glanced at Renata who shrugged, and Mary said, “Excuse me, Myr Hunk, but I’m not good at math.”

  Back at the manse, Wee Hunk said to Meewee, “Unfortunately, without our own specialist, there is no way we can test the findings of these clinic doctors.”

  “Surely there are autodocs equipped to analyze such cases,” Meewee said. “Why don’t you bring out a sample of that hernandez tank fluid? That ought to tell us something.”

  “Good idea,” Wee Hunk said. “I’ll see what I can do.” In the limo, he said, “Sorry, Myr Skarland, what it means is that if Ellen doesn’t wake up tomorrow, she’ll have only one chance in eight of waking up on Thursday. If she doesn’t awaken on Thursday, she’ll have one chance in twenty-seven on Friday, one chance in 256 on Saturday, and one in 625 on Sunday. You see how quickly her prospects dim. By then, even if she does awaken, she would most likely suffer irreparable psychosis.”

  In the manse bedroom, the arbeitor finished unpacking Meewee’s luggage and putting his things away. It came around the bed to where Meewee was sitting and held out a trophy in its gripper arm. It was the 2082 Mandela Humanitarian Award that Meewee had won for his Birthplace work.

  “Put it there for now,” Meewee said and pointed at the night table. The arbeitor placed the trophy on the table and then, without warning, extended its arm and tried to grab Meewee by the throat. Meewee reared back reflexively and blocked it with his hands. The arbeitor caught one of his arms and squeezed it in a crushing grip. Meewee screamed and tried to break free. “Help! Help!” he cried.

  “I’ve called for security,” Wee Hunk replied.

  “Make it stop!”

  “I can’t. Someone else is controlling it.”

  The arbeitor dragged Meewee off the bed by the arm and extended its other gripper, trying to catch his throat, but Meewee squirmed out of reach.

  “Listen to me, Bishop,” Wee Hunk said calmly. “Tell Arrow to stop it.”

  “Arrow, stop this thing!” Meewee shouted, but the arbeitor continued its assault. It twisted Meewee’s arm, forcing him into gripper range.

  “Not in English,” Wee Hunk said. “Use Starkese.”

  Meanwhile, in the limo scape, Wee Hunk continued its explanation to the evangelines. “That’s why the doctors will employ more aggressive methods of rousing her in the coming days, including microsurgical tissue replacement.”

  “Arrow!” Meewee cried when the gripper found his throat and began to squeeze. “Arrow!” he choked, fumbling for the proper syntax, “make me a pot of tea!”

  Immediately something inside the arbeitor’s casing sizzled, and the machine went slack. Meewee pulled its gripper from his throat and rolled away, gulping air.

  “Thank goodness,” Wee Hunk said. “Are you all right?” In the limo, he continued. “Tonight they will try to induce dreams and reestablish a ninety-minute sleep cycle by chemical means. Tomorrow they wire her directly to a simulacrum jacket.”

  Meewee lay wheezing on the floor while his heart bounced around in his chest. Someone was banging on the bedroom door, unable to get in. Manse security?

  “So much for our double canopy and shielding,” Wee Hunk said.

  On the other side of the room, the closet opened, and two small cleaning scuppers emerged and charged across the carpet directly at Meewee’s head.

  3.6

  On the way home after work, Bogdan witnessed two more blooms. One was in a tube s
tation where a bead car inflated like a balloon (with a hapless passenger trapped inside), and the other was way up the side of a gigatower where a whole section of outer wall was blinking on and off like a lightning bug. None of this would happen on Planet Lisa, he was sure.

  Arriving home at the Kodiak building, Bogdan didn’t even give the wayward front door a chance to deny him entry; he ducked in through the NanoJiffy instead.

  On the way past the third-floor administrative offices, he was stopped by Kale who asked him to step in for a minute. Kale, April, and Kitty were in the outer office with an elderly couple, who stood up to greet him. The visitors wore black overalls with little pink-orange-green lapel pins, chartist colors that Bogdan didn’t recognize. They held out thin arms and crooked fingers to shake his hand. They were so old that Bogdan couldn’t be sure if they were male or female. Whatever charter this was, they had way serious body issues.

  “Bogdan,” Kale said, “say hello to the Myren Beadlemyren.”

  Bogdan’s jaw dropped. Was this the charter that owned the superfund micromines in Wyoming? The Kodiaks’ potential saviors?

  “The Beadlemyren are in town for tomorrow’s Rendezvous,” Kale went on, “and were kind enough to drop by for dinner.” Kale, and April too, were wearing their best clothes, trimmed in Kodiak’s brown-yellow-white. Kale seemed even more ill at ease than usual, and April was atypically silent. Only Kitty, wearing a Japanese schoolgirl uniform, complete with knee-high white stockings, seemed in her element.

  “Hello, young man,” one of the Beadlemyren said. “Your ’meets have been bragging about your important upreffing engineering.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Kitty put in. She stepped next to Bogdan and encircled him in her arms. “Boggy is a demographics specialist. Practically in management.”

  The two old codgers leaned in to inspect him with rheumy eyes. Their breath had a hint of Samson’s odor. Their arms were streaked in red where they had been scratching themselves.

  “That’s right,” Bogdan said, “and tomorrow they’re going to bestow some award on me.”

  “We’re pretty proud of him,” Kale said. “Go on up now and change, Boggy, dear. We’ll do a quick Soup Pot Ceremony, and then the Beadlemyren will join us for dinner.”

  THE SOUP POT Ceremony was indeed quick that evening. Only house members who actually had hard currency to donate were invited up. This included Bogdan who contributed his day’s payfer without, for once, drawing the whole procedure out.

  When the abbreviated ceremony was finished, Houseer Kale said, “We have two very important guests waiting to join us. They’re hungry after their journey, so let’s not make them wait too long.”

  The housemeets had been forewarned to dress up, and they all wore freshly extruded togs. Most of them were preparing for Rondy and so had their hair newly trimmed and their hoary old skin planed smooth.

  “I don’t think I need to remind you,” Kale continued, “how important it is that we broaden our membership base. When Sam—well, when Sam leaves us, we’ll be down to sixteen members. Any fewer and we’ll slip below the statutory minimum for charter status. That could jeopardize our special community privileges, including our discounted insurance rates, our fee waivers, tax credits, and a host of other subsidies. April could lose the NanoJiffy, and I don’t need to spell out what that could mean.

  “In order to prevent such a disaster,” Kale went on, “the Steering Committee has been in confidential discussion with our guests’ charter for some months.”

  There were murmurs of surprise and concern from the housemeets, and Kale raised his hands and continued. “Now, now, let me finish. We were going to wait until things firmed up a little before bringing this before the house, but tonight’s unexpected visit has forced us to at least give you the basics of the plan.”

  The houseer, with the help of April and Gerald, proceeded to quickly sketch out the opportunity afforded by the Beadlemyren and their Rosewood Acres micromine. A babble of questions followed: Does that mean we’ll have to leave Chicago? Does that mean we’ll no longer be Kodiaks?

  “We’ll have plenty of time later for discussion. We’re in no way committed to this plan, which is only in its exploratory stages, and frankly, the Beadlemyren have many more suitors than us, including, I am sorry to say, our Tobbler neighbors. I just wanted to give you a heads-up and ask you to be on your best behavior. And a critical word of warning—do not mention anything about the possibility of material pirates eating our building or especially about Hubert’s arrest last night. If this is going to work, we’ll need all of our assets. Let’s not shoot ourselves in the foot, people. Understood? Good. Megan, call them in.”

  “Wait up,” April said. “Kale, aren’t we forgetting someone?”

  The housemeets groaned, and Kale said, “Can’t that keep till later? We’re making our important guests wait.”

  “No, it can’t, and I’ll be brief. I know how much it means to everyone to go to Rondy tomorrow, but the fact of the matter is that someone will have to stay home to be with Samson.”

  A dead silence filled Green Hall. The housemeets glanced furtively among themselves to discover who might least miss attending Rendezvous. Barry and Francis, who were on the roof keeping vigil with Samson, let it be known through the houseputer that they weren’t volunteering to stay behind, in case anyone had that impression. They went on to boldly suggest that Kitty should be the one to stay with him.

  All eyes went to Kitty. It made perfect sense. She was Samson’s favorite, after all. Kitty, however, had other ideas. She crossed her arms and screwed up her face in a perfect imitation of juvenile willfulness. No one, least of all April, imagined they could leave her behind.

  In the end, April volunteered herself, as everyone knew she would. She would forgo the Rendezvous so that Samson’s last breath might be shared with a loved one.

  “But that’s just not fair,” Rusty complained. “April has done more work than anybody here to prepare us for Rondy. She’s the one who ordered our special clothes, designed our booth, rented the omnibus, and arranged get-togethers with the other houses. If anyone deserves to go, it’s April.” When no one volunteered to take her place, Rusty said, “Okay, I’ll stay. April, you go to Rondy. I’m staying with Sam.”

  This clearly would not do. Rusty had been preparing to attend Rondy for months. He’d grown new hair. He’d forced himself to overeat at every meal in order to put on a little weight. He was looking a good ten years younger. And besides, he was the one ’meet most likely to succeed in attracting a spouse at the Rendezvous and thus increase the house’s membership by one. He already had three different ladies from three different charters lined up to meet him.

  “Thank you, Rusty,” April said. “I appreciate your offer. I really do. But I won’t hear of it. End of discussion.”

  And so it was decided. Megan escorted the two visiting Beadlemyren to their places of honor at the head table, with Kitty seated between them. And though the meal consisted of dishes rarely seen at the Kodiak board—troutcorn chowder and veggie starters, an entree of beeflike Stroganoff, and for dessert, chocolate pie with ice cream and coffeesh, the mood in Green Hall was glum. Kale finally explained things to their guests, lest the Beadlemyren write them off as a sullen lot.

  “One of our dear housemeets is gravely ill,” he said, “and we’re all attending to him in our thoughts.”

  But what Bogdan was attending to in his thoughts was the houseer’s repeated use of the word “asset” to describe Hubert. Last night, when Kale had allowed himself to be arrested rather than give up Hubert, Bogdan had been impressed by the houseer’s newfound devotion to Samson’s mentar. Now he wasn’t so sure. Asset? Hubert had never been much of an asset to the house before; how would Samson’s passing change that?

  He turned to Rusty and said, “What is old what’s-its-name’s status?”

  Rusty glanced at the head table where their two guests were seemingly enthralled by one of Kitty’s anecdotes. “He’s
been disappeared,” Rusty said.

  “What? Disappeared?”

  “Yeah,” said Louis from across the table. “Hacking into the you-know-what in the sky is a serious crime against national security. The kind that makes you disappear.”

  “There is one upside to disappearing, though,” Rusty said. “Nobody, not even the neighbors, can find out about the arrest. So at least that won’t spango whatever deal Kale is cooking up with the Wyoming folks.”

  “Unless of course the neighbors saw them hauling it away,” Louis added.

  “I was here,” Megan said. “The blacksuits stuck him in an evidence box before removing him. Nobody saw nothing, except us.”

  During dessert, at precisely 7:12 PM, Bogdan’s second Alert! ran out. He yawned like a cave, then leaned over his plate and fell asleep. Hands all around shook him awake. April was calling from the head table. “Send him to bed. Bogdan, go up to bed. Someone go with him.”

  Bogdan struggled to his feet and wrapped one last wedge of chocolate pie in a napkin. Rusty got up too, but Bogdan waved him to stay put.

  “All right,” Rusty said, “but just remember you’re bunking on seven now in my room.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” As Bogdan left Green Hall, Kale was explaining to their guests how the boy worked too hard. Never knew when to quit. The two gray emissaries murmured approvingly.

  Bogdan trudged up the steps, more asleep than awake, when, on the fifth-floor landing, he was startled by an incoming, fullscape phone call right there in the stairwell. An official-looking sig appeared in the air, lighting up the whole landing. It occurred to Bogdan to wonder how this was possible—there were no cam/emitters in the stairwell—but his question drifted away when the sig morphed into a tall, handsome young officer in a vaguely familiar uniform.