“Repeat,” Theresa said to Thomas, even though the word came out a choked whisper and the salt tears hurt her radiation-burned skin. The newsholo repeated.
So they were all dead. Miranda Sharifi—dead at La Solana, along with all the strange and inhuman Supers who had changed humanity into something different. Jennifer Sharifi—dead on Sanctuary, along with her brilliant, powerful people who controlled so much of the world’s money in ways Theresa had never understood. Leisha Camden—dead seven years ago in a Georgia swamp. All dead. All the people genemod for never having to sleep, all the people who, Jackson said, were once supposed to be the next step in evolution. All dead.
But Lizzie Francy and her baby were alive. In jail in Manhattan East Enclave. Tell the doctor! Tell Vicki! Come get—
Theresa couldn’t do it. She was too weak, too frightened.
Please tell Dr. Aranow and Vicki Turner right away to come get me, it’s an emergency!
She could do it if she became Cazie.
Theresa closed her eyes. The tears stopped. Jackson had no idea—nobody did—how often in the last month Theresa had become Cazie. Lying in bed, hurting even through the painkillers, struggling to push herself through the physical rehabilitation program, making herself think about the explosion at La Solana without panic and seizure—Theresa had practiced being Cazie. Being someone who was not afraid, who was able to decide what she had to do and then do it.
She became Cazie now.
Gradually Theresa’s breathing slowed. Her hands stopped trembling. More important, she could feel the difference in her head. Like a newsgrid changing channels, almost. Her brain felt different. Could that be? But it was how she felt.
Theresa swung her legs to the floor and reached for her crutches. The nursing ’bot floated to her bedside. “Do you need help, Ms. Aranow? Would you prefer a bedpan?”
“No. Deactivate,” Theresa said, and the part of her that was still Theresa—there was such a part, only if she thought too much about that she’d lose the part that wasn’t—heard the decisiveness in her tone. Cazie’s tone. In Theresa’s still-hoarse voice.
Don’t think about it.
She struggled out of her nightgown and into a dress. It hung on her thin body. Shoes, jacket. In the foyer she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror.
No. Oh, God, no… that bald head, her? Sunken eyes, burned scabbed skin stretched over the skull… her? The tears started again.
No. Cazie wouldn’t cry. Cazie would know it was only temporary, she was getting better, Jackson said so… Cazie would wear a hat. Theresa took one of Jackson’s and jammed it down over her ears.
“Manhattan East jail, look up the coordinates,” she told the go-’bot that the building had called for her; she tried to scowl like Cazie. She’d had to wait for the go-’bot for nearly fifteen minutes. But she’d stayed Cazie the whole time.
“Yes, Ms. Aranow,” the go-’bot said. Theresa opaqued the windows and closed her eyes, to avoid glimpsing herself in window reflections.
The go-’bot left her in front of a building near the enclave shield’s east wall. A few people hurrying by stopped on the sidewalk and stared at her. Theresa ignored them. Chin high, hands clasped tightly together, she told the retina scanner in the deserted atrium, “I’m Theresa Aranow. I’m here to see a… a prisoner. Lizzie Francy. Or whoever is in charge here.”
“You’re not registered as an attorney, Ms. Aranow,” the building said. “Or as a close relative of the prisoner.”
“No, I’m… can I talk to a human, please?”
“I’m sorry, we’re in an emergency state just now. All Patterson Protect personnel have been deployed elsewhere. Would you care to wait?”
An emergency state. Of course. The attack on Sanctuary… people must be afraid the next bomb could fall on New York. If she hadn’t opaqued the go-’bot window, she would probably have seen people streaming out of the enclave by air. No wonder her building had taken so long to get her a go-’bot. And maybe the startled-looking people outside hadn’t been startled by her weird looks after all, but by their own fear. This bolstered her.
“I don’t want to wait,” she said. “I want to take Lizzie Francy out of here. What do I have to do for that?”
“Are you requesting Public Records?”
“Yes.” Was she? Why not?
“This is Public Records,” a different system said. “How may I help you?”
“I want… I want to take Lizzie Francy home. With me.”
“Francy, Elizabeth, citizen ID CLM-03-9645-957,” the system recited. “Apprehended 4:45 P.M. May 18, 2121, at 349 East 96th Street by Patterson Protect security ’bot serial number 45296, licensed to Manhattan East Enclave for official operation within the enclave dome. Placed under enclave detention. Patterson Protect franchise headquarters, 5:01 P.M., detaining personnel, Officer Karen Ellen Foster. Grounds filed for detention: breaking and entering, criminal trespass. Current legal status: enclave action only, NYPD not notified. Current detainee status: in custody, alert, no registered attorney.”
Theresa repeated stubbornly, because she didn’t know what else to do, “I want to take her home.”
“Detainee has not been placed under NYPD arrest. Patterson Protect does not have extended detention rights without NYPD notification. No notification has been filed for Francy, Elizabeth, citizen ID CLM-03-9645-957. However, arrested person does not have authorization to remain within Manhattan East Enclave unless she is under the recognizance of a registered resident.”
“She’s my… guest.” Was that good enough? Cazie would think it was good enough. Theresa said, more firmly, “My guest. Mine. Theresa Aranow.”
“Let the record read that in the absence of Patterson Protect notification of charges to NYPD, detainee Elizabeth Francy, citizen ID CLM-03-9645-957, has been released under the recognizance of Theresa Katherine Aranow, citizen ID CGC-02-8736-341. Thank you for your patronage of Patterson Protect.”
Theresa suddenly panicked. “And the baby! Let me take the baby home, too, Lizzie’s baby, I forget his name… the baby!”
The system did not respond.
Theresa closed her eyes, fighting for control. Cazie would not panic. Cazie would wait and see if Lizzie came out of one of these doors carrying the baby. Cazie would wait, and then decide what to do next… She was Cazie.
“Ms. Aranow?” Lizzie said. “Theresa?”
Theresa opened her eyes. Lizzie stood there, without the baby. She stared at Theresa from wide shocked eyes, and Theresa remembered how she must look. She said, “Where’s… where’s the baby?”
“Baby? My baby, you mean? Home with my mother, him. Why?”
“I thought—”
“What happened to you?”
And at that, Theresa crumpled. She wasn’t Cazie. Now that someone else was here, someone stronger… now that Lizzie had reminded Theresa of how she looked… now that she’d succeeded in getting Lizzie out… she wasn’t Cazie anymore. She was Theresa Aranow, and she could feel her breathing start to go ragged and could watch her scrawny arm clutch at the disheveled Liver girl who for all Theresa knew might be the only other human left in an enclave about to be hit by a nuclear bomb. Theresa moaned.
“No, don’t do that here,” Lizzie said from far away. “God, it’s just like Shockey, isn’t it? And you never even breathed a neuropharm… come on, don’t fall, lean on me… no, wait, I need my terminal back—building system! I want the backpack, me, that I come in here with!”