Mary immediately thought she’d been found out. She began to unroll her sleeve and was about to swear that she’d only been trying to hide an ugly stain, not to smuggle amnio syrup out of the clinic. But Hattie said, “We Jennys are trained to deal with this from childhood. It’s never easy, but you and the other ’leens should probably prepare yourselves to lose your client.”
“What?”
“It’s not your fault, and I’m not saying it’s a certainty. Heaven knows, we’ve seen miraculous turnarounds before, but it doesn’t look good for Starke. You saw her fetus. It’s not only not gained mass since yesterday, but it’s actually lost some. It simply cannot thrive while she remains in a coma. If she doesn’t regain consciousness soon, it will die.”
Mary, not sure what to do with her arms, held them behind her back and said, “But that in itself wouldn’t kill her brain, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t, but there’d be no point in grafting on a second fetus. That never works. Starke’s only option then, assuming she eventually woke up, which isn’t a given, would be to live as a brain-in-a-box. Faced with this, most people choose to die.”
Hattie wrung her hands, a typical jenny gesture. When she continued, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and said, “There’s some who say that reviving the dead is an abomination against the Creator, but I say that’s horse pucky. In most cases, we can fix what killed you and restart your engines without resorting to deals with Satan.
“But in the case of trauma—deep, massive tissue trauma—the sort that Starke suffered before her safety helmet kicked in—did you know that the force of the crash liquified the rest of her body?—well, it puts these people into a different class of dead. It’s not like they died by drowning or hemorrhaging or something easy like that. Extreme trauma does something to people. It’s like they don’t even want to come back. And if we do manage to save them, they don’t fully recover. They’re broken people. So I wanted to warn you and your sisters that you should prepare yourselves for the worst case.”
The conversation with Hattie was disturbing. It sounded as if the nurse had already given up on Myr Starke.
MARY ENCOUNTERED CONCIERGE on Mineral Way. “Ah, Myr Skarland,” it said warmly, “I was just on my way to Feldspar. Our guest has company. Mind if I walk with you?”
“Please do,” Mary said, her guilty arm involuntarily slinking behind her back—for all the good that would do.
There were three realbody guests in the cottage, a woman and two men. They wore clothes that had not come out of an extruder, and they slouched in the insolent pose of wealth. Aff friends of aff Starke. Georgine was in the upper room with the tank, staying out of the way. One of the men wore vurt gloves and used a special comb on the sleeping woman’s hair. He looked up when Mary and Concierge entered. His lidded gaze barely glanced off Mary and riveted Concierge with an intensity that was at once commanding and dismissive.
“You be the clinic machine,” he said, not a question but a statement of fact.
“That is correct,” said Concierge, “the clinic mentar.”
“This all wired up?”
“Yes, Myr Orex. Myr Starke’s jacket is completely mapped to her brain.”
“Good,” he said and seemed to wipe Concierge from his awareness. He combed the jacket’s hair with long graceful strokes. The muscles of his shoulders and arms rippled in an odd way, and Mary realized they’d been rehung on his skeletal frame. It was a recent aff fad. Slight alterations in the attachment points; longer, stronger tendons; more numerous bundles of thinner muscle fibers gengineered with feline DNA. The bones were reinforced as well.
The visiting woman sat next to Myr Starke on the daybed. She, too, wore gloves, and she held the jacket’s hand. “Ellie, dear, it’s me, Clarity,” she said. “Do you have any idea how inconvenient this is? Did you forget about our touchstone test today? Baby, we’ve got a problem. Renaldo (the Dangerous) is all wrong for the part. Won’t you please come out to discuss this with me? I hate to make these decisions by myself. Enough of this coma crap.”
“You have to kiss her, Clarity,” said the other man. He was a generically handsome fellow with traditionally human musculature. “That’s how it works with sleeping beauties. I should know; it works on me.”
Clarity said, “Is that right? You’ve been tanked, have you?”
“Six times!” the man said. “And each time right here at the Roosevelt. I’ve got my own reserved tank. Isn’t that right, Serge?”
“It’s nice to see you again, Myr Thorpe,” Concierge replied. “I notice you haven’t managed to kill this body yet.”
The man guffawed. “Not through any lack of trying,” he said.
Someone new came into the cottage: a heavyset man with coarse white whiskers and fleshy jowls. He wore an iconic artist’s smock and beret, and he carried a large wooden case under his arm.
“A Sebastian Carol!” Clarity said upon seeing him. “I didn’t think there were any of those left.”
“There aren’t,” Concierge said. “At least not on the public nets.”
“Explain.”
“Because data flow is restricted through clinic space, we maintain our own simiverse here for the enjoyment of our guests. We have a subem dedicated to hollyholo generation and a stable of over a thousand characters, some of them rare collector’s items, like our Sebastian Carol here.”
Sebastian Carol moved about the room, checking angles with bloodshot eyes. Settling on a spot, he held out his wooden case, which sprouted legs and an easel. “You, negress,” he said to Clarity, “remove your garments and scoot a little to your left.”
She ignored him and asked Concierge, “If you have an independent simiverse, who does your plot management?”
“That happens to be my pleasure.”
“I see,” Clarity said doubtfully. “And what do your clinic guests think of mentar-driven plot mats?”
Before Concierge could answer, the man brushing Starke’s hair said, “Clarity, must you always talk shop? It’s so incredibly boring to the rest of us.”
The other man said, “Serge, how many hours since Ellen was unclenched?”
“Fifty-seven.”
Starke’s friends exchanged a look.
Two more hollyholo sims entered the cottage, the two doctors Mary and Georgine had passed on the footpath. When Clarity saw these, she frowned and said, “Do tell, Serge, how the clinic’s stable came to acquire a Renaldo (the Dangerous). Ellen and my production company bought out the entire edition of him, or so we thought.”
“Don’t be concerned,” Concierge said. “It’s a beta version. We were a test site for the original producers. Our private simiverse makes ideal testing conditions, something you and Myr Starke might keep in mind the next time you have a new character in development.”
The sims approached the daybed. The Renaldo character said, “’Lo, folks. Don’t get up. Just making my rounds. I’m Doctor Ted, and I’m giving my colleague here, Doctor Babs, a tour of the wards.”
“Good to meet you, Doctors,” Clarity said. “I wish my friend, Ellen, were awake. She’d like to meet you. Especially you, Doctor Ted.”
“I’m flattered,” Doctor Ted said and produced a medical chart from thin air. He studied it briefly and said, “A tragic case. This is Myr Ellen Starke of the Starke dynasty. Her space yacht was hijacked by a rogue mentar, and Ellen was killed.” Doctor Ted pulled an antique stethoscope from his jacket pocket and draped it over his shoulders before continuing. “Her cryonics helmet only partially stabilized her alma mater, resulting in insult to her cranial conundrum. But have no fear; our cracker-jack staff here at Roosevelt Clinic have put things aright, and our guest is making salubrious progress. We’ll have her decomatosed in no time at all.”