Fred sifted through the entire HUL and found only three hits on him or his effort. One was posted in a public square, and two more were clipped to it. Fred steeled himself and opened them.
The first one said, “Seriously, Londenstane, seek professional help.” It was signed, “A Concerned Brother, Batch 16BA.”
The other two were authored by “Anon” and read simply, “Ditto.”
“Ditto” was not a word that iterants used in polite discourse, and its appearance here felt like a slap in the face. Was there no other russ out there who felt as he did? Was he the only one? Fred pulled the datapin from the player and dropped it into his pocket. He left the booth and told Marcus he wanted to use the null room.
“Certainly,” said Marcus. “The first opening I have is Saturday noon for thirty minutes.”
“What are my chances of a cancellation this afternoon?”
“I can put you at the top of the waiting list.”
Fred went to the canteen and drank coffee and got himself caught up on skullcap news. A couple of hours later, Marcus told him to go to the null room ready area; a fifteen-minute slot had opened up.
“That’s good,” Fred said. “Listen, Marcus, I want you to make me a special datapin. I want an E-Pluribus model of the russ germline.”
“What batch?” Marcus asked.
“All batches. The entire line, compiled up to the minute.”
“That’s an expensive request.”
“It’s a covered expense.”
“Certainly, it is,” Marcus said, “but usually covered only in conjunction with psychiatric care. Would you like me to arrange an autopsyche session, Myr Londenstane?”
“No, just the pin, thanks.” Fred went to the ready area where the E-Pluribus datapin awaited him, still warm, in the wall dispenser.
There were four other russes in the ready area. They sat in pairs as far away from each other as the small space allowed. A dispute settlement, Fred surmised. Russes tended to resolve their personal differences in-house. The four of them nodded a greeting to Fred as he sat in a chair between them.
A minute later, the on-deck light came on, and the four russes rose to prepare to enter the null room lock. They drank the expressing visola and divested themselves of caps, visors, batons, shoes, and anything else they didn’t want to risk losing to the anti-nano. They left their things on open shelves.
The russes began to scratch themselves through their clothes. “What the hell,” said one of them, drawing his sleeve and raising his beefy arm to the light. He scrutinized his skin from several nose lengths away. “They’re abandoning the mothership,” he said, as though he could actually see the nits. “They’re fleeing the rice paddies.”
“My God, but it itches,” said one of the others.
“Scratching only prolongs it,” said a third.
The first russ lowered his sleeve and said, “Such a deal.”
Fred said, “But you gotta agree, it beats the hell out of the slugs.”
“The jury’s still out on that, brother,” the russ said and glanced at Fred’s name badge. His face went suddenly blank, and he turned away without another word. He and the other russes climbed into the lock, but not before each took a quick peek at Fred. Fred was too surprised to react.
Whatever dispute the foursome brought into the null room was quickly resolved, and in only twenty minutes, the on-deck light came on again.
“They were booked for thirty,” Marcus said. “I will tack the remaining time to your session.”
“Thank you, Marcus.” Fred opened a pouch of visola and drank it down. Almost at once his head began to itch as his skullcap retracted its microvilli from his scalp. The skullcap came off in congealed lumps, which he combed into the sink. Fred waited for his whole body to begin to itch as the nits crawled out of his skin, but it didn’t happen. He hadn’t been colonized yet. The HALVENE.
Fred cycled through the lock and entered the null room. The BB of R null room wasn’t much larger than the table and four chairs it contained. One wall was a builtin kulinmate, and the opposite wall contained a curtained-off comfort station. Wasting no time, Fred sealed the hatch, took a seat, and inserted his datapin into the player. A quicksilver E-Pluribus Everyperson, quarter-life-size, appeared on the tabletop. It bowed and awaited Fred’s instruction.
“Give me two russ sims,” Fred said. “Make one a composite of the total russ population. Make the second a subset of the fringes of russdom.”
Everyperson faded away as two life-size russ sims appeared sitting at the table on either side of Fred. Both had the typically hefty build, brown hair, and round-nosed moon face of Fred’s type. He didn’t know which was the mainstream russ and which the fringer. Both sims were typically alarmed as they sorted out their sudden existence, and Fred spoke to put them at ease.
“We’re in the BB of R null room on North Wabash in Chicago. I’m real, and you guys are sims. My name is Fred, Batch 2B.”
“Hey, Fred,” said the sim to his left, coming up to speed. “I’m Rick, uh—all batches, I suppose.”
“And I’m Bob,” said the other. “All batches rolled into one.”
“Good, good, guys,” Fred said. “Listen, I cast you up to help me answer some vexing questions.”
“What kind of questions are they, Fred?” Rick said.
“Vexing, obviously,” Bob said.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Fred said. “Things that have been eating at me. I was hoping you guys could help me shed some light.”
“Be happy to try,” said Rick, and Bob nodded agreement.
“Thanks. Here goes: Have either of you ever done anything or said anything and then thought, Hey, that wasn’t very russlike of me?”
The two sims thought about it a moment, and Bob said, “What kind of thing, exactly?”
“Anything,” said Fred. “The way you conduct your duty or interact with your wife. The kind of vid you choose to watch or music or what booze you like or swear words you use. Hell, the way you shave yourself. Anything at all.”
Fred watched the shutters drop over his brothers’ eyes. “Come on, guys, don’t do that to me,” he said. “This is serious. I need your help, and this is a null room we’re in. I’m going to nuke your pin before I leave, so whatever you say stays here. I promise. Can’t you help a brother out?”
The appeal worked, and Rick said, “Can’t say that I’ve ever been embarrassed or self-conscious, or whatever, of anything I’ve ever said or done—outside the usual small stuff.”
“Thank you, Rick,” Fred said. “Thank you for that.” He turned to Bob.
Bob said, “I’m a russ, Fred. Therefore, anything I do is, by definition, russlike.”
“Fair enough,” Fred said, encouraged by Bob’s bit of solipsism—russes weren’t known to spout philosophy. “Tell me this, Bob. Have you ever just let go and said whatever came into your head without censoring it first?”
Bob chuckled and said, “You mean when I’m not drunk?”
Bob’s expression froze in mid-grin, and a moment later Rick’s went blank as well.
There was a long moment of excruciating silence, and then Rick said mildly, “Uh, Londenstane? You must be suffering an intolerable level of stress right now. Maybe you need a vacation? You should talk to Marcus about taking some time off.”
“I agree,” said Bob. “Take a long vacation.”
Fred sighed and said, “Thanks, guys. I’ll do that.” He deleted the sims, and Everyperson returned. Fred took a moment to formulate his next request and said, “This time, make me a composite of any russes who would actually want to contribute to the Book of Russ.”