“I don’t know. I may have been confused.”
In that case, something might be possible. We may be able to do more than simple deletion.
“Explain.”
We believe you may be suffering a mild form of HALVENE intoxication as a result of your duty on Monday. Such reactions have been known to cause aberrant thoughts and loss of judgment. If a healthscan bears this out in your case, we would be able to not only delete the entire Book of Russ, but expurgate it.
“What does that mean?”
In its place we would substitute an explanation of the injury you suffered in the line of duty. Brothers would be advised to disregard your previous statements as having been beyond your control.
Fred could hardly believe his ears. In one stroke they could make it all go away. “You can really do this?”
Yes, contingent on the results of the healthscan, which you may undergo at any time. Would you like me to schedule you an appointment?
“Yes! The sooner the better.”
In that case I am diverting your car to MEDFAC now.
AT THE MEDFAC facility, they were expecting him. The charge nurse, a jenny, pointed to a door and said, “Go piddle in booth twelve.” He did and when he came out, she said, “That’s all for now. Your Marcus will contact you with the results.”
Fred felt like a new man.
FRED BURST INTO the apartment and cried, “Mary, guess what.”
“Screen off,” Mary said, and the living room flatscreen went dark, but not before Fred caught a glimpse of a park scene, a bee’s-eye view of crowds, benches, trees—a lifechair. “Yes?” Mary said. She was dressed to go out, and she wore a valet broach on her lapel.
“Never mind that. What are you up to?”
She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Oh, nothing, Fred. I’ve had a rough day, and I’m going for a walk in the park.”
“I’ve had a rough day too,” Fred said. “I’ll go with you.”
“I thought you had the day off. Why don’t you stay here and have some dinner. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll eat park food.”
THEY PASSED TENNIS courts, skating rinks, and equestrian trails. In an open field, a sky-holo competition was under way. Brilliant, melting landscapes of fairy castles filled cubic acres of airspace. The artists stood under their creations, boldly slashing the sky with their arms, flinging meadows and forests and dragons into place.
The fourth tier of Millennium Park had a Busker’s Cross where two busy footpaths intersected. It was crowded with park-goers and street performers. Mary and Fred hurried past the Machete Death Grudge and their blood-soaked stage. Nearby, under an American elm, was parked a solitary lifechair. Fred offered Mary a package of nose filters, but she declined. She realized her mistake a moment later as they approached the chair. It was the odor, all right, the one she sought, but a thousand times stronger than she could have imagined. By the time they reached the chair, vomit tickled the back of her throat. Maybe that was why he wasn’t so welcome at the clinic.
When she first saw the stinker, lying in the basket of his lifechair, Mary doubted that anyone who looked like that could possibly be alive. But he was, or at least his eyes were. His piebald head reminded her of his stepdaughter’s skull in the tank.
“Hello again, Myr Kodiak,” Fred said. “It’s Fred Londenstane. And this is my wife, Mary Skarland, who I told you about last night.”
The lifechair, not the man, replied, “Samson says, Good evening, myren. Have we met?”
“Yes, last night, at Rondy,” Fred repeated.
“I, of course, remember you, Commander Londenstane,” said the chair, “but Sam’s mind is wandering a little. And he tells me to roll over to that bench so the two of you can sit comfortably.”
“There’s no need,” Mary said. “Besides, the bench is occupied.”
The old man cackled, and the chair said, “Sam says, Believe me, it’ll be free by the time we reach it.”
And so it was. The woman and man occupying it fled before they were halfway there. Mary sat on the abandoned bench and gave Fred a look.
Fred said, “I think I’ll go stretch my legs.”
“Sam says, Why not go stand next to Kitty’s pay post. Prime the pump with a millionth; the gawkers there can’t seem to figure it out for themselves.”
“Your housemeet is here?” Fred said. He had walked right past her thinking she was a park statue. Fred went back along the path to look at her. Even up close it was hard to dispel the illusion. She wore the costume of a ballerina, with white tights and tutu, white slippers and ribbons, and a white tiara crowning her head. Her hair, skin, and nails were also white. Even the irises of her eyes were white. She was an alabaster statue, arms arched gracefully over her head, one leg bent slightly at the knee, most of her weight supported on her toes. Her trembling calf muscles broke the illusion, and Fred knew how much strength it took to hold such a pose.
Quickly, to relieve her strain, Fred swiped her pay post, not a millionth, but a ten-thousandth, and the post immediately resumed playing some piece of classical music in midmeasure. The ballerina statue came magically to life. She completed a pirouette, and then a leap, and half a plié when, just as jarringly as it had started, the music cut out, and the dancer froze.
Fred blushed. A ten-thousandth didn’t buy much on the fourth tier of Millennium Park. He swiped her post again, upping his donation to a tenth.
The reanimated dancer completed her plié as though never interrupted. With a sleight-of-foot, she seemed to command a theater-sized stage, instead of her meager porta-platform. She ran across it and leaped open-legged as though across an abyss. She seemed to defy gravity. She moved with fluid ease. A gathering audience watched with appreciation and swiped her post regularly each time the music faltered.
Fred was mesmerized. This was clearly no child. She was a mature performer and athlete in a girl’s small body. Something wet hit him on the cheek, and he wiped it off with a finger. It was her sweat, proof of her exertion, and like everything else about her, it was milky white. Without thinking, he brought it to his lips to taste.
The compacted ballet continued without pause for an enchanted time. Then, suddenly, there was a piercing sound on the other path. Everyone in Kitty’s small audience looked, including Fred. A full-throated cry of misery and outrage came from a pram that was steered by a jenny in a nanny uniform. The jenny was accompanied by two unsmiling russes and a huge black-and-white dog. The jenny told the pram to stop, and she popped open its lid, revealing a bawling, beet-red baby within.
“She needs her nappies changed,” the jenny announced to no one in particular.
The ballerina’s audience abandoned her for the real child, all except Fred. He swiped her pay post another couple tenths when he feared the music would stop. He was about to again when the music simply faded away. The ballerina didn’t freeze but instead took a bow. Fred, an audience of one, clapped. The pay post threw a holo curtain around the dancer and stage, and Fred was left standing in front of a sign that read, “Intermezzo.” For a full minute he stood there, unsure of what was happening to him.
The nanny’s dog approached the pay post and sniffed it with interest. Fred snapped, “You! Outta here!” The dog regarded him with a placid expression. It had one blue eye and one brown.
“Trapper. Here, boy,” called a russ. Fred turned to see one of the baby’s bodyguards holding a soiled diaper. “You see a trash chute around here?” he asked Fred.
Fred fought to keep a smirk off his face, but failed. All the years of training to bring this man into an elite corps of personal security providers—for what? a fistful of dirty diaper? “Such a deal,” Fred said. The russ just wagged his head in agreement.