“If Ellen is really irretrievable, then let us see her—in person— and I’ll quit.”
“There, see? You can’t help yourself.”
“Enough of this,” Meewee said and went around the mentar.
“You force my hand, your grace,” Wee Hunk said. “I’ve just removed your name from Ellen’s FDO. The guards won’t let you through the gate.”
Meewee stopped and glanced at the pressure gate at the bottom of the drive. The lifechair he’d noticed earlier had left the gate and parked a few meters away, along with the two children. Meewee’s shoulder ached fiercely. He had pulled a muscle hauling the portable tank around like a young fool, and he massaged his neck as he tried to figure out what to do next. Something the mentar had just said reminded him of Cabinet—the fact that Ellen was his former sponsor.
“Good grief,” he said. “You’ve already passed through probate, haven’t you?”
“Yes, actually, this morning when Ellen was declared irretrievable.”
Like Cabinet after Eleanor’s death, Wee Hunk had returned from probate compromised, and probably not even aware of it. Something in the probate process had breached the shell to their personality buds. He had no idea if the breach was intentional or not, but it didn’t necessarily mean they were contaminated, did it? Cabinet was continuing to run Starke Enterprises as it always had; Wee Hunk had said so himself. And if Ellen were, in fact, irretrievable, then Wee Hunk’s behavior was perfectly correct, while he, himself, was acting like a callous fool. Meewee had to admit, it was never about the girl’s well-being for him, but only about the project. He was obsessed with the damn Garden Earth.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll leave, but at least show us Ellen’s death certificate.”
“That I can do,” the mentar said and opened a frame of the document, with verified sigs of clinic doctors.
“Dr. Rouselle,” Meewee said, “please look at this for me.” But she was watching the pair of children who were coming up the drive and about to pass them.
“Sorry?” she said.
“Please examine Ellen’s—” He was interrupted by the boy, who had stopped directly in front of him with an awestruck expression. “Yes?” Meewee said. “Can I help you?”
“You’re—” the boy said. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Myr Meewee, the guy with the Oships?”
Not anymore, he wanted to say. You’ll have to deal with the Chinese from now on. But he nodded his head and said, “Yes, that’s me. Do I know you?”
“Not in realbody, myr. Only in the upreffing suites at E-Pluribus.” The small boy straightened his posture and raised his hand in a solemn military salute. “I am Bogdan Harger Kodiak, future jump pilot of the ESV Garden Charter, at your service!”
Meewee didn’t know quite how to respond to this, but the boy held the salute, with a stiff-armed resolve, until Meewee clumsily returned it. Then the boy rejoined the girl on their way to the iron arch and street, and Meewee slowly lowered his arm.
“Touching,” Wee Hunk said. The document frame still floated beside him. “Now, if you don’t mind, your holiness, the death certificate.”
Your holiness? Meewee peered closely at the smug Neanderthal face and imagined he caught a glimpse of Saul Jaspersen. Or maybe the fecker Chapwoman. Your grace? These were favorite taunts of the GEP board, not Wee Hunk. He couldn’t remember the mentar ever using them. Meewee turned again to the document frame. The certificate was probably authentic and Ellen probably dead, but this could not be her true mentar. This was a traitorous monster.
<Arrow> he said <kill the mentar Wee Hunk.>
The document frame closed, but nothing else seemed to happen. Wee Hunk still stood in front of them with an arrogant expression on his face. Eventually, the doctor passed her hand through him. “He is gone?”
“Yes, gone,” Meewee said and continued down the drive. <And now, Arrow, figure out how to drop the gate, if you can.>
BLUE TEAM BEE noticed a sudden change in network chatter. The facility was still in Orange, but the pervasive presence of the clinic mentar diminished, and for long moments, control of critical systems was passed to backup subems. Meanwhile, the campus grid showed a clinic team of armed personnel approaching Feldspar Cottage. To complicate matters, Blue Team’s wasp had become trapped in the gatehouse when the southern campus was put on Orange. The bee, swimming in a sea of action checks but unable to wait any longer, launched its highest-confidence plan.
“Oh, Nurse,” said Dr. Ted, who appeared next to Hattie. Mary recognized it as the character from the clinic’s simiverse.
“Leave us alone, Dr. Ted,” Hattie said. “There’s no time now for your frippery.”
The doctor nodded and said, “Excellent diagnosis, Nurse. A deficit of time. And Concierge’s departure has tripped semiautonomous subem assets.”
“Say what?”
“Concierge has left the building,” Dr. Ted said and vanished.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Hattie said. She lifted the tote bag and carried it to the door. Mary and the others followed her to the patio where they paused to take in great lungsful of fresh air. “You should all leave now,” Hattie said. “You’ve done your duty.” Everyone looked at everyone else, and no one made a move.
Mary broke the impasse. “Renata,” she said, “why don’t you leave the clinic and call Wee Hunk from the outside. Tell it to send a medevac to South Gate. Then call Nick. Then call the police and anyone else you can think of.”
“Yes, well,” Renata said, wiping amnio-stained hands on her clothes. “Yes, that sounds practical. I’ll do it, Mary, and then I’ll come back here.”
“No, don’t. Leave by East Gate. Once out, stay out. Walk around to South Gate and wait for us on the street.”
Renata hugged Mary and hurried down the garden path. Hattie pressed a glove bladder into Mary’s hands. Alex and Cyndee each had two of them. “No,” Mary said, “I’ll carry the tote.”
“It’s heavy,” Hattie said.
“It’s mine.” Mary lifted the tote and looped the strap over her shoulder. It was heavy. Floating on the surface of the syrup was a scum of melting flotsam: a pen, a candy bar, the remains of her double kitchen pouches. The tissue sample of Samson’s odor was completely dissolved, and the syrup was tainted with his oder. She closed the tote lid and said, “Ready.” Cyndee and Alex stood on either side of her, their clothes bulging with glove bladders.
Hattie paused to admire them all, shaking her head. “You ’leens,” she said. “I love you guys.”
The rescue party didn’t get far. They were stopped by a construction curtain blocking the garden path. It was too high to look over, and it cut the garden in half. On its bright yellow surface, Uglyphs were repeated every meter: “Caution! Utility Work in Progress. Please pass in this direction.” Hattie led the evangelines around it in the suggested direction. This meant trampling flower beds and pressing themselves through a lilac hedge. They held open the branches for Mary and her gravid tote to pass through.
The safety curtain continued around their cottage. They followed it for a dozen more meters when Mary stopped abruptly.
“What’s wrong?” Hattie said.
Wordlessly, Mary unfastened her valet broach and dropped it on the ground. “We’re not going around the cordon,” she said. “We’re inside it.”
It was true. The only way out of the garden was through the construction curtain. Since it was only a holo projection, they could walk through it. But that would surely trip an alarm. Following Mary’s example, the evangelines and Hattie removed jewelry, panic buttons, ear pips, and anything else on their person likely to contain a transponder. The ’leens hesitated but removed their saucer caps as well and tossed them on the pile.