“We invoke our right to privacy,” said the voice, which came from a speaker lying on a bench.
The bee ignored the vacate order and finished its assessment. The form on the cot was not human.
The Blue Team exited the shed and flew to the stairwell door. The door was shut, and the beeway above it was blocked with concrete. Tomography indicated that many of the building’s bricks were hollow, and the wasp was able to bore a hole through one to gain entry to the building. The team methodically searched each floor, room by room. Non-catcher humans were present in some of them, and they demanded the team’s immediate surrender. One of them even foolishly tried to disable them with an old harmonics wand. The wasp cut the wand in two with one well-placed pulse of light.
Satisfied that the catcher was not in the building, the Blue Team exited through the street-level slugway. It followed a volatiles trail on the building’s wall and sidewalk to the end of the block where the trail ended. If this mission had been provided even minimal tactical support, the bee could have continued tracking its target via the thousands of fixed CCTV cameras, witness bees, CPT recordings, and suborbital drones. But there was no mission support, not even a Legitimate Order Giver; the Blue Team was on its own.
The bee led the wasp to the rooftop of the building opposite their target. Here they had a commanding view of the entire street as well as the rooftop garden and shed. The bee ran its scenario mill while they waited.
2.12
The CPT station in the central canyon of APRT 7 disgorged throngs of tired Applied People commuters. They streamed across the platform and hustled to the elevators. Fred took his time. The bead train ride had been uncomfortable enough with its g-force acceleration and turns. His poor internal organs were still knitting themselves back together and didn’t need the extra stress. Fred found a bench to lie on for a bit. He let the rush hour flow around him with its familiar sounds, while above him, clouds drifted across the four stalks of the tower. A quarter million people lived in each stalk, and all of them, like Fred, worked for Applied People. Fred had spent his entire life in this arcology, or in others just like it. Even the hab at Mars Station had been arcological. It would never occur to a russ to question this living arrangement, except that at this moment in his life, Fred did so. To my cloned brothers, he mused, where has it got us—to spend a hundred million russ years living in these things?
A transit bee stopped to check on Fred’s condition, and Fred sat up and waved it away. He went to the bank of elevators, bypassing the turbo lifts in favor of a lounge car. In his condition, it was better to take things easy. He was early and in no special need to race home. The lounge car he chose had empty couches near the media pit and a vacant armchair or two in front of the fireplace. As he entered, a soothing protomusic, more noise than signal, seemed to greet him. Weary clones, wearing every possible permutation of Applied People brown and teal livery, trudged in and parked themselves in favorite corners. Fred crossed the thick carpet to the bar.
A man on the stool next to him said, “Good God, man, you stink!”
Fred turned to him. It was a pike—the name JULES was embroidered on his name patch. Jules wrinkled his sunburnt nose and continued. “What ’appen to you? Get sheep-dipped?”
“Yeah,” Fred said and turned away. At the moment, he wasn’t up to the effort of pretending to being friendly to a pike. He ordered a beer before remembering that he had to stay off alcohol for a few days. He changed his order to a soft drink.
The lounge car made its ascent at a leisurely pace, stopping only at double-naught-numbered floors on the way up and five-naught on the way down. Fred decided to skip his stop going up and disembark on the way down. He needed a little time to dwell on his problems: Costa, Cabinet, Reilly, the HALVENE, and the possibility of clone fatigue.
Fred realized that he had just made a short list of his troubles. Russes were famous for their lists. Their donor brother, Thomas A., had been an incorrigible list maker. After he lost his life in the assassination attempt, the Secret Service entered Russ’s apartment and found a remarkable collection of lists. On scraps of paper stuck to the refrigerator, in computer files, in notebooks, on the backs of envelopes. Grocery lists, equipment checklists, Christmas card lists, ranked lists of women he’d like to sleep with. The government kept them; there was even a display of Thomas A.’s lists at the Smithsonian. Fred mused, To my cloned brothers: lists are our own form of blank verse.
When Fred decarred on the 150th floor, he transferred to a local lift for the remaining floors and then took a spokeway to Deko Village, an economy neighborhood located deep within the core of the Northwest Stalk. His front door greeted him and slid open. “Tell Mary I’m home,” he said to the tiny foyer. There was no reply, so he said, “Mary?”
“I’m in the bedroom,” she sighed.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t wake me. You’re home early.”
“Yeah, a little.” Fred waited to see if she was going to say anything more. She didn’t, so he went to the living room where the slipper puppy was waiting next to his armchair with his slippers. Fred unstrapped his stout, brown brogans—damp with HALVENE—and watched as the puppy dragged them, one by one, to its lair in the closet for polishing and deodorizing. For you, he thought, I’m going to risk my integrity?
He leaned back in the armchair and relaxed. After a while, since Mary had not made an appearance or continued their conversation, he said, “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. My stomach is literally empty. Maybe we should eat something before we go.”
“Go where?”
“Rolfe’s. Reilly says they’ve reserved a table.” Reilly might not actually show up, but best to leave that alone for now.
“Rolfe’s?” Mary said. “Today’s not Wednesday.”
“You know,” Fred said, trying to keep his tone breezy, not that you could fool an evangeline, “that’s exactly what I said.”
After a little while, Mary said, “Whatever are you talking about, Fred?”
“The canopy ceremony.”
“Oh, that,” she said. “I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like going anywhere.”
Fred knew better than to argue the point. “To tell the truth,” he said, “neither do I. Let’s stay home. We can dial in and eat here.”
“You go ahead. I’ve been eating all day. I left you something in the kitchen.”
Fred struggled out of the armchair and went to the kitchen, which in this economy apartment amounted to a large chromium kulinmate in a nook off the living room. There, on its counter lay a plate. On the plate was a stack of small, rolled-up pastries.
“See it?”
Fred raised the plate to eye level and examined the morsels. “What are they?”
“Cajun pepper fish rollmops. I recipeed them myself.”
“You did?” This could be very good news. It meant that she’d gotten out of bed today. And that she was trying out new things. But in the kitchen? Evangelines were allergic to all things culinary. Even dialing up a recipe was asking a lot.
“That’s great,” he said. “I’ll eat some right now.”
He brought one to his mouth, but she said, “No, don’t! I changed my mind.”
Fred hesitated, the rollmop millimeters from his lips. He felt as though he were standing in a tippy canoe. It had been like this since their wedding day five years ago. At first, living with an evangeline was exhilarating. Lately, he could do without the state of constant suspense.