I close my eyes, feeling a deadweight of dread. I'm still in the glasshouse , I realize sickly.
But I'm too weak to do anything, and, besides, I'm not alone. I hear the clack of approaching heels and the sound of voices coming my way. "Hours end at four o'clock," says a female voice with the flattening of affect I've come to expect of zombies. "The consultant will visit in the evening. The patient is weak and is not to be disturbed excessively." The curtain twitches back, and I see a female zombie wearing a white dress and an odd hair adornment. The zombie looks at me. "You have a visitor," she intones. "Do not overexert yourself."
"Uh," I manage to say, and try to turn my head so I can see who it is, but they're still half-concealed behind the curtain. It's like a nightmare, when you know some kind of monster is creeping up on you
"Well, if it isn't our little librarian!"
And I think, Fuck, I know that voice! And simultaneously, almost petulantly, But you can't be here , just as Fiore steps around the curtain and leans over the rail alongside my bed, an expression of bemused condescension on his face. "Would you like to tell me where you think you were going?"
"No." I manage to avoid gritting my teeth. "Not particularly." The nightmare has caught up, and the well of despair is threatening to swallow me down. They've caught me and brought me back to play with me. I feel sick and hot.
"Come now, Reeve." Unctuous, that's the word. Fiore plants one plump hand on my forehead, and I realize he feels clammy and cold. "Oh dear. You are in a state." He removes the hand before I can shake it off, and I shiver. "I can see why they brought you straight here."
I clamp my teeth shut, waiting for the coup de grce, but Fiore seems to have something else in mind. "I have to look after the pastoral well-being of all my flock, little lady, so I can't stay too long with you. You're obviously ill "he puts some kind of odd emphasis on the word"and I'm sure that's the explanation for your recent erratic behavior. But next time you decide to go climbing in the walls, you should come and talk to me first"for a moment his expression hardens"you wouldn't want to do anything you might regret later."
Between shivers, I manage to roll my eyes. "I have no regrets." Why is he playing with me?
"Come now!" Fiore clucks disapprovingly for a moment. "Of course you have regrets! To be human is to be regretful. But we must learn to make the most of what we have to work with, mustn't we? You've been slow to settle in and find your place in our little parish, Reeve, and that's been causing some concern to those of us who keep an eye on such things. I havemay I be frank?been worried that you might be an incorrigibly disruptive influence. On the other hand, you obviously mean well, and care for your neighbors" An unreadable expression flits across his jowls. "So I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Rest now, and we'll continue our little chat later, when you're feeling better."
He straightens up in his portly manner and begins to turn away. I shiver again, a chill running up my spine. It's like he doesn't know I killed him! I realize. I can see Fiore running multiple instances of himself, but surely they'd be aware of each other, by way of their netlink? Why, doesn't he
"You," I manage to say.
"Yes?"
"You." It's hard to form words. I'm really feeling feverish. "What's the, the..."
"I don't have all day!" His voice rises when he's irritated, in an annoying whine. He straightens his robe. "Nurse? I say, nurse!" In a quieter voice, to me: "I'll have them send for your husband. I'm sure you'll have a lot to talk about." Then he turns on his heel and bumbles away down the ward toward the other occupied beds.
I realize my teeth are chattering: I'm not sure whether from fever or black helpless rage. I killed you! And you didn't even notice! Then the nurse comes stomping along in her sensible shoes, clutching some kind of primitive diagnostic instrument, and I realize that I'm feeling extremely unwell.
NURSE Zombie gives me a test that involves sliding a cold glass rod into my ear and staring into my eyes from close range, then she pulls out a jar and gives me what I assume at first is a piece of candy, except that it tastes vile. The hospital is set up to resemble a real dark ages installation, but luckily they seem to draw the line at leeches or heart transplants and similar barbarism. I guess this is some sort of drug, synthesized at great expense and administered to have some random weird systemic effect on my metabolism. "Try to sleep," Nurse explains to me. "You are ill."
"C-cold," I whisper.
"Try to sleep, you are ill." But Nurse bends down and pulls out a loose-weave blanket. "Drink lots of fluids." The glass on the table next to me is empty, and in any case, I feel too shivery to pull an arm out from under the blanket. "You are ill."
No shit. It's not just my arms and legsall my joints are screaming at me in chorus with a whole load of muscles I wish I didn't have right nowbut my head's throbbing and I feel like I'm freezing to death and my stomach's not so good either. And the blackouts and memory fugues are still with me. "What's wrong with, me?" I ask, and it takes a big effort to get the words out.
"You are ill," the zombie repeats. It's useless arguing with hernobody home, no theory of mind, just a bunch of reflexes and canned dialogues.
"Who can I ask?"
She's turning away, but I seem to have tripped a new response. "The consultant will visit at eight o'clock tonight, all questions must be addressed to the consultant. The patient is weak and must not be disturbed excessively. Drink lots of fluids." She picks up an empty jug that was out of view a moment ago and whisks it away toward one end of the ward. A moment later she's back with it. "Drink lots of fluids."
"Yeah..." I shudder and try to work myself into a smaller volume under the blanket. I dimly realize I ought to be asking lots of questionsactually I ought to be forcing myself out of bed and running like my hair's on firebut right now, just pouring myself a glass of water seems like an heroic task.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, incoherent with anger and embarrassment. Did I imagine myself killing Fiore in the library? I don't think so; the memories are vivid. But so are all my other memories, the massacres and the endless years of war. And not all my memories are real, are they? The bootstrap memory, talking to another voice in my own larynxif it's not just a false memory of a false memory, then it certainly wasn't me: It was a customized worm running on my implant. I can'tthis is getting difficulttrust myself, especially while I keep going into fugue.
"Can I?" I ask, and I open my eyes again, and Sam startles.
He's leaning over me where Fiore was, and I realize immediately that I've been in fugue for some time. I'm cold, but I'm no longer feverish; the sheets are damp with sweat, and the light visible through the windows is dimming toward evening. "Reeve?" he asks anxiously.
"Sam." I lift my hand and reach for him. He wraps my fingers in his. "I'm ill."
"I came as soon as I heard. Fiore telephoned the office." He sounds slightly shocky, his eyes haunted. "What happened?"
I shiver again. The damp sheets are getting to me. "Later." Meaning: Not where the walls have ears. "Need water." My mouth's really dry. "I keep having fugues."
"The nurse said something about a consultant," says Sam. "Dr. Hanta. She said he'd be coming to look at you later. Are you going to be all right? Why are you ill?"