Pope spent most of the day with Piper, Karen Lomas, and Raebel, discussing the results of the Usher and the endless minor details of what they referred to as Angie’s reinsertion . After lunch, Brian Ng went along with her to her physical, which was conducted in a private clinic in a mirror-clad compound on Beverly Boulevard. During the very brief wait in the white, plant-filled reception area — surely a matter of ritual, as though a medical appointment that involved no wait might seem incomplete, inauthentic — Angie found herself wondering, as she’d wondered many times before, why her father’s mysterious legacy, the vЋvЋs he’d drawn in her head, had never been detected by this or any other clinic. Her father, Christopher Mitchell, had headed the hybridoma project that had allowed Maas Biolabs a virtual monopoly in the early manufacture of biochips. Turner, the man who had taken her to New York, had given her a kind of dossier on her father, a biosoft compiled by a Maas security AI. She’d accessed the dossier four times in as many years; finally, one very drunken night in Greece, she’d flung the thing from the deck of an Irish industrialist’s yacht after a shouting match with Bobby. She no longer recalled the cause of the fight, but she did remember the mingled sense of loss and relief as the squat little nub of memory struck the water. Perhaps her father had designed his handiwork so that it was somehow invisible to the scans of the neuro- technicians. Bobby had his own theory, one she had suspected was closer to the truth. Perhaps Legba, the loa Beauvoir credited with almost infinite access to the cyberspace matrix, could alter the flow of data as it was obtained by the scanners, rendering the vЋvЋs transparent. . . . Legba, after all, had orchestrated her debut in the industry and the subsequent rise that had seen her eclipse Tally Isham’s fifteen-year career as Net megastar. But it had been so long since the loa had ridden her, and now, Brigitte had said, the vЋvЋs had been redrawn. . . . »Hilton had Continuity front a head for you today,« Ng told her, as she waited. »Oh?« »Public statement on your decision to go to Jamaica, praise for the methods of the clinic, the dangers of drugs, renewed enthusiasm for your work, gratitude to your audience, stock footage of the Malibu place . . .« Continuity could generate video images of Angie, animate them with templates compiled from her stims. Viewing them induced a mild but not unpleasant vertigo, one of the rare times she was able to directly grasp the fact of her fame. A chime sounded, beyond the greenery.
Returning from the city, she found caterers preparing for a barbecue on the deck. She lay on the couch beneath the Valmier and listened to the surf. From the kitchen, she could hear Piper explaining the results of the physical to Pope. There was no need, really — she’d been given the cleanest possible bill of health — but both Pope and Piper were fond of detail. When Piper and Raebel put on sweaters and went out onto the deck, where they stood warming their hands above the coals, Angie found herself alone in the living room with the director. »You were about to tell me, David, what you were doing up the well. . . .« »Looking for serious loners.« He ran a hand back across his tangled hair. »It grows out of something I wanted to do last year, with intentional communities in Africa. Trouble was, when I got up there, I learned that anyone who goes that far, who’ll actually live alone in orbit, is generally determined to stay that way.« »You were taping, yourself? Interviews?« »No. I wanted to find people like that and talk them into recording segments themselves.« »Did you?« »No. I heard stories, though. Some great stories. A tug pilot claimed there were feral children living in a mothballed Japanese drug factory. There’s a whole new apocrypha out there, really — ghost ships, lost cities. . . . There’s a pathos to it, when you think about it. I mean, every bit of it’s locked into orbit. All of it manmade, known, owned, mapped. Like watching myths take root in a parking lot. But I suppose people need that, don’t they?« »Yes,« she said, thinking of Legba, of Mamman Brigitte, the thousand candles. . . . »I wish, though,« he said, »that I could’ve gotten through to Lady Jane. Such an amazing story. Pure gothic.« »Lady Jane?« »Tessier-Ashpool. Her family built Freeside torus. High- orbit pioneers. Continuity has a marvelous video. . . . They say she killed her father. She’s the last of the line. Money ran out years ago. She sold everything, had her place sawn off the tip of the spindle and towed out to a new orbit. . . .« She sat up on the couch, her knees together, fingers locked across them. Sweat trickled down across her ribs. »You don’t know the story?« »No,« she said. »That’s interesting in itself, because it shows you how adept they were at obscurity. They used their money to keep themselves out of the news. The mother was Tessier, the father Ashpool. They built Freeside when there was nothing else like it. Got fantastically rich in the process. Probably running a very close second to Josef Virek when Ashpool died. And of course they’d gotten wonderfully weird in the meantime, had taken to cloning their children wholesale. . . .« »It sounds . . . terrible. And you tried, you did try to find her?« »Well, I made inquiries. Continuity had gotten me this Becker video, and of course her orbit’s in the book, but it’s no good dropping by if you haven’t been invited, is it? And then Hilton buzzed me to get back here and back to work. . . . Aren’t you feeling well?« »Yes, I . . . I think I’ll change now, put on something warmer.«