Cherry’s beeper went off while they were drinking coffee in Slick’s room, huddled side by side on the edge of the bed. He’d been telling her as much as he knew about the Korsakov’s, because she’d asked him. He hadn’t ever really told anybody about it, and it was funny how little he actually knew. He told her about previous flashbacks, then tried to explain how the system worked in jail. The trick was that you retained long-term memory up to the point where they put you on the stuff. That way, they could train you to do something before you started serving your time and you didn’t forget how to do it. Mostly you did stuff that robots could do. They’d trained him to assemble miniature geartrains; when he’d learned to put one together inside five minutes, that was it. »And they didn’t do anything else?« she asked. »Just those geartrains.« »No, I mean like brainlocks.« He looked at her. The sore on her lip was almost healed. »If they do that, they don’t tell you,« he said. Then the beeper went off in one of her jackets. »Something’s wrong,« she said, getting up quickly.
They found Gentry kneeling beside the stretcher with something black in his hands. Cherry snatched the thing before Gentry could move. He stayed where he was, blinking up at her. »Takes a lot to keep you under, mister.« She handed Slick the black thing. A retinal camera. »We have to find out who he is,« Gentry said. His voice was thick with the downs she’d administered, but Slick sensed that the bad edge of craziness had receded. »Hell,« she said, »you don’t even know if these are the eyes he had a year ago.« Gentry touched the bandage on his temple. »You saw it too, didn’t you?« »Yeah,« Cherry said, »he shut it off.« »It was the shock,« Gentry said. »I hadn’t imagined. . . . There was no real danger. I wasn’t ready. . . .« »You were out of your fucking skull,« Cherry said. Gentry got unsteadily to his feet. »He’s leaving,« Slick said. »I sent Bird to borrow a truck. I don’t like any of this shit.« Cherry stared at him. »Leaving where? I gotta go with him. It’s my job.« »I know a place,« Slick lied. »The power’s out, Gentry.« »You can’t take him anywhere,« Gentry said. »Like hell.« »No.« Gentry swayed slightly. »He stays. The jumpers are in place. I won’t disturb him again. Cherry can stay here.« »You’re going to have to explain some shit here, Gentry,« Slick said. »To begin with,« Gentry said, and pointed at the thing above the Count’s head, »this isn’t an ‘LF’; it’s an aleph .«
Under the Knife
Hotel again, sinking into the deathmarch of wiz-crash, Prior leading her into the lobby, Japanese tourists already up and clustering around bored-looking guides. And one foot, one foot, one foot after the other, her head so heavy now, like somebody punched a hole in the top, poured in a quarter-kilo of dull lead, and her teeth felt like they belonged to somebody else, too big; she slumped against the side of the elevator when its extra gravity pressed down. »Where’s Eddy?« »Eddy’s gone, Mona.« Got her eyes open wide and she looked at him, seeing the smile was back, bastard. »What?« »Eddy’s been bought out. Compensated. He’s on his way to Macau with a line of credit. Nice little gambling junket.« »Compensated?« »For his investment. In you. For his time.« »His time? « The doors slid open on blue-carpeted corridor. And something falling through her, cold: Eddy hated gambling. »You’re working for us now, Mona. We wouldn’t want you off on your own again.« But you did , she thought, you let me go. And you knew where to find me. Eddy ‘s gone . . . .
She didn’t remember falling asleep. She was still wearing the dress, Michael’s jacket tucked up around her shoulders like a blanket. She could see the corner of the mountainside building without moving her head, but the bighorn wasn’t there. The Angie stims were still sealed in plastic. She took one at random, slit the wrapper with her thumbnail, slotted it, and put the trodes on. She wasn’t thinking; her hands seemed to know what to do, friendly animals that wouldn’t hurt her. One of them touched PLAY and she slid into the Angie-world, pure as any drug, slow saxophone and limo glide through some European city, how the streets revolved around her, around the driverless car, broad avenues, dawn-clean and almost empty, with the touch of fur against her shoulders, and rolling on, down a straight road through flat fields, edged with perfect, identical trees. And turning, tires over raked gravel, up a winding drive through parkland where the dew was silver, here an iron deer, there a wet white marble torso . . . The house was vast, old, unlike any house she’d seen before, but the car swung past it, then passed several smaller buildings, coming at last to the edge of a smooth broad field. There were gliders tethered there, translucent membrane drawn taut over fragile-looking frames of polycarbon. They quivered slightly in the morning breeze. Robin Lanier was waiting beside them, handsome, easy Robin in a rough black sweater, who played opposite Angie in almost all of her stims. And she was leaving the car now, taking to the field, laughing when her heels sank into the grass. And the rest of the way to Robin with her shoes in her hand, grinning, into his arms and his smell, his eyes. A whirl, a dance of editing, condensing the business of boarding the glider on the silver induction rail, and they were flung smoothly down the length of the field, lifting now, banking to catch the wind, and up, up, until the great house was an angular pebble in a swathe of green, green cut by a dull gleam of curving river — — and Prior’s hand on STOP, smell of food from the cart beside the bed knotting her stomach, the dull sick ache of wiz-crash in every joint. »Eat,« he said. »We’re leaving soon.« He took the metal cover from one of the plates. »Club sandwich,« he said, »coffee, pastries. Doctor’s orders. Once you’re at the clinic, you won’t be eating for a while. . . .« »Clinic?« »Gerald’s place. Baltimore.« »Why?« »Gerald’s a cosmetic surgeon. You’re having some work done. All of it reversible later, if you want, but we think you’ll be pleased with the results. Very pleased.« The smile. »Anyone ever tell you how much you look like Angie, Mona?« She looked up at him, said nothing. Managed to sit up, to drink half a cup of watery black coffee. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the sandwich, but she ate one of the pastries. It tasted like cardboard. Baltimore. She wasn’t too sure where that was. And somewhere a glider hung forever above a tame green country, fur against her shoulder, and Angie must still be there, still laughing. . . .