Mind Over Ship Read online

  Andrea turned to Ellen and added, “And I will do everything in my power to carry on your mother’s work as she would have wanted.”

  Ellen’s expression darkened, and she stared at Andrea for several long moments.

  Uncertain, Andrea added, “I hope I haven’t said anything out of line.”

  Finally Ellen said, “Thank you for your offer, Myr Tiekel, but the sale of Heliostream or any other part of Starke Enterprises is out of the question.”

  Her statement seemed to take Andrea by surprise. “May I ask why?”

  “Because I’m only standing in for my mother.” Tears began to well in her eyes. “I had forgotten how much Bishop Meewee’s little project means to her.”

  Andrea looked more confused than ever. “I don’t understand. Standing in for Eleanor? I’m under the impression that — that you own Starke Enterprises outright.”

  “I do, but only until my mother returns. And when she does, I want to be able to hand her company back to her in as good a shape as when I acquired it.”

  Even Meewee was stupefied by Ellen’s declaration, but he was grateful for the distraction and didn’t interrupt her.

  “I’m sorry to bring up this painful matter,” Andrea said, “but didn’t your mother perish in the same troubles that killed my aunt?”

  Ellen smiled sadly and shook her head. “Eleanor Starke is far too wily to fall victim to mere assassins.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “She’s in a secret location recovering from her injuries. When the time is right, she’ll walk through that door, and when she does I want to be able to show her that I’m on top of things.”

  At this point, Lyra jerked into speech. “Thank you, myren. Ellen is overdue for a physical therapy session.” The holoscape abruptly closed.

  Meewee was left in his office chair thoroughly bewildered.

  “WHAT WAS THAT?” Andrea said. Though she was in her tank in the basement, she had moved her POV upstairs to her always room. Her always room was a simulation of her real living room, an exact facsimile, faithful down to the nap of the carpet and scuff marks on the walls. “You didn’t foresee that at all. Your prediction was completely off base. Starke should have welcomed our offer.”

  E-P replied, It’s impossible to accurately model insanity. It’s too fluid a psychic state.

  “Is that what you think, that she’s insane?”

  What do you think?

  Andrea took a moment to sort through her impressions. She tried to dampen her connection to E-P’s mind, which raced in dozens of directions at once. She recalled her conversation with Ellen and tried to hear the rhythm of her words. “I think she believed what she was saying, that Eleanor survived the crash. Is that even possible?”

  We doubt it. We’ve preffed tens of millions of people from all walks of life since the crash. We’ve run hundreds of probable newscasts and alternate history scenarios concerning the crash. None of them resonated with anyone. No one anywhere has the slightest inkling that Eleanor might still be alive. We think we can safely rule that out. Her daughter is clearly delusional.

  We don’t need Heliostream, E-P continued, to sabotage the GEP. Jaspersen seems to be doing that all on his own. We wanted Heliostream as a fail-safe. But with Ellen’s state of mind and Cabinet’s meltdown, the whole family empire is imploding. Still, they bear watching.

  Andrea floated across her always room to the windows. The city and Bay were lost in fog. “Were you able to move more furniture into Cabinet’s realm?”

  Yes, we moved some directly into its personality matrix. Unfortunately, we have a lot more company there than on our last visit. There is more foreign furniture in Cabinet’s inner rooms now than native stock. That’s why the personality is so unresponsive; there’s too many warring factions inside it battling for control.

  But we also managed to move a few pieces into the new mentar. Look at this.

  A frame opened with a view into the Map Room, which they had just visited. The window was much smaller in this view, and the room was in shadows. In the corner, two evangelines and a jenny were fussing over a bizarre baby/woman.

  “Zoom in closer.” Andrea watched the women’s expressions for a long while as they interacted. “Yes, this is good,” she said.

  The scene changed to an overhead perspective of the Manse, with cutaway views through roofs and floors to show every warm-blooded occupant of the rambling compound. Then the frame closed, and E-P said, We’ll let you rest now. It’s been a busy day. But before we go, do you have any final insights?

  “I think so. Questions actually. Those evangeline companions of hers, she seems highly dependent on them. Can we use that? And what’s with Meewee and aquaculture?”

  Companion to Power

  “Wine?” Mary said, leading Georgine down the corridor to her suite.

  “After the day we’ve had,” Georgine replied, “scotch would be more like it.”

  “Scotch it is.” They entered the suite and crossed the foyer where Mary stopped abruptly to take in the sight of her living room. Large and uncluttered, it had bare white walls and French doors that spilled afternoon sunlight across the hardwood floor. It expressed a simple perfection that resonated inside Mary, as any true home should.

  Georgine stepped around her. “You sit. I’ll get it.”

  “Nonsense,” Mary said, breaking the spell. She went to the china cabinet and opened the glass doors. Again she was struck by a sense of perfection. Leaded crystal glassware of all kinds lined the shelves: heavy beer mugs with beveled facets, brandy snifters with bells as delicate as bubbles, long-stemmed wineglasses, champagne flutes, shot glasses. It seemed that every variety of drink required its own specialized vessel, and Mary had the complete set. It made her feel a sense of achievement, even though technically it all belonged to the Manse and not to her. She selected two stout tumblers and closed the doors. “Ice?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As Mary fixed the drinks, Georgine dropped into an armchair and stretched her legs. She took out her clicker, now disabled, and turned it over in her hands. “I don’t know,” she said, giving it a few dry clicks, “memories shouldn’t be that vulnerable.”

  “I agree,” Mary said. She handed Georgine a glass and made herself comfortable in her favorite chair.

  “I mean, memories, good or bad, make us who we are,” Georgine went on. “I sure don’t have any memories bad enough to want to delete them.” Mary swirled the ice in her glass and didn’t respond. “I’m sorry,” Georgine hastened to add. “I completely forgot about you and Cyndee. Have you ever thought about having Protatter treatments for that?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “Neither had Cyndee, but after today she’s thinking about it.”

  Mary set her glass on the side table. “Not me, though. Unless you think I’m delusional like Ellen. Is that what you’re hinting at?”

  “Of course not, Mary. You’re no more delusional than the rest of us.” Georgine finished her drink and stood up. “And with that little bit of sunshine, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

  “Thank you, but not tonight. Believe it or not, I have a date.”

  “Oh? Who with?”

  “A guy named Norbert.”

  Mary rolled the name around in her head and said, “Norbert? Doesn’t sound like a russ name to me.”

  “He’s not a russ. I’m giving our russies a little break.”

  When no more information was forthcoming, Mary said, “And — ?”

  “I don’t want to hear any smart remarks out of you, Mary Skarland. He’s a jerry.”

  Mary covered her mouth in disbelief.

  Georgine leaned over to kiss her sister on the forehead. “He’s nice. Jerrys are nice — once you get past their narcissism.”

  AFTER GEORGINE LEFT, Mary slipped off her shoes and went to her bedroom, undressing as she went and dropping her clothes on the floor for the scuppers to pick up. While she had b
een out, the bedroom had redecorated itself. It now boasted apricot-colored walls and a deep moss-green carpet. A new yellow bedspread matched new curtains on the windows. “Draw me a bath,” she said and laid out underwear and a robe.

  She could hear water surging in the bathroom, and when she opened the bathroom door, she was startled to see a man crouching there. A naked man, no less, with his back to her. Somewhere nearby, a woman moaned with pleasure, and Mary shut the door, her heart racing. “Lyra!” she called. The mentar appeared, a big grin on her face. “Lyra, what is going on in my bathroom?”

  “Your Leena has a new role. Surprise!”

  “My Leena? And who’s that man?” Mary chided herself for her prudishness. “Never mind, I’ll see for myself.” She opened the door, and in the mirror she recognized the man — Raul Weathercock! His dark face was mottled with passion. He had taken Mary’s poor Leena from behind and pinned her against the vanity counter. The Leena was all but hidden from view, but her mewling and grunts resonated in the tiled space.

  Mary tried to coolly recall which role superstar Raul was currently appearing in, but she couldn’t concentrate, and she was about to ask Lyra when there was an ear-stabbing screech behind her.

  “Florentinnooooh!”

  That was it, Florentino Samovaro, the Don of Rancho de la Noche. And the screeching woman behind Mary was his costar, Renée Klopsetter, in her Bernie Award–winning role as Chus-Chus. The show was The Flyers, one of the highest-ranking holonovelas on the charts. Chus-Chus stormed across the bedroom, hands on generous hips, and scorched Mary with her gaze. Mary remembered her own nakedness and tried to cover herself with her hands. Chus-Chus said with trademark scorn, “Waiting our turn, are we, Missy?” She pulled a pocket billy from thin air, telescoped it with a flick of her wrist, and charged the bathroom bellowing her battle cry, “Florentinnooooh!”

  “Chus-Chus, no!” someone shouted. It was Mister Jamal, who also came into the bedroom. Brewster and Anatoly and a gaggle of servants were watching from the living room. “He’s not worth it,” Mister Jamal pleaded. “You only demean yourself.”

  Disregarding Mister Jamal, Chus-Chus raised the billy and savagely whipped her faithless lover. Red welts scored his back, but they only seemed to intensify his ardor. The cheeks of his sculpted ass puckered with each powerful thrust. The Leena was lifted off her feet, her moans rose to a keening howl that drowned out the shouts and curses of the others, and Mary wiped the whole scene away with a swipe of her hand.

  The bathroom reverberated with the interrupted coitus, and Mary’s surging blood pounded in her ears.

  “I detect that you are unsettled, Mary. I apologize if I erred in any way.”

  “Dear Lyra,” Mary said, calming herself, “in the future, tell me before launching a novela in here.”

  “Yes, Mary, I will. Again I apologize. I have been trying to master the concept of surprise.”

  “Well, that was a surprise, though I wouldn’t call it a pleasant one.”

  “Please forgive my ineptitude.”

  Mary stepped into the bathroom, which was restored to its grottolike calm. “Oh, don’t worry about it. For a mind only a year old, I suppose you’re doing fine.”

  “Actually, I’m four hundred days old today.”

  “Well, that’s different then. A whole four hundred days? What’s taking you so long?”

  The mentar fell silent, and Mary added, “That was sarcasm, Lyra. Friendly ribbing. Look it up.”

  In the spa, the warm jets of gel soothed her, and she couldn’t help but relax. In all truth the invasion by such high-wattage glitterati had been a thrilling surprise, at least the fact of it. The Flyers! Any role on The Flyers was golden, and her own personal hollyholo sim had a speaking part! Or at least a moaning part. “Lyra, show me the audience stats.”

  An hourly chart appeared in the spa. It was hard to read in the steamy fog, but one figure leaped out — scene subscription was in the high teens. Incredible! Each point represented about two million paying viewers, which meant that somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million bathrooms around the world had hosted Chus-Chus and Florentino’s latest love spat. And her Leena’s share in the action, besides Raul weathercock’s legendary battering, topped four figures. And that meant that her Leena had in one afternoon earned Mary more than she used to earn in a whole year working at Applied People. It was astounding. It was unreal. Capitalism was a marvel, as long as you were a capitalist.

  Mary swiped away the chart and gave herself up to the hot fingers of the jets. Fred had never taken her in the rear. The notion had probably never crossed his mind, or for that matter, the mind of any russ. His time in prison had been difficult for her, especially since he had stubbornly refused to exercise their conjugal privileges, not even once. But that was about to change. It would have to, for the trial would soon end and, to be realistic about it, he was going to lose. And Mary sure as hell wasn’t going to resign herself to sixty or more years of celibacy. At least, at the very least, he would have to get used to vurt sex.

  “Lyra, a little privacy.”

  “Certainly, Mary. Good night.”

  Mary turned the jets to their masturbatory setting. She thought of Fred as she attended to herself, but maybe a little bit of Raul Weathercock slipped in as well.

  Honey

  On a bluff overlooking the million-acre IBA agriplex outside Tendonville, Illinois, an apiary arbeitor and honey collection cart were making the daily rounds. The arbeitor parked in front of Hive 23768 and undocked its multiple arms. With programmed efficiency, it lifted the roof off the hive while clearing bees from the supers with gentle puffs of benzaldehyde-spritzed air. It transferred comb frames to the cart for honey extraction and sterilization while testing the hive for pests and disease, assessing the brood chamber, sniffing for mold, and appraising the queen’s lay rate. All results fell within guideline parameters, and the tireless arbeitor reassembled the hive, redocked its arms, and led the cart to Hive 23769 where it repeated the procedure.

  Several dozen hives later, the honey cart signaled that its hundred-liter collection tank was filled to near capacity and summoned a replacement cart.

  At Hive 24024 the arbeitor detected an unusual honey/pollen ratio. There were more comb cells devoted to pollen storage than was typical, but since the ratio fell within acceptable parameters, the arbeitor noted the data and continued on.

  When five hives in a row recorded a similar high ratio, the arbeitor put in a call to the agriplex subem. The subem instructed it to suspend its other tasks and to conduct a pollen survey. Consecutive hives presented increasing numbers until they exceeded guideline parameters at Hive 24030. At Hive 24038, the arbeitor confronted a colony that was out of control. A cloud of angry bees guarded the hive and could not be soothed with the aerosol spritz. Probing the hive, the arbeitor recorded an interior temperature substantially higher than the hive’s own heat sensors reported. So high, in fact, that the combs in all but the outer frames were melting. A gooey slurry of honey, pollen, and wax was running down the hive’s stilt legs and pooling on the ground under the hive platform. The arbeitor snaked its fiber eyes to the puddle for a close-up look. An unknown leaden-colored liquid was separating out of the slurry and seeping into the dirt.

  The Verdict

  On the charge of irretrievable manslaughter in the first degree, Mary thought. On the charge of retrievable manslaughter in the second degree. Mary was dressed and ready to go, but she couldn’t seem to leave her bedroom. Georgine was out in the living room crabbing about Norbert, who had turned out to be a typical jerry after all. Selfish, adolescent. And crabbing about the weather, which had turned wintry. On the charge of criminal trespass and reckless endangerment. On the use of a fabricated identity in the commission of a felony. On lying to a peace officer. Tampering with evidence. Oh, they were going to put Fred away for a long, long time, and it was all her fault. Hadn’t he broken the law in order to protect her? Hadn’t she practically dared him to? Mary fl
ung herself on the bed, unseating her hat. She was the worst spouse possible.

  Georgine came into the bedroom. “What are you doing? You’re going to be late. Are you crying? Don’t cry, Mary.”

  “I’m a terrible person.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m the terrible person. I care more about myself than those around me. I should have been at the clinic with you and Alex and Renata.” She came and sat on the bed next to Mary. “When Wee Hunk called, I had just gotten home, and I told him I was too tired to go back. But the truth is that I was afraid. He said it was urgent, but I was a coward!” She slumped forward.

  Mary sat up and dried her eyes with the corner of a pillowcase. She rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder. She could understand why she was falling to pieces. She had Fred to fret over. But Georgine? She must be channeling Ellen. Evangelines were always channeling someone. That was why they were so good.

  The baby/woman’s condition had improved during the past week. The Protatter, guided by diligent clicking, seemed to be working: Ellen had stopped insisting that her mother was alive. She stopped speaking of her mother altogether. Dr. Lamprey was calling this solid progress and encouraging everyone to remain vigilant at their clickers for another week.

  But Mary seriously doubted that she and her sisters could last another week. Taking responsibility for Ellen’s very thoughts was causing too much strain. She got to her feet and opened a mirror to straighten out her clothes. She fetched the hat from the floor, and as she put it on, she watched Georgine watching her.

  “You look good, Mary.”

  “Thanks.” Mary went to the doorway but came right back to give Georgine a hug. “I swear, I never thought that going to court would be a welcome distraction. Hold down the fort.”

  IT WAS A short hop by town car to the federal court house in Bloomington. The trip was unnecessary; she could attend the trial from home. But home spectators were invisible in the courtscape, and it was important to show her support for Fred. So Mary endured the trip, the media attention, and the invasive court house security in order to check into an official spectator booth.