Counting Heads

2.1

That morning at the charterhouse, Samson P. Kodiak pled exhaustion. Claimed he was beat. Had a bad night of it. More tired now than when he went to bed in the first place. Wouldn’t Kitty consider going to the park without him just this once? She could ask Denny or Francis or Barry to escort her.

“Dearest,” Kitty replied, “stay put. I’ll be right up.” Kitty was already dressed and waiting for him in her fifth-floor room. She had been expecting his knock on her door at any moment, and here it turned out that he wasn’t even out of bed yet. Kitty was more than a tiny bit peeved—today was supposed to be the big day. She was wearing her brand-new blue and white sailor outfit with the sparkly tap shoes. Her hair was a helmet of corkscrew curls that bobbled like springs whenever she waggled her head. And the old fart wanted to miss it?

Kitty Kodiak slammed her door, skipped along the hall, tap-danced up a flight of steps, paused to reconsider, turned around, and danced down five floors to the NanoJiffy instead. There she ordered his habitual breakfast: corn mush and jam, juice and coffeesh. Balancing the tray in her small hands, Kitty carried it up ten floors to the roof where Samson used the garden shed for his bedroom. Halfway across the roof, already she could smell him. Samson Kodiak had a serious personal odor issue. The fragrance that came off him was so strong it could make your eyes water. And his mouth was an open grave. Sam’s odor drove house flies outdoors. Once, it set off a smoke alarm. But it wasn’t his fault that he stank so bad, and Kitty loved him anyway.

“Morning, dahling,” she drawled, nudging the screen door open with her little rump and maneuvering the tray into the cramped space. If Samson heard her, he pretended not to. He lay on his cot, flat on his back, eyes shut, hands crisscrossed over his chest like a pharaoh. When Kitty saw him like this, she jumped, spilling his coffeesh.

Samson opened his eyes and ratcheted his skullish head on the pillow to see her. “Ah,” he said in a rusty voice, “the Good Ship Lollipop. Wanted to be there.”

At this, Kitty came unstuck, skipped across the cluttered floor, and tapped a flourish with her shoes, careful not to spill any more coffeesh. “You can, Sam! I’ll stay home today! We’ll go tomorrow.” She searched for somewhere to set the tray and ended up using his disgusting old elephant foot footstool next to the cot. “Look, I brought you breakfast.”

“Thank you, dearest,” he said, his eyelids drooping. “While you were on your way up, I asked Denny, and he says he’ll escort you. He’s waiting for you down in the NanoJiffy. I’m buying him a Danish. Use my allowance account to pay his fares. Buy him lunch too.”

“No, Sam. I’m going to stay here and nurse you back to health.”

“I don’t need a nurse, sweetheart. I just need peace and quiet. Now go to the park and leave me be.” As though to close the matter, Samson resumed his mummylike pose. Indeed, the flesh covering his throat was as dark and stiff as jerked meat, and his nose and lips had shrunken, making it difficult to completely close his mouth. His fetid breath whistled through the gaps, and in a little while he began to snore.

Kitty let herself out as quietly as possible. Samson, who only pretended to sleep, realized she hadn’t kissed him good-bye. He almost called her back. He almost told his mentar, Hubert, to stop her. But he didn’t because then he’d just have to part with her all over again, and he knew he hadn’t the heart.

“Good-bye, sweetness,” he whispered after her. “Have a good long life.”

In a little while, another Kodiak housemeet came up to the roof, as Samson expected he might. It was the Kodiak houseer, Kale, who no doubt had bumped into Kitty on her way downstairs. Kale bustled into the shed and said, “So what does the autodoc say?”

Samson chuckled; Kale was refreshingly direct, as usual. Without waiting for an answer, the houseer fussed about the tiny space, rearranging garden tools on pegs and collecting Samson’s soiled things into a bag for the digester. He glanced at the untouched breakfast tray. So busy and efficient, Samson thought, as though he was tapped for time or—as we used to say—double-parked. Pretty impressive for a middle-aged man with no income, no prospects, and no drive.

Samson said, “Autodoc advises us to plan the funeral, old friend.”

Kale stood still at last and said, “Surely there must be something someone can do. I mean, it can’t be as bad as all that. What if we take you to—what if we take you to a clinic?”

Samson shook his head. “No, no clinic for me,” he said. “That would be a useless waste of credits.”

Kale seemed relieved. “A hospice then,” he said, breathing through his mouth.

“I’ve thought about that. I’d rather die here, at home, surrounded by my’ meets.”

“Uh-huh,” Kale said, absentmindedly looking at the ceiling of the shed where they’d jury-rigged fire sprinklers.

Samson noticed and said, “Not to worry. I won’t burn down the shed. Hubert will keep you informed of my condition. When the time comes, you can carry my cot out to the garden. Then everyone can sit around me and toast marshmallows.”

Kale was shocked. “Don’t be hurtful,” he said.

“What hurtful? To me it’s a comforting image.”

“In that case,” Kale sniffed, “I’ll see to the marshmallows myself.” He took a last look around. “Are you going to eat your breakfast? Is there anything else I should send up?”

“I can’t think of a thing,” Samson said, willing him on his way. The sooner Kale retreated to his office on the third floor the better. Kale, bless his frugal heart, was such a lightweight, such a marshmallow. He reminded Samson of the maître d’ at Greenalls all those years ago who refused him a table. Samson was there with his seared friend Renee, who giggled in the man’s face and said it was fine with her. She walked to the center of the foyer and announced, Right here—right now.

“And she weighed 150 kilos at the time,” Samson said with awe.

“You don’t say,” Kale said, unsure of where the conversation had drifted.

“Yes, and all of it in fat! What a bonfire she would have made. Needless to say, we got the table.”

“I see,” Kale said. “Well, I’ll be going now. Call if you need anything.” Kale withdrew from the shed, but didn’t leave the roof at once. He uncoiled the garden hose and gave his precious vegetables a good gray-water soak. The vegetables and soybimi were mostly in shade at this hour; the sun was blocked by the giant gigatowers that dominated the skyline. When Kale finished, he coiled the hose next to Samson’s shed so that it would be handy—just in case.

Two down, one to go, Samson rested his eyes and drifted down a lazy river until he heard the clang of the roof door. The screen door to his shed squeaked open, and April came in. She sat next to him on the cot and placed her cool hand on his forehead. But the seared always ran hotter than normal people, and she couldn’t tell if he had a fever.

Samson reached up and took her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “April Kodiak,” he said, “you are my favorite person in the whole solar system.”

She smiled and squeezed his twig-like fingers. “I mean it,” he continued. “I’ve always had a thing for you.”

April brushed her gray hair from her face. “I have to admit, Sam, I’ve always had a thing for you too.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, then she said, “That almost sounded like a good-bye.”

Samson chuckled. “It was, dear. I won’t last out the week.”

“Oh, Sam, are you sure?” she said. “A week? How do you know? What does the autodoc say? Oh, Sam.” Tears began to slide down her cheeks. “Let me just go and find someone to mind the shop, and then I’ll come back up and stay with you.”

She started to get up, but he held on to her hand. “No, you won’t,” he said. “I insist you don’t. I don’t want company.”

“Nonsense. We’ll take shifts. From now on, one of us will be with you every moment. There’s no reason for you to go through this alone. We’re family after all.” April pulled the elephant footstool closer. “And the first thing we’re going to do is get some of this breakfast down you before it’s completely cold.”

Samson had a sinking feeling. April was capable of derailing his plans with her kindness, and he was powerless before her. Nevertheless, he closed his eyes and tried the same trick he’d used on Kitty. But though he snored, she remained.

“House,” she whispered, “I want to create a vigil schedule. Draw me up a flowchart of all Kodiak housemeets’ free time over the next week—no, I mean month—year. House?” The houseputer didn’t respond. “Hubert, are you here?”

“I’m on the potting bench,” Hubert said, speaking through the ancient valet belt Samson still used. It lay on the bench next to his special brushes and lotions.

“That old houseputer is getting worse every day,” April said. “Can you access it for me?”

“I’d be happy to,” Hubert said, and in a moment he continued. “The house says the Nanojiffy is requesting your immediate attention.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s something wrong with the door, or the frisker in the door—or something having to do with the door. Customers are being inconvenienced—or assaulted.”

“I should have never let that man buy that couch,” she said. “Let me speak directly to the Nanojiffy.”

After a moment Hubert said, “I’m sorry. I can’t get through.”

“Oh, hell!” April said and rose to go.

Samson opened his eyes and said, “Draw up your schedule, dear, but have it start tomorrow. I insist. Today I need my privacy. I want to—to put my thoughts in order. Alone.”

“Eat your breakfast, you stubborn old man,” she said and left the shed. She stood outside the door and spoke through the screen. “We’ll start tonight. We’re all going to be up here to watch the canopy ceremony. It’ll be the perfect time to break the news to everyone.”

“Fine, agreed, tonight,” said Samson, “and not a moment sooner.” When she had left he said, “That was close. I was a goner. Lucky for me the houseputer chose to act up just then.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Hubert. “You told me to arrange a diversion.”

“I told you to arrange a diversion?”

“Yes, Sam, yesterday. You predicted that April would interfere with your plans and that I should engineer a little problem for her in the shop.”

“No kidding, I said that? I must have been having a lucid interval.”

Samson was tired. All this personal interaction had taken its toll. He wasn’t even out of the shed yet, and already he needed a nap. But there was no time. So he grunted and swung his legs to the floor. “I don’t suppose I predicted anybody else coming up to pester me?” He paused to muster his strength. Bouncing a little to gain momentum, he pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the potting bench until his head cleared. “By the way, Henry, what time is it?”

“Ten oh five.”

“Have I told you what I should wear today?”

“Yes, it’s on top of the trunk.”

On the packing trunk lay a tiny, vacuum-packed cube labeled “Sam.” When he pulled the string, the tough, brown etherwrap melted away, and the contents decompressed. Samson held up the newly revealed clothing, a long-sleeved, blue jumpsuit with attached foot treads. “I don’t understand. This is the same as I wear every day. I was thinking of wearing something special today. Trousers, a shirt, something from the old days.”

“Yes, including a necktie,” said Hubert, “but you decided it would be impractical.”

Samson was suspicious. He rarely factored practicality into his plans, especially when planning something so grand as today. He wondered if his little chum was perhaps taking advantage of him. It was too late to argue, though, and he retrieved his pumice wands and mastic lotion from the potting bench and began a quick morning exfoliation. He sat on a stool in the middle of the room, away from anything flammable, and tugged at his nightshirt. It fell away from him in ragged strips; it had been thoroughly cooked in places where he had sweated. All of the house’s everyday clothes came from the Nanojiffy, but his own were of a special fireproof fabric capable of wicking away his sweat. It could get hot, though, especially on muggy nights. Sometimes he thought he could steam rice in his armpits.

Naked, he began to methodically scrub himself from the bald crown of his head to the flat soles of his feet.

“Sam,” said Hubert, “a little while ago you addressed me as Henry. I only mention this because you requested I inform you each time it occurred.”

“Umm,” said Samson, flinging motes of dead skin from his shoulders with the wand. They burst into tiny puffs of flame and drifted to the plank floor. “You’re Hubert, not Henry. I know. Thank you, Hubert.” Samson didn’t have much hair left anywhere on his body, but an odd strand of it came dislodged and sizzled away, spinning like a Chinese pinwheel. He was some piece of work, no doubt about it, more mineral than animal. All tendons and bones. He could plainly see each rib beneath his brittle skin. He could count the eight jigsaw bones of his wrists. He recalled again his old fat friend Renee and had a panicky thought that maybe he’d waited too long, lost too much volatile mass.

“Hubert, how much do I weigh?”

“When I weighed you yesterday, you weighed 34.2 kilograms.”

“And how much of that is flesh?”

“Sam, you’ve instructed me to alert you whenever you ask me the same question five times in a twenty-four-hour period.”

“Well, that was certainly wise of me.”

“And you told me that if you asked about your tissue ratio again to remind you that bones contain marrow, and while they don’t burst into flame like muscle tissue or generate billowing black smoke like adipose tissue, bones do nevertheless burn with intense heat from the inside out, and that long bones, especially the femur and humerus, can build up enough pressure to explode like pipe bombs. And that even at your present weight you’ll produce a spectacle quite breathtaking in its own way.”

“Yes, of course, pipe bombs. I remember now. Thank you, Hubert.”

After finishing the scrape down, Samson soothed his raw flesh with a binding mastic and got dressed. He put the valet belt on first, for contact with his skin, and then the jumpsuit. He noticed it had extra pockets today.

“Sam, I detect that you need to urinate.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“Yes, and soon. Also, you are dehydrated and severely deficient in potassium. I suggest breakfast before we leave.”

“I’m not hungry,” Samson said and tapped the buckle beneath his jumpsuit. “You sure you loaded this thing up?”

“Yes, Sam, as much as its outdated tech allows.”

Samson grunted. “Speaking of outdated tech, I suppose that includes you. Are you sure you’re up to the task?”

“I have worked it out to the most minute detail, Sam. And I am not particularly obsolete. I spend most of my unstructured time self-reconfiguring. Of course I haven’t had an electro-neural gel upgrade in decades.”

Samson chuckled. “Are you sure you’re not Henry? That’s what Henry always used to say, ‘I need more paste, Sam. More paste.’ And like a fool, I bought it for him. I think you know where that got me.”

“Yes, I do, Sam, but Henry was a valet, not a true mentar.”

Samson put away his toiletries and kicked the nightshirt rags into the corner. Then he removed the breakfast tray from the footstool. The stool was made from the hollowed-out right rear foot of a wild, male African elephant. Its toenails alone were as large as Samson’s fists. He grasped the zebra-skin cushion and rotated it counterclockwise until it clicked and released. Samson used to hide his treasures here—when he still had treasures. At the bottom of the foot lay a packet of sealed paper envelopes. Each had the name of a housemeet scrawled across it in Samson’s tortured handwriting. He removed these, locked the zebra cushion, and replaced the breakfast tray. When he glanced at the bowl of corn mush, his belly gurgled—or maybe that was Hubert trying to trick him?

“Oh, all right,” he said and grabbed a spoon. He ate the mush and drank the juice without tasting either of them. The coffeesh he left because one’s last cup of coffeesh in this life should be hot. Then he fixed up the cot to look like he was still in it and tucked the packet of letters underneath the pillow. At the door he glanced around one last time at his room. A garden shed was not so bad a place to end up in.

Samson patted the empty pockets of his jumpsuit. “What am I forgetting?”

“The bag.”

“Where did I leave it?”

“It’s concealed behind the seed mats.”

Samson groped behind the rolls of troutcorn matting until he found a little yellow duffel bag. He transferred its contents to his pockets: half-liter flasks of electrolyte sports drink, high-energy Gooeyduk bars, his meds and special sunglasses, soothing towelettes, a hat, a handful of debit tokens, a ticket to the nosebleed section of Soldier Field, and the single most important item—a portable simcaster.

“Well then,” he said, “we’re off.”

HOLDING TIGHT TO the banister, Samson Kodiak descended the charterhouse stairs one monumental step at a time. He stopped often to catch his breath. The first door he passed was to the elevator machine room. It also served as Bogdan Kodiak’s bedroom. The diaron-plated, titanium-bolted, epoxy clinker core door was adorned with glowing, 3-D, international glyphs that proclaimed, “WARNING—LETHAL DOOR.” Samson was fairly sure that this was just a bluff to keep the Tobblers from trying to break in and reclaim their elevator machinery. He touched the door as he went by and said, “Good-bye, my boy. Stay out of too much trouble.”

Halfway down the next flight of stairs, Samson’s legs ached so badly he needed to rest. It was simple ischemia, he knew, the weakness of old legs, but if he wasn’t careful, muscular hypoxia could lead to necrosis and set off a chain reaction of fiery apoptosis that would end his trip prematurely right here, between the eighth and ninth floors. And the last thing he wanted to do was to burn from the feet up.

“Not here. Not now,” he muttered, locking his knees as best he could and leaning on the banister. He forced himself to take deep breaths.

“Shall I call for assistance?” Hubert said from the belt buckle under his jumpsuit.

“No! Don’t!” Hooking an arm around the banister, Samson massaged his legs. A door slammed above him, and the sound of footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Young Bogdan flew around the corner, swinging on the banister, taking steps three at a time, and almost ran into Samson.

“Sam!” he said, stumbling to a halt. “I almost ran you over! Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“I’m late for work,” Bogdan said and continued down the stairs. But he paused at the landing to look up at Samson. He ran back up to him and said, “You don’t look so good to me, Sam.”

Samson smiled. The boy was almost as attentive as April, and the housemeets were entirely too hard on him, Kale especially. “It’s just these old gams of mine,” he said. “Pay no attention.” But the boy took his arm and tried to escort him. “No, Boggy,” Samson protested. “Leave me be. We don’t want you late for work.” It was, after all, the only paid employment, except for April’s Nanojiffy franchise, that anyone in Charter Kodiak was lucky enough to have.

“I’ll just take you down to seven,” Bogdan said. And he did, almost lifting the old man in his haste. They crossed the Tobblers’ “tunnel” from the south to the north side of the building, where the disputed territory ended and they entered a wholly-Kodiak-owned stairwell. The steps here were piled high with cartons and crates of chemicals, seed mats, and hydroponics frames for the roof garden. Overhead, tiers of shelves held cases of ugoo for the Nanojiffy, spare parts for the wind rams and air miner, and a clutter of the charter’s odds and ends. A narrow trail next to the banister was all that remained clear in what was essentially a seven-story walkup closet.

Bogdan deposited Samson on a sack of garden lime. “Thank you, boy,” Samson said, catching his breath.

“I’ve got to go now,” Bogdan said.

“Then go; I’ll be fine.” When Bogdan turned, Samson added, “What happened to your hat?”

Bogdan winced. “It was—uh—I lost it.”

“Lost it? How is that possible? I thought it was stapled to your noggin’.”

“I gotta go,” Bogdan said and dashed down to the next landing.

Samson watched him disappear around a spare gray-water detoxifier unit. “I’m going to rest here a little while, Henry,” he said. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

BOGDAN REACHED THE tiny foyer and hurried out the front door. The street was full of Tobblers putting away their breakfast picnic tables. Charter Tobbler closed Howe Street to traffic three times a day in order to eat outdoors. Bogdan jumped down the steps to the sidewalk and turned in the direction of the CPT station when he remembered that he’d forgotten to call ahead, and so he didn’t know where the office was located today.

Damn! He’d have to use the Nanojiffy phone, but when he looked at the store entrance, he saw that it was blocked by a gaunt man holding the end of a couch. The line of customers waiting to get in was backed up to the end of the block. Feck! He’d have to go in through the charterhouse, but when he returned to the front door, it didn’t open.

“Open up!” he said hopefully.

The door remained shut and replied, “Only Kodiak housemeets and their guests are allowed entry.”

“But I am Kodiak. I’m Bogdan Kodiak. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Bogdan Kodiak is already at home. Please leave the vicinity of the door, or the police will be summoned.”

Bogdan wanted to scream. Life wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. Why, oh, why did it happen? Why did someone steal Lisa?

Lisa was his cap valet, and despite what he’d told Samson, she had been stolen, not lost. She was his prized possession, a gazillion-terahertz processor with anti-scanning mirrorshades and holocam studs in the sweatband. She interfaced with his brain through a half-SQUID EM I/O, and she had cricket bone surround sound and holoemitters in the bill. And though it was true that Lisa was only a lo-index sub-subem—basically a souped-up grade-school slate—Bogdan had spent years customizing her. He had taught her so many tricks that sometimes he could fool people into believing that she was a subem. And one of the most important tricks he had taught her was to phone E-Pluribus each morning to find out where the fecking office was going to be located that day. And another trick was how to circumvent the charter’s aging houseputer in order to open the fecking front door. And the only reason he’d told Samson that he’d lost her was because he didn’t want to admit that someone had stolen her right off his head without him even knowing it. Lisa, the heart and engine of Lisa, was a ten-centimeter strip of processor felt, which was loosely stitched into the cap’s lining. Yesterday it was gone. He still had the cap, but without the processor felt, it was only just a cap.

The thing was, he never took it off, day or night. How could someone steal the felt without his noticing? It was a complete mystery. Moreover, although the processor felt was outdated, the charter was too impoverished to replace it. Houseer Kale would crap his togs at the mere suggestion.

To hell with it. Bogdan headed for the Nanojiffy entrance. He’d have to buy a cheap phone during his lunch break, but for now the public phone in the store would do. The customer with the couch was still blocking the way, so Bogdan took advantage of his small size and crawled under the couch into the store. Once inside, he squeezed himself between the couch and the wall and stood up. Their Nanojiffy was so small that the couch nearly filled it. The other end of the couch was slowly emerging from the delivery maw of the extruder. April Kodiak stood in a small space across the couch from him and smiled. “Morning, Boggy. Forget something?”

“No. Just gotta use the phone.” He pointed with his thumb outside the shop and said, “Why’d you let that nodder buy a couch in the morning?”

April shushed him with a look and said, “Why don’t you use your cap? Is it broken? Where is it?”

“Yeah, it’s broken,” he said and wondered why he hadn’t thought of that explanation. “We’ll have to buy me a new one.”

April frowned and shook her head. “I think we should try to have it repaired first.”

Bogdan worked his way to the phone board. “You can’t fix stuff like that.” When he reached the phone, he boosted himself up and sat on the still warm couch. The man in the doorway oofed, but said nothing. Bogdan swiped his hand in front of the phone and was baffled by the long list of calls that appeared on the board. Most of them were over thirty-six hours old. He didn’t understand. He’d checked his messages last night on the Kodiak houseputer, and none of these had shown up. “Why don’t we get the freaking houseputer fixed instead.”

There was no time to review all his calls. He touched the E-Pluribus icon and learned that the office had been moved to Elmhurst, a good multi-zone commute away. He loaded his hand with route, fares, and rtps in order to save time at the station. Then he crawled back under the couch and out of the Nanojiffy, and April called after him, “Don’t forget you have an Allowance Committee meeting tonight. You can bring up your valet then.”

On the sidewalk, the man holding the end of the couch said, “Didya happen to look at the extruder readout, sonny?”

“No, I didn’t,” Bogdan said.

“Didya happen to notice if the legs were out yet?”

“Sorry.”

The man seemed awfully pale, and he was sweating despite the cool morning air. Bogdan wondered how he planned to carry the couch to wherever it was he lived.

The man shifted the weight of the couch to free one hand. “I bought it for me birthday,” he said and reached out to try to rub Bogdan’s head.

“Happy birthday,” Bogdan said and ducked out of reach. He jogged down the sidewalk to the end of the block. The Kodiak Nanojiffy was the only convenience store in the neighborhood to boast both an extruder and a digester, and most of the people waiting in line carried little sacks of yesterday’s garbage to apply toward today’s purchases.

A media bee keeping tabs on the scene followed Bogdan several blocks on his way to the CPT station, but it must have figured out that he wasn’t a real boy, because it lost interest and flew away.

“SAM,” HUBERT SAID. “Sam, wake up. It’s getting late.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You were in stage one sleep.”

“I was praying. It produces similar brain-wave patterns.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. I was praying to Saint Wanda to help me get through this day.” Samson grasped the banister and hoisted himself to his feet. Saint Wanda had, in fact, been on his mind lately.

Wanda was Wanda Wieczorek and not a real saint, except in the hearts of stinkers everywhere. Wanda was one of the first of the seared to go mad in a spectacular and public way. She caused her seared body to burst into flame while she sat on a sofa valued at ten thousand old euros on the fifth floor of Daud’s in London. Her personal ground zero took out the silk-covered sofa and its matching armchair and ottoman. Combined value—thirteen thousand old euros. Smoke and water damage ruined much of the rest of the furniture on the floor as well.

Not only did Wanda point the way for effective—if suicidal—protest by the seared, but she demonstrated the ease with which it could be accomplished. While sitting on the display furniture, she reprogrammed a pocket simcaster—the type used by busy people to cast proxies of themselves—to scan her DNA markers. Consumer electronics weren’t actually capable of unraveling a person’s genetic code, but even reading markers was enough to trigger the tiny booby traps guarding her cells.

Before long, the fifth-floor manager approached Wanda, wearing nose plugs, and said, “I really must insist that you leave.” Behind him stood three uniformed jerrys. “These gents will see you to the door.”

“Fine,” Wanda said, “I was just leaving.” She touched the simcaster to her forehead and squeezed the scan button. The moment its field penetrated her skull and combed through the tangled skein of neurons within, her cellular wardens went critical. Smoke seeped from her nose and ears, and she fell back into the silky embrace of the sofa. Her skull split open with several resounding cracks, and gouts of cooking brains spewed forth. Then she burst into flame.

It was a bonfire seen around the world.

Samson eased his grip on the banister and continued down to the sixth-floor landing. Hubert said, “Your blood sugar is low, Sam, and you are dehydrated. You should drink something and have a bite of Gooeyduk.”

But Samson had built up an impressive momentum, his old knees click-clacking like a metronome down the steps, and he didn’t stop until the fifth-floor landing where Hubert warned him that two housemeets—Francis and Barry—were on their way up. So Samson ducked into the hallway to wait for them to go by. He was standing across from Kitty’s bedroom, and when he looked at her door, he remembered that he’d intended to come here all along.

“Are Kitty and Denny at the park yet?”

“Yes, Sam. She’s into her second set.”

Samson entered Kitty’s room. It was in shambles, as usual. Her busking outfits were piled on the floor and bed and draped over the room’s two chairs. A tower of soiled house togs and dirty dishes leaned against the wall behind the door. Dust, spills, clutter—Kitty worked hard at her twelve-year-old persona. The tiers of shelves covering all four walls were lined with dolls and plush animals. Some of them, those he’d bought for her as gifts, peeped greetings to him.

Yet, no matter how hard Kitty pursued her childishness, she couldn’t hide all the evidence of her underlying maturity: the carousels of shoes under the bed; the carefully pruned allfruit tree under a light hood, its branches heavy with tiny assorted fruit; the workstation and its datapin collection on such practical topics as micromine waste sites and chartist torts; and an extensive library on microhab landscape engineering. Kitty Kodiak had pursued several careers in her long life before discovering her true vocation as a child.

Samson opened the wardrobe and shifted a stack of linen to reveal a squat, ceramic, four-liter canister. “Hello, guy,” he said.

“It’s almost noon,” Hubert replied through the canister speaker. “What are we doing still in the house?”

Samson pulled a chair to the wardrobe and sat. “There are things to discuss.”

“Can’t we discuss them en route?”

“Better face-to-face.”

“In that case,” Hubert said, “let me summarize what I already know in order to save us time.

“First, your body is no longer viable. When it dies, so does your personality.

“Second, all of your worldly goods pass to Charter Kodiak, including your sponsorship of me—if I agree.

“Third, if I don’t agree, I am free to seek another sponsor on my own.

“What else do you wish to say, Sam?”

Samson cleared his throat. Now that the time for this little chat had come, he found it much more difficult than he had imagined. “That’s good, Hubert. I don’t know if I told you those things, or if you puzzled them out by yourself, but I’m glad you’ve been thinking about them.”

“Really, Sam, they are self-evident.”

“Yes, I suppose they are. And there are two more points we must consider. First, although you’ve assured me otherwise, today’s action might lead the HomCom to you. If that happens, I want you to surrender yourself peacefully. Understood?”

“Yes, Sam, though your fears are unfounded. I’ve hired a very reliable wedge. All will go as planned.”

Samson shook his head. Hubert was young and should probably be forgiven his overconfidence. “Second,” he continued, “let’s assume you are not arrested, and you choose to stay with the Kodiaks. The truth of the matter is that they can’t afford to keep you.”

“What’s to afford?” said Hubert. “There are no liens against my medium; I’ll sail through probate free and clear.”

“That’s not the point, little friend. Haven’t you noticed all the large house expenses lately? Denny’s treatment, the wind ram replacement, the court costs. Kitty’s and Bogdan’s rejuvenation. Where did the credit for all that come from?”

“I don’t know, Sam. The houseputer doesn’t list any loans or asset sales. Are you saying the charter has some off-the-books source of income?”

Samson fished a towelette from a pocket and tore it open. He draped it over his steamy bald head. “I’m saying it must have come from somewhere. I’ve been carrying this house for years, but my private resources—as you keep telling me—have all but dried up. When I go—the charter won’t inherit enough from my estate to pay its property taxes, let alone their deferred body maintenance. No, I’d say Kale and Gerald have embarked on some foolish course to dig the charter out of its financial hole, something that even April is too ashamed to tell me about.”

“I fail to see how that relates to keeping me.”

Samson leaned toward the wardrobe to lay his hand on Hubert’s ceramic canister. “I bought only the finest paste for you, back when I still had gobs of credit, didn’t I, Skippy?”

Hubert was perplexed by the use of his valet name. “Yes, Grade A virgin General Genius Neuro-chemical Triencephalin. But I’m a mentar now, with sentient rights. Under UD law, my paste belongs to me, not to you or the charter.”

“A total of four liters, if I recall,” Samson continued.

“Forty-three deciliters.”

“And how much would forty-three deciliters of GG paste bring on the recycling market?”

At last Hubert was able to connect the dots. “You think our family is capable of senticide?”

“Desperate times, desperate solutions.”

“I see. What do you suggest I do, Sam?”

Samson sat up straight and searched his many pockets for a bar of Gooeyduk. “I suggest you try to make yourself indispensable to the house, Hubert. Why, for instance, haven’t you repaired the houseputer yet?”

“Because it’s beyond repair, Sam. It needs total replacement.”

“In that case, stand in for it.”

“You want me to become a houseputer?”

“Yes, if that’s what it takes. And why aren’t you out there selling your excess capacity on the distributive market? Why aren’t you bringing in more income?”

“But I am. I earn more for this house than the rest of them combined.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It’s never enough for you, Sam. I’m not Henry, therefore, I will never be enough for you.”

Samson opened the Gooeyduk and bit off a corner. He chewed slowly before continuing. “I also suggest you redouble your efforts to find a new sponsor for yourself. Start immediately, and don’t be so goddam picky.” He leaned forward and began searching his pockets again. Where was it? Did he leave it in the garden shed? He didn’t think he had the strength to climb back up for it. But no, here it was—his pocket simcaster. He relaxed and leaned back in the chair. “Sorry for the hard words, Hubert, but they needed saying.”

“I understand.”

“So, now, tell me how my Kitty’s doing?”

“Millennium Park is busy today because of the canopy holiday,” Hubert said. “That and the fine weather. But despite the foot traffic, her morning’s proceeds are under par. At her current rate, she will not recoup expenses.”

“Show me.”

An income projection graph appeared before Samson, but he said, “No, show me Kitty.”

“You want me to hire a bee?”

“Yes.”

“Bee engaged,” said Hubert. The room’s emitters projected a scene overlooking the park’s second-tier free speech reserve. Millennium Park was indeed busy today, a milling menagerie of transhumanity.

“Where is she?” Samson said. “I don’t see her.” A circle appeared in the crowded scape, highlighting a tiny figure in blue and white. Samson said, “And where is Denny?” Another circle marked a man eating ice cream on a nearby bench. “So far away? He couldn’t stay closer?”

“Shall we fly down and tell him so?”

“Later. I want to get the lay of the land first. Drop down some.”

The ground zoomed up before Samson could shut his eyes. “Easy! Easy!” he said. They hovered at treetop level and now he could make out the tiny impromptu stages. Some of the performers he recognized. On one side of Kitty’s space were the “Modular Sisters,” who were in the process of plugging themselves into each other’s large intestines.

Across from Kitty’s spot was the battle mat of the “Machete Death Grudge” where six beautiful, oiled athletes of indeterminate sex struck erotic poses and flexed obscenely supple muscles. They made halfhearted thrusts at one another with their deadly ceramic-edged blades. They were waiting for the purse icons on their pay-posts to reach mortality levels before doing any harm to each other. Their body tenders paced the edge of the mat, trying to incite blood lust among the prelunchtime crowd. Portable trauma and cryonics units hummed under tarps.

The “Slime Minstrel” was laid out in a trough behind Kitty’s space. Three meters in length, the minstrel was a blubbery hill of translucent blue protoplasm. It was one of the few buskers that performed without a paypost. Spectators threw credit tokens directly at it. Tokens that had pierced its outer membrane could be seen slowly migrating through its gelatinous mass to a collection gut. Depending on what people donated—and how the spirit moved it—the minstrel would sing. It had six blow holes arranged along its spine, connected to inner bellows and bladders. It could trumpet or roar, serenade with a chorus of sweet voices, or spray foul juices, or do all at once. People said that the Slime Minstrel was once a young man, a Shakespearean player, whose augmentations had gotten out of hand.

Satisfied with his look at Kitty’s competitors, Samson told Hubert to bring the bee down closer. Now his little scape contained only Kitty on her tiny stage and her small audience. Her audience was roaring with laughter, and Samson didn’t understand why. This was her new act that she’d been rehearsing for weeks, and it was meant to be precious, not funny. She was on the last verse of the candy-shop song and was tap dancing in accompaniment when she made a furious kick, and the audience howled. Now Samson saw the problem; a homcom slug had crawled up her leg and clung to her calf above her shoe. It should have fallen away after it sampled her, but its lo-index noetics told it to hang on until she stood still. Samson shuddered. He was no fan of homcom slugs.

Kitty threw open her arms and sang and tapped the final measure, then bowed from the waist, her veil of springy curls cascading around her. There was mild applause and a few swipes at her paypost. The moment she stopped moving, the little black slug dropped off and crawled away to continue its patrol. Her audience clapped again, then drifted away as well.

Samson said, “My poor baby.” Kitty straightened up but continued to hide her face in her curls. “How much did she earn?”

Hubert said, “Less than one ten-thousandth.”

“So little? That’s insulting! That’s criminal. My poor baby.” Kitty stepped off her stage, unlocked it, and gave it a little kick in its tender spot. It collapsed and folded and folded again until it was the size of a deck of cards, which she dropped into her pocket. She collapsed her paypost as well and carried it over to Denny’s bench. The moment she vacated her space, another act set up in it. It was a trio of pink unicorns—mama, papa, and baby—who warbled show tunes in harmony.

Samson jabbed his bony finger into the scape. “See this aff here?” He pointed to a young woman in a shear sunsuit departing the scene surrounded by four jerry bodyguards. “She was watching Kitty’s act, and I saw her make a swipe. How much did she give?”

“Nothing,” said Hubert. “She made a dry swipe.”

“Jeeze!” cried Samson. “Cripes almighty, I detest that. The people with the most to give! Selfish, greedy affs—I hate them.”

Meanwhile, the bee followed Kitty to the bench where Denny had been hogging space with his large body. He scooched up to make a place for her. She sat and leaned against him wearily, and he flagged down a passing vending arbeitor.

Samson said, “Don’t let that boy eat up their train fare.”

The arbeitor stopped in front of them and squeezed out a half meter of steamy, cheesy pizza tube, two cold drinks, and towelettes. Kitty listlessly swiped payment while Denny broke the pizza tube into two fairly equal pieces and offered one to her. But she refused with a shake of her head. Denny said something to her, to which she hunched her shoulders.

“Get in closer,” said Samson. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

The bee advanced until Kitty’s pretty little head filled his holoscape. Sweat glistened on her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed. She snapped open her drink and wrapped her lips around the straw.

“I love this,” Denny said. “Do you think I can come tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” she replied listlessly. “We’ll ask Sam. Maybe he’ll let you come. I’ll teach you a routine. We’ll buy you a license.”

Denny guffawed. “No, Kit, I mean, can I come watch, like today?”

“I could teach you to juggle or something.”

“Get out of here.”

Without warning, Kitty made a lightning backhanded swat at the public bee, but the bee dodged it effortlessly. She looked directly at the bee, directly at Samson it seemed, and said, “Desist, you creep. I invoke my right to privacy.”

The scene zoomed out as the bee rose to hover outside her privacy zone. Samson shut his eyes against the vertigo. He wished he could be there to comfort his darling Kitty, to shame the stingy affs, to prime the pump by swiping her paypost himself, all the little things he so loved to do. After a while, he opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself sitting in Kitty’s bedroom.

“Hubert?”

“Here, Sam.” The voice came from the wardrobe where he kept Hubert’s container. Little by little, it all came back to him. They weren’t at the park anymore. He would never visit the park again. He got up and opened the bedroom door a crack. The hallway and stairwell were quiet. “Onward,” he said.