Counting Heads

2.10

“Cabinet’s through probate?” Meewee said, looking around the boardroom.

“Isn’t that what I just said, your holiness?” Jaspersen snapped. He didn’t seem at all pleased by the news, and Meewee wondered if this was an unexpected turn of events. “It asks to join us,” Jaspersen went on, “and if no one objects—?”

The persona of the elderly chief of staff appeared behind Jaspersen’s chair. Jaspersen motioned it to the other side of the table, and the mentar went around to stand behind an empty chair.

“Good afternoon, myren,” it said. “Thank you for allowing me to address you. As you know, today has seen a great tragedy, but let me assure you that, except for a brief period during my visit to the pleasant offices of the Justice Department, the operations of Starke Enterprises have remained firmly in my hands. The court has appointed me to a custodial role until Eleanor Starke’s estate is settled.” The mentar paused to look at the individual board members around the table. Its gaze seemed to linger on Meewee. “I see by the minutes,” it continued, “that you have elected an interim chair. I congratulate you, Myr Jaspersen.”

Jaspersen nodded stiffly.

“I see also new discussion on the Federated Chinas matter. There is probably no reason to remind you that in Myr Starke’s opinion, Oships were not ‘for sale’ at any price.”

“That’s true!” Meewee crowed. “I told you, Jaspersen.”

“If Myr Starke were here,” Cabinet went on, ignoring the outburst, “I am sure she would still oppose the Chinas offer. But as Myr Jaspersen has so succinctly pointed out, the times have changed. It is this board’s prerogative to conduct Garden Earth Project business as it sees fit, and I will not oppose any valid decisions it makes. I will, however, use all of the substantial resources at my disposal to preserve Starke Enterprises’ right to participate in making those decisions.”

Meewee nearly bounced in his seat.

“That being said,” Cabinet continued, “let me state for the record that I look favorably on the Chinas proposal.”

Members let out a collective sigh, but Meewee was astonished.

“As a mentar, I supported my sponsor, even when I didn’t agree with her. On this matter, I never agreed with Myr Starke.”

“But that’s not true,” Meewee blurted out. “You and I and Eleanor had many private conversations on this topic, and you professed complete agreement with her viewpoint.”

“Furthermore,” Cabinet said, “although I intend to retain Starke Enterprises’ second seat on this board, the current occupant of that seat may not be the best choice to fill it. I’m thinking that someone from senior management would make a more informed representative.”

Meewee jumped to his feet, “You can’t do that!”

Cabinet turned to Meewee. “You happen to be correct, Myr Meewee. I cannot replace you now or in the immediate future. Under custodial guidelines, I am to maintain current Starke Enterprises operations without making major changes, at least until the fate of the corporation has been resolved. I believe shuffling members of Starke Enterprises’ many boards might be interpreted as exceeding my authority. But be assured, this situation is only temporary.”

Cabinet turned back to the board. “I would like to close my presentation by offering my view of the future of Starke Enterprises, if the board would care to hear it.”

“By all means, Cabinet,” Jaspersen said eagerly.

Meewee covered his face with his hands. He should have known it was too good to be true, Eleanor’s brilliant plan. He had failed her.

“The bulk of Eleanor’s estate,” Cabinet continued, “including all of Starke Enterprises and all of its subsidiaries, will pass to her daughter, Ellen. I am custodian until Ellen is declared competent.”

Meewee raised his head. Ellen? He’d been so preoccupied with the future of the GEP, he’d given no thought to the fate of Eleanor’s daughter during this whole loathsome day.

“Tragically,” Cabinet continued, “Ellen may not survive her trauma. If she dies or is never declared competent, Starke Enterprises will be broken up and sold by the court. In that case, I shall recommend to the executor that interested Garden members be given first option to Heliostream and other subsidiaries directly involved in the project.”

Meewee caught Chapwoman and Jaspersen exchanging a sly glance.

“If Ellen does recover, as we all hope she does, it’ll be up to her to decide Starke Enterprises’ future and my role in it. My guess, based upon a lifetime association with her, is that she’ll want nothing to do with her deceased mother’s corporate interests and that she will break it up for sale.”

Maybe, Meewee thought, or maybe not. He, too, had a long association with the girl, and although she might never fill her mother’s shoes, he was certain she would respect Eleanor’s legacy. If only he could talk to her, he was certain he could persuade her. Maybe Garden Earth wasn’t dead yet.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Where is Ellen right now?”

Cabinet turned to him. “I believe she’s still in transit.”

“Transit to where?” Meewee said. “I want to pay my respects.”

“I will convey them for you,” Cabinet said.

“Thank you, but I wish to pay them in person.”

“I’m sorry, but Ellen’s whereabouts are not public information.”

Jaspersen cleared his throat and said, “I would ask you two to please conduct personal business like this outside this meeting frame.”

“But—” Meewee said.

Relax, Merrill, Zoranna said. Ellen is arriving at the Roosevelt Clinic in Decatur.

The Roosevelt Clinic was one of Byron Fagan’s facilities. Meewee glared at Fagan, who looked away. Coward, he thought. You’re all cowards, conspirators, bastards.

WHEN THE MEETING adjourned, Meewee left the boardroom and took a lift down to his subterranean offices. The handful of Heliostream employees he passed along the way seemed unaware of the morning’s profound events. Behind his office door, Meewee sagged with exhaustion. He collapsed into his armchair for a gentle massage and ordered his vermilion overalls to loosen up a size or two. That felt better. “Arrow,” he said, “fetch me a glass of Merlot. And while you’re at it, fix me a little something for lunch.”

“Complying,” said his mentar.

Mentar. A dozen years ago, when Eleanor offered him Arrow’s sponsorship, she had assured him that the AI was in the hi-index range. It was his first personal relationship with anything more powerful than a belt valet, since Birthplace had been chronically underfunded and unable to provide its staff with personal assistants. At first he had been reluctant to accept Arrow—he still had “sentience slavery” issues—but Eleanor had made it clear that Arrow, employment at Heliostream, and a seat on the GEP board were a package deal. Although Meewee had had very little personal contact with mentars, he quickly assessed Arrow’s abilities to be sub-par, especially when compared to the leading sentients he began to deal with on a daily basis: Nick, E-P, Cruz, and especially the intimidating Cabinet. Next to them, Arrow seemed more like a minimally adequate office subem. It lacked any amount of initiative or self-awareness. It didn’t seem to have a personality whatsoever, and as far as he could tell, the other mentars dismissed it as wasted paste.

An arbeitor rolled up to him bearing wine and a cucumber and avocado sandwich, his favorite. At least Arrow knew how to access his upref file. Meewee ate the food quickly, and the wine helped settle his nerves. After the meal he snuggled into the armchair and tried to recall all he knew about Eleanor’s daughter—which wasn’t much.

“Arrow, when and where was the last time I saw Ellen Starke?”

“On September 30, 2133, at the Louis Terkel Center Reception.”

Meewee vaguely remembered the reception, but not the girl. “What did we talk about?”

“Ellen Starke shared news of the McCoy Award nomination for her novella House Guest.”

It was coming back to him. The girl could go on for hours about people and things he’d never heard of. He remembered that she was quite pretty, at least a head taller than he was. She had bony shoulders that men must find attractive. All in all, she seemed to feel comfortable talking to him. Why wouldn’t she help him save her mother’s life work? Especially if he framed it in those terms—her mother’s life work.

Satisfied with his approach, he closed his eyes and told Arrow to place a call to the Roosevelt Clinic in Decatur.

Done, Arrow said.

Meewee opened his eyes to find himself apparently standing near a window that overlooked a lush, spacious lawn beyond a row of ornamental chinaberry trees. On the wall next to him, a coarse fabric arras depicting a sea battle was slowly reweaving itself into something more pastoral. Likewise, beneath his feet the parquet floor was reshuffling its hardwood tiles in kaleidoscopic fantasies. It was the kind of busy decor that would drive someone like him batty.

Incongruously, there was a cooking odor in the air, like fried bananas. Quite yummy smelling, actually.

“May I help you?” said a voice behind him. Meewee turned to see a man with a careworn face in a long white medical jacket. He approached Meewee and raised his hand in a holo salute, which Meewee returned. “Good afternoon, Myr Meewee, and welcome to Roosevelt Clinic, a wholly owned facility of the Fagan Health Group. I am Concierge, the group’s mentar. What can I do for you?”

“Concierge, is it?” Meewee said, tilting his head back to look up at the mentar’s face. As a short man, Meewee was well used to tilting his head to talk to most people, but for the love of Gaia, why did he have to do it for a machine? “Since you know my name, mentar, you must know my business.”

The mentar seemed stumped, genuinely so. “I assume you’re here to see one of our guests, but I do not find your name on any of our guests’ FDO list.”

Meewee was tired of the same old power game. And it was doubly hard to take coming from a soulless construct. “I’m here to check on the condition of Ellen Starke,” he said mildly. “I understand she has been brought here. Please bring me to her.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that we have such a guest, Myr Meewee, and it’s not our policy to act as social intermediaries. I suggest you deal with your acquaintances directly. When they put you on their FDO list, and if they are here, I will readily admit you.”

Arrow! Meewee said. Call Ellen Starke’s mentar—and remind me what its name is.

Its name is Wee Hunk, and I have it on the line.

The scene around Meewee changed abruptly; he and Concierge were standing in a darkened room, joined by a third man. Wee Hunk was a cartoonish Neanderthal in an animal skin anorak. Beetle brow, bowed legs, impossibly bulky muscles. Meewee didn’t recall this mentar at all, as he surely would have.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Concierge said. The white-jacketed mentar raised his hand to both of them and left the room.

Wee Hunk raised his hand too and said, “Myr Meewee, thank you for coming.”

“I came as soon as I was free.”

“That was considerate of you.”

Meewee glanced at the mentar to see if it, too, was mocking him. But its features were so pronounced, its expressions so large, it was hard to tell. He replied, “I need to speak to Ellen as soon as she’s awake. Please take me to her.”

“At once,” the caveman said and turned and walked away. Meewee hastened to follow, but they went only two steps before Wee Hunk stopped short in front of a wall of slanted windows. “There she is,” he said, gesturing to a surgical theater below.

Meewee looked down into the brightly lit room expecting to see the young woman, but what he saw was a chromium table and three people in sterilewrap gowns. On the table lay a scorched and badly dented safety helmet. He had forgotten that she was recovered in a helmet.

“They don’t have her out yet?” he said.

“The doctors aren’t sure how best to unclench it,” Wee Hunk said. “It took quite a beating in the crash. Two of its cryonics coils failed, as well as its first responder interface. Ellen’s life signs are strong, however.”

“That’s good to hear,” Meewee said, momentarily distracted by a new scent in the air—vanilla and almonds? What strange odors for a scape like this. “It’s nothing serious then? No lasting brain damage?”

Wee Hunk said, “Let’s wait until the surgeons have had a chance to look at her before we make medical pronouncements.”

“Yes, of course,” Meewee said.

“A safety helmet can’t prevent all trauma to the brain,” Wee Hunk said, “and they do a certain amount of damage all by themselves. Fortunately, most of it is correctable. Ellen’s doctors are concerned about the less than optimal level of life support her brain has endured and the length of time it has endured it.

“Now, Myr Meewee,” the animal skin man continued, “was there something in particular that you wanted to discuss with Ellen?”

“Yes, there is, but it’s confidential. Put me on her FDO list and inform me as soon as she regains consciousness.”

The caveman inspected his thick fingernails and said, “With all due respect, I don’t think so.”

“Sorry?”

“Myr Meewee, Ellen has never had much of a personal relationship with you. You are neither friend nor family. If you like, however, I’ll put your name on the invitation list for a reception to celebrate her recovery, but that’s all.”

“You don’t understand!” Meewee said. “I have urgent Starke Enterprises business. It’s not up to you to decide whether or not I can see her.”

“On the contrary,” the mentar said, crossing its bulging arms, “Ellen is solely my responsibility. The court has appointed me guardian ad litem until she recovers. And as for Starke Enterprises business, Cabinet informs me that your tenure there will shortly come to an end. I suggest you put whatever it is you wish to tell her in a memo that I will see she gets as soon as she’s strong enough to deal with business matters.”

Meewee wagged his finger at the ridiculous cartoon. “You have no right! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

Commotion in the surgical theater below caught their attention. A technician rolled a vat of clear liquid next to the procedure table where two surgeons were initiating the helmet’s unclenching sequence. The helmet blossomed like an eight-petaled flower, and in the center, where Ellen’s head should have been cradled, sat a plastic mannequin head instead.

Wee Hunk’s beetle brows rose in alarm. “That’s not possible!”

“What does it mean?” Meewee said, but he said it to his empty office where he again found himself sitting in his armchair.

If there was any doubt in Meewee’s mind that Eleanor’s yacht had been sabotaged, it was thoroughly dispelled by what he’d just witnessed. Ellen was missing. Meewee jumped to his feet, intent upon doing something to help, but he didn’t have a clue what. He felt like a tiny fish in a tank full of sharks.

“You have a visitor,” Arrow announced.

“Tell them I’m busy!” he snapped at his so-called mentar. Couldn’t it even deal with routine office tasks?

“It’s Cabinet,” Arrow replied.

Meewee felt a rush of fear. What else could go wrong today? “Let it in,” he said.

Cabinet instantly appeared in his office as the attorney general persona, a middle-aged woman who had always struck Meewee as the most ruthless of the bunch. At this moment he found its familial resemblance to Eleanor unnerving.

“What do you want?” he asked it point-blank.

“Nothing, actually,” the mentar said. “I just came to personally notify you of your termination from Heliostream, effective at close of business today. You will vacate these offices and turn in whatever verification codes you control and whatever Heliostream or Starke Enterprises property is in your possession. That includes the mentar Arrow. Also, vacate your company housing at your earliest convenience, but no later than tomorrow afternoon.”

“You’re firing me?” Meewee said incredulously.

“Firing, sacking, canning, downsizing, excessing, whatever you want to call it. There are so many quaint expressions to choose from.”

“But I thought that as custodian, you lack the authority to remove me.”

“From the GEP board, that is correct. But I have more latitude over employees.”

“But,” Meewee sputtered, “but terminating my employment strips me of my seat on the board and amounts to the same thing.”

“Funny how problems sort themselves out, isn’t it? But don’t be so glum, Bishop; we are prepared to offer you a generous separation bonus, so long as you are cooperative.”

Without waiting for a reply, Cabinet vanished, leaving behind the Starke sig, which melted into the air like vapor.