Текст книги "Lock in"

Автор книги: John Scalzi

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Two

“WHO’S THE CLANK?” the man asked Vann, as he met us at the precinct. My facial scan software popped him up as George Davidson, captain of the Metro Second Precinct.

“Wow, really?” I said, before I could stop myself.

“I used the wrong word, didn’t I,” Davidson said, looking at me. “I can never remember if ‘clank’ or ‘threep’ is the word I’m not supposed to be using today.”

“Here’s a hint,” I said. “One comes from a beloved android character from one of the most popular films of all time. The other describes the sound of broken machinery. Guess which one we like better.”

“Got it,” Davidson said. “I thought you people were on strike today.”

“Jesus,” I said, annoyed.

“Touchy threep,” Davidson said, to Vann.

“Asshole cop,” Vann said, to Davidson. Davidson smiled. “This is Agent Chris Shane. My new partner.”

“No shit,” Davidson said, looking back at me. He clearly recognized the name.

“Surprise,” I said.

Vann waved at Davidson to get his attention back over to her. “You’ve got someone I want to talk to.”

“Yes, I do,” Davidson said. “Trinh told me you would be coming.”

“You’re not going to be as difficult as she’s been, I hope,” Vann said.

“Oh, you know I’m all about cooperation between law enforcement entities,” Davidson said. “And also you’ve never crossed me. Come on.” He motioned us forward, into the bowels of the station.

A few minutes later we were staring at Nicholas Bell through glass. He was in an interrogation room, silent, waiting.

“Doesn’t look like the guy to shove someone out of a window,” Davidson observed.

“It wasn’t a guy,” Vann said. “The guy was still in the room. It was a love seat.”

“Doesn’t look like the guy to shove a love seat out of a window, either,” Davidson said.

Vann pointed. “That’s an Integrator,” Vann said. “He spends a lot of time with other people in his head, and those people want to do a lot of different things. He’s in better shape than you think.”

“If you say so,” Davidson said. “You’d know better than I would.”

“Have you talked to him yet?” I asked.

“Detective Gonzales took a pass at him,” Davidson said. “He sat there and didn’t say a word, and did that for about twenty minutes.”

“Well, he has a right to remain silent,” I said.

“He hasn’t invoked that right yet,” Davidson said. “He hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet, either.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with your Officer Timmons zapping him into unconsciousness at the scene, now, would it?” Vann asked.

“I don’t have the full report from Timmons yet,” Davidson said.

“You’re a beacon of safe constitutional practices, Davidson.”

Davidson shrugged. “He’s been awake for a while. If he remembers he’s got rights, then fine. Until then, if you want to take a pass at him, he’s all yours.”

I looked over to Vann to see what she was going to do. “I think I’m going to pee,” she said. “And then I’m going to get a coffee.”

“Down the hall for both,” Davidson said. “You remember where.”

Vann nodded and left.

“Chris Shane, huh,” Davidson said to me, after she was gone.

“That’s me,” I said.

“I remember you when you were a kid,” Davidson said. “Well, not a kid, exactly. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” I said.

“How’s your dad? He going to run for senator or what?”

“He hasn’t decided yet,” I said. “That’s off the record.”

“I used to watch him play,” Davidson said.

“I’ll let him know,” I said.

“Been with her long?” Davidson motioned after Vann.

“First day as her partner. Second day on the job.”

“You’re a rookie?” Davidson asked. I nodded. “It’s hard to tell, because—” He motioned to my threep.

“I get that,” I said.

“It’s a nice threep,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry about the ‘clank’ thing.”

“It’s not a problem,” I said.

“I’d guess that you’d have less-than-flattering ways of describing us,” Davidson said.

“‘Dodgers,’” I said.

“What?”

“‘Dodgers,’” I repeated. “It’s short for ‘Dodger Dogs.’ It’s the hot dog they serve at Dodger Stadium in L.A.”

“I know what a Dodger Dog is,” Davidson said. “I don’t think I get how you get from us to them.”

“Two ways,” I said. “One, you guys are basically meat stuffed into skin. So are hot dogs. Two, hot dogs are mostly lips and assholes, and so are you guys.”

“Nice,” Davidson said.

“You asked,” I said.

“Yeah, but why Dodger Dogs?” Davidson said. “This is a lifelong Nationals fan asking.”

“Got me,” I said. “Why ‘threep’? Why ‘clank’? Slang happens.”

“Any slang for him?” Davidson pointed to Bell, who was still sitting there, quietly.

“He’s a ‘mule,’” I said.

“Makes sense,” Davidson said.

“Yeah.”

“Ever use one?”

“An Integrator? Once,” I said. “I was twelve and my parents took me to Disney World. Thought it would be better to experience it in the flesh. So they scheduled me an Integrator for the day.”

“How was it?”

“I hated it,” I said. “It was hot, after an hour my feet hurt, and I nearly pissed myself because I had no idea how to do it like you guys do, right? That’s all taken care of for me, and I got Haden’s so young that I don’t remember doing it the other way. The Integrator had to surface to do it, and they’re not supposed to do that when they’re carrying someone. After a couple of hours I complained enough that we went back to the hotel room and swapped back out with the threep. And then I had a good time. They still had to pay the Integrator for the full day, though.”

“And you haven’t done it since.”

“No,” I said. “Why bother.”

“Huh,” Davidson said. The door to the interrogation room opened and Vann came through it, carrying two cups of coffee. He pointed to her. “She’s one, you know.”

“She’s one what?”

“An Integrator,” Davidson said. “Or was, anyway, before she joined the Bureau.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. I looked over to where she was sitting down and getting comfortable.

“It’s why she’s got this beat,” Davidson said. “She gets you guys in a way the rest of us don’t. No offense, but it’s hard for the rest of us to wrap our brains around what’s going on with you.”

“I understand that,” I said.

“Yeah,” Davidson said. He was quiet for a second, and I waited for what I knew was coming next: the Personal Connection to Haden’s. I guessed an uncle or a cousin.

“I had a cousin who got Haden’s,” Davidson said, and internally I checked off the victory. “This was back with the first wave, when no one had any idea what the fuck was going on. Before they called it Haden’s. She got the flu, and then seemed to get better, and then—” He shrugged.

“Lock in,” I said.

“Right,” Davidson said. “I remember going to the hospital to see her, and they had a whole wing of locked-in patients. Just lying there, doing nothing but breathing. Dozens of them. And a couple of days before, all of them were walking around, living a normal life.”

“What happened to your cousin?” I asked.

“She lost it,” Davidson said. “Being locked in made her have a psychotic break, or something like that.”

I nodded. “That wasn’t uncommon, unfortunately.”

“Right,” Davidson said again. “She hung in for a couple of years and then her body gave it up.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“It was bad,” Davidson said. “But it was bad for everyone. I mean, shit. The first lady got it. That’s why it’s called Haden’s.”

“It still sucks.”

“It does,” Davidson agreed, and pointed to Vann. “I mean, she got Haden’s too, right?” Davidson asked. “At some point. That’s why she’s like she is.”

“Sort of,” I said. “There was a tiny percentage of people who were infected who had their brain structure altered but didn’t get locked in. A tiny percentage of them had their brains altered enough to be able to be Integrators.” It was more complicated than that, but I didn’t think Davidson actually cared that much. “There’s maybe ten thousand Integrators on the entire planet.”

“Huh,” Davidson said. “Anyway. She’s an Integrator. Or was. So maybe she’ll get something out of this guy after all.” He turned up the volume on the speakers so we could hear what she was saying to Bell.

*   *   *

“I brought you some coffee,” Vann said, to Bell, sliding the coffee over to him. “Knowing nothing about you, I guessed you might want cream and sugar. Sorry if I got that wrong.”

Bell looked at the coffee, but otherwise did and said nothing.

“Bacon cheeseburgers,” Vann said.

“What?” Bell said. Vann’s apparent non sequitur had roused him out of complete silence.

“Bacon cheeseburgers,” Vann repeated. “When I worked as an Integrator I ate so many goddamned bacon cheeseburgers. You might know why.”

“Because the first thing anyone who’s been locked in wants when they integrate is a bacon cheeseburger,” Bell said.

Vann smiled. “So it’s not just me it happened to,” she said.

“It’s not,” Bell said.

“There was a Five Guys down the street from my apartment,” Vann said. “It got so that all I had to do was walk through the door, and they’d put the patties on the grill. They wouldn’t even wait to take my order. They knew.”

“That sounds about right,” Bell said.

“It took two and a half years after I stopped integrating before I could even look at a bacon cheeseburger again,” Vann said.

“That sounds about right, too,” Bell said. “I wouldn’t eat them anymore if I didn’t have to.”

“Be strong,” Vann said.

Bell grabbed the coffee Vann brought for him, smelled it, and took a sip. “You’re not Metro,” he said. “I’ve never met a Metro cop who’d been an Integrator.”

“My name is Agent Leslie Vann,” she said. “I’m with the Bureau. I and my partner investigate crimes that involve Hadens. You’re not typically what we consider a Haden, but you are an Integrator, which means a Haden might have been involved here. If there was, then you and I both know this is something you may not be responsible for. But you have to let me know, so I can help you.”

“Right,” Bell said.

“The police tell me that you’ve not previously been forthcoming on the whole talking thing.”

“I’ll give you three guesses why,” Bell said.

“Probably because they zapped you as soon as they saw you.”

“Bingo.”

“Not that it means anything, but I apologize to you for that, Nicholas. It’s not the way I would have handed it if I were there.”

“I was sitting on the bed,” Bell said. “With my hands up. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“I know,” Vann said. “And like I said, I apologize for that. It wasn’t right. On the other hand—and this isn’t an excuse, just an observation—while you were sitting on the bed with your hands up, not doing anything, there was a dead guy on the floor, and his blood was all over you.” She moved a single index finger to point. “Still all over you, come to think of it.”

Bell stared at Vann, quiet.

“Like I said, not an excuse,” Vann reiterated, after fifteen seconds of silence.

“Am I under arrest?” Bell asked.

“Nicholas, you were found in a room with a dead guy, covered in his blood,” Vann said. “You can understand why we all might be curious about the circumstances. Anything you can tell us is going to be helpful. And if it clears your name, so much the better, right?”

“Am I under arrest?” Bell repeated.

“What you are, is in a position to help me out,” Vann said. “I’m coming into this late. I’ve seen the hotel room, but I got there after you were taken away. So if you can, clue me in to what was happening in that room. What I should be looking for. Anything would help. And if you help me, I’m in a better position to help you.”

Bell gave a wry smile to this, crossed his arms, and looked away.

“We’re back to the not talking,” Vann said.

“We can talk about bacon cheeseburgers again, if you like.”

“You can at the very least tell me if you were integrated,” Vann said.

“You’re kidding,” Bell said.

“I’m not asking for details, just whether or not you were working,” Vann said. “Or were you about to work? I knew Integrators who did freelancing on the side. A Dodger wants to do something he can’t be seen doing in public. They’ve got those gray-market scanner caps that work well enough for the job. And now that Abrams-Kettering’s passed, you’ve got a reason to go looking for side gigs. The government contracts are drying up. And you’ve got family to think about.”

Bell, who had been sipping his coffee, set it down and swallowed. “You’re talking about Cassandra now,” he said.

“No one would blame you,” Vann said. “Congress is taking away funding for Hadens after the immediate infection and transitional care. Said that the technology for helping them participate in the world has gotten so good that it shouldn’t be considered a disability anymore.”

“Do you believe that?” Bell asked.

“My partner is a Haden,” Vann said. “If you ask me, it means now I have an advantage, because threeps are better than the human body in lots of ways. But there are a lot of Hadens who slip through the cracks. Your sister, for example. She’s not doing what Congress expects her to do, which is to get a job.”

Bell visibly bristled at this. “If you know who I am then you certainly know who she is,” he said. “I’d say she has a job. Unless you think being one of the prime movers behind the Haden Walkout this week and the march they have planned for this weekend is something she’s doing in her spare time.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Nicholas,” Vann said. “She’s not exactly working at Subway, making sandwiches. But she’s also not making any money doing what she’s doing.”

“Money isn’t that important to her.”

“No, but it’s about to become important,” Vann said. “Abrams-Kettering means that Hadens are being transitioned out to private care. Someone has to cover her expenses now. You’re her only living family. I’d guess it falls to you. Which brings us back to that hotel room and that man you were with. And brings me back to my point, which is that if you were integrated, or were about to be integrated, then that’s something I need to know. It’s something I need in order to help you.”

“I appreciate your desire to help, Agent Vann,” Bell said, dryly. “But I think what I really want to do is wait until my lawyer arrives and let him handle things from here.”

Vann blinked. “I wasn’t told you’d asked for a lawyer,” she said.

“I didn’t,” Bell said. “I called him while I was still in the hotel room. Before the police zapped me.” Bell tapped his temple, indicating all the high-tech apparatus he had stuffed into his skull. “Which I recorded, of course, just like I record almost everything. Because you and I agree on one thing, Agent Vann. Being in a room with a dead body complicates matters. Being electrocuted before I could exercise my rights complicates them even more.”

At this, Bell smiled and looked up, as if paying attention to something unseen. “And that’s a ping from my lawyer. He’s here. I expect your life is about to get much more interesting, Agent Vann.”

“I think we’re done here, then,” Vann said.

“I think we are,” Bell said. “But it was lovely talking food with you.”

Chapter Three

“SO, TO RECAP,” Samuel Schwartz said, and held up a hand to tick off points. “Illegally stunning my client when he was not offering any resistance, detaining him without cause in a holding cell, and then two separate law enforcement agencies, one local, one federal, question him without making him aware of his rights and without his lawyer present. Have I missed anything, Captain? Agent Vann?”

Captain Davidson shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair. Vann, standing behind him, said nothing. She was looking at Schwartz, or more accurately, at his threep, standing in front of the captain’s desk. The threep was a Sebring-Warner, like mine, but it was the Ajax 370, which I found mildly surprising. The Ajax 370 wasn’t cheap, but it also wasn’t the top of the line, either for Sebring-Warner or for the Ajax model. Lawyers usually went for the high-end imports. Either Schwartz was clueless about status symbols or he didn’t need to advertise his status. I decided to run him through the database to see which was the case.

“Your client never expressed his right to remain silent or his desire for a lawyer,” Davidson said.

“Yes, it’s strange how getting hit with fifty thousand volts will keep a person from verbalizing either of those, isn’t it,” Schwartz said.

“He didn’t ask for them after he got here, either,” Vann noted.

Schwartz turned his head to her. The Ajax 370 model’s stylized head bore some resemblance to the Oscar statuette, with subtle alterations to where the eyes, ears and mouth would be, both to avoid trademark issues and to give humans conversing with the threep something to focus on. Heads could be heavily customized, and a lot of younger Hadens did that. But for adults with serious jobs, that was déclassé, which was another clue to Schwartz’s likely social standing.

“He didn’t have to, Agent Vann,” Schwartz said. “Because he called me before the cops stunned him into silence. The fact he called a lawyer is a clear indication that he knew his rights and intended to exercise them in this case.” He turned his attention to Davidson. “The fact your officers deprived him of his ability to affirm his right does not mean he refused his right, even if he did not reiterate that fact here.”

“We could argue that point,” Davidson said.

“Yes, let’s,” Schwartz said. “Let’s go to the judge right now and do that. But if you’re not going to do that, then you need to let my client go home.”

“You’re joking,” Vann said.

“You can’t see me smile at that comment, Agent Vann,” Schwartz said. “But I promise you the smile is there.”

“Your client was in a room with a dead body, the guy’s blood all over him,” Vann said. “That’s not the mark of complete innocence.”

“But it’s not the mark of guilt either,” Schwartz said. “Agent Vann, you have a man who has no previous police record. At all. Not even for jaywalking. His line of business requires him to surrender control of his body to others. As a consequence of that, from time to time he meets clients he does not personally know, who conduct business with others he also does not personally know. Such as the dead gentleman at the Watergate.”

“You’re saying your client was integrated at the time of the murder,” I said.

Schwartz turned and looked at me for what I suspected was the first time in the entire conversation. As with Schwartz’s threep, mine had a fixed head, which showed no expression. But I had no doubt he was sizing up my make and model just as I had sized up his, looking for clues as to who I was and how important I was to the conversation. That, and taking in my badge, still in my chest display slot.

“I am saying that my client was in that hotel room on business, Agent Shane,” he said, after a moment.

“Then tell us who he was integrated with,” Vann said. “We can take it from there.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Schwartz said.

“Vann tracks down creeps with threeps all the time,” Davidson said, motioning at Vann. “That’s nearly her whole job, as far as I understand it. There’s no law against tracking a person back from information on their threep.”

Out of reflex I moved to correct Davidson’s bad comparison, then caught Vann’s glance at me. I stopped.

Schwartz was silent for a moment, then Davidson’s tablet pinged. He picked it up.

“I just sent you ten years of case law about the status of Integrators, Captain,” Schwartz said. “I did it because Integrators are relatively rare and therefore, unlike Agents Vann and Shane here, who are currently being wholly disingenuous, you might be speaking out of genuine ignorance and not just your usual levels of casual obstructionism.”

“All right,” Davidson said, not looking at his tablet. “And?”

“Superficially, Integrators perform the same role as Personal Transports,” Schwartz said. “They allow those of us who have been locked in by Haden’s syndrome to be mobile, to work, and to participate in society. But this”—Schwartz tapped his threep’s chest with his knuckles—“is a machine. Without its human operator, it’s a pile of parts. It has no more rights than a toaster—it’s property. Integrators are humans. Despite the superficial resemblance to what threeps do, what Integrators do is a skill and profession—one that they train hard for, as Agent Vann can no doubt tell you.” He turned to Vann at this point. “Speaking of which, now you can tell Captain Davidson where I’m going with this.”

“He’s going to argue there’s Integrator-client privilege,” Vann said, to Davidson.

“Like attorney-client privilege, or doctor-patient privilege, or confessor-parishioner privilege,” Schwartz said, and pointed at Davidson’s tablet. “And I’m not going to argue it, since the courts have already done so, and have affirmed, consistently, that Integrator-client confidentiality is real and protected.”

“No Supreme Court cases,” Vann said.

“And that should tell you something,” Schwartz said. “Namely, that the idea of Integrator-client privilege is so noncontroversial that no one’s bothered to appeal it all the way up. That said, please note Wintour v. Graham, affirmed by the D.C. Court of Appeals. It applies directly here.”

“So you’re going to argue your client didn’t murder anyone, it was his client who did it,” Davidson said. “And that you can’t tell us who that client is.”

“He can’t tell you who the client is, no,” Schwartz said. “And we aren’t saying it was murder. We don’t know. Since neither Metro nor the Bureau has bothered to charge my client with murder yet, I’m guessing neither do you, at least not yet.”

“But you do know,” Vann said. “Bell said he’s been recording everything. He’d have a record of the murder.”

“First, if you try to use anything my client said to you in that illegal interrogation of him in any way, I’m going to make life very difficult for you,” Schwartz said. “Second, even if there is a record of what happened in that room, it’s covered by privilege. My client’s not going to turn it over. You can try to get a warrant for it if you like. All we will attest to is that my client was working from the moment he stepped into that room until the moment your goons assaulted him”—Schwartz pointed at Davidson for emphasis—“and dragged him out of there. He’s not responsible, and you have nothing. So either arrest him and let me go to work dismantling your case and setting up a very profitable suit for police harassment, or get him out of that interrogation room right now and let him go home. These are your options, Captain Davidson, Agent Vann.”

“How does he get to have you as a lawyer?” I asked.

“Excuse me?” Schwartz asked, turning back to me.

“You’re general counsel at Accelerant Investments, Mr. Schwartz,” I said, reading from the data I had pulled up. “That’s a Fortune 100 company. It has to keep you busy. I don’t suspect you have a private practice on the side, or that Mr. Bell could afford you if you did. So I’m wondering what Mr. Bell has done to deserve having someone of your caliber show up here to spring him.”

Another second of silence from Schwartz, and Davidson’s tablet pinged again. He opened the ping, looked at it, and then turned it around to show Vann and me. The tablet was open to a colorful site full of baby goats and merry-go-rounds.

“It’s called ‘A Day in the Park,’” Schwartz said. “Not everyone who’s locked in is a lawyer or a professional, as I am sure you are amply aware. Some of those who are locked in are developmentally challenged. For them, operating a PT is difficult or next to impossible. They spend their days under very controlled stimulus. So I run a program that lets them out for a day in the park. They go to the petting zoo, ride rides, eat cotton candy, and otherwise get to enjoy their lives for a couple of hours. You should know about it, Agent Shane. Your father has been one of its co-sponsors for the last seven years.”

“My father doesn’t outline all his charitable work with me, Mr. Schwartz,” I said.

“Indeed,” Schwartz said. “In any event. Mr. Bell donates his time for this program. He does more for it than any other local Integrator here in D.C. In return I told him if he ever needed a lawyer, he should call me. And here we are.”

“That’s a sweet story,” Davidson said, putting down the tablet.

“I suppose it is,” Schwartz said. “Especially because now I’m going to give my client a happy ending to this particular problem. Which will either be his freedom, or a retirement-level settlement from both the Metro Police Department and the FBI. Your call, Captain, Agent Vann. Tell me what it will be.”

*   *   *

“Your thoughts,” Vann said, at lunch.

“About this case?” I asked. We were sitting in a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place not too far from the Second Precinct. Vann was plowing through a plate of carnitas. I was not, but a quick status check at home told me that my body had gotten its noontime supply of nutritional liquid. So I had that going for me.

“Obviously, about the case,” Vann said. “It’s your first case. I want to see what you’re picking up and what you’re missing. Or what I’m missing.”

“The first thing is that the case should now be all ours,” I said. “Schwartz admitted Bell was working as an Integrator. Standard procedure with Hadens means that the case needs to be transferred to us.”

“Yes,” Vann said.

“Do you think there’s going to be a problem with this?” I asked.

“Not with Davidson,” Vann said. “I’ve done him some favors and he and I don’t have any problems with each other. Trinh will be pissy about it, but I don’t really care about that and neither should you.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Vann said. “What else.”

“Since the case is ours now, we should have the body sent to the Bureau for our people to look at,” I said.

“Transfer order already processed,” Vann said. “He’s on the way now.”

“We should also get all the data from Metro. High resolution this time,” I said, remembering Trinh’s last bit of feed.

“Right,” Vann said. “What else.”

“Have Bell followed?”

“I put in a request. I wouldn’t count on it.”

“We won’t put a tail on a potential murder suspect?”

“You might have noticed we have a protest march coming into town this weekend,” Vann said.

“That’s Metro’s problem,” I said.

“Dealing with the logistics of the march, yes,” Vann said. “Keeping tabs on the protest leaders and other high-value individuals, on the other hand, is all us. What about Schwartz?”

“He’s a schmuck?” I ventured.

“Not where I was going,” Vann said. “Do you believe his story about how he happened to be Bell’s lawyer?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Schwartz is really rich. I checked when I pulled his data earlier. Through Accelerant, he’s worth at least two or three hundred million. Really rich folks do a lot of reputational transactions.”

“I have no idea what you just said.” Vann stuck another piece of carnitas into her mouth.

“Rich people show their appreciation through favors,” I said. “When everyone you know has more money than they know what to do with, money stops being a useful transactional tool. So instead you offer favors. Deals. Quid pro quos. Things that involve personal involvement rather than money. Because when you’re that rich, your personal time is your limiting factor.”

“Speaking from experience?” Vann asked.

“Speaking from very close observation, yes,” I said.

That seemed a good enough answer for Vann. “So you think this could be a case of noblesse oblige on the part of Schwartz toward a hired hand.”

“I’m saying it wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “Unless you think there’s something else there.”

“I do think there’s something else there,” Vann said. “Or someone else. Lucas Hubbard.”

I sat there, thinking about the name Vann had said. Then it smacked me like a fish across the head. “Oh, man,” I said.

“Yeah,” Vann said. “Chairman and CEO of Accelerant. The single richest Haden on the planet. Who lives in Falls Church. And who almost certainly uses an Integrator for board meetings and in-person negotiations. You need a face for face-to-face meetings. One that moves. No offense.”

“None taken,” I said. “Do we know if Nicholas Bell is the Integrator he uses?”

“We can find out,” Vann said. “There aren’t that many Integrators in the D.C. area, and half of them are women, which rules them out, given what I know about Hubbard.”

“I know people who have Integrators tied up on long-term service contracts,” I said. “Locks up their use except for NIH-required public service. If Bell’s on a contract we could find that out, and for whom.”

“Yeah,” Vann said. “I hate that shit.”

“Abrams-Kettering,” I said. “You said it to Bell, Vann. They passed that law and suddenly a lot of folks have to think about where their paychecks are coming from. Everyone around Hadens has to change the way they do business. Rich Hadens can pay for Integrators. Integrators have to eat.”

Vann looked grumpily into her plate of food.

“This shouldn’t be a surprise to you—” I said. I wanted to segue into asking her about her time as an Integrator, but got a ping before I could.

“Excuse me a minute,” I said to Vann, who nodded. I opened up a window in my head and saw Miranda, my daytime nurse. She was in the foreground. In the background was me, in my room.

“Hi, Miranda,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Three things,” she said. “One, that bedsore on your hip is back. Have you felt it yet?”

“I’ve been busy working my threep today, so I’m sensory forward here,” I said. “I haven’t really noticed anything going on with my body.”

“All right,” Miranda said. “I’ve numbed it in any event. We’re going to have to change your body movement schedule a bit to work around the sore, so don’t be surprised if you come home today and you’re facedown on the bed.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Two, remember that at four Dr. Ahl is here to work on your molar. You’re going to want to dial your body sensitivity way down for that. She tells me it’s likely to get messy.”

“It doesn’t seem fair I get cavities when I don’t even use my teeth,” I joked.

“Three, your mother came in to tell me to remind you that she expects you home in time for the get-together at seven. She wanted me to remind you that it is in your honor, to celebrate your new job, so don’t embarrass her by being late.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“And I want to remind you to tell your mother that it’s not my job to forward messages to you,” Miranda said. “Especially when your mother is perfectly capable of pinging you herself.”

“I know,” I said. “Sorry.”

“I like your mom but if she keeps up this Edwardian shit, I may have to chloroform her.”