Counting Heads (41 page)

On the way home after work, Bogdan witnessed two more blooms. One was in a tube station where a bead car inflated like a balloon (with a hapless passenger trapped inside), and the other was way up the side of a gigatower where a whole section of outer wall was blinking on and off like a lightning bug. None of this would happen on Planet Lisa, he was sure.

Arriving home at the Kodiak building, Bogdan didn’t even give the wayward front door a chance to deny him entry; he ducked in through the NanoJiffy instead.

On the way past the third-floor administrative offices, he was stopped by Kale who asked him to step in for a minute. Kale, April, and Kitty were in the outer office with an elderly couple, who stood up to greet him. The visitors wore black overalls with little pink-orange-green lapel pins, chartist colors that Bogdan didn’t recognize. They held out thin arms and crooked fingers to shake his hand. They were so old that Bogdan couldn’t be sure if they were male or female. Whatever charter this was, they had way serious body issues.

“Bogdan,” Kale said, “say hello to the Myren Beadlemyren.”

Bogdan’s jaw dropped. Was this the charter that owned the superfund micromines in Wyoming? The Kodiaks’ potential saviors?

“The Beadlemyren are in town for tomorrow’s Rendezvous,” Kale went on, “and were kind enough to drop by for dinner.” Kale, and April too, were wearing their best clothes, trimmed in Kodiak’s brown-yellow-white. Kale seemed even more ill at ease than usual, and April was atypically silent. Only Kitty, wearing a Japanese schoolgirl uniform, complete with knee-high white stockings, seemed in her element.

“Hello, young man,” one of the Beadlemyren said. “Your ’meets have been bragging about your important upreffing engineering.”

“Yes, indeed,” Kitty put in. She stepped next to Bogdan and encircled him in her arms. “Boggy is a demographics specialist. Practically in management.”

The two old codgers leaned in to inspect him with rheumy eyes. Their breath had a hint of Samson’s odor. Their arms were streaked in red where they had been scratching themselves.

“That’s right,” Bogdan said, “and tomorrow they’re going to bestow some award on me.”

“We’re pretty proud of him,” Kale said. “Go on up now and change, Boggy, dear. We’ll do a quick Soup Pot Ceremony, and then the Beadlemyren will join us for dinner.”

THE SOUP POT Ceremony was indeed quick that evening. Only house members who actually had hard currency to donate were invited up. This included Bogdan who contributed his day’s payfer without, for once, drawing the whole procedure out.

When the abbreviated ceremony was finished, Houseer Kale said, “We have two very important guests waiting to join us. They’re hungry after their journey, so let’s not make them wait too long.”

The housemeets had been forewarned to dress up, and they all wore freshly extruded togs. Most of them were preparing for Rondy and so had their hair newly trimmed and their hoary old skin planed smooth.

“I don’t think I need to remind you,” Kale continued, “how important it is that we broaden our membership base. When Sam—well, when Sam leaves us, we’ll be down to sixteen members. Any fewer and we’ll slip below the statutory minimum for charter status. That could jeopardize our special community privileges, including our discounted insurance rates, our fee waivers, tax credits, and a host of other subsidies. April could lose the NanoJiffy, and I don’t need to spell out what that could mean.

“In order to prevent such a disaster,” Kale went on, “the Steering Committee has been in confidential discussion with our guests’ charter for some months.”

There were murmurs of surprise and concern from the housemeets, and Kale raised his hands and continued. “Now, now, let me finish. We were going to wait until things firmed up a little before bringing this before the house, but tonight’s unexpected visit has forced us to at least give you the basics of the plan.”

The houseer, with the help of April and Gerald, proceeded to quickly sketch out the opportunity afforded by the Beadlemyren and their Rosewood Acres micromine. A babble of questions followed: Does that mean we’ll have to leave Chicago? Does that mean we’ll no longer be Kodiaks?

“We’ll have plenty of time later for discussion. We’re in no way committed to this plan, which is only in its exploratory stages, and frankly, the Beadlemyren have many more suitors than us, including, I am sorry to say, our Tobbler neighbors. I just wanted to give you a heads-up and ask you to be on your best behavior. And a critical word of warning—do
not
mention anything about the possibility of material pirates eating our building or
especially
about Hubert’s arrest last night. If this is going to work, we’ll need all of our assets. Let’s not shoot ourselves in the foot, people. Understood? Good. Megan, call them in.”

“Wait up,” April said. “Kale, aren’t we forgetting someone?”

The housemeets groaned, and Kale said, “Can’t that keep till later? We’re making our important guests wait.”

“No, it can’t, and I’ll be brief. I know how much it means to everyone to go to Rondy tomorrow, but the fact of the matter is that someone will have to stay home to be with Samson.”

A dead silence filled Green Hall. The housemeets glanced furtively among themselves to discover who might least miss attending Rendezvous. Barry and Francis, who were on the roof keeping vigil with Samson, let it be known through the houseputer that they weren’t volunteering to stay behind, in case anyone had that impression. They went on to boldly suggest that Kitty should be the one to stay with him.

All eyes went to Kitty. It made perfect sense. She was Samson’s favorite, after all. Kitty, however, had other ideas. She crossed her arms and screwed up her face in a perfect imitation of juvenile willfulness. No one, least of all April, imagined they could leave her behind.

In the end, April volunteered herself, as everyone knew she would. She would forgo the Rendezvous so that Samson’s last breath might be shared with a loved one.

“But that’s just not fair,” Rusty complained. “April has done more work than anybody here to prepare us for Rondy. She’s the one who ordered our special clothes, designed our booth, rented the omnibus, and arranged get-togethers with the other houses. If anyone deserves to go, it’s April.” When no one volunteered to take her place, Rusty said, “Okay, I’ll stay. April, you go to Rondy. I’m staying with Sam.”

This clearly would not do. Rusty had been preparing to attend Rondy for months. He’d grown new hair. He’d forced himself to overeat at every meal in order to put on a little weight. He was looking a good ten years younger. And besides, he was the one ’meet most likely to succeed in attracting a spouse at the Rendezvous and thus increase the house’s membership by one. He already had three different ladies from three different charters lined up to meet him.

“Thank you, Rusty,” April said. “I appreciate your offer. I really do. But I won’t hear of it. End of discussion.”

And so it was decided. Megan escorted the two visiting Beadlemyren to their places of honor at the head table, with Kitty seated between them. And though the meal consisted of dishes rarely seen at the Kodiak board—troutcorn chowder and veggie starters, an entree of beeflike Stroganoff, and for dessert, chocolate pie with ice cream and coffeesh, the mood in Green Hall was glum. Kale finally explained things to their guests, lest the Beadlemyren write them off as a sullen lot.

“One of our dear housemeets is gravely ill,” he said, “and we’re all attending to him in our thoughts.”

But what Bogdan was attending to in his thoughts was the houseer’s repeated use of the word “asset” to describe Hubert. Last night, when Kale had allowed himself to be arrested rather than give up Hubert, Bogdan had been impressed by the houseer’s newfound devotion to Samson’s mentar. Now he wasn’t so sure. Asset? Hubert had never been much of an asset to the house before; how would Samson’s passing change that?

He turned to Rusty and said, “What
is
old what’s-its-name’s status?”

Rusty glanced at the head table where their two guests were seemingly enthralled by one of Kitty’s anecdotes. “He’s been disappeared,” Rusty said.

“What? Disappeared?”

“Yeah,” said Louis from across the table. “Hacking into the you-know-what in the sky is a serious crime against national security. The kind that makes you disappear.”

“There is one upside to disappearing, though,” Rusty said. “Nobody, not even the neighbors, can find out about the arrest. So at least that won’t spango whatever deal Kale is cooking up with the Wyoming folks.”

“Unless of course the neighbors saw them hauling it away,” Louis added.

“I was here,” Megan said. “The blacksuits stuck him in an evidence box before removing him. Nobody saw nothing, except us.”

During dessert, at precisely 7:12
PM
, Bogdan’s second Alert! ran out. He yawned like a cave, then leaned over his plate and fell asleep. Hands all around shook him awake. April was calling from the head table. “Send him to bed. Bogdan, go up to bed. Someone go with him.”

Bogdan struggled to his feet and wrapped one last wedge of chocolate pie in a napkin. Rusty got up too, but Bogdan waved him to stay put.

“All right,” Rusty said, “but just remember you’re bunking on seven now in my room.”

“Yeah, yeah.” As Bogdan left Green Hall, Kale was explaining to their guests how the boy worked too hard. Never knew when to quit. The two gray emissaries murmured approvingly.

Bogdan trudged up the steps, more asleep than awake, when, on the fifth-floor landing, he was startled by an incoming, fullscape phone call right there in the stairwell. An official-looking sig appeared in the air, lighting up the whole landing. It occurred to Bogdan to wonder how this was possible—there were no cam/emitters in the stairwell—but his question drifted away when the sig morphed into a tall, handsome young officer in a vaguely familiar uniform.

“Who are you?” Bogdan said.

The man only smiled and pointed to a dataframe that opened beside him and displayed an invitation under the seal of the USNA Astronaut Corps:

Myr Bogdan (“Boggo”) Kodiak

by order of the President

you are invited to explore

the admission opportunities to the

CADET CORPS

of the

FUTURE OSHIP PILOTS LEAGUE.

Please attend our introductory seminar

as well as the 2134

Garden Earth Project Banquet.

—Dress uniform optional—

In disbelief, Bogdan read it again and said, “You mean me? I don’t understand. You want me?”

The officer only grinned and saluted as he and the scape dissolved.

“I’ll be there!” Bogdan shouted at the fading light. He saluted and shouted, “I accept!”

Rude laughter broke out. When Bogdan’s eyes readjusted to the gloom, he saw two boys sitting on a step, doubled over with glee. They mock saluted each other and cried, “I accept. I accept.” Troy Tobbler and Slugboy.

Without uttering a word, Bogdan turned around and went downstairs. He marched past Green Hall, where the assembled ’meets and guests were singing old charter songs, down to the foyer on the ground floor, where he pulled the bamboo walking stick from its charger. He slashed the air with it in a couple of trial swings. He jabbed its trodes against the metal umbrella stand and was thrown backward by the ferocity of its snapping blue sparks. That woke him up for a minute, but by the time he’d reclimbed a couple flights of steps, he was asleep on his feet and almost forgot what he was doing. So he fished in his pocket and found the package of Alert! Bogdan knew all about the dangers of SSP—Sleep Starvation Psychosis—but just not at that moment, and he swallowed a third eight-hour tablet. Moments later he charged up the stairs, holding the walking stick like Excalibur itself, his fuzzy-headedness replaced by crystalline murderous intent.

The boys were still waiting for him on the fifth-floor steps, and they resumed their taunts when he reappeared.

“Get out of my house!” he demanded, waving the stick at them. But they only mocked him more, so he moved in and jabbed Troy with the stick.

There was no discharge, only more laughter as the boys collapsed into a pile of dust. A pile, moreover, that formed the capital letter H on the step before it, too, vanished.

Bogdan continued up the steps, scouting all the Kodiak halls for his tormentors. He went past his former room, where new Tobb guards were playing the same old card game, to the roof. There he checked all the shadows and, finding no one, joined Megan and BJ, who had just started their vigil next to Samson’s cot.

“How is he?” he asked them.

Megan said, “He hasn’t stirred since this morning.”

BJ said, “And he hardly even stinks much anymore.”

Bogdan lay on a chaise lounge and watched the homcom bee hovering overhead. It reminded him of the bee under Samson’s lapel, which reminded him of going to Soldier Field and Hubert. Would they ever see Hubert again? Bogdan counted ten hours before he had to get ready for work tomorrow. He knew he should go down to the NanoJiffy for a Sooothe to counteract the Alert! he had just taken so he could sleep, but when he tried to get up off the chaise lounge, he discovered that his body was paralyzed. His mind was wide awake, roaring along like a rocket, in fact, but his body was asleep. He knew he should force himself up anyway to take that Sooothe, but the thought of climbing up and down the stairs again was more than he could manage. How come the Tobblers had an elevator and they didn’t? And besides, if he did fall asleep, could he trust the houseputer to wake him up at six? He didn’t think so; it was probably safer to just stay awake, especially since his eyes were closed and Megan or BJ had covered him with a blanket.

So while his body slept, Bogdan’s mind raced all over the known universe, from his private ski chalet on Planet Lisa, where Annette lay naked with him next to the fire, to the micromine control shed in Wyoming where his expertise alone was responsible for discovering a rich new vein of precious trace elements, to his meeting in a few scant hours with HR at E-Pluribus where he would undoubtedly receive the Employee of the Year Award, plus a healthy raise and substantial bonus. Through all of this, he wondered what the dusty H on the step stood for.