Pheidoh says.
Fola blinks. “You’re kidding?” IAs almost never make a mistake. “Has it been fixed?”
“I think so.”
Pheidoh doesn’t seem too sure. More hopeful than certain. Like the jury might still be out.
“Which IA was it?” she says.
There’s a pause. “I can’t say. It’s confidential.”
The information agent sounds embarrassed—upset the way some people get when they find out that someone close to them, a family member or friend, has done something terrible—as if it were personally responsible.
“What did it feel like?” Pheidoh says.
The question catches her by surprise. “What?”
“The accident.”
Fola grimaces. Tilts her head forward to inspect her arm. It looks okay. Normal. She rubs her fingers together. They don’t feel out of the ordinary—nothing like clay or papier-mâché. “It hurt,” she finally says.
When Pheidoh doesn’t answer immediately the doctor says, “You should try to get some rest.”
Fatigue weights her lids. “No,” she protests. “Wait . . .”
The next time she wakes, the sleepsac is gone. So is the tangle of tubes connecting her to the ICM. She’s free to move around. The interior decor has changed, too. The wallscreens are dotted with Art Frisco flowers, a cheerful assortment of hot pink, lemon yellow, and lime green daisies. The ceiling panels are stained glass. But instead of saints there are delicate flower stems and long-waisted women.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Pheidoh says over her cochlear implant. “I thought a change of scenery might make you feel a little more comfortable.”
It does. She feels calmer. “Who’s the artist?”
“Mucha.”
“You have visitors,” Dr. Villaz informs her. He sounds pleased, about this or something else, she’s not sure. Either way, it’s encouraging.
The pink daisies on one of the wall panels fade to reveal the hexapod outside her cell. Her tuplet has gathered in front of the honeycomb window, anxious but smiling, trying to put on a good face. Without the softwire link between them, that’s all she has to go on. Fola doesn’t know firsthand what they’re feeling. She can guess. But it’s impossible to know for certain.
Fola shifts the position of her arms and legs, then pushes away from the ICM. She gyrates clumsily as she reorients herself, snares a magnetic flux line and drifts over to the window. Executes an unsteady pirouette so she doesn’t splat against the glass like a bug on a windshield.
“How are you?” Alphonse asks, concerned. “They refuse to tell us anything about your condition.”
“I feel fine,” she says. “Except that I miss you all.” She rubs her arms, chafing at the absence.
“We were worried sick,” Lalya says.
The rest of them nod in unison.
“What about you?” Fola says. “Is everyone okay?”
“We’re fine,” Ephraim says. He looks less confident than he sounds. His lips are crimped tight.
All of them are nervous, apprehensive. The tension is contagious. She can feel it even without a shared nervous system. “What’s going on?” she says. “Do you have any idea what happened yet?”
“Are you kidding?” Yulong snorts, gruff as usual. “They haven’t told us shit.” A former vat rat who worked for a major engineering politicorp, she has the least respect of any of them for authority.
“We’re cut off from the asteroid,” Lalya says, matter-of-fact. “That’s what. They shut down the softwire link to the ecotecture so it can’t contaminate us.”
“From the mutation?”
“If that’s what it is,” Ephraim says.
Which explains why she’s in isolation, under observation. If Mymercia was affected, then the orbiting station is vulnerable. The ecotecture is identical. Since she was brought to the station after the accident, that makes her a risk, a potential carrier.
Fola adjusts the orientation of her arms and legs, stabilizing herself. “Is the station in any danger?”
“Not if we’re
Fola blinks. “You’re kidding?” IAs almost never make a mistake. “Has it been fixed?”
“I think so.”
Pheidoh doesn’t seem too sure. More hopeful than certain. Like the jury might still be out.
“Which IA was it?” she says.
There’s a pause. “I can’t say. It’s confidential.”
The information agent sounds embarrassed—upset the way some people get when they find out that someone close to them, a family member or friend, has done something terrible—as if it were personally responsible.
“What did it feel like?” Pheidoh says.
The question catches her by surprise. “What?”
“The accident.”
Fola grimaces. Tilts her head forward to inspect her arm. It looks okay. Normal. She rubs her fingers together. They don’t feel out of the ordinary—nothing like clay or papier-mâché. “It hurt,” she finally says.
When Pheidoh doesn’t answer immediately the doctor says, “You should try to get some rest.”
Fatigue weights her lids. “No,” she protests. “Wait . . .”
The next time she wakes, the sleepsac is gone. So is the tangle of tubes connecting her to the ICM. She’s free to move around. The interior decor has changed, too. The wallscreens are dotted with Art Frisco flowers, a cheerful assortment of hot pink, lemon yellow, and lime green daisies. The ceiling panels are stained glass. But instead of saints there are delicate flower stems and long-waisted women.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Pheidoh says over her cochlear implant. “I thought a change of scenery might make you feel a little more comfortable.”
It does. She feels calmer. “Who’s the artist?”
“Mucha.”
“You have visitors,” Dr. Villaz informs her. He sounds pleased, about this or something else, she’s not sure. Either way, it’s encouraging.
The pink daisies on one of the wall panels fade to reveal the hexapod outside her cell. Her tuplet has gathered in front of the honeycomb window, anxious but smiling, trying to put on a good face. Without the softwire link between them, that’s all she has to go on. Fola doesn’t know firsthand what they’re feeling. She can guess. But it’s impossible to know for certain.
Fola shifts the position of her arms and legs, then pushes away from the ICM. She gyrates clumsily as she reorients herself, snares a magnetic flux line and drifts over to the window. Executes an unsteady pirouette so she doesn’t splat against the glass like a bug on a windshield.
“How are you?” Alphonse asks, concerned. “They refuse to tell us anything about your condition.”
“I feel fine,” she says. “Except that I miss you all.” She rubs her arms, chafing at the absence.
“We were worried sick,” Lalya says.
The rest of them nod in unison.
“What about you?” Fola says. “Is everyone okay?”
“We’re fine,” Ephraim says. He looks less confident than he sounds. His lips are crimped tight.
All of them are nervous, apprehensive. The tension is contagious. She can feel it even without a shared nervous system. “What’s going on?” she says. “Do you have any idea what happened yet?”
“Are you kidding?” Yulong snorts, gruff as usual. “They haven’t told us shit.” A former vat rat who worked for a major engineering politicorp, she has the least respect of any of them for authority.
“We’re cut off from the asteroid,” Lalya says, matter-of-fact. “That’s what. They shut down the softwire link to the ecotecture so it can’t contaminate us.”
“From the mutation?”
“If that’s what it is,” Ephraim says.
Which explains why she’s in isolation, under observation. If Mymercia was affected, then the orbiting station is vulnerable. The ecotecture is identical. Since she was brought to the station after the accident, that makes her a risk, a potential carrier.
Fola adjusts the orientation of her arms and legs, stabilizing herself. “Is the station in any danger?”
“Not if we’re
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