In ones, twos, and threes, Jill’s animals began to arrive in the transmitter pods. Most of them were bedraggled, but they all perked up when they saw Jill. Soon the hut that the three travelers shared was teeming with rodents and the hunters of rodents—all living in an uneasy peace out of regard for Jill. Despite the extermination grist in the living areas, there were, of course, rats and other animals in the Met.
Leo had never liked them much even though he knew that there must be a place for them in the ecology. He had always had a secret fear of ending up in a rat warren in the Integument and being eaten alive, but whenever he saw them there, they had not been in packs. They lived, he knew, nearer to the occupied areas, so that they could quickly get to garbage before it was eliminated.
Within two weeks, Game had conferred with Jill, and the treatments had began. The idea was to grow the animals into humans. It sounded entirely bizarre to Leo. He’d heard of free converts saving up, purchasing or renting clone bodies—that is, grist-made bodies with a grist matrix instead of a brain. But he’d never even imagined anything like this. The coding that gave the rats and ferrets intelligence at all was of the sort written by programmers, and not enthalpically evolved, as were the free converts. So there was a double process going on with the animals. The computer coding inside them was put through evolutionary processes at the same time as the structure they were inhabiting—a kind of brain-grist continuum that was present only in the Carbuncle, as far as anyone had ever discovered—was enlarged. And the animal bodies began the process of slowly transforming themselves into humans.
The pace was set as quick as Game could make it, but it was going to take at least three months before real effects would be seen. And the animals were going to feel a good deal of pain as the changes came over them. Nevertheless, all of them volunteered to undergo it. It gave them a better chance at survival, and survival was what these scrap codes were all about.
For a while, Leo could see no place for himself in any of these preparations. Leo was seriously tempted to get the hell out of here and take Aubry with him. But where would he go? This was still the safest place for a dissenter and a little girl who was wanted by the law.
And there was Jill.
There had been a couple of steady girlfriends over the years, but once they understood that Leo’s traveling itch would not be going away, that he would not be settling down to a respectable occupation and that he was always going to be more or less poor, they had drifted away. This always surprised him, because he’d thought he was picking out women who would understand these facts. He never made any bones about it, but told them up front. And Becky had been a poet, even, even though, after their breakup, Leo had to admit to himself that he’d never much cared for her verse.
What Leo really wanted was to keep traveling the Met until the day he died, seeing cool stuff and showing people who he thought might like to share the experience with him. But that was all over now. Leo was going to face what had to be faced. Hell, that was what had drawn him to the Integument in the first place. The possibility of surprise in a world that would literally wipe your nose for you if you let it.
Leo was grousing along these lines one day when Otis poked his head into Leo’s hut, and said, calmly, “Uh, Leo, I think we have a problem, man.”
“What?”
“A Department of Immunity ship is hanging nearby in space, broadcasting to us on an electromagnetic band.”
“Yikes!”
“Yeah, well, there’s something else . . .”
“What is it, Otis?”
“They are specifically demanding your surrender.”
“Mine?”
“They are inquiring after one Leo Y. Sherman,” said Otis. “Unless your middle name is—”
“It’s Yorrick,” Leo said, a sinking feeling lodging in his stomach.
“Taylor’s got them on a radio in the common hut.” Otis smiled a forced smile. “Taylor would have a radio.”
“Let’s go hear it,” Leo said. “Maybe it’s Theo Sherman they want. He’s dead.” Leo immediately wished he hadn’t said that, though of course nobody here knew about his brother except Aubry, and she was off at target practice with Jill.
It was a repeating message. There was no doubt—they were asking for Leo.
“Leo Y. Sherman, author of ‘The Vas After Sunset,’ and other licentious tracts, is wanted for questioning by the Department of Immunity. Prepare for a DI investigative team arriving at Port B on Oregon Bolsa of the Nirvana Mycelium at system time 19:00. If Leo Y. Sherman is known to you, you will provide him for immediate questioning. This is an official Department of Immunity Edict. Disregarding it or its contents or aiding or abetting anyone attempting to disregard this Edict is punishable by up to five e-years rehabilitative therapy or induction into DI Enforcement Division uniformed service under Title Fifty-four Protocols. Leo Y. Sherman, author . . .”
Taylor turned down the volume and looked up from his radio set with a serious face, but Leo could tell he was pleased. He probably never got a chance to show off his ancient equipment which, from the look of it, he kept in top-notch working order.
“Notice anything strange?” Otis said.
“Yeah,” Leo said. “They didn’t just come in here and nab me.”
“Exactly,” Otis said. “What do you suppose it means?”
“What time is it?” Leo asked.
“We’ve got an hour to get you hidden or away.”
Jill came through the door. “What’s going on?” she said. “I suddenly got a bad feeling, so I came back here.”
Franklin turned up his radio and the message repeated itself.
“What is an investigation team?” Jill asked.
“Two sweepers and an aspect,” Taylor immediately answered, apparently up on his DI lore.
“Well then,” said Jill, “that shouldn’t be much of a problem. If someone can handle the aspect, I can take out one sweeper and Aubry can take out the other.”
“Aubry?”
“She needs the practice.”
“Um,” said Taylor, “we’re talking about Department of Immunity Antipersonnel Sweepers here, right?”
“Are they the kind designed for riot work?” said Jill.
Taylor looked at her. “Usually not, on an investigation team,” he said.
“Then it should be even easier,” Jill replied. “I think you should let them dock.”
“What do you think, Leo?” Otis asked. “It’s your ass that’s on the line, too.”
Leo ran his hand through his hair. Almost like I’m preparing for a goddamn holiday visitor of something, he then thought ruefully. “If they think ‘The Vas After Sunset’ is prurient, they ought to read my article on Muslim whorehouses in New Tangiers Bolsa,” he said. “But there’s something odd about this. Let’s do it, but let’s be careful. I want to be there”—he looked at Jill, who frowned, but nodded yes—“in case I can do something to defuse the situation.”
“Or you might get yourself killed,” Otis said.
Leo smoothed his hair down again, as if by reflex. “What did you say back in that meeting in the clearing? ‘Good death to us all?’ Let us go see what’s up.”