and the wall gave way.
At the bottom of the steps, the Starke limo waited at the curb. Mary jumped in and the heavy door shut itself against the horde. The windows opaqued. Mary removed her hat and leaned back into the ultra-soft seat cushions. She closed her eyes and caught her breath.
After a while, when the car didn’t leap into the air to make its way home, she opened her eyes and said, “We’re not moving.”
Lyra appeared in the seat opposite her and said, “We’ve been advised to remain in place and stand by.”
“What for?”
“The bailiff reports that the jury has already voted and returned a verdict.”
Mary’s heart fluttered. “So soon? Five months of trial and ten minutes of deliberation? What does it mean?”
The mentar said, “I have no experience in these matters.”
“Ask Cabinet or someone who knows. But first ask the bailiff if they want us to come back in.”
“Yes, they’re about to reconvene to read the verdict. The bailiff is calling us.”
Mary suffered another trip through the media gauntlet, through courthouse security, and dashed back to her booth. Fred and the attorneys were already in place. Myr Talbot was there, by holopresence this time, looking baffled. Fred, damn him, slumped in his chair, resigned to his fate.
The judge appeared, and all rose again for the jury. The jury members each glanced at Fred as they filed in, which every court drama Mary had ever watched said was a good sign. When the judge asked for the verdict, the foreperson cleared her throat and said, “In the first count, irretrievable manslaughter in the first degree, we find the defendant . . . not guilty.”
A collective gasp filled the scape. Fred, confused, asked Talbot to repeat what the juror had said. The judge rapped for order, and the foreperson went down the charge sheet, delivering a litany of “not guilties.” The judge polled each juror independently to verify the verdict. The result: Fred was exonerated on all counts. The judge ordered him freed.
Fred was in shock. He turned to face Mary, but she was no better prepared for this turn of events. Before either of them could recover, Fred was vanished back to Utah. Myr Talbot, looking befuddled, turned to her and said, “He’s free, but it’ll take a few hours for him to be discharged from the prison.”
GEORGINE SAID, “DON’T worry about a thing, Mary. We’ve got everything under control.” Rather than return to the Manse, Mary’s car had headed straight to the Bloomington Slipstream station where a Starke tube limo awaited her. It was a long, sleek Marbech Tourister, designed to accommodate ten fussy passengers during pancontinental trips. Soon she was hurtling beneath the plains states inside a blast bubble of compressed air to the federal penitentiary outside Provo. She was furious with herself for having been so sure of Fred’s ultimate conviction that she had failed to make any plans at all for his improbable release. As she traveled, she and Georgine conspired to hammer together a “transition plan.”
“Are you sure you can spare both Cyndee and me?”
“No problem,” Georgine said. “Ellen understands the situation and gives her blessing. She hasn’t mentioned you-know-who all day, and Dr. Lamprey is our cheerleader.”
“Lyra, can you make all the costumes in time?”
“Yes,” said the mentar. “Yours will be waiting for you, Mary. I’ve instructed the car how to pick it up.”
“And my bee? Can you send Blue Bee with Cyndee and Larry?”
“We already did. They’re already in the tube and should arrive shortly after you.”
“And afterward? I don’t think Fred will want to come to the Manse.”
“We’ll arrange something,” Georgine said. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mary. Just go and bring Fred home.”
Space Condos
In the birthing suite, the two replacement Andreas were being passively exercised through electrocortical stimulation. Their higher minds idled like engines. Soon, E-P assured Andrea, soon.
MEEWEE ENTERED THE grand conference room on the ground floor of the reception building of the Starke Enterprises campus where the “Gang of Three” — Jaspersen, Gest, and Fagan — were already present by holopresence. At least, Gest and Fagan were. Jaspersen was attending by proxy, or so it would seem. Everyone knew that Jaspersen didn’t trust proxies and never used them, but he liked to impersonate them. It didn’t really make much sense — impersonating a proxy of oneself. What practical advantage could you gain? But Jaspersen had done so for nearly a century, ever since his famous proxy meltdown when he was USNA Vice President. In any case, all that was visible of him was his bald head. No shoulders or hands, not even a neck. Floating over his seat, Jaspersen gave the impression of being an animated toy balloon.
“What’s the matter? No hello for me, your holiness?”
“Hello, Myr Jaspersen,” Meewee said. “Nice of your proxy to join us.”
Jaspersen cackled his appreciation. The very sight of him, or his improbable proxy, strained Meewee’s tolerance to its breaking point. Jaspersen was a singularly ugly toy balloon, with a lumpy skull; a too-large, always- leering mouth; and insolent, droopy eyelids. He was a disturbing caricature of a man. He was what a demon might look like without makeup.
Adam Gest, on the other hand, was preternaturally handsome. The owner of Aria Yachts and the shipyards at Mezzoluna and Trailing Earth, where the Oships were being constructed, Gest had deep, dark eyes and long lashes, curly brown hair, pearly teeth, and a pretty mouth that was forever set in a smile. If anyone had the wherewithal to sabotage Eleanor’s space yacht, it was Gest, whose company had built it. Several times in the last few months, Meewee had had to curb an impulse to sic Arrow on the man and his business. Surely, the evidence of Eleanor’s destruction was buried somewhere in Gest’s files. But Arrow was a tricky investigator to control; in uncovering Gest’s complicity, it was liable to inadvertently cripple the GEP shipyards, or cause some other world- class disaster. Still, he yearned to someday confront Gest’s pretty face with an arrest warrant.
The third villain was Byron Fagan — Dr. Fagan — the owner of the bastion of aff mollycoddling, Roosevelt Clinic, where Fagan’s zombied mentar, Concierge, had almost succeeded in murdering Eleanor’s daughter. Fagan was a tall man, towering a good meter over Meewee. He was pleasant enough, until you contradicted him. Then he treated you like an errant employee. Meewee felt physically affronted by the man, even via holopresence.
The rest of the board members projected into place, either by proxy or holopresence: Trina Warbeloo, board secretary; Zoranna Alblaitor, Andrea Tiekel, and the others. Only twelve of the thirteen votes were represented. Jerry Chapwoman had recently resigned and the board was still interviewing replacement candidates. Meanwhile, Meewee represented both Heliostream and Starke Enterprises and had two votes. Cabinet took up its usual observer position at the foot of the table but didn’t say anything.
After Andrea’s recent bid to purchase Heliostream, Meewee wasn’t so sure where her loyalties lay. He watched her for clues. She did seem unusually chummy with the Gang of Three, but she greeted Meewee warmly as well.
After the board worked through old business, the first item of new business was a motion by Jaspersen: “I move that we add eight little words to our mission statement, to read: ‘The GEP shall resettle humans outside Sol System in exchange for enforceable title and user rights to real estate on Earth,
Fagan seconded, and Meewee, as board chair, reluctantly opened the floor for discussion. Jaspersen jumped in immediately. “Before you bitch and moan about how this will distract us from our primary mission,” Jaspersen’s balloon told him, “let me assure you that the opposite is true. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Chinas have recently announced their own extensive Near-Earth colonization and solar harvester programs. They got fed up with waiting for us to license them our technology. Practically speaking, it’ll take them ten years or so to catch up. That gives us a decade-long window of opportunity to actually see some profit from all our hard work over the last dozen years. Let me remind you, Eleanor Starke always promised us some fair return for our participation. And believe me,
