Mind Over Ship

don’t know what. There was something funny about her skull. At least, I think there was. Ellen agreed to sell Heliostream to her! You asked me if E-P went through probate. Arrow says it did not. And now your daughter is selling Heliostream to E-P and Andrea. If I don’t do something soon, there will be no landowners to the stars, no panoply of civilizations.> Meewee punctuated his tirade with a rock that took both arms to toss. <And I don’t know what to do!>

There was a long silence as Meewee caught his breath. Then Eleanor-by-fish spoke. <Where’s Cabinet?>

<I’ve already told you!> Meewee flung his hands over his head. <A million times! Cabinet was contaminated! And I didn’t kill it like I should have.>

<I wasn’t asking you> Eleanor said mildly. <I was asking Arrow.>

<Searching> Arrow said.

There was something new in Eleanor’s voice. New but familiar. <While Arrow searches> she went on <I think you had better bring my daughter to me for a little face time.>

<That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you> Meewee complained. <Ellen won’t see me or even take my calls. I’d never be able to bring her here.>

What was familiar was the natural authority of her voice. <You are a resourceful man, Merrill. I’m sure you’ll think up a way.>

The Big Bed

It wasn’t just Ellen snapping at her. She had deserved that; she knew she had taken the nuss thing too far. She wasn’t a bossy person by nature, but she had been feeling out of sorts lately. Georgine had the right attitude. She said that Ellen’s increasing independence was a good thing. It showed that they were doing their job well, and that it was time to transition into a more adult relationship with her. They were companions, after all, and not foster parents.

Mary took a spa car home. A mud bath and a vim infusion did much to dispel the clouds. When she arrived at the Lin/Wong gigatower, later than usual, Fred was already in the lock, cycling into the null room. He must’ve just stepped out of the shower because the scuppers were tidying up in the bathroom, and his work clothes and wet towels were still on the floor.

Mary sat on the big double bed in the bedroom they never used. “So, did he leave me a message?”

There was one: “Hey there. I’m beat and going right to bed. Join me whenever. Love ya.”

Few deadlines are as flexible as “whenever,” and in fact, Mary didn’t feel like being cooped up all evening in that tiny room. So she stayed out till her usual bedtime. She dialed up her favorite pasta dinner but lost her appetite after a few bites. She drank two glasses of wine and let the slipper puppy trim and polish her toenails.

When she did cycle through, Fred was watching a vid. The bed was not perched in a treetop or parked on the Serengeti, but was just a narrow bed in a stunted room.

“Hey there,” he said as she stepped through the vid to the comfort station. She selected a flask of Lemon Flush and a liter of ’Lyte. Fred made space for her, and she snuggled under the covers. The vid was some kind of crime drama, and she tried to watch but couldn’t quite follow it. There was some kind of gurgling business going on in her belly, and the Flush had made it worse. It got so bad that at one point she threw off the covers and stumbled across the mattress to the comfort station. Her stomach felt like it was trying to turn inside out. She braced herself over the toilet and retched the entire half liter of Flush into the bowl. Fred came over to help support her. Next came her pasta dinner mixed with the Merlot. Finally, a thin gruel of gastric juices and bile, and she was empty. Her knees wobbled.

Mary washed her face and rinsed her mouth in the sink. Fred gave her a fresh towel and said, “So, what were you thinking about?”

At first she didn’t understand the question, but then she remembered. “Oh, you were right,” she said. “All I thought about was puking and breathing.”

“Yes, I could tell you were really into it. Here.” He opened a flask of ’Lyte. She took a couple of sips, but it came right back up, and the room began to spin.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Fred said and half carried her to the lock. She did not object, and they cycled out together and went to the bathroom where the autodoc asked her to spit into the collector basin. But instead of spitting she vomited into it. A minute later the autodoc delivered its diagnosis: poisoning.

“Visola poisoning,” Fred said, reading the display. “It says you’re toxic from all the expressive visola and Flush you’ve had in the last month. Your liver isn’t able to keep up with it all. You need to give the null room a rest.”

Mary said, “You won’t get any argument out of me.”

THEY TURNED DOWN the big bed for the first time. Neither of them could fall asleep, and they lay next to each other in companionable silence.

Finally, Fred said, “How do you feel now?”

“Much better.”

“I’m glad, and I apologize for dragging you in there every night.”

“You didn’t drag me. I wanted to go.”

“You don’t have to soft-peddle the situation, Mary. I know I’m totally inflexible about this whole nit thing, and now it’s made you sick. It’s my fault, and I apologize, and I want to make it up to you.”

Mary didn’t feel like having that whole discussion all over again. “Don’t worry about it, Fred. I can only imagine what you’re going through.” She draped her arm over his shoulder and felt his body tense up at her touch. So she let go of him and said, “I’m pretty tired, dear. Good night.”

“Good night.”

They still couldn’t fall asleep, however, and after lying in the darkness for a while, Fred sighed.

“What?” Mary said.

“Nothing. I’m sorry for making you ill.”

Mary propped herself up on her elbow. “Quit apologizing.”

“I’ll try.”

“Maybe this will help. You said you want to make it up to me. Here’s how you can. Go with me to see someone. And I don’t mean an auto-psyche in a null room. I mean a real relationship counselor. Will you do that for me?”

The Masterpiece

The Gray Bee waited with its team under the portico of the Chicago Museum of Arts and Commerce until suitable patrons climbed the broad entrance steps. The team rode into the museum under hat brims and lapels. Once past security, they abandoned their mules and reassembled in the lobby. A beetle and wasp, hugging the ceiling, flew to the main exhibition hall, where they would hide themselves and wait. Meanwhile, Gray Bee led another wasp and beetle through the twentieth-century galleries. There, the Samson Harger painting of drips and drabs filled one whole wall.

The composition of the large canvas was dominated by four diagonal slashes of black paint that were swallowed up under dozens of layers of riotous color spatter. While the wasp took up a defensive position, Gray Bee and the beetle crawled from the ceiling to the picture frame. The bee disabled the frame security feelers for the beetle to move to the canvas itself. Camouflaged by the spatter, the tiny mech crisscrossed the large canvas laying