Teal held her breath. Don’t look up. Don’t let him look up. He lives in trees and he knows that things can be hiding in the branches, but don’t let him think about looking up here. Feeling like a baby, but unable to help herself, Teal closed her eyes. Her leg muscles began to tremble and cramp. But she still heard the footsteps and the low creaking as Regan pulled on the net lines.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up.
“They aren’t paying us enough for this, Constable. If the hothousers want her, they can come get her themselves, can’t they?”
“What do you think I’m here for?” answered Regan.
The hothousers were looking for her? Not Chena? This made no sense, no sense at all. If Wilseck was working for someone working for the hothousers, what did they need the guards for? Who would have told them she was missing in the first place? Had Willie sold her out? But if he had, why wasn’t she in the hothouse right now? He had her all knocked out in his basement; he could have done anything.
What is going on? Teal squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut.
The sound of footsteps stilled. Teal opened her eyes and risked a glance down. Grace had cocked her head. “You really don’t care that this one might be trying to stay away from the hothousers?”
Regan rubbed his brow. “Yes, I do care, but there are laws, and we all have to live under them. She broke the law by going to the tailor, and she forfeited her body right. We have to make every effort to bring her in.”
Grace paused, as if digesting this new information. “We don’t really know she went to the tailor.” She raised one finger and pointed it at Regan. “I wouldn’t take Wilseck’s word if he said the sun would rise at dawn.”
It was Regan’s turn to pause. Something was passing between them, but Teal wasn’t sure what it could be. Keeping herself from falling occupied too much of her mind.
“No,” said Regan at last. “Let’s go find the man and see if we can get some hard verification from him.”
Regan and the guards walked out. Teal stayed where she was until her knees began to shake so badly that sweat broke out on her forehead and she thought her palms would slip off the girder. With the last of her strength, she climbed back down and made her way to the small cluster of passenger seats. There was no one else in them. She picked a seat at random and collapsed into it, fastening the seat belt around her waist and shoulders with trembling hands.
Behind her, she heard the sound of the cargo door being dragged shut. With a clang, the bolts shot home. The rumble of the steering engines vibrated through the floor. Gently, the dirigible rose into the air.
Home, thought Teal, letting her head fall back against the seat. It didn’t matter what else was going on. It didn’t matter who was after her or who was letting her go, or what little games they were playing. She’d be with the Authority soon, and they took care of their own.
I’m going home.
“Why would our people do this to us?” asked Peda, city-mind to the Psi Complex.
“I don’t know,” said every voice but Aleph’s. It was a useless answer. They had to know. It was their job to know. If they didn’t know, how could they take care of their people?
They were all connected through the default convocation image of themselves sitting in a circle against a starry background and looking down at the gently turning globe of Pandora.
Since Aleph and Gem had spread word of what had happened to Aleph’s memory, every single city-mind had located unnecessary, un-scheduled alterations in themselves. They’d compared the type and duration of the alterations. These were not simple mistakes in remembering schedules or personal illnesses. Any mind could make mistakes. Memories blurred and changed as new priorities arose. Information that needed to remain absolutely accurate over time was stored mechanically. The point of a city-mind was to grow and change, to learn and reflect as the people it cared for did.
Those reflections had been distorted.
“Have we done wrong?” suggested Daleth timidly. Daleth always projected the image of a child in convocation, as if he wanted to remind himself that he was younger than the others. “Did we need correction?”
“Our people would have told us,” said Gem, a gold-skinned old man with a bald head and wispy white beard. “Our people always tell us when there is a chemical imbalance.”
Our people, thought Aleph. My people. So many people, all with their histories stored inside her, each a separate file she could call on at need. Each to be treated as a unique individual with a unique history, because generalizations between people led to gross mistakes and improper care.