Distraction - Bruce Sterling [154]
Lana looked at him, biting her lip. Her doelike eyes brimmed with tears. “Why can’t they tell when you’re coming apart? Poor Oscar! Nobody even cares.”
“Maybe a little ice water,” he muttered.
Lana found his hat and set it gently on his head. “I’ll get you out of here.”
“Oscar!” Kevin shouted. “The south gate is open! The lab is being invaded! There are hundreds of nomads!”
Oscar responded instantly, with whipcrack precision. “Are they Regulators or Moderators?” But the emerging words were gibberish. His tongue had suddenly swollen inside his head. His tongue was bloated and huge. It was as if his mouth had two tongues in it.
“What’ll we do?” Kevin demanded.
“Just get away from him! Let him be!” Lana shrieked. “Somebody help me with him! He needs help.”
Once checked into the Collaboratory clinic, Oscar got the reaction he always received from medical personnel: grave puzzlement and polite distress. He was exhibiting many symptoms of illness, but he couldn’t be properly diagnosed, because his metabolism simply wasn’t entirely human. His temperature was soaring, his heart was racing, his skin was erupting, his blood pressure was off the scale. Given his unique medical background, there was no obvious course of treatment.
Nevertheless, a proper head bandage, an ice pack, and a few hours of silence did him a lot of good. He finally drifted into a healing sleep. He woke at noon, feeling weary, sore, and shaken, but back in control. He sat up in his hospital bed, sipping tomato juice and examining news on his laptop. Kevin had abandoned him. Lana had insisted that the rest of the krewe leave him alone.
At one o’clock Oscar had an impromptu gaggle of visitors. Four hairy, booted nomads burst into his private room. The first was General Burningboy. His three young toughs looked impossibly sinister—war-painted, glowering, muscular.
The General had brought him a large bouquet. Holly, yellow daffodils, and mistletoe. The floral symbolism was painfully obvious.
“Howdy,” said Burningboy, appropriating a vase and dumping its previous contents. “Heard you were feelin’ poorly, so me and my boys dropped by to cheer you up.”
Oscar gazed thoughtfully at the invaders. He was glad to see them. It improved his morale to be back on the job so quickly. “That’s very good of you, General. Do have a seat.”
Burningboy sat on the foot of the clinic bed, which squealed alarmingly under his weight. His three followers, ignoring the room’s two chairs, crouched sullenly on the floor. The oldest one set his back firmly against the door.
“Not ‘General.’ Corporal. I’m Corporal Burningboy now.”
“Why the demotion, Corporal?”
“Simple matter, really. I used up all my network trust and credibility when I ordered fifty girls into this facility. Those young women have fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters—boyfriends, even. I put those little darlings into harm’s way, just on my own recognizance. And, well, that pretty much burned out all my credibility. Years of effort, right down the drain! Now, I’m just some little jasper.”
Oscar nodded. “I take it this has something to do with reputation servers and your nomad networks of trust.”
“Yup. You got it.”
“It seems absurd that you should be demoted, when your paramilitary operation was such a signal success.”
“Well now …” Burningboy squinted. “I might recoup some of my lost prestige—if it could be shown that we Moderators were derivin’ some benefit from all this risky activity.”
“Aha.”
“So far, we haven’t gotten a dang thing outta any of this, except a sleepless night for the worried families of our valiant warriors.”
“Corporal, you are right. I completely concur with your analysis. Your help was invaluable, and as yet, we’ve done nothing for you in return. I acknowledge that debt. I am a man of my word. You were there for us when we needed you. I want to see you happy, Corporal Burningboy. Just tell me what you want.”
Burningboy, all beard-grizzled smiles, turned to one of his companions. “Did you hear that? Beautiful speech, wasn’t it? Didya get