Glasshouse - Charles Stross [117]
“So we look out for things like that,” Al suggests.
I stare at him, and force myself to wait for a couple of seconds before I open my mouth: Al isn’t always fast on the uptake. “That’s a fair description of any modern polity,” I point out. “And we haven’t consolidated control everywhere—we’ve only broken CY’s coordination capability within all the networks we’re in direct communication with. If we want to clean up, we’ve got to go further.”
“So?” Al glyphs amusement in lieu of having a face to smile with. “It’s an ongoing process. Maybe you need to think about what you’re going to do with the bad guys when you’ve rounded them up?”
14
Hospital
I hear dryness, and there’s a taste of blue in my mouth, and I have an erection. I lick my lips and find my mouth is dry and tastes like something died in it. And I don’t have an erection because I don’t have a penis to have one with. What I’ve got is a bad case of, of—memory fugue, I realize, and my eyes click open.
I’m lying between harshly starched white sheets, facing a white wall with strange sockets in it. Pale green hangings form a curtain on either side of my bed. Someone’s put me in an odd gown with a slit running right up the back. The gown is also green. This must be the hospital, I think, closing my eyes and trying not to panic. How did I get here? Trying not to panic is a nonstarter. I gasp and try to sit up.
A few seconds later the dizziness subsides and I try again. My heart’s pounding, I’m queasy, and the front of my head aches; I feel as weak as a jellyfish. Meanwhile the panic is scraping at my attention again. Who brought me here? If Yourdon finds me, he’ll kill me! There’s some kind of box with buttons on it hanging from a hook on the bed frame. I pick it up and stab a button at semirandom, and my feet come up. Other way! Ten seconds later I’m sitting up uncomfortably, the bed raised behind my back. It puts an unpleasant pressure on my stomach, but with verticality comes a minute degree of comfort—I’ve got some control over my environment—before the greater unease sneaks up on me again.
Okay, so the gardener—I trail off, my internal narrative stuck in a haze of incomprehension. It brought me here? Where is here, anyway? This bed—it’s one of a row, spaced alongside one wall in a huge, high-ceilinged white room. There’s an array of windows set high up in the opposite wall, and I can glimpse blue and white sky through it. Incomprehensible bits of equipment are dotted around. There are lockers next to some of the beds—and I see that one of the beds at the other end of the room looks to be occupied.
I close my eyes, feeling a deadweight of dread. I’m still in the glasshouse, I realize sickly.
But I’m too weak to do anything, and, besides, I’m not alone. I hear the clack of approaching heels and the sound of voices coming my way. “Hours end at four o’clock,” says a female voice with the flattening of affect I’ve come to expect of zombies. “The consultant will visit in the evening. The patient is weak and is not to be disturbed excessively.” The curtain twitches back, and I see a female zombie wearing a white dress and an odd hair adornment. The zombie looks at me. “You have a visitor,” she intones. “Do not overexert yourself.”
“Uh,” I manage to say, and try to turn my head so I can see who it is, but they’re still half-concealed behind the curtain. It’s like a nightmare, when you know some kind of monster is creeping up on you—
“Well, if it isn’t our little librarian!”
And I think, Fuck, I know that voice! And simultaneously, almost petulantly, But you can’t be here, just as Fiore steps