Glasshouse - Charles Stross [122]
“We all make mistakes.” It’s that smile again: It’s slightly fey and very sincere, as if she’s laughing at a joke that I’d laugh along with, if I only knew what it was. “You leave worrying about the integrity of the experiment to me, dear.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Of course you worry about it when the priests’ backs are turned. Of course people try to game the system—it’s only to be expected. Probably some people don’t even want to be here. Maybe they changed their minds after signing the waiver. All I can say is, we’ll do our best to make sure they’re not unhappy with the outcome.” She raises an eyebrow at me speculatively. “It’s not easy to run an experiment on this scale, and we make mistakes, what else can I say? Some of us make more mistakes than others.” And now she pulls an expression of mild distaste, which seems to say it all. She’s inviting my agreement, and I find myself nodding along despite my better judgment.
“But those mistakes . . .” I stop, unsure if I should continue.
“Yes?” She leans forward.
“How’s Cass?” I force myself to ask.
Dr. Hanta’s face, which up until now has been open and friendly, closes like a trapdoor. “Why do you ask?”
I lick my lips again. “I need something to drink.” She slides off her stool and paces round my bed, pours what’s left of the water jug into my cup, and hands it to me without a word. I swallow. “One of Fiore’s little mistakes, I suppose.” I aim to say it lightly, but it comes out dripping with sarcasm.
“Oh yes.” Dr. Hanta looks round, toward the far end of the ward—at something hidden from me by the curtain. I shudder, and this time it’s not from the fever chills. “I wouldn’t say one of his little mistakes.” Her tone of voice is dry, but there’s something behind it that makes me glad I can’t see her face. But when she turns back to me, her expression is perfectly normal. “Cass will be all right, dear.”
“And Mick?” I prompt.
“That is under discussion.”
“Under discussion. Was what happened to Esther and Phil discussed ahead of time?”
“Reeve”—she actually has the gall to look upset—“no, it wasn’t. Someone miscalculated badly. They’ve gone back to the primary sources and discovered that what, what Esther and Phil were doing wasn’t so very unusual. And you’re right, the weighting attached to, uh, what they did—Major Fiore misjudged the mood of the crowd. It won’t happen again, we’ve learned from that experience, and from—” She swallows, then nods minutely at the curtain. “If a couple doesn’t get on, there’s going to be a procedure to go through to obtain formal social approval of the separation. We’re not evil. We’re in this for the long haul, and if you’re unhappy, if everyone’s unhappy here, the polity won’t gel, and the experiment can’t work.”
The experiment can’t work. I look at her and find myself wondering, Does she mean it? Fiore and Yourdon are so cynical I find myself startled to be in the presence of a member of their team who seems to believe in what she’s doing. I’m suddenly appalled, as badly taken aback by her honesty as the police zombies are by a stripper. “Uh. I think I see.” I shake my head, then wince. My neck aches. “But as long as Mick stays here, some of us won’t be happy at all.”
“Oh, Mick will be dealt with one way or another, dear.” Her caduceus trills for attention, and she fidgets with it as she talks. “I don’t think the psychological damage is irremediable—we probably won’t have to restore from backup, which is a good thing right now. But I’m going to have to redesign his motivational parameters from the ground up.” She frowns at the serpent heads but doesn’t explain herself further. “Cass will be . . . well, I’m attending to the physical damage right now, and when she’s better, I’ll ask her who she wants to be.” She falls silent for a few seconds. “Most medical fraternities, confronted by a patient with this level of damage, would prescribe gross memory surgery—or simply terminate