Glasshouse - Charles Stross [128]
“Wow,” I say, my voice hollow and my head spinning. “How many, uh, neighborhoods, are you planning to link in?”
“Oh, thirty or so parishes. That’s enough to form one small city, which is about the minimum for a stable society, according to our models.”
“Keeping track of that must be a big job,” I say slowly.
“You can say that again.” Dr. Hanta stands up and straightens her white coat. “It takes at least three of me to keep track of everything!” Another errant curl gets tucked behind her collar. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you. You’re ready for discharge whenever you want to go home; just tell the nurse on the front desk that you’re leaving. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” I say hastily. Then I pause for a moment. “When I was having my crisis, were you tempted to . . . you know, change anything? Apart from administering the fixative algorithm, that is?”
Hanta stares at me with her big brown eyes. She looks thoughtful. “You know, if I tried to change the minds of everyone who I thought needed changing, I’d never have time to do anything else.” She smiles at me, and her expression turns chilly. “And besides, what you’re asking about is highly questionable behavior, ethically questionable, Mrs. Brown. To which I have two responses. Firstly, whatever I might think of a patient, I would never act in a manner contrary to their best interests. And secondly, I expected better of you. Good day.”
She turns and stalks away. I’ve really put my foot in it now, I think, feeling sick with embarrassment. Me and my big mouth . . . I want to run after her and apologize, but that would be asking to compound the misunderstanding, wouldn’t it? Idiot, I tell myself. She’s right, they couldn’t run the polity without having a medical supervisor who has the subjects’ best interests in mind; and I’ve just pissed off the only member of the experimental team who might be on my side. She could have helped me figure out how to fit in better, and instead . . . Shit. Shit. Shit.
There’s really nothing left to do here. I stand up and rummage through the carrier bag Sam left for me last night. There’s underwear, a floral print dress, and a pair of strappy sandals, but he forgot my handbag. Oh well, he gets high marks for trying. I make myself decent then, after waiting long enough for Dr. Hanta to leave the ward, I head down to reception. On the way I pass the other ward, signposted MATERNITY. I guess it’ll be getting busy in a few months, but right now it’s depressingly empty. There’s a spring in my step as I reach the front desk. “Checking out,” I say.
The zombie on the desk nods. “Mrs. Reeve Brown leaving the institution of her own volition,” she drones. “Have a nice day.”
The hospital faces onto Main Street, sandwiched between a run of shops and a stretch zoned for offices. It’s a sunny, warm day, and my spirits rise as I go outside. I feel airy and empty, light as a feather, not a care in the world! At least, not for now, a stubborn part of me mutters darkly. Then I get the impression that even the part of me that’s always alert shrugs its shoulders and sighs. Still, might as well take the day off to recover. Fiore has actually let me off the hook, for which I can thank Dr. Hanta; so I’ve got an actual choice. I’m free to keep on kicking and struggling against the inevitable, or I can go home and relax for a few days, just play the game and settle down. (It’ll avoid attracting unwelcome attention from Fiore or the score whores, and I can pretend I’m having fun while I’m about it; I’ll treat it like a game. Plus, it occurs to me that if I want to