Glasshouse - Charles Stross [36]
“Like what?” he asks.
I deflate. “I’m not sure. She wants to get out. But—”
“Did you check our cumulative score?”
“My—no, I didn’t. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Just do it,” he says.
“Okay.” What is our cohort’s cumulative score? I ask my netlink. The result sets me back. “Hey, we’re doing well! Even after . . .” I falter.
“Well yes, if you look in the subtotals, you’ll see that we get points, lots of them, for forming ‘stable normative relationships.’ ” His cheek twitches. “Like Cass and, who is it, Mick.”
“But if he’s hurting her—”
“Is he really? All right, we take her word for it. But what can we do? If we break them up, we cost everyone in our cohort a hundred points, just like that. Reeve, have you noticed the journal log? Infractions are public. Everyone noticed your little—experiment—at lunchtime. It’s all over their journal, in red digits. Caused quite a stir. If you do something that costs the cohort a stable relationship, some of them—not me, but the ones who will be obsessing with that termination bonus—will start to hate you. And as you pointed out earlier, we’re stuck here for the next hundred megs.”
“Shit. Shit!” I stare at him. “What about you?”
He looks up at me from his corner of the sofa, his face impassive. “What about me?”
“Would you hate me?” I ask, quietly.
He thinks for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think so.” Pause. “I wish you’d be a little more discreet, though. Lie low, think things through before you act, try to at least look as if you’re planning on fitting in.”
“Okay. So what should I be thinking? About Cass, I mean. If that scumbag is taking advantage of his greater physical strength . . .”
“Reeve.” He pauses again. “I agree in principle. But first we must know what we need to do. Can she leave him of her own accord, without our help? If so, then she ought to—it’s her choice. If not, what can we do to help? We have to live with the consequences of our early mistakes for a very long time. Unless Cass is in immediate danger, it would be best to try and get the entire cohort to take action, not go it alone.”
“But right now, we’ve got to stop him doing anything. Haven’t we?”
I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel helpless, and I hate it. I should be able to go round to the scumsucker’s house and kick the door down and give him a taste of cold steel in his guts. Or failing that, I ought to plan a cunning two-pronged assault that whisks the victim to safety while booby-trapping his bathroom and putting itching powder in his bed. But I’m just spinning my wheels, venting and emoting and unloading on Sam. My normal network of resources and capabilities is missing, and I’m letting the environment dictate my responses. The environment is set up to inculcate this weird gender-deterministic role play, so I’m . . . I shake my head.
“We don’t want anyone to get the idea that hurting or imprisoning members of our cohort is a good way to earn points,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Do you have any ideas about how to do that?”
I think for a moment. “Phone him,” I say, before the idea is completely formed in my head. “Phone him and . . . yeah.” I look out at the garden. “Tell him we’ll see him, and Cass, at Church, the day after tomorrow. There’s no need to be nasty,” I realize. “It says we’re supposed to dress up and look good in Church. It’s a custom thing. Tell him we could lose points if she doesn’t look good. Collectively.” I turn to Sam. “Think he’ll get the message?”
“Unless he’s very, very stupid.” Sam nods, then stands up. “I’ll call him right away.” He pauses. “Reeve?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not . . . you’re making me nervous, smiling like that.”
“Sorry.” I think for a moment. “Sam?”
“Yes?”
I’m silent for a few second while I try to work out how much I can safely tell him. After a while I shrug mentally and just say it. I don’t think Sam is likely to be a cold-blooded assassin in the pay of whatever enemies my earlier self made. “I knew Cass. Outside the experiment before we, uh, before we volunteered. If that turd-faced scum hurts her I—well, right now I can’t punch his teeth