Part 27 (2/2)

Two new doctors came in, though, the afternoon after the morning coup. They were Tanya Sidgwick and Charles Dyer, the jack team from Panama who had a ninety-eight percent success rate. They were mystified over their orders to come to Portobello, but sort of looked forward to the vacation-they'd been installing jacks in POWs at the rate of ten or twelve a day, too fast for comfort or safety.

The first thing they did after settling into their quarters was to go down to the H wing and see what was happening. Marty got them comfortable on a pair of beds and said they had to jack with a patient. Then he plugged them into the Twenty, and they instantly realized just what kind of a vacation they were in for.

But after a few minutes of deep communication with the Twenty, they were converts-in fact, they were a lot more sanguine about the plan than most of the original planners were. That simplified the timing, because it wasn't necessary to humanize Sidgwick and Dyer before putting them on the team.

They had sixty-four officers to deal with, and only twenty-eight of them were already jacked; only two of the eight generals. Twenty of the fifty NCOs and privates were jacked.

The first order of business was to get the ones who were already jacked into bed and plugged in with the Twenty. They lugged fifteen beds into the H wing from the Bachelor Officer Quarters. That gave forty s.p.a.ces in H; for the other nine, they could install jack interfaces in their rooms.

But the first order of business for Marty and Megan Orr was to restore Julian's lost memories. Or try.

There was nothing complicated about it. Once Julian was under, the procedure was totally automated and only took forty-five minutes. It was also totally safe, in terms of the patient's physical and mental health. Julian knew that.

What he didn't know was that it only worked about three quarters of the time. About one in four patients lost something.

Julian lost a world.

I FELT REFRESHED AND elated when I woke up. I could remember the mind-numbed state I'd been in for the past four days, and could also remember all the detail that had been taken away from me-odd to feel happiness at being able to remember a suicide attempt and the imminent danger of the world coming to an end-but in my case it was a matter of providing actual reasons for the sense of unease that had pervaded my world.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at a silly Norman Rockwell print of soldiers reporting for duty, remembering furiously, when Marty walked in looking grim.

Something's wrong, I said.

He nodded. From a black box on the bed table he unreeled two jack cables and handed one to me, wordlessly.

We plugged in and I opened up, and there was nothing. I checked the jack connection and it was secure. Are you getting anything?

No. I didn't in post-op either. He fed his cable back in, and then mine.

What is it?

Sometimes people permanently lose the memories we removed- But I've got it all back! I'm certain!

-and sometimes they lose the ability to jack.

I felt cold sweat p.r.i.c.kling on my palms and forehead and under my arms. It's temporary?

No. No more than it is with Blaze. It's what happened to General Roser.

You knew. The sick feeling of loss was turning into rage. I stood up and towered over him.

I told you you might lose ... something.

But you meant memory. I was willing to give up memory!

That's an advantage to jacking one-way, Julian. Two-way, you can't lie by omission. If you had asked me, 'Could I lose the power to jack?' I would have told you. Fortunately, you didn't ask.

You're an MD, Marty. How does the first part of that oath go?

'Do no harm.' But I was a lot of things before I got that piece of paper. A lot of things afterward.

Maybe you better get out of here before you start explaining.

He stood his ground. You're a soldier in a war. Now you're a casualty. But the part of you that died-only a part-died to s.h.i.+eld your unit, to get it safely into position.

Rather than hit him, I sat back down on the bed, out of range. You sound like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned warboy. A war-boy for peace.

Maybe so. You must know how badly I feel about this. I knew I was betraying your trust.

Yeah, well, I feel pretty bad about it, too. Why don't you just leave?

I'd rather stay and talk to you.

I think I have it figured out Go on. You have dozens of people to operate on. Before the world has the slightest chance of being saved.

You do still believe that.

I haven't had time to think about it, but yes, if the stuff you put back in my mind about the Jupiter Project is true, and if the Hammer of G.o.d is real, then something has to be done. You're doing something.

You're all right about it?

That's like being 'all right' about losing an arm. I'm fine. I'll learn to shave with the other hand.

I don't want to leave you like this.

Like what? Just get out of my sight. I can think about it without your help.

He looked at his watch. They are waiting for me. I have Colonel Owens on the table.

I waved him away. So go do it. I'll be all right.

He looked at me for a moment and then got up and left without a word.

I fished around in my breast pocket. The pill was still there.

BACK IN GUADALAJARA THAT morning, Jefferson had warned Blaze to stay out of sight. That was no problem; she was holed up with Ellie Morgan several blocks away, working on the various versions of the paper that would warn the world about the Jupiter Project.

Then Jefferson and Cameron sat for a few hours in the cantina, a small camera on the table between them, watching the elevator doors.

They almost missed her. When she came back down, her silky blond hair was tucked under a wig of black ringlets. She was dressed conservatively and had toned her visible skin to a typical Mexican olive hue. But she hadn't disguised her perfect figure or the way she walked.

Jefferson froze in mid-conversation and surrept.i.tiously slid the camera around with his forefinger.

They had both idly watched her exit the elevator. What? Cameron whispered.

That's her. Made up like a Mexican.

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