Part 20 (1/2)

Margarita nods and escorts me back to my cell. While she is helping me to change, a report comes over her radio. Much of the technical babble is meaningless to me, but I follow enough to understand that my ”accident” is being explained as a result of corroded insulation on a power cable to the pump.

No mention is made of the sparkling lure, and Margarita has apparently forgotten it, her attention galvanized by her narrow escape from death and my part as her savior.

”You had no reason to do that, amiga amiga,” she says, tucking Betwixt and Between in next to me. ”I've not said a friendly word to you since you come here. I don't break my contract, but I'll keep a good eye on you now.”

Later, when I wake from a deep, dreamless sleep, I find a bowl of cut flowers brightening my colorless room. I don't need to read the note to know who has brought them.

I am certain that Dr. Haas arranged my accident, but I have no proof beyond my growing knowledge of her duplicity and awareness of her malice. I decide to not even mention my latest suspicion to Jersey. I prefer that he continue to see me as an ”angel” he wants to help.

The rest of the day pa.s.ses uneventfully. The shock has worn me out and I sleep much of the time.

When evening comes, I have a visit from Jersey. He has showered and is wearing a brightly colored s.h.i.+rt and cotton trousers. From somewhere he has even dredged up a tie.

”Hey, Sarey, I heard you had an accident today.”

I smile demurely, choosing to emphasize my condition by not replying. I see the effect instantly. Jersey has grown accustomed to the chatterbox of the interchange. My silence hurts.

”Smile for me, honey”-he looks anxious-”big now.”

I valiantly bare my teeth and Jersey's lip trembles just slightly. He leans to awkwardly pat my leg.

”Aw, really scared you, did it, baby?” He looks pensive. ”Dr. Aldrich says no up-time today, but we'll go tomorrow. I'll let you show me that Jungle again.”

I smile, too touched by his concern to refuse him the gratification of cheering me up. He stays for nearly two hours, playing chess. We are well-matched-his knowledge of strategy is excellent, but my memory is good and once I see a play I can use it for my own.

Oddly, I find myself comparing him to Abalone. An idea comes to me then, but under the dual impediments of language and the watchful videocams I restrain myself.

I am too exhausted not to sleep well, but I awaken early. As I am stripping to dress, my cell's door bursts open and Margarita races in. She tosses my robe to me.

”Wait, amiga amiga, just a minute. You not know, but those h.o.r.n.y b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the vid room, they get up early jus' to watch you shower.”

She stands on one of my oversoft chairs, bouncing slightly as she neatly duct tapes over the front lens. She does the same in the bathroom.

Jumping down, she says, ”There. Now, I do my job and stay here while you shower and dress. You don't gotta be a skin flick star.”

I hug her and, seizing Betwixt and Between, head into the bathroom. My shower, even with the door open so that Margarita can make certain I don't do anything drastic, is the most privacy I've had since I've come to the Inst.i.tute and I enjoy it immensely.

”You like the flowers?” she asks while I'm dressing.

”The flowers, they were radiant with glory and shed such perfume on the air,” I answer, nodding.

”Good, I'm thinking, maybe I bring you a fish tank-a little one, since the big doctor says you not to go outside anymore.” She grins. ”Yeah, I think I do that.”

Quotations for thanks seem insincere and so I hug her again. She escorts me to Comp-C and waves a cheery goodbye.

Fortified, I go in and don't even flinch when Dr. Haas hands me my beaker. A faint wink from Jersey warns me to be ready for the mule's kick but I find being spread out across a universe no easier despite his warning. Again, I come to myself sprawled on the floor of Jersey's sitting room.

”I'm not sure that whatever overdose she could concoct for me wouldn't be better than that, Jersey,” I say, struggling up, finally accepting his hand.

”You're just saying that, Sarey,” he a.s.sures me. ”You like being in control of yourself. I can tell.”

”Control?” I meet his eyes. ”I wonder if I have ever been in control of my own life?”

”Not of your life, Sarey.” Jersey doesn't smile. ”Of you.”

”Hmm.” I am reluctant to admit that I see his point.

”Sarey, you never pressed for exactly why Dylan needed the 'services' of my machines, but you must remember that he wasn't...” Jersey blushes, aware that he's on a delicate topic.

”Crazy? Or at least autistic?”

I see that Betwixt and Between have found a bag of French fries and concentrate on helping Jersey to see my addition to our consensus reality.

”Yeah, that. You know he could talk normally.”

”Yes, I seem to remember that.” I look at him and shrug. ”I was pretty small when I left the Inst.i.tute and they blocked my memories or something because I didn't remember him or them until I heard Betwixt and Between telling Conejito Moreno about Dylan.”

”Conejito Moreno?” Jersey shakes himself. ”Sarey, Dylan's 'accident' was probably pretty deliberate. You see, he drank some corrosive; I think it was a cleaner. It made a mess of his throat when he started throwing it up. He didn't die, but he couldn't talk.”

I wince, wrapping a hand around my throat, understanding the silence and pain whenever I found Dylan's memories in the inanimate. Betwixt and Between have stopped eating and large tears are rolling from their bright ruby eyes.

”Dylan killed himself?” I ask, gathering my dragons close.

Athena lands near, cooing and hooting softly. Jersey seems to see, but does not allow himself to become distracted.

”Yeah”-he pauses-”He did. I don't know exactly why he did it when he did, but he hung himself. They didn't have cameras in his room like in yours.”

Much makes sense now. I fight back my grief for the pale-eyed boy, for the man I would never know and soothe my wildly sobbing dragons. I wonder if he was permitted any other inanimate friends and if they weep for him in some dark closet or if they were tossed along with the rest of the trash.

Jersey's face goes blank and slack for a handful of heartbeats; I know he is getting some message from outside of the interchange. Then he refocuses, notices for the first time that a rope ladder again leads into the strung reaches.

”They want to know if we're ready,” he says. ”Shall I give the go-ahead?”

I nod and he fingers his screen. When he reaches into the chest this time, he extracts two plastic slips, much like cred slips except one is pink and the other a painful chartreuse.

”These,” he explains, ”are access cards for an account-more accurately, one is the access card and the other is a dummy. Your job is to figure which is which-only the man who carried them knew for sure and...”

”He's in no position to tell,” I complete. ”I get the picture. This shouldn't be too hard.”

”Make it hard,” Jersey suggests. ”I mean, when you know don't tell right off. I'll signal that you're working and we can talk without making them suspicious.”

”Okay.”

I reach out with my inner hearing and almost instantly can tell. One card is dull and mute. The other chuckles steadily. A moment more confirms that the silence is indeed inertia and not a layer of concealment. The pink card is effectively ”dead” the chartreuse is our target.

Without telling Jersey my discovery, I put the cards on the table. ”Want to see the Jungle? I'll show you my hammock and tell you all about my Pack.”

As his answer, Jersey stands and grasps the ladder. I go up in front to show him the ropes. He follows more slowly. When we get up to a Cub's platform in the lower reaches, I look down.

The sitting room is gone and Head Wolf's tent is pitched in its customary spot. Only the emptiness is atypical of the Jungle I knew, for even at the busiest parts of the night there would be someone around: sleeping, eating, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, singing softly.