Glasshouse

What she means is, the Republic of Is provided the most important common services a post-Acceleration civilization needs: time and authentication. Without time, you can't be sure that the same financial instrument isn't being executed in two different places at once. And without authentication, you can't be certain that the person in Body A is the owner of Identity A, rather than an interloper who has stolen a copy of Body A. Time was easy before spaceflight because it was a function of geography, not network co

Now the Republic of Is has fragmented, and its successor polities aren't all ru

"We're going to have a huge problem with revenants," Sa

"So we look out for things like that," Al suggests.

I stare at him, and force myself to wait for a couple of seconds before I open my mouth: Al isn't always fast on the uptake. "That's a fair description of any modern polity," I point out. "And we haven't consolidated control everywhere—we've only broken CY's coordination capability within all the networks we're in direct communication with. If we want to clean up, we've got to go further."

"So?" Al glyphs amusement in lieu of having a face to smile with. "It's an ongoing process. Maybe you need to think about what you're going to do with the bad guys when you've rounded them up?"

14. Hospital

I hear dryness, and there's a taste of blue in my mouth, and I have an erection. I lick my lips and find my mouth is dry and tastes like something died in it. And I don't have an erection because I don't have a penis to have one with. What I've got is a bad case of, of—memory fugue , I realize, and my eyes click open.

I'm lying between harshly starched white sheets, facing a white wall with strange sockets in it. Pale green hangings form a curtain on either side of my bed. Someone's put me in an odd gown with a slit ru

A few seconds later the dizziness subsides and I try again. My heart's pounding, I'm queasy, and the front of my head aches; I feel as weak as a jellyfish. Meanwhile the panic is scraping at my attention again. Who brought me here? If Yourdon finds me, he'll kill me! There's some kind of box with buttons on it hanging from a hook on the bed frame. I pick it up and stab a button at semirandom, and my feet come up. Other way! Ten seconds later I'm sitting up uncomfortably, the bed raised behind my back. It puts an unpleasant pressure on my stomach, but with verticality comes a minute degree of comfort—I've got some control over my environment—before the greater unease sneaks up on me again.

Okay, so the gardener —I trail off, my internal narrative stuck in a haze of incomprehension. It brought me here? Where is here, anyway? This bed—it's one of a row, spaced alongside one wall in a huge, high-ceilinged white room. There's an array of windows set high up in the opposite wall, and I can glimpse blue and white sky through it. Incomprehensible bits of equipment are dotted around. There are lockers next to some of the beds—and I see that one of the beds at the other end of the room looks to be occupied.

I close my eyes, feeling a deadweight of dread. I'm still in the glasshouse , I realize sickly.

But I'm too weak to do anything, and, besides, I'm not alone. I hear the clack of approaching heels and the sound of voices coming my way. "Hours end at four o'clock," says a female voice with the flattening of affect I've come to expect of zombies. "The consultant will visit in the evening. The patient is weak and is not to be disturbed excessively." The curtain twitches back, and I see a female zombie wearing a white dress and an odd hair adornment. The zombie looks at me. "You have a visitor," she intones. "Do not overexert yourself."

"Uh," I manage to say, and try to turn my head so I can see who it is, but they're still half-concealed behind the curtain. It's like a nightmare, when you know some kind of monster is creeping up on you—

"Well, if it isn't our little librarian!"

And I think, Fuck, I know that voice! And simultaneously, almost petulantly, But you can't be here , just as Fiore steps around the curtain and leans over the rail alongside my bed, an expression of bemused condescension on his face. "Would you like to tell me where you think you were going?"

"No." I manage to avoid gritting my teeth. "Not particularly." The nightmare has caught up, and the well of despair is threatening to swallow me down. They've caught me and brought me back to play with me. I feel sick and hot.

"Come now, Reeve." Unctuous, that's the word. Fiore plants one plump hand on my forehead, and I realize he feels clammy and cold. "Oh dear. You are in a state." He removes the hand before I can shake it off, and I shiver. "I can see why they brought you straight here."

I clamp my teeth shut, waiting for the coup de grâce, but Fiore seems to have something else in mind. "I have to look after the pastoral well-being of all my flock, little lady, so I can't stay too long with you. You're obviously ill "—he puts some kind of odd emphasis on the word—"and I'm sure that's the explanation for your recent erratic behavior. But next time you decide to go climbing in the walls, you should come and talk to me first"—for a moment his expression hardens—"you wouldn't want to do anything you might regret later."

Between shivers, I manage to roll my eyes. "I have no regrets." Why is he playing with me?

"Come now!" Fiore clucks disapprovingly for a moment. "Of course you have regrets! To be human is to be regretful. But we must learn to make the most of what we have to work with, mustn't we? You've been slow to settle in and find your place in our little parish, Reeve, and that's been causing some concern to those of us who keep an eye on such things. I have—may I be frank?—been worried that you might be an incorrigibly disruptive influence. On the other hand, you obviously mean well, and care for your neighbors—" An unreadable expression flits across his jowls. "So I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Rest now, and we'll continue our little chat later, when you're feeling better."