Kelley Eskridge (21 page)

The named ones left the room with a large
escort of guards. Crichton pulled up another slide—

Virtual
Experience Technology Beta Program
, with the EarthGov logo
prominently displayed. Her body seemed looser now, although it was
impossible to be sure of any expression through the crimson lenses.

“The rest of you are the Green Group.
Congratulations on your imminent release from confinement for the
criminal activities of which you were convicted. I trust you all find
yourselves rehabilitated and ready to resume a productive place in
society. Don't insult me by answering,” she said unhurriedly,
precisely, waving off an attempt to speak by someone in the front of
the room.

They're letting us go, Jackal thought. She
felt a little as though someone had said

Did
you hear about the epidemic in Pakistan
?—news that was real
for some other person but not for her. And she had a mild interest in
what would happen next: but for now it was fine to sit on this
backbreaking chair and let this unfathomable woman tell her future.

“Most of you have been reclaimed from
virtual confinement ahead of schedule. This is because of some recent
disagreement in Earth Congress about the scope and control of the
Virtual Technology Program. Some things have changed while you've been
away.” Crichton smiled briefly, a show of teeth that made her eyes seem
even less human.

“First thing is that at the end of this
session, you will be individually processed for probationary release,
subject to the conditions of those changes I just mentioned.

“Second thing is that you are still
obligated to the program. You'll be interviewed to determine your
individual role going forward. Your participation is required for a
one-year period starting today. This is considered part of your
sentence. When you complete the probationary period, you are considered
to have fulfilled your obligation to society and you will be free to
take up your lives.

“Third is that you are no longer in Al
Iskandariyah.” Ko, Jackal thought, like a starburst in her brain, it's
Garbo technology, we're back on Ko! But Crichton said, as if it were no
great matter, “This program was reassigned to a new oversight committee
headed by EarthGov representatives from the Nations of North America.
You have been relocated to NNA Zone 17 and are currently being
processed for permanent resident status.”

Jackal's cellmate jerked hard enough to
skid her chair against the floor, and the guards around the room turned
as one to point their weapons toward the sound. Jackal kept very still,
trying to see as much as she could without turning her head: the woman
was standing now, one hand on the back of her chair in a way that would
turn it from a support into a weapon with one good heft.

“Please remain seated for the duration of
the briefing,” Crichton said. She seemed unfazed by the commotion and
the possibility of violence. “Any sudden movement is likely to be
misunderstood by the security personnel.” She pointed out the guards
with a head movement, as if the prisoners might not have noticed them
before. “Sit down now,” she added, and her voice was all the more
threatening for being completely uninflected. The woman sat. “Thank
you,” Crichton said. “If there's anyone else who objects to these
conditions, you're free to join the Red Group. They failed to complete
at least eighty percent of their VC term before the final details of
the refocused program were ironed out in Al Isk, and will therefore be
serving out their original realtime sentences in NNA penitentiaries in
Zones 4 and 12.”

The room was remarkably quiet. Jackal
wondered how many others understood that they were here only because
the weeks spent ironing out the details had bought them the time they
needed in VC. Saved by bureaucracy.

“So, here's where that leaves you. For the
twelve-month probationary period, we will subsidize your housing and
provide a living allowance. It's enough to eat on but not enough to
fund a revolution, so plan accordingly.

“You will report to me monthly for parole
check-in and routine physical and neurological function testing. You
have already received cortical implants that will record and transmit
your brain's ongoing electrical activity.” Jackal's fingers twitched,
but she managed not to put a hand to her temple. “Any necessary medical
treatment will be managed and covered by the program. We are committed
to your continued good health for as long as you're with us. In
exchange, you've agreed to release EarthGov, the NNA, and the program
from any unanticipated physical, mental, emotional, or social
consequences of early reclamation or your status as convicted felons.
Any questions?”

Jackal couldn't ignore that; it sounded
like something Arsenault might have said. She raised a hand.

“Yes?”

“What—” She didn't have enough air. She
had to cough and try again. “What does that mean exactly, social
consequences?”

Jackal's cellmate answered before Crichton
could, in a voice so low and harsh that Jackal flinched in a sort of
physical sympathy for the raw throat behind the offhand words. “It
means that they won't be held responsible when we are stoned in the
streets, or when no one will give us a job because we're fucking
foreign crim- inals and we starve in the cold.” There was a general
rumble of distress from the other prisoners. The red-haired woman
looked straight at Jackal with a sparkle in her eyes that Jackal didn't
like at all, and her voice came stronger and rougher, rising as she
said, “That's what social consequences are,

petite
.
Spending the rest of your life in a place where they have an eye in
your brain and a hand around your throat forever—”

“Let's all take it easy,” a man in the
back said worriedly. The guards pointed their guns at the group. Jackal
braced to pitch herself out of her chair.

“Oh, I know just what you mean.” Crichton
smiled, showing teeth. Everyone looked at her. “You're exactly right
about how stupid people can be. That's why we don't send you back home,
you know, because people get so upset when someone they know turns out
to be a psychotic terrorist or a killer of children. Think of how much
safer you'll be here, where you are more anonymous. If they throw rocks
at you it will only be because you've kicked their puppy or neglected
to pay for your drugs.”

The woman blinked at Crichton once, twice;
she opened her mouth, shut it again. Finally she gave a short, sharp
laugh. “Gordineau.”

“Excuse me?”

“

Je ne suis jamais
anonyme. Je m'appelle Gordineau
. In English that is Ms.
Gordineau.”

“Ah, Ms. Gordineau. Yes, I can understand
why you might be distressed at finding yourself back in the NNA. But
we're a long way from the Wichita blast zone. I'm sure nobody here
cares about what happens in the midwest. So how about if you settle
down and we get on with it,” Crichton said. “Unless you prefer to go
play with the Red Group.”

Gordineau shook her head and laughed
again, and it was an ugly sound, full of bad joy and the promise of
conflict.

Crichton continued. “You will have noticed
the datagems already provided to you. Implants are standard for all NNA
residents. They store identity and credit information, and in your case
include your criminal record and function as monitoring devices to
ensure that you remain in your assigned region. They will identify you
to NNA security and program staff. You can't lose them without losing a
great deal of your hand, and even then we can still trace you by the
chip in your head, so please let's not be stupid. Follow the rules and
you'll be fine. You'll learn more at your individual briefing, which we
will begin as soon as we're done here.

“We have one more topic to cover. As Ms.
Gordineau has suggested, it is difficult for convicted felons to obtain
gainful employment in the NNA. You will find that you cannot work
within 100 yards of schools, libraries, medical centers, government
buildings, military installations, biotech facilities, financial
trading centers, or major tourist attractions. Nothing in a business of
more than 100 employees. Nothing that brings you into regular contact
with children. Nothing in the technology, weapons, heavy manufacturing,
or software industries. No government contractors. No civil service.”
She stopped and gave them a moment of silence to take it in. “That is
why I suggest you listen very carefully to our next speaker. Her name
is Irene Miller and she is from the Virtual Technology Program
Participation office.”

Miller stood and clacked her way to the
front of the table. Crichton touched the keyboard and the screen filled
with print so tiny that Jackal didn't try to read it. Miller fussed
with her hair, pulled down the corner of her jacket, and said, “Well,
Crichton's absolutely right as usual, ha ha. It can be pretty grim out
there. Unemployment is high and competition is fierce unless you have
very good skills. But we can help. We want to help. We are prepared to
offer you a two-year research participant contract with option to
renew. You agree to take part in various additional research projects
and receive regular EEGs and other tests as necessary to ensure a
complete understanding of the longer-term effects of virtual
technology. You'll draw a reasonable salary and receive great
benefits.” She began to recite them, but Jackal was too distracted to
focus on the particulars. Her brain was trying to get her attention.

“Of course, you really should commit now.
Participation is limited, and I'm afraid we don't have room for
everybody. We strongly suggest you reserve your position today. I'm
going to hand out contracts and give you a few minutes to look them
over.”

When the sheaf of documents came to her,
Jackal took a set and passed the rest on to Gordineau, and then skimmed
through the text. Miller was right, it was a standard term-limited
research agreement: no bio-invasion without informed consent and
additional compensation, no tests that were known to have a better than
ten percent chance of irreversible physical or mental damage not
already incurred through a pre-existing condition.

“

Excuse-moi, petite
.”
Gordineau leaned toward her and said, almost politely, “Do you
understand this crap?”

Jackal raised her eyebrows.

“This part.” The woman pointed a calloused
finger at the preexisting condition clause.

Always use vivid examples, Neill's voice
said inside Jackal's head. Why was she thinking of Neill? She wondered
if she would spend the rest of her life having inconvenient
conversations with people who weren't really there. It made her tired
to think it, and the weariness was in her voice when she said, “If
you're already a quadriplegic, it doesn't really matter what they do to
your spinal cord.” Gordineau nodded, shrugged, clucked to herself,
continued reading.

She couldn't sign this, Jackal thought. It
would be giving them license to root around in her brain, and she
certainly didn't want them to know that she'd essentially escaped from
jail. That would be too tasty a puzzle for some engineer. And then she
suddenly put it all together: gods and angels, it's Garbo Phase Four
and I did it: I edited the environment.

She put the contract down shakily. How
could she not have realized? She was going to be in serious trouble if
her brain didn't start working properly. And what was she going to do?
Here came Irene Miller working the room, Crichton trailing her
impassively. Miller spoke earnestly to each parolee. Jackal could chart
each decision process by the body tensions she saw: the tight neck
muscles, the hands rubbing each other or rolling up into fists. It was
like a physical surrender when each person finally signed and Miller
moved on. Jackal's anxiety grew. All her Ko-trained instincts screeched
at her to sign, sign anything to avoid the nightmare she'd imagined for
poor old Sawyer or anyone else forced out of Ko. She pictured herself
in some cold and hostile NNA city trying to find work and a home where
she might be safe (with no web, but she wouldn't think about that now,
that was just too hard). If she signed, maybe she could keep them from
finding out about leaving her cell. But how? She wasn't feeling
detached anymore: she was almost as afraid right now as she had been
when they slung her by her shoulders and knees down the hallway toward
the black hole of VC. Miller had reached her row. Jackal heard murmurs
of

guaranteed income
and
one-time offer
and she thought god, it's
not like any of us have a better choice, she doesn't have to push so
hard—and then her brain went suddenly, completely quiet as if to say
About time you woke up
!

Then Miller was standing over her, holding
out a pen, with Crichton looming behind. “Okay, are we all set here?”

“I haven't read it all yet.”

“I've explained the important points.”

“I'd like some more time to look it over.”

“You'll be best advised to commit now if
you want to take advantage of the offer. Otherwise we might not be able
to guarantee a space for you.”

Jackal said carefully, “Perhaps you'd like
to refresh your memory about Cranes versus NNA. I'm sure you want me to
be fully informed.”

A beat. Then, “Certainly,” Miller
answered, equally carefully. “I do want to be clear that at no time
have I stated that employment status is unequivocally based on
immediate acceptance of the offer.”

Another beat. Jackal swallowed. “I'll just
look it over and return it to you. Is your address on here somewhere?”

The blond head nodded fractionally. “Or
Crichton knows how to reach me. I'm sure you'll have noticed that the
document carries a date and time stamp. The offer is void after—”

“One hundred twenty hours, yes, I know.”