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Lizzie said, “Not too much. But he sounded… funny about her.”

“Funny how?”

“I don’t know. He also said that he’s going to help us.”

“We don’t need him.”

“Well, he’s coming anyway. This afternoon.”

“And is he again bringing the ferocious Cazie Sanders with him, for protection?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think,” Vicki said, “that if you felt such an overwhelming need to pick an additional champion among the donkeys, you could have done better than Jackson Aranow.”

Lizzie didn’t answer. She cradled Dirk, hoping he’d wake up and nurse. Dirk didn’t criticize her. And he was an unfailing delight: a calm, unfussy baby already starting to smile. Mama said it was gas, but it wasn’t gas—nobody got gas anymore. That was just Mama, poking at Lizzie’s pleasure, just like Vicki was doing. She, Lizzie, would never do that to Dirk.

She would never tell him he was wrong, never nag him, never let that hook in her voice that just snagged a child and unraveled all their plans. Lizzie was going to be a perfect mother. She wouldn’t make a single mistake with her precious son. When Dirk nursed, his dark blue eyes fastened unwaveringly on Lizzie’s face and his compact little body solid in her arms, she felt she could die from happiness. She kept him wrapped in nonconsumables, just so his little body wouldn’t ground-feed and so cut down her nursing time. She would never never let Dirk down. And she was going to make the world safer for Dirk—no matter how much Vicki poked at her plans.

Vicki said, “Speak of minor devils. Here comes an aircar.”

Dr. Aranow landed behind the building, beside the feeding ground. Lizzie and Vicki pulled on jacks, nonconsumables years old and a little tattered but still warm and bright. Jacks didn’t fade. Lizzie’s were marigold, Vicki’s turquoise. Vicki smiled as she pulled on her shirt, a smile that to Lizzie looked amused and superior. Sometimes Lizzie thought she didn’t like Vicki as much as she had when she was a child.

“Lizzie. Ms. Turner,” Dr. Aranow said, from just inside the door flap of the feeding tent.

“The good doctor,” Vicki said back, still smiling. Dr. Aranow flushed. Lizzie felt she’d missed something. She plunged right in.

“Dr. Aranow, we need your help. We have a plan, but we need you to carry it out.”

“So you said on comlink. How is the baby doing?”

“He’s wonderful, him.” Lizzie heard her own voice change tone, and saw the softened way both donkeys looked at her. She felt a little better about Vicki. “He nurses like a vacuum pump.”

“Good,” Dr. Aranow said. “I’d like to examine him in a bit.”

“What for?” Vicki said. “Infection? Diaper rash? Varicose veins?”

“There still exist structural and endocrinal deficiencies,” Dr. Aranow said stiffly. “The Cell Cleaner only eliminates malfunctions, it doesn’t build what isn’t there.”

Lizzie said, “But Dirk doesn’t have deficiencies, him!”

“No, I’m sure he doesn’t,” Dr. Aranow said soothingly. “Just routine. But first, what is this plan you need help with?”

“It’s… no, come someplace else,” Lizzie said. A small crowd was heading toward them, Tasha and Kim and George Renfrew and old Mr. Plocynski, while Scott and Shockey inspected the aircar. So far Lizzie hadn’t discussed her plan with anyone but Vicki. And what if her mother came out? Lizzie didn’t want to answer any questions from Annie.

“Whereplace else?” Vicki said. She was smiling again.

Dr. Aranow said, “Let’s get in the aircar and lift.”

“Nervous, Jackson?” Vicki said. “We’re not Luddites, you know. What you see on Shockey’s face isn’t rage, it’s envy.”

“Yes, the aircar, it,” Lizzie said. Would anyone stop her from getting into it with Dr. Aranow?

They didn’t. And it was a bigger car than last time; this one had four seats. Lizzie climbed in front with the baby, Vicki in back. In silence Dr. Aranow lifted the car, flew it a mile to the river—so fast!—and set down on the bank. Withered grass and the thick stems of dead asters. Gray rocks and cold water. On the opposite bank, a mangy-looking rabbit darted away. Lizzie wished the car had landed someplace else, but she was afraid to say so. Fear made her angry with herself, and she heard her words come out loud and bossy and Liver.

“District Supervisor Wayland is dead, him. We called his office and demanded he open a warehouse for us ’cause we’re staying, us, in one place over the winter. The program said we weren’t registered voters for Willoughby County and couldn’t get warehouse chips without being registered. So we said we’d register. Then the program said there was a three-month county residency requirement. So we listed ourselves and waited three months. That was up yesterday. Then we called back, and the program said Supervisor Wayland was unavailable.”

“ ‘Dead’ is pretty much unavailable,” Vicki said from the back seat. Lizzie ignored her.

“So I dipped a little to find out where the supervisor was. He wasn’t anyplace. Finally I checked the death deebee. He died a month ago. You were listed as the ‘certifying physician.’ ”

“Yes,” Dr. Aranow said. His face was blank.

“So then I dipped, me, to find out why Harrisburg wasn’t holding a special election, like they’re supposed to when an elected servant dies. And it turned out the state government didn’t know the district supervisor was dead.”

Dr. Aranow said, “I checked on this after your call. Everyone is claiming a systems malfunction.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” Vicki said. “Let me guess, Jackson. In Wayland’s unexplained absence, no district services were authorized, costing nobody any money. Wayland’s great-granddaughter has control of his entire, not-inconsiderable fortune, which is quite a coincidence, considering that her house system is the one that developed the comglitch with Harrisburg.”

Dr. Aranow twisted in his seat to look at Vicki. “Do you know Ellie Lester?”

“No. But I know donkeys.”

“From the viewpoint of one who left? Like Lord Jim knowing the merchant marine?”

“More like Horatius knowing the Roman legions.”

What were they talking about? Lizzie had lost control of the conversation. She said loudly, “So I told Harrisburg they were supposed to hold a special election, and they said they planned to. On April first. There’s two candidates, and they both filed campaign speeches on Channel 63. But—”

Vicki interrupted. “Both speeches, naturally, make the same tired promises, the same meaningless avowals of providing consistent and reliable service. Meanwhile, there are exactly two hundred sixty registered voters for non-enclave elections in Willoughby County. Our tribe here, plus a few in the mountain enclaves that hold those donkeys who moved permanently out of Manhattan and into their summer places during the Change Wars. Fleeing the revolution. Workers unite, you have nothing to lose but your warehouses.”

Lizzie said, “So we—”

Vicki said, “The idea here, in part, is that you and your impeccable donkey credentials can discover the inside politics of these two candidates. For purposes of—”

Lizzie said, “I’m telling this!” so loudly that Dirk woke up and blinked. “Vicki… I’m telling this. It’s my idea. It’s mine.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Vicki said, putting a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. That was almost as bad.

“I’m not a baby. I told you that before!”

And then Vicki and Dr. Aranow exchanged a look, and Lizzie saw that they were both amused at her, and she was so angry she didn’t even care that it was the first time they’d looked like they agreed on something. Didn’t even care that it was good for the plan. They both thought she was still a baby. And they both were just damn well going to learn better. She was Lizzie Francy, she was the best datadipper in the country, she was a mother, and she was going to make the world a better place for her baby. By herself, if she had to. That would serve them right. Because her plan was going to work, and not even donkey laws could stop her this time.