“Jackson’s system will be voice-cued,” Vicki said, and Lizzie laughed and reached for a plate.
“Do you really expect that to stop me?”
“Apparently not. See you later. I’m going to look for Theresa.”
Lizzie ate hungrily. Everything tasted so good! Even the dishes were beautiful, made of some thin material edged with gold. And the glasses. And the silverware. After Lizzie had eaten all she could hold, she glanced furtively around. Quickly she slipped a silver teaspoon into the pocket of her jacks.
Then she began on the house system, Jones. As she expected, it contained direct, laughably protected access to Jackson’s personal system. Amateurs. Everything about Jackson was open to Lizzie’s hearing.
And everything about Theresa.
Lizzie’s eyes sparkled. If Vicki couldn’t find Theresa, or couldn’t get her to talk, Lizzie could already know everything about Theresa from her personal system. Then, when Vicki said she hadn’t been able to learn thus-and-so, Lizzie could casually drop the information. She would actually know more about the situation than Vicki.
Theresa’s personal system, Thomas, yielded up calendar files, medical files (had Theresa really been on all these medicines when she was a kid? and what were they?), credit accounts—Lizzie noted the numbers and access paths to those. Wall-programming selections, library requests, comlink calls (almost none—didn’t Theresa have any friends?). Orders to Jones, dress designs, didn’t she have a diary file? No, but there was a book she was speaking.
Lizzie snorted. The donkey nets were awash with books. Of all the uses for a system, that seemed to her the dumbest. Who wanted to listen to stuff that never happened, or happened a long time ago and was all over? The present had too much stuff in it to absorb as it was. Lizzie quick-tasted the file, until she caught the words, “Change syringe.”
She stopped tasting. “Thomas, read me that section.”
The system said, “ ‘Leisha Camden never saw the Change syringes that Miranda made. Leisha was already dead. Everybody thinks Leisha would have liked the Change syringes, because she told Tony Indivino that she would give much money to poor beggars in Spain. Everybody thinks Leisha would like anything that gives poor beggars like Livers a way to get food. But I don’t think Leisha would like the Change syringes. She understood that people need food but they need other things more, like a meaning in life.’ ”
Poor beggars like Livers? Lizzie had never begged for anything in her life! What she wanted she went out and got, or dipped off the Net. “Thomas, summarize file contents.”
“This file is a book spoken by Theresa Aranow. She began the file on August 19, 2118. It is a life of Leisha Camden, 2008-2114, the twenty-first Sleepless genetically engineered in the United States. The book traces Leisha Camden’s entire life, starting with her birth in Chicago, Illinois, at the—”
“Enough. File links?”
“One. To newsgrid file 65. Restricted.”
Restricted? A newsgrid file? But those were public to begin with. “Where is the file restricted to?”
“To the printer in Theresa Aranow’s study.”
It took Lizzie three minutes to dip the restriction. “Display on closest screen.”
The dining room wall colors dissolved. In their place were pictures with writing under them—horrible pictures, one after another, each displayed for thirty seconds before it dissolved into the next. Lizzie couldn’t read the writing, but she recognized the pictures. She’d just never seen so many of them in one place.
Babies with their bellies swollen and mottled. Babies with blood streaming from their eyes. Babies lying still, eyes glazed and scrawny arms limp. Babies shriveled as dried apples, their mouths open on swollen, toothless gums. UnChanged babies, unprotected against disease or starvation… so many unChanged babies.
Lizzie stumbled back into the living room. Dirk lay asleep on the bright blanket, which—Lizzie now noticed—his chubby little legs were consuming. His rosy mouth made little sucking motions in his sleep.
She went back to the dining room and looked at more pictures. UnChanged babies sick. UnChanged babies dying. UnChanged babies dead… all Liver babies. Lizzie closed her eyes. How many UnChanged babies were there in the United States? If she hadn’t had a syringe for Dirk… Why wasn’t anybody doing anything about this?
And why did Theresa Aranow—rich, genemod, protected, safe—care about these Liver babies?
Lizzie realized the answer to that one. Theresa’s fear of anything new. Her few friends. The mouth food. The blanket Dirk was consuming. Theresa herself was unChanged.
But how could that be? Theresa was a donkey. And she was Lizzie’s age. There had been plenty of Change syringes even two years ago. Were there still plenty for donkeys? Maybe in some places. Lizzie didn’t really know. None of it made sense.
The system said in Jones’s stiff voice, “Ms. Aranow, Dr. Aranow is in the elevator.” At the same time, Lizzie heard Vicki coming back to the dining room.
Immediately Lizzie blanked the system—she didn’t know why. But Vicki shouldn’t see these pictures. Which was stupid because Vicki was her closest friend in the whole world, Lizzie owed Vicki everything, and besides Vicki kept up with news all the time and probably already knew all about it. But Vicki was still a donkey. Lizzie didn’t want her to see these pathetic, horrible unChanged Liver babies. Not in this rich donkey house.
“I couldn’t find Theresa,” Vicki said crossly. “Or rather, I suspect I did find her, hidden away in a room on the upper floor, but I couldn’t dip the lock. Why didn’t you come with me? And what’s that noise?”
“Dr. Aranow’s back.”
“Alone? Where’s Shockey? Did you get the access codes?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go greet the troops on the upholstered battlements.”
“In a minute,” Lizzie said. “I just… just want a bit more bread.”
“You metabolically versatile glutton,” Vicki said, and left the room.
“Thomas,” Lizzie said softly, “personal message mode for Theresa Aranow. Urgent.”
“Go ahead.”
“I saw the pictures of the Liver babies. You have to find Miranda Sharifi and make her give us some more Change syringes. You’re a donkey, you have all this money, you can get to Miranda, you, in ways we can’t, us…” Lizzie trailed off. How should she sign it? Why sign it at all? What the hell did she think she was doing, begging help from a donkey girl who was too much of a coward to leave her own apartment?
“Thomas, cancel urgent personal message.”
“Personal cancel code, please?”
No time. Jackson and Vicki walked toward the doorway.
“Thomas, close.” The wall blanked.
“Let’s go, Lizzie,” Dr. Aranow said wearily. “This won’t be bad, I promise. Some behavioral recording, a brain scan, and then they’ll put you briefly to sleep for tissue samples. It won’t hurt.”
“Where’s Shockey?”
“In the car. He wouldn’t leave it, even with a tranq patch on. Get the baby and we’ll go.”
“Are Billy and my mother all right?”
“Yes. No. They’re the same as when you saw them.”
Vicki said, “How did you get Shockey to come with you?”
“Not easily. He cried.”
Lizzie tried to picture Shockey crying. Big, rough, bold-eyed Shockey. “Didn’t anybody try to stop you?”
“Yes. Sort of. Billy did, with a few others. But I just started acting very strange, and they all got even more frightened and backed away. I grabbed Shockey and tranqued him and dragged him along. Crying.” Dr. Aranow ran his hand through his hair. Lizzie hadn’t known a donkey could look so worn-out and… well, upset.