Jackson didn’t know the answers. He was, after seven years, still uneasy with the questions.
He blew on his hands; it was getting colder. Jackson turned on the Y-heat filaments woven fluidly into his clothes. Theresa, Dirk, and Lizzie vanished inside the building; a good thing, too, since beggars’ rags carried no Y-heat weaving. Nor personal shields. The beggars wore remotes monitored by the backup doctors and nurses—themselves backed up by carefully concealed, highly equipped security ’bots. In the seven years of Theresa’s Order of the Spiritual Brain, the security ’bots had only been needed three times. The inhibited were not notable fighters.
The sun began to set over the rubble of St. Louis. Another night vigil. Jackson sighed, activated the Y-shield tent, and moved the floater inside it. He called Vicki.
“Hello, Jackson. How is the assault going? Has Troy fallen yet?”
Jackson grinned. “We just wheeled in the wooden horse. Don’t let Lizzie hear you call it that.”
“People in the grip of temporary religious mania have no sense of humor. Even seven-year temporary mania. How are you, love?”
“Lonely.” Jackson looked more sharply at Vicki’s face on the small portable screen. “How are you? You look… something’s happened.”
“Yes,” Vicki said. Her violet eyes reflected light, like purple wine.
Jackson said, “Someone’s found the reverser.”
“No. Not that. Although K-C keeps saying how close they are. Something else—clearly you haven’t been watching the newsgrids. The Chicago School of Medicine has made an announcement.”
“An announcement? Of what?”
“Egg and sperm. Frozen for seven years, unknown until they arrived by time-activated ’bot last week.”
A slow pounding filled Jackson’s ears. In the distance, beyond the shadows, the door of the Liver building opened again. “Egg and sperm. Whose?”
“You can guess, Jackson. All of the SuperSleepless. Miranda Sharifi, Terry Mwakambe, Christina Demetrios, Jonathan Markowitz… all the dead geniuses that we normals didn’t know how to engineer for ourselves.”
Jackson said nothing. A small figure slipped out the camp door into the long twilight shadows.
Vicki said, “The Chicago School of Medicine is where the original Sleepless were engineered one hundred twenty-five years ago. Leisha Camden, Kevin Baker, Richard Keller… Miranda Sharifi must have had a sentimental streak after all.”
“So it will start all over.”
“If they fertilize, it will. The debate will be fierce. Do we need more dei from rediscovered machinae? Or are we better off blundering along alone?”
The small figure was Dirk. On zoom, Jackson could see that the little boy was terrified, exhilarated, proud of himself, longing to run back inside. Dirk waved frantically for Jackson to come to the building.
“Vicki, I have to go. They’re ready to let me inside.”
“Already?”
“Already. Theresa’s getting very good at this.”
“Saint Theresa. All right, Jackson, go convert. I love you.” The screen blanked.
Now Dirk waved both hands. Jackson put away his comlink, waved back, and summoned the floater. The equipment to teach people to take back their own lives was ready: medicine, teaching holos, nursing ’bot, seeds, crystal library. All following the chemically inhibited Dirk, who had turned himself into Treeboy, who had become a beggar because only with empty, open hands could any of them reach each others.
Dr. Jackson Aranow moved forward with his gifts.