When Nancy first moved here, she was an elementary school teacher who specialized in learning disorders. Despite the surcharge, she leased a suite of rooms so near the top of the tower it was impossible to see her floor from depot level. But with the Procreation Ban of 2033, teachers became redundant, and Nancy was forced to move to a lower, less expensive floor. Then, when free-agency clone technology was licensed, she lost altitude tens of floors at a time. “My last visit,” Zoranna said to Bug, “Nancy had an efficiency on the 103rd floor. Check the tower directory.”
“Nancy resides on S40.”
“S40?”
“Subterranean 40. Thirty-five floors beneath depot level.”
“You don’t say.”
Zoranna allowed herself to be swept by the waves of commuters towards the banks of elevators. She had inadvertently arrived during crush hour and found herself pressing shoulders with tired and hungry wage earners at the end of their work cycle. They were uniformly young people, clones mostly, who wore brown and teal Applied People livery. Neither brown nor teal was Zoranna’s favorite color.
The entire row of elevators reserved for the subfloors was inexplicably off-line. The marquee directed her to elevators in Stanchion 5, one klick east by pedway, but Zoranna was tired. “Bug,” she said, pointing to the next row, “do those go down?”
“Affirmative.”
“Good,” she said and jostled her way into the nearest one. It was so crowded with passengers that the doors—begging their indulgence and requesting they consolidate—required three tries to latch. By the time the cornice display showed the results of the destination adjudication, and Zoranna realized she was aboard a consensus elevator, it was too late to get off. Floor 63 would be the first stop, followed by 55, 203, 148, etc. Her floor was dead last.
Bug, she tongued, this is a Dixon lift!
Zoranna’s long day grew measurably longer each time the elevator stopped to let off or pick up passengers. At each stop the consensus changed, and destinations were reshuffled, but her stop remained stubbornly last. Of the five kinds of elevators the tower deployed, the Dixon consensus lifts worked best for groups of people going to popular floors, but she was the only passenger traveling to the subfloors. Moreover, the consensual ascent acceleration, a sprightly 2.8-g, upset her stomach. Bug, she tongued, fly home for me and unlock my archives. Retrieve a file entitled “cerebral aneurysm”and forward it to the elevator’s adjudicator. We’ll just manufacture our own consensus.
This file is out of date, Bug said in her ear after a moment, its implant voice like the whine of a mosquito. Bug cannot feed obsolete data to a public conveyance.
Then postdate it.
That is not allowed.
“I’ll tell you what’s not allowed!” she said, and people looked at her.
The stricture against asking questions limits Bug’s functionality, Bug said.
Zoranna sighed. What do you need to know?
Shall Bug reprogram itself to enable Bug to process the file as requested?
No, Bug, I don’t have the time to reprogram you, even if I knew how.
Shall Bug reprogram itself?
It could reprogram itself? Ted had failed to mention that feature. A tool they’d forgotten to disable? Yes, Bug, reprogram yourself.
A handicapped icon blinked on the cornice display, and the elevator’s speed slowed to a crawl.
Thank you, Bug. That’s more like it.
A jerry standing in the corner of the crowded elevator said, “The fuck, lift?”
“Lift speed may not exceed five floors per minute,” the elevator replied.
The jerry rose on tiptoes and surveyed his fellow passengers. “Right,” he said, “who’s the gimp?” Everyone looked at their neighbors. There were michelles, jennies, a pair of jeromes, and a half-dozen other phenotypes. They all looked at Zoranna, the only person not dressed in AP brown and teal.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her palm to her temple, “I have an aneurysm the size of a grapefruit. The slightest strain…” She winced theatrically.
“Then have it fixed!” the jerry said, to murmured agreement.
“Gladly,” said Zoranna. “Could you pony me the (E23,000?”
The jerry har-harred and looked her up and down appraisingly. “Sweetheart, if you spent half as much money on the vitals as you obviously do on the peripherals,” he leered, “you wouldn’t have this problem, now would you?” Zoranna had never liked the jerry type; they were spooky. In fact, more jerries had to be pithed in vatero for incipient so-ciopathy than any other commercial type. Professionally, they made superb grunts; most of the indentured men in the Protectorate’s commando forces were jerries. This one, however, wore an EXTRUSIONS UNLIMITED patch on his teal ball cap; he was security for a retail mall. “So,” he said, “where you heading?”
“Sub40?” she said.
Passengers consulted the cornice display and groaned. The jerry said, “At this rate it’ll take me an hour to get home.”
“Again I apologize,” said Zoranna, “but all the down lifts were spango. However, if everyone here consensed to drop me off first—?”
There was a general muttering as passengers spoke to their belts or tapped virtual keyboards, and the elevator said, “Consensus has been modified.” But instead of descending as Zoranna expected, it stopped at the next floor and opened its doors. People streamed out. Zoranna caught a glimpse of the 223rd floor with its rich appointments; crystalline decor; high, arched passages; and in the distance, a ringpath crowded with joggers and skaters. An evangeline, her brown puddle-like eyes reflecting warmth and concern, touched Zoranna’s arm as she disembarked.
The jerry, however, stayed on and held back his companions, two russes. “Don’t give her the satisfaction,” he said.
“But we’ll miss the game,” said one of the russes.
“We’ll watch it in here if we have to,” said the jerry.
Zoranna liked russes. Unlike jerries, they were generous souls, and you always knew where you stood with them. These two wore brown jackets and teal slacks. Their name badges read “FRED,” and “OSCAR.” They were probably returning from a day spent bodyguarding some minor potentate in Cincinnati or Terre Haute. Consulting each other with a glance, they each took an arm and dragged the jerry off the lift.
When the doors closed and Zoranna was alone at last, she sagged with relief. “And now, Bug,” she said, “we have a consensus of one. So retract my handicap file and pay whatever toll necessary to take us down nonstop.” The brake released, and the elevator plunged some 260 floors. Her ears popped. “I guess you’ve learned something, Bug,” she said, thinking about the types of elevators.
“Affirmative,” Bug said. “Bug learned you developed a cerebral aneurysm at the calendar age of fifty-two and that you’ve had your brain and spinal cord rejuvenated twice since then. Bug learned that your organs have an average bioage of thirty-five years, with your lymphatic system the oldest at bioage sixty-five, and your cardiovascular system the youngest at twenty-five.”
“You’ve been examining my medical records?”
“Affirmative.”
“I told you to fetch one file, not my entire chart!”
“You told Bug to unlock your archives. Bug is getting to know you.”