Free Mind Over Ship by David Marusek Page B

his own jumpsuit, but Larry told him the uniform was roomy enough to pull over the clothes he had on. Fred dressed quickly, and Larry looked him over and said, “Such a deal.”
    The remark set Fred off again. “You obviously don’t want to be doing this, brother. So, what gives? How much is my wife paying you?”
    Larry made a familiar russ grin of forbearance. “You get three strikes, brother, because of the extremity of your situation, and that there was strike two. For your information, I volunteered for this op. I’m as worried about the clone fatigue as the next guy, but I’m also married to a ’leen, and what you and Mary and Georgine and the others did for the whole lot of ’em is nothing short of miraculous. Cyndee is pulling her own weight for the first time since we’ve been married. And that’s done wonders for her, for the both of us. I think you can appreciate what I mean. You could say I owe you, Londenstane, so get over your freaking self.”
    The two russes regarded each other soberly, and Larry said, “Are we good now, Londenstane? There’s a visor cap in your utility pocket.” Larry was already wearing an olive-drab jumpsuit like the one that Fred had been released in and didn’t need to change.
    Fred turned to Mary and said, “What now?” Another woman had joined them, a tall free-ranger. Fred looked from one woman to the other and saw that it wasn’t Mary in the pink outfit anymore, but a strange evangeline, Cyndee presumably.
    The taller woman next to her wore expensive-looking town togs and veiled hat. She modeled her outfit for him and said, “Are we ready, driver?” It was Mary!
    Cyndee, thoroughly pink, lowered her own veil and took Larry’s arm. They’d never fool the nitwork, but they didn’t need to.
    “I’m ready,” Fred said, “but I think this is crazy and unnecessary.”
    They walked to the bend of the tunnel where Mary and Cyndee hugged each other, and Fred and Larry finally shook hands. “Best of luck, Londenstane,” Larry said, putting on a pair of mirrorshades. And then they were off, the false Fred and Mary, jogging down the tunnel, holding hands. When they reached the media maelstrom, they ducked their heads and charged into it shouting, “Desist, desist.” They veered left, toward the bead train platforms, and the whole cloud of mechs followed. All but a few stragglers.
    “Let me go first,” Mary said and walked briskly to the entrance in her elevated shoes. “I have a private car in VIP parking.” When she entered the station, the remaining bees ignored her. Fred entered right behind her and followed her across the empty platform. They left the public area and entered the VIP platform where sleek cars waited on injection tracks, most of them guarded by private security russes, jerrys, and belindas. No one gave the aff or her bodyguard a second glance.
    Mary and Fred stopped at one of the cars, a sleek, nano-black limo, a Marbech Tourister. Fred’s attention snagged on the small emblem emblazoned on its door—Starke Enterprises.
    “It’s just a car, Fred,” Mary said, opening the gull wing. She tried to take his arm, but he wouldn’t be led any farther. Instead, he opened his duffel bag and began to fumble through it, searching for something.
    “The quartermaster issued me”—he said and dumped the contents of the bag on the platform floor—“fare back to Chicago.” He rifled through his things and found the paper medallion. He waved it angrily in front of Mary’s face. “I think I’ll take a public train.”
    “You can’t, Fred. They’ll eat you alive.”
    He stooped to gather his things and jam them back into the duffel. “You go on ahead, Mary, in your limo. I’ll meet you at the APRT.”
    The media bees, meanwhile, were returning to the Wait Here tunnel where they circled in ever-widening orbits. Some of them ventured toward the VIP parking. Suddenly, there was a desperate shriek at the far end of the station, followed by the