Lil extracted herself from the Rail-Splitter’s mechanical guts and made a comical moue of worry. “She’s rehabbing the Pirates—and doing an incredible job. They’re ahead of schedule, they’ve got good net-buzz, the focus groups are cumming themselves.” The comedy went out of her expression, baring genuine worry.
She turned away and closed up Honest Abe, then fired her finger at him. Smoothly, he began to run through his spiel, silent but for the soft hum and whine of his servos. Lil mimed twiddling a knob and his audiotrack kicked in low: “All the armies of Europe, Asia, and Africa combined could not, by force, make a track on the Blue Ridge, nor take a drink from the Ohio. If destruction be our lot, then we ourselves must be its author—and its finisher.” She mimed turning down the gain and he fell silent again.
“You said it, Mr. President,” she said, and fired her finger at him again, powering him down. She bent and adjusted his hand-sewn period topcoat, then carefully wound and set the turnip-watch in his vest-pocket.
I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’re doing all you can—and it’s good work,” I said. I’d fallen into the easy castmember mode of speaking, voicing bland affirmations. Hearing the words, I felt a flush of embarrassment. I pulled her into a long, hard hug and fumbled for better reassurance. Finding no words that would do, I gave her a final squeeze and let her go.
She looked at me sidelong and nodded her head. “It’ll be fine, of course,” she said. “I mean, the worst possible scenario is that Debra will do her job very, very well, and make things even better than they are now. That’s not so bad.”
This was a 180-degree reversal of her position on the subject the last time we’d talked, but you don’t live more than a century without learning when to point out that sort of thing and when not to.
My cochlea struck twelve noon and a HUD appeared with my weekly backup reminder. Lil was maneuvering Ben Franklin II out of his niche. I waved good-bye at her back and walked away, to an uplink terminal. Once I was close enough for secure broadband communications, I got ready to back up. My cochlea chimed again and I answered it.
“Yes,” I subvocalized, impatiently. I hated getting distracted from a backup—one of my enduring fears was that I’d forget the backup altogether and leave myself vulnerable for an entire week until the next reminder. I’d lost the knack of getting into habits in my adolescence, giving in completely to machine-generated reminders over conscious choice.
“It’s Dan.” I heard the sound of the Park in full swing behind him—children’s laughter; bright, recorded animatronic spiels; the tromp of thousands of feet. “Can you meet me at the Tiki Room? It’s pretty important.”
“Can it wait for fifteen?” I asked.