“So you want to know if Richard’s next of kin are rattle shakers?”
“Yes.”
“And,” Corvallis said, “just to be clear about your analogy—you are the doctor. And the medical care you are talking about is not just normal medical care as we would conventionally understand it, but—”
“But ion-beam scanning of his brain. Yes.”
It was Pascal’s Wager again. El Shepherd was convinced that with the right technology he could make Dodge immortal. That this was what Dodge wanted. And he wasn’t going to let the family stand in the way of carrying out Dodge’s wishes. The stakes were too high.
“Let’s go back to your analogy for a minute,” Corvallis said. “When push comes to shove, the doctor calls security and has the rattle shakers thrown out of the building. What’s your plan, El, if push comes to shove in this case?”
“I would not hesitate to go in front of a judge and seek a court order.”
“Wow.”
“I mean, look. The Forthrast family will be sad and hate me for a while. That is the downside. The upside is—”
“You save Richard’s life. Or his afterlife—whatever you want to call it.”
“And, down the road? Maybe that of those angry family members too. A million years from now they are thanking me for having taken the steps that were necessary.”
“Just wow.”
“You can maybe see why I wanted to talk to you. Not the family. It could get personal with those people.”
“It’s personal with me.”
“But different, right? Even while you’re hating me, you can see where I’m coming from on the technical level.”
Corvallis thought it perhaps best not to say anything. El Shepherd, undeterred, circled around to probe from another angle. “You said a minute ago that you had taken a look at ion-beam scanning as an option.”
He was right. Corvallis had said that. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
“I take it, then, that you have decided to investigate alternatives to the services being offered by Ephrata Life Sciences and Health.”
Yes, definitely a mistake. “Where is this going?”
“You’re probably looking at the line inserted into the agreement that states the family can go to a non-ELSH option if they decide that there’s something better available.”
“Given that you just threatened to take us to court,” Corvallis said, “why would I even—”
“Speaking as one technically sophisticated man to another,” El said, “allow me to assure you that no such alternative exists. ELSH is second to none in this field. And I intend to be very active in stating our case. Making sure that there are no misunderstandings. Protecting our brand.”
“I wish you all the best of luck with your brand,” Corvallis said, sliding out of the booth, reaching out, almost as an afterthought, to throw an arm over Dodge’s messenger bag and the sack full of his effects. He turned without shaking El Shepherd’s hand and stalked away. His exit route took him right along the line of bar stools. Four of these were supporting humans. For midday drinkers, they seemed curiously fit. Maybe it was because they were all drinking water. They raised their heads and tracked him in their peripheral vision. One then glanced back at El. “It’s okay,” El called, “let him go.”
The sign hanging in the front door said OPEN to Corvallis, which meant that it showed as CLOSED to people on the sidewalk.
So, El had rented out the whole bar just for this conversation, and staffed it with his private security detail.
Let him go. Those were the words that stuck with Corvallis as he strode to his car. Was it a serious possibility that they wouldn’t? Were they thinking of detaining him?
It was unlikely, Corvallis decided, as he shifted his car into gear and began heading north on Airport Way. They might have been goons, but they were probably professional goons. They had no legal power to detain anyone, and they knew it. Inwardly, they had to be thinking about what a dickhead their boss was to even say something like that.
Or maybe he was just trying to settle himself down by telling a comforting story.
He had intended to go straight to the hotel to drop off Dodge’s things, but Zula waved him off via text message, letting him know that they were going to be busy with “the transfer” for a couple of hours. Then she added another message: C U @ Richard’s in a couple hours.
So. No vent farm for Dodge. He was going to die in his own bed.
He pulled over into a legit parking space and texted Stan: Can El get a court order? Is that a real thing?
Then he dialed Ben Compton’s number. Of the game programmers who had defected from Corporation 9592 to the Waterhouse Brain Sciences Institute, Ben had been the first to go, and the ringleader. Later, some of them had drifted back to the world of conventional game programming, but Ben had stuck around.
“C-plus.” Ben’s voice was flat. He had, of course, heard the news. His voice was coming out of the car’s sound system, Bluetoothed to the phone.
“Ben. You know about it.”
“Yeah. Of all the fucking horrible things. I don’t know what to say. Almost didn’t come in to work today.”
“Maybe it’s good you did.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Reserve a conference room in half an hour.”
“Will attempt. Food?”
“Sure. I just had a really unsatisfactory lunch.”
“What’d you have?”
“Half of a beer.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad. Except for the half part.”
“It was more the company I was keeping.”
“Lawyers?”
On cue, Corvallis’s phone began vibrating down in the cupholder. He glanced at it. Stan was calling from his work number. “Gotta take this. See you in a few.”
He tapped the screen and switched over to Stan. Then he pulled out into a gap in traffic and began heading north