"Humph." He snorted again and swiped at his eyes with a snowy white handkerchief, his opinion of their best obviously not high.
Celluci watched him return to his own apartment, then quietly closed the door. "Mr. Delgado cares about you a great deal," he said, crossing the room to stand by Vicki's side.
She shook her head. "He was very fond of my mother."
She didn't speak again until they were in the car on the way to the funeral home.
"Mike?"
He glanced sideways. She wore her courtroom face. Not even the most diligent of defense attorneys could have found an opinion on it.
"I didn't call her. And when she called me, I didn't answer. And then she died."
"You know there's no connection." He said it as gently as he could. He didn't expect an answer. He didn't get one.
There wasn't anything else to say, so he reached down and covered her left hand with his. After a long moment, her fingers turned and she clutched at him with such force that he had to bite back an exclamation of pain. Only her hand moved. Her fingers were freezing.
"It really is for your own good." Catherine finished fastening the chest strap and lightly touched number nine on the shoulder. "I know you don't like it, but we can't take a chance on you jerking the needles free. That's what happened to number six and we lost her." She smiled down into the isolation box. "You've come so much farther than the rest, even if your kidneys aren't working yet, that we'd hate to lose you, too." Reaching behind his left ear, she jacked the computer hookup into the implanted plug, fingertips checking that the skin hadn't pulled out from under the surgical steel collar clamped tight against scalp and skull.
"Now then... " She shook her head over the shallow dents that marred the inner curve of the insulated lid. "You just lie quiet and I'll open this up the moment your dialysis is over."
The box closed with a sigh of airtight seals and the metallic snick of an automatic latch.
Frowning slightly, Catherine adjusted the amount of pure oxygen flowing through the air intake. Although he'd moved past the point where he needed it and he could have managed on just regular filtered air, she wanted him to have every opportunity to succeed. Later, when the muscle diagnostics were running, she'd give him a full body massage with the estrogen cream. His skin wasn't looking good. In the meantime, she flicked the switch that would start the transmission through his net and moved to check on the other two boxes.
Number eight had begun to fail. Not only were the joints becoming less responsive but the extremities had darkened and she suspected the liver had begun to putrefy, a sure sign that the bacteria had started to die.
"Billions of them multiplying all over the world," she said sadly, stroking the top of number eight's box. "Why can't we keep these alive long enough to do some good?"
At the third box, recently vacated by the dissected number seven, she scanned one of a trio of computer monitors. Marjory Nelson's brain wave patterns, recorded over the months just previous to her death, were being transmitted in a continuous loop through the newly installed neural net. They'd never had actual brain wave patterns before. All previous experiments, including numbers eight and nine, had only ever received generic alpha waves recorded from herself and Donald.
"I've got great hopes for you, number ten. There's no reason you... " A yawn split the thought in two and Catherine stumbled toward the door, suddenly exhausted. Donald had headed for his bed once the major surgery had been completed and Dr. Burke had left just before dawn. She didn't mind finishing up on her own, she liked having the lab to herself, it gave her a chance to see that all the little extras got done, but if she wasn't mistaken, she was rapidly approaching a day and a half on her feet and she needed to catch a nap. A couple of hours lying down and she should be good as new.
Fingers on the light switch, she paused in the doorway, looked back over the lab, and called softly, "Pleasant dreams."
They weren't dreams, nor were they quite memories but, outside the influence of the net, images stirred. A young woman's face in close proximity, pale hair, pale eyes. Her voice was soothing in a world where too many lights were too bright and too many sounds only noise. Her smile was...
Her smile was...
Organic impulses moved turgidly along tattered neural pathways searching for the connection that would complete the thought.
Her smile was...
Kind.
Number nine stirred under the restraints.
Her smile was kind.
"Ms. Nelson?"
Vicki turned toward the voice, trying very hard not to scowl. Relatives and friends of her mother's were milling about the reception room, all expecting her to be showing their definition of grief. If it hadn't been for Celluci's bulk at her back, she might have bolted, if it hadn't been for his quick grip around her wrist she'd have definitely belted the cousin who, having driven in from Gananoque, remarked that earlier or later would have been a better time and he certainly hoped there'd be refreshments afterward. She didn't know the heavy set man who'd called her name.
He held out a beefy hand. "Ms. Nelson, I'm Reverend Crosbie. The Anglican minister who usually works with Hutchinson's is a bit under the weather today, so they asked me to fill in." His voice was a rough burr that rose and fell with an east coast cadence.
A double chin almost hid the clerical collar but, given the firmness of his handshake, Vicki doubted that all of the bulk was fat. "My mother wasn't a churchgoer," she said.
"That's between her and God, Ms. Nelson." His tone managed to be both matter-of-fact and sympathetic at the same time. "She wanted an Anglican service read to set her soul at peace and I'm here to do it for her. But," bushy white brows drew slightly in, "as I didn't know your mother, I've no intention of speaking as if I did. Are you going to be doing your own eulogy?"