Cyberpunk

said, “Bug, you’ve integrated all my software, right? Including holoediting?”
    “Affirmative.”
    She looked both ways. No one was in sight. She would have preferred a more private studio than a Sub40 corridor. “This is what I want you to do. Cast a real-time alias of me. Use that jerry we met in the elevator yesterday as a model. Morph my appearance and voice accordingly. Clothe me in National Police regalia, provide a suitably officious backdrop, and map my every expression. Got it?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “On the count of five, four, three—” She crossed her arms and spread her legs in a surly pose, smiled condescendingly, and said, “Nancy B. Smolenska Brim, I am Sgt. Manley of the National Police, badge ID 30-31-6725. By the authority vested in me, I hereby place you under arrest for violation of Protectorate Statutes PS 12-135-A, the piracy of telecommunication networks, and PS 12-148-D, the trafficking in unlicensed commerce. Your arrest number is 063-08-2043716. Confirm receipt of this communication immediately upon viewing and report in realbody for incarceration at Precinct Station IN28 in Indianapolis no later than 4:00 p.m. standard time tomorrow. You may bring an attorney. End of message. Have a nice day.”
    She heard the door open behind her. Nancy stood there with her walker. “What are you doing out here?” she said. In a moment the hospice beds in the living room and their unfortunate occupants vanished. “No,” said Nancy, “bring them back.” Victor came from the bedroom, a bulging duffle bag over his shoulder. He leaned down and folded Nancy into his arms, and she began to moan.
    Victor turned to Zoranna and said, “It was nice to finally meet you, Zoe.”
    “Save your breath,” said Zoranna, “and save your money. The next time you see me—and there will be a next time—I’ll bring an itemized bill for you to pay. And you will pay it.”
    Victor Vole smiled sadly and turned to walk down the corridor.
    Here she was still in APRT 24, not in Budapest, not in the South of France. With Victor’s banishment, her sister’s teetering state of health had finally collapsed. Nothing Zoranna did or the autodoc prescribed seemed to help. At first Zoranna tried to coax Nancy out of the apartment for a change of scene, a breath of fresh air. She rented a wheelchair for a ride up to a park or arboretum (and she ordered Bug to explore the feasibility of using it to kidnap her). But day and night Nancy lay in her recliner and refused to leave the apartment.
    So Zoranna reinitialized the houseputer and had Bug project live opera, ballet, and figure-skating into the room. But Nancy deleted them and locked Zoranna out of the system. It would have been child’s play for Bug to override the lockout, but Zoranna let it go. Instead, she surrounded her sister with gaily colored dried flowers, wall hangings, and hand-woven rugs that she purchased at expensive boutiques high in the tower. But Nancy turned her back on everything and swiveled her recliner to face her little shrine and its picture of St. Camillus.
    So Zoranna had Bug order savory breads and wholesome soups with fresh vegetables and tender meat, but Nancy lost her appetite and quit eating altogether. Soon she lost the strength even to stay awake, and she drifted in and out of consciousness.
    They skirmished like this for a week until the autodoc notified Nancy that a bed awaited her at the Indiana State Hospice at Bloomington. Only then did Zoranna acknowledge Death’s solid claim on her last living relative. Defeated, she stood next to Nancy’s recliner and said, “Please don’t die.”
    Nancy, enthroned in pillows and covers, opened her eyes.
    “I beg you, Nancy, come to the clinic with me.”
    “Pray for me,” Nancy said.
    Zoranna looked at the shrine of the saint with its flat picture and empty votive cups. “You really loved that, didn’t you, working as a hospicer.” When her sister made no reply, she continued, “I don’t see why you didn’t join real hospicers.”
    Nancy glared at her, “I was a real hospicer!”
    Encouraged by her strong response, Zoranna said, “Of course you were. And I’ll bet there’s a dozen legitimate societies out there that would be willing to hire you.”
    Nancy gazed longingly at the saint’s picture. “I should say it’s a bit late for that now.”
    “It’s never too late. That’s your depression talking. You’ll feel different when you’re young and healthy