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"Julian. Sorry ... I've been on an odd schedule because we're testing for the
big jump. The engineers had me up till three last night.
"Okay, look, about Blaze. It's no secret that you two are keeping company. I
understand why she wants to be discreet, and appreciate it, but that's not a
factor between you and me." His smile had real pain in it. "Okay?"
"Sure. I figured..."
"So what about Guadalajara?"
"I, I'm still a little in shock. I'll go downtown and get the first train; two
hours, four, depending on connections ... no, I'll call the base first and see
if I can get a flight."
"Once you get down there?"
"I'll have to talk to people. I have a jack but don't know much about the
installation I mean, I was drafted; nobody gave me a choice. See whether I can
talk to her."
"Son, they said she can't talk. She's paralyzed."
"I know, I know. But that's just motor function. If we can jack, we can talk.
Find out what she wants."
"Okay." He shook his head. "Okay. But tell her what I want. I want her back in
the shop today.
Yesterday. Macro is going to have her head on a platter." He was trying to
sound angry. "Damn fool stunt, just like Blaze. You call me from Mexico."
"Will do." He nodded and cut off.
I called the base and there weren't any direct flights scheduled. I could go
back to Portobello and hitch up to Mexico City in the morning. Gracias, pero
no gracias. I punched up the train schedule and called a cab.
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It was only three hours to Guadalajara, but a bad three hours. I got to the
hospital about one-thirty but of course couldn't get past the front desk. Not
until seven; even then, I wouldn't be able to see Amelia until
Dr. Spencer came in, maybe eight, maybe nine.
I got a mediocuarto half-room--at a motel across the street, just a futon and
a lamp. Couldn't sleep, so I
found an all-night place and got a bottle of tequila almendrada and a news
magazine. I sipped about half the bottle, laboriously picking my way through
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the magazine article by article. My everyday Spanish is all right but it's
hard for me to follow a complicated written argument, since I never studied
the language in school. There was a long article about the pros and cons of a
euthanasia lottery for the elderly, which was scary enough even when you only
got half the words.
In the war news there was a paragraph about our kidnapping venture, which was
described as a peacekeeping police action ambushed by rebels. I don't guess
they sell too many copies in Costa Rica.
Or they probably just print a different version.
It was an amusing magazine, with ads that would have been illegal pornography
in some of the United
States. Six-image manifolds that move with stroboscopic jerkiness if you shake
the page. Like most male readers, I suppose, I came up with an interesting way
to shake the page, which finally helped me get to sleep.
I went over to the waiting room at seven and read less interesting magazines
for an hour and a half, when Dr. Spencer finally showed up. He was tall and
blond and spoke English with a Mexican accent thick as guaca-mole.
"Into my office, first, come." He took me by the arm and steered me down the
hall. His office was a plain windowless room with a desk and two chairs; one
of the chairs was occupied.
"Marty!"
He nodded. "Hayes called me, after he talked to you. Blaze had said something
about me."
"An honor to have you here, Dr. Larrin." Spencer sat down behind the desk.
I sat on the other hard chair. "So what are our options?"
"Directed nanosurgery," Spencer said. "There are no other options."
"But there is," Marty said, "technically."
"Not legally."
"We could get around that."
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"Would somebody tell me what you're talking about?"
"Mexican law is less liberal than American," Marty said, "in matters of
self-determination."
"In your country," Spencer said, "she would have the option of remaining a
vegetable."
"Well put, Dr. Spencer. Another way of putting it is that she would have the
option of not risking her life and sanity."
"I'm missing something," I said.
"You shouldn't be. She's jacked, Julian! She can live a very full life without
moving a muscle."
"Which is obscene."
"It's an option. The nanosurgery is risky."
"Not so. Not so risky. Mas o menos the same as the jack. We have ninety-two
percent recovery."
"You mean ninety-two percent survival," Marty said. "What percent total
recovery?"
He shrugged, twice. "These numbers. They don't mean anything. She's healthy
and relatively young. The operation will not kill her."
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