Counting Heads by David Marusek

could not be clearer—step out of line and risk everything. My pathetic presence would only serve as a constant reminder of this fact.
    “No, El, don’t talk like that,” I said. “I can’t help it. Give me time.”
    That night Eleanor invited herself to my bed. We used to have an exceptional sex life. Sex for us was a form of play, competition, and truth-telling. It used to be fun. Now it’s a job. The shaft of my penis is bruised by the normal bend and torque of even moderate lovemaking. My urethra is raw from jets of scalding semen when I come. Of course I use special condoms and lubricants, without which I would blister both El’s and my own private parts. Still, it’s just not comfortable for either of us. El tries to downplay it by saying things like, “You’re hot, baby,” but she fools no one.
    We made love that night, but I pulled out before I came. El tried to draw me back, but I refused. She took my sheathed penis in her hands, but I told her not to bother. I told her it just wasn’t worth the misery anymore.
    In the middle of the night, when I rose to return to my dungeon, Eleanor stirred from sleep and hissed, “Hate me if you must, Sam, but please don’t blame the baby.”
     
     
    I ASK MY new belt how many eyebrow hairs an average person of my race, sex, and age has. The belt can access numerous encyclopedias to do simple research like this. “Five hundred fifty in each eyebrow,” it replies in its neuter voice. That’s a sum of eleven hundred, plenty of fuel to light my investigation. I pluck another and say, “Blame.”
    For someone must be blamed. Someone must be held accountable. Someone must pay. But who?
    Eleanor blames her “Unknown Benefactor,” the person or persons behind her sudden ascendancy. She’s launched a private project with Cabinet they call Target UKB. Basically, the project is a mosaic analysis to identify the telltale signature of this mysterious entity. It emulates the massive data-sifting techniques long practiced by the HomCom, but her subjects are the ruling elite, not terrorists or protesters. She’s spent a fortune on liters of new neuro-chemical paste to boost Cabinet’s already gargantuan mentality. (Henry would never have stood a chance against Cabinet now.)
    From the small amount of information that Eleanor has shared with me, I gather that Target UKB works by recording and parsing the moment-by-moment activities of the five thousand most prominent people on the planet. Being familiar with the degree of security we endure around here at the manse, and assuming that other affluent godlings maintain comparable privacy, such surveillance can’t be easy. Nevertheless, El assures me that when her model is in place, she’ll be able to trace the chain in intention of any event back to its source. She says she should have done something like this years ago. In my opinion, it’s paranoia writ large.
    Eleanor blames her UKB. But who do I blame?
    That’s a good question, one for which I don’t yet have an answer. If there is a UKB pulling El’s strings, at least it gave us fair warning. We walked into this high stakes game of empire with our eyes open. In the end, in the hallowed tradition of victims everywhere, I suppose I blame myself.
     
     
    I PLUCK ONE more eyebrow, and as it sizzles, I say, “Fred.”
    For this russ, Fred Londenstane, is a complete surprise to me. I had never formed a relationship with a clone before. They are service people, after all. They are interchangeable. They wait on us in stores and restaurants. They clip our hair. They perform the menialities we cannot, or prefer not to assign to machines. How can you tell one joan or jerome from another anyway? And what could you possibly talk about? Nice watering can you have there, kelly. What’s the weather like up there, steve?
    But Fred the russ is different. From the start he’s brought me fruit and cakes reputed to fortify tender digestive tracts, sunglasses, soothing skin creams,