Counting Heads by David Marusek Page A

and a hat with a duckbill visor. He seems genuinely interested in me, even comes down to chat after his shift. I don’t know why he’s so attentive. Perhaps he never recovered from the shock of first meeting me, freshly seared and suffering. Perhaps he recognizes that I’m the one around here most in need of his protection.
    When I was ready to try having sex with Eleanor again and I needed some of those special insulated condoms, my new valet couldn’t locate them on any of the shoppers, not even on the medical supply ones, so I asked Fred. He said he knew of a place and would bring me some. He returned the next day with a whole shopping bag full of special pharmaceuticals for the cellular challenged: vitamin supplements, suppositories, plaque-fighting tooth soap, and knee and elbow braces. He brought twenty dozen packages of condoms, and he winked as he set them on the table. He brought more stuff that he discreetly left in the bag.
    I reached into the bag. There were bottles of cologne and perfume, sticks of waxy deodorant, air fresheners and odor eaters. “Do I stink?” I said.
    “Like a roomful of cat’s piss, myr. No offense.”
    I lifted my hand to my nose, but I couldn’t smell anything. If I stank so bad, how could Eleanor have lived with me all those months, eaten with me, slept with me, and never mentioned it once?
    There was more in the bag: mouthwash and chewing gum. “My breath stinks too?”
    In reply, Fred crossed his eyes and inflated his cheeks.
    I thanked him for shopping for me, and especially for his frankness.
    “Don’t mention it, myr,” he said. “I’m just glad to see you getting better.”
    I wondered if all russes were so compassionate. The other three assigned to the household didn’t seem so. Competent, dutiful, fearless—yes, but compassionate? I didn’t feel comfortable asking Fred about the qualities of his type, so I kept quiet and accepted his kindness with all the aplomb of a drowning man.

1.3
     
    Two days ago was Ellen’s first birthday. Unfortunately, Eleanor had to be away in Europe. Still, she arranged a little holo birthday party with her friends. Thirty-some people sat around, totally mesmerized by the baby, who had recently begun to walk. Only four of us, baby Ellen, a jenny, a russ, and I, were there in realbody. When I arrived and sat down, Ellen made a beeline for my lap. People chuckled and said, “Daddy’s girl.”
    I had the tundra dream again last night. I walked through the canopy lock right out into the white, frozen, endless tundra. The feeling was one of escape.
    My doctor gave me a complete physical last week. She said I had reached equilibrium with my condition. This was as good as it would get. Lately, I have been exercising. I have lost a little weight and feel somewhat stronger. But my joints ache sometimes, and my doctor says they’ll only get worse. She prescribed an old-time remedy—aspirin.
    Fred left us two months ago. He and his wife succeeded in obtaining berths on a new station orbiting Mars. Their contracts are for five years with renewal options. Since arriving there, he’s visited me in holo a couple of times, says their best jump pilot is a stinker. That’s what people are calling the seared—stinkers. I may have been the first one the HomCom released from quarantine, but now a steady stream of stinkers are being surrendered to an unsuspecting public.
    Last week I finally purchased a personality bud for my valet system. It’s having a rough time with me because I refuse to interact with it. I haven’t even given it a name yet. I can’t think of any suitable one. I call it “Hey, you,” or “Yo, belt.” Eleanor’s chief of staff has repeated her offer to educate it for me, but I declined. In fact, I told her that if any of them breach its shell even once, I will abort it and start over with a new one.
    Today after dinner, we had a family crisis. The jenny on duty suffered a nosebleed while her backup was off running an