Sadie nodded. She didn’t intend to be curt or dismissive. She just couldn’t hear any more condolences. She was suffocating in condolences and concern.
Over the last twenty-four hours she had absorbed the deaths. Absorbed, not coped with, accepted, gotten over, or properly mourned. Just absorbed. And somehow seeing those tiny dead biots was one step too far.
What her father had created was a revolution in medicine. It had taken him years. He had thrown more than a billion dollars into it, which had required him to buy back his own company from stockholders just so he could spend that kind of money without having to explain himself.
He had worked himself half to death, he and Sadie’s mother. Then, the cancer, and he was even more desperate to finish the work, to send his tiny minions in to kill cancer cells and save his wife.
The pressure he had endured.
But the biot project was too late for Sadie and Stone’s mother, Grey’s wife.
For three months after Birgid McLure’s death Grey was virtually invisible. He lived at work. And then … the miracle.
The biot. A biological creature, not a machine. A thing made of a grab bag of DNA bits and pieces. Spider, cobra, jellyfish. But above all, for the control mechanism that allowed a single mind to see through the eyes of a biot and run with a biot’s legs and cut with a biot’s blades, for that, human DNA.
The biot was not a robot. It was a limb. It was linked directly to the mind of its creator. It was a part of its creator.
Grey McLure’s biots had been injected as close to the aneurysm as was safe. They had set up a supply chain that ran through her ear canal to shuttle in the tiny Teflon fibers. And then they began to weave, a sort of macro-actual tiny, but micro-subjective huge, basket around the aneurysm.
“You’re lucky the overpressure from the explosion didn’t cause a rupture,” Dr. Chat said. “There’s some bleeding, but it seems to have stopped. Lucky.”
Sadie wanted to say something mean and sarcastic about her luck, luck that had left her an orphan, but stopped herself.
“Did it do anything at all to the aneurysm?”
“It seems mostly unchanged. But as you know, the weave needs constant tending to remain strong. And in any case it was only sixty percent done. So I have to prescribe the blood pressure medications to lower your BP.”
“I had an allergic reaction,” Sadie said.
“There are other medications we can try. There’s a whole range of—”
“Whatever,” Sadie snapped. “I can read Google as well as you. I know that I already have excellent blood pressure, and that these meds won’t have much effect, and they’re really only there to make me feel like I’m doing something. I don’t need a placebo, Doctor.”
Dr. Chat sighed and looked at her from under disapproving eyebrows. “You have a responsibility now, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“This company employs almost a thousand people in six countries.”
“Seven,” Sadie said. “Dad opened a lab in Singapore. That’s where he and Stone were headed.”
Dr. Chat sighed. “Is there anyone we can call to come be with you? Friends? Your grandmother?”
Sadie shot her a defiant look. “Not really, no. Not the kind of friends I want to see right now.”
So the doctor left, and Sadie was alone. It was a luxurious room. The bed might be hospital style, but there was a forty-two-inch plasma screen on the wall, sleek Jasper Morrison chairs, a pad, lovely orchids in crystal vases, soft lighting, a view through a floor-to-ceiling window of the McLure Industries main New Jersey campus. And through a side door was a marble bathroom that could have graced a suite at a Ritz-Carlton.
If you had to be sick, this was the place in which to do it.
Sadie felt her gaze drawn to the image of the tiny dead biots. The last little bits of her father.
She wondered why she didn’t cry more. She had cried, but in sniffles and single sobs. She had cried so long, so much for her mother. Maybe she was cried out. Maybe she had just accepted the fact that life was pain and loss.
Or maybe she was numb, waiting with calm acceptance for her own death. The last of the McLure family.
Sadie rolled out of bed. Not exactly an easy thing to do. A painful thing to do. Her arm was one long, dull ache punctuated by waves of stabbing, stabbing, stabbing that caught her breath in her throat.
The cast had been replaced with a lighter version that could hang from a shoulder strap.
The rest of her body was just one big bruise. She moved like an old woman as she made her way to the toilet. She peed a little blood, but less than last time.
She hesitated at the shower. She wanted very badly to take a shower. But it would be easier to keep her cast dry in a bath. Nurses had given her a sponge bath, but really that wasn’t quite what she was looking for.
Wincing and moving with arthritic slowness, she turned on the water. There was of course a selection of Bulgari bath oils and beads. She spread the green-tea-scented salts in the water.
Getting out of the hospital gown—it was a very nice hospital gown, but still something for an invalid—took a while. Finally she stepped into the water. Then slipped and fell in all at once.
Unbelievable pain as her broken arm hit the side of the tub. The shock of hot, hot water on every square inch of her battered flesh.
But then, slowly, the heat seeped down into her muscles, found the bruises and began to leach the clotted blood from them, soothed the twitchy nerve endings, and lulled her mind to a state that wasn’t quite sleep but was close to it.