Mindwarp

by James Follett

  Meanwhile he slept a deep, dreamless sleep, his heart beating twice every hour. What little oxygen he needed was passed through skin patches directly into his bloodstream so that his chest did not rise and fall. The condensation from the last normal breaths he had taken before slipping into the death-sleep of suspended animation had formed a frozen white rime on the inside of the hibernarium’s plastic cover.

  The voltage in the logic circuit that controlled a solid state time-switch went high. Contacts closed and set in a motion a chain of events that would bring Caudo Inman out of suspended animation within 4-hours. The drugs that were being constantly absorbed into his body underwent a subtle change. The steroids that were required to maintain his muscular strength during weeks, sometimes months, of inactivity were steadily reduced and eventually switched off. Pads that bore gently against his chest began regular pulsations and released electrical discharges to stimulate his heart. Tubes that had handled body wastes were withdrawn. The flat line traces on a wall monitor that charted the activity of his brain developed ripples that gradually changed to spikes. Lastly the temperature inside the sarcophagus began to increase. Motes of dust in the room that had evaded the air-conditioning filters whirled a little dance in the air above the hibernarium to celebrate the slow return of warmth.

  The white rime cleared. Oxygen hissed. His chest rose and fell, and his heartbeat rate increased to normal. And so…

  Inman woke.

  He opened his sunken eyes and stared at the inside of the hibernarium without blinking. A mindwarp hummed briefly and restored his thoughts to what they had been before he had fallen asleep so that there was no break in the pattern of his worries, ambitions… and schemes.

  A motor whirred. The hibernarium tilted slowly to the upright position. Inman felt his feet take his weight. There was a slight cramp in his ankles that quickly disappeared. Another motor whirred and the hibernarium opened.

  He peeled away the skin patches, wincing as the tiny oxygen capillary barbs released their grip, and stepped naked from the sarcophagus. His glance took in the wall display date and time, and his expression darkened with annoyance. Another short hibernation period. This would not do. He stepped onto a walking machine and spent ten minutes working the stiffness from his joints and toning-up his muscles. He entered a shower room and emerged a few minutes later wearing his gown and cloak.

  He took the lift up to his office where his stewardess, alerted that he was awake, had prepared him a fine breakfast. When the meal trolley was wheeled away, he turned his attention to the monitor. The information on the screen related to matters that the Guardian of Destiny computer considered would be of interest to him. A bony finger touched the scroll pad and the information rolled up the screen. The lines were a blur but Inman had no difficulty reading them. He was looking for the reason why the computer had decided to wake him. The scrolling stopped of its own accord and there it was:

  SOLANT, TARLAN.

  Inman frowned. Solant was one of many names that he required the GoD machine to watch. But not Tarlan Solant. Centuries of debugging and still the software had faults. He leaned back in the console chair and cleared his throat. He disliked voice-addressing the computer but on this occasion it was warranted.

  “Why have I been woken?”

  Transducers energized the air in front of Inman into speech. “There is an anomaly concerning the death of one Solant, Tarlan,” the computer replied. “According to the KIA report, he was killed outside war hours in Battle Zone T. And Solant, Ewen, brother of Solant, Tarlan, was in the adjoining Battle Zone S at the time.”

  The information on the screen changed. It was all there: Tarlan Solant had been killed by a PD bolt during the early hours of the morning when he was on guard duty. Ewen Solant had finished his community service at the front on the same day.

  The computer spoke, “The chances of this being a coincidence have been calculated at-”

  Inman waved the machine into silence while he thought. “Any updates on Ewen Solant?” he asked.

  “He has requested retaking his 10th year.”

  “Before or after his visit to the front?”

  “After.”

  Inman wasn’t sure if that was important or not, but the question of the Tarlan Solant’s death out of war hours most certainly was. He considered speaking to the front line from his office and decided that it would not hurt to show himself.

  Ten minutes later he was seated in his ground car, hurtling down the gentle slope of the connecting tunnel that linked the Revelation Centre with Arama’s chord-metro system. It was the narrowest tunnel in Arama because it was used by only one vehicle. Also it was the only tunnel with a such a steep gradient. Steel doors slid open at his approach and slammed shut behind him. They would open automatically for his vehicle and no other. The last door to open was at the end of a supposedly blind spur in which faulty passenger capsules could be shunted for repair. The car increased its lift to clear the rails, and slotted into the chord-metro system. Tiny adjustments were made to those nodes of the Guardian of Destiny computer that controlled the transport system. Trains were delayed or diverted to allow the First Secretary’s car to flash through the network unimpeded and, more importantly, unnoticed.

  Sergeant Jode Altir decided that he would rather face a sustained Diablon bombardment for a day than Caudo Inman’s hard, unforgiving gaze for a minute.

  “The community service order was most specific, sergeant,” said Inman icily. “He was not to be exposed to danger.”

  “He wasn’t, your excellency. He was-”

  “He was issued with full combat gear!”

  “Yes, but that’s a tradition for guard duty, your-”

  “We have another tradition - soldiers who disobey orders are shot!”

  The sergeant cursed inwardly and wondered why the First Secretary was concerning himself with such a minor matter. “Ewen Solant was in no danger,” he said slowly. “Guard duty at night is the safest-”

  “If he was in no danger,” Inman interrupted, “how is that the armourer’s report says that his PD weapon was fired, not once, but twice! And how is it that we have intercepted a Diablon intelligence report that says one of their guards was shot at night at the same time that Ewen Solant was on guard duty?”

  The soldier was sunk for an answer. Inman regarded him coldly for a few seconds before turning on his heel and sweeping contemptuously from the command centre.

  It was late at night when Inman returned to his office. He was tired, in need of ordinary sleep, but he considered the matter of Ewen Solant too pressing to wait until morning. He sat at the console and learned from the Guardian of Destiny computer that Ewen was not at the Centre.

  “Then where is he now?”

  There was a pause of a few milliseconds while the computer checked on the movements of Arama’s four million inhabitants.

  “He has purchased a return ticket to Galthan… It has not been cancelled or used… Request for food to be diverted to…” Ewen’s home address appeared on the screen.

  “Good. That means he can come under receptor surveillance. Give me the feeds from the Galthan address.”

  The first picture that appeared on the screen was an indistinct overhead view of a darkened living room. “Infrared,” Inman ordered testily.

  The picture cleared to show that the living room was deserted.

  “Cycle through all the apartment’s receptors.”

  The next image to appear on the screen showed a couple asleep in a double bed. Kally and her husband according to the screen overlay. The woman’s dark hair spilled across her pillow. Dried tears streaked her lovely face. Inman wanted to linger, drinking in her beauty, but other matters were more pressing.

  “Next.”

  An empty bedroom with no furniture.

  “Next.”

  Ewen asleep on a single bed. He was wrapped in a cover so that only his face was visible.

  “Hold that.”

  Inman leaned forward an
d impassively studied the sleeping youth. “What feed is this?”

  “Tarlan Solant’s guardian angel circuit,” the computer replied. “It is still active.”

  Inman frowned. “Close up on face.”

  Ewen’s face swelled on the screen.

  “Closer. As tight in as possible.”

  When the auto-focussing stabilized, Inman realised that he had not been mistaken: the huge close-up showed that Ewen Solant had definite traces of beard growth.

  He sat back and drummed his bony fingers while he considered this new and unexpected turn of events. Either something had gone seriously wrong with the dietary control system for the technician-students, which Inman doubted, or the youth had discovered how the sexual immaturity of technicians was maintained. If so, that made him a serious threat. He could undermine the entire phoney but vital religious structure that held the Araman society together.

  The hold that religion had on the populace was something that Inman detested, but it it was a cohesive force and it was too late to change things now. Stability was vital, and it seemed that this young man had acquired the knowledge to threaten that stability. But before taking drastic action, it was essential to determine the level of Ewen’s sexual maturity and whether or not it manifested itself as dangerous aggression, or guilt complexes that might distort his prized intellect.

  “Activate mindwarp level eight,” Inman instructed.

  It was a much higher level than the mindwarp available to the technicians which they used for the simple clearing of memories. At level eight the mindwarp could destroy personalities. It had to be used with care.

  “Standing by,” said the computer.

  “Fantasy Scenarios 23 to 30. Give me a hologram cycle of the subjects available.”

  Inman rotated his chair and turned his attention to the expanse of open floor between the console and his desk. A cube of iridescent, shimmering pale blue light appeared. There was the vague outline of a figure in the centre of the cube. The outline hardened into the life-size figure of a dark-haired voluptuous young woman. She was wearing a semi-transparent gown that heightened her sexuality. She pirouetted and posed, smiling fixedly like a beauty contestant. Even standing upright it was possible to see the hungry pink pout below her pudenda. Inman frowned. Such a woman, exuding a demanding sensuality, might well unnerve an inexperienced youth.”

  “Younger,” he ordered.

  The woman dissolved into the blue light. Several more images appeared which Inman dismissed. He glanced at the sleeping Ewen and instructed the machine to carry out a low-level probe. He could always trawl deeper in the young man’s subconscious should it prove necessary. “Start at minimum level,” he ordered. “Go.”

  To his surprise, a result was obtained almost immediately. A young girl materialized in the cube of pale blue light. She was aged about 12 or 13 and not fully mature. She looked vulnerable and innocent despite her mischievous smile and the provocative way she cupped one hand under her pert breasts and slipped the other into the little scut of down between her legs.

  “We’ll use that first if it’s the strongest,” said Inman.

  “It’s very strong,” said the computer.

  “Very well. Go.”

  7.

  It had been a bad day.

  A long and tiring day therefore Ewen resented waking and fought back. He pulled the bedcover tightly around himself and shifted into a more comfortable position in the unfamiliar bed while fighting the bleak advancing tide of consciousness and the misery it would bring.

  It had been a day spent acquiring unpleasant memories that he knew would never fade with time: kneeling beside his mother at the service in the little GoD chapel that served the neighbourhood; shaking hands with Tarlan’s friends; making small talk with neighbours. And all the time avoiding looking at his mother in case those lovely, dark, knowing eyes somehow divined and untied the terrible black knot of guilt that he harboured in the centre of his being.

  His guilt had been exacerbated by the daughter of his stepfather’s friends: a 12-or 13-year-old with a sly little smile which became decidedly impish whenever she caught Ewen’s covert glances. Her name was Tamara. Bobbed hair and a flowering, provocative little body. She had knelt in the bench in front of him, wriggling a tantalizing cleft at him at every opportunity, or so it seemed. There was a moment when the desire to reach forward and touch her was so intense that he almost saw and felt a phantom arm stretching out to stroke the smooth, tight material covering her buttocks. When it was time to say goodbye to everyone, instead of shaking hands, she had suddenly stretched up to Ewen and given him a teasing little nip on the lower lip.

  “See you again soon, Ewen,” she had whispered.

  He thought about Tamara, but wakefulness was insistent, Tarlan’s old bed was losing its warmth and comfort, and there was a distant but shrill buzzing in his head.

  Someone was breathing on his face, and what felt like a little foot was sliding up and down his thigh. He turned his head, opened his eyes, and stared uncomprehendingly at Tamara. Her head was on the pillow, her cropped hair forming a fuzzy little halo about her head, her hand was stroking his face, her eyes were wide with that tantalizing innocence that had captivated him at the service.

  “Hallo, Ewen.”

  He gaped. The buzzing suddenly vanished. “Tamara! What are you-!”

  She smothered his protests with a clumsy, open-mouth kiss that ended with small, white teeth nibbling gently on his lower lip. “I did say that I’d see you again, didn’t I?” She laid a cautionary finger on his lips. “It’ll be all right if we don’t make a noise.”

  His reason swam. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. “How did you get in?”

  She knelt over him and he realised with a numb little shock that she was naked. And then the wicked little tip of her tongue was tracing the bridge of his nose and running tingling little shocks over his forehead. He brought his hand up with the intention of pushing her away but his fingers encountered her breast. She gave a little shudder that made her breath rasp against his ear.

  “Tamara…” he began but his fingers could not resist the tantalizing touch of her warm skin. He spread his hand and marvelled at the delicious hardening of her nipple against his palm. His consciousness screamed at him to get her dressed and bundle her from the apartment, but his hand followed the needs of his subconsciousness, and he rolled the insistent little button of puckered, engorged flesh between thumb and forefinger.

  “Nice…” Tamara whispered, giving sharp little intakes of breath. “I thought it would be… Especially with you…”

  He heard himself saying, “You mean, you’ve never-”

  “Shh!” She took his hand and steered it down so that his palm lay on the inside of her parted thighs. As she kissed him, he slid his hand gently up and down, his senses were overwhelmed by the delicate silky smoothness of her skin that seemed to float against his fingertips. She gave a little wriggle. Something moist and magic brushed fleetingly against the tip of his thumb like a forbidden kiss. She must have sensed the sudden tensing of his arm for she clamped her thighs together, preventing his hand from escaping. “Don’t take it away,” her words were a distant sigh.

  “It’s wrong…”

  “It’s nice.” She bit gently on his collarbone.

  Another little wriggle and he felt a gently yielding ring-like membrane of heavenly warmth encircle the tip of his thumb.

  When her muscles flexed to bear down even harder, sanity and reason exploded before him like a bomb. He sat up, thrusting her away from him.

  “No! This isn’t right! You’ve got to…” His voice trailed into shocked silence and he stared about the gloom.

  He was alone. There was no sign of Tamara. Not believing that such a vivid kaleidoscopic of events could possibly be attributed to a dream, he left the bed, turned on the light, and gazed in bewilderment around the bedroom.

  “Tamara?”

  Silence.

  He turned out t
he light and sat on the bed, trying to sort out his thoughts. A dream. It had to be a dream. A fantasy because he had been thinking about her. And yet…

  He touched the side of his face. His earlobe was still moist from her nuzzling little storm of kisses, and there was a strange, evocative scent of her lingering in the room.

  He lay back in the darkness. When he pulled the cover over himself, he realised that the highly-charged erotic dream had left him with another, now more familiar souvenir, rigid and almost painful. Well, he had discovered a pleasurable way of dealing with them. He pushed the blanket to one side but sleep overtook him with surprising ease before he could finish the job.

  8.

  A typical juvenile sexual fantasy, thought Inman. Not what he wanted, although Ewen’s highly-developed sense of right and wrong, possibly stemming from a guilt complex, was interesting. There had been no violence towards the girl but that was because she had been an eager party. That was the trouble with the subject’s own fantasy objects. Using the mindwarp to build on an existing fantasy partner gave a high degree of control but the results did not give reliable insights.

  “Does he have any more?” he asked the computer.

  “I will have to go deeper.”

  “Go.”

  Inman spun his chair and stared dispassionately at the screen that showed Ewen asleep. The youth stirred fitfully on the bed, shifting his position.

  “There are two more,” the computer reported. “One very clear, and one extremely faint. The clear one is the student he rooms with.”

  “Only to be expected,” Inman observed. “Another routine fantasy. And the faint one?”