All people did here was glance at each other.
Glance and move on.
Had it always been like this? Why had it never bothered him before?
His sense of unease deepened when he got back to university.
The familiarity of these surroundings should have been comforting, but as he stood by the doors leading to the atrium, Cillian was filled with dread. He had always loved this space with its polished maple floors, its sofas and media stations and huddles of students. But now all he saw were people bristling with attitude and over-trimmed beards. Suddenly the students logged into their Contact-Webs seemed like complete strangers, and Cillian wondered how he’d ever had anything to say to them.
He had to get away from all this, back to the security of his pod.
Head down, he hurried across the atrium—
“Cillian!”
“Hey! Are you OK?”
“They said you were in the hospital.”
“We were worried—”
“We saw the pictures—”
“Is your dad—?”
He ignored everyone, pushed through the far doors and escaped into the elevator.
13
The door swung open and Cillian’s study-pod immediately welcomed him. Lights faded up, images started scrolling across digital picture frames, a new track he’d found online a few days ago pulsed from hidden speakers.
As diary reminders flashed on the WallScreen, the female RoomVoice calmly updated him. “Hi Cillian everyone’s been trying to get hold of you. Would you like me to run through the messages?”
He glanced at the WallScreen. “It doesn’t matter now.”
The ever-helpful operating system was undeterred. “I can prioritize the list—”
“Just forget everything.”
“But Cillian, some of these really need to be dealt with.”
“Do you know what death is?” he asked the room.
A moment of puzzled silence.
“My father’s dead. He was killed this morning.”
No response. It was as if the programmers hadn’t wanted to consider this particular scenario.
“There was a crash on the Metro. A bomb attack.”
“The City’s Metro has an impeccable safety record—”
“Not today! Not today…”
A pause.
“Would you like me to find the name of a grief counsellor?”
“That’s it? That’s the best you can come up with?” Cillian challenged the room. “Do you even understand what I’m talking about?”
The RoomVoice maintained a sulky silence, then decided it was safer to switch tack. “I’ve downloaded copies of the lectures you missed if you want to catch up.”
Had his room always been this dumb?
It was unnerving. Cillian had loved setting this space up to fit him like a glove, everything tailored to his own personal needs and taste. Yet now it felt as if he didn’t belong here, as if this was a stranger’s room.
Numbers. He had to escape into his studies – they were his bedrock.
He touched the large tablet on his desk and complex number patterns appeared on the screens, exactly as he’d left them yesterday. He rested his fingers on the algebraic keypads, cleared his mind and slipped into the vast, mysterious landscape of Number Theory. His fingers tapped out a complex dance that only he understood, paused momentarily, then raced on. Every now and then he flicked his thumb and the workings transferred to the WallScreen, decorating his room with formulae that probed and tried and failed, then tried again.
Suddenly he was distracted by a speck of dirt on the screen. He stretched out to clean it, and as his focus shifted he caught sight of himself reflected in the glossy surface.
He froze.
“What the hell am I doing?” Cillian stared at his reflection, appalled at his calm expression. “Shit!” He kicked the chair back as he recoiled from the desk. “What’s wrong with me?”
He stood in bewildered silence. His father had just been murdered, and here he was finishing his assignment. Cillian turned and gazed into the mirror, studying his own inscrutable eyes. “What is wrong with me?”
He shook himself to his senses, picked up the chair, sat back at the desk, swiped all the number screens away and typed a single word into the search engine: Gilgamesh.
A Mesopotamian king from 3000 BC.
A jazz fusion band.
The hero of an epic poem.
A Michelin-starred restaurant.
A now-defunct baseball team.
A mythical city in a fantasy game.
A teaching hospital in the Provinces.
Cillian’s eyes held on the last line. He clicked the link. Gilgamesh: a huge hospital-hub, 1,200 kilometres from Foundation City, serving vast swathes of the sparsely populated Provinces.
He escalated the search, linking it to his father’s name … and came across a single entry: 20 years ago, Paul had trained at Gilgamesh.
It didn’t make sense. His father had never mentioned the hospital, not once, and yet it was so important that his dying words to his only child weren’t “I love you”, but “Gilgamesh”.
Cillian couldn’t see the pattern.
Nothing fell into place.
There was only jagged chaos. And that was the one thing he couldn’t handle.
14
Covert meetings were always tricky. The veiled instructions meant you could never be sure you were waiting in exactly the right place.
Dr Lomas checked his watch. He’d been standing under the silver canopy of the East Mall for 15 minutes and still there was no sign of his handler. Though he could certainly understand why he’d be running late – it had been a busy day for Revelation. As he’d made his way over here, Lomas had seen its cryptic messages pinging onto hacked advertising hoardings all across the City.
I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation. That had caused quite a stir on the Overhead, with indignant drivers stopping to vent their anger.
I too can create desolation; my enemy is not invulnerable had appeared like a rash over the ads on the Metro, taunting 20 million law-abiding commuters.
Even as Lomas had been waiting at the mall, he’d seen I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart hijack the movie preview billboards. He’d watched as furious shoppers demanded the insulting screens be turned off, but none of the managers seemed to know how the displays worked. As a temporary measure they’d draped tarpaulins over the screens, plunging the Frankenstein quote back into darkness.
Revelation could be difficult to deal with, but Lomas did admire its instinctive feel for drama. It had taken an old Gothic horror story, long forgotten because of its anti-science agenda, and made it a call to arms, using it to show the dangers of scientific research and to prophesy the Fall of Man. Revelation’s violent attacks were starting to change the way people thought about The Faith; what for decades had just been a hollowed-out and impotent religion was turning into a radical philosophy for change.
As a young man Lomas had been scathing about religion and its medieval mindset. But 20 years working in hospitals had made him think again. Too many times he’d seen medical advances keep people alive long after they’d given up the will to really live. In the obsession to keep bodies functioning, the soul had somehow been forgotten.
Suddenly his smartCell chirruped. It was from Blackwood: In the shadow of the Cathedral.
The doctor cursed under his breath. It had been a long day at the hospital and the last thing he needed was a change of plan, especially with so many police now flooding the transport system. But as he headed back towards the station to catch a shuttle to the Cathedral District, his smartCell chirruped again: No.
So Blackwood was already here, watching him.
The doctor’s eyes darted across the scene: crowds of people defying the security warnings by trying to carry on as normal, drinking in late-night cafes, queuing for last-minute theatre tickets, watching busk
ers juggling burning swords. In the square opposite, blazing spotlights illuminated an ice sculpting competition that was drawing in crowds of people, who clustered around huge frozen blocks, mesmerized as shapes emerged under the hands of chainsaw-wielding artists: a giant boot, a peacock, Death and his scythe…
A smile broke across Lomas’s face as he realized that one of the half-formed ice sculptures was a dome: the Cathedral of Veneration.
15
As he jostled through the crowds Lomas understood why Revelation had chosen this spot. People’s jangled nerves were making them hyper-vigilant for any behaviour that looked suspicious, but here all eyes were on the ice sculptures, and the buzz of chainsaws made eavesdropping impossible.
He made his way around a slightly disturbing Leda and the Swan, and into the shadow of the ice cathedral, where he recognized Blackwood.
“Must’ve been a stressful day at the hospital. I appreciate you coming,” Blackwood said as he handed Lomas a takeaway coffee. “Skinny latte, 1 sugar, right?”
“Thanks.” Lomas was touched by the gesture.
Blackwood led him deeper into the throng. “So, did you talk to Cillian?”
“He’s shocked and confused,” the doctor said as he sipped the coffee. “But I don’t think he suspects anything.”
“He’s too intelligent not to suspect.”
“Nothing he said made me worry.”
Blackwood smiled obliquely. “Maybe he just doesn’t trust you.”
Lomas was unsure how to react to that.
“What about his wounds?”
“There were none.”
“Are you sure?”
“I checked the scans myself. All the other victims in his carriage suffered catastrophic injuries, massive internal haemorrhaging, fourth-degree burns, but Cillian … barely a scratch on him.”
Blackwood stopped walking and locked his thoughtful gaze on Lomas. “Is there any way it could have been luck?”
All the bodies that had been extracted from the Metro flashed through the doctor’s mind, a dreadful catalogue of trauma. “No … it was beyond luck.”
“Then we really are at war,” Blackwood whispered. For an unnerving moment, the muscles in his face tightened, tingeing his soft features with a hard ugliness.
Lomas suddenly had a desperate urge to get away. “Look, if I hear any more, I’ll contact you, OK?”
But as he turned to go, Blackwood gripped his arm. “Give me his details.”
“Sure.” The doctor pulled up the file and transferred the data in a DigiKiss. “You really think he could be one of them?”
“Let’s see…” Blackwood opened an app on his smartCell which swallowed Cillian’s identity number, then started pulling up streams of data. “Changed school every few terms … finally settled at an academy for gifted students … university scholarship at 15 … no hospital records … no illness of any kind … he’s certainly not normal.”
“How many do you think are out there?”
“That … is the multi-billion-dollar question.”
“So Cillian might be the only one?”
Suddenly Blackwood gave a brisk smile. “You’ve done really well. If only everyone was as diligent. But he’s not your responsibility now.”
Lomas felt queasy in his guts. “He’s still a kid. He’s hardly dangerous.”
Blackwood studied the doctor’s face. “You believe in the Tenets of Faith?”
“Of course.”
“Then put your trust in the Creator who made us. Never doubt that you’ve done the right thing here. Doubt is Weakness.”
They heard a nearby crowd cheer as one of the ice sculptors completed a brilliant flourish.
“I think we’ve talked enough, under the circumstances. Good night, Dr Lomas.”
And that was it. No more discussion. Blackwood turned and disappeared into the crowd.
16
The lobby of the Residential Spire always seemed so welcoming, especially in the bright morning sunlight. Maybe it was the smell of jasmine polish they used on the marble floor, or maybe it was just the sheer familiarity of the place, but even though his father was gone, Cillian still felt the comforting security of home.
Until he saw Hailey sitting on one of the leather sofas.
For as long as Cillian could remember, his father had worked at a Walk-In clinic in the Western Financial Quarter. Walk-Ins gave quick fixes to busy traders who were eager to get back to their desks, and most doctors just passed through, using the extra shifts to clear med-school debts. Paul was the only one who stayed for a long time. He seemed to like the fleeting nature of the friendships, almost as if he didn’t want anyone to get too close. But the person he’d always been most wary of was the Practice Manager. “Hailey’s damaged,” he used to say. “And damaged people are always dangerous.”
“I’m so sorry.” As she crossed the lobby Hailey opened her arms to hug him, but instinctively Cillian bridled.
Hailey smiled uneasily, trying to cover the awkwardness of the moment. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No… Not really.” He studied her. Right now she seemed pleasant enough; maybe she really was upset.
“Everyone at the clinic is so shocked.”
“I know.”
“How are you coping?”
Cillian shrugged.
“What about money? I mean, can you—”
“The lawyer’s dealing with everything.”
“Good. That’s good.”
But Cillian sensed there was something else on her mind.
“And the university counsellors are looking after you?”
“Something like that.”
“Your father would want you to keep your studies going. It meant a lot to him.”
“I know.”
“So … call me if there’s anything you need.”
Cillian nodded, but Hailey was the very last person he would ever turn to for help. No matter what she said, deep down he sensed a terrible coldness to this woman. Then as he turned towards the elevators—
“Can I come up for a minute?”
Cillian looked at her warily. “Why?”
“There’s just … it’s a work thing.”
“It’s not really a good time.”
“I need to see if your father had any patient records at home.”
“Records? What are you talking about?”
“Some of the doctors catch up on paperwork outside clinic hours. I know Paul used to. And I just need the files back.”
Cillian stared at her in disbelief.
“You understand, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“It’s a security issue,” Hailey said, her jaw tightening slightly.
“He’s in the morgue!” Cillian exclaimed. “They won’t even let me see him, and you’re worried about files?”
“There’s no need to be like that.”
“Like what? Upset?”
“I’ve got a business to run.”
“Can you even hear yourself?”
“I thought you’d be old enough to understand.”
“Just stay away from me! Stay away.”
Cillian hurried for the elevators; mercifully one was already waiting, so he didn’t have to spend a moment longer in her presence.
17
Right now Cillian didn’t want anyone in the apartment, especially people he couldn’t trust, and Hailey’s sudden and unexpected appearance had put her firmly on that list. If he was going to make sense of his father’s dying moments, he needed time to search and space to think.
As the elevator silently marked off floors, Cillian took the glowing encryption-tab from his pocket and studied it. The lawyer had been understandably reluctant to hand it over. “We normally advise the next of kin to let us tidy up the Digital Legacy first,” Mr Pilgrim (LLB) had said.
What he really meant was sanitize.
With more and more people leaving WholeLife Archives behind, warts and all, lawyer
s right across the City were having a field day protecting dead clients from incriminating themselves. But it was the warts that Cillian was interested in. He didn’t want an airbrushed version of his father; he wanted the truth.
There was a gentle ping as the elevator doors opened. Cillian walked down the corridor with its impossibly shiny floor and took out the apartment keys. But as he arrived at the front door he hesitated. The handle was already pulsing blue. Unlocked.
Immediately his mind flashed back 24 hours, scanning through meticulously stored memories of leaving the apartment with his father. He replayed the sequence from different angles: definitely locked. Paul never took shortcuts with security, and even though they were late, he’d insisted on locking up and setting the alarms before they ran for the Metro.
A noise from behind the door jolted Cillian’s senses. He put his ear to the polished hardwood and listened.
Footsteps.
Someone was inside.
Back away; call the police. He knew what he should do … but if he put all his trust in the authorities, would he ever find out what was really going on?
Silently he pushed the door open and saw a strange electronic box clamped over the Main Control Unit, LEDs scrolling, overriding the apartment systems.
He edged forwards, senses bristling.
A light was on in the lounge, and a shadow was moving. Cillian peered through the crack in the door and saw a figure hunched over his father’s desk, methodically searching through all the drawers. He had a black baseball cap pulled low, gloves, sneakers, and CyberSpecs recording everything he looked at.
“What the hell are you doing?” Cillian exclaimed.
The intruder spun around and reached into his jacket.
“NO!” Anger electrified Cillian’s body like a force possessing him, and he leapt across the room—
Impossibly fast—
His hands reached out, clamped around the intruder’s head and slammed it into the wall.
Air grunted from the stranger’s lungs. “No…”
But it was beyond Cillian’s control. His grip tightened, fingers pressing furiously on the man’s skull.
Maladapted Page 4
