by Nik Abnett
“Just fill these in for me,” said the receptionist, handing the Techs clipboards with multi-page questionnaires on them.
“Why?” asked Estefan. “What did we do?”
“It was probably the toner,” said his colleague, “or maybe the stuff he drew on the floor with. Stands to reason it was something in that room. It can’t be too terrible though, I haven’t got any symptoms.”
“And nobody’s wearing masks, or sticking us in suits or anything. What is it then?” asked Estefan.
“You’ll be quarantined in ward Isis, where you’ll be given more information,” said Mudd, “but first we need you to fill in the forms. Pay particular attention to question 12b if you wouldn’t mind: human contacts. Then we’ll get you processed.”
“Bren’s going to go mad,” said Estefan, “and what about the kids?”
“Lockdown on Estefan’s residence,” Mudd called over his shoulder at the receptionist, who was thrusting a clipboard at the Operator that had delivered Saintout’s tray to Tobe’s flat.
“What do you mean, ‘Lockdown on Estefan’s residence’? I live alone,” said Estefan. “I went over to see a Senior at the School, a friend of mine for a... I guess you probably don’t need to know what for.”
“Get Doctor Narinda in here,” said Mudd. “We need to interface with Service at a superior level, right now.”
THE FACULTY BUILDING where Tobe’s office was situated was the first to be locked down. Patel and her crew would have to manage as best they could. It didn’t matter how long it took, because no one else was going to enter that room. None of the other rooms in the building were open, so, except for some basic sanitation, and access to lockdown rations, which were both ancient and meagre, they could do nothing but work. The best rest that any of them got while they were in the building was the sleep that they snatched, propped up against the wall in the corridor outside the office, which was filling up with cartons of bagged up material that could not be extracted under the terms of the lockdown.
WORKSTATION 4, ON the Service Floor, rotated between control subjects, but was currently taken up with a Senior at the School. The cool, blue threads were virtually stationary, with low luminescence. Watching the feed felt like watching paint dry, so station 4 tended to be the busiest Workstation on the Service Floor, because its Operator was switched out every two hours; no one could be expected to concentrate for longer than that. Most two hour slots also involved a line-check, which the regular Operators chose to do, simply to have something to occupy them during their shifts.
Station 4 collected and collated the most data, and yielded the fewest results of any Workstation on the Service Floor.
AT 05:30, ON day four, someone from Medtech came into Pitu 3’s room and woke him up. He placed a breakfast tray over Pitu’s knees as he sat up, and turned to go.
“Press your button for Rouse,” said the Medic, without looking back.
At 05:32, Pitu pressed his button, and moved the tray so that he could get out of bed. He was back within a minute, and lifted the cover from the dish on the tray. Oatpro, great, but he was hungry, so he picked up the spoon and began to eat.
The Oatpro was only barely warm enough, and wasn’t giving off any steam, at all, but it didn’t matter, because it was sweet and creamy, and hadn’t been topped up by Students for a week in a crusting pan; it had been made fresh that morning.
Pitu 3 was still sitting on the edge of the bed, eating his breakfast, when the Medic returned with a clipboard, and a thick file.
“We need you to review some material for us,” said the Medic, handing Pitu 3 the file without any further ceremony. Pitu made to open it, but the Medic reached down and placed his hand on the plain, drab cover. “After I’ve gone.”
He stood next to the bed, and began reading from the questionnaire on the clipboard. Pitu felt sure they were the same questions he’d answered when he was admitted the night before. The Medic ran through them quickly; too quickly for Pitu’s liking. He barely had a chance to answer the questions, and had no time at all to speculate or draw the Medic into conversation. The man was terse and far too businesslike, not at all like the staff from the evening before, who’d been so attentive.
NAMED OPERATOR BABBAGE was brought on for the 04:00 shift change on Workstation 4, and would remain at the station until further notice. He was paired with Named Operator Siemens, who would take the dicky seat. As they entered the floor, the room grew more than usually quiet.
Babbage took his seat, keyed in his Morse signature, pulled his chair up to the scratched counter, and placed his hand over the rubberpro ball mounted in the tabletop. Siemens pulled out the dicky seat, and sat next to him.
“Verify headset,” he said to the Operator he was taking over from.
“Verify,” said the Operator, and, before he had a chance to move, a Tech had placed a headset in his hand.
“Thank you,” said the Operator, taken aback. The Operators, who worked the Service Floor, never observed the niceties, but neither were the Techs ever this diligent.
Babbage dismissed his predecessor at the station, and began to conduct a line-check, including audio and visual. The line-check was completed in just less than five minutes, and no anomalies were recorded. No anomalies had been recorded at station 4 for over twenty years. Never-the-less, Babbage felt the tension growing in the room.
“Subject switch-out at 05:30,” he said to Siemens. Three... two... one... monitoring switch-out.”
The perimeter of the ball of threads on the screen in front of Siemens and Babbage altered slightly, and the threads appeared to be a little more densely packed, but a rookie Operator would have been unlikely to notice either change, and the colour-discrepancy was negligible and invisible to the naked eye. Babbage and Siemens saw enough to know that the switch-out had been completed without a hitch. They had not been told who they were monitoring, but they were both seasoned Operators, and had been briefed with all the latest updates on what to expect.
Nothing happened.
“05:32,” said Babbage. “Subject has acknowledged Rouse. Line-check.”
“Verify,” said Siemens.
“Verify line-check,” said Babbage.
STATION 7 MONITORED one of the Companions. It was part of the upper echelon of the control group, and the same Companion had been monitored on it for two Highs. The normal minimum was a year, and the normal maximum was three Highs, so, she was the optimum candidate for a switch-out, particularly given that she would be switched with another female of a similar rank. The data for the switch-out itself could make for very interesting reading at this stage in the event.
Ranked Operator Chen came onto the Service Floor at 04:30, so that the shift change-overs were staggered. She was followed by Operator Goodman, who had never been promoted during his thirty-plus years with Service, but who was, when push came to shove, everyone’s favourite go-to guy. He had more eye-years in front of a screen than anyone, and he could summarise any and all activities with his own particular brand of line-check, which he could perform completely and efficiently in less than three minutes. He had done it in ninety seconds, once or twice, just for the guys on a quiet shift.
Goodman held the lowest rank on the Floor, but he was the specialist. He was also the only man to whom the adage ‘one Operator, one screen, one station’ did not apply.
“Ma’am,” he said, approaching Workstation 7, and pulling out the chair for Ranked Operator Chen to sit.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Chen. “I’m not sitting there with you watching over my shoulder. I’ll take the dicky.”
“Oh, right you are,” said Goodman, stepping to one side, and pulling the dicky seat out from under the counter. “If you’re sure?”
“I’m very sure,” said Chen. “I have no desire to make a total idiot of myself in front of you, Goodman. I’m only here to observe.”
“Expecting something funky?”
“Expecting something. You weren’t briefed?”
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“I’m six hours into a Rest,” said Goodman, “so I’m guessing there wasn’t the time, or they’d have brought in someone else.”
“There is no one else. You’re it.”
The other Operators in the room all outranked Goodman. They were all stressed, working in close proximity with one another, and no one seemed to know what was going on. They all began to breathe a little easier, and relax a little more when they heard Goodman’s voice. No one turned to look: one Operator, one screen. They didn’t need to look; his presence was enough to soothe them.
Goodman sat in the seat in front of the screen, and began to enter his Morse signature, using the switch on the facing edge of the counter in front of him.
“No,” said Chen, “allow me.”
Goodman reset the switch before getting up from his chair. Chen perched on the seat for just long enough to enter her own Morse signature, and then vacated the chair for Goodman.
“Whatever I do here will have your name on it, ma’am,” said Goodman, “are you sure you want that?”
“I need you to have my clearance level if you’re going to be any use to me at all,” said Chen, “and this is the fastest and most efficient way to get you specified clearance, without going through channels.”
“We are eager beavers, aren’t we? This is almost as serious as waking me up before I’ve had my eight hours.” He chuckled low in his chest, and Chen looked up, mildly astonished, before smiling warmly at him.
“Let’s get a headset, shall we?” asked Goodman, pulling his chair closer to the counter, and resting his huge right hand gently on the rubberpro sphere set into its surface
“Verify,” said Chen.
“Verify headset, Ranked Operator Chen.”
A Tech dropped a headset into Ranked Operator Chen’s hand. She leaned forward and handed it to him.
“Things could start to happen fast in here,” she said, “so why don’t we drop the formalities; you can call me Chen.”
“Bob,” said Goodman, offering Chen his hand to shake, and twinkling all over her. “Can’t have us on an equal footing, now, can we? And, since you’re the boss, let’s piggy-back a couple of headsets.”
A Tech appeared at Ranked Operator Chen’s elbow with a brand new, out of the box, state of the art headset that was half the size and weight of the great lump that Goodman was wearing, but the contrast was somehow appropriate to their comparative ages, sexes and sizes.
“If you’re ready, Bob,” said Chen, “that completes the change-over.” She looked over her shoulder at the outgoing team, and said, “You may stand down, gentlemen, but please sign in, for changes to your Schedules.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
METOO SLEPT FITFULLY, but got out of bed, as usual, at 05:30. Her cotpro socks hit the cool linopro, and she sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, looking down at her feet, and remembering what had happened the night before.
She took a deep breath, stood up, and walked across her room and out to the kitchen. She put her coffee on, and then went to the bathroom, washed and dressed, quickly, and tidied the room ready for Tobe, leaving out a clean robe and towel for him.
Time would be tight this morning, and she really wanted a little of it to herself, before she had to confront Saintout and Wooh, and face the day. She stood in the kitchen, drinking her coffee, feeling quite unable to eat anything, even the fruit that she usually enjoyed so much.
She poured herself a second cup of coffee, and braced herself.
At 06:00, the shower was running at 40 degrees, and the eggpro was cooking. Metoo signed in with Service.
“Yes,” she said.
“All current occupants must remain in the building,” said Service. “Rest cycle complete, please ensure that all occupants are provided with the sustenance they require.”
“What happened to...?” Metoo began, but then she remembered that expecting a tray for Saintout would give away the fact that he was still with them, and his tracer didn’t appear to be working. He might be an ally if things went badly, so she didn’t want to risk giving away his location to Service.
“You have a question?” asked Service.
“No, no question.”
Metoo couldn’t risk Tobe bumping into Saintout and Wooh, so, while she could still hear his shower running, she dashed back to the kitchen, scooped the eggpro into a dish, added some crackers and the fruit that she had planned to eat that morning, and slipped it to them through the garden room door, on a little tray with a couple of spoons. It would have to do.
At 06:03 Tobe and Metoo bumped into each other in the corridor, as Metoo made her way back to the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry, Tobe,” she said, as they stepped into the kitchen together. “I was in the garden room, and I forgot the time. I’ll make you some breakfast now. Sit.”
Tobe looked at Metoo, baffled.
“There’s no breakfast,” he said.
“I’m going to make your breakfast for you now,” said Metoo, mixing more eggpro: two scoops of powder to one of powdered milk, a pump each of salt and pepper, out of the dispenser, and let the steam do the rest.
“Is it the same?” asked Tobe.
“You always have eggpro,” said Metoo, automatically; she had other things on her mind.
After 45 seconds, breakfast was perfectly cooked, and she set the dish in front of him at the kitchen counter, and picked up her cup of coffee, which would be cold if she didn’t get to it soon.
Tobe spooned some eggpro up to his mouth.
“No!” shouted Metoo.
Tobe sat with the spoon an inch from his lips, looking at Metoo.
“Breakfast,” said Tobe.
“It’s too hot,” said Metoo. “It usually cools on the counter for a few minutes while you’re in the shower. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not the same?”
“You just have to wait a minute. I’ll tell you when it’s ready.
Tobe sat on his stool with the spoon up close to his face, and waited. He made Metoo want to smile. She drained the last of the coffee from her cup, and put the cup in the auto-clean, walking around the counter and behind Tobe to do it. When she turned, he still had the spoon up to his mouth, but the eggpro in the dish had stopped steaming.
As she left the kitchen, Metoo called over her shoulder, “You can eat now, Tobe. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Metoo went to the garden room, ducking in, quickly, so that there was no risk of Tobe hearing movement in the room.
Tobe ate some of the eggpro. He looked down at it after three or four mouthfuls.
“It’s the same,” he said, and carried on with his breakfast.
SAINTOUT AND WOOH were in the garden room, finishing the breakfast that Metoo had taken to them on the tray.
“Good fruit,” said Wooh as she entered. “How did you manage to get it?”
“I grow it,” said Metoo, spreading her hands wide to encompass the room they were in.
“Stupid. Of course,” said Wooh, embarrassed.
“You whip up a decent egg, too,” said Saintout, by way of letting Wooh off the hook.
“Eggpro,” said Metoo.
“Eggpro?” asked Saintout.
“Eggpro,” said Metoo. “It’s a matter of proportions.”
“Bloody good,” said Saintout. “What’s the secret recipe, then?”
“Thank you. It’s two scoops of eggpro powder to one of powdered milk, a pump each of salt and pepper, out of the dispenser, and let the steam do the rest: 45 seconds.”
“That’s how you keep him in your thrall, then?” asked Saintout.
“Sorry?” asked Metoo.
“You and the prof,” said Saintout.
“Sorry?” asked Metoo.
“You and Master Tobe. You’re unusual, the two of you.”
“How so?”
“Nobody expects it.”
“Expects what?”
“Nobody expects a Companion to last for so long. And an Assistant-Companion should
be wiped out in months. Most of us gave you a year at most, and it’s been what? Three highs? Four?”
“Eight years,” said Metoo. “Two years as his Student. I had some help from Kit at the beginning, but –”
“You’ve been enabling this guy for six years?” asked Saintout, incredulous.
“How is that even possible?” asked Wooh.
“Oh, not you too,” said Metoo. “How do I keep him out of his office?”
“He can’t go there, today,” said Wooh. “They haven’t finished collecting the information.”
“And, when he goes back, it won’t be the way he left it,” said Metoo. “He’ll know the difference.”
“Of course he’ll know the difference,” said Saintout. “They’re going to strip that room! There’ll be nothing left: no sign that anything ever happened in that room. They’ve taken everything! Okay, maybe they’re in the throes of taking everything, but the next time he goes in his office, it will be like the first time.”
“He can’t cope with that,” said Metoo. “You can’t take his work away from him. It’d be like taking his life.”
“What else do you expect?” asked Wooh.
“Why can’t they leave him in peace?”
“Fear,” said Saintout. “Service lives in fear. They have nothing and no one, and they haven’t got a clue how the Actives make this whole thing work. Wouldn’t you be scared?”
