by Nik Abnett
“No,” said Henderson, bowing his head, slightly, and dropping his voice, “but, unless you want to scare the shit out of everyone present, I suggest we all get to work decoding this data, beginning, Mr Goodman, with you.”
“Fine, but everyone’s already pretty scared,” said Bob Goodman, “and it won’t do you any good.”
“You are excused,” said Agent Operator Henderson.
“Pardon me, Agent Operator,” said Chen, “but I think you’re making a mistake.”
“How so?” asked Henderson, looking over their heads at the screen in front of them, his hands locked together behind his back.
“Operator Goodman is to this Service Floor what an Active is to Global Security,” said Chen. “He knows his stuff, sir, and, I believe that if we are to emerge, safely, on the other side of this crisis, it will be, in part, due to the very best resources being employed. Goodman is one of our best resources, sir.”
Goodman and Henderson both looked at Chen, the expressions on their faces not considerably dissimilar. Henderson was surprised to be spoken to in such a way by an inferior, and Goodman was surprised to be spoken so highly of by a superior. He was the only remaining basic-grade Operator on the floor, and he fully expected to be the first to go.
“Line-check,” said Henderson.
Bob Goodman hesitated.
“Line-check,” said Chen.
“Line-check,” said Bob.
“Verify line-check,” said Chen.
“Verify.” Bob began a line-check on Master Tobe’s data at Workstation 7.
Henderson stepped back towards the middle of the room.
“All Workstations, line-check,” he said. “I want everything on wafers, and I want every comparison made at the most minute level.”
A chorus of voices repeated the line-check instructions and verifications, and the room returned to almost total quiet.
PITU 3 SAT on the cot in his room, his feet tucked under his body, for comfort, and his head in his hands. He had been discharged from the infirmary, and the quarantine ward had been closed down.
It had quickly become obvious to Service that the quarantine was pointless, and, potentially, counter-productive. The situation could only get worse if group hysteria became a problem, and rumours were already circulating around the College about what might be happening. Service buttons were being pressed, off the Schedule, as more and more Students, Seniors and Assistants became concerned about what might be happening. The extra activity on the Service buttons only confused the issues, and Service needed to nip in the bud any possibility that mass panic might ensue at the College.
Pitu 3 had left his room at the infirmary before the ward was closed down, and didn’t even see Mudd on the way out. At first, it had been a wonderful adventure, and he had revelled in the opportunity to be at the centre of someone’s, anyone’s, attention. He had enjoyed being interviewed after he had pressed his button, standing outside Master Tobe’s office. He was proud that he had pressed his button. The first couple of hours in the infirmary had been fun, too. He had felt terribly important, until his Service button had been returned to him, and the staff had stopped visiting him. Then they had simply sent him back to his room with an envelope. No one had said anything.
Pitu 3 sat on the cot, his feet tucked under his body, and his head in his hands. Two sheets of paperpro sat in his lap. One was his discharge form from the infirmary. The other piece of paperpro contained news that he was not ready for, that he might never have been ready for. In three short lines, the text on the second sheet of paperpro ended every hope, every dream that Pitu 3 had ever had, every hope that he believed Master Tobe, Metoo, and the College had all fostered in him. He had been betrayed.
Pitu 3 released his feet from under his body, and put them on the floor. He pressed the Service button hanging around his neck to acknowledge Recreation, and stood up. The sheets of paperpro floated from his lap, landing on the linopro between his feet.
Pitu 3 lifted his robe off over his head, gathered it up in his hands and wiped his face with it. He had been crying, but had stopped now.
His face dry, Pitu 3 calmly shook out his robe, and took hold of the neckline, with both hands, close together. He twisted the hem of the neckline until a small tear appeared in it, and then he spread his arms wide, tearing the robe asunder from top to bottom. He moved his hands around the neck of the robe, and began the process again, until he had three long strips of cloth. He tied the ends together and began to plait the light-weight strips of silkpro cloth to form a strong, thick cord. When the plait was complete, he tied the loose ends together.
Pitu 3 pushed the tied ends of the plait through the strands of the plait about a third of the way along the cord, to form a loop. He stood on the cot and reached up to tie the end of the cord to the bracket in the ceiling that his light-source hung from.
Standing on the edge of the cot, Pitu 3 was too short. He stepped off the cot, and made his way to the shared kitchen, his feet slapping heavily on the worn, cracked linopro as he darted along the corridor, apparently unaware of his nakedness. There was no one in the kitchen, so he took the top stool off the stack in the corner, and padded back to his room.
Pitu 3 placed the stool on the floor, up against the edge of the cot, where one of its feet anchored the two sheets of paperpro to the linopro. It didn’t matter.
Pitu 3 stepped onto his cot, and then up onto the stool. Then he took hold of the loop in the cord, and made it as wide as he could by threading the cord between the strands of silkpro. He placed the loop over his head, and pulled it snug around his neck. The cord got tangled in his Service button, so he loosened it slightly, to release the knot, and then slipped the Service button from around his neck, and dropped it onto the floor beside the cot. He pulled the cord snug around his throat a second time.
Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Pitu 3 stepped off the stool, knocking it over, as he did so, with his trailing foot. The leg of the stool that had been standing on the sheets of paperpro ripped through them, and sent them skidding across the linopro, torn and creased. The Service button was knocked under the cot.
The tips of Pitu 3’s toes scrabbled slightly in the air, as if trying to find the edge of the cot, to stand on. His body convulsed slightly, and then turned, anti-clockwise on its cord. The bracket in the ceiling creaked, but held firm.
The drop was not long enough to break Pitu 3’s neck, but it didn’t matter. His Service button did not need to be pressed again until Repast, and there was no reason for anyone to seek him out; no one had ever sought him out before.
There was plenty of time for Pitu 3 to die.
MUDD HELPED TO wind down the quarantine at the infirmary, and hit his button for Rest about two hours after the first of the quarantine subjects was discharged. He had quite enjoyed the experience, but would, he thought, be eternally grateful for the fact that he had not been incarcerated with Pitu 3. The time Mudd had spent piggy-backed to Pitu, in the corridor outside Master Tobe’s room, in the interview with Bello, and then on the walk to the infirmary was all the time he ever wanted to spend with the kid.
Mudd was off-duty when the Service Floor ramped-up to Code Orange, and, suddenly, everyone was on standby. As a Medic Operator, Mudd was used to being on standby, it was a regular feature of his job. In his time as a Medic Operator, Mudd had never been called out on standby.
When the call came through, Mudd was plugged into a vid-port, watching re-runs of some of his favourite tv comedies. They still made him laugh, even though nothing new had been made for almost a decade.
Mudd pressed his button, and went to the nearest Service point.
“Medic Operator Mudd,” said Mudd.
“You are required at Student Accommodation Tobe, room 14,” said Service.
“Anomaly status?”
“Unknown.”
Mudd wasn’t thrilled; another of Tobe’s Students was in trouble, or Pitu 3 was in trouble, again, and he didn’t relish either pro
spect. He signed out of Service, picked up his kit, and zipped himself into his regulation jacket.
Mudd arrived at the room in Tobe’s Student accommodation, and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again.
After three or four minutes, Mudd checked the shared bathroom and kitchen. Both were empty. The Student’s colleagues obviously hadn’t noticed that he was missing, and had gone about their usual business.
Mudd knew, instinctively, which Student had been overlooked, because he knew that he would have done the same.
Mudd knocked on the door again, and called Pitu’s name. There was no answer. He tried the handle.
The door to Pitu’s room was not locked. It opened onto the bed, and was partly blocked by the stool that Pitu had knocked over when he had stepped off it, into space.
With no way to step into the room, Mudd got on his hands and knees, and manoeuvred the stool, in the cramped space, so that he could pull it into the corridor. He stood up, and shoved the door open with one hand. It wouldn’t open all the way, and was pushing against something heavy, but mobile, behind it. Mudd stepped into the room, sideways, and pulled the door towards him. Pitu’s limp body thumped against the back of the door, dead weight.
“Bugger,” said Mudd, as he saw what the obstruction was. He dropped his bag on the floor, and hit his Service button. There was no point trying to resuscitate the boy, it was far too late for that, and if no medical attention was needed, Mudd was required not to interact with the body at all. As the first Service Operator at the scene, however, Mudd was expected to begin to process the surroundings.
He closed the door, and took a step back, looking the body up and down. He took in the cord around Pitu 3’s neck, and the pieces of paperpro on the floor, one of which, he was partially standing on. He bent down to pick up the pieces of paperpro, and, as he did so, he noticed the cord to Pitu 3’s Service button, lying on the floor, only inches below Pitu’s dangling feet. Mudd pulled the cord towards him, at full-stretch, with one finger, disinclined to get close to the body. He dropped the Service button into a sterile bag from his Kit, and bent again to pick up the sheets of paperpro. He tried to decipher what was written on them, through the creases, tears and dusty footprints. The first was simply Pitu’s discharge form from the infirmary. The second was from College administration. It had a serial number at the top, and Mudd read:
Assessment and Re-assignment complete.
Subject unsuitable for furtherance.
Return to School and register as Senior Stanley.
Mudd took another step back, and leaned against the far wall of the tiny room. He didn’t want to look at Pitu 3. He didn’t want to believe that he had let the boy down.
Mudd waited for Service to send someone, the form from Admin still in his hand.
“Bugger,” he said. “They didn’t even let him keep the name.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A TONE SOUNDED in Tobe’s flat. Tobe looked at Metoo across the kitchen counter. She looked back at him.
“I should answer that,” said Metoo.
“Service?” asked Tobe.
“Service.”
“Tobe doesn’t do Service.”
“No he doesn’t,” said Metoo, rising from her stool, and turning to leave the kitchen. “Lucky Tobe.”
“Lucky? Why?”
“Just lucky, that’s all,” Metoo said, over her shoulder as she went to sign in.
“Metoo,” said Metoo.
“Anomalies?” she asked, after Service had failed to acknowledge her sign-in for a minute or two.
“Wait,” said Service.
“Why don’t you send another tone when you’ve got something for me? Or better, yet, why don’t you leave me alone to do the job that you want me to do?”
“Wait,” said Service. There was another short pause, in which Metoo realised that she was, unconsciously clenching and unclenching her fists.
“We have to inform you that one of Master Tobe’s Students is dead,” said Service.
Metoo stopped unclenching her hands. She placed her fists in front of her chest, the knuckles touching.
“What?” she asked.
“Pitu 3 was found, hanged, in his room.”
“And what do you suppose I should do about that?” asked Metoo, aghast at the baldness with which the news was delivered.
She turned and left the way she had come, without waiting for an answer from Service, and without signing out. She was back in the kitchen, seconds after her outburst, but felt her stress levels continue to rise. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but she did know that, beyond the sadness and guilt that she felt for Pitu, and the wonder she felt at how damned crass Service announcements could be, she also felt a deep and abiding frustration that could only be attributed to her relationship with Tobe.
“Metoo is unhappy,” said Tobe, as she strode past him, snatching her cup from the counter as she went. She leaned down to put it in the auto-clean, and then turned back to Tobe. She sighed.
“I’m not unhappy, Tobe,” she said, “not really.”
“Good. Can Tobe go back to work, now?”
“No,” said Metoo, slumping down onto her stool opposite Tobe, her head bowed. “You can’t go to work today.”
Tobe got up from his stool and walked around the counter to her. He placed one of his hands on each side of her face, and lifted it, so that he could see her. Metoo kept her eyes downcast for a long moment, before lifting them to look at him. A tear escaped the lower lid of her left eye, and trickled down over Tobe’s hand.
Tobe let go of Metoo’s face, suddenly, and started rubbing the back of his right hand, where the tear had been, with the palm of his left. He went to the sink and ran the water, but was soon splashing it all over himself and the kitchen.
Metoo collected herself, and went to Tobe at the kitchen sink. She leaned past him as he backed away from her, and turned off the tap.
“I’ll run you a bath,” she said, as brightly as she could.
Tobe said nothing. Still rubbing his hands, he left the kitchen, and walked down the corridor to his own little room.
Metoo went to the bathroom, and began to run Tobe’s bath, relieved to have something practical to do. The tone sounded again. Metoo put her hand under the stream of water, running into the tub, to check that it was at the right temperature. Then she dried her hands and sorted out a towel and a robe, ready for when Tobe got out of his bath. The door to the bathroom was open, so that the bath could steam, happily, without causing condensation everywhere, and Metoo sat down to enjoy a moment’s peace, listening to the running water, and thinking about Tobe.
The tone sounded again.
Metoo turned off the tap, and made her way out of the bathroom. She turned when she heard footsteps behind her, and saw Tobe coming out of his room. She stopped to watch him. He was still wearing his robe.
Metoo waited for Tobe to start peeling his robe off over his head, as he usually did in his room, and, if not, always on his way to the bathroom. Before she had come to live with Tobe, Metoo had never seen a naked man, and it had taken her several weeks to get used to his total lack of self-consciousness. She had not given it a second thought for years.
Tobe went into the bathroom, still wearing his robe. She followed him back to the bathroom, just as he was closing the door.
Tobe never closed the bathroom door. He never closed any door. Tobe liked to be able to see the space around him, especially in the flat. The only door that was kept closed in the flat was the garden room door.
A Service tone sounded in the flat.
Metoo couldn’t think. She was tense, and everything around her seemed, suddenly, much less predictable than she was used to.
Pitu 3 was dead, and Metoo did not know what to think about that. A Medtech doctor and a Police Operator were hiding out in her garden room, and she didn’t know what to think about that. She was, effectively, in lockdown, because of something that Tobe was supposed to have done, a
nd she didn’t know what it was. Tobe was acting out of character, or, out of his character at least.
Tobe appeared to be transforming into something approaching a normal person.
If all of that wasn’t enough for Metoo to deal with, the Service tone sounded again.
Metoo had to sign-in, or was it -out? She hardly knew any more.
SAINTOUT AND WOOH had spent more than five minutes rationalising what was going on: much, much more. The ramp-up was complete, and Wooh had been part of the process that had altered Code-status to Orange. Saintout was right, all the screens on the Service Floor, not to mention screens all over the World, were tuned in to Tobe, collecting his data in ever-increasing detail. More mind-hours than anyone could imagine were being devoted to assessing, manipulating and cross-checking data, and all of it was streaming from Tobe: one man, one Master, one Active.
The entire World of Service now revolved around Master Tobe.
Wooh did not need a view-screen in front of her face, or a bead in her ear; other people were doing that job. Wooh was on the ground, and she was a specialist, and Saintout was on the ground, and he was a specialist.
After many minutes, hours, even, spent discussing Tobe, they finally decided what they needed in order to make any real progress.
“You know what we need?” asked Saintout, smiling.
“Yeah,” said Wooh, “we need an expert. We need someone that can decode Tobe’s brainwave from the inside out, but, if he’s out there, you can be pretty sure that he’s already working on this particular problem.”
“It’s not a ‘he’,” said Saintout.
Wooh and Saintout visibly jumped as the garden room door crashed open with no warning, and Metoo bowled in on them.
When they had gathered their wits about them, and Metoo had closed the door behind her, Saintout was the first to speak. He looked at Wooh, and smiled.
“It’s not a ‘he’, it’s a ‘she’,” said Saintout, “and she’s not ‘out there’...”
