Savant

by Nik Abnett

  “Yes,” said Goodman.

  “Yes,” said Perrett, her voice a second or two behind Goodman’s, because of the time lag on the vid-con from Mumbai.

  “Pictures are going to appear on your screen, and I’d like you to categorise the people in them, if at all possible,” said Branting. “If you want to guess, that’s fine, too; apparently we can tell a lot about a person by the guesses they make.” Branting’s tone was light, and he smiled a lot, but neither Goodman nor Perrett was fooled; they could both feel the tension emanating from the Control Operator.

  The first picture that appeared on-screen was of Bob Goodman.

  “No comment,” said Goodman.

  “He’s probably Service,” said Perrett. “He’s a bit old, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he sat at a screen all day.”

  The second picture was of Perrett.

  “Young, serious, ambitious,” said Goodman. “She won’t be reading screens for long.”

  “I’m not going to talk about me,” said Perrett, a few moments later.

  Branting showed slides of twenty or thirty individuals, from Service Operators to Politicians, and from Students to Civilians. Some of the faces were known to Goodman and Perrett, some were not. Neither subject commented on all of the faces, but, of those they did comment on, they were close to a hundred percent correct in their responses; more importantly, perhaps, on occasions when Goodman’ and Perrett’s evaluations did not match Service Findings, the two Operators had a better than eighty percent chance of agreeing with each other. Goodman scored a little higher than Perrett, over all, but Branting put that down to Goodman’s age.

  While they were undergoing the test, Perrett and Goodman were being monitored, as Branting had warned them, and Qa was processing wafers from their screens.

  One of the last pictures that the Operators were shown was of Pitu 3.

  “Miserable loner, poor sod,” said Goodman.

  “This boy needs help,” said Perrett. “People don’t like him, but he doesn’t know why, and he’s lonely. I guess he’s a Student, not very bright, though.”

  The final picture was of Tobe.

  “Master or Active,” said Goodman.

  “Definitely a Master,” said Perrett, “sciences, or maths, maybe.”

  “Wait...” said Goodman. “... No, it’s nothing.”

  “Would you like to explain?” asked Branting.

  “No, sir,” said Goodman. “It’s just that he seemed familiar, somehow.”

  “Okay,” said Branting, “thank you very much. We’re going to break for ten minutes, and then I’m going to show you some film footage that I’d like you to comment on. The third part of the test will consist of a series of wafers that I’d like your thoughts on; the same applies: Say what you think, and guess if you like.”

  METOO SAT IN the interview room for almost an hour, while Branting began testing Goodman and Perrett. He wanted at least three similar subjects, if he could possibly get three, before he started working with Metoo, in earnest. Half-way through the testing, Marquez was brought on-line, and his vid-con connection was completed in time for the second part of the test. He could catch up on the first section of the test, later.

  Metoo could not hear Branting speaking to Perrett and Goodman, but she could see the pictures of faces that they could see.

  “Are the pictures important?” she asked Police Operator Strauss.

  “I have no idea,” said Strauss. “I think everything is important at the moment.

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” said Metoo. She sat, facing the screen, watching the faces coming and going.

  She was monitored from the moment she walked into the room, and she was being filmed, although she was not aware of that. Her screen was being uploaded as continuous feed, and wafers were being produced at regular intervals.

  Metoo looked intently at the pictures, and did not address Strauss again.

  “He died,” said Metoo when Pitu 3’s picture came up on-screen. “I was so angry. I thought I was angry with him, but I wasn’t. I was angry because I knew it; I knew how much pain he was in, and I did nothing. I should have done something.”

  Branting appeared on Metoo’s vid-con screen a few moments after the last of the pictures was shown.

  “Metoo,” said Branting, “I’m going to ask you some questions, now. Just answer them in any way you can. This won’t take long.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “The last picture you saw, how did that make you feel?”

  “The picture of Tobe? I thought how unlike him it looked. It was nice to see his face, though, after being confronted with Pitu 3’s picture.”

  “Tell me something about that.”

  “I should have done something, but he wasn’t very likeable. I was too worried about Tobe to think about Pitu 3. I’ll make an effort to get to know the Students. I know how hard it can be, but for him, especially, it must’ve been very lonely.”

  “Yes, I suppose it must. Do you feel responsible for his death?”

  “I don’t feel responsible,” said Metoo, “I am responsible... I suppose we’re all responsible, but it only takes one person to intervene. I could’ve made a difference to his life if I’d tried.”

  Branting asked Metoo a few more general questions about her gardening, and about how she felt about Police Operator Saintout and Doctor Wooh. Then he began to ask about Master Tobe.

  “Have you noticed any changes in Master Tobe, recently?”

  “How recently?” asked Metoo, buying time to frame her answer. She would not lie, could not, but she was determined to give cautious, measured responses to the more probing questions.

  “In the last seven days, say.”

  “Yes. I have noticed some changes in him.”

  “Would you like to tell me what they were?”

  “You have to understand that Master Tobe is a complicated person, and the things I am going to tell you might not be what you’re expecting; this might not be what you want to hear.”

  “I only want to hear the truth.”

  “All right,” said Metoo, still unsure of what she was doing, and how it would affect her relationship with Tobe in the future. She didn’t answer his question.

  Branting began again.

  “Do you know Tobe’s status?”

  “He is a Master at the College.”

  “For how long?”

  “Twenty years, I believe,” said Metoo. “He must have been one of the youngest to have been made Master.”

  “He was. Does that mean something to you?”

  “I suppose it makes me proud, although I had nothing to do with it, of course.”

  “How long do you think you’ll be Tobe’s Companion?”

  “Assistant-Companion,” said Metoo, stressing the word ‘Assistant’. “I imagine that, after this is over, I will be relieved of my duties.” She dropped her head, and Branting thought for a moment that she might be crying. He was surprised to realise that he felt terribly sorry for Metoo, and slightly horrified that it appeared he could not be impartial, at least where she was concerned.

  “That is by no means a foregone conclusion,” he said. “What do you understand to be the difference between a Master and an Active?”

  “I don’t understand the difference at all,” said Metoo. “Are you asking me if I believe that Master Tobe is an Active?” she asked.

  “No,” said Branting, taken aback.

  “Then, I don’t understand where these questions are leading.”

  Branting sighed. Metoo was being honest with him, and it compelled him to be honest with her. They had so little time, perhaps it was better to get to the point, and hope that she could enlighten them.

  “I’m trying to get as much information from you as I can,” said Branting. “We need to know what’s happening with Master Tobe; we need to know the cause of several thousands of people leaving the reservation.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Metoo, “I don’t understand.”
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br />   “I need to know, from you, how to protect the Earth.”

  PERRETT, MARQUEZ AND Goodman watched Metoo on their screens. They watched continuous feed of her conversation with Branting, although, there was no sound, and they were not aware that she was in conversation. Neither did they know that the feed was live.

  Goodman turned to McColl.

  “That’s got to be her,” he said. “I never thought I’d see the day.” He could not help but be thrilled by Metoo’s presence in front of him. He had never thought to see an Empath’s screen, let alone the face that belonged to the mind.

  “Who is that?” Perrett asked. There was no answer; Branting was, apparently off-line.

  “Excuse me?” asked Chandar.

  “Nothing,” said Perrett. “It’s just... Do you know who that is? I don’t remember seeing her face before, but...”

  Chandar looked up for the first time since Perrett had entered the room. He looked at Perrett, and then at the vid-con screen.

  He took his glasses off and peered into the screen.

  “No, no idea,” he said. “She’s beautiful, though, isn’t she?”

  “Very,” said Perrett, “but that’s not it. She’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anyone like her. Does Service know who she is? Does Branting?” Perrett had pushed her chair away from the table in front of her, and was getting to her feet. Chandar took hold of her arm, and pulled, gently, encouraging her to sit down.

  “I’m guessing,” he said, quietly, “they know exactly who she is. Do you?”

  “I know that I’ve never seen anyone like her,” said Perrett. “There are rumours, obviously...”

  “Rumours?”

  Marquez sat in front of his vid-con screen, still a little bewildered by what was going on. There had been no real preamble, and he was thrust into watching the vid-con screen without knowing what he was supposed to be doing.

  “Good-looking isn’t she?” said Burgess, casually.

  “Yes,” said Marquez, staring at the screen.

  Ranked Operator Burgess did not know why he was escorting Marquez, but he was sure that, whoever he was, the young Operator was going to figure pretty seriously in the outcome of the crisis.

  “What are we looking at?” asked Burgess.

  “The Mother of all things,” said Marquez.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “YOU KNOW YOU’VE got people worried,” said Saintout, casually.

  “Worried?” asked Tobe.

  “The maths. People think that the World will end because of it.”

  “The maths? Tobe’s maths?”

  “Yes.”

  Master Tobe’s chin dropped down onto his chest, and he began to giggle in a way that was most unnerving to Doctor Wooh, who was trying to watch her screen, listen to the audio, and get through to Service Global all at the same time.

  Part of her desperately wanted to tear off the headset, and hurtle out of the garden room to find Police Operator Saintout, so that she could rip his head off.

  Tobe eventually lifted his head. He didn’t look at Saintout, but at the wipe-wall in front of him.

  “The World will not end because of Tobe’s maths,” said Tobe.

  “Why not?” asked Saintout. “They’re talking about you at the top. Service Global is talking about you. Metoo has been summoned to testify about you. Why shouldn’t the World end because of your maths?”

  Wooh finally signed on to Service Global.

  “Are you people watching this?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you stopping it? Someone has got to stop him!”

  There was no answer for several seconds, and Wooh was about to launch into another tirade when she finally had a reply from Service Global.

  “Thank you for signing in,” said Service Global. “Service will resume shortly.”

  Wooh breathed hard. She could feel her chest tighten as her body began to panic. She knew that she must keep herself in check if she was going to succeed, and she knew that she must succeed, at all costs. Wooh exhaled long and hard through her mouth, and then inhaled long and slow through her nose. She felt better in seconds.

  “Anomaly status on Master Tobe?” she asked.

  “That information is not currently available,” said Service Global.

  Saintout stood in front of the mini-print slot in the wipe-wall in Master Tobe’s room.

  “Isn’t this thing hooked up to the wipe-wall in your office?” he asked.

  “Tobe doesn’t know.”

  “This is an older model, though, right?”

  “Tobe doesn’t like change. The mini-print is the same.”

  “The same as what?”

  “The same as when Tobe came.”

  “Okay. Is this the slot that was in the wall when you moved in here?”

  “Tobe doesn’t like change.”

  Saintout took that to mean that the slot had not been replaced for a long time.

  “And the slot in your office?” he asked, “Has that been there since you moved in?”

  “Tobe doesn’t like change.”

  “Well, it looks like this is your lucky day, then, Buddy,” said Saintout, squinting at the keypad on the mini-print slot. “There’s no compress button on this thing.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “That’s the third time you’ve told me that, and I still don’t understand what you’re saying. What isn’t true?” asked Saintout, as the slot started to spit out pages of material that the Police Operator could never hope to understand.

  Tobe watched, intently, as the slot spewed out page after page of his workings out.

  It was all there. Tobe could see it in his mind’s eye, and now it was all there, right in front of him. The mini-print slot was so ancient that it couldn’t distinguish one set of instructions from another, and had automatically uploaded everything that was on the wipe-wall, and everything that had been lifted by the newly installed slot in the floor of Tobe’s office.

  “What is all this stuff?” asked Saintout, holding a ragged, disorderly sheaf of papers out to Tobe.

  “Maths,” said Tobe, in a tone of voice that suggested that Saintout was stupid. “The maths is all here! The maths from the linopro. All Tobe’s maths is here.” He took the sheaf of papers and began to look at them, putting them in order, counting them, and then re-ordering them.

  “Now tell me something I don’t know,” said Saintout.

  Tobe looked at him.

  “It’s not true,” he said.

  “You know what,” said Saintout, grabbing the sheaf of papers back in one swift motion, “you’re going to sit on that cot and you’re going to explain exactly what you mean when you say, ‘it’s not true’. I’m sick of hearing ‘it’s not true’, so explain yourself or be damned.”

  “It’s not true, but Tobe doesn’t know why.”

  “Hence the maths.”

  TOTALLY POWERLESS TO do anything, Doctor Wooh watched Tobe, and listened to both of them, via the comm-camera in Saintout’s lapel. The bead was in her ear, and the view-screen was only a couple of inches from her face, yet she leaned over, in her seat, as if she was trying to get closer to what she was watching. Sitting in the chair in the garden room, her body was almost bent double; her forearms were resting on her thighs, close to her knees, and her neck was extended in front of her as if she was craning forwards to see something more clearly. He hands were clenched into tiny, tight fists that were jammed under her chin.

  “That’s it!” she cried, jumping up from her seat, and beginning to pace while she got back to Service. “That’s bloody it!”

  “LET’S GO BACK to first principles,” said Saintout. “What was your initial hypothesis? Tell me the question that you were hoping to answer.”

  A tone sounded in Tobe’s flat. Saintout looked up. He thought to ignore it, but knew that he shouldn’t. The tone sounded for a second time, almost before the first had ended. Saintout pointed at Tobe.

  “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.” />
  “Service?” asked Tobe.

  “Service.”

  Saintout signed in to Service.

  “Master Tobe must be confined to the kitchen,” said Service.

  “Why?”

  “Master Tobe must be confined to the kitchen,” said Service. “Escort him, and remain with him.”

  “Great,” said Saintout. He signed off.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  CLAXONS SOUNDED ON the Service Floor. The artificial light, set to a very particular bandwidth, pulsed violently for several seconds. One of the Operators at Workstation 8 vomited copiously all over the counter-top in front of him. The screen he was working at was pebble-dashed with old, undigested food. He looked at what he had done with huge, damp eyes, peering out of a grey face, and slid off his chair. Henderson stepped forward to replace him.

  He looked once over his shoulder, and said, very loudly, “Anyone else?”

  There was no reply.

  The lights on the Service Floor stopped pulsing, and the pitch and frequency of the claxons changed dramatically, as if the working parts had been dropped into a very large basin of water.

  Henderson keyed in his Morse signature, using the switch on the facing edge of the counter in front of him. He felt vomit on the tips of his finger and thumb. He wiped the residue off on the thigh of his trousers, and called for a Tech.

  “Get something to clean this up with, for God’s sake,” he said. The woman in the dicky seat had been mopping gingerly at the edges of the pool of sticky yellow sick, but was afraid that if she tackled it wholesale, she would either incur the wrath of the Agent Operator, whom she suddenly found sitting next to her, or she would succumb to her weaker impulses and join her colleague in a stupor on the floor. Neither appealed to her very much.The good auspices of a couple of level-headed Techs soon brought things back under control. Most of the vomit was removed through the suction cleaner hoses under the counter, and one of the Techs rummaged around in the racks until he found a damp cloth that smelt of vinegar, which he used to wipe the last of the mess off the countertop.