‘What’s in a name?’ Pete teased. The Lieutenant put on a professional not-amused expression, though Pete knew he was a little entertained by the answer. ‘I have many names.’
‘You are a Citizen?’
‘I have been.’
‘But one who won’t reveal his identity. You understand that I must treat you as a non-Citizen?’
‘Of course.’ Pete paused to read over Baumer’s mind; the Lieutenant was listening to the remote communications of his superiors while keeping his eyes locked onto Pete’s. He was being ordered to gather more information and advised that the status of the interview had been raised another level. ‘Before I begin, I have a request.’
‘A man with no clear identity does not have the rights of a Citizen, sir.’
‘It is a small request, in light of the fact that I have come to you of my own free will, am not hostile and, if required, will freely accept any restraints you deem necessary. I also understand that any rights I have as a Citizen will be revoked once I reveal myself.’
‘This interview has been regraded.’ Baumer repeated the words as if wired straight to his lips. This meant more people were watching the interview. Underneath he was becoming worried and was pondering the need to order a facility lockdown. ‘You are offering yourself into custody? For what crimes?’
‘No crimes.’ Pete swallowed. ‘I have committed no harmful acts. I am here to offer my services.’
‘What is your name, sir?’ the Lieutenant demanded.
Pete for a moment didn’t answer. The small room suddenly felt smaller as it hermetically sealed itself and the air-conditioning closed off. They were preparing to gas him and the Lieutenant both; they were simply waiting for confirmation of their computed suspicions.
‘My name is Peter Lazarus, Citizen W4 3358Q AG210385 of Los Angeles.’ He heard the disapproving hiss of venting gas. ‘I have come to help in the hunt for —’ He looked at Baumer’s alarmed and rapidly drooping eyes. His voice became wet, lips nearly too heavy to release the words, ‘Pierre Jnr.’
The Lieutenant slumped in his chair as if his soul had oozed out through his feet. Pete imagined he must look the same before his head fell back and he passed out.
~ * ~
Pierre stood on a stool to be measured and let the tailor waiting at his feet see the real him. He didn’t often reveal himself, instead keeping an image in watchers’ minds of a normal eight-year-old boy. It was what they expected to see, so it was quite easy for him to do. Now he stood bared, not naked by literal definitions, but naked for him, reflected in the tall mirrors that stood en garde around the walls.
He tipped his head towards the balding tailor at his feet, who looked up at him with the stiffness of awe and fear, mesmerised by the monstrous head and the tatty hair that was unable to cover the lively streaks around Pierre’s skull. Am I such a fearsome sight?
Pierre put a soft hand on the man’s pate and placatingly stroked the surviving white hair. ‘You may start.’ He smiled.
~ * ~
Many believe he
does not exist
~ * ~
Pete awoke under a mask. He knew what it was, though he’d never been under one before. Masks were used to keep prisoners and patients unconscious and obedient. He blinked under the opaque face-plate as it depressurised from his face with a stiff sigh.
One by one his senses slowly returned to him. His ears told him he was in a large open space. They also told him it sounded dark, but he put this down to a minor synaesthesia caused by the fading intoxications.
Sight was the last sense to return to him. Blinking to clear his eyes, Pete saw an old man in uniform snoring softly in a leather armchair across from him. An enormous moustache of white and ginger rose and fell with the dry snores, matched in magnificence only by an equally daring pair of eyebrows.
Attempting to move, Pete found himself bound to his chair, which was secured to the floor. Around him a line of servitors lit up at his struggle, tracking his every move with ominously steady weapons. He was square in the middle of an empty pre-slab hangar, the floor and walls composed entirely of reconstituted stone hexagons that tiled out forty paces in each direction. The space echoed with the tracking adjustments of the robot gendarmes that lined each wall. He wondered if they had built this prison just for him.
Oh, well, it was to be expected. Pete forced himself to relax. He was, after all, a wanted fugitive, a dreaded psi; he could hardly blame them for their precautions.
He coughed politely and the snores ceased. Silently the origami of the Serviceman’s eyelids folded in and watery eyes peered through the eyebrow canopy.
‘Yes?’ the old man said.
‘Where am I?’ Pete asked, finding himself too drowsy to tap into the man’s thoughts.
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ the old man objected, straightening in his seat and looking around him. Slowly he nodded and stroked his facial hair as if it was a pet that required comforting. ‘Ah, yes, I remember now. We’re in isolation.’
‘I can see that. Who are you?’
‘No point getting tetchy with me, boy.’
Pete was at last confused. Nobody had called him ‘boy’ for thirty years. This wasn’t exactly how he thought Services would react to his submission.
‘I am Colonel Abercrombie Pinter, and the Will has assigned me as your intermediary. Aren’t you meant to be a mind-reader?’
‘I’m still a little drugged,’ Pete defended himself. Now he understood. They were putting a retired inconsequential in charge of him, so as not to risk the mind of anyone important. Damn it. It would have been better to have had a remote as his case-worker. ‘What do they intend to do with me?’
‘I am quite sure you would know more than I do. The request only came through last night, and most of that time I’ve spent asleep. I haven’t even had any breakfast yet. Are you hungry?’
‘Yes,’ Pete responded, his stomach momentarily taking over his priorities. ‘Thank you.’
The Colonel stood and walked to the farthest wall, where a servitor stepped forward with two trays. It was curious that they had chosen this method. Why an old man? And why is he only half-wired? Is he too old, or is it another precaution?
~ * ~
They ate a typical Serviceman breakfast: rashers of bacon, an orange mash of some sort and an eggy goo spiced with extra nutrition.
‘Tell me more about yourself. What do you do as a psi? To make a living, I mean.’
‘I work as an investigator mostly.’
‘Do your clients know what you are?’
Pete declined to answer. Of course they didn’t; he wasn’t that kind of person. It was well known that only Advocates and casinos made overt use of telepaths, siphoning the thoughts of others for their own exploitation. ‘I’m not what you think.’
‘Well, you would know.’
Pete tried again to feel the other man’s thoughts, but he was still foggy. The Colonel looked friendly but presented himself as standoffish, and everything he said seemed tinged with something else. Humour? Sadism? Pete was so reliant on being able to probe people’s minds, body language and tone were almost a mystery to him.
‘Tell me, Mister Lazarus. What is it about this Pierre Jnr that has made you change sides?’
‘There are no “sides”, Colonel. Only the non-psis have created this opposition.’
‘If you say so, my boy.’
‘I do.’ He bristled at the amusement the old man hid beneath his moustache, but Pete hadn’t come here to talk about the psi problem. He wouldn’t let that distract him.
‘You were saying ...?’ Pinter motioned with the chunk of bread he was using to garner the last of the goo from his plate.
‘Colonel, do you realise what Pierre Jnr has become to a lot of psis?’
‘I’m sure I don’t.’
‘What exactly are your qualifications? Why did they choose you?’
‘Until last nig
ht I was retired. At the moment, I am the limit of what Services will risk on your offer.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
‘Son, when you’re in Services you serve. This isn’t the worst tack I’ve been assigned.’ Pete could tell when the Colonel was being remotely instructed; his ripostes trickled out more slowly to cover his distraction. ‘Go on. Tell me more about Pierre and the psis.’
‘Psis are an oppressed people — you’d agree with that, wouldn’t you? It’s illegal to exercise our capabilities. Suspect children are sent to camps to make sure they are “clean”.’
‘Facts,’ the Colonel agreed, paying more interest to a cigar he had taken from his pocket.
‘Well, when a psychic of Pierre’s capabilities escapes the authorities and goes into hiding, what do you think happens? He’s become mythic. The psis are looking for a leader and he’s the prime candidate.’
‘So why are you here and not with him?’
‘Because he’s not a saviour. He’s just a boy who uses people like toys. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’ve seen what he does to people.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve had contact with him?’ The Colonel’s rushed question came straight from the hierarchy.
‘Not directly. I’ve just seen the results.’
‘Explain.’
‘It may be hard for a norm to understand, and I myself might have missed it if I wasn’t already familiar with her mind before, but somehow she was ... rewired. She didn’t think in the same way, and parts of her memory had been deleted.’
‘You use the machine analogy then?’
‘Sometimes. Sometimes it is like that. Each person has recognisable patterns you can learn. Consciousness is sometimes like a point, a moving beacon. Sometimes there are multiple points of consciousness or it can be like electricity in clouds. I knew this person well, and she was changed. It was a lobotomy, Colonel.’
‘Hmm. So who was this person?’
‘My sister.’
‘Your sister ... There is no record of a sister in your files.’
‘No. I had the information redacted. She only died two months ago.’
‘She was like you?’
‘In some ways, yes.’
‘How did you manage to erase all record of her?’
‘There are ways.’
‘Do we have any way of verifying your claim?’
‘I hope not,’ Pete answered.
The Colonel smoked his cigar for a moment. Amused. ‘So, what happened to her?’
‘She killed herself.’
‘That’s not unusual with you people, is it?’
‘No.’ Pete swallowed that one. ‘This was murder.’
‘Murder by suicide?’
‘That’s the kind of thing Pierre Jnr is. He’s not a part of humanity; he grew too fast. We are like toys to him and he is the greatest threat to our civilisation there has ever been.’ Pete stared straight across; the old man stared back calmly. Underneath he was sceptical. ‘Can they hear me direct?’
Pinter nodded. ‘They are listening.’
‘Well, why don’t you and they have a moment to yourselves? I’ll walk over here, the guns can point at me, and you can reach a decision.’
‘That’s not necessary, Mister Lazarus.’
‘Damn it, Pinter, I came in of my own free will. What more can I do?’
‘If you can calm yourself a moment longer, please,’ the Colonel admonished gently, the corners of his lips tilting toward humour. ‘What I was soon to say was that the decision of what to do with you was made long before I even arrived. You and I are merely having a conversation, getting to know each other as we await a delivery. It shouldn’t be long.’
Pete looked across the table at the faded flecky eyes and peered into what was about to happen. A symbiot lock. He felt the old man’s pity, though he could see no reflection of it on the outside.
‘Okay.’ Pete swallowed.
‘Spoken as if you have a choice.’ The smile that had been so long waiting on the dried-out lips broke open. ‘In the meantime, we could practise ending our sentences with “Colonel”.’
‘I apologise. Colonel. I am not used to respecting Serviceman ranks.’
‘Something you should master.’
‘May I ask who the man in your head is? The one coming with the bot.’
‘I’ve never met him. He’s a weaver, and will be part of your team.’
‘That much I know. Services’ best.’
‘We’re not going to get along very well if you can’t have a conversation like a normal person.’
Pete blinked. ‘I apologise. I’m nervous.’
‘I can see that.’ The Colonel nodded. ‘Is it the bot?’
‘A bit of that. I’ve also got thirty death sentences aimed at my head.’
Pinter shrugged. ‘They can’t trust you. The botlock is the simplest fix.’
‘They can trust me.’
‘As you trust them?’ The white eyebrows rose once more. ‘Services doesn’t work on trust, Mister Lazarus. Let’s pause for a moment and look at these recent events from the establishment side. The problem is that we don’t know why you’re doing this. You say it is revenge, but we have no evidence of the crime you say has been committed. You claim a sense of duty, to protect a society that excludes you and your kind. You can speak as openly and honestly as you like, but either way you are untrusted and, so, we need some insurance.’
‘Then I guess there are no choices for either of us.’
The Colonel laughed. ‘Yes, well done.’
Pete looked above the old man’s epaulets to see the large metal doors easing open for a tall, well-shouldered silhouette with a suitcase.
A table was brought and placed before Peter and the tall bearded man. Geof Ozenbach, Pete tapped from the Colonel. Services bred. A sequence baby that even a DNA test couldn’t match to a mother. Surprisingly, for a man whose life was so prescribed, he seemed good-humoured and unconcerned about his current assignment.
Geof set down the anodised box and held his thumb to the locking plate until it recognised him and clicked open. The top of the case divided and receded to reveal what looked at first to be a sleeping black-skinned lizard.
The weaver reached in and gently lifted the thing out with both hands. It looked heavy, gravity dragging its shape over his fingers. He had to keep moving it from hand to hand to stop it gaining a grip.
‘Hold out your arm.’ Pete hesitated and the big man smiled gently. ‘It’s not as bad as you think. He’s friendly, see? Really, there is nothing to be afraid of.’
‘Get it over with and we can proceed,’ Colonel Pinter drilled placidly.
‘Once it’s on me —’ Pete cut himself off. It would crawl inside him and Services would be able to track him forever, know everything he did or said. He had been free so long ... Once it was on him, it was final; he wouldn’t be able to remove it without killing himself. ‘No, you’re right. I made this choice already.’ Slowly he lowered his arm to the table and rolled back his sleeve. Geof laid the machine down on his skin like a chef handling a fine cut of meat. It felt cool and smooth. A snake on his arm. Even as Geof moved his hands away, it slumped down, adding so much weight that Pete wasn’t sure he could lift his arm.
‘He’s sleepy now, but he’ll warm up as he goes. Just relax and let him do his thing,’ Geof said in a soothing tone. ‘Symbiots work with you and they’ll never go deeper than you’re able.’
Pete had never had a symbiot, but he knew all about them — that’s why he feared them. Having a symbiot was like having a second brain, one permanently connected to the Weave, and everyone of age wore one, but it also meant Services would always know where he was and could use the symbiot against him. The one he was being fitted with was specially designed for suspects like him and could torture or kill if instructed to do so. He shivered as the scales spread, reinforcing his bondage a millimetre at a time.
Symbiots absorb energy from the bodies they are attached to: from the warmth, the beat of the pulse and the nutrients in the bloodstream. By this time tomorrow Pete’s would have settled in, a new skin encasing his arm and shoulder. And gradually, as Geof explained, it would begin working with Pete’s brain, tuning itself to the subtle signals until it could read it and then communicate with it. If Pete wondered what the time was, his symbiot would know and could present it screened on his wrist or in overlay on his vision. If Pete needed to calculate the volume of a swimming pool or count the people on a street, the symbiot would know, and then he would know. Apparently, or at least, as advertised, it would become a true extension of the mind, so that the bearer could perceive no distinction.
The Hunt for Pierre Jnr Page 2
