Quarantine
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By late afternoon, I'm growing short of productive distractions. My irrational fears about the Children keep resurfacing; I know exactly how to banish them, but I don't want to do that. Not yet.
I flick on the HV, in the middle of an advertisement; I flip channels, to no avail. Panverts don't involve active collusion between rival broadcasters (perish the thought); all stations just happen to have introduced the practice of allowing advertisers to specify the timeslots they want to the nearest hundredth of a second. I could switch right out of real-time, and search for something to download, but it doesn't seem worth the effort when all I want to do is kill time.
A young man is saying,'- lack purpose and direction? Axon has the answer! Now, you can buy the goals you need! Family life . . . career success . . . material wealth . . . sexual fulfilment. . . artistic expression . . . spiritual enlightenment.' As he speaks each phrase, a cube containing an appropriate scene materializes in his right hand, and he tosses it into the air to make room for the next, until he's effortlessly juggling all six. 'For more than twenty years, Axon has been helping you to attain life's riches. Now, we can help you to want them!'
After catching the last half of an incomprehensible -but visually stunning - surrealist thriller, I switch the HV
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off and pace the room, growing steadily more apprehensive. My rendezvous with Culex is still four hours away. Why put up with four more hours of boredom and anxiety? For the masochistic thrill of enduring real human emotions? Fuck that; I had my dose of that this morning, and nearly walked away from the case. I invoke P3.
Sometimes the feel-good subtext is more blatant than usual. Primed is the right way to be: quick-thinking, rational, efficient, free of distractions. It's all perfectly true, although, ironically, the analytic frame of mind that P3 encourages makes it hard for me to gloss over the fact that this attitude is imposed arbitrarily. Just about every mod which alters the personality comes with an axiomatic assertion that using this mod is good. Critics of the technology call this self-serving propaganda; proponents say that it's simply an essential measure to prevent potentially disabling conflict - a kind of safeguard against a (metaphorical) mental immune response. Unprimed, I tend to accept the cynical position. Primed, I acknowledge that I lack the data and expertise to evaluate these arguments decisively.
I spend ten minutes reviewing all that I know about the case so far. I'm struck with no new insights, which is no great surprise; P3 eliminates distractions and makes it easier to focus the attention -and thus to reason more swiftly - but it doesn't grant any magical increase in intelligence. The other priming mods all provide various facilities: PI can manipulate the user's biochemistry, P2 augments sensory processing, P4 is a collection of physical reflexes, P5 enhances temporal and spatial judgement, P6 is responsible for coding and communications . . . but P3's role is largely that of a filter, selecting out the optimal mental state from all of the brain's natural possibilities, and inhibiting the intrusion of modes of thought which it judges inappropriate.
There's nothing to do now but wait - so, incapable of boredom, untroubled by pointless fears, I wait.
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I return as near as I can to the point of release, but there's no need for precision; the mosquito finds me by scent, and would have shunned a stranger standing on the very same spot. It lands on my palm for an infrared debriefing.
The mission has been successful. For a start, Culex found its own route in and out of the building - no need to ride in on a human back, and no problem returning now. Inside, it located the security station, traced a bundle of cables to the ceiling, then found a way into the conduit and planted the twelve chameleons. Then, it went exploring more widely; the software is grinding away in the background right now, converting the data it gathered into a detailed layout of the building. Finally, it checked back with the chameleons, who'd cracked the security system's signal validation protocol, and reported that, after sampling all thirty-five cables, they'd identified twelve by means of which'a useful set of contiguous blind spots could be created.
I view eidetic snapshots extracted from the mosquito's brain, processed into a form which betrays no hint of their origin in compound eyes. No big surprises. Technicians. Computers. Assorted equipment for biochemical analysis and synthesis. No sign of any bedridden patients - though by now, Laura might be on her feet, and I have no idea what she'd look like; the late Han Hsiu-lien, possibly, but I wouldn't count on it.
Close-ups of workstation screens show flow diagrams of laboratory processes, schematics of protein molecules, DNA and amino acid sequence data . . . and several neural maps. But the maps aren't labelled with anything enlightening - like Andrews, l. or congenital brain damage study #1. Just meaningless serial numbers.
The layout of the building is completed; I wander through it in my mind's eye. Five storeys, two basements; offices, labs, storerooms; two elevators, two stairwells. There are several regions coded pale blue for no data, where Culex couldn't penetrate unaided, and had no opportunity to hitch a ride; the largest by far, twenty metres square, lies in the middle of the second basement.
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This could be some kind of special facility - a clean room, a cryogenic store, a radioisotopes lab, a biohazard area; people would enter such places rarely, with most of the work being done via remotes. But the snapshots show only a drab white wall and an unmarked door; no biohazard or radiation warnings, no signs of any kind.
The chameleons are pre-programmed for two a.m. -just in case the place turned out to be mosquito-proof after hours - but now there's no need to stick to that schedule; I send Culex back in, to tell them to activate in seven minutes' time, at eleven fifty-five. Chameleons are too small to receive radio signals - which is probably just as well; radio is bad security.
As I approach the building, I pass the layout to P2, which superimposes it over my real vision. Fields of view of surveillance cameras, and regions monitored by motion detectors, glow with faint red auras; it's tempting to think of this as danger rendered visible - as if some mod in my head could magically 'sense' the action of each security device - but in truth it's nothing but a theoretical map, which may or may not be complete and correct.
At 11:55:00,1 switch twelve patches of red to black -purely as a matter of faith. I have no proof that these blind spots have actually come into existence. If not, though, I'll soon find out.
The perimeter fence is barbed, and my field meter says that the top strands are electrified at sixty thousand volts-well within the threshold of the insulators in my gloves and shoes. The barbs look wickedly sharp, but they'd have to be studded with industrial diamonds - and spinning at a few thousand rpm - to make much impression on the composite fibres in my gloves. I swing myself over and clamber down, hitting the ground as softly as I can; there are adjacent motion detectors still active, and I don't know their sensitivity.
I slice open a ground-floor window, and slip into an unlit room, a lab of some kind. P2 adapts my vision rapidly to maximum sensitivity, for what that's worth, but it's Culex's map that helps me navigate past obstacles at a
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reasonable speed. Fixed obstacles, that is; whenever I see' a chair or a stool outlined in my ghost vision, I slow down and reach out to ascertain its current position.
The corridor, too, is in darkness, but I see red not far to my left as I leave the lab, and a second region still under surveillance comes within a centimetre of the doorway to the stairs. I'm about to turn the handle, when I realize that the elbow-shaped door-closing mechanism is on the verge of poking into the danger zone; P5 makes it clear that I don't stand a chance of squeezing through the permissible crack. I reach up and snap the device at the joint, then fold the two limp halves flush against the door.
I descend to the lower basement. The chameleons have done their best to give me the widest possible access to every floor, but this place seems to have been sparsely protected to start with. With no live cameras nearby to catch the spill,
I risk using a flashlight, bringing detail to my ghost vision's wireframe sketch. There are bulk containers of solvents and reagents; a row of horizontal freezers; a centrifuge sitting against the wall, opened up and spilling circuit boards, as if in mid-repair, or mid-cannibalization.
I reach the no data region. It's a large, square room, oddly adrift in the middle of an area that's otherwise undivided, and it looks - and smells - like a recent construction. But if Laura is in there, why would they have gone to so much trouble to house her? Not to keep her discreetly hidden, that's for sure; this ad hoc prison, if that's what it is, could hardly be more conspicuous.
I circle the room; there's only one door in. The lock is no great challenge; a little probing, then one carefully directed magnetic pulse is all it takes, inducing a current in the circuit that operates the release mechanism. I draw my gun, pull the door open - and find myself staring at another wall, just two or three metres away.
I step through cautiously. The space between the walls is empty, but the second wall fails to join up with the first, on either side. Before going any further, I close the door behind me and plant a small alarm at the top of the frame.
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When I reach the corner on my right, it's clear that the two walls are concentric; I keep going, and round the next corner there's a door in the inner wall. The lock is of the same cheap design as the first. I wish I knew the point of this bizarre setup, but I can worry about that later; what matters right now is whether or not Laura is buried in here, somewhere.
I open the second door, and the answer is no, but -
There's a bed, unmade since it was last slept in, the bedclothes drawn back on one side where the occupant presumably slipped out. A toilet, a sink, a small table and chairs. On the far wall, there's a mural of flowers and birds, just like the one in Laura's room in the Hilgemann.
The bed is still faintly warm. So where have they taken her, in the middle of the night? Perhaps she's suffered complications, and they've had to move her to a hospital. I spend thirty seconds exploring the room, but there's nothing much to examine; the mural, though, says it all. Laura was here, just minutes ago, I'm sure of that; it's pure bad timing that I've missed her.
And she may still be in the building. Upstairs, undergoing a midnight brain scan? BDI may be so eager to complete their contract - whatever that entails - that they're working round the clock.
Leaving the inner room, I almost turn right, retracing my steps, taking the shortest route out - but then I change my mind and decide to complete my circumnavigation of the gap.
The woman standing just round the corner, leaning wearily on a walking frame, looks exactly like Han Hsiu-lien. She glances up at me, and bursts into tears. I step forward quickly, and administer a tranquillizing nasal spray. She goes limp; I catch her under the arms and put her over my shoulder. Not the smoothest ride, but I'm going to need my hands free. The walking frame is a good sign; she may not be entirely recovered, but no doubt she can be moved without too much harm. Once I've got her out of the building, I can call for an ambulance - while I'm cutting a hole in the fence.
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I'm three paces out of the second doorway when a male voice behind me says calmly, 'Don't turn round. Drop the gun and the flashlight, and kick them away.' As he speaks, I feel a small, sharply defined patch of warmth alight on the back of my skull - an infrared laser on minimum strength. This is more than a palpable warning that I'm targeted; if the weapon is on auto, the beam's scatter is being monitored, and any sudden movement on my part would trigger a high-intensity pulse in a matter of microseconds.
I comply.
'Now put her down, carefully, then put your hands on top of your head.'
I do it. The laser tracks me smoothly all the way.
The man says something in Cantonese; I invoke Deja Vu for a translation: 'What do you want to do with him?'
A woman replies, 'I'll put him out of it.'
The man says, in English, 'Please keep very still.'
The woman moves in front of me, holstering a gun. From a pouch on her belt beside the holster, she produces a small hypodermic capsule. Stepping over Laura, she takes hold of my jaw in one hand - / lower my heart rate -slides the needle into a vein in the side of my neck - / constrict blood flow to the area - then squeezes the capsule.
Reduced circulation will buy me a few seconds, at best, but that should be long enough for PI to make an assessment. If this is a substance that the mod can neutralize, then now is the time to move; unless the plan is to incinerate me when I slump under the drug's effects, the laser must be off auto. If I feign loss of consciousness, stumble, swing the woman around as a shield, take her gun . . .
But PI gives no report. I try to twitch a finger, and fail. A moment later, I black out.
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4
I wake, lying on my side on a concrete floor, naked. My arms are aching, but when I try to move them, cool metal presses against my wrists. I look around; I'm in a small, narrow storeroom lit by a single high window. My hands are cuffed behind me to a shelving rack, packed with laboratory glassware, which runs the length of the wall
PS has lost track of my location; it relies on a mixture of perceptual cues, balance sense and proprioception, which is accurate to the millimetre when you're conscious and moving on foot, but totally useless when you've been knocked out and lugged somewhere. It does claim to have kept the time, though: 15:21, January 5th. The clocks in several other mods agree, and I doubt that a drug would have screwed them all up identically. In fifteen hours, I could have been moved anywhere on the planet . . . anywhere, that is, judging from the light, where's it's mid-afternoon or mid-morning at 15:21 Central Australian time. Belatedly, it occurs to me to scan the layout of the building in my head for any rooms with matching dimensions, and I find one on every floor. Culex saw nothing worth photographic snapshots in any of them, but the wireframe outlines it recorded indiscriminately are detailed enough to place me on the fourth floor.
I'm wearing two pairs of handcuffs; one pair has been threaded through a slot in one of the shelving rack's vertical supports. The shelves aren't anchored to the wall and just shifting my weight slightly sets the glassware rattling. I could try working the chain of the cuffs against the edge of the slot, but even if I'm not under surveillance, all that's likely to achieve is an avalanche of glass.
Okay, I'm stuck here. So who am I dealing with?
It's still possible that BDI are exactly what they claim to be: contract biomedical researchers. Who happen to have
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no qualms about kidnapping. Hired by the drug company whose product damaged Laura, in utero, thirty-three years ago. Company X would be taking a risk by involving outsiders, but maybe less of a risk than trying to deal with Laura in-house. Company X may have plenty of loyal staff, but presumably only a few of them are criminals -whereas BDI might specialize in just this kind of thing.
It all sounds as plausible as ever, even if the list of facts it fails to explain is growing longer. Casey's testimony. The architecture of the basement room. Laura roaming the gap between the walls of her custom-made prison. All of which suggest an alternative which might explain everything - and which doesn't sound plausible at all:
Laura really did escape from the Hilgemann. Unaided. Twice. That was why she was abducted; somebody found out, somebody who believed they could make good use of her talents. That was what the double-walled room was all about; a test for an idiot escapologist. And when I ran into her, she was half-way through passing that test.
What brought the guards down on us last night? Obviously, I triggered some kind of alarm - but unless the chameleons screwed up, the room wasn't under surveillance by any device linked to the building's security station. If Laura was being treated, not as a routine security problem, but as the subject of an experiment, it wouldn't be surprising if she was being monitored by a different system entirely.
Why are BDI making neural maps? It has nothing to do with disput
ing liability for congenital brain damage; they're trying to identify the pathways that make Laura the greatest thing since Houdini, in the hope of encoding her talents in a mod. Why did they smuggle her out as a corpse, not a passenger with a puppet mod? Because they didn't want to screw around with her brain, and risk destroying the very thing that made her worth abducting.
It all fits together perfectly.
The only trouble is, I just can't swallow it.
What hypothetical talent could Laura possess that would enable her to break out of locked rooms, without
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tools of any kind? Postulating an intuitive grasp of security devices is dubious enough - but what could anyone, however gifted, do to a lock, or a surveillance camera, with their bare hands? Two hundred years of research says telekinesis does not exist. The human body's minute electromagnetic fields - even if they were controllable - are about a million times too weak to be of the slightest use in picking an electronic lock. No amount of fortuitous brain damage could change that - any more than reprogramming a computer in some novel way could give it the power to levitate. So how did she get out?
I'm still pondering this when the door opens. A young man tosses a bundle of clothes onto the floor beside me, then draws a gun and a remote control, and aims the latter at the handcuffs. I quickly activate RedNet, in the hope of capturing the exchange. The cuffs fall open, but I pick up nothing; the frequency used must be outside the range of my transceiver cells.
The man stands in the doorway with the gun trained on me. 'Please get dressed.' I recognize the voice from last night. The expression on his face is matter-of-fact, with no trace of smugness or belligerence; no doubt he has behavioural optimization mods of his own.
The clothes are brand new, and fit perfectly. P3 vetoes anything but stoicism at the loss of all the equipment I had stashed in hidden pockets; even so, for a moment after I'm dressed, some part of my brain flashes redundant warnings at the absence of the usual inventory of reassuring lumps.