MINDFRACK

  “Thank God you’re okay. Don’t move. I’ll call Ops – get an ambulance.”

  “No,” gasped Dorsey, while floundering and trying to get up.

  “For Chrissakes, stop moving. If that wood’s gone through an artery …”

  “I know where my femoral is, Mac – missed by an inch at least. Now get me sat up so I can make a tourniquet.”

  He swore as Logan pulled him up against a couple of pallets. Indignant and angry, he straightened his jacket with his good arm while looking Logan up and down. “If it wasn’t for your lab-girl, Diaz, you’d be dead fish. You owe her. Now help me get my belt off and around my leg – up here.”

  Logan couldn’t help but grin at the seasoned detective. Dorsey stared at him, deadpan, and shook his head slowly. Logan didn’t know how to take that but slapped him gently on his good shoulder and said, “Thanks, I owe you a beer.” He heard steps behind him and twisted around.

  “Are we okay?” Carrie asked.

  He was surprised she hadn’t run away again.

  “Yes, we’re fine.” He pulled the belt around the top of Dorsey’s wounded leg and tightened it up. Dorsey shut his eyes and ground his teeth. When it was done he sighed and relaxed back.

  “Look,” Dorsey growled, “much as I’m enjoying our little reunion, I think you’d better get out of here. Get back to Bowery. Don’t look so surprised, I know where you’ve been holing up.”

  “What about you?”

  “Diaz knows where I am. She’s sending someone for me – nothing with a metal brain.”

  Logan looked outside, up into the mist.

  Dorsey understood. “She’s got that covered as well. All local police cams in this sector of Staten have been taken down, wholesale.”

  Logan was about to ask how, but Dorsey held a hand up.

  “You’ll have to ask Diaz,” Dorsey said, sweating. His leg must have been hurting like a mother. He added, “You know how I feel about tech. I only know about this.” He held up his RAL 500. He steeled himself and pulled Logan toward him. “Now listen to me …”

  Distant sirens broke through the morning rush-hour rumble.

  “I’m going out on a limb for you,” he said, huffing at his own pun, “Diaz came to me and told me everything. I did a little bit of research of my own. When I started to look too closely I got cut off from my sources – internally, including usage of the LDNP. That had to have come from above – and there’s some fancy hacking going on according to Diaz. She showed me stuff that didn’t make sense. I’m not sure what the fuck’s going on. But I do know you’ve been set up and there’s a hunt on for you – in case you didn’t know. You’re the prime suspect in the murder of a patrolman found outside your condo – your bio was all over him.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Yeah, well, it was – at least according to the forensics report. But I’m beginning to doubt anything that’s produced by a fucking machine at the moment …’ He scowled at his wound.

  “You going to be okay?”

  “I said I was, didn’t I? Now, try and stay low until I can figure this out.” He didn’t look very confident.

  “What if you don’t?”

  Dorsey ignored his question. “Here, take this,” he said, handing over a rectangular blue token on a keyring.

  Logan recognised what it was.

  “I added you to it before I left the compound,” said Dorsey.

  “But I’ve never been on one,” Logan protested.

  “It’s easy as Pacman to control. Make sure you’re strapped on and tell it to take you to Bowery – or maybe somewhere a little way off. You don’t want to attract attention. It’ll find its own way back.”

  “You sure you’re all right here – alone?”

  He looked at Logan like he was the classroom dullard. Cradling his firearm, he said, “Now get the hell out of here, before I change my mind and haul your asses in to the precinct. And take this.” He picked up the polibot’s puncher and pushed it at him.

  Logan looked doubtfully at it.

  “It’ll work for you – you’re registered on the police firearms register.”

  “But I’m not –”

  He grimaced. “Yes you are. But your iTatt app will need to be online whenever you use it. Now go …”

  Logan grabbed the puncher, pushed it through his belt and hurried out of the warehouse with Carrie in tow.

  Outside, they found the police airbike and jumped on. Once belted up, Logan did what Dorsey had instructed. He touched the token to the dash ID sensor and waited for the bike’s 5thgen brain to connect to his iTatt. His iSense head-up displayed the bike’s virtual dash and map. As the turboprops wound up he thought-projected at the Canal Street area and zoomed into a side street near the Bowery Commune entrance.

  He held onto the handlebars, and Carrie held onto him. The airbike lifted off smoothly, no lights, and they disappeared into what was left of the night.

  42

  Crap …

  Pic was enjoying the confrontation in the warehouse.

  Finally caught Logan and the sexbot. He was about to call Turkey – to show him. Get him to come and pick them up.

  And all hell broke loose.

  A part of Pic’s psyche had been in an online game, his avatar was the polibot. The interrupting detective, Dorsey, was the Dark Invader. He’d been jumping about in his lounger, almost pissing himself with excitement.

  Duck and swerve, ha, missed me.

  Now! Fire the puncher!

  Was that a hit?

  Leap onto the Dark Invader.

  Got you, fucker!

  BOOM!

  What the …? All views and telemetries dead …

  Shit – no!

  Didn’t expect that …

  Only just in time had he managed to find a suitable drone in the area to send after the police airbike.

  Now he was flying the drone, maxed out; it was keeping up – but barely, and the drone’s motors would burn out soon if he kept up this speed. He had an idea …

  Hurry, Brainiac!

  Invade the airbike’s on-board systems ... Not much time before they got out of range …

  There we go –

  No, no, no!

  His rushed efforts alerted the bike’s anti-malware and it closed him out. Carrie spotted the drone on their tail, told Logan … and he accelerated.

  In the same moment Pic’s drone faltered and died.

  Need another one …

  There! A postal type, rapid delivery. They’re shit-fast. Connect. Load trojan. Mimic the drone’s 5thgen pilot … Drop the parcel, and away we go. Ha! Let’s catch Case-Closed up …

  Where’s he gone?

  Where … are … you … Case-Closed …?

  Eh …? No way ... He’s behind me –

  What’s that. Oh, shit.

  Nooo!

  Drone down …

  Can still see him – getting away. What’s he doing? – you’ve got to be kidding me, Case-Closed. Giving me the finger ...

  FUCK YOU, LOGAN!!

  43

  Six and a half hours into Salvatore’s procedure, the Wet Bio Team had declared the operation a success.

  “Wait … I think I have something,” said Ade, his voice tight with anticipation.

  He’d taken up vigil at the back of the surgical theatre, over the swathe of 3V monitors that hung before him. He swept up the EEG-brain relief and filtered the images using his fingers to pluck out areas of most interest.

  “He’s back, he’s back!” he shouted across to the huddle of figures attired in laboratory and surgical scrubs.

  The assembly of scientists consisted of the Dry Tech Team, who were mostly observing like Ade, five key members of the Wet Bio Team and a set of specialists and technicians. The Wet Bio Team members attending were specialists in neurophysiology, two of whom had direct experience in mainstream brain surgery.

  The team’s behaviour was akin to that of NASA technicians who had received telemetry from
a distant spacecraft that had successfully landed against the odds.

  “He’s aware,” stated one of the neurophysiologists pointing at the Beta rhythms of the EEG 3V.

  The others joined in the technical banter.

  “Maybe some Gamma in there. He’s thinking about some serious stuff.”

  “Look,” said a female voice, concerned, “he’s experiencing a fright response.”

  “It’s okay, Ade’s support unit is tackling that. There you go. He’s stabilised again. He’s thinking …”

  “My God, this is amazing.”

  “Fantastic, Ade.”

  “Well done, man. You’re making history.”

  “You’re a genius …”

  “All right,” said Ade, breathless, “we need to bring his hearing implants on line, at the lowest possible setting to normal speech. Jerry, please ramp up three virtual decibels per second over fifteen seconds. Doctor Manzo, can you increase the selective cortical stimulus as you wish.” Lastly, he commanded, “Now his other implants. Input to hearing ... output to speech.”

  One of his own team busied himself before looking up and giving a positive nod.

  Ade held up a hand indicating for the silence to continue, and steadying his voice he said, “Salvatore, this is Ade. Can you please try and respond using speech?”

  Silence continued to fill the room.

  Concern etched on his face, he tried again. “Salvatore, are you there my friend?”

  ***

  Salvatore was reluctant to respond, fearing what he had become.

  He was thankful for the voices and background sounds, however, as they were a welcome relief from the rapidly encroaching visions of hell.

  In the intervening period, after he had woken, he’d been subjected to the most profound sensory deprivation imaginable and had been reduced to the process of thought itself.

  With nothing to substantiate his existence, no input to anchor his self’ness or hang his ego upon, his mind moved inward, into his subconscious, continuing to grasp for meaning, for something.

  Vivid hallucinations followed, some of which were odd, like the sensation of having a body that morphed and elongated until it was a mile long, before shrinking and disappearing into a dot. Other visions began to emerge that were far more disturbing, the stuff of nightmares, many constructed out of suppressed memories and images collected over the years; these were only stemmed when Ade’s voice reached in and snatched him from the grasping fingers of insanity.

  Another external sensation intruded into his limited world. It was the itch at the back of his head, or rather, his brain.

  Like air drawn into a vacuum, his attention flooded through the link into Ade’s tablet. In the time it took a man with lungs to draw a breath, he had looked out of the tablet’s integral cam before making the practiced leap to those of the room. He took in the laboratory with hungry electronic eyes. Technicians were dispersed amongst and around the conglomeration of tables, surgical equipment, hovering drones with cams and lights, mechanical multijointed arms that extruded from the ceiling, 3V screens …

  There was agitation at one of the 3Vs, as a technician pointed to a read-out.

  “What? Hey, Ade, this can’t be right, his visual cortex? His sensory activity has gone off the chart … Look at this.”

  The comment wasn’t lost on Salvatore and he reluctantly withdrew into his void. He decided he must cooperate.

  “It’s okay,” said another technician, “Readings have returned to within predicted parameters. Must have been a sensory anomaly.”

  “I can hear your assistant,” said Salvatore. “Is everything okay, Ade?”

  “Salvatore! You’re there. Thank God.”

  Clapping in the background.

  “I’m here, Ade. What is happening to me?”

  “You’re okay. You’re doing fine. We’re all here for you, buddy.”

  “Buddy? Are all your buddies so lucky, Ade?” The speech app successfully picked up on the sarcasm, but it went unremarked.

  “Your speech is being routed through my tablet as the new speech implant does not seem to be working. Once we figure it out, you can use that rather than the tablet. It will feel different – but you will soon get used to it.”

  Salvatore realised that by deliberately pushing his thoughts through the iCBC, the itch, and through Ade’s tablet, he’d inadvertently bypassed the newer implant. “That’s good to know, Ade,” he said, humouring the scientist.

  “Salvatore, you are amazing. Okay … Okay: you need to understand that we have woken you because we need to calibrate your new connectivity components. In simple terms, it means your sight will be returned.”

  “I’m excited, Ade.” Again no one registered his contempt.

  “After a short period of practice you will be able to make out faces and the like. Very soon, you will see again, properly. Then, later, we will be able to connect motor devices – perhaps an arm to start with.”

  Ade asked things of Salvatore that he didn’t understand, but he cooperated as much and as quickly as possible. This process went on for about thirty minutes or so.

  “Salvatore, we’ve finished the calibration. I need to hand you back to the Wet Team to complete their tasks. We need to anaesthetise you again as we want to add further implants to your brain. I promise this will not cause you any discomfort as it is standard medical practice. This is the last medical procedure – you have my word.”

  Salvatore was concerned at the idea of yet another change – but what more could they do? Replace his soul with another implant? He felt weary and knew he had no choice but to endure his continuing torture, so he let the drugs kick in and felt his anxiety lift.

  Before he succumbed to the anaesthetic, he said, “Ade, please don’t forget to leave the connection into your tablet; I would not want to wake up unable to speak.”

  “Of course, Salvatore, my friend. As I said, that’s staying put until we can figure what the problem is with the device we have planted in the Broca’s area of your brain, your speech centre. But we’ll keep the tablet in case it doesn’t work properly.”

  The new device won’t work, ever, he thought, and quietly moved through the itch and Ade’s tablet, allowing himself another brief look through the room cams.

  He tried to make himself out through the bustle of technicians. Skipped to different cams like a child looking over the shoulder of schoolfriends determined to keep him out of their latest secret.

  They were releasing the anaesthetics into his blood. He had seconds …

  There; a partial view, a surface of something shiny and transparent. He magnified the image until it resolved a grey-bluish mass beneath. He had no doubt that he was viewing the sum total of his being, a three-pound lump of offal clothed in an odd plastic covering.

  He was sinking fast now, oblivion pulling at him. He pushed back wanting just one more look.

  A technician stepped aside, inadvertently granting him his wish, and he glimpsed the entire structure that was Salvatore Costa. If the absurd horror of what he had become paralysed his thoughts, there was a single part of the structure that grabbed his entire being by the throat.

  What had they done to his eyes ...?

  44

  Carrie was smuggled into the Bowery Commune wearing Logan’s sweatshirt, the hood pulled down over her face.

  They were ushered through the outer fringe area and into the shop, where he was asked not to let Carrie out into the Commune, anywhere, as they couldn’t guarantee her safety.

  Shala followed them in.

  Wanda was greatly relieved to see them both and was concerned with the deep cut on the side of Logan’s forehead. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said, her hair a kaleidoscope of moving colours.

  “I’m fine, you know me by now, I’ve got a thick skull.” Despite shrugging it off, the wound continued to throb painfully.

  Shala made a noise like a long hiss. They both turned to the Xeno.

  “Mark, the Xeno Umb
ra Council is in your debt,” she said. “For now, Carrie can stay here. For your safety, you will all continue to be guarded.” She approached Logan and said pointedly, “We’ll talk later,” before turning and making her way out of the shop.

  Logan watched her leave, before closing the door. “What did she mean by that?”

  Wanda shrugged. “I’m not sure – but I’d be careful if I were you. I think Shala is a good person, but I don’t know much about what goes on down here beyond the commune fringe. I believe in the Intrum cause, but not if it means any sort of trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I don’t know – terrorism…”

  “You think they’re capable?”

  “As I said, I don’t know. But of late there seems to be a lot of weird politics going on. Hey, look, I’m just saying, all right? After what happened to us …?”

  “Yeah, I get it. Okay – I’ll be extra careful.” He quickly changed the subject. “Have you heard from Salvatore?”

  “No. Why? Haven’t you?”

  “Nothing, not since I was here yesterday.”

  “We need him if we’re going to stand a chance of getting out of this mess, don’t we?” she said, looking anxious.

  “It’s not going to be easy without him. Things are very complicated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, apparently I’m a murderer and a fugitive now – but there are people in the police department who know otherwise and are looking out for me. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have made it back here. They know we’re here, and they know I was set up. They told me that we need to wait until they can find a solution.” In truth, he thought Dorsey was in over his head and Diaz too vulnerable and inexperienced.

  Wanda turned away, her hair conveying her emotions, and Logan felt helpless. They needed Salvatore, no question. That much he was sure of.