MINDFRACK

Logan suddenly realised what was going on. They had agreed nothing other than to meet him, and perhaps ask for his help. Shala had plans of her own. She was manipulating them all.

  The others turned to her.

  “I can give him our knowledge. Then he will underssstand.”

  Her suggestion hung in the air like a thundercloud.

  “No! It’s too risky,” said dog-person. “No one from topside has even been here before – now you want to give him everything we know as well?”

  “Lisssten to me. As things stand, he may or may not help usss. He will only act within his own sphere of knowledge and understanding, from which he may make a missstake. But … if he knows, experiences, everything, he will be correctly informed – it would make him better prepared, make better decisionsss. He will act for us, instead of from a position of distrussst. Let’s ask Xiang. He can work Mark Logan through his theorem and his farsight.”

  “Theorem? Farsight? Would someone mind explaining?” He looked to Shala.

  “Please …” she said, pleading with him, “please be patient with us – this is a big step for the Umbra too.”

  “We vote,” said Button-eyes.

  Slowly, and one after the other, all held up their hands, except for dog-person.

  They turned to Xiang.

  Xiang nodded and became still. His body slowly pivoted until he was floating horizontally, face up. The water closest to his skin began to glow, faintly at first and then more brightly, taking on a bluish phosphorescence. A couple of minutes passed before he returned to his vertical alignment, his skin returning to its original hue. He opened his eyes and placed his hand upon the glass. He seemed agitated, or maybe it was excited; it was not an easy thing to read in such an odd being. Shala got off her chair and made her way over to the tank before placing her own hand on the glass as though she were giving him a high-five. Both closed their eyes and became still. Shala’s tail became inert and settled on the floor behind her.

  Logan watched on with a mixture of fascination and fear. Should he walk away from this while he could? They had, after all, made it clear that he was here by his own volition. His heart hammered with anxiety and he reached for his nano-popper only to realise he’d left it back in the Xeno shop.

  A minute passed … and another, before they surfaced from their strange communion. Shala stood back and composed herself. Something had shifted in her. She turned to Logan and stared at him. He thought she looked troubled. She hesitated before turning to Button-eyes and giving a small nod.

  Button-eyes said solemnly, “Do you want to see what will happen if we do nothing? Do you want to know everything we know? Or do you want to walk away, in ignorance …?”

  “Everything’s a big word. How –?”

  “Leave that to us. Are you willing or not? Knowledge or ignorance, the choice is yours.”

  “Isn’t ignorance supposed to be bliss …? What will happen to me if I don’t go along with this?”

  “Perhaps you will still find a way to convince Grist to leave you alone. Perhaps you will convince the police that you are innocent of any crime. Then you will resume your job, and your way of life topside …” Button-eyes sat forward and added, with gravitas, “But you will not be aware of what is happening on the grander scale, until it is too late. His Guild – they are all Transhumanists – they will destroy the human way of life as we know it, including, most importantly, our freedoms. On the other hand, if you take our knowledge then perhaps you and your friends will be better equipped and will help us stop him – permanently.”

  “My friends …?” echoed Logan.

  “By ‘friends’ I’m including Salvatore – we know about him, he is extraordinary – and Carrie – though the robot is both the problem and the solution.” Button-eyes sat back.

  Logan noticed that Button-eyes hadn’t blinked once during his short speech; did he ever? he wondered. He looked around, not sure what was coming. Swallowing thickly, he said, “Okay. Let’s do this. How’s it going to work? You have stuff to show me – are we going to sit down for a long talk? I have all night and –”

  “Talk? – no! There is a much better way. Shala?”

  Shala nodded, then looked beyond Logan, towards Leo.

  The giant brought a chair over and placed it behind Logan. He raised his brow and with a toothy smile said, “Now you’ll see just how badass we are.”

  “He’s messing with you, Mark,” said Shala, flashing her eyes at the giant. “There is nothing to worry about, really. Just suspend your doubts for the next few minutes. It’s the bessst way to earn your belief and trussst in usss.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You mussst trussst me.”

  “Please sit, Mark,” said Button-eyes, “Or else you will fall.”

  “Like last time …?”

  “Different.”

  Nervous and unsure, Logan complied and sat on the chair.

  Shala stood in front of him. “Now please relax and look at my eyes. Try and let go of any preconceptions … of all your issues … empty your mind … Lisssten to me … watch my eyesss …”

  She placed her hands either side of his head. They felt cool and soothing, in contrast to the warmth that was building between them. Logan tried to relax and follow her lead.

  “Mark, listen to me … listen … listen ... listen …”

  Shala hadn’t opened her mouth, yet he’d heard her speak.

  Impressions came to him, vague semblances of objects, people, activities, all muddled together like ghosts imprisoned within a supernatural fog. Amongst this confusion he heard Shala’s voice, telling him to relax, to let go.

  The veil lifted.

  And then the floodgates opened.

  46

  Sirens wailed and APVs, preceded by police drones, arrived at an apartment block. Logan pushed through a crowd to see what they were looking at. The crowd parted as one and turned to look at him. There was a mix of emotions: confusion, wariness, fear …

  Polibots stood back as smaller uniformed bots with the letters CAB on their backs tended to the scene. They were more human-looking than their police counterparts. They pulled a cuffed man to his feet. He looked angry but tired and defeated. Grey hair, lips set hard through years of evasion and asperity. Logan looked again. There was something familiar about the face. No, it couldn’t be …

  It was him, maybe fifteen or twenty years older, but definitely him.

  He asked a woman nearest. “What is the CAB?”

  She looked surprised. “Citizens Adjustment Bureau?”

  “Oh, right.”

  The man – or rather, old-Logan – still had some fight in him and he tried to pull away.

  No go.

  A second CAB-bot grabbed his other arm and pushed him into a small van with the same letters C-A-B written on the side over pictures of happy and industrious people. Multiple turboprops whined into life and the van took off. Three police drones took up point and flanks and the small formation flew off.

  The crowd dispersed …

  ***

  He was standing in front of an official-looking building. Its exterior was adorned with the same theme as the CAB recovery van: animated holograms of people who were content and busy with life stood above the smaller CAB logo, and below all this ran additional words that informed him he was at CAB’s Metropolis district A Project, Upper Manhattan. Within, it was all glass, metals and plastics and severely minimalist, so that the cavernous entrance made harsh echoes out of any sound. People in uniforms and CAB-bots walked briskly, this way and that.

  Beyond reception was a holding area. Someone was pulled forcibly out of a large cage crammed full of fearful people. It was old-Logan. A CAB-bot either side and a human officer just behind.

  He followed the foursome down a corridor and into a room labelled “Modification – 27”. Inside, there was a seat like a dentist’s chair. Old-Logan began to struggle; a futile gesture against machines many times stronger. They strapped him into
the chair in a matter of seconds. The officer asked him questions while he held up a form on a tablet. Old-Logan looked anywhere but at the tablet. The officer whispered something into his ear. Old-Logan spat at him. The officer wiped his face but didn’t retaliate. Instead, quietly, he said: “I’m sorry,” and then louder, “Mr Logan, according to the US Citizens Charter Act of twenty-fifty-eight, article one, section nine, clause one, you will submit to the insertion of the latest iSense-Seven iCBC multi-chip within the three prescribed cortical locations: cerebellum, occipital and frontal lobes. I’m required to inform you that the procedure is safe and painless – unless you resist. Afterward, you will be taken to a recovery room for your own safety, where you will remain for three days. Then you will be moved to a reintegration staging facility at Lincoln Correctional Institute for a further five days, after which your case will be reviewed by an appointed councillor and an attorney of your own choosing. If you do not produce one, a state CC attorney will be provided. Finally, a Citizen Charter presiding judge will then decide if you pass the seven Citizen Criteria to be allowed back into our fair and just society …

  The officer nodded at one of the CAB-bots.

  Old-Logan flinched, his wide and red-rimmed eyes snatching down to the overly thick restraint encircling his right forearm. Resistance immediately drained from his body.

  The headrest extruded what looked like padded fingers. The CAB-bot positioned old-Logan’s head by holding his head at chin and crown. Old-Logan grimaced weakly. Then the headrest fingers swept around his head, locking it in place.

  There was a portal at the left side of the head restraint. The officer screwed a chunky device into it. He stood back. Old-Logan stared blankly ahead. There were tears in his eyes …

  ***

  Logan found himself standing on the side-lines of a fierce ongoing urban battle.

  Xenos were being rounded up. Some were emerging from a defunct subway station entrance, polibots goading them from behind with shock-batons. Those attempting to evade capture were picked off by hovering sniper-drones as they ran. The drones fired kinetic rounds; such was their accuracy that all those fleeing collapsed headless below a cloud of crimson fragments.

  Those that didn’t run were taken to large vehicle-trains and herded aboard. There was little doubt that their fate was to be a permanent one.

  Across the other side of the large square, adjusted citizens of the fair and just society reacted in several ways. Most ignored the incident and exited the square without breaking step; others found the brutal activities mildly disquieting, perhaps annoying, and averted their gaze back to whatever task was at hand; the remaining few were perhaps the most disturbing as they stood and watched with a shared detachment cast across their faces. Logan thought he glimpsed old-Logan amongst the latter group but looking older still; he stared directly at him, but there was no sense of recognition within the old man’s eyes. Logan realised with sadness that empathy or outrage no longer existed, just a sense of interruption to routine.

  He moved away from the insurgence and out of the square.

  Everywhere was dense with machines and robots of every design and designation. They moved through the air and across the ground. There were no streets here, there was simply space between the buildings. People, or citizens of the fair and just society, moved purposefully – but to what end? he wondered …

  He looked up and saw that he was under the GNG Tower. It looked much the same as in his own time, many years ago, except now it had competition from other scrapers that were almost as tall. He thought about George Grist.

  ***

  Little had changed within the GNG boardroom except the strange cherub sculptures had gone along with their water features and the vast table had been replaced by something that had a surface like liquid; images moved across it like ripples and reflections while merging with the 3V scenes above. It was like looking at Earthly scenes from Olympus; had George Grist realised his dream of becoming a god?

  And there was Grist, looking youthful, but recognisable. Others were seated around the table. He knew it was the Supreme Council of the Guild. They had retained their human quality and they seemed happy enough. Grist got up. It was evident that he was a mix of 6thgen and human, as were the other Guild members, but not like those down on the streets. The Guild’s Supreme Leader moved lithely to the room’s integral bar where a 6thgen mixed him a drink. He returned to the table.

  Amongst the 3V scenes was something recognisable, evocative even; it was the White House Oval Office, and the President was giving his State of the Union Address.

  They all watched the speech intently. Logan wondered why they didn’t simply observe internally, via iSense. Perhaps, he considered, it was to preserve their sense of being human – how ironic.

  When the speech had finished, they looked pleased and applauded, and all agreed that their plans were going well, very well.

  Grist smiled back at them, his eyes shining with elation and personal accomplishment.

  Outside, down on the streets, there was gunfire and screams …

  47

  Logan awoke with an odd sensation in his head. A heavy mass had taken up residence, like a dark featureless moon that was orbiting around the centre of his consciousness. It was pregnant with possibilities, yet unresponsive to his will.

  He shuddered at the nightmares and pushed away their residual images, thankful that he was free of them and had been returned to his own world.

  He recalled his experience within the Umbra Council Chambers, and Shala’s hands upon his head. He remembered an alarming sensation of heat while his mind was forced open and a stream of impressions and images flowing into him, like molten lead injected into a die cast. The pain was unbearable, as though his head would burst into flames … and then he had passed out.

  Now he lay naked on a wide bed under a dark grey canopy that he recognised as a Xeno Faraday bubble. His iCBC was quiet and the room peaceful; his only company was the ebb and flow of his breathing and that inchoate weight bearing down upon the landscape of his mind.

  There was movement across the other side of the room-sphere. He lifted his head.

  In the dim light he caught sight of something that shimmered and undulated and was moving towards him. It was Shala and she too was naked, having lost her thong and boots. He watched, mesmerized and beguiled, as she glided onto the bed and across his body until she straddled him. Her scales felt slippery and cool against his skin. His blood quickened and he felt himself harden. Something purposeful and demanding moved through her eyes. She opened her mouth and he saw her tongue rolling and caressing her teeth. Then it came out to play, feeling its way around her lips.

  Without taking her eyes off his, she reached down and directed him into her. It was an effortless action. For the briefest of moments, he registered confusion, since he thought she was incapable of such an act. Wasn’t she devoid of a woman’s sexuality?

  None of that mattered as she slipped her tail under the top of his legs and pulled him tighter to her, at which she sighed. Logan gasped, astonished at the strength of that additional appendage. He tore his eyes from her bewitching tongue to watch waves of colour play across her belly and upwards to her throat.

  He shuddered, reached up and ran his hands across her arms and body and down to her hips, which were rocking steadily.

  She slowed her movement, delaying his pleasure – or was it all hers? Her tail gripped him even tighter, as she did internally, making him yelp at the delicious pain, and stalling the tsunami of desire that was building relentlessly within him.

  She lowered her head and he came up to meet her, urgently. Her tongue entered his mouth and explored, wrapped itself around his own tongue, taking it hostage. It was a maddening sensation. Within his psyche, something dark and primordial was fighting to get out, to be the master in this play. He reached around her back and flipped their bodies over.

  He was moving now, to his own rhythms and wants, all the while held to Shala by her
tail and that tongue. And if that wasn’t enough, she reached up around his torso and sank her nails into his back. He grunted; pain and pleasure crossing boundaries. A battle of fierce desires ensued. They were helpless, prisoners of their base needs. She released his tongue, their mouths parted, and as one they cried out.

  Her tail slid from him and Logan fell to one side, gasping. They lay awhile looking into the uniform grey, their senses falling back to Earth like spent rocket casings.

  After a time, Shala levered herself up beside him. He looked to her, realising that neither of them had spoken a word. Somehow there had been a deeper communion, one that he didn’t fully comprehend. She placed her fingers on his lips and moved to straddle him again. Logan grabbed her arm. She laughed and shook her head. He let her sit about him. There was no fera-coitus to be had this time. Instead, she ran her hands gently over his cheeks before they settled at the temples of his head.

  “Now you must sleep, Mark Logan,” she said earnestly. “Sssleep …”

  He continued to stare at her, confused by what had happened, unsure of her motives, and, as before in the council chamber, heard the steady beat of her thought-words: “Sleep … sleep … sleep …”

  ***

  Awaking for the second time, under the same grey featureless sky, he was shocked to find that eighteen hours had passed. He pushed himself up onto the edge of the bed. His body felt like lead and his head swam like he’d come off a 360-rollercoaster.

  There were no afterimages of harrowing nightmares this time, except …

  He remained still and was about to write off an intensely erotic dream – one where Shala had come to him and they’d fucked wildly – until he felt the soreness across his back. He reached around and ran his fingers over deep scratches, and in a heartbeat knew it wasn’t fantasy. Neither was it regular sex. Whatever it was, he would do it again, in the same way a man would unhesitatingly release the hard nanostim, devil-dust, onto his veins, having experienced it just once.