MINDFRACK

by S G King

  There was much coverage of the GNG Tower incident, which had been put down to terrorism. George Grist’s death had relentlessly occupied the media’s attention for days; stories abounded of how he died, with endless speculation about what had happened to him immediately afterward. Most agreed that he would be placed in cryogenic suspension – his stated wish. Some of the more sensationalist news channels had put out fake stories that he was alive, that his death was a hoax, and were ever vigilant for a glimpse of Grist in his penthouse or on the terrace, mostly from cams that flew outside the privacy zone. Often they would zoom out showing the entire GNG Tower against the city backdrop. Its unique light-bending midsection looked all but invisible, giving the impression that its upper levels were hanging from the clouds like a fairy-tale castle from Disney, though for Logan the images it brought up were more evocative of the darkest tales from the Brothers Grimm, replete with their own monster, recently slain.

  Memories of the R and D laboratories, and the tormented souls that had existed there, continued to give him nightmares, but they would fade, as would his waking memories, given time. Shala had revealed another of her extraordinary gifts, since she had offered to reduce his pain, although in what form or how was unclear. He refused her offer. The destruction of the R and D basement level and its sad occupants was a tragedy, but gave Logan a sense of closure, as he knew their suffering had ended.

  Nor was their mission a total loss, as they had saved a baby. It turned out the two-month-old girl was normal, and the Xenos passed her on to the authorities to deal with, stating that she had been left anonymously outside one of their commune entrances.

  And of course they had Salvatore, too. The Xeno scientists had already made extraordinary progress with respect to his brain’s survivability, beyond anything that GNG’s R and D teams were capable of. What this meant for Salvatore’s future and incarnation, should he survive indefinitely, was unknown.

  Logan was greatly relieved, both for Salvatore and themselves, since, without the “old bum”, as he fondly referred to him, they would be sitting ducks for GNG and the Guild. There was little doubt that Grist would have left instructions to find Carrie, as she held the promise of vital information regarding Joe Grist’s whereabouts.

  He was broken from his reverie by an iSense call from Diaz via Salvatore’s convoluted routing protocol. Her presence was limited to an avatar, though it was an excellent likeness. It was the only way to ensure that it was almost impossible for anyone to work out where they were. He let his selfie-cam fly off the car’s dashboard and hover just off to one side.

  Despite it being so late, she, or rather her facsimile, was in the forensics lab sitting in her favourite location, in front of the big 3V display.

  “Hey, Diaz. Everything okay?” he said quietly, turning away from Wanda.

  “Uh, yeah. Wanted to update you on your situation here. And I just wanted to see you briefly. A pretty good likeness, I have to say.”

  “You too. So give me the news. Good or bad?”

  “As far as I can tell you’re completely off the hook, as far as any criminal activities go.”

  Logan breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want any record attached to him, especially an unjust one. Yes, he’d killed two people, but in self-defence. He certainly wasn’t a murderer, and he didn’t want anyone to believe otherwise. His reprieve was down to Salvatore, who readjusted the records. It caused some confusion amongst the brass, but in the end they had to go by the evidence, and the fact that Dorsey and Diaz had backed it up.

  “So, what am I not off the hook for?”

  “Pissing Dorsey off is number one. Stony doesn’t understand, and I quote, why you ‘had to shaft the department and vanish off the face of the Earth’, leaving him to ‘sort out all the crap and fill in all the forms’ in your absence.”

  Logan chuckled. “Poor old man. What else?”

  “I’m still on number one. His leg’s on the mend but he blames you for it. He was pretty angry today, at the weekly – again, about your disappearance. I think it’s because you didn’t give him the chance to air his frustrations upon you. He’s giving me quite a lot of grief instead.”

  “Huh. Anything else?”

  “Hey, he loves you really – you know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m feeling all warm and gooey inside.”

  “Seriously. He does respect you. I guess he’s a bit frustrated since you haven’t explained why you’ve moved on – and broken all contact.”

  “Tell him I still owe him that beer. I will be back one day – bank on it.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “And number two?”

  “There isn’t a number two – I was just kidding. It’s all looking good, Mac.”

  “That’s good to know. And how are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. Starting on a new case. JFK check-in fraud – by 6thgens, would you believe? Probably a human perp in the chain. Not as exciting.”

  “I’d believe anything these days. We’d better wrap this up – you know what Salvatore says about call durations.”

  “Mac, I miss you. Don’t be too long out there. Please keep safe.”

  “Don’t worry Diaz, Salvatore is looking after us. There’s nothing out here to worry about, for now at least.”

  “All right, just keep in touch.”

  “Promise.”

  Logan was left looking out through the car’s window screen. Dusk had swept the day aside and a full moon was blinking at him between buildings as it prepared to take its place in the night sky, a steady beacon amongst the flitting air-traffic.

  On the highway, streams of traffic snaked purposefully into the distance, carrying passengers to homes and families, to loved ones, to whatever passed for security. Within his eyes, the course of their personal journeys seemed as fragile as morning cobwebs. The idea caught him and he pulled out his nano-popper to find a different source of comfort. He regarded the small container thoughtfully, his thumb resting on the colour dial, before pushing it back into his pocket.

  As the miles between them and New York megalopolis began to stack up, so his concerns about abandoning his old life receded. He realised for the first time in his life that there was more than losing time to nanos and beer over a weekend with his drinking friends or crashing the next party. And, despite the unknowns, he felt something new and wholesome take up point in his mind; with some surprise he realised it was purpose.

  He huffed quietly to himself before flipping his hood up and settling back into his seat.

  Like a tropical wave reaching up the shoreline with its foamy fingers before withdrawing, so sleep reached out and pulled Logan into itself.

  EPILOGUE

  News of Grist's death hit Emmett like a sucker punch.

  Soon after the GNG Tower bombing and Grist’s reported death, he iSensed his contact at GNG pharma to ask what happened next. Emmett was as prickly as hell, ready for a fight, but it turned out that Grist had left clear instructions for Jennifer's meds to continue – providing he continue to work in the Guild's best interest.

  Satisfied with the response, he turned his attention back to uncovering Grist’s most damning secrets – and the location of his son. He realised that with Grist out of the picture, it would make his job easier. Pic had already informed him that he was on the trail of evidence that would show Grist’s personal involvement in Mireille’s murder. When pieced together with other reports from his investigators he knew that finding his son was becoming a tangible reality. He dared to begin forming ideas of how he would gain his trust: first he would offer him his services and help him take over GNG. A tall order, yes, especially if Grist’s son was reluctant and preferred anonymity. But he could be persuasive, make a good argument that there was little choice. As a last resort he would engineer the “leak” of his existence. Once the media got their hands on the sensational scoop there would be no going back. Then Emmett would bring him in; the only assurance of safety would be for Grist junior
to take his place at the helm of GNG. In return for Emmett’s guidance and counselling, he would ask the new CEO to instruct GNG’s Pharma Division to release Jennifer’s genetic antidote. It could work …

  He called Pic, to check on his progress. He was unprepared for what happened next.

  Instead of being greeted by the boy’s piggish face, he was subjected to a barrage of obscene pictures and video takes, including Pic’s hairy butt. As he recoiled in disgust, he heard Pic shrieking with delight in the background.

  “What the fuck, boy!”

  “All right, Turkey. How about this …”

  More explicit 3V images appeared within iSense, one of them with himself bent over and Pic, well … He blocked his iSense video feed but kept audio on. Unfortunately, he still heard the sounds of their unlikely congress.

  “I’m sending the instruction to your ankle bracelet right now unless you stop this – you hear me, boy?”

  “No, no, wait.” More breathless laughing. “Okay, I’ve stopped it. And just for you, boss, I’ll talk through my impediment app – it has a few modifications, though …”

  Emmett didn’t understand what was going on, but he instructed iSense to allow images through. What he saw next was equally shocking.

  Pic was standing outside against a backdrop of trees, grass, pathways with pedestrians and a skyline easily recognisable as Dallas; Emmett had kept the boy close during his captivity. He knew the view was for his benefit as Pic moved into some shade and pulled off his retro Ray-Bans, revealing eyes that were red-rimmed and slung within blue-grey hollows. Sweat was rolling down the sides of his face, and though used to his pale complexion, Emmett was taken aback by his ghostly appearance. He was addressing a small tablet and allowing Emmett to see him from the vantage point of his selfie-cam.

  “Is that for real, boy? You outside? You know the countdown is automated – it began as soon as you left your apartment. You’re probably out of time already.”

  “Fuck you, Turkey. Seeing your turd-face was worth the wait. I knew you’d call me now.” The impediment app struggled with his lip-sync, filtering out the unnecessary repetitions and most of his odd noises but letting through the expletives and the insults.

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “Turkey-shit, this is for real.” He gave him the finger and pulled a face.

  “You’re trying my patience boy. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t send the signal right now – because that’s exactly what I’m about to do.”

  Pic laughed loudly, like a child overtly seeking attention, though it was curtailed by a hoarse cough. “Okay, okay … but before you do that, I’ll reroute you to the apartment cam. Now go figure, fuck-brain …”

  Emmett felt his blood pressure continue to rise, not believing that Pic was outside, since that was impossible, wasn’t it?

  As Pic had stated, the view now changed to that of his apartment, through the cam that monitored him day and night.

  At first, Emmett saw Pic working away at his bank of screens. Then he heard a prolonged fart orchestrated into fanfair and the picture changed to what he assumed was the real one, as much as he didn’t want to believe it.

  The cam panned over the apartment’s entire area, including the open door of the bathroom, confirming Pic’s absence.

  A floating arrow drew his attention to various items on the floor. The view was further annotated by cartoon-like text and other arrows. He was informed of a small electric saw, knives, a heating element, medical creams and sealers, boxes of pills and straps. A larger contraption sat on the coffee table; he was told that it was a “multi-chambered programmable fluid pump” – he wondered how the hell he’d got that into the apartment. There were thin flexible pipes leading out and into a large plastic food tub with water and a heating element. Within that he could make out a foot and ankle, with the ankle brace still strapped to it. He understood. The dismembered limb was being kept warm and the pipes from the pump circled under the bracelet, providing a flow of liquid that mimicked Pic’s heart signature.

  Hell and damnation, he'd forgotten just how clever Pic was. Unexpectedly, he found himself smiling; he had to hand it to the boy, it must have hurt like a mother despite the medication …

  “You know I'll find you again, boy,” he said. “No hiding from me.”

  “Not if I find you first, Turkey-shit. Maybe I'll come for you and fuck you over.”

  The remark made him flinch. He knew too well what Pic was capable of. “Try it and you’re dead, boy, I won’t be so accommodating the next time we meet.” It was a bluff. His mind quickened and he saw a speedy resolve that would benefit them both. "I tell you what, boy. Let’s put all this behind us. I’ll cut you a deal.”

  “Huh, fuck me till my fucking genius brain spews out through my mouth – I doubt you could offer me anything, Turkey-shit-fuck.” The impediment app was working overtime trying to make sense of his rambling outburst of expletives.

  Emmett ignored his tirade. “Listen up. You can keep your freedom. I can pay you well. Get you things that even you can't get.”

  The view of the apartment disappeared and Pic’s face was back, mobile and twitching, with something resembling curiosity trying to make itself known. “What do you mean, things I can’t get?” He belched the end of the sentence.

  “I still need your help to locate Grist’s son. Continue doing that and I'll get your crimes expunged, an amnesty if you like – then you will have complete freedom, never have to hide again ..."

  "Hmm … Let me think about that, Turkey. I’ll come back to you."

  Emmett knew he would. He’d read Pic’s full psych-eval soon after he’d caught him. Pic was a sociopath with NPD or Narcissistic Personality Disorder, commonly referred to as a ‘God Complex’. He liked to think of himself as being above the law, and the offer would be too tempting. He also knew that Pic would be unlikely to remain on the right side of the law for long and he’d probably be caught again, and this time incarcerated for good. But that wasn’t his concern. He only needed him to find Grist’s son. "You know what I have to do now, don't you, boy? If this image is fake ..."

  "Do it, Turkey – I'm watching."

  Emmett hesitated, realising he was at a hiatus within this ugly chapter of his life. Though Jennifer remained in a shadowy realm between life and death, the players had changed: Grist’s death exerted the greatest impact upon future outcomes; Crusoe was also dead, and a huge loss to him; Carrie had gone, along with her guardian, Mark Logan; and now Pic was about to disappear off the map.

  Perhaps, he considered, the deck had been reshuffled in his favour. He reminded himself that if he found Grist’s son then the odds of ending Jennifer’s terrible demise would be raised considerably. For the first time since that day when Grist had brought him to his knees on telling him he was the singular cause of Jennifer’s inflicted illness, he felt a wave of new hope and energy.

  His lips fashioned into a hardened smile, and, for a reason unfathomable to himself, he said, “All right, boy, you go now, and take care of yourself …” and he sent the signal.

  ***

  Pic stood across the street on the fringes of a small park, where he could observe the external view of his apartment; it looked like every other apartment on the block despite its inner boarded-up windows and additional soundproofing. His prison for five years.

  Was Turkey making him wait and had men on the way to recapture him? He eyed every pedestrian warily but knew there wasn’t any threat. Emmett wouldn’t be able to mobilise anyone quickly enough. Instead, he leaned heavily on his crutch and breathed the external air with relish; it was the first time he’d been under the sky since his parents’ farm – another prison. He waited patiently, holding his breath, stilling himself. He had to know …

  In Pic’s own perverse way, he respected Emmett, despite what he had done to him. He thought of him like a father, of sorts; better than his real one had been. Turkey thought like he did, was ruthless. So, no, he wouldn’t kill hi
m, especially as his offer sounded intriguing. As an afterthought he selected the latest damning file he had put together on Grist’s past activities and sent it to him.

  He jumped as glass and boards blew outwards with a fraction-of-a-second delayed BOOM!

  “Yes! Fucking yes, yes, yes, you shit-fuck turkey-neck dried-up fuck-face …” His voice had come back along with his ticks and the urge to make his odd noises. Old Turkey wasn’t bluffing. The thought of cutting his foot off for an empty threat was perhaps his biggest fear of all.

  "Fuck you, Turkey – you weren't kidding …” he shouted at the sky. He laughed at people as they ran screaming this way and that.

  Then he turned around and crawled into an aircab that he'd taken control of. A small holdall sat on the seat next to him. Had a big journey ahead of him. It took off and headed North.

  Now he would get back to doing what he did best. And along the way he would have some fun. There were boundless opportunities across the Cloud to cause mayhem.

  First off, he needed to fix up his leg. Hurting, he looked down at his stump and whimpered. He took some more painkillers and the pain slowly dulled again.

  Then he’d get himself an iCBC implant and full iSense with those internal lenses rather than the crappy external ones that he wore. His abilities would know no limit after that.

  As the aircab accelerated and abandoned its programmed shackles to the city, his sobs turned to stilted hiccups, and then to uncontrollable bouts of manic laughter.

  Exhausted, he gulped back any further outbursts.

  Another emotion welled up, a darker one. Reckoning, his father would have called it.