Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1)

by Paul Mannering

  ‘They were both killed when I was young. Officially, it was a bizarre accident involving an electrolysis hair-removal machine. I have never believed the official reports. I also refute the authorities’ claim that the case is officially closed.’

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. Drakeforth seemed to have good reason to be angry at the world, but his claims made him sound deranged.

  ‘I’m sorry. My parents died last year,’ I said. Repeating it helped. It put a box around it and I felt I could put the grief away again in the wardrobe at the back of my mind that did not need to be opened.

  ‘I do not accept your apology. You were not responsible for my parents’ deaths. Or your parents. Or … oh …’

  Realisation dawned on Drakeforth’s face like the first light of the summer sun after a long winter’s night.

  I shrugged and folded my arms. ‘The couple who died last year, what do you mean they were assassinated?’

  ‘Exactly what it says on the box. Daedius and Dorothy Pudding were slain by professional killers hired to kill anyone who threatened the secrets of the Godden Corporation.’

  ‘My parents didn’t know anything about any secrets,’ I said.

  ‘Probably not, but it’s taken me this long to confirm why they might have been a target.’ Drakeforth frowned, his fingertip circling the rim of the tea cup. ‘It seems the proof of the Puddings may be in the desk,’ he said.

  ‘You are telling me my parents were killed by the Godden Corporation because of the desk?’ All my guilt and fear and grief coiled around my throat and choked my voice into a husky whisper.

  ‘Yes?’ Drakeforth offered after a moment of silence.

  If I stayed seated, I would explode, or scream. So I stood up and put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I said when the kettle began to whistle. ‘From the beginning.’

  Chapter 3

  Drakeforth left on Saturday morning after explaining his conspiracy theory in greater detail. Only then had I given in to grief, crying until my eyes felt as dry as sandpaper. After a sleepless night going over everything, I decided that there was only one way to be sure. I would have to go along with this insanity until I could be sure who was completely bunkers.

  On Sunday morning I rang the empathy testing clinic from the business card technician Mulligrubs gave me. An appointment was made for the same day, and a follow-up call confirmed my car was ready to be picked up as well.

  I walked to the autotherapy shop through a light rain that hissed on the concrete and waited until Liz, the autotherapist approached.

  ‘Your car is ready, Miss Pudding.’ Liz scratched her jaw with a pencil stub and reviewed the clipboard worksheet.

  ‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t help but feel bad in the presence of car therapists. It was never said, but I felt they regarded us mere drivers as unworthy of the responsibility of ownership. As a computer psychologist I knew most of the public couldn’t be trusted to install simple software, and Liz’s apparent reluctance to simply toss me the keys and present me with the bill just reinforced the feeling that car therapists shared my view.

  ‘Wasn’t the plugs or the coil,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, good.’ I felt a self-conscious blush rising on my neck.

  ‘You had a ruptured seal in your e-reservoir.’ Liz looked up from the clipboard and made eye contact for the first time. ‘The empathic energy was leaking out. Causes a loss of power and if untreated can lead to metal fatigue and depression.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’ She could have said that the problem was my choice of radio station and I would have thought that sounded serious too.

  ‘Yeah …’ She seemed reluctant to agree. ‘We stripped the reservoir down, replaced the seal and refilled the chamber. Road test and empathic response assessment show it’s working fine now.’

  ‘Thanks. How much?’

  She scratched again and then slipped a printed invoice off her clipboard. I tried not to hyperventilate and paid by credit stick.

  ‘Where do you get your empathic energy from? For a refill like this, I mean?’

  Liz watched the computer printing out my receipt and replied without looking up. ‘Godden Energy Corporation, same as everyone else.’

  Godden Energy Corporation. They were everywhere; as common and essential to life as the air we breathed. No one took any notice of the GEC and now I felt that, for the first time in my life, I was consciously aware of oxygen.

  I took my keys and receipt. The car started smoothly and we rolled out of the shop and on to the street and my next appointment.

  The public face of the empathy testing clinic occupied the ground floor of the Laura building on Scroll Street. I paused to pat the car’s dash gently and praise it for good performance before walking into the testing centre.

  Inside, the walls were painted in a salmon blue, and the reception area was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling glass aquarium in which a school of Indolent turtles were swimming about in the lazy circles common to the species.

  ‘I’m Charlotte Pudding, I have an appointment,’ I said to the girl behind the reception desk, who smiled in welcome.

  ‘Welcome to Empathy Testing Services,’ she said, her face turning up to beam at me. ‘Thank you for entrusting us with your empathy testing needs. Please take this form, and if you feel comfortable in sharing personal information with us, complete it and you will be called shortly.’ At the end of her speech the receptionist’s glowing smile switched off and she went back to staring blankly at the computer screen in front of her.

  The printer on her desk purred and ejected a half-completed form. I took it, and the shimmering silver clipboard with the lilac-toned pen attached, to a comfortable chair opposite the aquarium wall.

  The usual details were already filled out: full name, contact details and birth-registration number. I added my occupation details and completed a short questionnaire in which I identified myself as a non-vegan single woman, who was not repulsed by public displays of affection towards empathy-empowered artefacts, and who did not participate in any organised group role-playing involving props or costumes, and on a scale of 1–7 I marked myself as a 5 in regards to my personal awareness of the effect of empathic energy devices on my daily life. I noted in the fine print that Empathy Testing Services was a subsidiary of the Godden Energy Corporation.

  ‘Miss Pudding?’ A tall, thin and bespectacled man had entered the reception area and looked about the almost empty room. He seemed unwilling to suppose that I, as the only person present other than the receptionist, was Charlotte Pudding for certain.

  I stood up and followed him into a second room with less comfortable chairs and a neutral cream tone to the décor.

  After we sat he said, ‘Miss Pudding, I am Dilby Pretense. I’ll be conducting your empathy testing today. Before we begin, do you have any questions?’

  ‘Not really. I have had some empathy testing before, but it was recommended that I have a full work up.’

  Pretense nodded, and made a mark on the tablet computer he held in his lap. ‘I see. Who recommended us and under what circumstances?’

  I registered from his introduction that the testing was underway already; no matter how smoothly delivered, specific-purpose language differs from casual communication. My interaction with the reception area and the woman at the front desk should feature in the assessment too.

  ‘An E-Tech Services empathy engine technician called Malkom Mulligrubs. I went to work on Friday at the Python building and there was a problem with the lift. I felt a … connection. I mentioned it to Mister Mulligrubs when he turned up to fix the empathy matrix generator. He gave me your card and said what I felt was a connection with a living sentience and I should get fully tested for my empathic profile.’

  ‘And do you believe that to be true?’ Pretense made more cryptic marks on the tablet.

  ‘I … I wasn’t sure at the time. But the more I think about it, the more I believe it is possible.�
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  ‘Have you had any previous experiences that contributed to your belief?’

  I thought briefly about the sporadic and transitory presence of lovers in my past, the closeness I felt to the ancient timbers of my antique desk, the way I ate at home most nights to keep the fridge from complaining, and the guilt I felt over being a bad car owner.

  ‘Not really?’ It was simple avoidance, a way of telling him that I didn’t believe myself, without appearing to be desperate to prove my exceptional empathic awareness.

  ‘You work with computers?’

  ‘Yes. Computer psychology and customer support. Mostly technical and performance issues resolution.’

  ‘You assist technology users in engaging effectively with their empowered devices?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would require a high degree of personal empathy. An understanding of the needs of the empowered device.’

  ‘I suppose. I just … well, mostly it’s checking system settings and identifying if a part needs replacement. I do programming too.’

  ‘Computer psychology is not the career for everyone,’ Pretense said gently, though his attempt at solidarity didn’t break me.

  ‘When do we start the tests?’ I could almost feel the spike in the assessment data. They would mark this moment of complete non-empathy and probably dismiss it as an errant point.

  Pretense smiled and made a fresh mark on his tablet. ‘When do you think the test started?’

  If Drakeforth was to be believed, then this man was the enemy and as such he deserved no mercy. I changed tack. ‘When I walked into the reception area. My response to the room, the aquarium, my interaction with the space and your receptionist. All valid data points.’

  ‘What if I told you that your assessment started when you met Mulligrubs in the basement of the Python building?’

  I started at that. An alien butterfly of paranoia briefly caressed me with its wings.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I managed.

  ‘Certain individuals come to our attention and are then placed under observation, Miss Pudding. Mulligrubs filed a report with us, and we noted that you replaced your toaster that day, claiming that it reacted defensively and destroyed certain types of bread while in use.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘The city surveillance network also indicates that you encountered a Mr Vole Drakeforth, first at a bus stop earlier that day, and then on Saturday morning he was also recorded in the alleyway behind your home. Later he was in your house—’

  ‘You’re bugging my house?’ I abandoned any façade of calm.

  ‘No, Miss Pudding. Drakeforth was noted breaking and entering, and then leaving later. Leaving amicably, I might add.’

  ‘We talked about antique furniture.’

  ‘He claims to be a descendent of Wardrock Drakeforth. Not a direct descendant,’ Pretense smiled. ‘Wardrock Drakeforth never married and no children have ever been identified. His nearest relative was a cousin. Ergo Drakeforth the second, of Williamsburg.’

  ‘Not of the Terracouth Drakeforths …’ I said, remembering Drakeforth’s outburst at the bus stop.

  ‘Yes, a particularly drawn-out court battle for the Drakeforth fortune followed Wardrock’s death, but the claims of his cousin’s family were refused.’

  ‘What has this got to do with my empathy testing?’ I pride myself on being in control, knowing and understanding the myriad subtleties of communication, immune to most attempts to put me on the back foot, but Pretense had me in a nauseating spin.

  ‘Empathy is all about emotional responses, Miss Pudding. True empathy is tested under exposure to emotional stimulus, both pleasant and taxing.’

  ‘How am I doing?’ I smiled weakly.

  ‘Most intriguing,’ Pretense tapped his tablet and stared at the screen.

  I sat back in the uncomfortable chair, breathing gently. I exhaled several times while Pretense tapped at his screen.

  ‘Seriously,’ he said. The change in tone caused me to drop my gaze from the ceiling. ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘What makes you think I am hiding anything?’

  ‘Your empathy indicators are interesting. You connect with empowered devices at a maximum efficiency. You must have noticed it?’

  There were occasions where appliances came on when I passed. Didn’t everyone’s fridge talk to them about their food choices?

  ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’ I shrugged. The relaxation breathing helped me control my vocal nuances.

  ‘We have noticed it. TVs turning on when you walked past at the Beautiful Appliances store.’

  ‘Lovely Appliances,’ I corrected.

  ‘You excel at inter-personal communication, but have a poor history of relationships.’

  ‘Are you testing my empathic potential or signing me up for a dating service?’

  ‘How do you feel about Vole Drakeforth?’

  I sighed, ‘Vole Drakeforth could be the subject of a series of public safety messages.’ I raised a hand and started ticking off his faults on my fingers. ‘Arrogant, opinionated, sociopathic, with a complete disregard for personal property, space and common etiquette.’

  Pretense just nodded, smiling. I was halfway through my other hand when I realised that speaking about Drakeforth had animated me the most during this interview. I curled my hands in my lap and tried to express my disgust at Drakeforth and his atrocious attributes by frowning.

  ‘If I may make one personal recommendation,’ Pretense said. ‘You might seriously consider breaking off all contact with Vole Drakeforth.’

  ‘I hardly need convincing of that,’ I scoffed.

  ‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Pretense blanked the screen and folded his fingers against each other. ‘Miss Pudding, our society operates on a carefully balanced set of expectations. Benevolent citizens, like the Godden Corporation and its subsidiaries, provide cheap, clean energy to all, both in this country and through enterprises around the world. In return, non-corporate citizens, such as yourself, are free to pursue their personal goals and live secure in the knowledge that their basic needs will always be taken care of.’

  ‘I’m very grateful for everything the Godden Corporation has done for me,’ I replied, looking Pretense in the eye. I hadn’t used that much vocal management since the first time I got drunk in college.

  ‘I am pleased to hear that,’ Pretense said with matching sincerity. We regarded each other across the space for a long moment. ‘And how would you describe your personal health?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I could have outstared a cobra at that point. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Nothing that requires your input.’ He stood up and I followed. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Pudding. That will be all.’

  Pretense escorted me to the street and then vanished back inside. I walked back to my car occupied by the disturbing thought that while I had not been able to detect any form of conversation management during our interview, I had told him exactly what he wanted to know.

  Chapter 4

  I drove straight home, parked on the street and went to unlock my front door. Someone had done it already. They had left no sign of forced entry, but a haze of light blue smoke hung in my entrance hall. I swore and dashed inside. Someone had been trying very hard to open the heavy vault door to my office. A hissing blowtorch lay on the hall carpet. The door was blackened and seared, but had resisted the mystery intruder’s attempts to cut into it.

  I stood in mute shock for a moment before a thought coughed politely in the back of my mind and pointed meaningfully at the oxyacetylene cutting equipment charring a hole in the rug. In a fit of uselessness, I gingerly picked the torch up and held it away from anything flammable.

  ‘I have called the police,’ I said to the empty hallway. No one responded, which I thought made perfect sense. If I was breaking into someone’s house and they came home unexpectedly, I wouldn’t feel conversational either.

  The home security system panel had been switched off.
I stared at it, mostly feeling disappointed. The system was supposed to be attuned to me and sound the alarm if anyone else entered the property while I was out. The system’s casual attitude towards not only letting burglars into my house but also letting them nearly burn down my house felt like a personal betrayal.

  ‘Vole, I’m calling the police.’ If Vole Drakeforth was lurking in my house then that should illicit a response. If it wasn’t Vole, then it might create the illusion that I had backup. I pushed the button on the vid-phone on the hallway wall and waited a few seconds, trying not to think about what toxic fumes I might be inhaling.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ a woman’s voice called from the kitchen.

  I tried a different tack. ‘Look, could you possibly come out here and show me how to turn this thing off?’

  I heard movement from the kitchen. The sound of someone hiding, who is caught off their guard by an unexpectedly reasonable request, and catches themselves mid-step.

  I turned off the gas taps on the twin cylinders. The hissing flame faded and went out. ‘While you’re in there, why don’t you put the kettle on?’ I finished speaking before I moved silently down the hallway. I hoped the intruder would go out the back door, climb the fence and disappear out of my neighbourhood without any further prompting from me.

  Instead I heard the fridge announce, ‘You’re out of milk.’ I stepped into the kitchen doorway. The fridge stood open, with no one holding it. A young woman sat at the table, dressed in a finely tailored grey leather jumpsuit. She had translucent white-blonde hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head. With her flawless skin and beautiful face, she could have been the star of a thousand sense-medias. She finished tamping a carved whitestone pipe, and put a match to the bowl, looking up at me through the sudden cloud of tangerine-coloured smoke.

  ‘Coluthon. Anna Coluthon,’ she announced, the pipe jerking between her teeth.

  ‘Charlotte Pudding,’ I said, still in a state of confused shock.

  ‘This is EGS Benedict,’ she said and indicated the open refrigerator. I blinked. I was sure the appliance was an Esterline brand, model H. Then the door closed, and a small man came into view.