Damage Time

by Colin Harvey

  "She's every bit as beautiful as her mother," you say. It's true; Leslyn is transfigured with sheer overwhelming joy from an ordinary, perhaps even slightly plain woman into a latterday Madonna. "This is the best day of my life," you say.

  XXIV

  That afternoon, McCoy shuffled in the doorway to Shah's room. "You have visitors."

  A man stood in the lounge, medium-height, solid, but from the slight double chin that appeared when he lowered his head, the muscle was turning to fat. He wore an expensivelycut dark suit that emphasized broad shoulders while minimizing the slight gut that peeked out from under the jacket. "Dad." His rumble was so low Shah thought it started in his boots. "How are you?"

  Shah had got his new eyepiece earlier that day, stuffed with as many downloads as his colleagues could lay their hands on. "A get-well present for your return," the commissioner had said on her PR visit earlier that day. "Which I hope will be soon." She didn't say, "You have three weeks." She didn't need to. A big, invisible clock ticked silently in Shah's head every waking minute. Especially after she'd mentioned the old man who was the latest Ripper victim. Shah accessed Rex on his new piece: DOB June 12th 2022. Height 1.75 meters. Lawyer. Married, one wife, two children.

  "About as well as can be expected." Shah hated that he couldn't keep the quaver out of his voice. He needed to practice speaking more, to learn to sound as confident as his visitor. "You're Rex, my… son." He almost said oldest, but the memory of the last download stopped that; he'd barely bridged the pause. I'm pretty sure that that baby girl in the download was our first, so how come all the data's saying that Rex is our oldest child?

  "The doctors say you're making good progress." Rex's tone of voice implied that he was somehow responsible for Shah's recovery.

  "Climbing the damn wall here."

  "Please, Grandpapa," a petite woman whom Shah's eyepiece tagged as Angelica said. "Not in front of the children."

  His puzzlement must have shown; Rex said, "Hasn't Mom mentioned George and Leonie?"

  Shah wasn't absolutely sure. There had been so many conversations with Leslyn, so much to learn, that he almost drowned in the tsunami of information that accompanied every meal. And the facts were easy compared to the nuances that accompanied them. Shah vaguely remembered something that Leslyn had said, now that he thought about it: "Him and that Angelica, behaving as if they're something special with their sole relationship and their two kids and a cottage on Fire Island."

  "Sorry, Angelica," Shah made himself say.

  It drew the thinnest of smiles from the woman, who was all frills, on her high-necked collar, her sleeves and the breast of her white blouse. Her details said she was twenty-six, but the voice that said, "Say hello to Grandpapa, children," belonged to a little girl. Don't be fooled by that spun-sugar coating, Leslyn had warned him, she's got a heart of granite.

  "'Lo, Gran'pap'." George looked about four years old. Leonie gurgled something that might have been a greeting, but Shah wasn't sure.

  "Hello," Shah said. He caught Rex's frown at Angelica. What was wrong with that? He said to Rex, "I have to learn everything all over again. I've hired access to some memories on the web, but they're all old ones."

  "But that's awful." Angelica said, as Rex laid a hand on her arm.

  "I pay under an alias." He attempted a smile, but inside he was boiling. Thanks for your words of support, bitch. What else am I supposed to do?

  "Sounds very practical, Dad," Rex said. "At least you get your memories back."

  "We have an interview with the School Board," Angelica said as if Shah's amnesia was inconsequential. "To put Georgie's name down to attend Park Avenue." She added, "We wouldn't want anything unfortunate to spoil his chances, would we?" She frowned, clearly realizing how her words might be construed. "Of course Rex and I feel awful for you, but please, be discreet."

  "Well, thank you for your support," Shah said.

  Before Shah could answer, Doug called from the kitchen, "Can I make either of you coffee? We have concentrated recycled Columbian."

  Shah caught a look of absolute horror pass between them, there and gone as quick as lightning. Might've lost my memory, but I haven't lost my powers of observation.

  "Thank you, but we should be on our way," Rex said. "We're having dinner at the Mayoral Banquet tonight, and we need to settle the children before we go."

  "We were hoping to see Grandmama," Angelica said.

  "She's asleep," Shah said. "She works, you know."

  "We know, Dad," Rex said.

  Angelica said, "No matter. We can stop by another time. Give her our love." She held her hand out to Shah as if expecting it to be kissed. Unsure what to do, Shah stared at her. She withdrew it with a "humph."

  Shah turned instead to Rex and said, "Can I call at the office sometime? It'd be nice to have a change of scenery."

  "Could be a bit tricky, Dad."

  "I'll put on my best suit and wear a clean shirt." It was meant as a joke.

  By the flush darkening Rex's features, it fell flat. "I meant they're uptown," he said stiffly. "It'd be a long walk or subway ride for only a few minutes between meetings."

  "I wanted to ask your advice." I wonder if the bastard would charge his own father a consultation fee.

  "I'm not sure if I can help. My specialty's intellectual copyright."

  "Yeah," I checked that out." Shah was making it up as he went along. "My memories include thought processes. Aren't those covered by intellectual copyright?" Rex looked as if he was going to launch into a lecture, and Angelica cleared her throat, so Shah held up his hand: "That's why I want to come and see you!" Rex nodded, mind already on precedents and case law. Shah continued, "I have the feeling that this is a legal minefield, especially if more than one person's involved, and there's any overseas connection."

  "You're right, Dad," Rex said. Shah wondered at the warning look his son shot Angelica. "It does impinge on my area of expertise. Given that the US doesn't recognize the Pacifican net-haven's laws that make it perfectly legal to sell one's memories and any consequential ideas, you're right to be concerned. Where a team is involved, it's led in the past to legal disputes…"

  "I sense a 'but' coming."

  "But this is part of a wider case. You'd be better off talking to the NYPD lawyers."

  He was right, of course, if all that Shah had wanted was legal advice. But he didn't; the pretext was the only way he felt able to bridge the wall between Rex and him, from the start of this conversation.

  "Can't I call upon my own son for advice?" It hadn't meant to sound as querulous as it did, but Shah felt rage building within him at his own clumsiness. Can't even have a damn conversation with him without screwing it up! Did Old Shah have this problem?

  "Of course, of course," Rex said. "But we must go. Good to see you up and about again." He turned to Doug, loitering in the kitchen doorway. "Tell Mom we're sorry we missed her. We'll catch up with her."

  When they had gone Shah said to Doug. "Is it always that strained?"

  "That was about as good as it gets."

  "Really?" Shah said.

  "Yeah."

  "Hmm. Was it me, or was Respectable Rex embarrassed by Pa's working-class origins?"

  "I certainly got that impression," McCoy said. "But you know me; the less I know about a subject, the more I hold forth on it."

  Shah closed his eyes. "I guess I had that coming."

  "You did." McCoy looked uneasily toward the bedroom, as if expecting Leslyn to appear at any moment.

  "Come on," Shah said. "Spill."

  "You used to – you adored George and Leonie."

  "What do you mean?" Shah made himself unclench his fists. Doug means well…

  "I always got the impression the grandkids were the only reason that you put up with Rex's pomposity, and Angelica's point-scoring and petty malice. But you barely spoke to them – hey! Where are you going?"

  "To find my damn daughter," Shah said. "Maybe I can manage not to upset at least
one member of my loving family."

  Saturday evening in New York. From clips that Shah had seen, at its height NYC never slept. Now sometimes he walked alone for a block at a time, though the crowds grew thicker whenever he neared a station.

  When he grew too tired to walk he boarded the subway and rode the One, climbing above ground for the last part. Shah watched the sun sink behind the skeletal remains of urban New Jersey. The train slowed to cross the ramshackle Broadway Bridge at walking pace. Forty minutes after descending the steps of the 14th Street Station he was leaving Marble Hill.

  The utilitarian boxes surrounding the station were uniformly dilapidated; many had doors and windows boarded over, while the walls had fallen in on a few, leaving their tawdry interiors exposed. Perveza's address was only a few minutes' walk.

  The door was open, so Shah pushed his way in. Inside, the house stank of mildew, rotting garbage and cat's piss. The stairs were falling in, so it seemed a safe bet that any residents would be on the first floor. "Hey?" Shah called

  Four bodies lay outstretched in the last room at the back, side by side on sleeping bags as filthy as their clothes. Bones jutted out from scabrous skin. "Who?" called the nearest one in a voice as androgynous as its emaciated body.

  "Perveza Shah," Shah said loudly, to cover his nervousness.

  From the bag at the other end of the line a hand raised and waved.

  "Perveza?" Shah tiptoed over to the filthy, emaciated figure and stood over it – her, he corrected himself, glimpsing a breast. Shah studied the dark-haired figure clothed in scraps stretched out below him, trying to reconcile it with his eyepiece picture of Perveza. DOB March 15th 2025, Manhattan. Height 1.60 meters. He thought, It could be – the height's about right. But look how thin she is! She can't weigh much more than 40 kilos. If that.

  His doubts were resolved when the girl said, "Daddy?" and giggled. "What are you doing in my room?"

  "I've been meaning to come and see you ever since – well, for several weeks now," Shah said. "I was attacked." There was no answer, so he said "I had hoped that you might come and see me, but since you couldn't make it, I thought I'd come to you instead."

  Shah wasn't sure how much the fever-eyed girl understood. He closed his eyes in despair when she said, "Is it time for school?"

  He'd read about the effects of Scramble, how it distorted the sense of time and shuffled memories as a side-effect of the euphoria it induced. Leslyn had downloaded her copies of the files and correspondence, but Shah had no more idea than he had ever had why, despite having had what they'd thought was a happy childhood, his daughter should have become bulimic in adolescence, then taken drugs to control her cravings.

  "Don't do this, Perveza, please." Shah crouched over her. "Come home. We'll work something out." He might as well have talked to the wall. "Goddammit, don't do this!"

  Perveza began to cry, a long thin keen like an air raid siren.

  Shah lifted his hands, then dropped them again – he had no idea whether to strike her or cuddle her. Instead, wondering how many times he had done it before, he turned and left.

  XXV

  Tuesday

  Shah dressed for work and shaved extra carefully. For work, for work. The words sang, of stimulation and excitement, but also a warning, of an overwhelming world that wouldn't be as nurturing as the womb-like existence of the apartment.

  He'd long regained motor control, and the day before the doctors had pronounced him fit enough to undertake light duties. He still had a week to make a decision on whether to take a disability pension and retire, but he was getting bored with life in the womb. The thought of work carried with it an odd little thrill.

  He was out on the street before he could lose his nerve.

  As a compromise against Leslyn's insistence that she or McCoy accompany him, Shah took a pedicab to work. When he alighted he learned that his return was news.

  "Officer Shah!" shouted one reporter.

  "Officer, look this way please!"

  "How does it feel to be returning to work?" It seemed a sensible question, and Shah might have answered it. But before he could respond, several more questioners followed. He caught someone talking about "the heroic police officer", and realized they meant him.

  He put his head down, and somehow made it through the chaos into the building.

  What he didn't expect as he walked through the doors into the public area was to find every officer – both uniform and plain clothes – standing and applauding him in.

  "Nice to have you back, Pete!"

  "Good to see you again!"

  "Catch those bastards, eh?"

  It was the last that made Shah realize that he was a symbol. Any one of those officers could have been the victim of the attack, so his return was proof that there was hope that such an attack was survivable.

  "Just don't expect speeches." Shah tried not to feel overwhelmed and hid it beneath gruffness.

  "Oh, yeah, he's back," someone said, and they all laughed. "Charming as ever, I don't think!"

  Shah blew a Bronx cheer at the heckler, and strode through the ragged honor guard they'd formed for him.

  "Nice to see you back, Pete," van Doorn said, hand extended. "You're on half-days for this week; really, really light duties only. Come meet your new partner."

  Shah realized with a start that he'd barely thought of Marietetski. Does being an invalid always do that? Make you turn inwards and self-obsess?

  Van Doorn led him into the captain's office, where a young blonde girl – no, woman – perched on the edge of a visitor's chair. Shah sank into the other one.

  "You OK?" van Doorn said.

  Shah nodded, drawing deep breaths. "It's tougher than I expected."

  "Sara Bailey," the woman said. Shah sneaked a peek at her profile and was shocked. Nineteen, not quite twenty? They've partnered me with a kid! Bailey watched him from beneath her lashes, blonde, petite, and smartly dressed, but oddly asexual.

  Recruitment had been dwindling, Shah had read, but he hadn't expected the NYPD to lower its standards quite so far.

  She really is a frightened little rabbit, Shah thought.

  "Bailey's just out of Police Academy," van Doorn said. "But in many ways so are you, Pete. We have no idea of how much you've retained of your skills and aptitudes."

  Born June 6th 2030 Shah read. "First posting?" he asked, trying to look reassuring.

  "Yessir," Bailey said.

  "Pete," Shah corrected her.

  "Pete," she said with the tiniest of smiles. "And I'm Sara." As if he'd left her with any choice once he'd insisted she used his first name. "It must have been awful, the attack–" she blushed as if he'd just flashed at her, and he guessed that she was worried that talking about it might traumatize him.

  She's my nursemaid, Shah thought with a flash of irritation. They think I'm not going to last, and she's here to shepherd me out the door. Well, stiff that! He hoped his face betrayed none of his inner anger as he said evenly, "I can't really remember much about it." Which was true – the nightmares that awoke him every night had nothing to do with that, as far as Shah could tell and he'd seen no shrink to tell him otherwise. "So feel free to talk about it as much as you want. Don't be embarrassed, Sara."

  Removing the hood, Shah remembered his cup of coffee – now cold – and swigged it, grimacing. He'd forgotten how strong the precinct dispenser made it.

  "How are you getting on, sir?" Bailey asked.

  "Told you before, Sara, it's Pete."

  "Sorry. Pete."

  "Sir makes me feel old. Which – right now – I feel. Who'd have thought my first half-day would be so tiring? Just found another burn of Kotian's memory." Shah tapped the pile of files. "Sheesh, this guy is everywhere."

  "But only as a witness, or a Person of Interest."

  "Which my notes say is in itself a pattern. Someone crops up in more than one case then probability says they're involved in something." He exhaled through his nose. "This guy's posted pretty much his
whole life on the web. Kotian in Bangalore. Kotian marries an American heiress. You name it, it's there."

  "But they're all legal?"

  "Oh, yeah. But they're revealing: ego the size of NYC. And this," he indicated the pile of outstanding cases, "is so damned daunting." Shah couldn't understand how he had once been so easily able to examine the tags, and see which files really were legit copies, and which ones bore fake ID and were really rips. And if he couldn't do it soon he ought to pack his bags, take the proffered half-pension and find a job waiting tables at the local diner.

  He wanted to punch someone, anyone, but generating adrenaline in that way was just his way of staving off exhaustion. It's probably counterproductive punching your new partner, in any event.