It was at this point that I set pen to paper, beginning with a description of our escape from the hospice and moving on to — well, you know the rest, don’t you?
Chapter 25
“You failed,” said the City Solicitor, darkly. “You failed, and she’s on the move.”
Lesser men had broken beneath the City Solicitor’s glare, but Socrates bore it philosophically.
The two sat facing each other in the City Solicitor’s office, separated by the City Solicitor’s ancient granite desk. Socrates was back in uniform, having shed his hospital gown in favour of matte-black Plastimantium body armour,44 a light-bending chameleon cloak,45 and a bandolier bedecked with a number of fiendish-looking devices that, had they been anywhere but Detroit, would have been described as deadly. Somewhere in the unexplored recesses of the cloak were seven vials of Stygian toxin — the mindwiping agent that formed the cornerstone of the dreaded Socratic Method.
The City Solicitor was wearing a perfectly tailored silk suit. It was black, with a dark grey tie for a hint of whimsy.
Both men, in their own way, were dressed to kill.
The office itself was heavily draped in shadows parted only by the wreaths of guttering candles, as though an amateur set designer had read about “pathetic fallacy” and decided to give it a whirl.
The City Solicitor leaned back in his high-backed chair and frowned at Socrates from behind steepled fingers.
“What would you have me do, my liege?” asked Socrates, levelly.
“I have a plan,” said the Solicitor, who did. The City Solicitor always had a plan. In fact, he currently had two: one that he’d shared with City Council, and another that he’d shared only with Isaac. Plan A was quite straightforward: he would deploy whatever assets were required in order to capture the anomaly and the ones who travelled with her. The anomaly and her companions would be conveyed to City Council post-haste for in-depth questioning and detention.
Plan B was another matter. For one thing, it called upon Socrates to ensure that Plan A failed. For another, it didn’t involve bringing anyone — be they anomalous or otherwise — into the City Council’s custody. And Plan B called for the liberal use of Stygian toxin.
The City Solicitor liked Plan B. He liked it a lot. It didn’t precisely make him feel all warm inside, as nothing could. But when he thought of it, it caused the left-hand corner of his mouth to slither upward slightly, perhaps an eighth of an inch.
“I’m yours to command,” said Socrates.
“Of course you are,” intoned the Solicitor. “But before we come to your mission, tell me this: what do you remember about your manifestation?”
This caught Socrates off guard. The City Solicitor was not one for discussing personal matters. Had anyone been in a position to shine a light into the depths of Socrates’ cowl, they’d have illuminated a corrugated brow.
“My manifestation?” asked Socrates.
“Yes. Your manifestation. Your emergence from the Styx.”
“I remember that you met me,” said Socrates. “You were standing on the embankment. You had clothes for me. You offered me a —”
“Before that,” said the Solicitor. “What do you remember from before you emerged from the river?”
“What do you mean?” asked Socrates, who was always more comfortable when he was the one posing the questions.
“Just what I said,” said the Solicitor. “Do you recall anything from before the moment you came ashore?”
“Nothing unusual. I remember the water. Struggling to breathe. I remember the currents. I was scraped along the riverbed and tossed against rocks. Then emergence, my first breath, and finally you. Nothing more.”
“And your shared memories,” said the Solicitor, “You retain them?”
“Just the basics,” said Socrates, still unable to see where this was going. “It was a textbook manifestation. Any specific, borrowed memories I might have picked up from the flows faded within my first few months. I retained the usual rudimentary skills — reading, writing, speaking, basic instincts — nothing more. Not even a name. I was a blank slate. The only thing I really knew was that I knew nothing.”
That wasn’t unusual. It was true that many people retained names that they had gleaned from the neural flows, but a large number emerged as “blank slates,” taking names for themselves in the days that followed emergence from the Styx.
“I recall you telling me that I was to be called Socrates, and that I was destined to assist you,” he continued. “You told me about the oracle — the one who predicted that you’d find me, and that I would manifest with talents you’d find useful. After that, very little. I have few memories of my first year.”
That was also perfectly normal. Socrates had manifested some 2,400 years ago. By the time most people reached their second millennium, they had difficulty recalling details from their neo-riparian period.
“Distinctly unhelpful,” said the Solicitor, still steepling his hands and tapping his index fingers meditatively. “You’re certain there’s nothing else — not even the merest slip of a memory from before your manifestation?”
“Of course not, my lord,” said Socrates, puzzled. “You know I’m not a princk. You’d have known if I had exhibited any symptoms of BD. I have been with you since emergence. It’s not as though I’ve hidden anything from you.”
Of course he hadn’t, thought the City Solicitor. He couldn’t. Socrates was manifestly incapable of hiding anything from the City Solicitor.
“Think nothing of it,” said the Solicitor, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m merely pursuing a line of thought.”
It was a disquieting line of thought. It was a line of thought that flowed directly from Isaac’s memo — the one detailing the dual-age phenomenon shared by Socrates, the Omega Missive, and Tonto. Isaac had submitted the memorandum some hours earlier, and had speculated that light might be shed upon the dual-age phenomenon through a careful examination of each subjects’ manifestation. So far this line of inquiry had proved fruitless. Socrates’ emergence appeared to have been perfectly normal, and Tonto’s personal records — at least those that relayed the details of her emergence — revealed nothing even remotely out of the ordinary. It was true that Isaac had estimated no more than a 23 per cent chance that such inquiries would bear fruit, but 23 per cent was better than nothing, which is what the City Solicitor had now.
No, there seemed to be nothing remotely out of the ordinary about Socrates’ manifestation. In most respects it mirrored the City Solicitor’s own. The rapids, the rocks, the currents — the vague, fading, shared memories he had gleaned from the neural flows — it was all just as it should be. Even Socrates’ first encounter at the riverbank was an echo of the City Solicitor’s own. In the City Solicitor’s case it had been Abe who’d met him at the river’s edge — a rare honour, to be sure — but in most other respects the assassin’s emergence corresponded perfectly to the City Solicitor’s own manifestation.
A few crucial details were different, of course, but the City Solicitor kept these to himself. For one thing, the City Solicitor hadn’t emerged as a blank slate: he’d had a name, presumably one that he had gleaned from the neural flows. Not that anyone other than Abe had ever used it. And for another thing, the City Solicitor had emerged with a memory.
Don’t be startled. It’s not as though the City Solicitor was a princk. He had no memory of anything that resembled the beforelife — not like Ian, Abe, Rhinnick, or the rising number of hospice patients suffering from BD. But the City Solicitor had manifested with a memory — just one memory — one that had plagued him from the moment of his emergence.
It might not even be fair to call it a memory. It was more of a sense, or a bone-deep feeling — an echo of an unshakeable belief. It was a persistent, nagging certainty — a thought that, far from dissipating with the passage of time, had grown more forceful and intense
with the passing years.
It was a feeling that the world was not what it seemed; that things weren’t right; that the world was somehow cloaked in a layer of wrongness. The City Solicitor had manifested with an unflagging sense that a veneer of unreality shrouded everything around him, preventing everyone from accessing the Truth. The thought had gripped him from the moment of his emergence — a gnawing sense that there was far more to Detroit than met the eye, as though the real world lay beyond a veil of shadow, perpetually out of reach.
The City Solicitor had shared these thoughts with Abe within hours of his emergence. Abe had smiled and told him that the thoughts would pass.
Abe was wrong.
He’d either lied, or he’d been mistaken.
These thoughts had never abated. Not in the least. They had persisted, gnawing day and night at the edges of the City Solicitor’s mind. It was because of these thoughts — because of his certainty that the world of truth lay hidden behind a cloak of unreality — that he had become the City Solicitor in the first place, sticking as close to Abe as possible, clinging to the centre of power, where the answers to his questions were most likely to reside.
But now he had the Omega Missive: the OM, with its cryptic passages about manifesting one’s wishes. The City Solicitor was certain that this Missive held the key to solving the mysteries that had plagued him since emergence, the key to penetrating the shroud of unreality and accessing the Truth. The passages were false, of course. Had they been true, had a simple act of will been able to reshape the world by manifesting one’s desires, then Detroit would have bent itself to the City Solicitor’s will and provided him with a scientist or a philosopher — one who could help him breach the wall of unreality and understand the true nature of Detroit. But that hadn’t happened. The City Solicitor yearned for one who could help him find the Truth, and all the Styx had ever given him had been a personal secretary and an assassin.
The Omega Missive was filled with lies.
Nevertheless, the book was key. It was linked to the anomaly — the anomaly who supposedly had the power to break the world, the power to unmake Detroit, the power to challenge Abe the First. She had all of the power and all of the answers that the City Solicitor sought. He was sure of it.
He would make that power his own. He’d have his answers. But all of this depended on the successful execution of Plan B.
He turned his attention back to the present.
Socrates sat in silence, awaiting instructions.
“The City Council,” said the City Solicitor, suddenly rising from his desk and turning toward a darkened window, “believes that we will arrest the anomaly and bring her before the Council. They plan to prevent her from fulfilling the prophecy. They believe they have the power to stop her from unmaking Detroit.”
“And the real plan, my lord?” said Socrates, astutely.
“The real plan is this: you will capture the anomaly and bring her to me. We will not inform City Council that we have her. We will tell them, instead, that you were forced to destroy her; that you’ve used your Socratic Method, wiped her mind and eliminated the threat they think she poses. Then the anomaly will be mine,” he continued, calmly clasping his hands behind his back. “If she would unravel Detroit, let her do it under my influence. If the world will be remade, let it be remade at my direction. I will have the anomaly’s power for my own.”
The prophecies would be fulfilled. Abe would fall. The world would be unmade. And by directing its unmaking, the City Solicitor would at last peel back the truth-obscuring veil of unreality that had plagued him since the moment of his emergence. He would finally understand.
“How shall we proceed, my lord?”
“Isaac is monitoring the datastream,” said the Solicitor. “The police have tasked Inspector Doctor with the retrieval of Brown and Feynman. The inspector has already interviewed key witnesses. You will interview them again, discreetly and thoroughly. Find out everything they know. Begin with Bonaparte and Peericks.”
“As you command.”
“You’re to wipe them when you’ve finished,” said the Solicitor. “You will then bring them to Isaac for facial reconstruction and re-emergence. There will be no loose ends.”
“Understood.”
“In the meantime,” said the Solicitor, “Isaac will monitor the progress of the Inspector’s investigation. If the Inspector finds any clues that could lead us to the anomaly, Isaac will send the relevant data to your intracranial implant. You will use your on-board IPT to reach the anomaly before the Inspector. You will thwart the City Council’s investigation, and you will bring the anomaly to me.”
“I — I understand, my lord,” said Socrates.
“You have a question,” said the Solicitor, turning to face the assassin. Socrates always had a question.
“I do,” said Socrates. “Forgive my ignorance, my liege, but I fail to understand the need for subterfuge. Abe has vested you with the full power of his office, has he not? You hold the City Council in your hand. You can override their wishes. You could order Inspector Doctor — together with every other asset at the City Council’s disposal — to capture Brown, Feynman, and Choudhury and bring them here, directly to you. I fail to understand your need to conceal your actions.”
The City Solicitor frowned. He thought the answer was obvious.
“Secrecy is of the essence,” he hissed. “This anomaly has great power. She has the power to challenge Abe. If I take her openly, Abe is certain to respond. He may respond before I penetrate her secrets. He may respond before I’m able to use her power for my own ends. No, Abe must be kept in the dark. If the City Council learns of my true plans —”
“I understand, my lord. I shall proceed as you command.”
“Of course you will,” said the City Solicitor. That much was certain. Socrates had only one purpose in life, and that was to carry out the City Solicitor’s wishes.
“Speak with Isaac before you leave,” said the Solicitor, resuming his seat and shuffling through a series of files. “He has upgraded the software for your on-board IPT.”
“Very well,” said Socrates, rising.
“I’m sure I needn’t remind you to avoid all physical contact with Ms. Choudhury.”
“I understand,” said Socrates, and he did. The result of his last attempt to touch Tonto had left something of an impression.
“Leave her mind intact, of course,” said the Solicitor.
“As you command. And those who travel with her?”
It was a fair question. There was no particular reason to deal harshly with Ian, Rhinnick, Zeus, or the Napoleon travelling with them. Isaac’s memo had suggested that the four had grown entangled with the anomaly through no real fault of their own. Ian was simply unlucky — unlucky to have drawn Tonto as his DDH guide. He’d been swept up by events that he would never understand, and posed no threat of impeding the City Solicitor’s plans.
On the other hand, thought the City Solicitor, opening a folder marked “Brown, Ian,” there’s something about this Ian Brown.
There was something. Something that resonated with the City Solicitor’s peculiar intuition — with his ever-present, nagging certainty that things were somehow not what they appeared. That intuition sparked whenever he turned his mind to Ian. Maybe Ian was important. There were reasons to suspect this. After all, hadn’t the present crisis started at the moment of Brown’s emergence? Didn’t the inexplicable age readings for both the OM and Choudhury coincide with the moment of Ian’s manifestation? He’d have Isaac double-check. In any event, it simply felt as though there was more to Ian Brown than met the eye. There certainly couldn’t be less. No, Ian was somehow implicated in the anomaly’s designs. The City Solicitor couldn’t precisely see how — but he could see that his city had had enough of Ian Brown.
He made his decision.
“Wipe the others,” sai
d the Solicitor, both literally and figuratively closing the file on Ian Brown. “Wipe them all.”
* * *
44™ Isaac N. Personal Development Corp, 17,952.
45Also known as “the Cloaking Cloak,” ™ Isaac N. Personal Development Corp, 17,973.
Chapter 26
Penelope would have been better at this.
Ian slumped on a stool in the back of Vera’s shop, staring numbly at a waist-high heap of broken-down gadgetry. He had the faraway, dazed look of a punch-drunk heavyweight who, halfway through a standing eight-count, realizes that a post-retirement comeback wasn’t such a good idea. He was shell-shocked. He was listless. He was uncomfortably numb. He might have said that he felt dead inside had he been in the mood for ham-handed irony, which he wasn’t. After weeks of bearing the sort of pressures found at the core of collapsing stars, he’d hit his limit.
He’d learned that dying could take the life right out of you.
The last ninety minutes had made things worse. In that time, Vera had filled him in on a lot of the things you read about in Chapters 1 through 25, but which qualified as Big News to Ian. Big, Scary News. Vera had seen them in glorious technicolour and vibrant high definition. These weren’t the vague, misleading impressions or ambiguous, fuzzy images that her TV so often displayed; these were clear, detailed, realistic, troubling visions that were calibrated precisely to take the final puffs of wind from Ian’s sails.
It was beginning to seem that sometimes, when conditions were just right, Vera’s reception could be eerily precise. It was unfortunate that this tended to happen when she focused on Ian Brown and had Bad News.
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