Several nearby tummies rumbled.
The voice in Ian’s head — like the grumbling one in his tummy — zeroed in on the pro-banquet theme. Vera had said that the path to finding Penelope called for Ian to “learn The Rules that made Detroit tick.” And Existenzia — if you believed all the hype — featured some of Detroit’s leading authorities on the nature of existence. Rubbing elbows with a flock of academics might not be the most heroic way to finish a quest, but it had the virtue of being the only plan that Ian had.
“He has a point,” said Tonto. “I studied here. It takes ages to clear out the conference hall, especially if there’s food. Lots of people will hang around. Probably some of the experts. Maybe you should try to meet them.”
“It can’t hurt,” said Zeus.
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” said Rhinnick.
“Fine,” said Ian.
And so it was that, just fifteen minutes later, they found themselves hobnobbing with an army of Ph.D.s and D.Phils, all intent on scrounging every tick of government-sponsored, donor-funded, grant-supported value out of the post-conference feast.
* * *
55Or possibly centripetal force. Ian’s intestine wasn’t confident of the difference.
56The editor hastens to add that this joke was written for the audiobook, and any concerns about spelling can be taken up with the author.
Chapter 35
Drop whatever you’re doing and look at Isaac.
He’s sitting at his desk in the City Solicitor’s lair.
He doesn’t seem to be doing much. He’s just sitting there, in silence. Barely moving. You wouldn’t be surprised to find a healthy patch of moss somewhere on his person.
The word “inert” comes to mind. The word “dynamic” does not.
But all of this is a touch misleading. In reality — for a given value of the word reality — Isaac is busy. And in a very real sense — for a given value of the word real — he’s not entirely in the City Solicitor’s office. You couldn’t tell any of this by looking at him. Looking at Isaac, all you’d see is a well-pressed, bureaucratish personal secretary sitting alone at a roll-top desk, slowly twiddling his thumbs and staring blankly into space.
That’s what you’d see. But it’s a well-known fact that seeing isn’t necessarily believing, and, in this particular instance, your eyes are trying to put one over on you. Isaac wasn’t, in point of fact, staring blankly into space. He was staring into the depths of Central Command.
This calls for clarification. It’ll be easiest if you start by picturing NASA’s “Mission Control” — that big, amphitheatre-ish room with enormous monitors that loom over a dozen or so rows of computer screens and swivelly chairs and men who say things like “T minus” and “All systems go.” Now subtract the men and the chairs. Take what’s left and squeeze it into a virtual environment. Now take that virtual environment — filled with holographic monitors, advanced instrumentation, and enough networked computational power to, say, control the ten-thousand-mile journey of a ballistic missile travelling through a series of asteroid belts on its way to a dime-sized target — and cram that virtual environment into a contact lens.
This lens was fitted to Isaac’s eye. He called it Central Command. It was presently taking up a fair-sized chunk of Isaac’s attention.
It wasn’t taking up all of Isaac’s attention. His attention was divided. It generally was. Just like the rest of us, Isaac could think about more than one thing at a time. But where most people’s capacity for divided attention is limited to, say, following what they’re reading while also being vaguely aware of a crick in the neck, a rumbling tummy, and a gnawing sense of existential doubt, Isaac had the uncommon ability to solve several high-order equations with one part of his frontal lobe while another constructed a theory of bi-directional temporal vibration, all while a distant bit of cerebral cortex carried out an aesthetic analysis of The Complete Collected Works of Lori 8.
At present, roughly 70 per cent of Isaac’s mind was occupied by Central Command’s virtual instruments. They were tracking Socrates’ mission. Several holographic monitors showed the assassin arriving just beyond the outskirts of DU. He was slowly closing in on the anomaly’s position.
The remaining 30 per cent of Isaac’s brain — which, as it happens, included the bits that had been freed when Isaac stopped taking the pills — was rafting down a stream of consciousness. It was a deep, slightly cloudy, and previously unexplored stream, and two words persisted in bobbing up to its surface.
The words were “Born Again.”
“Born again,” mused Isaac, thrumming his fingers on his desk. His hands were resting on his notebook, in which he’d been scribbling calculations. They supported a strange hypothesis.
Socrates had been reborn. Or “remanifested,” if you prefer. Not “reborn of the river,” like a mindwiped victim of re-emergence in the Styx, but wholly remanifested in the twinkling of an eye. The data from Socrates’ intracranial implants confirmed that, in the wake of the explosion at Vera’s shop, the assassin had reappeared at precisely the same spot where, moments earlier, he’d been blown to smithereens. Socrates had been blown to smithereens. His intracranial implants had been blown to bits as well. And then the assassin had reappeared, implants and all, shiny and new. After a Class Twelve nuclear explosion. And the sub-ionic relativistic chronometer Isaac had recently added to Socrates’ implants now transmitted a stream of data indicating that the assassin was both 2,432 years old and . . . no longer 612, but brand spanking new.
On receipt of this data, Isaac had posed a pointed question to the Solicitor. The response was puzzling.
The City Solicitor still claimed to recall the day, roughly 2,432 years ago, that he’d first found the assassin at the river. But he hadn’t a clue about any “remanifestation.” The new data from Socrates’ implants had confused the City Solicitor every bit as much as it had baffled Isaac. Neither had any notion of what the original figure of 612 meant, or why it had apparently been “reset” by the explosion.
It was clear, on the other hand, that the new figure — the “less than a day old” reading on the chronometer — coincided with the assassin’s unexplained remanifestation.
Had he remanifested before?
Had Socrates emerged from the river 2,432 years ago, and then — for unknown reasons — remanifested 612 years ago, yielding the dual-age reading displayed by Isaac’s Ocular Scanner? And had the figure of 612 years been deleted and replaced when the assassin remanifested in the wake of the explosion at Vera’s shop?
That didn’t add up. If that were the explanation, why didn’t the Ocular Scanner and chronometer each display three ages for the assassin: 2,432, 612, and brand new? And this solution didn’t feel right, either. Isaac couldn’t explain why. But, for the first time in his life, Isaac felt inclined to trust his feelings as much as he’d always trusted empirical data.
And what about the Omega Missive? And Tonto? They were the other inexplicable instances of the dual-age phenomenon. Had they remanifested before? And why did their most recent dates of manifestation coincide — to the second — with the moment of Brown’s emergence from the Styx?
They were linked, somehow. They were linked to Ian Brown.
This called for further examination.
Another thing that called for examination was the juicy bit of sleep-talk Isaac had overheard in the moments before he’d shaken the City Solicitor from his nap. This brief bout of unconsciousness just happened to coincide — right down to the second — with Socrates’ apparent destruction.
The City Solicitor had been dreaming about Socrates — at least that’s what he had claimed. But what the City Solicitor had mumbled during his nap was more intriguing. “I’ve done this before,” he had said.
Done what, Isaac wondered. Was it something that related to the assassin’s remanifestation?
Did the City Solicitor have some role in the “rebirth” of the assassin? He’d certainly benefited from the assassin’s re-creation. He needed Socrates. The assassin was the City Solicitor’s right arm, the secret instrument of his will, his primary means of maintaining influence and power. He needed Socrates. He always had. And now he needed him to capture the anomaly.
The assassin’s destruction would have been an unendurable setback. His almost-magical reappearance had been exactly what the City Solicitor needed.
But what did he mean when he said “I’ve done this before”?
Had he actually been sleeping when he said it? Perhaps he’d wanted Isaac to overhear him. You never knew where you stood with the City Solicitor.
Mutually contradictory and self-annihilating half-ideas gnawed at the edges of Isaac’s recently freed subconscious. There were no answers. Or if there were, Isaac’s recently freed subconscious wasn’t ready to spill the beans.
Isaac had shared a few (but only a few) of his observations with the City Solicitor himself. The City Solicitor had gone off to have a bath and mull things over. Isaac hadn’t seen him since.
What did all of this mean?
A sudden shiver ran the length of Isaac’s spine and brought him back to the here-and-now. Central Command. The Solicitor’s lair. The roll-top desk. The notebook.
Isaac closed his left eye, dismissing the image of Central Command. He looked down at his notebook. It was open to a page containing a series of half-constructed theorems he’d apparently jotted down while letting newly discovered bits of his mind wander.
The first of the theorems ran like this:
Socrates = Tonto.
It wasn’t much of a theorem, as theorems go, but Isaac felt that it was important. This equation had resulted from Isaac’s first-hand observations of the assassin and Ms. Choudhury. The two were equal in all respects — all respects apart from age (where the assassin had an advantage — unless you considered him to be less than an hour old in light of recent, confounding data) and appearance (where the girl had an advantage, unless you preferred a face that looked a bit like an angry gourd, in which case the assassin won by a head). But their equality — in all respects that mattered — was indisputable. The City Solicitor agreed. Both were perfect. Both were unstoppable. An immovable object and an unstoppable force.
A perfect killer; a perfect defender.
Isaac filed this thought away for further analysis.
The second theorem on Isaac’s page wasn’t rooted in observation. It was based on intuitions — vague guesses and mental leaps of the sort that Isaac had never dared to make when he’d been taking the pills.
The second theorem looked like this:
The City Solicitor is to Socrates as X is to Tonto.
This one really stymied him. But underneath it, he’d written the phrase Find X. He couldn’t remember writing that at all. But he’d circled it twice, underlined it, and traced over it three times. Find X.
Where did any of this lead?
“Hmm,” said Isaac.
“Hmm what?” said Socrates, his voice reverberating in Isaac’s earpiece.
Isaac set an Olympic record in the seated high jump, and landed with a bum-jarring thud that reminded him never to leave the dial on his voicelink set to “transmit.” His recent “Hmm,” not intended for public consumption, had been carried over the ether to the receiver in Socrates’ skull.
“Command?” said Socrates, registering impatience.
“Oh. Ah. Yes,” spluttered Isaac. “I was just . . . just thinking of something.”
No point in pestering the assassin with any half-constructed theorems. Besides, Isaac had no idea what they entailed.
“Keep your mind on the mission,” said Socrates, who seemed to be in a mood for to-the-chase-cutting. “What’s our status?”
Isaac opened his left eye and peered into Central Command. “I’m tracking the targets’ positions as we speak,” he reported. “They’re on the grounds of the university. Uploading co-ordinates to your Daimon Array. Please wait.”
Socrates waited. And in the back of Isaac’s mind, a persistent voice repeated “Find X.”
Isaac shook his head, causing a minor, virtual earthquake in Central Command. When the tremors had subsided he wobbled his eyeball gently, carefully scrolling through a selection of Central Command’s virtual monitors.
He didn’t like what they revealed.
“The satellite feed from Rover 7 is displaying unusual readings,” said Isaac.
“Unusual in what way?” said Socrates.
“Processing . . .” said Isaac.
“But when you say that the readings are unusual,” said Socrates, who liked to have his questions answered, “how do you mean that they are —”
“Processing . . .” said Isaac, using a conversational tactic that he’d picked up from computers. He sometimes spoke like this just to annoy Socrates, whom Isaac had always regarded as creation’s most infuriating conversational partner. In this particular instance, though, Isaac really was processing. The part of his mind that was focused on Socrates’ mission was analyzing a set of algorithms designed to filter the data streaming from Rover 7, one of the forty-three satellites feeding data through Central Command.
The part of his mind that wasn’t focused on Socrates’ mission was still running over the theorem. The City Solicitor is to Socrates as X is to Tonto.
Find X.
“Command?” said Socrates, giving the word an impatient spin. Before the assassin had been “reborn” he’d had the patience of a philosopher. Now, from what Isaac had observed since the assassin’s “remanifestation,” Socrates seemed . . . well . . . different. Like the old Socrates, but more so. More volatile. More dangerous. Like a volcano that had grown tired of dormancy, cracked its knuckles, and set its sights on Pompeii.
“Processing . . .” said Isaac. A moment later, he said “Ah,” which he followed up by saying “analysis complete.”
“And?” growled Socrates.
Isaac cleared his throat. “The data suggests the target package is better equipped than anticipated. Subjects are heavily armed. Sensors detect . . . a pair of Mark IV hand cannons, a polyfibrous skinsuit . . . tri-modular Kirium blasting pistols, a plasmic shield emitter . . . an impressive cache of incendiary devices, and . . .” He paused, reviewing his data. “Judging by this energy-displacement signature, a sixth-generation Vibro-Blade. Quite dangerous.”
“Not a problem,” snarled Socrates, who had his own tricks up his sleeves. And down his pants. And in his hood and down his socks. You name the article of clothing, and Socrates had a trick or two in it.
“There’s more,” said Isaac, swivelling his left eyeball rapidly. “According to these readings, the target package appears to have a device that . . . oh . . . oh my . . . Abe’s drawer’s!” he gasped.
“Abe’s drawers?” said Socrates, flatly.
“Someone has equipped them with a photonic displacement morphic field generator,” said Isaac, reverently. “The heat-sync readings are unmistakable. I . . . well I thought that I had the only one. This is extraordinary. Remarkable. It’s virtually impossible. It’s —”
“Get to the point,” said Socrates.
“Ri-right, of course,” said Isaac, gathering his wits. (His stammering should be forgiven. It’s not every day that you run across a photonic displacement morphic field generator.)
“The point,” said Isaac, “is that the field generator necessitates a departure from your established modus operandi.”
“How so?” said the assassin.
“You’ll be unable to shadowstep or cloak within two hundred metres of the device.”
“Vera,” growled Socrates. It wasn’t a question.
“Almost certainly,” said Isaac, “I hadn’t predicted that the medium would have access to such an advanced
piece of equipment.”
“She had a knack for gadgets,” said Socrates, his voice still set to full growl. “She was a bit like you, really. You should have expected this. If she really could see the future, she’d have been able to see all manner of technical advances in the future. Add to that her talent for building things, and she —”
“She could bring tomorrow’s future to today,” mused Isaac, who made a mental note to copyright the slogan. “Fascinating,” he added. “It’s a pity you wiped her mind. It would have made an interesting study. I’d have liked a chance to —”
“Not possible,” said Socrates. “By now her brain is spread across a couple of postal districts. She took the full force of the blast.”
“Inconvenient,” said Isaac, sketching out a few equations designed to predict Vera’s rate of regeneration. He’d have to track her down once she had regrown a body. She presented several attractive possibilities for research. Would her new personality, whatever it might be, still exhibit television? If she retained her psychic talents, might she look back through time, observe the “old Vera,” and somehow re-acquire her prior personality? Isaac jotted down a few more calculations before getting back to matters at hand.
“As I was saying,” he said, “Vera had clairvoyance enough to foresee your cloaking and teleportation capabilities. She evidently saw the danger these presented, and developed counter-measures. You’ll be unable to cloak, shadowstep, teleport, windwalk, or even —”
“I won’t have to,” said Socrates, grimly.
“But the girl . . .” began Isaac.
The City Solicitor is to Socrates as X is to Tonto.
Find X.
And most importantly, perhaps, Socrates = Tonto.
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