Soundproofed, so that prisoners could scream without disturbing people outside.
Finally Trent looked directly at Emile Garon.
Trent said, "You're Emile Garon."
The man nodded. "Yes."
"You could have called." Trent was distantly amazed at how hoarse his voice sounded in his own ears. "I'm in the Directory."
The corner of Garon's mouth twitched slightly. "Yes, you are. Trent, no surname. There are eighteen Trents in the New York Metropolitan Directory. Five of those are on Long Island. Of those five you are the only one listed without a surname."
"Where am I?"
Garon said mildly, "You are on holding Level Three, maximum security, in the PKF Detention Center in Capitol City."
"What do you want?"
There was just a moment of silence.
Garon leaned forward. "I want a confession from you, M. Trent. You are Trent Castanaveras, a genegineered human born May 9, 2051 at the United Nations Advanced Biotechnology Research Laboratory in New Jersey. You were raised with two hundred and fifty telepathic children, and may or may not be a telepath yourself." For the first time, the spyeye made sense to Trent; a method of verifying that the recollections of the Peaceforcers in the room matched what had actually happened. Garon continued. "You were the Player who went by the name of Ralf the Wise and Powerful between mid-2060 and 2062, during which time, in the person of Ralf the Wise and Powerful, you engaged in various unlawful acts, including theft, data cracking, espionage, and miscellaneous infringements of the Official Secrets Acts of 2048 and 2054. You were arrested on the night of July third, 2062, in the company of Malko Kalharri and Suzanne Montignet, and on that same evening escaped PKF custody. There are no records of you during the Troubles; from 2067 through January of this year you were one of the premier contract thieves of the Huntington area Fringe. In January you, Jimmy Ramirez, an unidentified female and a red-headed male known only as 'Bird' crossed into the Patrol Sectors, acquired Resident Status in a manner I have been unable to ascertain, and began plying your trades, using the Kandel Microlectrics Sales and Repair Shop as a front for your operations. I am further of the opinion that you are the webdancer whom the world knows as Johnny Johnny."
Trent said, "A webdancer?"
Garon shrugged. "A Player, if you will."
Trent asked, "Do you know the difference between a webdancer and a Player?"
Garon said pleasantly, questioningly, "No."
Trent smiled at him. "Me neither."
Garon sucked reflectively on his cigar, blew smoke toward Trent. "M. Trent, I am prepared to go to court for permission to perform a brain-drain upon you. Have you ever seen someone to whom this has been done?"
"No. I've audited descriptions of it."
"It is not a pleasant procedure, and it usually leaves little of the original personality intact. There is, I think, sufficient evidence that you are the Player known as Johnny Johnny that a judge will look favorably upon the request." The cyborg leaned forward again, jabbed the cigar at Trent. "If you are willing to cooperate, we can avoid that unpleasantness."
"What specifically have I been charged with?"
The Peaceforcer behind Garon said, "The charges are theft, conspiracy to commit theft, data cracking, conspiracy to commit data cracking, illegal use of Information Network resources and conspiracy to incite others to attempt the same. The Prosecutor General's office is currently holding the question of charging you with treason and crimes against humanity under advisement."
Trent blinked. "Crimes against humanity?"
"The Troubles, young man." Emile Garon's stiff features actually grew somewhat more distant. "Nearly two and a half million deaths, destruction worse than anything since the close of the Unification War."
Trent looked from Garon to the two Peaceforcers standing behind him, and back to Garon. He shook his head slightly. "You're crazy, you know that?"
"Then you deny it all?"
"Yes. Yes, I deny it all. If I was a telepath--or even a Player, for that matter--what the hell would I be doing working six days a week in a computer repair shop?" Trent saw the Peaceforcer to Garon's immediate left nod ever so slightly; they'd seen, then, the second-story room he supposedly lived in. In the face of Garon's frown, Trent continued. "But, if it comes down to brain-drain" Trent shrugged as well as he could with his hands chained behind himself. "I'll confess to anything you want before we reach that point," he said reasonably.
The frown intensified, the stiff skin of the cyborg's face creasing almost mechanically. Garon stood abruptly. "You will be returned to your cell."
Trent said, "I want to see my lawyer."
Garon nodded almost moodily. "Certainement." He paused a beat, said, "That is to say, surely. The very instant the charges have been filed, you will be allowed access to a lawyer."
"You haven't charged me yet?"
Garon smiled at him. "I am afraid not."
Trent stared up at Emile Garon. "You know," he said, "I didn't believe it until now."
"Believe what?"
"What I'd heard, about how researchers have stopped using rats in experiments, and they're using Peaceforcers instead--on account of Peaceforcers aren't as cute as rats, they breed faster, they're harder to kill, and nobody cares if one dies."
The Peaceforcer by the door went purple, and Trent grinned at him, let the grin widen, and said softly, "And there's still some things you can't get rats to do."
They took him back to his cell.
"You are so much more trouble than you're worth."
"You're only saying that because you love me," said Trent sincerely.
"Still," Beth Davenport conceded, "you do pay me. Promptly. Which is more than I can say for most of my clients."
They sat in the conference room together. Beth Davenport was the oldest human being Trent had ever met, somewhere around a hundred and twenty-five years old. She looked it; even with modern geriatrics there was no word to describe her appearance except ancient. The appearance of age lay not so much in her baby-smooth skin, a dead giveaway of the most expensive sort of geriatrics regeneration, or even her obvious and extreme frailness, as in her mannerisms and behavior. Her makeup was expertly applied to complement her gray eyes, but by hand, not with a makeup key. Her clothing was usually of wool or cotton or tweed; today she wore a gray tweed suit with a black silk tie. Trent had never seen her wear anything with optical effects.
She took notes with a pen and paper, writing with her hand. Once Trent had looked at her notes, and seen a scrawl of something that reminded him, as nearly as anything else, of italicized print. With the exception of a few words here and there he'd been unable to make sense of it.
Trent had known her for nearly four years; she was one of the few lawyers willing to handle Fringe area clients of any sort.
"You're not going to like hearing this, but it could be worse. Cold comfort, I know, but it could be a lot worse." Beth looked Trent over. "Have you been fed in the four days you've been here?"
"Four days? It's Monday already? I didn't realize it had been that long. No, I haven't been fed."
The old lady nodded. "Standard Peaceforcer tactics. And they took your watch and the lights in your cell never go out, so you wouldn't be sure how long you've been here." She propped her briefcase up on the table and swung it open. "I brought you lunch. Eat it slowly."
It was a bulb of milk and a pair of turkey sandwiches on wheat. The lettuce was wilted and the mayonnaise was warm and they tasted better than anything Trent had eaten in at least five years.
Beth talked while he ate. "This Emile Garon, he's apparently a bit touched." She paused. "Obsessive about the Castanaveras telepaths, I mean. He was assigned to DataWatch back in '62, when a Player calling himself Ralf the Wise and Powerful was working for the telepaths. He was removed from DataWatch by the late Elite Commander Breilléune when he began exhibiting symptoms of datastarve. He was apparently a star in DataWatch, and they waited until they were certain he was developing the Player
's Syndrome before they put him into the Elite program. They may have waited too long."
Trent nodded, eating. The PKF called it Player's Syndrome, as though it were a disease, when one of the DataWatch webdancers began exhibiting the same sort of behavior found in Players. It was all but inevitable; any webdancer skilled enough to hunt Players and replicant AIs with any success was at least potentially of Player caliber herself.
It was hardly news to anybody except the PKF that the Crystal Wind was addictive.
"He's never been allowed back into DataWatch, though he's apparently applied once or twice. The first good piece of news in this mess is that nobody takes seriously the idea that you were one of the Castanaveras telepaths. The charges the Prosecutor General's office has filed against you recognize this; they're based on the supposition that you're the Player Johnny Johnny. The more severe charges that could be filed against you--assuming that you were one of the genegineered telepaths--haven't been, which indicates for me that the balance of 'Sieur Garon's allegations are not being taken seriously."
Trent nodded thoughtfully. "Good." He finished the last of the milk bulb, gave the empty bulb back to Beth, who tucked it away in her briefcase. "This makes sense of a lot of things. Garon tried to set me up back in late April, you know."
Beth looked startled. "No. No, I didn't."
"Put a lot of effort into the attempt." Trent leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at the ceiling. "Yeah ... it does start to make some sense. One fairly major sting, set up largely on Garon's say so--and then it blows up on them, they get nothing out of their time and trouble. The suspected Player walks, and Garon ends up with serious egg on his face."
Beth nodded. "Okay."
"And then nothing for over three months." Trent came to his feet suddenly, moving restlessly. "It works. Frank Calley I understand, slimy son of a bitch that he is; given his line of business, selling things to webdancers and Players, he doesn't want to call attention to the fact that he tried to help the PKF set up a Player. I don't particularly want to be known as the guy who blew a boost on Calley. We avoid each other, we're even. But the PKF makes no sense until now. There's nothing institutional about their interest in me, it's all personal on Garon's part, and his superiors would probably just as soon let it lie. He's not DataWatch and, assuming I am this Johnny Johnny Player, then he's crashing around on their turf. So DataWatch would just as soon see him back out. Garon's own superiors probably aren't very damn happy about the mess the man's stirred up." He stopped, glanced at Beth. "Somebody who knew about Garon's operation in great detail tipped me off in a very odd way. Somebody in DataWatch whose toes he stepped on? I've been thinking it was Chief Devlin, but this makes more sense."
"Yes, it does." For some reason Beth seemed reluctant to continue. "Trent?"
"Yes?"
The old lady said slowly, "Trent, I appreciate the fact that, so far as I know, you've never lied to me."
Trent thought, Oh, no.
Beth held his gaze. "Keeping in mind that I'm an officer of the court, we need to discuss a couple of subjects. I don't want you to admit to anything, Trent. I don't think they'd dare bug a meeting between an attorney and her client, and it would hardly be admissible if they did--but they might have. What I want you to do is tell me that you're not the Player Johnny Johnny."
"I can't do that, Beth."
Beth nodded; she did not even seem particularly surprised. "I would like you to tell me, Trent, that you are not a genie."
Trent said, "I am not a telepath, Beth."
She started to nod, again without any particular surprise, then froze abruptly. "You--Trent," she said carefully, "that was not what I asked you to say. Please tell me that you are not a genie."
Trent became aware that he was fiddling with one of the buttons on his jumpsuit. He forced himself to stop, looked at Beth and smiled at her. "I'm sorry, Beth."
The old lady stared at him, thinking furiously, thoughts flitting around behind the pale gray eyes so clearly Trent thought he could almost follow the train of analysis. "Not another word," she said finally. "Don't say anything else to anybody until I've had a chance to research this some more. This is going to cost you, Trent."
"I don't mind. Just don't let them brain-drain me."
"We won't, Trent. Shot, perhaps."
"I'd prefer it."
"You're a sensible young man." The old woman was disturbed; her hands twitched as she flipped her note pad closed. "All right. I'll see what I can do. I'm not licensed to practice in a Unification Circuit Court, and if Garon convinces them you're a genie that's almost certain to be where they try you. I do have colleagues who can handle you in that venue, however." She sighed wearily, closing her briefcase. "Trent, we have a genuine problem here. The fact that you're guilty."
"It may not be as bad as you think."
Beth Davenport said skeptically, "Oh?"
"For about two years now, the Bureau of Biotech's databased records concerning the telepaths have not been correct. Gene charts, retinal scans, finger and footprints. Any hardcopy records they have from before the summer of '67 won't agree with the database, but that's not the sort of thing that tends to get noticed."
Beth simply blinked. "You did that? No, wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know." She touched her index finger to the lock on her briefcase, held it there for just a moment while it scanned her fingerprint and locked itself, and rose to leave. "Is there anything else?"
"No, yes," said Trent suddenly. "Can you talk to Jimmy?"
"About what?"
"He has this idea he wants to be a lawyer."
The old woman said blankly, "That's ludicrous."
"Of course it is," said Trent. "Could you talk to him, let him know how it is?"
"How what is?"
"Tell him about all the horrible things you've seen, all the genuinely vicious things you've had to do," said Trent earnestly. "I don't think he understands."
Beth looked at him oddly. "Yes. Certainly, Trent. I'd be happy to."
"Great. Thanks a lot. I mean, I really appreciate this."
She said shortly, "I'll be back soon."
He was not sleeping when Emile Garon came to see him.
Trent sat in full lotus in the middle of the floor, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed against the omnipresent white glowpaint. He hoped that if there were hidden holocams in his cell, it would look as though he were peacefully meditating.
He was intensely bored.
He could feel the first twinges of datastarve.
It was, Trent guessed, sometime around midnight when the cell door flexed and then curled up into a small tube at the side of the doorway.
He opened his eyes.
Garon stood motionless in the doorway, alone, wearing an immaculately tailored full dress PKF Elite uniform, the black and silver trappings of his differences from the rest of the human race.
Trent did not rise. "Hello, 'Sieur Garon."
The Peaceforcer glanced at the cot Trent was not using, but did not comment on it. "Earlier today," he said abruptly, "we submitted a request for brain-drain to Unification Circuit Court Judge Despreaux."
Trent said nothing, simply looked at the man, waiting.
Garon barely seemed to notice the even stare, the lack of response. "Your lawyer will file a request for dismissal, which will be turned down. The request to perform brain-drain will be approved no later than Wednesday of next week; by Thursday, monsieur, there will be little left of you."
Trent said mildly, "Courts are slow things. I doubt events will move as fast as you think."
"I guarantee you, monsieur, they will."
Trent cocked his head slightly to one side. "Mind if I ask why you're telling me this?"
Emile Garon looked down on Trent in obvious indecision. "I would regret to see a mind such as yours destroyed in this fashion, M. Trent."
Trent thought about the question for at least twenty seconds before asking it. "Elite Sergeant, what
do you want from me?"
The Elite shook his head instantly. "Nothing. Some conversation, perhaps. You can speak freely, Trent. I am not recording now; in case you have wondered, there are no recording devices in your cell."
"Forgive me if I don't take your word for that."
The Elite actually smiled. "I forgive you." Garon stood unnaturally still in the doorway; Trent wondered what it must be like for the man, held upright and steadied by servos and muscles that were the work of nanotechnologists and transform viruses. Garon said almost gently, "I have been in Occupied America now for over nine years, first in DataWatch and then the Elite. You are at the least a webdancer of considerable skill; my contacts in Department Five of the New York City police department swear this is so."
"With real swear words, I bet." Trent said sharply, as the realization struck him, "There's gendarmes willing to talk to you?"
Garon smiled again. "Yes. Not all gendarmes hate the PKF, and not all Peaceforcers hate the gendarmes. Department Five," he continued, the smile fading, "speaks of you, sir, in the highest terms."
Trent said nothing for a long while, sat feeling the cold floor through the thin blue prisoner's jumpsuit. Finally he looked up again at Emile Garon, and said directly, "Emile, what do you want from me?"
Not even the stiff cyborg skin could disguise the man's naked longing. "What is it like?"
"What is what like?"
"Playing. I never understood the Players, M. Trent. I tried, I chased them through the Crystal Wind, I hunted them through the Boards. But I never understood them. What is it like?"
At last Trent looked away. He could not find the strength to look at the man when he said, "I'm sorry. I can't help you."
Garon stood completely motionless in the doorway for a long, long moment. "M. Trent?"
"Yes?"
"Have you ever heard of a man named Mohammed Vance?"
"Nope."
"He is the man who is reputed to have ordered the destruction of the Castanaveras telepaths, seven years ago. I spoke to him yesterday; I interrupted a birthday party in his honor. He has just turned forty." Garon smiled at Trent. "He is a Commissionaire of the PKF Elite, by eleven years the youngest Commissionaire in the Elite. A brilliant man."
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