The link between his brain and the computer remained inactive.
Goddamn it, a doctor muttered. How can he fight? He isn’t awake enough. He ought to be as suggestible as a kid.
But Angus didn’t need to be awake to fear his nightmare. In the end, all the various and violent fears of his life were one fear, one great rift of terror which reached from his perceptual surface to his metaphysical core. He’d never hesitated to fight anything, destroy anything, which threatened to open that abyss—
sprawled in his crib
—anything except Morn Hyland. But that was because, by the insidious logic of rape and abuse, she’d come to belong to him, in the same way that Bright Beauty belonged to him. Like Bright Beauty, she’d become necessary, even though that necessity made her infinitely more threatening—
with his scrawny wrists and ankles tied to the slats
—but they’d dismantled his ship. With Morn it was different. They’d taken her away. Now, like his horror, she was somewhere where he couldn’t control her, she might be anywhere—
while his mother filled him with pain
—she was everywhere, hunting him with his doom in her hands, stalking him to open under his feet—
jamming hard things up his anus, down his throat, prying open his penis with needles
—so that he would begin the long plunge into terror and never be able to climb out again, never be able to escape the complete, helpless agony which lurked for him at the center of his being—
and laughing
and afterward she used to comfort him as if it were him she loved, and not the sight of his red and swollen anguish or the strangled sound of his cries.
Because he had nowhere else to go, Angus Thermopyle fled into himself to escape himself.
The doctors didn’t let him get away, however. With sleep, they confused his escape; and as soon as he lost his way, they prodded him toward consciousness again, using new drugs, new stimulations.
You have been changed, they said.
You are Joshua.
That is your name.
It is also your access code.
All the answers you will ever need are available to you. All you have to do is say your name.
This time, his fear of what he remembered, or might remember, was greater than his fear of their coercion. In the end, every fear was the same; but until that end was reached, he could still make choices. And the right choice might postpone the abyss.
“My name,” he croaked, retching against the dry disuse of his vocal cords, “is Angus.”
At the same time, another name formed in his mind, as clear as a key.
Joshua.
A choice. To preserve the possibility that he might someday be able to make other choices.
The link was activated.
“That’s it,” said a distant voice. “He’s welded. Now we can start to work.”
“Work,” in this case, meant intensive physical therapy and long hours of tests, as well as more interrogation. And Angus had no choice about any of it.
His zone implants gave the doctors complete mastery over his body. They could twitch any of his muscles at will; they could make him run or fight or accept abuse or lift weights; they could certainly require him to endure their tests. This appalled and enraged him, of course. Nevertheless, when he understood how totally they could control him, he started obeying their instructions before they could resort to compulsion. For him, the distress of coercion was worse than the humiliation of compliance. Obedience only made him wail with rage, with desire for revenge: helplessness restored his nightmare.
His doctors had no idea that he was wailing. On their readouts, they could see the intensity of his neural activity, but they couldn’t interpret it. So they amended the programming of his computer to watch for that activity as a danger sign. If his electrochemical spikes and oscillations became too intense along certain parameters, the computer would use his zone implants to damp them. As long as he remained cooperative, however, they left the inside of his head alone.
Interrogation was another matter.
It bore no resemblance to the treatment he’d received from Milos Taverner and Com-Mine Security. This questioning was entirely internal. In fact, while his computer ran its inquiries, no human questioner needed to be present. The computer simply elicited answers and recorded them.
It did this by the plain yet sophisticated application of pain and pleasure. While the interrogation programs ran, the gap in his head seemed to open, and a set of restrictions and possibilities entered his mind. He thought of them as a rat-runner’s maze, although the walls and alleys weren’t physical, or even visual. If he violated the restrictions, his pain centers received stimulation: if he satisfied the possibilities, he was flooded with pleasure.
Naturally the restrictions had to do not with the content of his answers but with their physiological honesty. If he could have lied without betraying any symptoms of dishonesty, his answers would have been accepted. But his computer and zone implants scrutinized his symptoms profoundly. They could measure every hormonal fluctuation; they could distinguish between noradrenaline and catecholamine in the function of his synapses. In practice, lies were always detected.
Angus struggled against his interrogation for what felt like a long time—a day or two, possibly three. The computer couldn’t control his mind as it did his body; it could only exert pressure, not coercion. And he’d always been able to resist pressure. Milos Taverner certainly hadn’t broken him. Grinding his teeth, swearing pitilessly, and sweating like a pig, Angus tried to endure the interrogations as if they were psychotic episodes brought on by too much combined stim and cat; as if their horrors were familiar and therefore bearable.
Unfortunately his flesh betrayed him.
In contrast to his physical therapy sessions, which induced a mental surrender, his interrogations brought on a bodily yielding. His brain was a physical organ: it hated the pain and loved the pleasure on an organic level, entirely independent of his volition. His autonomic being responded only to sensation. Instinctively it rebelled against being subjected to so much pain when so much pleasure was available.
Using zone implants and the computer-link, his interrogators broke Angus Thermopyle. They made it look easy.
The only thing he was able to do in his own defense was to break selectively—to answer questions in ways that allowed him to skip some of the facts.
What happened to Starmaster?
Self-destruct.
Who did it?
Morn Hyland.
Why?
Gapsickness. Heavy g makes her crazy.
So you were lying when you accused Com-Mine of sabotage?
Yes.
Why?
I wanted to keep her with me.
Why was Starmaster under heavy g?
Chasing me.
Why?
Because I ran. I knew they were cops. As soon as I saw them, I ran. They came after me.
That was true. Like Bright Beauty’s datacore, it contained only a few elisions. He was a known illegal: his impulse to run from cops didn’t require explanation.
How did you know they were cops?
Field mining probe. I looked at their hull. Nobody but the cops could afford a hull like that.
Then how did you end up with Morn Hyland?
I needed supplies. My air-scrubbers were shot. Water was bad. When Starmaster blew, I went back for salvage. Found her alive.
She was a cop. Why did you keep her alive?
I needed crew.
How did you make her work for you?
How did you make her stay with you?
Why did you want to keep her with you?
Angus didn’t fear that question. He wasn’t worried about being executed for his crimes; not anymore. After all the expense and trouble of making him a cyborg, the cops weren’t likely to kill him. They wanted to use him: from their point of view, his crimes made him valuable. The information he needed
to protect, the question he needed to avoid, was a different one.
I gave her a zone implant. That was the only way I could trust her as crew. And it was the only way I could make her let me fuck her.
He reported this with so much satisfaction that none of his doctors ever doubted him.
What did you do with the control?
Got rid of it. So Com-Mine wouldn’t execute me. They didn’t find it. I don’t know where it is now.
His body reported the accuracy of this statement to the computer. No one doubted him.
Perhaps it was his satisfaction more than his elisions that misled the people who designed and studied his interrogations. He was questioned long and often. His crimes were probed and analyzed. His treatment of Morn was studied. He was required to account for her escape with Nick Succorso. His suspicions of Milos Taverner were recorded. Everything he said was factual—physiologically honest.
And yet he contrived to protect himself. Time and again, he led the interrogation programs away from the questions he feared. As a result, he never said—was never required to say—anything which didn’t conform to the evidence which Bright Beauty’s datacore had supplied against him.
No one learned from him that Bright Beauty’s datacore had been edited; that he was capable of editing his ship’s datacore.
Conceivably none of the people involved in designing and training and interrogating him ever understood how dangerous he was. Their equipment had him under control; that control couldn’t be broken; therefore he was safe.
Because he was safe, the traffic through his quarters increased as more and more people came to take a look at him: technicians in related fields, motivated by professional curiosity; doctors and other experts who wanted to observe him for themselves; random personnel interested in nothing more than a glance at Hashi Lebwohl’s pet illegal. To all appearances, Angus ignored them. The old malice of his gaze was turned inward. As much as possible, he dismissed everything that wasn’t an instruction or a question with coercion or pressure behind it.
Nevertheless he noticed immediately when Hashi Lebwohl himself, DA director, UMCP, began visiting him.
Of course, he’d never seen Lebwohl before. And the rumors he’d heard didn’t discuss Lebwohl’s appearance; they didn’t go beyond the insistence that the DA director was crazy—and lethal. Yet he found this visitor instantly recognizable.
In contrast to the clean doctors and immaculate technicians, Lebwohl wore a disreputable lab coat and mismatched clothes over his scrawny frame like a signature. His old-fashioned shoes refused to stay tied. Glasses with scratched and smeared lenses sagged down his thin nose; above them, his eyes were the theoretical blue of unpolluted skies. His eyebrows twisted in all directions as if they were charged with static. And yet, despite his air of having wandered in from a classroom where he hectored Earth’s slum kids, everyone else deferred to him. When people passed by him, they gave him a wide berth, as if the charge in him were strong enough to repel them.
Angus knew intuitively that this man was responsible for what had been done to him—and for worse to come.
Hashi Lebwohl visited several times without speaking to him. He conversed with the doctors and techs in an asthmatic wheeze, sometimes asking questions, sometimes making suggestions, which revealed his intimacy with their work. But he didn’t say a word to Angus until the evening after the physical therapists had declared him fit for whatever UMCPDA had in mind.
The time was station night. Angus knew that because his computer had begun to answer simple, functional questions when it wasn’t otherwise occupied; also because the techs had just told him to take off his daysuit, put on lab pajamas, and get into bed. Two of them were still in the room, apparently running a last check on his equipment before putting him to sleep. When Hashi Lebwohl entered, however, one of the techs immediately handed him the remote which served as a zone implant control. Then both men left.
At the same time the status lights on all the monitors winked off.
Hashi peered at Angus over his glasses. Smiling benignly, he tapped buttons on the remote with his long fingers.
Involuntarily Angus got off the bed and stood in front of Lebwohl with his arms extended on either side as if he were being crucified.
Lebwohl tapped more buttons: Angus urinated into his pajamas.
As warm salt spread down Angus’ legs, Hashi sighed happily.
“Ah, Joshua,” he wheezed, “I think I am in love.”
Angus wanted to take off his pajamas and ram them down the DA director’s throat. However, he wasn’t given that option. He was simply required to stand still with his arms outstretched, hoping that his reinforced body could bear the strain.
Someone knocked on the door. Without glancing away from Angus’ legs, Lebwohl said, “Come.”
Two more people came in, closing the door behind them.
Angus had no difficulty identifying Min Donner: the Enforcement Division director hadn’t changed since he’d last seen her. The lines of her face and the fire in her eyes were as strict as ever. Even here, she wore a handgun: without it, she might have considered herself naked.
But he’d never seen the man with her before. Donner’s companion had a flourish of white hair atop his leonine head, and a smile which Angus instinctively loathed—the smile of a pederast who found himself in charge of a boys’ reform school. Fleshy and sure of himself, he joined Donner and Lebwohl as if he were the first among equals.
A name patch over his left breast indicated that he was Godsen Frik, director of Protocol, UMCP.
Sweet shit! Protocol, Data Acquisition, Enforcement Division. Who was left? Was every important fucker in the entire UMCP going to come watch Angus piss on himself?
After a glance at Angus, Frik commented, “You’ve been playing, Hashi.” His voice was a confident rumble. “He isn’t a toy, you know.”
“Is he not?” Lebwohl took Frik’s remark as a form of flattery. “If you are wrong, then he exists to be played with. If, on the other hand, you are right, then I am bound by duty to ensure that you and the estimable Donner are safe in his presence. How better to verify his tractability than to—play with him?”
“And you’re sure he is safe?” asked Frik.
“My dear Godsen,” wheezed Lebwohl, showing the remote, “he will stand that way until he dies, unless I instruct otherwise.”
Min Donner made no effort to conceal her distaste. A sneer twisted her mouth as if Angus weren’t the only man in the room who smelled bad. Impatiently she said, “Your report claims he’s ready.”
“Physically ready,” amended the DA director equably. “His interface with the computer is well developed, but must be refined. And his programming has not yet been written to his datacore. When those things are ready, he will be also.
“He will be tested, of course, but no difficulty will be encountered. I state that categorically. We have been ready to do such work for some time.”
“Good,” rumbled Godsen.
But Hashi wasn’t done. “Are you?” he asked the PR director.
“Are I what?” Frik countered humorously.
“Are you ready for that unfortunate but inevitable day when what we do here becomes known?”
“Hell, Hashi,” Godsen chuckled, “I’ve been ready forever. This ain’t recombinant DNA. We all hate the Amnion with a pure and simple passion, but nobody gets the collywobbles when they think about technological enhancement. Human beings are used to it—we’ve been doing things like this ever since crutches and splints. And he’s illegal. The slime of the universe. Hell, just the smell of him would take the starch out of a virgin. I’m prepared to argue”—his voice took on an orotund cadence—“that the technological reclamation of men like Angus Thermopyle is the best alternative imaginable. He has spent his life opposing the UMC and all it stands for. That he should now be used to help preserve humankind from the gravest threat it has ever known is only just.” He chuckled again. “Or words to that effect.”
/> Hashi wheezed a hum of approval. “My dear Godsen, I have always said that you are good at your job.”
“When?” the ED director demanded. Apparently she had no tolerance for the game Lebwohl and Frik were playing. “When is he going to be ready?”
“What’s your hurry?” asked Godsen promptly. “We’ve been waiting a long time for this. We can wait a little longer.”
“As I recall,” she retorted with plain bitterness, “you said the same thing about Intertech’s immunity drug—and we’re still waiting.” Her rebuff appeared to silence Frik, so she turned to Hashi. “This little meeting was your idea. If you aren’t going to tell us he’s ready, why are we here?”
Lebwohl offered a small shrug. “I wish to explain how he works, so that you can provide your own input for his final programming. Any requirements or restrictions which occur to you, any difficulties that you foresee—these can still be taken into account.”
“And you couldn’t do this through normal channels?”
“My dear Min, I can hardly wish everyone in UMCPHQ to understand the details of our work.”
“On the contrary,” Min snapped, “I think you do wish everyone to understand. You didn’t call us here to tell us how he works. You just want to show him off.”
“So what?” put in Godsen. “It’s reassuring. Nobody’s going to trust the ‘slime of the universe’ unless we say he’s safe—and you, for one, won’t be able to say that unless you believe it. This is our chance to see how safe he is.”
However, the DA director took Min Donner’s attitude more seriously. Angus stood there crucified as Hashi murmured, “My, my, you are in a hurry.”
“You bet your ass I am.” Except for the sneer around her nose, her features remained blank, controlled. Yet her whole face seemed to take fire from her eyes. “Have you read his interrogations?”
“Oh, please,” Godsen responded as if he didn’t want to be left out. “We’ve all read them. Eventually we’re going to go blind reading them.”
Min ignored Frik. “Do you,” she continued, “understand what he’s done to her?”
“Her?” Lebwohl’s blue eyes shone with knowledge, but he waited for Min to continue.
Forbidden Knowledge: The Gap Into Vision Page 32