There was a gasp from the First Lady. ‘But aren’t PINCs illegal in the USA?’
‘They are,’ said Bole airily, ‘but for the US military to utilise the Demi-Monde, their use is essential.’
The President shuffled uneasily in his chair. ‘I gave permission for their use.’ He looked nervously at his wife. ‘That’s classified information, Mary, and not for dissemination outside this room.’
Mary Williams looked decidedly unhappy about this piece of news, which didn’t surprise Bole. The majority of Americans, conditioned by sixty years of Kentonesque religious propaganda, believed PINC to be the Mark of the Beast, citing Revelation 13: 16-18, that the Antichrist, before the Day of Revelation, would persuade everyone, small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on his forehead, so that no one could buy or sell unless he had the Mark of the Beast. And as most Americans thought ABBA was the Beast, then the First Lady’s trepidation was understandable … ridiculous, but understandable.
‘In cases of post-traumatic-stress-induced amnesia,’ continued Bole, ‘we use these to kick-start memory deficits. It’s a technique that has proven most successful in cases similar to that of your daughter. However, as Norma entered the Demi-Monde by an unconventional route, we have no such PINC data on file.’
‘Yeah, how did she do that?’ snapped Nathaniel Armstrong. ‘How did Norma ever get into that cyber-cesspit of yours, Professor?’
‘I really have no idea.’
‘Well, I think you should have. It’s because of this goddamned ABBA thing of yours that the President’s daughter is now in the state she is.’
Bole refused to be perturbed by the President’s pit bull. In his opinion, the man had the intellectual capacity of a salad. ‘As a politician, Mr Armstrong, you have a natural inclination to leap to conclusions, therefore I shall ignore your somewhat emotional outburst. For your information, ABBA is merely a machine – a particularly capable machine, admittedly – but like all machines, whenever it malfunctions this is invariably a consequence of human error or human mischievousness.’
Armstrong glowered at Bole. ‘Yeah, and I think I’ve a pretty good idea as to which human made the error.’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ interjected the President, ‘I’m not interested in the why or the what. All I’m interested in doing is helping my daughter. So the question, Professor Bole, is can you do anything to help repair Norma’s memory?’
‘Possibly.’
The face of the First Lady brightened.
‘Since the signing of the Anglo-American Accord on the control of political delinquents, the US has adopted ParaDigm’s PanOptika program to monitor its citizens. PanOptika – platformed as it is on ABBA – allows the agglomeration of the data collected by all surveillance devices in the US, and intermeshes them with the results secured by the use of ParaDigm’s BaQTraQ data-mining package.’
Bole paused for a moment to allow his audience’s sluggish brains to assimilate this information. ‘As a consequence, the US government has full-scope information regarding all actions and movements made by each and every one of its citizens, plus records of all their conversations, and detailed analysis of their physical and emotional characteristics, personality traits and predilections. We thus have available a full 360-degree cyber-portrait of every man, woman and child in the country, including, Mr President, your daughter.’
‘Whilst this is all very interesting, Professor—’
Bole ignored Armstrong. He hated to be interrupted by lesser intellects, which, of course, meant that he hated to be interrupted by anybody. ‘Anticipating the thrust of this meeting, Mr President, I had ABBA consolidate all the available data regarding your daughter. We are fortunate that a sizeable proportion of her life has been experienced post the adoption of the PanOptika System by the US in 2014, and as a result, ABBA has access to all the surveillance data gathered at her school, in her classrooms, in her dormitories and during her time living in the White House. These data have been supplemented by cross-referencing the data streams emanating from her friends and family. ABBA is now in a position to create a faux-memory for your daughter comprising 77.3 per cent of all her recent life experiences. This will allow her to function quite normally until her biological memories reappear and usurp the ABBA-contrived ones.’
‘But surely this faux-memory won’t be able to ape the real thing,’ the President said. ‘There’ll still be gaps, won’t there?’
‘You are quite correct, Mr President. It is to be regretted that those misguided politicians drafting the US Patriot Protection Act believed it essential that individuals were granted some space wherein they could be guaranteed freedom from surveillance. This they christened the “Domestic Curtilage”. Actions and activities taking place within this Domestic Curtilage were deemed to be off-limits to PanOptika scrutiny. Because of this oversight, we have no data regarding what Norma did in washrooms or toilets or in her bedroom.’ Bole shook his head dolefully to signal his disappointment with regard to the excessively liberal attitude of US lawmakers.
‘Then this faux-memory will have holes in it,’ persisted an anxious President.
‘None which are meaningful, since ABBA will fabricate – to a high degree of accuracy – what might have happened during these time gaps.’ Bole took up the glass of water that had been set before him by a steward, examined it carefully, then put it aside. Bole was fastidious regarding cleanliness, which obviously the presidential staff were not. ‘Indeed, in terms of clarity of recall, Norma’s faux-memory will in many ways be better than the real thing.’
‘Will this procedure … will this introduction of a faux-memory be painful?’ asked the First Lady.
Bole shook his head. ‘Not in the slightest. All the data are contained on a PINC which is designed to adhere painlessly to your daughter’s brain. I have it here with me.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Totally.’
‘That’s what you said about the Demi-Monde,’ sneered Nathaniel Armstrong.
It took Bole a moment to quell his irritation. ‘I made no such claim. The Demi-Monde was never meant to be safe, Mr Armstrong. Nothing so challenging could ever be safe. “Safe” is a chimera sought by an effete society which has become increasingly passive and risk-averse. Everything has an element of risk, the trick is to balance the risk with the benefits and this is what the US military did with regard to the Demi-Monde: they judged the benefits in the shape of improved operational effectiveness of neoFights in Asymmetrical Warfare Environments outweighed the impact the Demi-Monde might have on a player’s psyche.’
Armstrong obviously wasn’t impressed. ‘Well, that don’t matter a hoot. We’re gonna be shutting the Demi-Monde down.’
Bole took a deep breath. It was vital that the Demi-Monde wasn’t shut down.
‘Impossible,’ he sneered. ‘Do that and Ella Thomas and the other Real Worlders held captive in the Demi-Monde will be reduced to a vegetative state. And,’ he added slyly, ‘you, Mr President, should appreciate that shutting down the Demi-Monde will mean that I am unable to guarantee the effective functioning of your daughter’s faux-memory. Destroy the Demi-Monde, Mr President, and this could lead to the traumatic and irreversible destruction of your daughter’s biological memory.’
A gasp from the First Lady.
‘You can’t threaten the President of the United States,’ said Armstrong darkly.
‘I do not threaten. I merely inform.’
A silence descended on the room, as those who sat facing Bole cogitated on what he had just said. The President broke the silence. ‘There is no question, Professor Bole, of the Demi-Monde project being terminated. Now, regarding my daughter …’
Bole was shown to the darkened bedroom Aaliz was occupying, the girl sitting in an armchair by the window – the drapes tightly drawn – looking small, thin and unnaturally pale. When Bole and her mother entered, she glanced towards them in a languid, almost absent-minded fashion.
‘Good afte
rnoon, Norma, darling,’ crooned the First Lady. ‘I’ve brought Professor Bole here today. He believes he might be able to help you recover your memory.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ replied the girl in a faraway voice, as she idly pushed her fingers through her thick mane of black-dyed hair.
‘I would appreciate it if I was left alone with Norma,’ said Bole. ‘My experience is that patients respond better to the PINC implant when it is administered on a one-to-one basis.’ As the First Lady stiffened in preparation to protest, Bole added, ‘You will, of course, be able to watch and hear what happens via the eyeSpies.’ He nodded towards the four SurveillanceBots hovering near the ceiling, one in each corner of the room.
‘I would much rather stay,’ protested the First Lady.
‘And I would much rather you didn’t,’ countered Bole.
‘Mother, please, I’ll be fine.’ Aaliz gave her ‘mother’ a desperate smile.
It was a decidedly unhappy First Lady who kissed her daughter, gave Bole a venomous look, and finally left the room.
‘ABBA,’ said Bole, as soon as the door closed behind her, ‘suspend all surveillance of this room and substitute counterfeit footage Code 3247ReViewAH.’
The instant the order was given, each of the eyeSpies floated gently back to their perches and their red eyes dimmed to black.
Satisfied they were no longer being watched, Bole turned to the girl and smiled. ‘Your room is now fully surveillance-sealed, Miss Williams.’
‘My name is Aaliz Heydrich.’
‘Not in the Real World.’
The girl was obviously unused to being corrected: all the vagueness left her face and for a moment her eyes sparkled with petulance. ‘Very well, Professor,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘let it be “Norma Williams”. So might Norma Williams ask if you have brought blood?’
Bole suppressed a smile. That the girl’s desire for blood was so strong was a vindication of the Demi-Monde, after all, one of its aims – its real aims – was to resuscitate the latent Grigori gene, MAOA-Covert, present in the Fragiles duplicated in that virtual world. The rigors these Dupes were subjected to there – the extreme stress of permanent war, the perverse leadership of the Dark Charismatics, and their enforced addiction to blood – would make their Grigori gene ripe for awakening in the Real World. If Aaliz Heydrich was typical then the Demi-Monde was going to plan.
With a nod, Bole delved into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a small sealed bottle full of crimson liquid. The girl snatched it from his hand, snapped back the stopper and drank down half the contents in a single swig. This done, she slumped back into her chair, closed her eyes and sat for a full two minutes in silent contemplation. ‘Chink blood, if I am not mistaken, Professor,’ she said finally. ‘The donor was young, female and athletic. I can tell this by the bouquet and by the piquant aftertaste. Excellent quality and vintage, though I must confess to having a preference for Medi blood. It is somewhat sweeter with a less tart finish.’
‘I will endeavour to find a source.’
‘I would be most grateful. And my thanks for your consideration thus far: I feel reinvigorated already. Seventeen days without blood, Professor – I never thought I could survive so long. The temptation to ravage and drain my nurse was almost overwhelming. But I have resisted.’
‘Indeed. And now to business, Miss Williams. I have here an implant which will provide you with all the background memories you will need to carry through your subterfuge effectively. If you would lay your head back and open your eyes wide.’
The girl did as she was asked, and Bole took a phial of clear liquid from his case and, using an eye-dropper, placed a single drop into her left eye. ‘It will take the PINC contained in the solution only a few seconds to fuse with your brain and for the data it carries to be fully meshed with the rest of your memories. When you review these you will discover that there is one blank area: that relating to how Norma Williams came to be in the Demi-Monde. Rather than concoct a back-story that would be susceptible to challenge, it is better you feign continued amnesia regarding this subject. If you are interrogated on this matter, your lack of recall will be assumed to be caused by psychological trauma associated with the Demi-Monde.’
‘Very good,’ murmured Aaliz. ‘Now, Professor, when we met in the Demi-Monde you intimated that you had a plan as to how I might proceed here in the Real World.’
‘My plan is that you – that Norma Williams – should undergo something of a spiritual rebirth post-Demi-Monde: a divine revelation akin to that experienced by Paul of Tarsus on the road to Damascus.’
‘Yes, I met Paul de Tarsus in NoirVille. He was an unimpressive little man. Everyone thought him quite mad.’
‘Well, in the Real World he is revered as a saint, therefore by aping him you will make your volte-face believable. So I suggest you throw over the trappings of a wayward and rebellious teen and embrace Christian fundamentalism. You are experienced in the leading of the ForthRight’s RightNixes, so I thought it appropriate that we utilise that expertise here in the Real World. I am intent on introducing you to the Reverend Jim Kenton, who is the foremost evangelist in America and who owns and operates Believers’ Broadcasting, the most influential of all the religious broadcasting networks. Your proposition to him will be that you wish to become the head of Kenton’s youth league – the Young Believers of America.’
‘An excellent idea, Professor, but as I’m the President’s daughter, won’t Kenton object to my involvement? I understand from PINC that the President and Kenton are somewhat at odds politically.’
‘Fortunately, I have some leverage with Kenton in the shape of footage of him engaging in activities that Believers’ Broadcasting would consider decidedly inappropriate for a minister … they might even think it inappropriate for a veterinarian. To keep this secret, Kenton will do precisely what you tell him to do.’ Bole gave Aaliz a broad smile. ‘And anyway, how can he refuse you? You’ll be the girl who can perform miracles.’
12
Paris
The Demi-Monde: 13th Day of Spring, 1005
Copy of PigeonGram message sent by Docteur Nikolai
Kondratieff on 12th day of Spring, 1005
Her recent run-in with the Quizzies had made Odette more determined than ever to lead her regiment when the UnScreweds marched on the Bastille. So, once she had found a place to hide out – her uncle was a very understanding man and had given her use of his house while he was away on business – she had made contact with her three lieutenants to tell them to pass the word that it was business as usual, and that the demonstration was most certainly still going ahead. After that, it had just been a question of keeping out of sight and waiting very impatiently for her chance to give the Quizzies a bloody good kicking.
When the evening of the 13th finally rolled round, Odette had been so eager to begin that she and her three friends – Adélaide the plump shoe-maker, Sabine the rather obstreperous flower girl, and the ever-popular Sophie who sang and performed in the Maison d’Illusion – found themselves early for the demonstration. And being early presented them with a problem: the orders from the UnScrewed Committee were that demonstrators should gather in front of the Bastille at nine sharp, and that under no circumstances should they arrive before then. The concern of the Committee was that any early birds would alert the GrandHarms standing guard on the Bastille that something was going down.
Odette found the naïveté of the women who made up the Committee simply breathtaking. For them to imagine that they could organise a demonstration, involving several thousand women, without the GrandHarms and the Quizzies getting wind of it showed a removal from reality which smacked of middle-class arrogance. As far as she was concerned, it was a racing certainty that the Quizzies knew the UnScreweds were coming, so she had made damned sure that she and her regiment would come properly prepared. If it all ended in a tussle, Odette and her market girls would give as good as they got.
But the problem remained that Odette
and her three comrades were early for the demonstration and, with each of them togged up as Liberté, it was a centime to a franc that walking around Paris tits al fresco they would be spotted as being UnScreweds, and arrested by the Quizzies. So, having half an hour or so to kill, Odette had readily agreed to Adélaide’s suggestion that they stop off en route to enjoy a bracing glass of Solution. Unfortunately, the bar Adélaide chose was not one of their regular haunts and even as the four girls pushed their way inside, Odette sensed that it might not be a particularly welcoming one. She had the uncomfortable feeling that things might be scheduled to kick off a little earlier than the Committee had intended.
*
Since his illicit entry into the Quartier, Rivets had fallen into the habit of having his supper in a bar just off the 4th arrondissement. It was a nondescript sort of place but being popular with the non-Medis living in Paris meant that Rivets didn’t look quite so out of place. And as Burlesque had warned that the Inquisition were now, in all probability, on the lookout for him, he was grateful for any anonymity the city could offer. Anyway, it was a better class of pub than those he usually frequented back home in Stepney, with the sawdust on the floor being changed once a week whether it needed changing or not. It even had an outside lavvy.
Yeah, it was a good bar and Rivets found he liked mixing with the tradesmen and small-business types who constituted the evening clientele. At least they didn’t take the piss out of him when he pulled his book out and read for the ten minutes or so it took him to scoff his pasty and down his pint. Not like the chancers and hooligans who drank in the dens around Stepney. Those bastards ragged him something fierce about his liking for a good read.
Rivets enjoyed reading. Since Vanka had employed a teacher to school him for two hours a day in his letters, Rivets had discovered he possessed a real hunger for a good story. He was currently devouring Gregory the Grigori, which, he freely admitted, was succeeding in scaring the shit out of him. He was so lost in the novel that he failed to notice the man approaching his table. Fortunately for him, his visitor was a friend.
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 12