Sins of the Father

by Mitchel Scanlon

  "It was just what you said," Lang replied. "'From your mouth to Grud's ears'. I didn't think you were the religious type?"

  "I'm not," Anderson shook her head. "It's just an expression. It probably makes me sound ancient when I tell you this, but when I first came out of the Academy it was an expression a lot of the old-time Judges used back then. I guess it just stuck in my head."

  "Yeah, well, no offence," Lang said, "but it's kind of hard to imagine you just out of the Academy. You seem too... polished to have ever been a rookie."

  "Polished?" Anderson smiled. "I'm guessing that's the diplomatic way of saying 'old enough to be a dinosaur' these days. Don't let this 'polished' exterior fool you, though. I know what it's like to be a rookie. Everything you're going through now, I've been through myself."

  For an instant, Anderson's eyes met Lang's as a moment of unspoken understanding passed between them. For the first time since they had been assigned to the case together, Anderson felt a connection to her fellow Psi-Judge as though Lang had briefly lowered her guard. All too soon, however, the moment was over.

  "All right, so what next?" Lang said, turning away from Anderson as she resumed her normally reserved manner.

  "Well, I guess we-" Anderson began, only for her words to be cut off by the sound of a voice over her radio.

  "Sector House 45 Tek-Bay to Psi-Judge Anderson! Please respond!"

  "Anderson here. What can we do for you, Tek-Bay?"

  "This is Tek-Judge Longhurst, Anderson," the voice responded on the other end of the line. "And I think it's more a question of what I can do for you. I've been going through some of evidence collected at the Kapinski crime scene. I think you'd better come down to Tek-Bay ASAP. There's something here you need to see."

  "It's some kind of meme-encoding device," Longhurst said, pointing to a splayed collection of wires, transistors and other assorted pieces of electronics laid out on his workbench. "It was found inside one of the boxes at the Kapinski apartment, along with a number of data crystals containing information that had been recorded by the machine."

  "Okay, allow me to be the one to show my ignorance," Anderson said as, around them, a dozen Tek-Judges worked on a variety of ongoing projects within the noisy confines of Tek-Bay. Having hurried to the Sector House with Lang in response to Longhurst's call, she found she was impatient to get to the heart of the matter as quickly as possible. "Laying all the techno-babble to one side for a moment, what's a meme-encoding device?"

  "It's a kind of recording device," Longhurst said. He was old for a Judge, perhaps even in his sixties, and as he spoke his manner put Anderson in mind of a professor who had been called upon to explain matters to a rather dull and listless student.

  "It all relates to the way the brain handles our memories," he continued. "We experience the world via a constant influx of data relayed by our senses, which is then processed by our brains. Naturally, during processing, the brain prioritises this data in accordance with its importance. Much of this sensory data is ephemeral and never reaches our conscious minds. However, in some situations, the entirety of the data received in an given moment will be recorded directly by our brains, creating a particularly vivid memory of that moment which we can then access later. Obviously, this takes up a lot of processing and storage space, so it's a task the brain performs relatively rarely. Usually, it is reserved for particularly important memories. Memories which, by their nature, are somehow central to who we are: whether they be good memories or bad, moments of joy or moments of terror, and so on. Now, for the purposes of this conversation, I'm calling these vivid memories by the name 'meme'. Though strictly speaking, of course, a meme is simply an idea or a bundle of related ideas. I suppose I could refer to them as 'engrams' instead, though that nomenclature is similarly not without its problems-"

  "Let me see if I get this right," Anderson cut him off. "You're telling us this is a machine for recording memories?"

  "Didn't I just say that?" Annoyed at the interruption, Longhurst stared at her peevishly for a moment, before returning his attention to the device on his workbench. "As I said, this machine was designed to encode memories, recording the entire sensory experience of the wearer on data crystals for ease of later playback. It's not unrelated to the technology we use in dream-machines these days, though if you consider when it was created it is truly remarkable. The inventor was a genius, really. Ahead of his time."

  "It was made some time ago?" Anderson said, attempting to prompt the Tek-Judge into revealing his secrets more quickly. "When? And who made it?"

  "Well, the last question is the easiest to answer," Longhurst replied. "The device was found with some of the effects of Kapinski's deceased father. It seems Kapinski Senior was an comp-engineer specialising in sensory interface technology. As to when he made it, given the age of some of the parts I'd say it's at least fifty years old. It looks like the meme-encoder was a pet project he was working on in his own time, partly funded by private backers. According to the Office of Patent Registration, there's no record that Kapinski Senior ever applied for patent protection for his invention. But then, considering what he was using it for, I suppose it's hardly surprising he didn't want anyone to know it existed."

  "What kind of use are we talking about here?" Anderson asked. "Something illegal?"

  "Illegal, yes. And, frankly, somewhat horrifying." An expression of disgust briefly passed across Longhurst's face. "I've managed to reconfigure some of the data on the crystals to a conventional Tri-D format to allow us to find out what kind of things Kapinski Senior was recording. I wouldn't even know where to begin if I tried to describe the content to you, so it's probably better if you see the playback for yourselves. I warn you, though, you'll need to have a strong stomach. I've seen a lot of things I'd rather forget since I became a Judge. But some of the images recorded on this machine made me wish I could have my brain wiped so I wouldn't have to remember them."

  Afterwards, there was silence for a time. Even the other Teks working in Tek-Bay had fallen quiet. Anderson and Lang stood in wordless shock, while Longhurst fiddled distractedly with some of the electronic components littering his workbench. No one spoke. They were struck dumb while their minds, like traitors, endlessly replayed the images they had just seen.

  "What about the victims in the recordings?" It was Anderson, finally, who broke the silence. "Do we know who they are?"

  "Some of them," Longhurst answered her. He still retained his professorial manner, but his earlier peevishness was gone; banished by his disquiet at the recordings. "I managed to extract some names and dates from the file headers on the data crystals." He paused. "The most startling discovery was that two of the victims in your ongoing homicide investigation - Joseph Kapinski and Charles Mayzell - were among the children who were abused in these recordings fifty years ago."

  "You're sure of this?" Lang said. Once Longhurst had nodded, she continued in a tone of rising outrage. "So Kapinski Senior invented this machine and then used it to record himself abusing his own son?" She shook her head, her voice became more sober and reflective as she turned toward Anderson. "Grud, and Mayzell as well. You said these killings probably involved unfinished business. But how does Konrad Gruschenko tie in with all this?"

  "What about it?" Anderson asked Longhurst. "Have you found anything here to indicate Gruschenko's involvement? He was too old to be one of the victims in these recordings. Could he have been one of the abusers?"

  "It's impossible to say," Longhurst told her. "You have to understand the recordings were made from the point of view of the abusers, recording their memories of the experience. Once I've had a chance to further analyse them it may be possible to identify the perps - if they saw their own reflections in any kind of reflective surface, for example. But, for the moment, all I've got are the names of some of the victims."

  "All right, then," Anderson said. "Compile a list of their names and forward it to MAC to find out their current status and addresses if they are still alive.
Then, have Control contact all the living victims and have then brought in to protective custody. If anyone squawks about how much manpower that's going to take, tell them to come see me about it. It can't be a coincidence that two men who were assaulted as children as part of the same abuse ring have both been murdered in the last few hours. The remaining survivors from these recordings could be our killers' next potential victims."

  "What I don't understand is why anyone would do this?" Lang said, after Longhurst had hurried away to contact MAC. The rookie's question seemed to be uttered in askance at the universe around her rather than aimed at Anderson directly. "I'm not talking about the fact that someone is killing the grown-up victims of a child abuse ring. I'm not even talking about the abuse itself - though, Grud knows, both of those crimes seem as incomprehensible to me as each other. What I don't understand is why would the perps who abused these kids make recordings of their crimes? I realise it may not be entirely germane to the case. But why would a perp make a record of something like that? They must have known if anyone ever found out what they had done, they'd be facing life in the cubes."

  "The recordings are mementos," Anderson said quietly. Her face was dark. "What you need to understand about these kind of perps is that they don't think they are doing anything wrong. They're not stupid: they know it's illegal. But they think it's all perfectly natural. To their minds it is society that is wrong, not them. With that in mind, some of them will search out others of their own kind: to swap stories and trade mementos. Sometimes, they even trade kids between them. At the same time, they'll often experiment with new technology in an attempt to aid their activities. Think of any of the great inventions of the last few centuries - photography, the Megaweb, Tri-D - and probably within a week of them being invented there was somebody trying to use them to record and disseminate this type of material. It's the flipside of human ingenuity: the same brilliance of mind that allows us to go into outer space or cure diseases, also allows us to come up with new and better ways of perpetrating horror on each other. Science is neutral: the real problem comes from the people who use it."

  "Earlier, I noticed something when we were watching the Tri-D transfers of the meme recordings," Lang said. She paused momentarily, as though uncertain whether she should broach the subject. "I don't mean to pry. But you seemed upset. Particularly so, I mean..."

  In reply, Anderson at first said nothing. It was not so much that she was lost in her own thoughts, more that she was unsure how much she should share with the woman beside her. There were personal matters that weighed heavily on her mind. Thoughts of her childhood, of her own past history, had risen up like some vast leviathan from the depths and refused to leave her.

  She could have told Lang the truth. Anderson could have told her that she had been abused by her own father as an infant. She could have told Lang that she had killed him, unknowingly using her powers for the first time to defend herself from him. She could have told her of how for years she had been unaware of that fact. In an attempt to protect her from the guilt at her act of patricide, members of Psi Division had taken it upon themselves to telepathically block off that part of her memory when she was a child. She had only re-discovered the memory a few years ago, and was still coming to terms with it. She could have told Lang all these things.

  Instead, what she said was this.

  "It's like what Longhurst was saying earlier," Anderson replied. "When you're a Judge you see a lot of things you wish you could forget. That was one of them."

  SIXTEEN

  WAITING FOR THE MOMENT

  Night comes to the city. By the methods through which men once measured time it is now eight o'clock post-meridian. Twenty-zero-zero by the twenty-four hour clock used in Mega-City One. Another day is done. The sun is fallen as natural light gives way to the glow of neon.

  It is only at night the city truly comes alive. Between the setting of the sun and the desperate early hours of morning, the city is a landscape of endless possibility. Its pulse quickens. In a hundred thousand bars and clubs, lonely citizens mingle together in search of connection. For eternal romantics, thrillseekers, social drinkers, criminals and would-be lovers, the best of life is now ahead of them. Of all the city, only the Judges curse the fall of night. For them, darkness brings a greater workload and an increase in danger.

  Still, the night comes to all regardless. It brings its rewards, both good and bad, to those who entertain the possibilities of darkness. The thoroughfares of the city, its pedways and skedways and alleyways, are swelled as thousands of lost souls seek out the moments which they hope will give meaning to their existence. Their lives intersect, briefly converge, and then move apart. In this city, everyone is searching for something. Everyone is waiting, whether or not they know it. Waiting for their luck to turn. Waiting for the Fates to smile. Waiting for the universe to pay them what they are owed.

  Waiting for the moments that will change their lives.

  For Leonard, the moment came while he was waiting for someone else.

  We should go, Daniel said to him. It's obvious he's not coming. You can see that, can't you?

  We'll give him a little while longer, Leonard replied. He said he'd be here tonight. And Freddie's never been late before.

  It was night in City Bottom, and Leonard was waiting with the rest of the mutants under cover of the old carport at the side of the hostel. They were waiting for Freddie Binns. Freddie brought his van down into City Bottom at the same time every night, to pick up the mutants and ferry them to wherever they were supposed to be working that night. Tonight, though, Freddie was late. Really late. Over an hour had passed and there had been no sign of him.

  He's not coming, Daniel said. We're wasting time here. We should go up into the city and punish some more of the bad men. We shouldn't be waiting here for somebody who's never going to turn up. It's boring. And remember your promise. You said you'd help me kill the bad men.

  I remember, Daniel, Leonard said. But this is my job and I need to eat. I need money. We'll wait a little while longer. I'm sure Freddie will be along soon. Then, we'll kill some of the bad men later. I promise.

  It had been the same for the last hour. As they waited fruitlessly with the other mutants for Freddie's arrival, Daniel had kept up a constant refrain of complaints and entreaties inside Leonard's head. At times, worn down by Daniel's voice, it felt to Leonard as though his head was going to burst. The boy would not let it go: his good mood of a few hours earlier was gone and now all the boy lived for was vengeance. Still, wary of the consequences if he was not there when Freddie finally arrived, Leonard had tried to resist the little boy's will.

  I don't want to wait, Daniel said. As the boy's impatience grew, his voice became shriller. I shouldn't have to! You promised me! I want to kill more bad men. I want to kill them now!

  Every time Daniel spoke, his voice grew louder. To Leonard, it felt like the boy's voice was no longer just inside his head. Instead, the voice had seemed to grow so huge it was all around him. It was a rare thing for him to refuse to accede to Daniel's demands immediately, and he was beginning to regret it. Already, looking about him, he saw that some of the other mutants had begun to drift away. Dispirited, apparently convinced that Freddie wasn't coming, they had started to return to the hostel, grumbling and muttering amongst themselves. Soon, Leonard was the only one left.

  All right, he said at last. I'll do what you want, Daniel. We'll go into the city. And we'll kill some more bad men.

  For Nathan Prendergast, the moment came as he went about his duties in Roderick Lowe's apartment.

  He heard the buzz of a comms-terminal, indicating an incoming call on one of the secure encrypted lines to the apartment. Checking the call signature as he went to answer it, Prendergast recognised it at once.

  "So, Arkady," he said, as the call connected and the image of the Russian mobster appeared on-screen. "To what do we owe this singular pleasure?"

  "We have your donor," Arkady answered. "He's health
y, with an excellent medical history, and the gene-scan indicates there shouldn't be any rejection problems. He's en route to the hospital now."

  "Excellent," Prendergast said. "I'm sure Mr Lowe will be thrilled when I tell him the news. I take it, as per our agreement, the donor is already brain-dead?"

  "He will be by the time he reaches the hospital." Arkady's face as he spoke was so unreadable it might as well have been set in stone. "We hired a compliant telepath to ensure there will be no damage to the neuro-pathways when the donor's brain activity is neutralised. Be assured, he's exactly everything you asked for. The medical paperwork has been altered to make it appear he suffered a fatal brain haemorrhage. Mr Lowe will have a clean body. Even if the Judges decide to sniff around it, there will be nothing to suggest the donor died of anything other than natural causes."

  "Good," Prendergast nodded with businesslike brusqueness. "Now, there is another matter. Mr Lowe instructed me to perform a routine security sweep after you relayed the news of Gruschenko's death. Our sources in the Justice Department indicate Gruschenko's killer claimed two more victims this morning. Their names are not important. However, it seems they were both relatives of some of Mr Lowe's past associates."

  "You think Konrad's death may relate to some form of vendetta against Mr Lowe or his partners?" Arkady asked. "May I ask what was the nature of his association with the men in question?"

  "You may not," Prendergast replied. "It could be the matter is entirely a coincidence. All the same, Mr Lowe is rightly concerned about his own security. I take it, as is common in your circles, you have initiated steps to ensure Gruschenko's assassin is punished?"