by Nik Abnett
The events of the last three days were the straw that broke the camel’s back: a pretty damned big straw. Metoo was confident that Tobe was Active, certain of it, even. She didn’t want to have a chip adjustment unless it was vital to Tobe’s well-being, because she thought that if Service Central knew that she was aware of Tobe’s true status, they would relieve her of her position in his household, and she could not bear for that to happen.
She reminded herself, after a few minutes’ thinking about it, that she could, and would bear separation from Tobe, if it was in his best interests. She took a deep breath, and waited for the tone. It felt like a long wait.
“Yes,” said Metoo, answering the tone almost before it had sounded.
“Operator Saintout will speak with you,” said Service Central.
“That isn’t specified clearance. Does he have someone from Medtech with him?”
“Not at this time.”
“You are not giving me specified clearance?” asked Metoo.
“Not at this time. Police Operator Saintout will advise.”
Metoo was puzzled, but signed out, none-the-less.
She cast a glance in Tobe’s direction, but he seemed happy enough with his probability puzzles, so she went back to the garden room and Saintout.
As she closed the door, quietly, using both hands behind her back, so that she was facing Saintout, she opened her mouth to ask him a question, but he cut her off.
“I’ve found some liberty,” he said, gesturing to Metoo to take a seat.
METOO LOOKED At Saintout for a moment, her back still against the door. He stood up from his position leaning against the wall.
“I’ll stand, thank you,” said Metoo. She wanted to stay close to the door so that she could hear Tobe if he called her.
“I think you should sit,” said Saintout, picking up one of the chairs, and putting it as close to the door as he could, without blocking Metoo’s exit.
Metoo sat on the chair, the colour draining from her face.
“It’s Tobe, isn’t it?” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
“No,” said Saintout, quickly, “Tobe is fine, so far as we know. He certainly isn’t physically ill or in any immediate danger. There is no need to worry about him.”
“I do worry about him,” Metoo said, dropping her voice, and her head.
“Yes,” said Saintout, “you do.
“I’ve been instructed to answer some of your questions with reference to your chip,” he said.
“Okay,” said Metoo, preparing herself for the worst.
“You are reluctant to have a chip adjustment, and you are particularly reluctant for Medtech to do work on your chip, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You would rather have a chip adjustment through Service Central.”
Metoo nodded.
“I told you that it was impossible for you to have your chip adjusted by Service Central, and there is a reason for that.”
“You want to extract more information from me, regarding my position, than I prefer to give, and you don’t trust me to tell the truth.”
Saintout sighed, and Metoo looked up at him, instead of down at her hands, resting in her lap.
“I certainly understand why you are so valued by Service Central,” he said, under his breath.
“The truth is, Metoo, your chip was permanently disabled six years ago.”
Metoo looked at Saintout for several seconds, her hands clenching and unclenching, slightly, in her lap.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Everyone is chipped. Chips are permanent, but adjustable. No one could live without a chip.”
Metoo put her hands up to her head, and held them there, as if she was protecting her mind with them. The chip should have been her protection, and they had taken it away from her. Why?
“A handful of people, worldwide, function with a disabled chip,” said Saintout. “I can’t tell you who they are, but one or two are in Service, a few are Masters, and one is a Civilian, the only one of his kind. There is also an Assistant in, I think, in the Middle East, somewhere, who has been functioning with a disabled chip for three months. His Master is doing very important work in Ethics and Philosophy.”
“Why me? Why did nobody tell me?”
“Would it have made a difference?” asked Saintout.
“To what?”
“Would it have made a difference to your work with Tobe? Would knowing your chip had been de-activated make you any happier?”
“Leave Tobe out of it,” said Metoo, warily.
“But isn’t he the point of all this?”
Metoo stood up quickly, and was out of the door before Saintout could say anything more to her.
She stood on the other side of the door from him, breathing hard, as if she had run across the campus. Her back was to the door, and she held onto the door knob, as if trying to prevent Saintout from opening it. It was foolish; if he wanted to open the door, Metoo would not have the strength to stop him.
Metoo took a couple of deep breaths, and walked towards the kitchen. It must be supper time by now, and it had been a long day. She needed to do something. She couldn’t bear the thoughts that were tumbling through her head.
Metoo measured out rice for the two of them, and found a packet of fishpro to go with it. She vacuum sealed them into steamers, and began to prepare a salad of tiny yellow tomatoes and frilly lettuce, from her garden, the type that Tobe seemed to like so much.
A tone sounded in the flat.
Metoo tried to ignore it, but, within a few seconds, she was worried that Tobe might be disturbed if Service sent two tones too close together. She wiped her hands on a cloth and went to sign in.
Chapter Twenty
SIXTY HOURS INTO the event, Service Central had no protocol for dealing with the escalating problem.
They needed to know what Tobe was working on to try to keep him Active, but, by sending his work to other maths Masters, between hours fifty-two and fifty-three, they had, apparently, accelerated the problem. Was there a mind-virus in the works? How did the information, transmitted via the mini-print slots, effect the minds of the mathematicians without them knowing what was going on?
Control Operator Branting had hastily put together a team from his political, psychological, medical, educational and esoteric advisors. Twelve people sat in the room, each with his specialism, from ethics to sub-molecular biology, from neuroscience to nano-virus recognition. No one had an immediate answer.
No one had an answer, because no one was allowed to review the data that had been collected.
“For the first hour of this meeting, there is no such thing as a bad idea. Let’s get rid of the junk, people, and see what’s left,” said Control Operator Branting.
They got rid of the impossibilities, but, having done that, there was very little left.
“We need to be empirical,” said Mr Johnson, one of the medical specialists. “Let’s not theorise, let’s experiment.”
“How?” asked Branting. “We gave the data to the four greatest mathematical minds in the World, wasn’t that experiment enough?”
“We must preserve the Actives,” said the neuroscientist, sitting to the Control Operator’s left.
“So, don’t involve the Actives,” said a woman’s voice from the far end of the conference table.
“Miss Goldstein?” asked Branting. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not sure, yet,” said Goldstein, “but could we consider exposing the data to other groups, perhaps outside the College system, or maybe among volunteers from lower ranks.”
“We don’t know how the problem is being transmitted,” said the doctor.
“Do we have data from the original outbreak on this?” asked Branting.
“Master Tobe’s room extraction is barely begun and will take some considerable time to complete, sir,” said Qa, his private secretary.
“No, I mean, what about other people exposed to the data... to t
he room?” asked Branting.
Several of the specialists at the table began to look at each other, while others started making furious notes.
THE ROOM EMPTIED quickly at the end of Pitu 3’s interview. It had not been a particularly pleasant experience for anyone present, although Pitu seemed to mind it less than the others. Mudd was thoroughly sick of his charge, and his work was not yet done.
Bello packed his electrical device and attendant cables away, and left the room first. Bim followed him out, but she returned within moments, and began to fold up the temporary chairs. She took them out of the room, one at a time, and, when she entered again, with Pitu’s chair-stretcher, Mudd was already on his feet.
“Let’s be having you then,” he said to Pitu 3, trying for all he was worth to remain cheerful, and get through this assignment. “The infirmary will take good care of you, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Won’t you stay with me?” asked Pitu 3.
“I’m due a Rest,” said the Medic, “but, if I’m required –”
“Good,” said Pitu 3, cutting him off, and sitting down in the chair-stretcher, which Mudd was convinced he didn’t need.
Medic Operator Mudd would have liked to hand Pitu over to someone else. He had worked beyond the end of his shift, and was tired, hungry and irritable. There was no way that he could leave Pitu 3, though, without serious repercussions. He was manacled to his subject, because of the Schedule piggy-back, and Students were not allowed to go off-Schedule under any circumstances, particularly, Mudd thought, not in these circumstances.
Mudd almost wished he’d insisted that Pitu 3 be taken straight to the infirmary, and saved himself the misery of spending so much time with him. That manoeuvre would also have landed him in trouble, of course, when Service Central found out that he had delayed an essential interview.
“Why is it always the morons who get away with this shit?” Mudd mumbled under his breath. Bim was standing close to him, securing the straps in the back of the chair-stretcher.
“I heard that, Medic,” she said.
Mudd looked at Bim. He was partly crestfallen to have been caught out at all, and partly annoyed because he had unwittingly left himself wide open for censure.
“Bugger,” he whispered.
“Yep,” said Bim, grinning, “heard that too.”
Mudd smiled, awkwardly, back at Bim, and she held the interview room door for him as he wheeled the chair-stretcher back out onto the gallery.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Mudd wheeled Pitu 3 into the reception area of the infirmary. A doctor and several Medics were, apparently, waiting for them.
“First things first, doctor,” said Mudd. “We need to get this man back onto his own Schedule.”
The receptionist leaned over his desk with a large, heavy grade, tear-proof, paperpro envelope in his hand.
“You’ll need this then,” he said.
Mudd took the envelope, but did not have clearance to break the seal.
“Anyone?” he asked.
The doctor took the envelope from Mudd, and smiled at him.
“I’m guessing your replacement is overdue?” asked the doctor with a smile.
“What replacement?” asked Mudd, reduced, by his fatigue, to sarcasm.
“We’ll have you out of here in no time,” said the doctor.
A tone sounded in the reception area, and the receptionist signed in to Service. He was only on the line for a matter of seconds before signing off.
“Doctor Narinda,” he said, “there’s a large group coming in from Service for Medtech. I’ve been instructed to alert you.”
“Thank you,” said the doctor.
“Excuse me,” said the receptionist to Mudd, “you wouldn’t be Medic Operator Mudd, by any chance?”
“I’m going to regret answering that question in the affirmative, aren’t I?” asked Mudd.
“Only if you’d rather not spend an indeterminate amount of time in Medtech,” said the receptionist, “starting immediately.”
“Bugger,” said Mudd.
Chapter Twenty-One
“IT’S BEDTIME, TOBE,” Metoo said, walking towards the open door of his room.
He was sitting on the cot, looking from the coin on the floor between his feet, to the wipe-wall where he was collating his data. He stood up, made a mark on the wall, sat down and picked up the coin.
“Bedtime,” said Metoo from the threshold.
“It’s working,” said Tobe, smiling.
“It’s supposed to,” said Metoo, making the effort to smile back. “You have to go to bed, Tobe. You can do some more tomorrow...” Her voice trailed off. Tomorrow, Tobe wouldn’t be tossing coins. In the moment, she had forgotten what tomorrow would bring, and she hated herself for lying to him, even accidentally.
Tobe stood up, lifting his robe off over his head as he made his way to the bathroom. He dropped the robe on the floor, carried out his ablutions, and walked back to his room, naked, less than five minutes later. Ten minutes after that, Tobe was asleep.
Metoo waited for a further ten minutes, steadying her nerves for what was to come.
A tone sounded in the flat.
Metoo signed in to Service.
“Yes,” she said.
“Operator Saintout will speak to you, now.”
“Does he have a Medtech with him?”
“He does. All of your questions will be answered.”
Metoo signed out of Service, and walked to the garden room door. She took two deep breaths, and smoothed down the front of her robe. Her hands were still and dry, and her skin felt cool. She dropped her shoulders, took hold of the door knob and entered the room.
She stood with her back to the door, as she had several times during the day, so that she could hear Tobe, and respond if necessary, and so that she could escape if she wanted to. Saintout took a couple of paces towards Metoo, and smiled at her.
“What do you need to know?” he asked.
“What will they be able to read in my mind?” Metoo asked.
“That isn’t the point of the exercise.”
“Never-the-less.”
“Theoretically?”
“Theoretically.”
“More or less, whatever they want to read,” said Saintout, “but, I repeat, that is not the purpose of the exercise.”
“What is the purpose of the exercise?”
“It was your idea. In fact, I seem to remember that you insisted on this as the best, if not only, course of action. We don’t need you to sanction anything, you realise that?”
“Of course I do,” said Metoo, resigned.
“We are trying this as a first step,” said Saintout. “Service Central is unconvinced.”
“But they sanctioned this,” said Metoo, frowning.
“I’ve said too much.”
“Service Central told me that you would answer all of my questions.”
“I believe that Service Central told you that all your questions would be answered, I don’t recall any mention of who would furnish those answers,” said a voice to Metoo’s left.
She had seen the woman, bending over a collapsible, stainless steel table, setting out instruments, had recognised her as Medtech from her overalls, but had, otherwise, disregarded her presence. She had dealt with Saintout throughout her ordeal, and it was him she turned to, now.
The woman from Medtech gestured to Saintout. He stood in front of Metoo for a moment longer, and then reached out, and touched the top of her arm with his open palm, very lightly.
“I don’t have clearance,” he said, “and I’m all out of liberty. I have to go, now.”
“I’ll order specified clearance, through Service Central,” said Metoo, but she knew she was grasping at straws. She clasped her hands lightly together in front of her, and said, “Don’t go far, okay?”
“I won’t,” said Saintout. He turned his back on her, opened the large, south-facing window, onto darkness, stepped onto the ledge with his right foot, and out i
nto the garden with his left. The window closed behind him.
“Questions?” asked the woman from Medtech.
“What’s your name?” asked Metoo.
“Wooh. Doctor Wooh. The procedure is very simple. I need to locate the atlanto-occipital joint, and insert the chip. I will immobilise your neck for a few moments, while I’m doing the procedure, but it shouldn’t be painful, and we should have immediate results.”
Wooh gestured at the instruments on the tray table beside her, and picked up a device that looked like a pen.
“This is the only instrument I should require. I keep the others on hand, merely as a precaution. If I can’t gain access to the joint in the cervical vertebra, we might need to use a light anaesthetic, and make a small incision, but there won’t be any scarring.”
“Apart from the emotional kind,” said Metoo, tersely. She didn’t like this woman, and she didn’t like what was being done to her.
“I assure you, I won’t allow you to be in any pain.”
“I don’t care about pain. This isn’t about pain. Pain, Doctor Wooh, is the least of my worries.
“The procedure will no doubt be exactly as you describe, but I have questions before you start immobilising me and sticking things in the back of my neck; I take it that’s what you mean by atlanto-occipital joint?”
Wooh looked at Metoo, caught entirely off-guard. Most of her patients, in the past, had been eager Students having adjustments to their chips; Service advised that Medtech should continue to use doctors and medical professionals to perform the task, because it seemed to reassure the kids, even though there was generally no reason why the adjustment couldn’t be made remotely. Wooh wasn’t used to patients that talked back, and she had never inserted a chip into a patient more than a year old. In fact, Doctor Wooh hadn’t inserted a chip in anyone for ten years, or made an adjustment for that matter, outside of her lab, but she was the superior on duty in Medtech, and she outranked the superior on duty at the infirmary, so it had fallen to her to do the procedure. Her clearance was among the highest, in College, and she outranked Saintout by several levels.