Savant

by Nik Abnett

  Saintout had been given specified clearance for some of the information that Metoo would need to know, because Service Central realised that she had begun to trust him during their day together. It was up to Wooh to deliver the rest of the information, and she didn’t relish the prospect.

  “Let’s sit, shall we?” she asked, gesturing towards a chair.

  “I need to be close to Tobe,” said Metoo, “in case he needs me.”

  “That, I can help you with.” Wooh produced a headset, identical, in appearance, to the ones worn by Operators on the Service floor, and handed it to Metoo.

  “You can wear this,” she said. “Put it on. It’s tuned to Master Tobe’s wavelength, so that you can monitor his activity, remotely. If he should wake up, you’ll know about it before he does.”

  Metoo looked at the contraption in her hands.

  “I can see and hear Tobe through this?”

  “No. We avoid invading anyone’s privacy; in fact, there are laws against it. We can only monitor basic brain activity with this type of headset. You don’t have –”

  “The necessary clearance,” Metoo said, cutting Wooh off.

  “Visual and Audio are available to higher ranking Service Floor Operators,” Wooh continued, “but if you put the headset on, and tell me what you see, I can guide you through it.”

  “And I just have to take your word for it?” asked Metoo.

  “I’m afraid that’s all you have,” said Wooh. “I should also warn you that a lot of people find this a deeply unsettling experience, the first time around, so if it becomes too much for you, let me know, and we’ll take it off.”

  Metoo slipped on the monitor, which sat high on her head. A bead extended down from it, which she inserted into her ear, and then she pulled down the screen in front of her eyes. All she could see was a swirling mass of yellow threads, which appeared to be throbbing slightly, and all she could hear was a soft, low tone, which had a lilt to it.

  “What can you see?” asked Wooh.

  “A ball of yellow, stringy lights,” said Metoo.

  “And hear?”

  “It’s like someone humming. It’s almost like a lullaby.”

  “Good. The lights will probably stay yellow, but that’s not what you’re interested in. You need to look out for changes in individual strands, which might show up brighter or duller than the rest, or the pulsing that you can see... Can you see pulsing?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Okay, good. You want to watch out for the pulsing getting faster, or for different areas pulsing at different rates.”

  “And the sound?”

  “Listen for changes. Lower in pitch and slower ululations means he’s more relaxed, and faster and higher means he’s more active. From what you describe, he’s obviously sleeping soundly at the moment. Let me know if things change, or if you’re worried.”

  “Okay,” said Metoo.

  “Just one other thing,” she said, after watching and listening for a minute. “The outcome of all this could change my status with Tobe, couldn’t it?”

  “It could,” said Wooh, “and it probably will.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Are you ready?”

  Metoo kept watching and listening, engrossed in the experience. She began to say something, but thought better of it. After tomorrow, she might never be so close to Tobe again, and she was determined to enjoy these last peaceful moments.

  She breathed deeply, inhaling and exhaling to the pulse of the light-threads and the lilt of the hum.

  “As I’ll ever be,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “IF WE ASSUME that everyone who had direct contact with the room, and/or the data, is contaminated, what are the parameters for containment?” asked Control Operator Branting.

  “We need to work out a safe zone,” said Mr Johnson, “to include Companions and Assistants of the five Masters.”

  “What about Students?” asked Miss Goldstein. “Some of them would certainly be susceptible, if we include persons with similar mental acuity or personality types.”

  “What about maintenance personnel?” someone else asked.

  “By which you mean what?” asked Mr Johnson. “Cleaners? Technicians? Ground crew?”

  “We should put a ring between those directly in contact with the data, and the people who have come into contact with them since. We should be able to trace their activities, but let’s hope they didn’t do too much socialising in the last couple of days.”

  “Medtech should be isolated too,” said Miss Goldstein. “We’ll put a ring around them. They can work with the subjects in isolation, but once we’ve established the team, no one goes in or out.”

  “One of the subjects, the Student, was also interviewed, so anyone in the interview room should be taken to Medtech, and their contacts monitored,” said the neuroscientist.

  “This thing is growing fast,” said Branting. “Let’s begin with a curfew, and keep everyone where they are. We can call people to Medtech as we need them, and give them Service escorts.”

  “What about the Schools?” asked the viral specialist, whose name was Nowak.

  “We should isolate them, immediately,” said Branting, gesturing to Qa. “See to it.

  “It is unlikely that there has been any contact between the Schools and any of the subjects, but we’ll cross-check, and isolate any Students and Seniors who have come into contact with any of the subjects. The numbers will be small to none.”

  Qa returned before Branting had a chance to pursue his thought any further. He put a finger up in front of his chest in the smallest of gestures.

  “If you would excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,” said Branting.

  Chairs scraped back, and the dozen men and women that had been sitting around the table, filed out of the room.

  Branting turned to the console in an alcove close to the door. He sat down, keyed in his Morse signature, and followed it with the letters C-Q-D. He pulled in his chair, and put on a headset as the screen came to life.

  Five minutes later, Branting signed out of Service Global, and gestured to Qa to bring his advisors back into the room.

  Once they were all seated, Branting got to his feet.

  “We have a problem,” said Branting. Some of the advisors present looked at each other. How could their problem possibly be any worse than it was five minutes ago? “The mini-print slot system is not secure.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t,” said Mr Ahmed, “not locally, and not globally. It is intended as a medium for the free exchange of ideas, and so, anyone can access anything.”

  “Precisely,” said Branting.

  “The mini-print was used to distribute Master Tobe’s data?” asked Mr Ahmed, his skin turning a pale, ashen colour. He clenched his teeth together, so that the muscles under the sharp cheeks on his gaunt face tensed, visibly. Mr Ahmed thought he was going to vomit, and he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief to catch it in. He gagged slightly and swallowed hard, the bulge in his neck bobbing alarmingly.

  “So, isolation plans are pointless?” asked the neuroscientist.

  “Probably,” said Branting. “Anyone tuned in to a mathematics-based channel, or even the news, could fall prey to whatever is causing these problems. We will continue with quarantine procedures at the Colleges, but we must remember that we’re casting a net, rather than locking anything down.

  “What’s our legal position, Schmidt?” Branting asked, turning to the man at the far end of the table, who had not yet spoken.

  “It’s a civil liberties issue,” said Schmidt. “I know that you know this, but, for the record, ‘Neither Service Central, nor Service Global is empowered to censor, interpret, interrupt or remove any intellectual property made freely available by any Drafted member or by any Civilian’.”

  “Where do we stand on interpretation of the law?” asked Branting.

  “We can’t do it. I just quoted the first sentence of a three hundred page document
. This thing has been around for as long as Service has, and no one gets to mess with it.”

  “Are there no extenuating circumstances?”

  “Extenuating circumstances would have to be fought in the courts at the global level,” said Schmidt. “It’s do-able, but, I fear that it’s grossly too late for this event.”

  “Let’s set the wheels in motion anyway,” said Branting. “If we get through this thing, it might be a useful statute to have on the books for next time.”

  “I think we’ll hit a major sticking point there, too.”

  “How so?”

  “I think you’d have trouble defining terms, and there’s no way to cover all eventualities.”

  “So, we could cover this situation, retrospectively, and guard against the same thing happening again...” began Nowak.

  “But the chance of the same set of circumstances recurring is –”

  “Let’s quote Assistant-Companion Metoo, shall we?” asked Branting, “And just call it ‘slim to none’.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” said Schmidt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WOOH SHOWED METOO a deep neck brace. It had solid, tilted rings, top and bottom, with curved, vertical bars holding the two together. The rings seemed hopelessly far apart, but the vertical supports had threaded sections on them, so that the collar could be made deeper or less deep, depending on the length of the subject’s neck.

  The rings were covered in grubby, orange neoprene that Metoo thought looked particularly unattractive. She didn’t comment.

  “My neck’s nowhere near that long,” she said.

  “You’d be surprised,” said Wooh, but she shortened the supports, never-the-less, before wrapping the collar around Metoo’s neck. When it was securely in position to the correct circumference, Wooh began to elongate the vertical supports. Metoo felt as if her neck was being stretched beyond its natural limits.

  “Comfortable?” asked Wooh.

  “Hardly,” Metoo tried to say, through gritted teeth, but her neck was so extended that her lower jaw had no movement in it, what-so-ever, and she found herself talking like a ventriloquist with her jaw clamped shut.

  “It won’t be long,” said Wooh, by way of reassuring Metoo.

  Metoo did not care. Her discomfort was minor, particularly compared to the fascination that the video and audio feeds held for her. There was a subtle ebb and flow to the rhythm of the lights and the pitch of the sound. She recognised the cadence of Tobe’s breathing and the timbre of his voice in the low hum, and saw the sparkle in his eyes, when he was following a thought to its logical conclusion, in the pulse of the lights in front of her. She only thought that his mind was not yellow, that it could never be yellow.

  Metoo was vaguely aware of a flash of pressure on the back of her neck, not like a prick, more like an insistent thumb-print, or an emphatic poke. The next thing she knew, the collar was released from her neck, as if being torn away in one swift move, and she felt something icy cool and moist: a swab, she supposed.

  “All done,” said Wooh.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now you rest, and I climb back out through that damned window. I’ll need that, first, though,” she said, gesturing at the headset.

  “How do I shut it off?”

  “Just flip up the screen and take the ear-bead out, and the rest is automatic.”

  “Let me wear it again, sometime?”

  Wooh was surprised; it wasn’t the usual response. Most people found the experience difficult. Either it gave them a headache, or vertigo, or made them nauseous or agitated. Metoo was oddly calm.

  “Of course,” said Wooh, “if I can.”

  Wooh put her instruments away in a neat doctor’s bag, and then collapsed the table and attached it, by a strap, to the side of the bag. She opened the window, lifted her equipment out over the ledge, and dropped it onto the grass on the other side.

  Metoo held out her hand, and, after a moment, Wooh took it, and shook it firmly. Metoo was grateful to Wooh for giving her Tobe back for a few minutes, and Wooh was oddly impressed by the calm, strong little woman in front of her.

  “Send Saintout back in, would you?” asked Metoo. Wooh nodded and smiled. She sat on the window-ledge, and swung her legs out. She stepped out onto the grass, picked up her bag, and looked around.

  Saintout wasn’t there.

  “HE’S GONE,” SAID Wooh, just as a tone sounded in the flat.

  Metoo held up one hand to Wooh as she turned to the garden room door, “Don’t move,” she said, as she left the room

  “Yes,” said Metoo, signing in to Service.

  “All current occupants must remain in the building,” said Service.

  “Anomalies?”

  “Moderate and monitoring.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “All current occupants must remain in the building.”

  “Where’s Saintout? Does that mean Doctor Wooh has to stay?”

  “All current occupants must remain in the building.”

  Metoo signed out of Service, listened in the hallway for a moment to make sure that Tobe was still asleep, and, reassured by his slow, steady breathing, she let herself back into the garden room.

  Wooh looked up at her from where she was leaning against the wall, adjacent to the window, her feet crossed, casually, in front of her, and her arms by her sides.

  “I guess we’re going to get to know each other a little better than either one of us expected,” said Wooh.

  “Have they told you what’s going on?”

  “Not yet, but I’m guessing that if they haven’t told you now, they’re not likely to tell you at all. Do you know if there’s a status change on Master Tobe?”

  “They’re not telling me anything. I ask for anomalies, and they tell me ‘moderate and monitoring’. I don’t even know what that means. I’ve never been past ‘minor and monitoring’ before, and it’s generally ‘minor and momentary’. What are they keeping from me?”

  “Anything and nothing.”

  Metoo visibly jumped, and put her palm high on her chest, shocked, and Wooh turned to see where she was looking. Saintout was standing on the other side of the window.

  Wooh opened the window, while Metoo got her breath back.

  “Did I startle you?” asked Saintout, stepping onto the ledge and then into the room in two easy strides. “Didn’t mean to, sorry.

  “I got the order to remain in the building, and I was still in transit. It’s a lovely evening, so I was taking the long route around the building. I decided I’d better come back to the last building I was in. I hope three isn’t a crowd,” he said, looking from one anxious face to another.

  “Four,” said Metoo.

  “I don’t –” Saintout began, before he was cut off by Metoo.

  “There are four of us in the flat.”

  “Service should have known that you were outside,” said Wooh.

  “It would appear that they’ve got better things to keep an eye on than me,” said Saintout. “Without wishing to alarm anyone, things don’t appear to be getting any closer to being resolved.”

  Metoo looked from Saintout to Wooh. Her face was pale and her eyes were large, but her skin was cool and her hands were still. She was calm.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  “Doctor Wooh?” asked Saintout, stepping and turning, so that he stood next to Metoo, as though physically taking her side.

  “I don’t know any more than you do,” she said.

  “But you do have the means to find out,” said Saintout.

  “If they haven’t even bothered to put your tracer on,” Wooh said, “I’d be prepared to bet that they’re too busy to bother talking to me.”

  “You have the trump card, though, don’t you, Doctor Wooh?” Metoo asked.

  “How so?”

  “Think about it. Tobe is the prima
ry subject in all this, whatever it is. Presuming everyone in College, and not just us, has been locked down, that puts you in charge of Tobe. He’s stuck in here, and so are you. You out-rank Saintout, and nobody’s telling me anything. Doesn’t that put you in the perfect bargaining position?”

  “I’m not sure bargaining with Service is at all wise,” said Saintout.

  “Well I’ve got nothing to lose,” said Metoo. “They’ve put this damned thing in my head so they know what I’m thinking; I might as well say it, it won’t be news to them.”

  “It really doesn’t work like that,” said Wooh, “although, I do take your point.

  “It’s late, Master Tobe’s asleep, and no one is going anywhere, so why don’t we try to relax and get some rest; we might have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  PITU 3 WAS enjoying the attention. He was in a medical gown, in bed, in a private room, in no time at all. His Schedule was even hooked up to the infirmary, so that he wasn’t required to press his button if he didn’t feel like it, providing he wore a tag on his finger.

  For the first hour, he was visited at least half-a-dozen times by one Medic or another, and twice by doctors. It seemed to him as if they were just chatting with him. It was the most attention he’d ever had in his life, and he was revelling in it. He had alerted Service to Tobe’s problems, and he’d suffered a minor physical and emotional breakdown as a result. It didn’t matter how the affair played out; he would be a legend in College for a long time to come.

  During the second hour, visits to Pitu 3’s room were fewer and further between. During the third hour, nobody came to see him at all. Early in the fourth hour, he was woken up, so that a Medic could remove his tag, leaving him responsible for his own Schedule again.

  Worse than all of that, he could hear things going on beyond the door to his single room that he was not a part of.

  Of the thirteen obvious candidates for contamination in the College, Tobe and Metoo were in their flat. Pitu 3 was the first taken to the infirmary, but it was not yet known if he had suffered from contamination, and a more immediate concern was his emotional well-being; he was destined for the infirmary before there had been any evidence that Tobe’s work could prove dangerous. Mudd was the first signed into the infirmary, purely as a potential contamination patient, but he was also Service and a Medic, so he helped to open the quarantine ward that would house the rest. The Service Operators that had stood outside of Tobe’s room, while he was extracted, were the next to be escorted to infirmary ward Isis, followed by Estefan and his colleague.