The Hunt for Pierre Jnr (19 page)

The procession from the palace to the newly renovated needle he had been assigned was two kilometres long, but the pace of the parade would make it take at least an hour. Time the Prime could barely afford, but his mother had insisted. ‘Give the people their moments, Ryu,’ she said.

Many Citizens and denizens had turned out for the event. A Shima was moving from the family palace and it was none other than the newly exalted Prime. As eldest son of this de facto royal family, Ryu was well known. Many of the people waving chameleon flags had supported him becoming the local enforcer of the Will, never thinking he would rise to the ultimate station.

Still, even as he sat, waving side to side, he could work through his symbiot on organising the next collections. His area of influence had increased exponentially. To reach Prime, he had taken the validation of more than a thousand precincts, each more poorly run than the last and doing their best to ignore all but the most obvious psis. 
But
, he thought to himself, 
it’s the ones who hide that you have to worry about the most.

While they proceeded through the throngs of supporters, he was watching in overlay as his best team surrounded one of those strange Scando schools for a collection. One more success to add to his record.

Each successful collection brought more validation and more work and the world was in short supply of competence. While the civics structure encouraged a natural meritocracy, there were times when its priorities were confused. Not today though.

Ryu smiled at the thought and twisted to wave more enthusiastically at the people. They knew it too. They knew he was the one. The streets were mixed with those full of pride in the Shimas and, of course, those who wanted to be seen showing support: the business types and the young women of age.

~ * ~

Roll call was taken automatically, and class began when Moreau trailed in, last as always. ‘Now that we’re all here ...’ Miz Rose Lia was a good teacher, a nice woman who encouraged her students to ask the questions on their minds.

First-year synthesis began at the average age of twelve. In her current class Rose Lia’s youngest member was eleven and her oldest sixteen. It was one of the subjects that most teachers avoided due to the chaos it often brought out in the children’s behaviour. But that was the aim after all.

Understanding the basics of synthesis was judged by many parents to be the key to success in a multiplex society and they duly encouraged their children to take the course. But synthesis was not a basic subject like mathematics, geography or computing; this class was not based on facts, it was based on connections. The full name for what Miz Lia taught to introductory students was ‘Synthesis, analysis and history’ and it gave her scope to let the students exercise their ability to make broad and unexpected connections across a range of topics.

It was bedlam and Miz Lia loved that. It was exciting to watch and participate with the children as they discovered unique combinations of knowledge and theory. The second part of the process was to help them analyse and discover which of their brilliant ideas were reasonable and which were simply patterns without foundation.

‘Okay, Sulci, you may sit down now. You are right. The list of events is in the correct chronological order, but a list does not always convey the meaning or implications of what took place. Can anyone tell me why we study history? Anyone?’

‘So we can learn from the past?’

‘Yes, thank you, Vincenzo. I’ve heard that one before too. If only wishing made it so. Mostly people trying to learn from the past end up justifying the uniqueness of their own situation, thus enabling them to ignore the past. Tådler?’ Tådler was the youngest one, a little too bright for his own good.

‘A study of the past can help us understand the trajectory of event vectors, giving us the ability to deflect or predict future events.’

‘Spoken like a true overachiever, thank you, Tådler. Could you perhaps rephrase so the rest of us might understand?’ He shook his head: no, he couldn’t paraphrase it.

Tådler was a great admirer of Miz Lia’s technique. She knew the answers, had a hidden symbiot at the small of her back so she could cheat, if she needed to, all the while protesting her own mental limitations so she could get students of different grading levels to discuss and parse together.

She had spent most of her life aiming at becoming a synthesist herself, but in the end found her daily joy in teaching — it was, after all, a synthesising of sorts, helping others see the patterns of human thought year after year. Her studies had been necessarily broad and made her such a delightful sophist. She could help any child discover their own path.

‘What Tådler has introduced to the discussion is the concept of reaction chains, the cause-and-effect pathways that flow backward through our history. Every action seems to be the offspring of earlier actions, with a resultant effect. Which is what makes last week’s events so significant because they are, as yet, unexplained. Since the second Dark Age, the World Union has been on a steady path toward the ideal of Parity —’

Sally leapt from her chair and responded unbidden, ‘Why do we study ideals if they are unachievable?’ Sally was one of the most impetuous and demanding of Tådler’s classmates. Her mind seemed to froth with thoughts, with the occasional flare that spat up to become vocalised. While Tådler could clearly see her thoughts, he still found it hard to predict what she would come out with.

‘Because we must strive. Being a Citizen comes with responsibilities and duties, but mainly it is the ideal of equality that binds us together.’

Tådler had known for two weeks now that he was a telepath. It had crept up on him until he was struck with a moment of certainty. Knowing the thoughts of your family was one thing — that can blend with empathy — but watching strangers in the park and tapping into their most private considerations was disturbing. Tådler had quietly stopped being a little boy.

Miz Lia’s symb communicated with her and the blood drained from her face as she stopped speaking and looked at Tådler. A message had come through her symbiot that Services were here to collect him. She was beset with fears of wired-up fusers bursting through the doors and yanking him bodily from the room. This was overlaid by her fear of being labelled as a sympathiser.

‘Though justice is the ideal of the legal system, laws themselves do not fully nullify the injustices of the world. Laws are to justice as bricks are to buildings.’ She was speaking to him, Tådler realised. He wondered when she had first known, and then saw that she had identified him some time back as a possible. Almost a year ago, when he began completing her lessons ahead of the class.

He raised his hand.

‘Yes, Tåd. You have a question?’

‘May I be excused to visit the bathroom?’

‘Of course you can,’ she answered, her mind flooding with relief. She wouldn’t have to watch him be taken.

‘Thank you, Miz Lia,’ he replied formally. He hoped she understood that he didn’t blame her.

Tåd left the classroom and followed the corridor two turns until he reached the elevators. One of them was rising to his floor and he waited patiently. The doors opened, revealing a small posse of Services Blacks. The man at their front knelt upon seeing the boy standing there, bringing himself to eye level.

Even though he knew who the boy was, out of courtesy he confirmed, ‘Are you Tådler Moore?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have to come with us now.’

‘Yes, I understand.’ He understood an awful lot.

~ * ~

Ryu filed his report and focused again on his waving.

The architectural template of the needle was developed to enable protection, or confinement, of special individuals and families by keeping them isolated from the population below. It looked like an upright toothpick with an olive on top; it was under constant surveillance and the neck could be blocked at the first signs of betrayal or endangerment for protection. City skylines around the world were now dominated by these minarets that housed a revolving parade of dignitaries and civil servants.

He was actually looking forward to staying in the needle. His rapidly expanding retinue would live and operate from the base and he alone would live in the head, away from everyone. He didn’t like having people near him. It was unsettling and risky. Since his candidacy, he had become surrounded by too many, and only since Gladys Schuster had accepted his appointment as his senior secretary had he been able to withdraw from the daily onslaught and concentrate on his duties.

Ryu had admired her work for a long time as the coordinator of the Scandinavian resortment and she was as good as he’d hoped. Now a whole day could pass by and he need only communicate with her through symb. He blocked out the thought, smiled and waved through the petals that were being thrown over them as they passed.

The Prime passed quickly through the lower levels to the elevator, now waving and smiling to the welcoming committee of his staff and major supporters.

With a sigh of relief the elevator closed around him.

The first room he stepped into was an open panorama of the surrounding city. He was five thousand feet high and Yantz unfurled before him in a polka-dot pattern of raised white fortifications that looked like lily pads rising above the green level of canals, walls hanging with vines and shanties. The desperate squabble of civilisation spread out below him, with Shima Palace squarely in view.

Amongst the presents that were taking up a significant amount of living room was a large metal crate.

‘What is it?’ he wired down to Gladys.

‘A present from an admirer,’ she responded, ready for his inquiry.

‘What is it?’

‘A surprise.’

‘Who is it from?’

‘You wouldn’t prefer the surprise?’ she asked.

‘I don’t find that surprise ever improves the quality of a gift.’

‘Alright. It is from Boris Arkady in Atlantic.’

‘Atlantic? Why would he be sending me anything? You’ve checked it, I presume?’

‘Yes, Prime. It is safe to open. It is an historical piece from his private collection.’

‘And he wants my favour for something…’ Ryu wondered as he slid his hands over the surface. He pressed the release button and the crate retracted down into its flatbed.

Inside was a glass case with an old droid lying on its back. Ryu bent down to peer closer. It was severely damaged, at one time completely dismembered but now held together with small pins. He let his symb run a search and found out it was from the Örjian guard, which meant, yes, there was the outlet in the abdomen where the ruisbuss would have been plugged in.

‘You recognise this, of course, Miz Schuster?’ he asked.

‘I do. I have seen many of them.’

‘Does it offend you?’

‘Humanity has much darkness in its past.’

‘Yes, well put. But why would a man from the Cape send me something like this? Find out what you can for me about Boris Arkady.’

~ * ~

Tamsin awoke lying on her back. Above her a float of surgical lights radiated down. Behind that there was only darkness. She could hear breathing and shuffling nearby, but she couldn’t move to see who was there.

‘I can’t move.’

‘You are under paralysis,’ a male voice answered from her feet. ‘You fell asleep.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Oh, only three hours. The first stage is nearly finished.’

‘First stage?’

A man walked up into her view. He was small and craggy, an old freaker whose augments hadn’t kept pace with age. His hair was tufty and silver. Metal, actually, for each strand was a soft coil of wire; implants, of course.

She didn’t know how she got here. She remembered a dream with Peter lying in a hospital, and before that looking out a window in Paris ...

‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’ the man asked.

Her mind reached out for the answer. The doctor’s memory showed her coming alone. She grabbed for more: her entering his offices, the discussion about the procedure.

Otis Plunkett was an off-Weave doctor who performed illegal surgeries in Joberg. His own past was a mire of casual missteps that had led him to become extremely non-judgemental and non-inquisitive about the clients he attracted.

‘Miz Grey, could you stop that, please? I’m trying to concentrate.’

Stage one was the preparation of her body. Nerve stimulation and systemic foundation.

Stage two would be the skin transference: a neural-less symbiot would cover her in a soft shell, thinning as it spread. By the time it was finished she would be two inches taller, twenty pounds heavier and appear to be a lightskin from the Cape.

Not only did the symbiot disguise her body, it weighted her muscles differently and affected her gait and mannerisms, thus preventing detection by kinetic patterns. It would also dive deeper to tweak her vocal cords and tongue in order to change her voice. And, of course, her eye colour would change to blue.

The process of becoming unrecognisable took twenty-four hours, most of which she wasn’t allowed to move for. When the doctor was satisfied with the first stage and had begun the skin transference, he sat by her side and helped her drink juice through a straw.