The Hunt for Pierre Jnr (2 page)

His whereabouts

are unknown

~ * ~

Peter Lazarus checked into a sweetheart motel with a minimum stay of fifteen minutes. The room was a polyplastic reformable, a self-contained unit of pull-out benches, bed and bathroom, washed down and sterilised after every visit.

He folded his legs beneath him on the bed and calmed his thoughts. He was used to such places and, as voyeuristic as they may have seemed to other telepaths, the good thing about sweetheart motels was that people kept to themselves and didn’t ask questions. It was one of the only places a man like him could hide.

The walls might block out the sounds in the other rooms, but nothing could protect him from the mental gyrations in the sex lives of others. In the cube of his room he couldn’t help but read the thoughts of the people around him.

On the floor above there were three couples within his range, plus another man who was sitting alone. On either side of him was a 
ménage à trois
 and a room being cleaned. Below, a woman slept while her lover spoke with his wife. The trysts of the masses were enacted time and again in these boxes, the saga of the ages, the ebb and flow of lust. Pete sighed and thought how nice it would be to sit in this room without picking up the thoughts around him. It was built for silence, but not the silence he needed.

Pete had grown up in this area until he was thirteen; a bay in the west coast megapolis. He’d taken the north-south tracks to get here, wanting his last day of freedom to be by the seaside. The tracks were the former Serviceman route that was opened to the public when the weather went haywire a century ago, an underground series of moving walkways that could take you across the city in as much, or as little, time as you wanted it to take.

Pete liked the tracks. They were dimly lit, surrounded by subterranean piping and pulsing with a steady stream of bouncing walkers. The articulated path clicked regularly over certain joins ... thck thck thck thck. Fading closer, then diminishing as he overtook them and moved on. The passing murmur of thoughts lapped over him, too quickly for him to discern clearly. Pete was happy.

On his way out from the motel, Pete swiped his carte through the auto-clerk, paying forward for the whole night. He was spending big and had chosen this particular sweetheart motel for being across the road from the beach and just a short walk from the expensive French restaurant that had become his traditional place for last meals.

This was his third visit to La Nouvelle Maison. From the outside it was a small peach-walled block in the shadow of the window-dotted towers that built up like a mountain range behind. The owners had furnished the inside with any wooden furniture they could get their hands on. The slab walls were covered in flocked wallpaper, divided with heavy curtains that implied there were windows behind them. The hum and slur of the city were successfully blocked and replaced with the tinker of plates and cutlery and wisps of discreet conversation. Pete chose the duck and a carménère vintage that was distinctly outside his normal budget.

His first visit had been when he was thirteen, before they took him to the psi-camps. His father wasn’t a bad man, he continued to remind himself; they had both known Pete would be taken the next day. His father because he had arranged it and Pete because ... well, because of what he was. It was an odd repetition of events for him, actively leading himself through the same steps that would result in his renewed incarceration.

The wine had depth and the duck was luscious with flavour. The gratin potatoes were made with convincing butter.

All his life he’d shunned the thoughts of others, overwhelmed by the range and breadth of what was truly on people’s minds. The alcohol played its part, but he was unusually tranquil and let the pandemonium walk and dance around him, seeing but not looking, hearing but not listening. He knew it was unfair, the way things were for psis, but, on the other hand, being a telepath made it easy for him to understand what Services had to worry about; if he was more malicious than he was, they would be right to impose their strictures.

There was an estimated population of ten thousand psis worldwide, although it was unclear to him what data this was based on. Of these, some were cured and the others were sent to the islands. A very few found the cracks and escaped the prescribed fates.

For dessert he had a selection of cheeses. It was all rather delicious, which was as it should be for a last meal.

Pete stared at the empty chair across from him. It seemed as though a barrier was coming down in his mind. Now that he had decided to turn himself in, the closer the moment came the more it seemed his life of hiding was someone else’s life, and another him was now returning ... the world he knew as a boy, before it changed so suddenly.

Then he thought of his sister. He had seen her born. Had held her that very first night and they’d known each other. Instantly.

He had only seen her two times after that. Once when she needed him and once when he found her too late. The memory made him angry. The first time he knew her. The second time he knew it wasn’t her. The last morsels of his meal lost their flavour.

He thought momentarily about finding a partner for the night, but he wasn’t very good at ignoring another’s thoughts mid-coitus and it was all rather unappealing. Instead he returned to his room, took a double dose of dreamers and lay back. Thoughts, emotions and dilemmas swallowed him whole and he fell asleep.

~ * ~

The next morning Pete Lazarus woke and walked to the beach for one last swim before turning himself in.

The water was too cold for most swimmers, and only a few women dotted the beach to catch the early sun. They were sleepy under the warmth so their thoughts were peaceful to him, except for one lady with overlarge sunglasses who watched him approach the waves, her thoughts too tawdry for his liking.

The day was bright, the million reflections brighter. In the shallows small waves wet and re-wet the sand, sucking the ground from under his feet and sinking him centimetre by centimetre into the beach. It had been a while since he had last swum, and the sight of a pontoon in the middle of the bay called to him. It wasn’t too far.

The waves pushed back at him. Crisp coolness and the potent sunlight energised his muscles. He clambered onto the old planks and air-dried while watching the horizon move up and down with the swell.

The ocean glittered. The sun and wind were hitting the waves, creating a shimmer that blinded if stared at for too long. Pete closed his eyes and lay back, letting the waves roll him up and down and the light imprint striking red patterns through his eyelids.

He could hardly hear the people on the beach now, nor their thoughts, for which he was grateful. This could well be the last moment of peace he would ever know.

~ * ~

The first problem was proving his Citizenship, which Pete refused to do. That would trigger a lockdown before he could get out the words he needed them to hear.

‘I would like to see Lieutenant Baumer, at his convenience,’ was all he would say.

‘On what business?’

‘For now I will keep that private.’

‘As you wish,’ the ugly man sneered.

Pete was more familiar with small minds than most, and this man was a typical example. Typical to Services and typical to humanity at large.

It was his right as a Citizen to request an audience with the commanding officer, in this case Senior Lieutenant Baumer. The choice of offices for his surrender was not an arbitrary affair and he’d settled on this particular bureau after probing half the Servicemen of the city. The last thing he wanted was a hothead; what he wanted was a man like the Lieutenant.

Nobody but a telepath could know that Baumer had unspoken sympathies for psis — his mother had been persecuted for some minor talent — but he was also a rigid officer who followed regulations and that was precisely what Pete was counting on.

There was, of course, no privacy possible in this building. Services offices were permanently under surveillance, as were all public areas, and refusing to reveal his business as he had done was one sure way of flagging himself for closer attention, thus the officer’s sneer.

Behind him a younger man, straight of back, uniform buttoned and wired to regulation, opened a door and invited Pete through to a closed room. Baumer had a casual and confident manner, despite beginning an interview that had instant complications. They sat across an empty table, wondering about the other.

People like Baumer were essential to Services. Without men and women who could relate to the public, resentment would quickly build against the institution. Pete suspected the Lieutenant had some of his mother’s empathy and might be able to sense that he had come in peace. Or so he hoped.

‘I am obliged to tell you this interview is being actively monitored.’

‘I understand. Thank you, Lieutenant Baumer.’

The young man raised an eyebrow at the use of his name without any formal introduction. ‘We are having some trouble with your records, sir. Can you explain why this might be, and please begin by stating your name for the record.’

‘What’s in a name?’ Pete teased. The Lieutenant put on a professional not-amused expression, though Pete knew he was a little entertained by the answer. ‘I have many names.’

‘You are a Citizen?’

‘I have been.’

‘But one who won’t reveal his identity. You understand that I must treat you as a non-Citizen?’

‘Of course.’ Pete paused to read over Baumer’s mind; the Lieutenant was listening to the remote communications of his superiors while keeping his eyes locked onto Pete’s. He was being ordered to gather more information and advised that the status of the interview had been raised another level. ‘Before I begin, I have a request.’

‘A man with no clear identity does not have the rights of a Citizen, sir.’

‘It is a small request, in light of the fact that I have come to you of my own free will, am not hostile and, if required, will freely accept any restraints you deem necessary. I also understand that any rights I have as a Citizen will be revoked once I reveal myself.’

‘This interview has been regraded.’ Baumer repeated the words as if wired straight to his lips. This meant more people were watching the interview. Underneath he was becoming worried and was pondering the need to order a facility lockdown. ‘You are offering yourself into custody? For what crimes?’

‘No crimes.’ Pete swallowed. ‘I have committed no harmful acts. I am here to offer my services.’

‘What is your name, sir?’ the Lieutenant demanded.

Pete for a moment didn’t answer. The small room suddenly felt smaller as it hermetically sealed itself and the air-conditioning closed off. They were preparing to gas him and the Lieutenant both; they were simply waiting for confirmation of their computed suspicions.

‘My name is Peter Lazarus, Citizen W4 3358Q AG210385 of Los Angeles.’ He heard the disapproving hiss of venting gas. ‘I have come to help in the hunt for —’ He looked at Baumer’s alarmed and rapidly drooping eyes. His voice became wet, lips nearly too heavy to release the words, ‘Pierre Jnr.’

The Lieutenant slumped in his chair as if his soul had oozed out through his feet. Pete imagined he must look the same before his head fell back and he passed out.

~ * ~

Pierre stood on a stool to be measured and let the tailor waiting at his feet see the real him. He didn’t often reveal himself, instead keeping an image in watchers’ minds of a normal eight-year-old boy. It was what they expected to see, so it was quite easy for him to do. Now he stood bared, not naked by literal definitions, but naked for him, reflected in the tall mirrors that stood 
en garde
 around the walls.

He tipped his head towards the balding tailor at his feet, who looked up at him with the stiffness of awe and fear, mesmerised by the monstrous head and the tatty hair that was unable to cover the lively streaks around Pierre’s skull. 
Am I such a fearsome sight?

Pierre put a soft hand on the man’s pate and placatingly stroked the surviving white hair. ‘You may start.’ He smiled.

~ * ~

Many believe he

does not exist

~ * ~

Pete awoke under a mask. He knew what it was, though he’d never been under one before. Masks were used to keep prisoners and patients unconscious and obedient. He blinked under the opaque face-plate as it depressurised from his face with a stiff sigh.

One by one his senses slowly returned to him. His ears told him he was in a large open space. They also told him it sounded dark, but he put this down to a minor synaesthesia caused by the fading intoxications.

Sight was the last sense to return to him. Blinking to clear his eyes, Pete saw an old man in uniform snoring softly in a leather armchair across from him. An enormous moustache of white and ginger rose and fell with the dry snores, matched in magnificence only by an equally daring pair of eyebrows.