Wild Thing (29 page)

Chapter 32 

She did a real good job of acting like she'd changed her mind and didn't want to join Godsson to fight alongside him anymore.  Keepie had been super relieved, and so had Mr Shanahan.

And things went along just fine for months.

Though, early on, there
had
been one night.  They'd just been eating dinner, and she'd been thinking about excuses for why she needed a spy cam.  After all, she couldn't tell Keepie she needed it to stick to his shirt to record the secret code for Godsson's door!  And straight after she'd thought that, he'd started choking on his food.

For a moment, she'd worried that
she'd
caused it, before jumping up to thump him on the back like you were supposed to.

He'd looked at her kind of shocked.

'Sorry, Keepie.  I didn't mean to hit so hard.  Are you okay now?'

But over the next few days, everyone started to act peculiar around her: they'd look at her, then look away quickly when she looked back.  Like they all assumed she'd been
attacking
Keepie that night when he was choking, when actually she'd been
saving
him. 
Why does everyone always think I want to
hurt
people?

Plus, no matter what reason she came up with, Keepie kept refusing to get her the spy cam, too.  And Mr Shanahan seemed nervous whenever she visited him.

It had taken months for everyone to go back to normal.

And then, months after
that
, at the start of summer the next year, just a month before Godsson's attack was due, Mr Shanahan said something shocking.

He was leaning back in his super-comfy black chair, and smiled at her.  'It'll be grand having your company again this year.  You and Faith: “Team Sara” ready for action again, eh?'

'Whatever makes you think that, Mr Shanahan?'  She laughed, and patted his arm.  'Silly!  I'll be right
there,
watching, to help guard against Her.  Plus shouting out just to encourage him.  That helps too, you know.'

'Uh.  Oh, yes, mmm, sure and I forgot.'

But Mr Shanahan had such a guilty look on his face she'd gone straight to Keepie to check.  And found out then that the FBI had said she wasn't allowed to go, this year!

'
No!
  Why?  No, they
can't
, that doesn't make any sense!'

'I believe it has something to do with your attack on the shaman last year.'

'But everyone said it
helped
Godsson!  Even though they all said it was just cause he thought it should!'

But her uncle just shrugged.  'I'm sorry, Sara, but there is nothing I can do about it.'

He didn't look sorry.  In fact, he looked
guilty!

'
When
did they decide?'

'Several months ago.'

Several months ago.
  She just stared at him.  'When were you going to tell me?'

'Don't take that tone of voice with me, young lady!'

He was really angry, she saw, though most people wouldn't have seen the signs. 
But I can
help Godsson!  I just want to help!
  Why were they all being so stupid, and so mean?

His eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and suddenly she felt a horrid shock, like she'd just been plunged into an ice box. 
He's going to send me away!  But he
promised
he wouldn't!  Not ever!
  Water started blurring her vision.

He frowned at her.  'I think it best you go to your room, Sara.  When you have calmed down we can discuss this further, rationally, when you have stopped behaving like a petulant child.'

It'
s happening again.  F
inally.
  Her mind kind of slowed, then stopped. 
He's sending me to my room, while he looks for somewhere to send me away for good.

Numbly, she turned around, not even caring now about the water streaming down her face.  She stumbled away.

'Sara.'

She stopped.  His voice sounded gentle. 
He'll say “this is really best for the both of us, Sara.”
  She didn't trust herself to turn round.

'I am only sending you to your room, Sara.  As soon as you can do so rationally, we can discuss this again, should you wish.  But you
are
banned from seeing Godsson at this year's episode. 
That
is not open to negotiation.'

She froze.  Was he saying…?  Did he mean…?  Wiping her face so he wouldn't see, she dared to turn around, hoping against hope that he might be telling the truth.

She sniffled, studying him.  He wasn't angry any more, at least.

Her heart swelled. 
He i
sn't angry!  He
isn't going to send me away!
  For some reason, her vision was going all swimmy again.

Somehow, she found herself snuggled up against him, hugging him tight, her head pressed into his shoulder while he sat.

She didn't say anything; didn't trust herself to speak.  After a while, she stepped back, and nodded.  And left the room.

He'd looked… almost sad.  She didn't understand.  But at least she was sure he wasn't planning to send her away.

She was sure.  She
was
.

But once in her room, she felt at a loss, all churned up inside.  Fear about being sent away still pressed down on her, even if it was kind of squashed flat by a certainty that he really wasn't going to.

But somehow, she just couldn't stop thinking about it.  As if something about it made her brain itch.  And the longer she thought, especially at how quickly he'd gone from being real angry to almost-nice, something about it felt wrong.  Like she was missing something.

For some reason, then, she remembered the night he'd almost choked on his food at dinner time.  It had been straight after she'd thought about getting a spy camera to capture the secret code for Godsson's door.  And just before everyone had started being real “eww” to her.

Like they would have acted if they'd discovered I still planned to go into Godsson's cell with him?

And just now: how perfectly he'd seemed to understand her fears, and said exactly the right thing to reassure her.  And he'd done that silly finger dance when she'd stormed into his office just now, hadn't he?  The same weird twitching dance of his fingers.  A bit like how Godsson did a different finger dance for his talking spell.

Keepie did that, too, when he did a spell. 
Keepie had done a spell.
  Tonight.  On her.  And then he'd gotten all nice.

He
read my mind!  Keepie's got a spell to
read my mind
!

The moment she thought it, she knew it was true.

She flopped back on her bed stunned, staring at the ceiling, remembering other times he'd guessed exactly right about what she'd been thinking; she even remembered a certain kind of
feeling
in her own head when he had.  She'd felt that way tonight, too.  Like there'd been a butterfly flitting about in her head, dancing around her thoughts.

He read my mind when I was thinking of putting a spy cam on
him
!

And he'd looked
guilty
tonight, too: when he'd said the
FBI
said she couldn't help this year.  She thought about that.  Why would he have felt guilty?

Oh.

He
was the one who'd told them I planned to break in; and
that's
why they said I couldn't go!

She flung her arms wide, simultaneously amazed and excited and exhausted.  And then she had perhaps the most important thought of all: that because she hadn't realized he could read her mind until right now,
he
didn't know she knew!

Yet.

So what she really needed to work out, was how to keep that a secret from him.  She'd have to find a way to hide her thoughts when she knew he was doing it.  At least now she knew he did that finger-dance first, to cast the spell.

Still, it sounded tricky.

But it'd sure show
him,
if she
could
do it…
 

Chapter 33 

Two thousand five hundred kilometers to the east, the thing that had once been the stockbroker Marc Disten waited as his ’Link made the now-usual negotiation with the Robotel's admin facility and the boom gate opened.  After the car parked itself in its assigned underground spot, Disten emerged, pausing just long enough to ensure the auto-locking completed correctly.  It had begun to malfunction.  As he waited, he noted the score marks on the vehicle's side panels.  The car seemed to attract such damage.  The frequency had dropped as the scratches accumulated.  Presumably, then, the root cause was envy.

Foolish.

Heading to the elevator, the body's needs were assessed.  There was little stiffness, thanks to the hourly isometric and stretching routines.  But toilet facilities were required, as well as nourishment.  The clothing could be laundered at the same time.  Others reacted if this were not done every few weeks.

During the lift ride, the ’Link's nutrition app was used to order a suitable meal, then its directions were followed to the assigned room.  Inside, the clothes were stripped and the Marc Disten financial accounts queried.  Exhaustion of capital was now not anticipated until 2172, well exceeding the predicted life expectancy.  The investments continued to do well.

A dombot arrived to collect the clothing, and by the time the self-cleansing had completed, another was waiting with the delivery of the food.  While eating, the ’Link's mapping function was cast to the tiny room's meager smart frame, allowing study of the directions for the route.  A twenty minute walk.

It was curious that Dr Callahan Scott's announced paper had been withdrawn from publication.  The research had clear parallels to the superior new mode of thought.  Had the paper been suppressed?

Later, striding through the extensive and well-maintained grounds of the University of Illinois, Disten noted the uneasy glances, despite the care taken to blend in.  Meeting the gaze of two young women who had reacted particularly strongly, a decision was taken to alter course to intercept and question them.

They immediately changed direction and hurried away.

Disten briefly considered what non-verbal cues could have provoked the response, but failed to identify one.  The issue was of minor importance, however.

After a five minute walk, the Beckman Institute for Advanced Mental Science loomed ahead.  Three forty six, p.m.  Like the University itself, the building appeared well maintained, with pleasing regularity and patterns in its design.  He proceeded to the reception area.

But there, things became difficult.

'I'm real sorry, sir, but Dr Scott has taken a leave of absence,' the middle-aged woman offered.

'Callahan Scott was scheduled to publish a paper, “A New Cognitive Model for Human Thought.”  Why was it withdrawn?'

It was exceedingly difficult to read human body language, but the receptionist's reaction was sufficiently pronounced that he felt confident she had just become agitated.

'Well, his wife died, three years ago, you know, and he didn't cope very well with that at all.'

'Incorrect.  The death of Scott's wife was a key enabler for his new research direction.  Where is Scott?  A discussion would be of mutual benefit.'

'I'm sorry, sir, I can't give you that information.'

Disten stared at her.  A discussion with Scott should be very productive.  There had been no success, so far, in communicating the new and perfect thinking mode to others.

The woman took a step backward, looking to her right, to the flimsy door which would be of little impediment to his entry into the office area from which she worked.  She then looked… frightened, her eyes darting around, as if looking for yet another door.

'Dr Callahan Scott will be very pleased to see me.  His work is correct.  Together, a great advance will be possible. 
Give me his address
.'

The woman's skin paled, and she put out a hand to the wall, apparently in need of its support.

'I can't.  I
can't!
  No one here knows!  The
police
are looking for him, and
no one
can find him, and…
please don't hurt me, that's all I know, honestly!
'

Disten considered this, as the woman's emotions took complete control of her and she collapsed backward into her seat.

'You have copies of his research.  This Institute would keep copies.'

The woman shook her head, tried to speak, but her words were almost impossible to decipher.  What cues had scared her?  How did she know that he had planned to take the information from her?  It was curiously perceptive.

In the incoherent babble, however, she appeared to be saying that shortly before his disappearance, Scott had taken all his research and deleted all copies.

Disten turned the handle of the door – the steel bolt snapping as his grip exceeded the mechanism's integrity – and stepped into the room.

The woman stared at him: and fainted.  Behind him, voices in animated discussion echoed through the large stone foyer, approaching.

With a last look at the woman, Disten stepped back through the doorway, closed it behind him, and walked out.

The two young students appeared not to even notice him.  Disten turned, watching them disappear deeper into the building.  They did not even glance into the reception area as they passed it.

Outside, returning to the Robotel, Disten tried once more to scent, or to sense, the elusive call that pulled westward.

Still nothing.

Yet it waited.  The other half to the puzzle.  The part that would be able to
communicate
the new knowledge.

Days later, Disten considered the problem afresh.  Words alone still proved insufficient to share the perfected mode of thinking to others.  Without training, it was difficult to design experiments in methods of communicating the new understanding.  Scott's work on viral memes, belief systems, and indoctrination would have been most helpful.