“You don’t look well, sir. Why don’t you sit down?”
A young woman had stopped beside him, concern clear on her face. There were still one or two good people in the world. He tried to explain he was OK, that he just needed a moment. He sank to the ground, his back against the pillar.
The woman put a gentle hand on his shoulder and knelt beside him so that her head was level with his. The bindi on her forehead was animated in the modern fashion: a swirling red spiral. She spoke quietly into his ear. “Listen to me, you fucker. You are notgoing to recover from this. You are going to feel worse and worse. Soon the pain in your head will become unbearable. And do you want to know what that pain is? It’s the feeling of your mind being eaten, old man. Do you fuckingunderstand me?”
Ronan stared up at her. The young woman continued to smile, the worried look clear on her beautiful face. Had he imagined her words?
Her grip tightened painfully.
“Do you understand me?”
He didn’t, not at all. He shook his head. “What is happening?”
The young woman glanced around, making sure no one was too near. “Tell me how many children you have, Ronan Mistry.”
“What? What does that ???”
“Just tell me. How many?”
“Two.”
“Boys or girls?”
“Girls. Grown women, now.”
“Names?”
“They’re called …” He stopped. For some reason he couldn’t recall their names. Both had waved him goodbye just that morning as he left for Capetown.
“What are their names, old man?”
“I don’t … I don’t know.”
“And what do they look like? How tall? What colour are their eyes?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What was their favourite flavour of kulfi when they were young?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know. The pain filling his brain was a fog. A fog through which he could see nothing.
The young woman nodded her head, as if he had done well, given her the right answers.
“Very good. Now let me explain what is happening to you. A small alteration to your neural matrix was introduced as you rematerialised at the jump node. An artificial algorithm hidden amongst your normal brain patterns. Right now it is chomping its way though your memories.
Soon you won’t be able to remember you even have children. In a few hours you won’t know your own name. A few hours after that your brain’s autonomous functions will start forgetting how to function. Your heart will stop beating and your lungs will stop pumping.”
“No,” said Ronan. “That’s not possible.” He knewit wasn’t possible. You couldn’t just alter people as they rematerialised without introducing major flaws. The ensuing corruption was always fatal. The brain was too dynamic, too fluid. The technology was years away.
“Oh, it’s possible, old man,” said the woman. “And it’s happening to you right now. No doubt you are experiencing an excruciating pain in your head? That is one side-effect.”
Was that true? The networks were a well-known trigger for migraines. Perhaps she’d just struck lucky. “No. I don’t believe it.”
“Then let me ask you this. What does the name Arvan J. Stanton mean to you?”
“He’s … just someone I knew once. Years ago, at university. Why?”
“Did he ever give you any advice? Any words of wisdom?”
“Actually, yes. I remember very well. He told me that whatever I did in life I had to believe the young woman with the red bindi when she stops to help me at Newer Delhi …”
He trailed off. His memory of those words was very, very clear. But why? It was years ago. It made no sense. And why would his old friend have even uttered such nonsense?
“Yes, you understand,” said the young woman. Arvan J. Stanton did not exist. Another alteration we made to your mind. An implanted memory.”
“I don’t believe it. This is hypnosis. Autosuggestion. Nothing more.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Even if you have done this,” he said. “Even if such a thing is possible, why? Why would you want to destroy my memories?”
“Oh, not destroy, old man. We aren’t mindless thugs. We are artists. Your memories are all still there. Just encrypted. Locked away in your brain with a key only we know. And when you’ve paid us the two billion rupees, we will give you the key and you can have your brain back.”
“Two billionrupees?”
“That’s the price. ShivaTech can afford it. A man of your wealth really shouldn’t use the public networks, you know.”
The fog was lifting a little in his head now. He saw the obvious flaw in her proposal. And making deals, striking bargains was what he was good at. “So when I pay you this fortune, you’ll just drop round and fix up my brain for me? Set everything straight?”
“You’ll need to make another jump. We’ll spot you in the network and put everything right. There’ll be no need to meet again.”
“Yes, but why would you?” said Ronan. “Once you’ve got your money you’d be better off leaving me to die. Then all the evidence goes away. It’s a perfect crime.”
The young woman smiled. “You’ll just have to trust us, won’t you? You’re hardly in a position to bargain.”
He could see the faintest hint of worry in her eyes. You learned to read people.
“Actually,” said Ronan, “I think I am. They’re certain to post mortemme. I’m willing to bet your hacks to my brain-if they exist-will show up. That will raise suspicions. People might follow a trail that leads back to you. And I don’t think you want to take that risk.”
The brief frown of annoyance that flashed across her features told him he’d hit the mark. She nodded her head from side to side, trying to suggest indifference. “We’ll take that chance for two billion rupees, old man.”
He considered. He still didn’t believe her. But if there was a chance she was telling the
truth …
“I’ll make you an offer,” he said. “ Onebillion rupees and I don’t send the money until I’m fully restored to health.”
“That’s not going to work, old man.”