‘What exactly will I be guarding Ms Chung against?’ Chen hesitates, then says drily, ‘Contingencies.’
I resign from BDI. Chen provides me with a glowing reference, and the number of an employment agency specializing in security staff. I call them; they happen to have a position on their files which would suit me perfectly. They interview me by videophone; I upload my reference and CV. Forty-eight hours later, I’m hired.
Advanced Systems Research occupies a jet-black tower with a facade like crumbling charcoal, wrapped in a five-metre layer of microfine silver cobwebs—all but invisible, except for the dazzling points of light where the burnished strands reflect the sun. The ostentatious architecture worries me at first, as if it somehow invites scrutiny, but that’s absurd; in this part of the city, anything less would be out of place. In any case, it may be that ASR has nothing to fear from scrutiny; they have no formal links with BDI, and for all I know, they may not be directly involved in anything illegal whatsoever.
The security leaves BDI for dead. There are guards stationed on every level, and access control as tight as that of most prisons. Chung Po-kwai and the other volunteers are housed in apartments on the thirtieth floor. Personal bodyguards on top of everything else seems like overkill, but there has to be a reason—and this reminder that the Ensemble must have enemies fills me with a sense of rage, and a determination to carry out my responsibilities with the utmost diligence. Primed, of course, I feel no anger, but the priorities set by my outer self endure.
Tong Hoi-man, the Security Manager, briefs me on my duties, and arranges for some new mods which I’ll need, to enable me to interface with ASR’s elaborate security protocols. I’ll be working twelve-hour shifts, six p.m. to six a.m. Ms Chung’s schedule will vary; sometimes she’ll be in the labs until late in the evening, sometimes she’ll spend a day or two resting. She’ll remain within the building at all times, though—simplifying my job immensely.
The day before I’m due to start, I’m nervous but elated. I’m moving one step closer to the mystery at the heart of the Ensemble. Perhaps it’s arrogant to think that I’ll ever be trusted with the whole truth—but Chen knows the whole truth, doesn’t she? And Chen has no loyalty mod, I’m sure of that.
Hesitantly, I dredge up my old theories about Laura’s abduction. After months of letting my image of the Ensemble grow more and more abstract, it’s a little unsettling to start imagining concrete, specific, mundane possibilities. But what am I afraid of? That the truth will somehow devalue the ideal? I know that’s impossible. Whatever it is the Ensemble is doing, however worldly it might seem, it will still be their work—and by virtue of that, the most important activity on the planet.
Most of my original ideas now seem absurd. I can’t believe that an international, multidisciplinary research group was created solely to investigate the congenital brain damage caused by some obscure pharmaceutical. Even if the manufacturer’s potential liability ran into the billions, it’s hard to see why they’d sink a comparable amount into merely studying the problem, when there’d be cheaper, and more reliable, ways of sabotaging prospective litigation.
Only one theory still makes any sense at alclass="underline" Laura the escapologist. And if I still can’t imagine how her hypothetical talent might work, I might just have to swallow the fact that I’m too stupid to figure it out. She escaped from the Hilgemann. She escaped from the inner room in the basement. There are alternative explanations, but they’re all massively contrived. What do I think happened, the night I broke into BDI? Someone accidentally left the door unlocked, and she wandered out, locking it behind her? Given the lock’s design, to do that without a key would have been as much of a feat as breaking out.
One thing’s clear: if there is such a thing as telekinesis, then investigating and exploiting that could be a project worthy of an alliance on the scale of the Ensemble.
And if BDI have succeeded in capturing Laura’s skills in a mod? Then that mod will need to be tested. By volunteers.
‘Up. Down. Up. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Up. Down. Up. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Up.’
The voice that fills Room 619 is calm and even, but almost certainly human; for all the anthropomorphic embellishments added to speech systems lately, I’ve yet to hear a scientific instrument grow hoarse from overuse.
The room is crammed with rack-mounted modules of electronic equipment; a fibre-optic control bus snakes from box to box. Amidst all the clutter, there’s an elderly woman seated at a central console, staring at a large screen covered in multicoloured histograms; two young men stand beside her, looking on. Meta-Dossier (Mind-vaults, $3,950) instantly identifies all three, from its list of authorized personneclass="underline" Leung Lai-shan, Lui Kiu-chung, Tse Yeung-hon. All to be addressed as Doctor. Dr Lui glances my way briefly, then turns back to the screen; his colleagues ignore me completely. Chung Po-kwai is nowhere to be seen but I presume it’s her voice coming over the speaker.
‘Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Up. Down. Up. Up.’
Then I catch sight of her other bodyguard, Lee Hing-cheung, standing beside a connecting door, in front of which a vivid red hologram floats at eye leveclass="underline" keep out. We shake hands, and my copy of MetaDossier—via RedNet, and the infrared transceiver cells in our palms—engages in a rapid, coded dialogue with its counterpart in his skull, providing both of us with further confirmation of each other’s identity.
He whispers, ‘Am I glad to see you. Five more minutes of this shit and I’d be chewing the carpet.’
‘Down. Down. Down. Up. Up. Down. Down. Up. Up. Down.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve got Sentinel, haven’t you?’
‘Sure. But it doesn’t help.’ I give him a quizzical look, and he seems to be about to explain further, but then he changes his mind and just shakes his head ruefully. ‘You’ll find out.’
‘Up. Down. Down. Up. Up. Up. Down. Down. Up. Up.’
Lee says, ‘You know what she’s doing in there?’
‘No.’
‘Sitting in the dark, staring at a fluorescent screen, announcing the direction that silver ions are deflected in a magnetic field.’
I can’t think of an intelligent response to this, so I just nod. ‘I’ll see you in twelve hours.’
‘Yeah.’
I take up a position by the door, but I can’t help sneaking another look at the display which the scientists apparently find so engrossing. The histograms twitch and sway—but in the long run, every one of them seems to be retaining its basic shape; on average, all the fluctuations appear to be cancelling out. Meaning, I suppose, that whatever elaborate tests for randomness these graphs represent, the deflections of the silver ions are passing them all.
If I’m right about the telekinesis mod, then presumably Chung Po-kwai is trying to disrupt this randomness, trying to bias the motion of the ions in one direction; learning to use her new skills, starting with the smallest possible targets. But I don’t understand why she’s personally calling out the data. The computers must be monitoring the experiment via their own detectors, so why impose on the volunteer to provide a running commentary?
The histograms flicker hypnotically, but I’m not here to amuse myself watching the experiments. I turn away from the screen—and soon discover that the words alone are equally distracting.
‘Down. Down. Up. Up. Up. Down. Down. Up. Up. Up. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Up. Down. Up. Up. Up.’