But the poverty of the place was striking. Despite his choice of profession, Collins was an archetypal American abroad; Kate saw his mounting frustration with mobile phone dropouts, his amazement at seeing subway ticket vendors using abacuses to compute change, his disgust at the filth he encountered in public toilets, his disbelieving impatience when he tried to call up the Search Engine and received no reply.
She felt a profound relief when Collins reached a small suburban Moscow airport and boarded a light plane, and she was able to initiate the system she thought of as the autopilot.
Here in the gloom of the Wormworks, sitting before a SoftScreen, she was flying the viewpoint using a joystick and some intelligent supporting software. Ingenious though the system was, ghosting a person’s movements through a foreign city was intense, unforgiving work; a single slip of concentration could unravel hours of labour.
But WormCam tracking technology had advanced to the point where she could hook the remote viewpoint to various electronic signatures — for instance of Collins’ aircraft. So now her WormCam viewpoint hovered, all but invisible, in the airplane cabin — still at Collins’ shoulder — as the plane lofted into the deepening Russian twilight, tracking her quarry without her intervention.
It ought to get easier. The Wormworks teams were working on ways of having a viewpoint track an individual person without the need for human guidance… All that for the future.
She pushed back her chair, stood up and stretched. She was more tired than she’d realized; she couldn’t remember when she’d last taken a break. Absently she scanned the continuing WormCam images. Night was falling over central Asia, and through the plane’s small windows she could see how the landscape was scarred, swaths of it brown wasteland, still uninhabitable four decades after the fall of the Soviet Union with its ugly contempt for the landscape and its people -
There was a hand on her shoulder, strong thumbs massaging a knot of muscles there. She was startled, but the touch was familiar, and she couldn’t help but relax into it.
Bobby kissed the crown of her head. “I knew I’d find you here. Do you know what time it is?”
She glanced at a clock on the SoftScreen. “Late afternoon?”
He laughed. “Yes, Moscow time. But this is Seattle, Washington, western hemisphere, and on this side of the planet it’s just after 10 A.M. You worked through the night. Again. I have the feeling you’re avoiding me.”
She said testily, “Bobby, you don’t understand. I’m tracking this guy. It’s a twenty-four-hour job. Collins is a CIA operative who seems to be opening up lines of communication between our government and various shadowy insurrectionists in the Aral Sea area. There’s something going on out there the Administration doesn’t want to tell us about.”
“But,” Bobby said with mock solemnity, “the WormCam sees all.” He was wearing casual ski country gear, bright, colourful, thermal-adaptive, very expensive; in the warmth of this corner of the Wormworks, she could see how its artificial pores had opened up, revealing a faint brown sheen of tanned flesh. He leaned toward the SoftScreen, studied the image and her scribbled notes. “How long will Collins’ flight take?”
“Hard to say. Hours.”
He straightened up. “Then take some time off. Your target is stuck in that plane until it lands, or crashes, and the WormCam can happily track him by itself. And besides he’s asleep.”
“But he’s with Popov. If he wakes up…”
“Then the recording systems will pick up whatever he says and does. Come on. Give yourself a break. And me.”
And yet, she was still drawn to him, despite what she now knew about him.
You’re getting too complicated, Kate. Too introverted. A break from this cold, lifeless place will indeed do you good.
Making an effort to smile, she took his hand.
It was a fine, still day, a welcome interval between the storm systems that now habitually battered the Pacific coast.
Cradling beakers of latte, they walked through the garden areas Hiram had built around his Wormworks. There were low earthworks, ponds, bridges over streams, and unfeasibly large and old trees, all of it imported and installed in typical Hiram fashion, thought Kate, at great expense and with little discrimination or taste. But the sky was a clear, brilliant blue, the winter sun actually delivered a little heat to her face, and the two of them were leaving a trail of dark footsteps in the thick silver layer of lingering dew.
They found a bench. It was temperature-smart and had heated itself sufficiently to dry off the dew. They sat down, sipping coffee.
“I still think you’ve been hiding from me,” Bobby said mildly. She saw that his retinal implants had polarized in the sunlight, turning silvery, insectile. “It’s the WormCam, isn’t it? All the ethical implications you find so disturbing.”
With an eagerness that shamed her, she jumped on that lead. “Of course it’s disturbing. A technology of such power.”
“But you were there when we came to our agreement with the FBI. An agreement that put the WormCam in the hands of the people.”
“Oh, Bobby…
“But that’s all for the good. Isn’t it? What are you saying — that you don’t trust the government? This isn’t the twentieth century.”
She grunted. “Remember what Jefferson said: ‘Every government degenerates when trusted to the rulers of the people alone. The people themselves therefore are its only safe depositories.’ ”
“…And what about the Republican burglary? How can
“You can’t know for sure that the White House used the WormCam for that.”
“How else?”
Kate shook her head. “I wanted Hiram to let me dig into that. He threw me off the case immediately. We’ve made a Faustian bargain, Bobby. Those guys in the Administration and the government agencies aren’t necessarily crooks, but they’re only human. And by giving them such a powerful and secret weapon — Bobby, I wouldn’t trust
“And as for Hiram, have you
“But he needs all that to keep the people working,” Bobby said dryly. “Since you broke the Wormwood, absenteeism has rocketed, and the use of alcohol and other drugs at work, and…”
“This has nothing to do with the Wormwood,” she said severely. “This is a question of basic rights. Bobby, don’t you get it?
He said evenly, “Thanks for the lecture. And is that why you’re dumping me?”
She looked away.
“It’s nothing to do with the WormCam, is it?” He leaned forward, challenging her. “There’s something you don’t want to tell me. You’ve been this way for days. Weeks, even. What is it, Kate? Don’t be afraid of hurting me. You won’t.”
Probably not, she thought. And that, poor, dear Bobby, is the whole trouble.
She turned to face him. “Bobby, the stud. The implant Hiram put in your head when you were a boy.”
“Yes?”
“I found out what it’s for. What it’s
The moment stretched, and she felt the sunlight prickle on her face, laden with UV even so early in the year. “Tell me,” he said quietly.
The Search Engine’s specialist routines had explained it all to her succinctly. It was a classic piece of early twenty-first-century neurobiological mind-tinkering.
And it had nothing to do with any dyslexia or hyperactivity, as Hiram had claimed.
First, Hiram had suppressed the neural stimulation of areas in the temporal lobe of Bobby’s brain that were related to feelings of spiritual transcendence and mystical presence. And his doctors tinkered with parts of the caudate region, trying to ensure that Bobby did not suffer from symptoms relating to obsessive-compulsive disorder which led some people to a need for excessive security, order, predictability and ritual, a need in some circumstances satisfied by the membership of religious communities.
Hiram had evidently intended to shield Bobby from the religious impulses that had so distracted his brother. Bobby’s world was to be mundane, earthy, bereft of the transcendent and the numinous. And he wouldn’t even know what he was missing. It was, Kate thought sourly, a Godectomy.
Hiram’s implant also tinkered with the elaborate interplay of hormones, neurotransmitters and brain regions which were stimulated when Bobby made love. For example, the implant suppressed the opiate-like hormone oxytocin, produced by the hypothalamus, which flooded the brain during orgasm, producing the warm, floating, bonding feelings that followed such acts.
Thanks to a series of high-profile liaisons — which Hiram had discreetly set up and encouraged and even publicized — Bobby had become something of a sexual athlete, and he derived great physical pleasure from the act itself. But his father had made him incapable of love and so, Hiram seemed to have planned, free of loyalties to anyone but his father.
There was more. For instance, a link to the deep portion of Bobby’s brain called the amygdala may have been an attempt to control his propensity for anger. A mysterious manipulation of Bobby’s orbito-frontal cortex might even have been a bid to reduce his free will. And so on.
Hiram had reacted to his disappointment with David by making Bobby a perfect son: that is, perfectly suited to Hiram’s goals. But by doing this Hiram had robbed his son of much that made him human.
Until Kate Manzoni found the switch in his head. She took Bobby back to the small apartment she’d rented in downtown Seattle. There they made love, for the first time in weeks.
Afterwards, Bobby lay in her arms, hot, his skin moist under hers where they touched: as close as he could be, yet still remote. It was like trying to love a stranger. But at least, now, she understood why. She reached up and touched the back of his head, the hard edges of the implant under his skin. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
He hesitated. “What troubles me is that I don’t know how I’ll be feeling afterwards… Will I still be
She whispered in his ear. “You’ll feel alive. You’ll feel human.”
He held his breath, then said, so quietly she could barely make it out: “Do it.”
She turned her head. “Search Engine.”
“Yes, Kate.”
“Turn it off.”
