He kept the speed high as the crucial moments of Bobby’s recent life unravelled: at the court with Kate, in the Wormworks with David himself, arguing with his father, crying in Kate’s arms, braving the virtual citadel of Billybob Meeks.
David increased the pace of the rewind further, still fixing on the face of his brother. He saw Bobby eat, laugh, sleep, play, make love. The background, the flickering light of night and day, became a blur, an irrelevant frame to that face; and expressions passed so rapidly across the face that they too became smoothed out, so that Bobby’s face looked permanently in repose, his eyes half-closed, as if he was sleeping. Summer light came and went like tides, and every so often, with a suddenness that startled David, Bobby’s hairstyle would change: from short to long, natural dark to blond, even, at one point, to a shaven-head crewcut.
And, as the years unwound, Bobby’s skin lost the lines he had acquired around his mouth and eyes, and a youthful smoothness lapped over his bones. Imperceptibly at first and then more rapidly, his de-ageing face softened and shrank, as if simplifying, those flickering half-open eyes growing rounder and more innocent, the shadows beyond — of adults and huge, unidentifiable places — more formidable.
David froze the image a few days after Bobby’s birth. The round, formless face of a baby stared out at him, blue eyes wide and empty as windows.
But behind him David did not see the maternity hospital scene he had expected. Bobby was in a place of harsh fluorescents, gleaming walls, elaborate equipment, expensive testing gear and green-coated technicians.
It looked like a laboratory of some kind.
Tentatively, David ran the image forward.
Somebody was holding the infant Bobby in the air, gloved hands under the child’s armpits. With practised ease David swivelled the viewpoint, expecting to see a younger Heather, or even Hiram.
He saw neither. The smiling face before him, looming like the Moon, was of a middle-aged man, greying, skin wrinkled and brown, distinctively Japanese.
It was a face David knew. And suddenly he understood the circumstances of Bobby’s birth, and many other things beside.
He stared at the image a long while, considering what to do.
Mae knew, better maybe than anybody alive, that it wasn’t necessary to injure somebody physically to hurt him.
She hadn’t been directly involved in the horrific crime which had destroyed her family; she hadn’t even been in the city at the time, hadn’t seen so much as a bloodstain. But now everybody else was dead and
So to get to Hiram, to make him suffer as she did, she had to hurt the one Hiram loved the most.
It didn’t take much study of Hiram, the most public man on the planet, to figure out who that was. Bobby Patterson, his golden son.
And of course it must be done in such a way that Hiram would know
Slowly, in the dark hollows of her mind, she drew up her plans.
She was careful. She had no intention of following her husband and daughter to the cell with the needle. She knew that as soon as the crime was committed the authorities would use the WormCam to scan back through her life, looking for evidence that she’d planned the crime, and for intent.
She must never forget that fact. It was as if she was on an open stage, her every action being monitored and recorded and analysed by expert observers from the future, taking notes all around her, just out of the light.
She couldn’t conceal her actions. So she had to make it look like a crime of passion.
She knew she even had to pretend she was unaware of the future scrutiny itself. If it looked like an act, it wouldn’t convince anybody. So she kept doing all the private natural things everybody did, farting and picking her nose and masturbating, trying to show no more awareness of scrutiny than anybody else in this glass-walled age.
She had to gather information, of course. But it was possible to conceal even that in the open too. Hiram and Bobby were, after all, two of the most famous people on the planet. She could appear, not an obsessive stalker, but a lonely widow, comforted by TV shows about famous people’s lives.
After a time she thought she found a way to reach them.
It meant a new career. But again, it was nothing unusual. This was an age of paranoia, of watchfulness; personal security had become common, a booming industry, an attractive career for valid reasons for many people. She began to exercise, to strengthen her body, to train her mind. She took jobs elsewhere, guarding people and their property, unconnected with Hiram and his empire.
She wrote nothing down, said nothing aloud. As she slowly changed the trajectory of her life, she tried to make each incremental step seem natural, driven by a logic of its own. As if she was almost by accident drifting toward Hiram and Bobby.
And meanwhile she watched Bobby over and over, through his gilded boyhood, to his growth into a man. He was Hiram’s monster, but he was a beautiful creature, and she came to feel she knew him.
She was going to destroy him. But as she spent her waking hours with Bobby, against her will, he was lodging in her heart, in the hollow places there.
Chapter 25
Refugees
Bobby and Kate, seeking Mary, made their cautious way along Oxford Street.
Three years ago, soon after delivering the pair of them to a Refugee cell, Mary had disappeared out of their lives. That wasn’t so unusual. The loose network of Refugees, spread worldwide, worked on the cell-organization basis of the old terrorist groups.
But recently, concerned he’d had no news of his half sister for many months, Bobby had tracked her down to London. And today, he had been assured, he would meet her.
The London sky overhead was a grey, smoggy lid, threatening rain. It was a summer’s day, but neither hot nor cold, an irritating urban nothingness. Bobby felt annoyingly hot inside his SmartShroud — which, of course, had to be kept sealed up at all times.
Bobby and Kate slid with smooth, unremarkable steps from group to group. With practised skill they would join a transient crowd, worm their way to the centre; then, as it broke up, they would set off again, always in a different direction from the way they had come. If there was no other choice they would even go backward, retracing their steps. Their progress was slow. But it was all but impossible for any WormCam observer to trace them for more than a few paces — a strategy so effective, in fact, that Bobby wondered how many other Refugees there were here today, moving through the crowds like ghosts.
It was obvious that, despite climate collapse and general poverty, London still attracted tourists. People still came here, presumably to visit the art galleries and see the ancient sites and palaces, now vacated by England’s Royals, decanted to a sunnier throne in monarchist Australia.
But it was also sadly clear that this was a city that had seen better days. Most of the shops were unfrosted bargain bazaars, and there were several empty lots, gaps like teeth missing from an old man’s smile. Still, the sidewalks of this thoroughfare, an east-west artery that had long been one of the city’s main shopping areas, were crowded with dense, sluggish rivers of humanity. And that made them a good place to hide.
But Bobby did not enjoy the press of flesh around him. Four years after Kate had turned off his implant he knew he was still too easily startled — and too easily repulsed by unwelcome brushes with his fellow humans. He was particularly offended by unwitting contact with the bellies and flabby buttocks of the many middle-aged Japanese here, a nation who seemed to have responded to the WormCam with a mass conversion to nudity.
Now, above the hubbub of conversation around them, he made out a shout: “Oi! Move it!” Ahead of them people parted, scattering as if some angry animal were forcing its way through. Bobby pulled Kate into a shop doorway.
Through the corridor of annoyed humanity came a rickshaw. It was hauled by a fat Londoner, stripped to the waist, with big slicks of sweat under his pillowy breasts. The woman in the rickshaw, talking into a wrist implant, might have been American.
When the rickshaw had passed Bobby and Kate joined me flow which was forming anew. Bobby shifted his hand so that his fingers were brushing Kate’s palm, and began to handspell.
They pressed on further, making their way east toward Oxford Street’s junction with Tottenham Court Road. The crowds thinned a little as they left Oxford Circus behind, and Kate and Bobby moved more cautiously and quickly, aware of their exposure; Bobby made sure he was aware of escape routes, several avenues available at any moment.
Kate wore her ’Shroud hood a little open, but beneath it her heat mask was smooth and anonymous. When she stood still, the ’Shroud’s hologram projectors, throwing images of the background around her, would stabilize and make her reasonably invisible from any angle around her — a good illusion, at least, until she began to move again, and processing lag caused her fake image to fragment and blur. But, despite its limitations, a SmartShroud might throw off a careless or distracted WormCam operator, and so it was worth wearing.
In the same spirit, Bobby and Kate were today both wearing their heat masks, moulded to seamless anonymity. The masks gave off false infrared signatures, and were profoundly uncomfortable, with their built-in heating elements warm against Bobby’s skin. It was possible to wear all-over body masks working on the same principle — some of which were capable of masking a man’s characteristic IR signature as a woman’s, and vice versa. But Bobby, having tried the requisite jockstrap laced with heating wires, had drawn back before reaching that particular plateau of discomfort.
They passed one smart-looking town house, presumably converted from a shop, which had had its walls replaced by clear glass panes. Looking into the brightly lit rooms, Bobby could see that even the floors and ceilings were transparent, as was much of the furniture — even the bathroom suite. People moved through the rooms, naked, apparently oblivious of the stares of people outside. This minimal home was yet another response to WormCam scrutiny, an in-your-face statement that the occupants really didn’t care who was looking at them — as well as a constant reminder to the occupants themselves that any apparent privacy was now and forever illusory.
At the junction with Tottenham Court Road, they approached the Center Point ruin; a tower block, never fully occupied, then wrecked during the worst of the Scottish-separatist terrorism problem.
And it was here that Bobby and Kate were met, as they had been promised.
A shimmering outline blocked Bobby’s path. He glimpsed a heat mask within an open ’Shroud hood, and a hand stretched out toward his. It took him a few seconds to tune into the other’s fast, confident handspelling.
Bobby flipped his hand over and replied.
