‘Oof.’ He blinked his large dark seal eyes in sympathy. ‘Painful, I’ll warrant. And doubtless fairly humiliating as well.’
‘I’ve had better mornings.’
‘Any, um, history of this kind of thing?’
‘I don’t routinely go around trying to hit people, no.’ But he had to think carefully. ‘Got into a fight when I was a teenager, over a card game. Or a girl. Both, maybe. That was the last time. Before that, it was just the usual stuff we do in childhood, so that we understand how things work.’
‘Then I doubt there’ll be any lasting complications. We’re animals, at the core, even after the Enhancements: the Mechanism doesn’t expect sainthood. All the same . . . it does complicate things
‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘Usual protocol in this situation would be a period of . . . probationary restraint, I think they call it – denial of aug and ching rights, restricted freedom of movement, and so forth – until a team of experts decides you aren’t a permanent menace to society and can be allowed to get on with your life without further enhancement . . . with a caution flag appended to your behavioural file, of course. The next time you’re involved in anything similar, the Mechanism won’t hesitate to assume you’re the initiating party . . . and it may dial up its response accordingly.’
No bones: the Mechanism would kill, if killing prevented the taking of an innocent life. Just because it didn’t happen very often didn’t mean that the threat was absent. Geoffrey’s crime put him a long way down the spectrum from the sort of offender likely to merit that kind of intervention. But still . . . just being on the same spectrum: he wasn’t too thrilled about that.
‘What do I do?’
‘We need to get you to Tiamaat before probationary restraint kicks in. A human has to be involved in that process, probably someone with a dozen or so pending cases already in their workfile. That means we may have an hour or two.’
‘Once I’m in Tiamaat, how does that help?’
‘We have . . . ways and means. But you need to get to us, Geoffrey. We can’t come to you now.’
He looked around the little room, underfurnished and impersonal, like a hotel he’d just checked into. He realised he wouldn’t miss it if he never saw it again. Other than a few knick-knacks, there was nothing of him here.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Make haste,’ Truro said. ‘And speed. Haste and speed, very good things right now.’
Jumai was swimming lengths, cutting through the water like a swordfish, all glossy sleekness and speed. She made this basically inhuman activity appear not only workable but the one viable solution to the problem of moving.
‘I thought we might take a flight, around the area,’ he said vaguely when she paused for breath at one end of the pool, elbows on the side.
‘Is there stuff you need to deal with, to do with Memphis?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
‘You all right, Geoffrey?’ She was looking at his trousers and shirt. ‘Why’ve you changed?’
He offered a shrug. ‘Felt like it.’
She shrugged in return, appearing to accept his explanation. ‘Mind if I do a few more lengths?’
He nodded at the clear blue horizon. It was untrammelled by even the wispiest promise of clouds, the merest hint of the weather system they’d flown through around Kigali. ‘There’s a front coming in. I thought we’d try and duck around it.’
‘A front? Really?’
‘Revised weather schedule,’ he offered lamely.
‘And this can’t wait?’
‘No,’ he said, trusting that she’d understand him, read the message in his eyes that he couldn’t say aloud. ‘No, it can’t.’
‘OK. Then I guess it’s time to get out of the water.’
She changed quickly, hair still frizzy from being towel-dried when she rejoined him. Geoffrey was anxious, wondering when the iron clamp of probationary restraint was going to slam down on him.
‘What’s up?’ she asked him, sotto voce, as they headed towards the parked airpods.
‘Something.’
‘To do with me being here?’
‘It’s not you.’ He was answering in the same undertone. ‘But I need you with me.’
‘Is this about the job?’
‘Might be.’
He beckoned the closest airpod to open itself. Jumai climbed in confidently, Geoffrey right behind her. It was only as he entered the cool of the passenger compartment that he realised how much he’d been sweating. It was drying on him, cold-prickling his forehead.
‘Manual,’ he voked, and waited for the controls to slide out of their hidden ports, unfolding and assembling with cunning speed into his waiting grasp. A moment passed, then another. His hands were still clutching air.
