Quarantine

I literally can’t imagine her approving of what I’ve become. Even without using the mod, though, I find myself dreaming of her; I wake from nightmares of heresy, with the force—if not the sense—of her diatribe pounding in my skull. I intruct Boss to keep her from my dreams. It hurts to be without her, but the Ensemble gives me strength.

Every now and then—as I try to psych myself into choosing sleep in the noise and heat of the morning—I unwrap the contradiction that lies at the heart of who I am, and I stare at it one more time. It never fades, it never changes. I understand, as clearly as ever, that I ‘should’ be horrified by my fate—and I know that, in all honesty, I’m not. I don’t feel trapped. I don’t feel violated. I understand that my contentment is bizarre, irrational, inconsistent—but then, my reasons for happiness in the past were never exactly founded on an elaborate logical position, a carefully formulated philosophy.

There are times when I’m dispirited, lonely, perplexed; the loyalty mod doesn’t bliss me out—it doesn’t intervene, directly, in my moods at all. I listen to music, I watch HV—there’s no shortage of anaesthetic.

In the end, though, when the sweetest music fades, when the most diverting image disintegrates, there’s nothing left to do but look inside myself and ask what it is that I’m living for. And I have an answer, like never before.

I’m serving the Ensemble.

6

When Chen Ya-ping summons me to her office for the first time in six months, I can’t help being nervous. My daily routine has become so ingrained that merely riding the familiar underground line at an unfamiliar time leaves me ill at ease. I scour my conscience for failures in my duty to the Ensemble, and find so many that I can hardly believe that I’ve been allowed to go unpunished for so long. So what will it be? A reprimand? Demotion? Dimissal?

Chen is curt. ‘You’re being moved to a new job. On other premises. You’ll be helping to guard one of the volunteers.’

Volunteers? For a moment, I wonder if this is a euphemism—if there are more brain-damaged abductees like Laura on their way—but then Chen shows me a picture of Chung Po-kwai, taken at a university graduation ceremony, and it’s clear that the word means something else entirely.

‘You’ll be working at a place called ASR—Advanced Systems Research. Not everyone there is familiar with our side of things, and there are good reasons for that; it’s in the best interests of the Ensemble as a whole that the project remains… partitioned. So under no circumstances are you to discuss BDI, or anything you’ve learnt here, with anyone at ASR. Nor are you to discuss ASR’s work with any of the staff here, other than myself. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

And I realize, with an almost dizzying rush, that I’m not being punished, or even just shuffled sideways. This is a position of trust. I’m being promoted.

Why me? Why not Lee Soh Lung? Why not Huang Qing?

The loyalty mod, of course. I’m unworthy—but the mod redeems me. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘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 all: 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 personnel: 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.’