you can’t, you know, give them a tickle?
He thought it before he could stop it. It was something he always counted, every time someone walked away. How many steps until he couldn’t peek in? His record was ninety paces.
I will be telling them that, Pete. So they know they can trust me. For security we’re going to have to isolate the compound a bit more. You won’t be getting any traffic noise from now on, if you know what I’m saying. What can I do to gain your trust?
Nothing I can think of.
Okay. Let me know if you do. My bath is getting cold now, so I’m going to dry myself with a big fluffy towel and slip under some sheets. Goodnight, Peter Lazarus.
~ * ~
Since 2134, all registered psis were housed in semi-voluntary imprisonment on artificial islands — plastic bergs with a fair stretch of ocean between them and the mainland and only a passive connection to the Weave, which meant they could watch but not contribute. They were segregated completely.
The squib to the islands took only an hour. Geof and the Colonel remained at the warehouse trawling data while Tamsin and Pete went to interview Pierre’s parents. They were alone in their squib, remotely guided and prowled on either side by two escort vehicles packed with servitors. Pete tried to study Tamsin surreptitiously, but when occasionally, accidentally, he made eye contact, she grinned at him proudly.
While she repulsed him with her manner, the fact that she could shield her mind from him was fascinating, and he could do little but stare at her, hearing only the sound of the air rushing around the squib. No thoughts, no emotions.
Are there more like you?
She didn’t answer. She looked at him but responded neither out loud nor in projection.
Did you learn this somewhere? Have you taught this to anyone else?
She raised an eyebrow. This is what it is like for normals.
Pete relaxed somewhat and kept watching her.
All psis on the islands were tagged and trackable, their actions passively monitored. The conditions weren’t too bad, better than the penitentiaries, partly because the residents were not criminals requiring punishment, and partly because Services knew if they didn’t treat them well it might ignite an uprising, which was the last thing they wanted. Actually, the last thing they wanted was another Pierre Jnr, and so the residents also had to agree to be rendered infertile.
Their first appointment was with Pierre Sandro Snr, the father. It was organised so that he would meet with them in a holding room on the mainland side of the island, away from the other inmates and under full Services monitoring. All the islands had such a room. Tamsin was in an annex behind a one-way mirror, to observe the both of them no doubt. Pete waited in a chair, feeling watched. He tried not to let a thought cross his mind.
A diode above the doorway lit up and a man older than his years shuffled in. He obviously wasn’t one to shave regularly and, to Pete at least, his thoughts were as wild as his eyes.
Pete stood and held out his hand. ‘Mister Sandro. My name is Peter Lazarus.’
Pierre Snr looked warily at the hand and then shook his head in declaration.
Mister Sandro, I am one of you, Pete thought to himself.
Pierre Snr didn’t react; his file was seemingly correct that he had no telepathic ability and was skilled mainly as a bender. As if in demonstration, the empty chair in front of him pulled backward of its own accord and Mister Sandro sat down. His posture sagged and his eyes fell low, moving side to side rapidly.
As he took his own seat, Pete’s arm thudded down hard on the table, alarming them both. ‘Sorry, I’m still not used to the weight of this thing.’
Pete pulled back his sleeve to show Pierre Snr the symbiot. It flashed a hello at him and Pierre recoiled. ‘I hate those things.’
‘Have you ever had to wear one? This is my first
He thought it before he could stop it. It was something he always counted, every time someone walked away. How many steps until he couldn’t peek in? His record was ninety paces.
I will be telling them that, Pete. So they know they can trust me. For security we’re going to have to isolate the compound a bit more. You won’t be getting any traffic noise from now on, if you know what I’m saying. What can I do to gain your trust?
Nothing I can think of.
Okay. Let me know if you do. My bath is getting cold now, so I’m going to dry myself with a big fluffy towel and slip under some sheets. Goodnight, Peter Lazarus.
~ * ~
Since 2134, all registered psis were housed in semi-voluntary imprisonment on artificial islands — plastic bergs with a fair stretch of ocean between them and the mainland and only a passive connection to the Weave, which meant they could watch but not contribute. They were segregated completely.
The squib to the islands took only an hour. Geof and the Colonel remained at the warehouse trawling data while Tamsin and Pete went to interview Pierre’s parents. They were alone in their squib, remotely guided and prowled on either side by two escort vehicles packed with servitors. Pete tried to study Tamsin surreptitiously, but when occasionally, accidentally, he made eye contact, she grinned at him proudly.
While she repulsed him with her manner, the fact that she could shield her mind from him was fascinating, and he could do little but stare at her, hearing only the sound of the air rushing around the squib. No thoughts, no emotions.
Are there more like you?
She didn’t answer. She looked at him but responded neither out loud nor in projection.
Did you learn this somewhere? Have you taught this to anyone else?
She raised an eyebrow. This is what it is like for normals.
Pete relaxed somewhat and kept watching her.
All psis on the islands were tagged and trackable, their actions passively monitored. The conditions weren’t too bad, better than the penitentiaries, partly because the residents were not criminals requiring punishment, and partly because Services knew if they didn’t treat them well it might ignite an uprising, which was the last thing they wanted. Actually, the last thing they wanted was another Pierre Jnr, and so the residents also had to agree to be rendered infertile.
Their first appointment was with Pierre Sandro Snr, the father. It was organised so that he would meet with them in a holding room on the mainland side of the island, away from the other inmates and under full Services monitoring. All the islands had such a room. Tamsin was in an annex behind a one-way mirror, to observe the both of them no doubt. Pete waited in a chair, feeling watched. He tried not to let a thought cross his mind.
A diode above the doorway lit up and a man older than his years shuffled in. He obviously wasn’t one to shave regularly and, to Pete at least, his thoughts were as wild as his eyes.
Pete stood and held out his hand. ‘Mister Sandro. My name is Peter Lazarus.’
Pierre Snr looked warily at the hand and then shook his head in declaration.
Mister Sandro, I am one of you, Pete thought to himself.
Pierre Snr didn’t react; his file was seemingly correct that he had no telepathic ability and was skilled mainly as a bender. As if in demonstration, the empty chair in front of him pulled backward of its own accord and Mister Sandro sat down. His posture sagged and his eyes fell low, moving side to side rapidly.
As he took his own seat, Pete’s arm thudded down hard on the table, alarming them both. ‘Sorry, I’m still not used to the weight of this thing.’
Pete pulled back his sleeve to show Pierre Snr the symbiot. It flashed a hello at him and Pierre recoiled. ‘I hate those things.’
‘Have you ever had to wear one? This is my first
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