He went back to the control room, his heart
hammering, a peculiar pain under his breastbone, drying his hair with a towel.
He walked the corridor as he’d done thousands of times now, since his
posting... the dreamy bounce of less gravity now more real than his schooling
years. The halls were totally familiar
and completely and utterly alien, both at the same time. He knew exactly how much of his life here was
recorded; not just here but his whole life. Every recorder was still
there where it was supposed to be, every sensor. They hadn’t changed. He'd changed. They’d had him in the data-banks every moment
he’d drawn breath and probably before, except perhaps in the bathing room or
on the toilet.
Did
they even record that? Probably. Everyone had the
record of their lives in storage. As a ‘safety precaution.’ Safety for whom? No one ever checked back through the millions
of hours of private citizen recordings, except for the Font’s Intelligensia Police
clan and that was only if Mister Thormentaler requested a review.
Mr. The title
reserved for the Font of All Knowledge, the owner of the planet. Even the Intelligensia and the police... the
IPC, really would never dare use it. The correct term was your caste designation, or a ubiquitous 'Master' ... everyone knew their place and the fact that they’d signed away
all rights to privacy.
He desperately wanted privacy right now and it was
just impossible. He only had a few
minutes to check and see that the screens and the brains he used in the course
of his job were properly shut down.
He realized also, that he’d gotten away with blithe,
blithe treason, at least so far. He hadn’t
hidden his little node from anyone on the planet. When he’d swallowed the brainseed he’d
started taking up virtual space in the system node with his own requests for
data. Oh.... greenish, poisoned and profane WORD! He felt sick.
If Charles had said anything or reported him... He
was so thankful that he’d shut everything of his own down to tiny, tiny bubbles
in the greater node. If no one thought
to look, or where... even here on the moon in this tiny subsection of ‘moon
station’ and ‘courier reception’... he was safe. But he needed to build
everything he did, from now on, with complete security.
The worst the Font could do... no one liked to think
about that. He lifted a hand up to
scratch his head and ran a fingernail over the patch in his scalp where a
neural inducer would sit. If the font...
or an inspector from the IPC... placed one there... The thought was enough to
make him break out in a new sweat.
The control room was almost in order once more, but
he’d hurled his books against the wall in a fit of pique and that would never
do. If anyone asked, he’d say it was
this fictional illness of his. He picked
up his approved books and straightened pages and clucked at himself as he
opened the door. “Station, what was I
thinking?”
“The station cannot know. Thinking about what?”
“I need to re-read my books and I was so upset I
threw them like this. It must be my
physical upset.”
“The monitors report elevated heart rate and
galvanic skin responses consistent with stress.
You are sweating, Tech. Bed rest
is again recommended.”
“Thank you, station.”
The neutral tenor voice held no gender, light,
sweet, unobtrusive. He quivered all over
with the realization of how much he suddenly hated it. It was his only company here, until he was
allowed to go home or until the station was started up again. He missed everybody.
Record
my galvanic skin responses through my blankets and record the lump of me under
it. You won’t be able to record what I
do in my head and I’m going to build a hidden world for my new knowledge. Then I’m going to go find out who that young
man in the veil, with a ferret was.
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