most contemporary techniques: mixed classes, no symbiots until sixteen — but that’s a while away for you, Pierre.’ The boy’s placid smile flickered.
‘That sounds fine,’ Gail answered.
The boy has no bot. A boy his age should have a bot. Maybe it’s small, hidden in his pocket perhaps. Or, the mother might hold with some more traditional beliefs. Unless he is wired already ... it has been known to happen. The Matron shuddered with thoughts until her worries disappeared and she looked down at the most darling child she had ever seen.
‘Can we see the lower grades, please?’ Gail asked. ‘Just to see.’
‘Of course. They are just down this way.’
~ * ~
As they took off from the islands, Geof reported a mass collapse at a school in the Dakotas, and they were redirected toward the midlands.
Pete: What’s the connection? He was only just getting comfortable with querying through his bot.
Geof: Gail Pembroke is recorded as being a visitor at the time of the syncopation, but there is no record of her leaving. She and her husband, Newton, disappeared from the Weave nearly two weeks ago; no recordings of children.
Pete: So where are you sending us?
Geof: We have the squib Mistress Pembroke was travelling in, and from its log we can deduce her itinerary over the last fortnight. Services are covering each drop, but you’re going to a farm, out past the brushes. That’s where I think Pierre has been hiding all this time.
Tamsin: Okay, send us what you know — who owns the place, who should be there, and any other missing people who might be involved.
Geof: Already compiled and streaming.
Tamsin: A step ahead as usual.
Pete: Have you seen the interviews?
Geof: Most of them.
Pete: What do you think?
Geof: I think we need to find this kid before he starts up again.
Pete: And Mary? About what Pierre Snr said, is she a clone?
Geof: I have nothing that says she is.
Pete: Okay.
Tamsin deigned to raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Why does it bother you so much if she’s a clone or not?’
‘It would be interesting if it was true.’
‘I don’t see the relevance.’
‘How do you hide your mind from me like that?’
‘That would take time to explain, and I don’t think you could stand me for that long.’
It is unfortunate that I can’t hide my mind from you.
‘What? You don’t like it? I imagine this must feel pretty uncomfortable for you.’
…
‘Yep. Not used to playing without the advantage, are you?’
…
‘What’s my body language saying to you? Do you know how to read body language, Pete?’
…
‘What are you gleaning from the timbre of my voice?’
…
‘Why, Peter. Those are quite mixed emotions. I don’t know how you stand the conflict.’
…
‘Would you like a peek?’
…
Below them, the mottle of the landscape cascaded into shapes and lines. Old fields, scratched with the torn and toppled structures of bankrupt endeavours, divided by weather breakers of all sorts and quality. Barns, farmhouses, the spinal remnants of long fences, wrecked turbines and a generation of people beyond repair.
Few properties were managing to establish their prescribed micro-climates, but those that did dotted the land with their productive greens and golds.
Pete and Tamsin’s squib banked south, momentarily tipping their view toward the gigantic black funnels of a windeater — flexible piping that transduced wind to electricity. They worked to serve two purposes, but they didn’t work enough.
The midlands was a waste. Only evangelists and recidivists stuck it out for long. A great place for Pierre to hide out — one of Geof’s grey areas — but not the ideal environment for a growing mind.
‘You shouldn’t think of him that way,’ Tamsin told Pete.
‘Why not?’
‘He chose
‘That sounds fine,’ Gail answered.
The boy has no bot. A boy his age should have a bot. Maybe it’s small, hidden in his pocket perhaps. Or, the mother might hold with some more traditional beliefs. Unless he is wired already ... it has been known to happen. The Matron shuddered with thoughts until her worries disappeared and she looked down at the most darling child she had ever seen.
‘Can we see the lower grades, please?’ Gail asked. ‘Just to see.’
‘Of course. They are just down this way.’
~ * ~
As they took off from the islands, Geof reported a mass collapse at a school in the Dakotas, and they were redirected toward the midlands.
Pete: What’s the connection? He was only just getting comfortable with querying through his bot.
Geof: Gail Pembroke is recorded as being a visitor at the time of the syncopation, but there is no record of her leaving. She and her husband, Newton, disappeared from the Weave nearly two weeks ago; no recordings of children.
Pete: So where are you sending us?
Geof: We have the squib Mistress Pembroke was travelling in, and from its log we can deduce her itinerary over the last fortnight. Services are covering each drop, but you’re going to a farm, out past the brushes. That’s where I think Pierre has been hiding all this time.
Tamsin: Okay, send us what you know — who owns the place, who should be there, and any other missing people who might be involved.
Geof: Already compiled and streaming.
Tamsin: A step ahead as usual.
Pete: Have you seen the interviews?
Geof: Most of them.
Pete: What do you think?
Geof: I think we need to find this kid before he starts up again.
Pete: And Mary? About what Pierre Snr said, is she a clone?
Geof: I have nothing that says she is.
Pete: Okay.
Tamsin deigned to raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Why does it bother you so much if she’s a clone or not?’
‘It would be interesting if it was true.’
‘I don’t see the relevance.’
‘How do you hide your mind from me like that?’
‘That would take time to explain, and I don’t think you could stand me for that long.’
It is unfortunate that I can’t hide my mind from you.
‘What? You don’t like it? I imagine this must feel pretty uncomfortable for you.’
…
‘Yep. Not used to playing without the advantage, are you?’
…
‘What’s my body language saying to you? Do you know how to read body language, Pete?’
…
‘What are you gleaning from the timbre of my voice?’
…
‘Why, Peter. Those are quite mixed emotions. I don’t know how you stand the conflict.’
…
‘Would you like a peek?’
…
Below them, the mottle of the landscape cascaded into shapes and lines. Old fields, scratched with the torn and toppled structures of bankrupt endeavours, divided by weather breakers of all sorts and quality. Barns, farmhouses, the spinal remnants of long fences, wrecked turbines and a generation of people beyond repair.
Few properties were managing to establish their prescribed micro-climates, but those that did dotted the land with their productive greens and golds.
Pete and Tamsin’s squib banked south, momentarily tipping their view toward the gigantic black funnels of a windeater — flexible piping that transduced wind to electricity. They worked to serve two purposes, but they didn’t work enough.
The midlands was a waste. Only evangelists and recidivists stuck it out for long. A great place for Pierre to hide out — one of Geof’s grey areas — but not the ideal environment for a growing mind.
‘You shouldn’t think of him that way,’ Tamsin told Pete.
‘Why not?’
‘He chose
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