“I have a photographic memory.”
Sgt. Aristotle gestured with his pistol and blinked toward the door of the barren motel room.
“I would have let you go, but
the captain also has a photographic memory, and he would have known about this
interaction.” Sgt. Aristotle stated, a
liquid wave of telepathy bubbling
into Lance Struck’s mind. The sergeant holstered his weapon and
glanced at the multiple surveilcams around the room.
Lance got it: the facial-recognition applications couldn’t
match his own face via computer algorithms because he had modified his features
enough to have avoided detection these last four years while “hiding” in plain
sight. No – it was this chance run-in
with his old school-chum and current sergeant of the Info Aware Unit whereupon
his subterfuge was unveiled.
Aristotle’s own Captain was obviously someone Lance had also known from
their shared past – and would have undoubtedly discerned the fact that the
Sergeant had recognized him. Then
he would have studied the surveil footage of him personally, cross-referencing
any other stored video of him.
Both Sgt. Aristotle and his Captain were at the very least Class 1B
Citizens (genetically endowed with specialized attributes, such as telepathic
savvy, photographic memory, telekinetic capability), discerning the rest would have been child’s play for the
good Captain – like a parent finding their kid hiding in the basement wearing
a Halloween mask. Lance Struck
gave himself up.
Sgt.
Aristotle didn’t bind his old school-chum-turned-dissident/renegade, he didn’t
call for back-up. He knew Lance
had officially ended any thought of flight. Lance guessed his new Ident was already loading into
the System, so even if he would have bolted, the vast serveilcam grid tied into
facial-recog apps would have made escape from the city impossible. They exited the flat.
The two men walked together like a
couple of old pals through the jam-packed Bazaar District of Downtown. Humans, androids and entities from
various quarters of the galaxy jostled, hustled, elbowed and bargained; the
frenzied cacophony bordered on jet-engine roar of white-noise. The dust and the reek of a galaxy’s
worth of diverse body-odors punched Aristotle’s nose with a vigor and fervor of
a thousand tidal waves; his eyes watered up and he swallowed bile that had come
up into his mouth. He didn’t care
much for Downtown and he remembered why.
They shouldered through and into the Central Station where it was still
crowded but well ventilated and air-conditioned. Sergeant Aristotle breathed
again.
The two men entered the maglev train car.
Time froze:
“Hello
father” Lance’s daughter - now twelve years-old - telepathized. He had last seen her four years ago, at
their old place on the outskirts of the city. They both had
sat together on the stairs outside the flat and he read her stories from
the old time… Tom Sawyer he
recalled. “I knew back
then that you had to go. You never
thought you would see me again but I knew... And I am here to help you.
Sgt.
Aristotle blinked as the car cleared out of everybody but he,
Lance, the girl, and a few slug-like creatures that passively slumped about
reading their news-tabs. The door slammed shut. Her mind
blocked from his scan, he couldn't discern her intent. He knew one thing: she controlled
access to her own mind, she could control others' minds (aside from the slugs)
– for she had cleared out the car, and
she could remotely control certain electrical equipment, for he noticed the
serveilcams no longer in operation – their red lights blinking “out of
service”. She had shut them off with her mind.
Alas – her voice boomed throughout
the car: “I am going to blow up this train. I have a thermogenic grenade under my dress and the
revolution will go hot. Daddy – I
can’t let them take you away – they’ll turn you into a vegetable then softly
kill you…”
Lance
approached his little girl – now a very dangerous prepubescent. “My little buttercup – this is not the way… Don’t do it…please.”
 |
Joan of Arc at the Fortress of Tournelles
|
Her
stormy green eyes welled up. The
slugs read the news, paying no care to what was transpiring in the car.
“I
will not report you… I will report
this as a drill and say you were helping in the exercise. I will suggest you be brought into the
Academy as you will undoubtedly be tested as Class 1B++ and fast-tracked to
high levels within the System. The
Restoration will be.” Sgt. Aristotle balled his hand into a slight fist and
gave a subtle nod, enough for the girl to comprehend.
She
fumbled under her dress and procured the device and deactivated it.
“Where
had she gotten such a powerful weapon?” Sgt.
Aristotle wondered.
“I
made it.” She telepathized.
This
was a very dangerous girl indeed – light-years more so than her rogue father.
