The Escapist | Page 9

were born withdrawn. If you searched long enough, you could find some remnants of their former personalities, such as little memories of themselves at various ages, fragmented and hidden inside their minds. With von K��hnert there was nothing. It was like he had been drained of all non-physical aspects of himself. He was emptier than prime time entertainment.
I made an appointment to see Carmichael the following day, created backups of the discs from my research, and returned to the car park. I wondered if any of these low-paid COSI droids were curious how I could afford such an expensive land vehicle as the F45, with a purchase waiting list longer than a very long thing indeed. Most of them drove little Chinese electric cars that made a shopping trolley look like a Ferrari. After activating the gravitational security belt in the McLaren, I reached forward to turn off the Autoroute, which must have flicked on by accident the last time I got out. Without my bidding, the engine fired up and the car screeched off out of its space. The object sensors were keeping it from colliding with any walls or other vehicles, but otherwise it was negotiating its exit route from the COSI parking facilities more alarmingly than had even I been driving. I tried to lift my arm to disengage the Autoroute again. I had to use all the physical strength I could muster just to raise my hand. The flat-out acceleration combined with the uncomfortably high setting of the gravitational security kept me pressed to the seat.
The F-45 was burning past every other vehicle it met with ease, going completely not in the direction of my home. We headed south, over Westminster Bridge, jumping every traffic signal and forcing a number of other land cars off the road, including eight police vehicles and an ambulance. We seemed to be heading towards Peckham. As the car lunged left and right, I began to feel ill. Not so much as a result of the reckless driving, but because Southwark's shabby town planning made my stomach churn. Fumbling for my Pocket Assistant had proved pointless as the auto car shutdown I'd programmed merely succeeded in triggering a rendition of "The East is Red" fully orchestrated for retro wave-table MIDI. Somebody knew my little tricks and had programmed around them. I was stuck with this journey for the duration, and after a few miles the buffeting G-forces knocked me out. I loved fast cars, but I preferred driving them myself. I'd never been the best of passengers.
*? *? *?
Sharp light was searing into my retina like a surgical water-jet. It was even painful when I shut my eyes, penetrating the lids as if they were rice-paper. Suddenly the light went out. I shook my head, as if simple head motion would return my vision more quickly. There was no way of telling just how long I'd been out. As the after burn from my initial blinding receded, a figure became clear standing in front of me. At first I had to blink, thinking my sight had been permanently damaged. The man had no nose. Otherwise normal, his face was very flat without its proboscis, which seemed to have been replaced by two holes on his cheeks that flared and vibrated like gills as he breathed. He grinned widely. Nothing abnormal about his mouth, luckily, or I might have retched.
"Mr Dean," the Man Who Had Cut Off His Nose to Spite His Face exclaimed enthusiastically. "We've been watching your activities for many years now. You're a rare breed, like us. A lawbreaker devious enough to avoid a criminal record! There are only a few of us around who manage to keep ourselves away from the grasp of the corporate database. When you die, which may be quite soon, we'll have you stuffed and displayed in a case, like one of our favourite pets."
"Fuck off," I grumbled, in no mood for banter. I was physically strapped to the chair, as well as gravitationally restrained. I cursed mankind's mastery of the six forces between atoms.
"For today's entertainment, we've brought round an old friend of yours," continued No Nose, stepping aside as a more familiar and visually pleasant work of surgical reconstruction entered through a door made of one-way glass. "I think you know Freida Eglin."
Freida seemed to be holding something phallic in her hand. As she approached it became clear: a courgette.
"I'm not going to make this easy for you, Bentley," she sniggered, brandishing the vegetable. Grasping my chair, which was designed to be rotated in all directions, she whirled it around until I was facing the floor. My nakedness, not normally something I minded when it occurred, now felt shatteringly frail. "If I didn't want to bear your children one day, I'd be