The Escapist | Page 9

point in pretending I was a poor
neuropsychologist anymore. I might as well live a little. Switching the Autoroute off, I
drove manually to the COSI offices.
Carmichael was not available to see me, so I took the tapes from the Nexus-7 clinic and
wired myself into a few of them. I was most interested in those subjects who had
developed withdrawal of consciousness in adulthood rather than those who 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withdrawn.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 Kühnert 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