And meanwhile she watched Bobby over and over, through his gilded boyhood, to his growth into a man. He was Hiram’s monster, but he was a beautiful creature, and she came to feel she knew him.
She was going to destroy him. But as she spent her waking hours with Bobby, against her will, he was lodging in her heart, in the hollow places there.
Chapter 25 – REFUGEES
Bobby and Kate, seeking Mary, made their cautious way along Oxford Street.
Three years ago, soon after delivering the pair of them to a Refugee cell, Mary had disappeared out of their lives. That wasn’t so unusual. The loose network of Refugees, spread worldwide, worked on the cell-organization basis of the old terrorist groups.
But recently, concerned he’d had no news of his half sister for many months, Bobby had tracked her down to London. And today, he had been assured, he would meet her.
The London sky overhead was a gray, smoggy lid, threatening rain. It was a summer’s day, but neither hot nor cold, an irritating urban nothingness. Bobby felt annoyingly hot inside his SmartShroud-which, of course, had to be kept sealed up at all times.
Bobby and Kate slid with smooth, unremarkable steps from group to group. With practiced skill they would join a transient crowd, worm their way to the center; then, as it broke up, they would set off again, always in a different direction from the way they had come. If there was no other choice they would even go backward, retracing their steps. Their progress was slow. But it was all but impossible for any WormCam observer to trace them for more than a few paces-a strategy so effective, in fact, that Bobby wondered how many other Refugees there were here today, moving through the crowds like ghosts.
It was obvious that, despite climate collapse and general poverty, London still attracted tourists. People still came here, presumably to visit the an galleries and see the ancient sites and palaces, now vacated by England’s Royals, decanted to a sunnier throne in monarchist Australia.
But it was also sadly clear that this was a city that had seen better days. Most of the shops were unfrosted bargain bazaars, and there were several empty lots, gaps like teeth missing from an old man’s smile. Still, the sidewalks of this thoroughfare, an east-west artery that had long been one of the city’s main shopping areas, were crowded with dense, sluggish rivers of humanity. And that made diem a good place to hide.
But Bobby did not enjoy the press of flesh around him. Four years after Kate had turned off his implant he knew he was still too easily startled-and too easily repulsed by unwelcome brushes with his fellow humans. He was particularly offended by unwitting contact with the bellies and flabby buttocks of the many middle-aged Japanese here, a nation who seemed to have responded to the WormCam with a mass conversion to nudity.
Now, above the hubbub of conversation around them, he made out a shout: ‘Oi! Move it!’ Ahead of them people parted, scattering as if some angry animal were forcing its way through. Bobby pulled Kate into a shop doorway.
Through the corridor of annoyed humanity came a rickshaw. It was hauled by a fat Londoner, stripped to the waist, with big slicks of sweat under his pillowy breasts. The woman in the rickshaw, talking into a wrist implant, might have been American.
When the rickshaw had passed Bobby and Kate joined me flow which was forming anew. Bobby shifted his hand so that his fingers were brushing Kate’s palm, and began to handspell. Charming guy.
Not his fault, Kate replied. Look around. Probably rickshaw guy once Chancellor of Exchequer …
They pressed on further, making their way east toward Oxford Street’s junction with Tottenham Court Road. The crowds thinned a little as they left Oxford Circus behind, and Kate and Bobby moved more cautiously and quickly, aware of their exposure; Bobby made sure he was aware of escape routes, several avenues available at any moment.
Kate wore her ‘Shroud hood a little open, but beneath it her heat mask was smooth and anonymous. When she stood still, the ‘Shroud’s hologram projectors, throwing images of the background around her, would stabilize and make her reasonably invisible from any angle around her-a good illusion, at least, until she began to move again, and processing lag caused her fake image to fragment and blur. But, despite its limitations, a SmartShroud might throw off a careless or distracted WormCam operator, and so it was worth wearing,
In the same spirit, Bobby and Kate were today both wearing their heat masks, molded to seamless anonymity. The masks gave off false infrared signatures, and were profoundly uncomfortable, with their built-in heating elements warm against Bobby’s skin. It was possible to wear all-over body masks working on the same principle-some of which were capable of masking a man’s characteristic IR signature as a woman’s, and vice versa. But Bobby, having tried the requisite jockstrap laced with heating wires, had drawn back before reaching that particular plateau of discomfort.
They passed one smart-looking town house, presumably converted from a shop, which had had its walls replaced by clear glass panes. Looking into the brightly lit rooms, Bobby could see that even the floors and ceilings were transparent, as was much of the furniture- even the bathroom suite. People moved through the rooms, naked, apparently oblivious of the stares of people outside. This minimal home was yet another response to WormCam scrutiny, an in-your-face statement that the occupants really didn’t care who was looking at them-as well as a constant reminder to the occupants themselves that any apparent privacy was now and forever illusory.
At the junction with Tottenham Court Road, they approached the Center Point ruin; a tower block, never fully occupied, then wrecked during the worst of the Scottish-separatist terrorism problem.
And it was here that Bobby and Kate were met, as they had been promised.
A shimmering outline blocked Bobby’s path. He glimpsed a heat mask within an open ‘Shroud hood, and a hand stretched out toward his. It took him a few seconds to tune into the other’s fast, confident handspelling.
… 25. 4712425. I am 4712425. I am-
Bobby flipped his hand over and replied. Got you. 4712425. 5650982 one, 8736540 other.
Good whew good at last, the reply came, brisk and sure. Come now.
The stranger led them off the main street and into a maze of alleys. Bobby and Kate, still holding hands, kept to the sides of the street, sticking to the shadows wherever they could. But they avoided the doorways, most of which-before doors heavily bolted-were occupied by panhandlers.
Bobby slipped his hand into the stranger’s. Think I know you.
The other’s hand, with an iconic form, registered alarm. So much for ‘Shrouds and numbers bloody useless. She meant the anonymous ID number each member of the worldwide informal network of Refugee tribes was encouraged to adopt each day. The numbers were provided on demand from a central source, accessible by WormCam, rumored to be a random number generator buried in a disused mine in Montana, based on uncrackable quantum-mechanical principles.
Not that, he signed back.
What then. Shape of big fat arse can’t conceal even with ‘Shroud.
Bobby suppressed a laugh. That was confirmation enough that ‘4712425’ was who he thought: a woman, southern English, somewhere in her sixties, barrelshaped, good-humored, confident.
Recognize style. Handspell style.
She made an acknowledgment sign. Yes yes yes. Heard that before. Must change.
Can’t change everything.
No but can try.
The handspelling alphabets, with the fingertips brushing the palms and fingers of the recipient’s hands, had originally been developed for people afflicted with both deafness and blindness. They had been adopted and adapted eagerly by WormCam Refugees; handspelling communication, taking place inside cupped hands, was almost impossible to decipher by an observer.
… Almost, but not quite. Nothing was foolproof. And Bobby was always aware that WormCam observers had the luxury of looking back into the past and rerunning anything they missed, as often as they liked, from whatever angle and in as tight a close-up as they chose.
But there was no need for the Refugees to make the lives of the snoops any easier than they had to.
Bobby knew, from scraps of gossip and acquaintance, that ‘4712425’ was a grandmother. She had retired from her profession a few years earlier, and had no criminal record, or experience of unwelcome surveillance activity, or any other obvious reason to go underground- like, in fact, many of the Refugees he had met during his years on the run. She just didn’t want people looking at her.
At last ‘4712425’ brought them to a door. With a silent gesture their guide had Bobby and Kate stop here and adjust their ‘Shrouds and heat masks to ensure nothing of themselves was showing.
The door opened, revealing only darkness.
… And then, in a final misdirection, ‘4712425’ touched them both lightly and led them farther down the street. Bobby looked back, and saw the door closing silently.