Miach’s consciousness was an emulation?
Not a true consciousness like our own.
Not a pattern woven by the feedback web in the midbrain.
A replica, created to serve a dire need.
Imitation consciousness.
I stared at my father’s back. He hadn’t brought Miach to Baghdad just because her despair had been deeper and more violent than mine.
He had brought her here because of her lineage.
So she had been dragged from hell to start a new life in Japan, but for Miach, that wasn’t harmony either. Japan’s society, in its attempt to attain a kind of harmony, let itself be ruled by a strangling, enforced kindness that had produced a mountain of suicides.
Miach Mihie hated admedistrative society as much as she had hated Chechnya.
For Miach, Chechnya and Tokyo were just two different neighborhoods in the same hell.
</shaken>
Had Miach wanted to take us with her into death because she saw harmony on the other side?
“There are always monsters who find sexual attraction in children. These pedophiles among the Russian soldiers forced her to develop a consciousness out of hate, or rather something like a consciousness, and her newfound simulated consciousness despaired and chose death. I found it profoundly moving, and discouraging, that the decision to end one’s own life is a highlevel, conscious act, that only one with a conflicted consciousness can make.”
Dong! Just then, the kettle my father was holding flew out of his hands.
It shot across the shop, barely missing the half-dozing shopkeeper before crashing into a pile of pots and pans.
I whirled around and spotted a man hiding beneath a large hat. He was about ten feet away, smoke still rising from the barrel of his gun. Vashlov. The gun was pointed toward us.
“Interpol,” he said, reaching in with his free hand to pull a business card from his breast pocket. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Nuada Kirie. I’m also pleased to inform you that you’re under arrest for the mass coercion of suicides.”
<tension>
I took a step back, my hand reaching for the gun beneath my jacket.
“Whoa there, Tuan. You don’t move either. You’re related to the accused, after all.”
“Liar,” I said.
“No really, you are related to him. Or did you mean something else?”
I spat on the ground. “You’re not Interpol.”
“Oh, but I am. Look, it’s written on my card.” He waved his card in the air. Seeing the lack of reaction on our faces, he frowned. “Aw. And I thought my cards would be a big hit, what with AR off-line here.”
“You may have Interpol ID, but you’re working for Miach’s group, against my father. You’ve been at the center of this madness all along.”
“An intriguing deduction.”
I took another half step back, further into the shop. “You figured that by putting me into play you could get my father out in the open, away from the protection of the Next-Gen group.”
“Fascinating. And what was I going to do then?” Vashlov grinned, clearly enjoying himself. My right hand moved toward the holster again, and his gun jerked up to point straight at me. “I really wouldn’t do that, Miss. It’s not necessary. I’m only here to take Dr. Kirie into my custody.”
“I don’t suppose taking him back to Geneva is part of the plan.”
“Probably not. I am, as you say, with Miach Mihie.”
“What do you want?”
“Your father is the leader of the main faction within our group, you see.” The barrel drifted over to point at my father. “If I take him in, they’ll lose their focus—it will weaken them. The next day or two are of vital importance, you see. If I can keep him out of action just a little while, the balance of things will shift in a favorable direction.”
“And what direction might that be?”
“Well, we—”
While Vashlov was talking—a bit too involved with what he was saying—I had reached behind me with my left hand until I found a smallish metal object with a handle. Now I threw it at him as hard as I could. The pot smacked Vashlov’s forehead with a dull thonk and he lost his footing, falling over backwards. I almost laughed out loud at the unexpected efficacy of my attack.
</tension>
“Dad! This way!” I pulled my father’s hand toward the night street, hoping to lose ourselves in the crowd.
“Stop right there, Kiries! Both of you!”
We had made it about thirty feet by the time Vashlov got to his feet, blood trickling from a gash in his forehead. Not that thirty feet is very far to travel when you’re a bullet. If there weren’t people on the road between us, we would have been dead already.
“Stay close to me,” I told my father.
He nodded. “We have to do something—”
I pulled him by the hand again, pushing our way farther through the crowd. Our progress was made more difficult by the fact that I had no idea where we were going. If I had my AR on, and it was linked up to StreetWatch, I would know where every side street led to before we got to it. Running in an unfamiliar place in an unfamiliar land without AR was like running a race blindfolded.
“I said stop!” I heard Vashlov shouting behind us.
Sorry, pal.
We ran ahead, dodging a cart filled with fish for making masgouf. This place was chaos, filled with the smells of nutmeg, cardamom, cinnamon, cumin seeds, perfume, and the bodily odors and bad breath of people without the benefit of WatchMe. Most of the men here were construction laborers who commuted into the medical industrial complex sector to work on the next giant building site. I looked behind me as we ran, but without AR, I had no idea where Vashlov might be hiding in the crowd.
“Sorry!”
We’d reached the restaurant where I’d eaten earlier that evening. I turned, pulling my father along behind me. Ignoring the accented complaint of the proprietor we ran through the shop, kicking through two sets of doors until we were outside again in an alleyway behind the restaurant.
Vashlov was standing no more than ten feet away from us, off to one side, facing right toward us.
<tension>
<silence>
In a moment of frozen time, Vashlov and I lifted our guns to point at one another.
Two shots were fired.
One from my gun.
One from Vashlov’s.
Both of them hit their targets.
</silence>
</tension>
Target No. 1: Vashlov’s chest.
Target No. 2: My father’s chest.