Savant (25 page)

The quarantine had applied to everyone, but the lifting of it did not. It was lifted in stages. Service was the first department to be entirely re-instated, and all Operators were free to move around at will, except that they were all on incredibly tight Schedules because of the Code status.

The School was more-or-less a closed environment, so it was easy enough to end the quarantine there, and the Students and Seniors hardly noticed the difference, even if they were relieved that they were no longer under orders to remain in the building. Many of them wouldn’t have chosen to leave it, anyway; many of them only left very rarely, but it was nice to know that they could leave the building if they wanted to.

The College proper proved the most problematic. There was some question as to whether it was a good idea to re-instate pre-quarantine rules and regs, straight away. Students, Assistants and Companions had caused the most problems throughout the ordeal. They were the most fragile personalities, and they responded badly to stress, particularly when it was associated with change. The Code changes and the quarantine had affected them more than any other group, and what affected them invariably affected the Masters, which meant that Actives were put at risk.

Another change, even a reversal, out of quarantine, might be too difficult. It was another twelve hours before a decision was made; twelve hours in which the bags and boxes filled by Patel and her team were removed from the corridor outside Master Tobe’s room, and taken away for processing by Service. There would be no teaching timetable, which had been suspended when the quarantine was imposed, but all members of College were free to move around, and Masters could return to their offices, if they chose to. The library was also re-opened, but lecture halls remained closed.

The food hall was up and running again two hours after the quarantine was lifted, but its opening hours were restricted. Many Students, who’d been living off very basic rations in their rooms and dorms, were relieved to be able to spend their coupons again. They were also allowed to use any coupons that had gone out of date during the quarantine, and, within a few hours of the food hall opening, the atmosphere was beginning to change for the better. Small groups of Students were beginning to relax together. Decent food and good company began to calm the Student body, and Observer Operators, judiciously placed among them, were happy to report that Student-life seemed to be returning to better-than normal.

T
OBE’S QUARANTINE WAS
not lifted. Tobe, Metoo, Wooh and Saintout would remain in the flat.

“We might as well be under house arrest,” said Metoo.

“It’s not so bad,” said Saintout, smiling.

“Not for you,” said Metoo. “This just turned into a walk in the park, for you, but I’ve still got Master Tobe to deal with, and it isn’t getting any easier.”

“We’ll help in any way we can,” said Wooh.

“Help by staying out of the way, then. Help by allowing me out into the garden for an hour.”

“Okay,” said Saintout, “we can do that.” Wooh cast a frown in his direction; she wasn’t entirely sure that it was up to them to decide the conditions of Metoo’s quarantine.

“No,” said Metoo, “I can’t.” Saintout shrugged at Wooh, behind Metoo’s back, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I don’t think you’ll be here for long, anyway,” said Wooh. “I wanted to warn you in advance...”

“What?” asked Metoo, an anxious expression crossing her face.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Service?” Saintout asked Wooh.

“Oh, come on. You, of all people, ought to see that telling Metoo is –”

“No, you’re right,” said Saintout, interrupting Wooh, and holding his hands out, to take Metoo’s.

“Let me explain what’s going to happen,” said Saintout, sitting Metoo down on one of the chairs in the garden room, still holding her hands. “Our assessment of the situation, mine and Doctor Wooh’s, is that you are the key to solving this mess.”

“How do you mean?”

“The thing is,” said Wooh, approaching Metoo, “we don’t really know why, but Saintout and I have come to the conclusion that you are closer to the sub – to Master Tobe, than anyone, and you might hold the key to answering the questions that this situation has posed.”

“What situation?” asked Metoo. “What’s she talking about?” she asked Saintout.

“We’re at Code Orange,” said Saintout. “Master Tobe’s status has been degrading for days. No one seems to know why, and no one seems able to reverse the problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” said Metoo, dropping Saintout’s hands, and rising, as if to flee.

“I believe you,” said Saintout, “but we’re still at Code Orange, and you’re not so naive as to think that a problem like that will just go away.”

“I’m not naive at all,” said Metoo. She sank into the chair that Saintout was standing next to. “What do you need from me?”

Doctor Wooh stepped forwards, saying, “Service will require your presence at one of the Service Central Offices. We don’t know where, but we assume it’ll be as local as possible, given everything that’s happening.”

“I can’t just sign in and talk to them that way?”

“They want to see you,” said Saintout, kneeling by Metoo’s side. “The interview could be quite... intrusive.”

“Intrusive, how? How could anything be more intrusive than chipping me, and you’ve already done that,” she said, glaring at Doctor Wooh. “They can get into my head any time they damned well please. They don’t need to see me. My place is here, with Master Tobe.”

Doctor Wooh looked at Metoo with pity.

“Why are you looking at me like that? What the hell do they think I’ve done?”

“They don’t think you’ve done anything,” said Saintout, still low to the floor, on one knee. “The fact is... You do realise... They might decide to interview Tobe.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do! You gave me the questions. I said I’d do it. I’ll do it,” she said. “They can try to ask him questions, but what are they going to do? Take him somewhere he doesn’t know? Surround him with people he doesn’t know? Ask him questions he doesn’t understand?”

“She has a point,” said Saintout, rising to his feet, and looking at Wooh.

“Did you do this?” asked Metoo. “Did you decide that I should be thrown to the lions? Bullied and questioned, and God only knows what else? How could you?” she said, looking up into Saintout’s face. “How could you do that?”

Metoo left without waiting for an answer or an explanation.

She left the garden room, and took a couple of steps, and then turned her head in the direction of Tobe’s room. She wasn’t even aware that she was doing it, but she did it a dozen times a day when Tobe was in the flat, in his room. She liked to keep an eye on him. It was her job.

The door to Tobe’s room was closed.

Metoo’s hand came up to her open mouth, but she didn’t utter a sound. She lifted the hem of her robe with her left hand, and, her right hand already stretched out in front of her, bolted for the door.

She did not knock or wait; she simply opened the door, without stopping, and walked into the room. Tobe was sitting on his bed, looking at his wipe-wall. He turned to face the door when Metoo entered.

“What?” asked Tobe.

“Tobe?”

“Tobe,” said Tobe, placing one hand on his chest.

“Sorry,” said Metoo, abashed, and she stepped back out through the door, and closed it behind her. She didn’t know what to do. She never went into Tobe’s room when he was in the flat. It was his space, and she didn’t invade it. On the other hand, the door was never closed, ever. She looked around for the wedge with the little owl on it that had been used to prop the door open for the past six years, at least. She could not see it. She made her way to the kitchen to wash her hands and calm down.

The door-wedge with the owl on it was sitting on the counter, on top of a piece of paper, where Tobe would normally sit. Metoo lifted the wedge. The piece of paper simply read:

Tobe’s room, please knock.

Her face pale, and her eyes wide, Metoo staggered back to the garden room, barely able to breathe. She pushed through the door, and stumbled into a chair, almost collapsing.

“Christ!” said Saintout. “What is it, Metoo? What the hell’s going on?”

Chapter Forty

B
Y THE EARLY
hours of day 5, Qa and Branting were looking at a bell curve.

“Now all we have to do is decide where we want the cut off,” said Qa.

“We have nine hundred and eighty-seven Colleges worldwide, and we have data for all the Operators who are at their stations, what about all the others? The ones that are eating, sleeping and playing?” asked Branting.

“Service Global has put out instructions to have completed questionnaires from all Service Operators within two hours,” said Qa. “The questionnaire is short, so it doesn’t take long to answer the questions.”

“OK, but I don’t want to wait that long.”

The two men sat staring at the data for a few minutes.

“We want the rarities, the oddities, right?” asked Qa.

“Right, but do we want the top of the graph or the bottom, or do we want both?”

“If Joe Average is at the top of the curve, I say we start at the opposite end of the curve to the Actives. Although, to be on the safe side, you might want to take samples from both ends of the curve.”

“And how many of them do you suppose there are?” asked Branting. “And what if they don’t work on Service Floors? Can we test everyone?”

“Not in time for this.”

Branting got up off his dicky, and paced the width of the room, his left hand up to his mouth, head bowed in thought. He stopped, stood still for a second, and dropped his hand from his mouth. Then he smiled.

“I really am getting punch drunk,” he said. “It’s staring us right in the face. Get me the Service number of the Operator that started all this... Goodman, was it?” asked Branting.

“Using his Service number, we extract his data, and make him the control, go a point or two either side, and with any luck, we’ll have our sample group. Brilliant!” said Qa.

“I hope he is. I’m going to get him, on-line, right now.”

“No, I meant...” Qa began, but Branting was already on his way out of the room, and Qa returned to upload Goodman’s Service number, and find out where on the curve his results sat.

B
OB
G
OODMAN LEFT
the Service Floor, accompanied by Ranked Operator McColl. He had been told nothing. Henderson had asked him to sign out, and hand over to Chen. Chen tried to ask Henderson why Goodman was being removed from his post, but Henderson simply waved her concerns away. She had confronted him once, and did not feel able to do so again.

McColl and Goodman left the Service Floor, exited onto the exterior gallery, and went into the interview room that McColl had previously visited with Strazinsky.

“I’ll be observing,” McColl said to Goodman, as they walked into the room.

“Great, that’s fine,” said Bob, “but I’m still not sure what I’m doing here.”

“I’m not sure if anyone really knows why you’re here, but you certainly seem to have impressed someone,” said McColl.

“Or pissed someone off,” said Bob Goodman, smiling bravely.

McColl pressed his hand firmly against Goodman’s back, by way of reassuring the Operator, and smiled at him.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

The vid-con screen on the wall opposite a table and a pair of chairs, lit up with drifting snow, and then settled, showing a chair and a computer array in an anonymous-looking room.

McColl and Goodman sat down facing the screen; the screen vibrated slightly and a man walked into the shot, his back to the camera. He turned to sit in the chair, but Goodman didn’t recognise him. The man wore a dark suit with a light shirt and a dark tie. The picture seemed indistinct, and, while he didn’t recognise him, Goodman thought that the man on the screen could be mistaken for almost anyone. He had an anonymous, regular face. He was of medium height, medium weight and average colouring, apparently without any identifying marks or features.

The man looked out of the screen at Goodman and McColl.

“Control Operator Branting, interviewing,” he said. Before he had finished speaking, Goodman was on his feet, knocking his chair over and almost getting tangled in it.

“What the...” he began, kicking at the chair to free his legs so that he could flee.

“Sit down, please, Operator Goodman,” said Branting. “Perhaps you could give him a hand,” he continued, gesturing at McColl and shuffling the pieces of paper that were visible in his hands. “I can’t see you if you stand up, Goodman.”

McColl hurried to help Goodman, but he only seemed to make things worse, and it was several sweaty moments before McColl and Goodman were both seated again. “Interviewee?” asked Branting.

There was a pause before Goodman turned to McColl and said, “Is that me?”

“It is,” said McColl. “Just take a deep breath and answer the man. Goodman leaned forward slightly, in his chair, and, speaking more slowly and clearly than usual, he said, “Operator Bob Goodman, Control Operator, uh, Branting.”