They entered her office in that way cops do when aggravated: not bothering to ask if she was in the middle of a consultation, which she was. The poor man – who had been spilling out his heart about his troubled upbringing – had only a few seconds to leave after she’d been buzzed by Jannson to warn her they were there by executive warrant.
‘I’m Lieutenant Fendrin,’ said the older, shorter and fatter of the two. ‘And I’m here to ask you a few questions about Torbin Lyndau.’
‘I don’t understand. Torbin was arrested.’
He stepped nearer to her. A genuine look of anger on his face. ‘My colleague, inspector Daranson and his sergeant, were injured following a hyperjet accident. Mr Lyndau, in the process, escaped.’
‘Oh my! How?’ The surprise in her voice he must have known was genuine.
‘I thought maybe you could enlighten my on that point.’
‘I wish I could, Lieutenant, but I doubt I know any more than you do.’
‘Lady, I have no time for psychological games. The fact is: Torbin Lyndau – if that is his real name – has some connection with you, and yet no one else seems to know of his existence. It is not as if he is the same man who worked as a physicist a century ago. That man vanished, presumed dead.’
‘But you wouldn’t rule out the possibility of his survival.’
‘Very perceptive of you, doctor. The case concerning his disappearance was never closed. Foul play was suspected. We think he has some friends in high places. But I’m wondering if he considers you to be a friend, or a confidant perhaps.’
‘To be honest with you, Lieutenant, I don’t even know. I’ve been having trouble remembering.’
‘A psychiatrist with a bad memory: that’s unfortunate.’
‘It seems I have enemies in high places, those who can make me forget.’
‘That’s some claim, Dr Fortenski. Would you like to make an official statement?’
‘What would be the point, Lieutenant? You’d never stop them.’
‘Them?’
‘I don’t know who they are, well, except there’s a man: tall and thin, looks out of place. I’d discovered something important, but he wanted me to forget.’
Fendrin looked at her inquisitorially. ‘He wanted you to forget what you know about Torbin Lyndau?’
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘I hope this isn’t some elaborate ruse to halt my questioning.’
She looked back at him sternly. ‘Arrest me if you want, use your most intrusive memory scan. It surely can’t be any worse than what I have already been through.’
Fendrin now had a resigned look about him, a subtle shake of the head. Yet he said, ‘We don’t give up on an investigation because of anomalies. But I guess you’ve been straight with me in as much as you believe what you say, however paranoid your claim sounds.’
‘Paranoia would be most unfortunate for a psychiatrist.’
‘It would indeed, Dr Fortenski. Good day to you, ma’am.’ Fendrin breezed out, followed efficiently by his associate.
She wanted to call Len. It seemed no one else would understand, but even he – the last time she’d spoken to him – had seemed, well, blithe in his responses to her questions about his well-being, uncharacteristically not appearing to sense her deep concern. Granted she had not gone into specifics about the trouble with her memory and Torbin Lyndau. Mentioning that man’s name seemed out of the question. She knew she must have confided in him before, and she suspected Leonard had suffered the same treatment as she’d undergone. Yet he seemed to be getting on with his life, his successful career ... she could not risk jeopardising with something so deeply unsettling.
Raiya prepared her notes for her final patient of the day: architect Scott Alendry; his file seemed unusually sparse: just basic procedural stuff required for post-briefing. Surely she wouldn’t redact her own records? The medical committee would oversee, but they’d have no reason to redact.
Scott hadn’t originally been scheduled for an appointment before his journey in five days time. Of course as an account-holder he’d always have the option of a consultation to express any fears. This time it was by recommendation of the chief medical consultant who’d treated him for injuries from some peculiar accident, citing possible psychological abnormalities (not that she could define what normal is, or look to herself as an example these days). Her memory of him, however, was rather vague. Her memory for most of the past year was now patchy.
Scott entered her office, a sheepish expression on his face, a cheap-looking mauve top over old jeans. He was one of her few male patients who hadn’t bothered to make an effort, who didn’t particularly look like he wanted to be there. Yet, despite his dishevelment, he was certainly the most handsome – a well-toned physique, and generally she would remember someone like him.
‘Hello, Scott,’ she said, ‘Please take a seat.’
As he sat on the lean-back chair he still didn’t look entirely comfortable, shifting about and distracted by his surroundings. The errant thought of massaging his shoulders to relax him entered her head briefly.
‘I see your journey is scheduled in five days, a return to the same planet,’ she began. ‘How does that make you feel?’
‘Fine. I feel fine.’ He sounded defensive.
‘No anxiety about the project.’
‘I’m looking forward to it, doctor – really.’
‘Doctor Rengil expressed to me his concern about the nature of your injuries. You took a risk with your safety today, perhaps you had something on your mind. You were lucky to recover.’
Scott looked at the ceiling. ‘I get caught up in things. I was just careless this time.’
‘Anything you tell me is confidential, it will not go beyond these walls.’
‘I appreciate that. But what can I tell you?’ He looked directly at her. ‘Everything’s just great. It couldn’t be better, in fact.’
And yet she knew something wasn’t right with him, the years of experience still informed her of that. Nothing obvious, not even in his body language. But she could not push it much further.
‘Sometimes, Scott, we unconsciously will things to go wrong because we can’t accept how good life seems. The appearance of perfection just doesn’t seem authentic to us even though it’s what we strive towards.’
‘So you’re saying I unconsciously wanted to ruin the inauthentic perfection of my life?’
‘We humans are designed to deal with crisis, to overcome adversity. But it seems that when life is easy some people need to create minor adversity by taking risks to make themselves feel they can overcome a greater adversity. It’s the essential struggle that makes people feel stronger, and feel real.’
‘That’s a fascinating psychological analysis, doctor.’
‘On the other hand it could be simply that you were careless, and that everything really is fine.’
‘It is. But I’ll consider what you said.’
Scott got up to leave. She was starting to remember, something he’d said to her on his first consultation that was troubling. But his actual words would not come to mind.
He looked back at her as he reached the door. ‘Well, thank you Dr Fortenski.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He must have wondered why she seemed so deep in thought, not responding to his imminent exit. ‘I will see you when you return. Good luck with the project.’
*
In the clinical white-greyness of the observation room Torbin once again poured over the monitor logs, despite the b’tari technician’s insistence that if any anomaly had occurred it would have been detected. All spectral frequencies were as normal; Torbin never really expected any EM interference. This time he had allowed a visual observation, with the proviso that it can only be accessed by himself (by entering a code after his bio-signature).
Running through on fast motion until the time when he sat up, reacting to the Elusivers visit. And he even got out of bed to approach what had appeared to be Emelda. In his state of anticipation and excitement it looked kind of pathetic; there was no other form in the room, and yet he was clearly reacting to what he believed to be his deceased wife – holding her tightly and then sitting with her in bed and talking, followed by a curious act of passion with still no sign of anyone.
What surprised him was that this had all ran in normal time; he’d half expected the Elusivers to have used their god-like powers to slow time to such an extent as to be undetectable. That is what had appeared to have happened before when he’d remained undisturbed in bed, merely going through the normal dreaming routines … or so it had appeared. This time it could of course be put down to something akin to sleepwalking, whereas before the usual paralysing effects still held. The only option now was to undergo a total monitoring of his brain activity, whereby his dreams could be inferred. So that would finally be the end of any remaining privacy.
No. There were limits. Besides, these encounters with the Elusivers had some value. If it meant gaining an insight onto their nature he could argue for the continuation of their contact, though perhaps not of such intimacy. Torbin imagined them existing as a quantum system in its state of uncertainty: their existence would not bear scrutiny or objective observation, at least by the currently known means. Only their effects could be observed. He was sure he had never seen them in their true form. Even the B’tari, he knew, used mental manipulation to alter his perception of them. He was sure they were manipulating him to their own ends as well.
It was clear what needed to be done. The B’tari and their council agreed he should proceed with his plan to create a wormhole. Were they humouring him? Possibly. After all, even with their considerable powers, they had never succeeded in creating a stable wormhole for more than a few seconds and for any farther than fifty light years. Their calculations were sound, and the technology peerless, but the B’tari were adverse to taking risks in their obsession with protecting the galaxy from temporal disruption. Such was their curious ideology that he would be allowed to work with the kind of technology beyond his wildest dreams.
But now something else held his attention. Something he thought he could put to rest – finally. Instead, that part of his life was with him – unresolved. As he watched the scene over and over, wondering how the experience had seemed so real, he remembered what the Elusivers had told him. Of course, it was absurd to believe they could actually have saved Emelda from a fatal accident. She would have died at the moment of impact. The car lost control: the automated systems malfunctioned, reserve systems failed to kick in – according to the surviving telemetry box. Her vehicle contained what was then a new type of AI, which used a ‘human-like’ subroutine: it sometimes offered advice on speed and course, allowing and sometimes over-ruling any irrational behaviour of the driver (who was really only a passenger). Emelda had grown to hate that AI, wanted it reprogrammed to be more amenable. It was postulated that she had tried to over-rule its recommendation, and in a fit of pique had attempted to disable it in a violent manner. Needless to say, that type of semi-autonomous AI was decommissioned forthwith, and an investigation held. It was in any case barely out of prototype stage, something retrofitted by a technician friend, but approved by the standards board (the usual prerequisite to commercial production). He intended it as a safety-feature. Accidents were rare and often due to the driver overruling the navigation system; usually involving a collision with another vehicle, since in urban areas there were just streams intersecting, stacking. It was only after the accident that he fully appreciated what she must have thought of him. Was he overprotective, lacking faith in her judgement, her own autonomy? He’d merely considered the risks and believed they could be reduced. His worst miscalculation.
And yet, he had another theory. One that made even more sense, in light of his recent encounter.
‘One of you killed her,’ he said quietly, in the apparent isolation of the observation room. ‘Was it as a punishment? Or did you just want to stop me, send me over the edge?’ Torbin figured the Elusivers could most likely hear him. He often felt he was being observed, far more closely than the B’tari were ever able to. Since they knew his mind, his innermost desires, he’d never keep any secrets from them. Now they would know his desire for revenge, the to-the-death determination.
A sustainable wormhole...
***