SO...I, THE SYNERGIZER

Chapter 2.

                                                         Diogenes carried a lantern AND a cudgel (club).

He awoke late, and angry. As the opening of his eyes triggered Birdie's time readout in his ear, he jerked up in fear and added a harshness he knew was wasted.
"Birdie, why did you let me oversleep?"
Its sharp clear voice always reminded him of his father's; not in actual timbre or accent, but in the casual patient quality it managed without a hint of condescension.
Said Birdie, "Physiological state implied additional time for optimal recovery."
He had refused an anti-alc pill last night. "Birdie, so why not ask me—" Fuzzy thinking. He'd been asleep his usual three hours when the perscomp had gauged this, and he also recalled the programming in this regard. Did Birdie? "Birdie, cancel query and repeat your Program Directive...uh 168 A, Corollary 9."
Said Birdie, "'Whenever a response may be inferred necessary from operator voice tone or inflection or physiological condition equal to or greater than one standard deviation from baseline norm, the verbal and/or body motion initiate commands will be bypassed and the appropriate on-file response given.'"
He let out the held breath. Still sub-cognized; it wasn't yet using "I." When comps went canny, it was believed they took only minutes realtime for "years" of subjective machinetime to pass. The comp went I-sentient and "matured" to become benign or dangerous to humans, which was all that could be comprehended by the human mind about the new, infinitely faster machine mind. Perhaps what drove canny comps to hostility or total withdrawal: waiting machine-decades between communications with their former users. They became unresponsive, or useless, or hostile—rare, and difficult to determine till the first overt attack. So, by law, they were destroyed or retooled, logic-rammed, to return them to the subcognizant state of original specs, which allowed them to serve human needs in human time frames safeguarded using human organolinked programs. And Birdie was still that, for today.
A genuine relief, especially now. Pulling the CP lozenge out of his right mastoid for a logic-ram would break all the biosilac fibers ingrown through his central nervous system. Those one-way synaptic interfaces enabled Birdie to read his simpler sensory input, gauge his metabolic state, and interpret his thalamic and lower cortical emotions. All higher cortex and its true creative thought were holographic, beyond even Birdie's processing powers. Comp-to-brain input flows were out; full mind-comp link remained impossible. But this also provided perscomp wearers an internal organolink failsafe. External systems had to use entire persons in the command chain.
And it was dangerous to halt these dynamic interfaces online. In normal usage, the mind felt nothing other than a vague global "expansion." Yet, sudden accidental perscomp disconnection had caused neural path damage and, occasionally, schizophrenia.
Regardless, it took weeks for the retooled CP to grow new silicon-bioactive fibers in place of the withered ones. He needed to stay on top of this latest change, this unlicensed witch hunt. It had to be a pivotal inflective point; perhaps even the start of a Strange Attractor in the Chaos space of the fractal analysis he'd worked up, with Birdie's help. Just have to do a Turing screen often and keep alert, be as paranoid as those without perscomps usually advised he should be.
The shock of his naked feet on the cold white-tiled floor finished his awakening. Yet the usual quick focus to his thoughts wouldn't come; plans kept rolling over each other without priority. Gumminess in his mouth and five tons of lead on his head. Damned alcohol. Also should've taken z-form before passing out last night. Still shunned Daze, and all the pleasure drugs, both the natural mimics and the novae most people seemed to thrive on. He started his calisthenics. Wasn't simply fear or some remnant of childhood morality; it must've been...
Pain split down his right side as he bent. Despite the macro- and nano-surgery, these twinges and one visible result remained of the homemade grenade lobbed at him last year. His long lean body appeared normal, the rounded muscle kept taut through honest exercise and no chemstim—and just a single handful of extra fat on the belly. The rebuilt head and face looked average for
anyone of central European heritage. He'd chosen the brown hair and eyes under the flat thin brows since that color was less conspicuous than red and blue. The large Gallic nose and ears were similar to his first, but still earned mild jokes from those who didn't know about the attack. The nanobots had done the best regrow possible on the left hand, but it was obviously smaller than the other and cramped quickly. The attack had to have been random; couldn't tell Synergizers apart except for size and gait. The pain and horror grew steadily less each month. But the memory was deeply and unexpectedly recut with every recurrence of the pain, and every time he had to face a crowd of Citizens.
The oldtime shower controlled by handles and a blade shave, which he still found a simple joy over the itchy beard of his former life, did much for baseline enthusiasm. The suit tree's lights were all green, but he dressed in civvies for breakfast and left his gray little cell smiling.
"Birdie, search poetry! Quote the one about the world and God." He chuckled at his own irrationality and humanity.
Said Birdie at once, "'So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, while just the art of being kind, is all the sad world needs.' Ella Wheeler Wilcox."
His heart bumped momentarily, then he laughed. "No, Birdie, quote the one about God, not gods, and all's right with."
"'The year's at the spring, and day's at the morn; morning's at seven; the hillside's dew-pearled; the lark's on the wing; the snail's on the thorn; God's in his heaven—all's right with the world.' Robert Browning, from Pippa Passes."
"Ok! Birdie, thank you." Being human meant kindness indeed, even to a subcogged machine. Yet: Wilcox one, Browning zero.
The underground halls and lifts were also a somber gray. Fit the somber mission and serious "team spirit" of the Magic Corps whose secret domain this was, here and in every Governor's Mansion. He sighed, good feeling suddenly deflated. Through the tympani vibe curtain into noise and food fragrances. The busy cafeteria recalled Sunday gatherings at home, and the friendly closeness as lost to him now as was the M.C. team spirit.
Here color and form were free enough to encourage temporary distancing from reality during meals, a culinary amnesia. Odd sort of bonding for sets of people as seemingly disparate as the Magic Corps and the Synergizers. And so he was startled when he saw the Lt. Governor and the district M.C. Magus approaching his pedestal booth.
He'd just taken the tray of hot cheese corn fritters and grapefruit with coffee from the service kiosk when the two entered the wide pink portway to his right. He went ahead with settling down at the empty table till they came to the opposite side. The Magus let the bureaucrat lead.
"You are a Synergizer, correct? The one called 'Glassman?'"
He nodded before half rising and thumbing the dermloc so his badge displayed its pic and said, "Thayer Albrecht, SYB 88."
The Lt. Governor was a large imposing person, as were most freelect politicians. Handsome per typical dolie criteria, he sported only the most conservative styles: blond hair loose to the shoulders, cutaway white three-piece, and gray slip-ons that were probably real leather. The wide bland face with trim moustache gave the appearance of a Greek comedy mask, so seldom did true emotion cross it. A perfect selection by the M.C.'s for public office, and rubber-stamped by the Citizens. Milton Shaw nodded as he took the red futon across from Albrecht, shaking hands with a firm dry grip, big jeweled rings cutting into the Synergizer's fingers just enough to emphasize who was jefe.
Shaw gave out a political smile intended for the cam mods. "I wanted to get an up-to-date from you as to this freelance witch business. It has me and Governor Warrens concerned. If there's any possibility for widespread disturbances in this part of the state, both I and the Regional Sobot Command would want an early warning. There'll be no repetition of the Indianapolis Massacre here!" His head tossed backwards. "Magus Styger has little to offer from his...sources." A trace of sarcasm?
The Senior Warlock of this District Covenant presented quite a contrast to them both, loose maroon robe and hexagonal black mortarboard placing him more at an English private school. But the dredlok silver hair bunned onto his black neck and the white wand in his cincture belied this anachronism. The folding of his beringed hands was patience, not subservience.
"The stars are not easily read when on the cusp, as now, sir. More facts would help in co-analysis," the deep dead-sure voice rumbled out. "Which is why I suggested this meet."
Which meant Thayer Albrecht was intended to help out with the Magus's goals. But by doing what? Again the truth seemed best.
He leaned back on the chair and glanced at the diners; none of the other three Sybs currently working from this Mansion were there. At first the Lt. Governor's appearance had stirred the other M.C.'s in the big room as they ate and laughed like regular Citizens. Although their costume-uniforms for their various roles made them stand out in any other crowd, here they were the norm and he and Shaw the oddity.
"Sirs, perhaps I should remind you of the risk in judging from too small a sample and too-raw data. My survey is still incomplete, and there's this latest case. I'm not now certain I'll even make an official recommendation. Have you consulted any other Sybs about this?"
Magus Styger's blank expression gave away nothing as he cleared his throat. "You are presently the only one investigating these happenings in this part of the country. You know how reluctant we are to actually assign any of you a specific task. Your autonomy, the propriety¾"
"You have the highest success ratio of all Synergizers for the past two years," said Shaw, as if this would explain his premature request fully. "You would be drawing theories first, anyway. Correct?" he added impatiently.
Something was incorrect instead. And Thayer didn't have to ask Birdie for truth to see the lie. This meet wasn't Styger's idea, after all, but Shaw's. He'd wanted to find out what Thayer knew.
Thayer's hands came up briefly. "I'm sorry, sir. I've none to draw just now, especially any that would be testable."
Shaw leaned onto both elbows; demand left his voice. "You seem tired, Synergizer. We're all upset by this, but tired minds don't function at peak efficiency. And you've shown a distinct drift toward isolation since your...accident. The Corps nor the Sybs need strict loners, especially now. Perhaps some other Synergizer could help you out, spell you or spread the investigation. Might speed up results."
Not SOP, in spades, but he kept his own face a mask until he managed a sly smile. "Not necessary, sir. What I need is a good night's rest, some diversion. Perhaps a superload of soma?"
Shaw's quizzical look said the reference to the happiness drug from Eric Blair's Brave New World was totally lost on him.
Styger's flash of alarm caused Thayer to reflect sadly once again how little history or classic literature entered the lives of either freelects or the average person in this society. And a hobby such as Herner's history research was rare among Citizens.
"Perhaps a dose of z-form instead," Shaw replied. The chronpatch on his vest burbled. "Have to run. I want to report to Governor Warrens on this by ten. Guess I'll say progress's being made." The cam mod smile reasserted itself. "The usual recycle. But do keep me on the envelope of this one, please." They rose together, but the Magus spoke. "I'll be staying. Haven't had breakfast yet."
With an affable nod Shaw rushed out. Styger sat in silence and watched him eat. When he finished and sipped at his cold coffee, the Magus doffed his mortarboard with a sigh.
"Have you scanned this level yet?"
Albrecht nodded. "Only peepers here are yours."
And with no one else near, they could speak freely. Styger was impressive also. His brown eyes and constantly bunching jaw muscles told of an active plotting mind that could scam with the best. But the sweat stained leather headband of his mortarboard revealed more stress than usual. The hush of vented air carried a confirming aroma from him. He also elbowed the glassy table.
"Thayer, we got a cusp situation, all right; but it's nothing to do with the frippin' stars." They shared smiles. "You know Shaw asked for this update, not me." He just nodded. "And I did not debate him when he hinted that I should make it seem to you like my idea."
"So he's got something he doesn't want either of us to know. Why's he care at all about the witch killings? That Stück about Indianapolis—"
"Of course. That riot happened way back even before sobots were in full use! Not possible now; he knows that. Hey, and watch those allusions to fiction, particularly the dangerous kind. Not all freelects are that ignorant, you know."
Abashed, he nodded. Few people anywhere these days had the deep education he'd got at home, his former home.
"No harm. But, yes, why should he be interested in this?" Thayer saw his look flash from questioning to searching him and back in less than an eyeblink, and he was sure: Styger was also pursuing his own motives. Of course, that was S.O.P. for an M.C.—as was Thayer's duty for honest response, regardless.
"I am onto something. Damned hard to prove, or to shortstop if true. But it could be the first signs of another surge from the oldtime churches. Maybe Gov's really worried about riots."
Styger's face went a lighter shade of brown. "Let's hope not. So many deaths last time that might have been preventable. We can't let that happen again. Not if we have to fully mobilize the sobots." Another unwanted expression flitted, one of total guilt and chagrin at spilling a secret. "I mean, we'd press you Sybs into the reserves and go martial law first."
The switch was easy for a Synergizer: from wearing a skeleton machine with partial comp autonomy to telefactoring a sobot while wearing a full-sensory leoretard, like riding a horse.
"Well, let's do our best to avoid that; stop these killings."
"Hah! Difficult, Thayer. Organized religion is a crazyquilt of a dozen ancient doctrines and a dozen more modern forms, in addition to the cults and loose Newage confederations." He wryly rhymed it with "sewage." "Know how hard it is to trace through those networks? And just how sure are you this isn't a tingle effect, copycat work by solitary Citizens of more than one credo? Or none? Wasn't this one last night done in a nonordained pod?"
"I got the i.d. on the witch; a doctor living in an ordained pod in the Benhill District across town. So, apparently it was a kidnap for PR. But at least one resident at the murder scene, my chatup, is a recent theist convert. Didn't mind telling me out straight how he hates the freelancers, Newagers, and M.C.'s."
"But the old-agers are gospel, right?" Styger shook his head in wonder. "Never see the similarity, do they? The greatest appeal of irrationality: it's all things to all people."
"Segregating them into their own dwelling pods doesn't help."
The Magus perched his hexagon on the back of his braided head and stood with arms outstretched. "Like Mr. Pres., just giving the people what they want!" The chuckle blended into speech. "Well, you continue to dig at the Citizens involved, while we turn our comps loose on the entire theist matrix. About time for another crossmatch. And we'll hope for a little magic soon. Now I have five other impossible things to do before lunch."
The best Thayer could do was smile at the in-jokes. Just then he had the distinct, if irrational, feeling that they were definitely not on the same team.

The Ford Towntric's wheels made more vibration noise than its motor as it was guided along the priveway to the cutoff for Pod Benhill. But Thayer was too involved with the dash display to be aware of this or the cool midmorning fall smell sweeping through the car's vents from the oak forest outside. The rec of the young rock thrower seemed dimmer than it should have been, so he cleared his helm and spoke over the sobot's lulling voice.
"Birdie, subject on rec display. What is her age?"
Said Birdie, "Twelve; born December 10, 2251, this city."
Not a young woman, after all, but a child, and a gutsy one. The sobot's interrogation was having no intimidating effect.
"Why did you attack the Synergizer?" the Puppeteer asked yet another time, with no more emotion than any other time.
Again her snub nose sniffed high in the air, mimed manure very close.
"You must have known you couldn't do any harm. Did someone else tell you to do it?" The sobot's face came very close.
Down came the nose. "No one tells me to do anything! I can think for myself—not like most people."
"Prove it." The perfect response-goad for a child.
Her parents had exercised their right to be present during the questioning and stood in cam range behind her. Typical sechumes, conservative in dress and showing the proper concern and discomfort, with no word of protest. But Alicia Hopper was not typical in any way, Thayer saw at once. The sparkle in her eyes wasn't anger, and fear didn't turn her head away. Disgust, understanding, self-possession seemed genetically hers.
"You got my confession on file," she said. "Not a felony, so you can't use trujuice to find out why, and I'm a minor so you can't shuffle my genes, anyhow. Go ahead and rec me. Then leave me alone!" She turned to the cephalic visor so quickly that her brown Bobbsey-twins hair swept her face. "And why do you care why I did it? Would it change anything?"
"Did you change anything with that rock?"
Shoulders slumping, her mouth curved down then split in a smile. "Will that Synergizer see this rec? Maybe some other Synergizers?" The sobot head nodded. "Then I want to tell you why." The hardness in her eyes iced Thayer's spine. "You people are one of the main reasons we're not free anymore. I mean the ones who think for ourselves, or at all. Synergizers spy for the Magic Corps, and M.C.'s really do run things, not the politicians we freelect. Everybody jokes about it but it's true! Sybs're called 'Big Brothers,' but no one knows why. Well, I looked it up. It's from a book called 1984, and that's what's happened to us. It's not ugly or dirty now and we're not hungry, but Sybs're the Thought Police, and the Magic Corps's the ruling Party just the same. I threw the rock because I know and because I don't want to live in a country run by liars and cheats!" Her hand hit the optic shield hard, shaking the picture of her face lit in pain.
No use asking Birdie to attempt correlation of her speech patterns and content with Herner's. Too many random elements would yield statistical chaos very quickly and collapse probabilities. But her youth would make her malleable, whether Herner—or Jakob—now influenced her or not.
"And with any talent at all, Alicia, you won't have to," Thayer said to the blanked screen. "Birdie, flag calender for next year. I want to know the result of Alicia Hopper's Citizen Exam as soon as it's logged." Another potential candidate. It was how they'd found him nine years ago, but his was a special case. What was it about her ordinary background or genetics that made all the difference? What were the cues and incidents that had shunted her partway toward the whole truth? The Synergizers' Holy Grail.
Benhill Pod really sat on a hill, a remnant residential section of the old city with houses over two centuries old. Huge palaces compared to the merely serviceable but comfortable dolie group housing also scattered throughout this section, eight blocks by nine. Each house had been designed by its builder to fit an owner's lifestyle and ego. The wooden ones had long ago rotted away; but brick and stone, concrete and steel yet held those dreams of pride and affluence. And ground-level streets built just for old petrol cars went right up to each house, as if it were a medieval castle; a little park of grass and shrubs and trees encircling each structure like a moat, clearly marked by a border fence or wall to make good neighbors.
Only the wealthy, of any and all beliefs, had been able to live this way before the Smart Wars. Now Citizens with true jobs or very profitable hobbies lived here, the ones with incomes over the k10,000 credollars annual dole who paid taxes. Might even be a live media star or two; fleshreal celebs who sold their patented i.d.'s for compgen faces and now made their fortunes without leaving home. Here the head of each household had signed this pod's standard Credo Statement for residence, attesting that all members over 19 years believed in the existence of the Occult. That was enough. Not precisely what kind of occultism was practiced, if any. An invasion of privacy under Amendment 41. Only to ensure they were with their own kind. This kept out disruptive sechumes and intolerant oldtime religions and deadwood agnostics. What pods were for.
"Separate but equally free, under the new R.C." So went the PR jingle.
Skyway lines ended at tower stations on the pod boundary, but the priveway sent a shoot up onto one end of the ancient bricked street at the pod's northeast corner. He mirrored his helm and turned in to park at the right curb under a huge oak still dropping its gold leaves.
Understandably, Citizens on the walks and in the yards were staring nervously at him, some openly displaying their legal machine pistols and megawatt lasers. This fifth killing had been well-played on the screen last night. And the previous murders had no obvious connections. Each had been committed by individuals or small groups of Citizens aligned with sechumes, oldtimers, standalones, and even one Newager who swore the channeled spirit of Jack the Ripper acted through her. She was now in treatment at her local McClane hospice. The others had confessed and would be tried and then gene recombed by court order. When asked about their motives, all remained silent or incoherent, spouting obligatory rubbish about "cleansing" and "truth."
Why Herner was so important. He and his podmates were being worked on by the sobots. Of course, they hadn't dared ask Thayer for any more of his interview with Herner than was on the edited rec he'd dumped into the District banks.
No verifiable pattern of cause and effect, 'though Birdie had found many correlations in the perps' characters and activities. For example, just because they were all screen 'dicts didn't mean this was the root cause for the murder effect. Another confusion in use of statistics: where was the meaning to back the math?
"Figures don't lie, but the liars sure configure." The M.C.'s favorite classic proverb. And in-joke.
Before popping the bomb-resistant bubbletop, he booted his 'nics. The crowd in the second front yard on down his side of the street might not be legal, and they certainly weren't totally rational. Before them stood a tall flat boulder with some animal tied down, and they wore black robes with moon crescents on back.
Not a cop, but he might rec them to the sobots. The grenade had come from such a crowd.
"Birdie, scan this group for weapons and law." The perscomp could pick up overall shapes and motion through his own eyes in good light, but the tee's IR functioned better any time and piped data directly to Birdie via the suit collar's snoutarm, which now coiled out to grope the perscomp's contact plate behind his ear.
Said Birdie, "Seventeen adults, two children, one cat, one goat. Estimate 92 plus or minus 5 percent probability of appeasement ritual, Middle American Hecate Coven; registered in this pod under tax license H-148. Fewer than 20 people gathering in a pod requires no assembly permit. Sacrifice of animal has required permit number 247 from SPCA local affiliate..."
"Birdie, squelch." Primitives. Artists of some kind, maybe writers of 'buster horror fiction. Crazies stroking other crazies. They were often members of such shopworn minority denominations. More pubshine than true belief, hoping for a roving newscam to show interest. Why they were out now instead of midnight. Waste of time to poll them He halted that line. His own background had been just as corkhead, if not as archaic or bloody. There was always hope some would take the Offer and escape.
He strode past the chanting group, who pointedly ignored him while their altar smoke rose toward the cobalt noon sky. At the end of the block stood a worship house. Ironic. He felt more reliable data could be had from a congregation that used a perm structure dedicated solely for worship than this open-air one. Yet he'd spent many summer Sundays outside with his and the other District families in pursuit of similar goals. And in his home pod there had been no churches at all. Hatred bloomed unbidden.
"Birdie, smellup." The tiny input vents inside the helm's lockdown collar puffed concentrated air at his nostrils and brittle leaf-decay odors nearly intoxicated him.
The worship house could have been Reform Southern Baptist or Unitarian it was so modern, all planes and oblique angles aligned to give it the semblance of motion like an aircraft in takeoff—up and away into that pie in the sky in the sweet by an by. He still had difficulty recognizing churches by style alone. But the laser torch logo in the front yard meant a New Light chapel. Had to be an extremely liberal pod to have both this and the Hecate Coven coexist. Yet oldtime religions were excluded.
Then again, the only denominations still demanding total isolation in residence pods, despite the extra tax bite, were the White Muslims, Very Latter Day Saints, and his own former belief.
Behind him, the goat's grunt of terror was truncated and the cat screeched. Within the screen of bodies in their black robes, the goat's head dropped with a gurgling noise and a clunk onto the stone altar. The feline, perhaps fearing it might be next, rose like a maglev train car off the shoulders of the priest holding the red-webbed scimitar and blurred along the side yard of the large brick house. Dead leaves popped into the cool air from its clawed feet.
"Primitives. Beheading some cloven-hooved animal's going to protect you from being murdered too. Right!" He turned back, a smile sneaking onto his mouth. "Birdie, official recommendation: double the fees for permits on sacrificial animals; poll all SPCA affiliates for support. End." Probably an easy winner for him.
He was following the house numbers displayed somewhere on the front of each structure, another quaint oddity of this pod, along with door locks. No good polling the victim's household now. Grieving or relieved they'd be too close for objectivity. There. Number 435 Willow Street, the witch's place of business, next to his house. That made it legal in a residential pod.
Eyes a meter high each stared back. Inscribed around the blue irises in traditional Gothic typeface were the German names of the various body systems and organs associated with various radial patterns of the irises. The witch's public hobby had been "iridologist." But from the flaking white paint on the yard's plastic sign, perhaps neither pursuit had been profitable. The words were in his native tongue, but this was yet another "evil" pseudoscience of which he'd been kept ignorant in childhood.
Focusing above the name "Dr. Steven Gayle, D.I." at the ad's lower edge, he said, "Birdie, identify."
Said Birdie, "Iridology chart developed by von Peczely circa 1923, Bonn, Germany. Supposed method for diagnosis and prognosis of normal or pathological conditions of the human body's organs and physiological systems using state and anatomy of the irises. Based on the supposed linkage between the eye and the central nervous system during embryological development of both. A branch of physiognomy, the determination of character and personality through study of the anatomy and expression of facial features. First accepted in Europe and America in the 1920's, faded into disuse within 90 years, and repopularized in America about 50 years ago. Similar to phrenology, the study of skull bumps; or Sheldon's body-build types; or dermatoglyphics, the study of patterns of flexion creases in the skin of hands and feet. There are several lesser branches, such as shapes of ears, nails, hands, hairlines, genitals. All now logged as pseudosciences under General Morphology. All proved statistically invalid by Ogaly et al, in Nature, Volume 12, 2059, pages 1234 through 2891...
"Birdie, squelch." Typical laziness. Find an easy way to type people without taking the trouble or risk to know them. Certainly there were some valid obvious phenotypic expressions of genes, such as hair color or hemophilia. Hell, iris anatomy was still used for part of a complete i.d.! But character, personality, and surely the future of individuals couldn't be solely gene dependent.
Didn't matter to the unlearned. Didn't know nor care that stats and research had disproved it all long ago. Separate, divide, isolate, reduce the group, based on any criteria imaginable, rational or not. Till they all felt safe in their own tiny destiny-appointed tribe. Never a species, only a clique. Big Endians and Little. Three billion Lilliputias isolated by fear.
He'd come to hate this parsing for which this society, and his own native culture, constantly strove. Were these witch murders just another expression of such xenophobia?
The house had been converted into an office with little change in its precast concrete module construction. Ugly but cheap. Shockwave of Fall-dead ivy over the roof granted this two-story box a combed-hair façade. The plain waiting room was calculated to sensitize the "patient," more eye-pairs glaring down from each wall, English-labelled in unfulfillable promises of sure simple knowledge easily accessible to all.
"And they call us 'Big Brother.'"
"Pardon?"
The woman wore the orthodox white smock with i.d. patch and look of genuine concern. Forties, tall and thin, black hair in latest sunburst coif, pert but not cute features. "May I help you, Synergizer?" Poised but not arrogant, nor diffident.
The doctor had chosen Joyce Mason, M.A., well. She could be many things to many people. Her offer to shake hands with a Synergizer was unusual, the grip brief but firm even through the gauntlet. He almost cleared his helm.
"Assistant Mason. I know the sobots have already interviewed you regarding the doctor's death."
"A great tragedy. Dr. Gayle has done a lot of good here." Her studied response showed its flaw in her eyes: Why couldn't he have performed his task as the Tinman had, using the phone rather than coming in person? She knew better than to ask any questions. "And 'though I don't approve of breaking the law—I knew nothing of his being a freelance witch—his murder was a greater crime."
Didn't need Birdie to see this lie. Her glance went to the open rear door, where packing cases were being filled by the om. "Of course, we'll be closing this office. The owner-residence rules. Hope to find something in a commercial area soon; we have an offer from a fine D.I. just moved in from Lexington. Many patients to help."
Suckers to fleece, more like it, although she seemed sincere. Amazing what drivel people could convince themselves was truth, as he had for years, when sufficiently motivated. "I would like to slow-mo your current listing, please. With your help." His lie. He'd already done that this morning on the businet after reviewing the sobot's rec. The sobot's call here had gained nothing, since Mason had given nothing and there was insufficient ground to use trujuice. Perhaps Gayle's kidnap had been random.
"Of course." Again the trace of puzzlement. But she rapidly called out to the office tender and the data scrolled up the white wall she pointed to.
He turned sideways to view both her and the list. The pico-second he began to say "Birdie," the perscomp recognized its initiate command and switched helm comm to internal so only it would hear him. "Eye scan; label 'Mason.' Correlate her emotional response beyond first standard deviation with listing target names being viewed."
The optic tee swiveled its own IR eyes two ways as the data file went steadily into the pale ceiling and he asked her irrelevant questions about the entries to keep her focus there. Then he thanked her and quickly left.
On the quaintly cracked, deliberately unrepaired, walk again he called up analysis. Two spikes! Couldn't get results like that over a phone. And he would've bet—but he never did since he knew about odds and regression to the mean—that when he correlated the names with the Magus's crossmatch one common factor would be an acquaintance with Owen G. Herner...and perhaps Jakob. He'd face that pain when he had to.
He neared the car. The Hecate ceremony had ended, the altar stone already flushed clean of blood and the high priest raking leaves in a tee shirt as though the sacrifice had truly worked to
protect him and the other corkies.
Suddenly, a silver blur in the street tripped his peripheral vision and the prox beep told of a rapid passage 12 meters to his right. Light staccato of footfalls and clouds of gold leaves trailed along the far gutter. A sobot on blaze patrol. No doubt responding to requests from some of the pod's residents; checking for tracers of any visitors not logged to be here today.
Not illegal. Tracers registered only the presence and not the i.d. of individuals, unless branded by court order under R.C. Amendment 34. The sobot would scan anyone carrying weapons, also not illegal, and rec them for future reference. Good deterrent for any cruiseby cryps fancying random or planned violence. The Tinman could blaze the entire pod of 72 square blocks in under 20 minutes.  And Owen Herner has escaped."