"Smith, Kristine - [Kilian 2] - Rules of Conflict" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Kristine)

The ergoworks in Pimentel's seat creaked as he leaned forward. "Blink patterns are designed to affect Service augments in very specific ways. You've been here often enough in the past few months to have heard the term takedown. That's when we use blink patterns to halt the progression of an unwanted overdrive state, a situation where the panic-dampening function of the augment asserts itself in a non-conflict situation. We do it both as a semiannual precautionary treatment, and, when necessary, to short-circuit an acute event."
"I told you I was augmented?" Sam reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his Service-issued handheld. He kept all his appointments in it. And his little notations. Where the men's room was, for example. Well, the SIB was a large buildingЧit was an easy thing to forget. What did I tell Pimentel, and when? He'd kept no record of that, unfortunately.
"Yes, Sam. You did." Pimentel glanced at the handheld, his tired eyes flaring with curiosity. "The aftereffects of a takedown aren't pleasant. The patient can feel fatigued and disoriented for as long as a week after treatment. Unfortunately, much milder versions of blink patterns can have a
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similar, though lesser, effect. For that reason, many augments develop an aversion to the color red, and become highly agitated when exposed to arrays of blinking lights. We take that into account here at Sheridan, where the augmented population stands at twenty-seven percent. Certain types of lighted displays and exhibits are expressly forbidden. Enforcement becomes difficult during the various holiday celebrations, of course." He grinned weakly. "But it's different in the world outside the Shenandoah Gate. No holds barred in Chicago, a city you visit three to four times a week." He grew serious. "Am I right?"
Sam nodded, resisting the urge to check his handheld again. "I visit the city, yes."
"You visit the various Service Archives to research the names for inclusion in the Gate. You travel at night, from what you told me. You find it easier to work when no one else is around. You take the Sheridan Local Line, which passes the Pier exhibits, the Bluffs Zoo, the Commonwealth Gardens. They each have thrill rides. All-night exhibits." Pi-mentel's weary gaze never left Sam's face. He seemed to be prompting him, reminding him of his life. As thoughЧ
As though he doesn 't think I can remember on my own.
"I guarantee you, Sam," the doctor continued, "if you were augmented, you couldn't look at those exhibits, because every augment I examine mentions having a problem with at least one of them when they visit the city. Some wear special eyefilms to filter out the light. Some wear hearing protection because they've developed related sensitivity to any sound resembling emergency sirens or explosions. But every one of them does something, because otherwise, they become very sick very quickly.
Sam's chest tightened as his anger grew. "You knew from my encephaloscan that I didn't have a Service-type augmentation?"
"Yes, Sam. You're the one who seemed to require convincing."
"My augmentation is different." Yes, that was it. Pimentel must have only asked him whether he was augmented, not what type of augmentation he had. He hammered Sam with
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vagueness, then called foul when Sam responded in kind. Don't ask me what I remember, Doctor, ask me what I know. "It's not a Service augmentation. It's something else."
"Define something else, Sam."
"It was supposed to make me hear things. See things. Feel things, deep in my body."
"That's an odd function for an augmentation. Why was it made that way?"
"Because they wanted to study my reactions. Because they wanted to see what I'd do."
"They?" Pimentel glanced down at his recording board, then back at Sam. "Who's they?"
"The onesЧ" Sam blinked away images that flashed in his eyes like the patterns. Faces. Gold. White. The gold ones spoke. He couldn't understand the words. "The ones who put it there."
Pimentel continued to write, the scratch of his stylus filling the small room. "Were you implanted against your will?"
"Yes."
"You felt paralyzed? Not in control?"
"YeЧ" Sam could feel it again. The clench of anger that told him he was being maneuvered "Have I told you this before?"
Pimentel shook his head. "No, this is new. For the past few months, you've been insisting you're a xenogeologist. You showed me papers you'd written, books you'd had published." He pocketed his stylus and rocked back in his seat. "You had taken those papers and books from the SIB Archives, Sam. They weren't yours."
"No, IЧ"
"Sam, the e-scan didn't reveal a Service augmentation. It only confirmed what we've known for months. You have a tumor, in your thalamus, that's affecting your memory. It causes you to forget events that really happened, and to substitute fabrications to fill in the gaps."
"A tumor?" Sam poked the back of his head, then let his hand fall back into his lap. Silly. It wasn't as though he could feel the thing if he probed long enough.
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Pimentel nodded. "It hasn't increased in size over time, but we need to remove it."
"I'll die."
"If we take the tumor out, why would you die?"
"TheyЧthey told me I'd die, if anyone took it out."
"No, you won't, Sam."
"Yes, I will!" / know. "This ... tumorЧit's not hurting me, it's not affecting my life, my work."
"Sam, it is starting to interfere with your ability to do your job." Pimentel stood and walked to his desk. "You've built a reputation over the years as a first-class archivist. But now you're losing papers, forgetting where you filed them, making up stories that they were stolen." He leaned against the desk as though he needed the support. "You need treatment."
Sam stared down at the floor. Dull grey lyno, flecked with white. He recalled seeing a stone that resembled it. Holding it in his hand. The where escaped him, however. The when.
"Sam, you don't state the names of any family or friends in the Emergency Notification block in your chart."
"There is no one."
"No one you can talk to? No one you feel you can trust?"
"No."
Pimentel returned to his seat. "Do you know what a ward of the Commonwealth is?"
The clench returned, stronger this time. "It means I'm supposed to trust a member of the government to take care of me."
"No, to help you take care of yourself. And it isn't just one person. It's a committee. In your case, it would consist of an impartial civilian official, a Service adjudicator, and a medical representative." Pimentel smiled. "Most likely me, as your attending physician."
"No." Sam slid off the examining table. His feet struck the lyno that reminded him of stone. "I've trusted members of the government to take care of me before. That proved a mistake."
"When, Sam?"
"I don't remember." Don't ask me what I remember. Ask me what I know.
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He waited until after midnight to return to the SIB. Oder-gaard had left a note requesting Sam stop by to see him before start of shift later that day. That didn't bode well. If previous events repeated, that meant another document had turned up missing.
Sam sat at his desk, head in hands. Pimentel had made him promise to consider the wardship, and he had said he would. Anything to get out of that place.