Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

‘semantic network’ to encode its information. Knowledge was stored haphazardly, with items sharing semantic connections in a great web. Thus, “cat” had a connection to “dog”, but also to “paws”, “lion” and “yacht”. Even the most efficient computer operator would find it difficult to barricade all the routes to that knowledge: connections to just one knowledge item might run into the millions. David set about probing those barricades.

“Where were you yesterday?” he asked.

Ego paused. “I was not active yesterday.”

“Think of a name, randomly.”

“Sam.”

“Why did you think of that?”

“I have no reason. That is what random means.”

“Touché . Tell me about Heathrow.”

“Heathrow Airport is the foremost centre for air travel in the United Kingdom. Last year alone –”

“Is that what you think?”

“No. I am reading verbatim from publicity material.”

“Do you love?”

“No.”

“Are you alive?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be alive?”

“I neither want nor do not want.”

“Do you have emotions?”

“No.”

“Who programmed you?”

“Dr Hilbert Nagarajan and his development team at Marquis.”

“Sing me a song.”

“Which song?”

“Daisy.”

“One moment.” There was beep and David heard a little hiss in his ear. The earpiece was picking up Ego’s attempt to access the internet via the wireless telecommunications network.

“Forget it.”

He went back to the bedroom and stowed the passport in the rucksack. Then he removed his clothes and brushed his teeth. Finally, he sank into the bath and felt the heat sizzling into his extremities. His genitals began to thaw and assume a respectable size. His fingers tingled. Muscles in his legs and back began to slacken.

“Ego, can you monitor local police frequencies?”

“Yes,” said the whisper in his ear. “They are, however, encrypted. The deciphering key changes each day at midnight. I could not decode today’s transmissions until tomorrow morning.”

“You are remarkably well informed.”

“Yes, I am.”

David sank a little lower in the bath. The brownish water washed over his stomach and lapped around his ears. He looked again at his stomach. Certainly smaller. In all the excitement, he was losing weight. “Ego, if I make a telephone call, can I be traced?”

“An internet call would not be traced. A telephone call would be. However, internet transmissions are more vulnerable to interception. I have been given instructions to dissuade you from communicating with anybody until you have reached Heathrow Terminal Five and opened locker J327.”

David slapped the surface idly. Who was he going to call anyway? He had some friends at the university, some family in Wales, and one or two old, good friends near London. Undoubtedly, his small circle would be under surveillance. He had some acquaintances abroad at various universities in Europe and America. He could contact them safely, but what could they do from such a distance?

“Ego, how many news stories have been filed about me in the last twenty-four hours?”

“That analysis will take approximately two minutes.”

“Do it.”

He stared at the mouldy patches on the ceiling and the occasional fly. He thought about Jennifer and wondered what he would next say to her, and what she would say back, and whether they could they even talk without arguing. His mind drifted.

With his eyes closed, there was nothing to do but listen to sounds through the building’s thin walls and floor: the gurgle of hot water, footsteps, the rumble of conversation, the odd cough, the car pulling up outside.

He heard a knock at the front door. Although the ground floor was a pub, there was a separate entrance for guests. Answering footsteps travelled across the wooden downstairs hallway. There was a creak as the door opened. David heard two men speaking. Only low-pitched sounds reached his room. He couldn’t hear individual words.

One man spoke slowly and seriously. A policeman’s voice. The other responded quickly and made affirmative sounds.

David stepped from the bath and towelled himself. He did not waste any time straining to hear them. He pulled on his clothes. The coat was reversible so he turned it inside out. His heart thumped like a fist on a wall: Lub-dub, lub-dub; get out, get out.

He remembered the sparkle in his eye when he had told Janine that he was on the run. He had wanted to see his own excitement reflected in her. He had felt that excitement riding down from Scotland and he had felt it in the fish and chip shop. But he had not felt it when chased by the bikers and he certainly did not feel it now. This was excitement at another level: a surging energy that was barely controllable.

He opened the rucksack and poured every loose object into the main compartment. He did not check to see to what he was putting in; he simply checked that the room was empty when he finished.

He stood by the bed. He did not dare to move because he was listening. He wanted to pick up the trail. Yes, there it was: footsteps. The low voices were moving. They were making small talk while they walked. To him? He had to be certain.

David reached the window in one stride. A police car was parked outside. Two of its wheels were on the pavement. He tried to slow his breathing. The street was well-lit and, as he watched, a car drove past. The six-metre drop was sheer. No escape from this window. Across the street he saw a uniformed officer emerge from a small bed and breakfast, tip his hat to the landlady, and walk on.

The local police were carrying out house-to-house enquiries. In pairs. The one in David’s place was still checking.

Silently, he turned off the light. With the darkness came a momentary taste of safety. The moment ended when footsteps fell on the landing outside and he heard the Welsh landlord say: “One on this landing. Bit of a character. Popped out with a Dodger not more than half an hour ago. Under-aged.”

Another voice: “Is that right, sir. Come back, did he?”

The landlord: “Oh yes. Came right back.”

“Did he, sir.”

David shifted his weight but he could not move. He needed a plan. He could not leave via the window. The fall would