Sins of the Father Read online

If questioned he would have been hard-pressed to explain it, but as Langstock finally advanced to his first glimpse of Roderick Lowe the overriding image that came to his mind was of some ancient and malignant spider. The old man lay in a bed at the centre of the room, his thin hairless body connected via an array of wires and tubes to a ring of medical machines designed to prolong his life. Moving closer, Langstock saw the machines represented the current cutting edge of medical technology - including items he had attempted to have supplied to his own department at the hospital, only for his applications to be rejected on the grounds of cost. It was obvious the old man was seriously ill: his features were raddled and shrunken with age, his skin yellowed by jaundice, his muscles wasting away from lack of use. Even with an oxygen tube running under his nose to aid his breathing, his respiration was shallow and laboured. As he looked down at his potential patient, Langstock found it difficult to account for his initial impressions. A spider? Perhaps it was the web of wires and tubes surrounding him that had suggested the image, or a flight of fancy brought on by the effect of brandy on an overactive imagination. Shaking his head clear, Langstock looked more intently and saw Roderick Lowe as he really was: an ailing old man, desperately striving with every considerable resource at his command to fight off death.

  "Mr Lowe?" Approaching the old man's bedside, Prendergast adopted the hushed tones of a penitent. "I have brought Dr Langstock." He turned to face Langstock again. "Step forward, doctor. Mr Lowe finds it difficult to move his head - you will have to stand in his line of vision."

  The old man's right hand moved, fingers jerking as though experiencing a tremor. Noticing it, Prendergast leant closer.

  "What is it, Mr Lowe?" As Prendergast watched carefully, the hand jerked again, thumb and forefinger making a circle, before closing into a fist. It seemed to be some kind of signal. "The windows? Of course, Mr Lowe." Straightening himself, Prendergast tilted his head back slightly and called out in a loud clear voice. "Opaque."

  The windows of the atrium began to darken, the view of the city outside gradually replaced by an expanse of obsidian blackness as the reactive substance of the Plexiglas responded to Prendergast's command. Cut off from the neon glare of the city by night, the shadows inside the room deepened and grew longer.

  "All the household systems operate by vocal command," Prendergast said to Langstock, serenely anticipating unasked questions. "It is better this way, doctor. So often the curse of great wealth comes in the form of unwanted attention. In the past we've had to contend with news organisations putting spy-cameras on adjacent rooftops, or commercial rivals hiring lip readers. You have no idea the lengths some people will go to in order to monitor Mr Lowe's private dealings. Now, before we begin our business in earnest, I'm sure you would like to familiarise yourself with Mr Lowe's medical charts." Moving to the foot of the bed, he lifted a slim clipboard-sized comp-unit from a data-cradle attached to the bedstead and handed it to Langstock. "Please, read them at your leisure."

  Taking the comp-unit, Langstock activated the digital display and quickly skimmed through the records of the medical tests and scan readings performed by Lowe's doctors. The diagnosis confirmed what he suspected already. Multiple organ failure. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys: the constituent parts of the old man's body were slowly winding down and wearing out. To the layman it might seem that modern medical science was capable of working miracles, but there were limits to what could achieved in trying to sustain an ageing body. According to the records, Roderick Lowe was over one hundred and sixty years of age - even by current standards he had lived far past the expected span of human life. The ravages of old age took their toll: despite the best care his money could buy, Roderick Lowe had reached the point of diminishing returns in his body's battle with death. The old man was dying. The constant attentions of his doctors, and the unstinting efforts of the machines around him, could make no difference to the eventual outcome.

  Casting a practiced eye over the data in the comp-unit, Langstock realised the patient had perhaps a few weeks left to him at most. He checked back over the records, paying especial interest to the results of the neurological tests. Despite the progressive decline in the rest of his body, the old man's brain function and cognitive ability registered as normal. Roderick Lowe's mind was in good shape; his brain unaffected by the slow lingering failure of his other organs.

  "I see you have had a number of organ transplants?" Langstock said, addressing the comment to the old man directly.

  "Twelve, at last count," Prendergast replied, smoothly interposing himself in the conversation as Lowe stared at Langstock in silence. "Over the years, Mr Lowe has had a number of his organs replaced with new ones created from his own genetic material. Sadly, in his present condition the doctors say any such further organ transplants are unlikely to achieve a lasting benefit. Mr Lowe's entire body is dying. Even if he were able to survive the stress of multiple simultaneous transplants, it would only be a matter of postponing the inevitable."

  "You have considered the artificial alternatives?" Langstock asked. "In the last few years, there have been some interesting advances in the field of total cybernetic replacement."

  "You mean would he be willing to have his brain transplanted into a robotic body?" Prendergast's face made a sour expression beneath his mask. "Mr Lowe has made it clear he will not consider it. 'A fate worse than death' - those were his exact words, doctor. Before you ask, he has also weighed and likewise rejected the possibility of cryogenic storage. No, at this stage, Mr Lowe has only one viable option left to him. Which brings us neatly to the reason for this meeting."

  "You realise the procedure you're asking me to perform is not without its risks?" Turning from Prendergast, Langstock looked down at the old man once more. The eyes that stared back at him were clear and sharp. He hadn't specifically noted it in the medical records, but Langstock suspected they were transplants. "Even if we assume a best-case scenario, there's the danger of rejection and other complications. The chances of success are perhaps sixty per cent at most. Never mind the problem of finding a donor."

  "You may leave that problem to us, doctor," Prendergast said from beside him. "As for the other issues - Mr Lowe is well aware of the risks. The more pertinent question at this stage is whether you are willing to perform the procedure? That, and the matter of your fee."

  "Two million credits." The old man spoke at last, the words wheezing out of him in a dry and withered whisper.

  "Two million credits." Prendergast echoed his master. "It has always been Mr Lowe's habit to speak plainly when it comes to business. Naturally, that does not include the separate fees we will pay to the hospital and your surgical team. Two million credits, doctor: paid directly into your bank account in two instalments. The first to be paid immediately once we have reached agreement, and the second when you have performed the procedure. Two million credits. You have heard our offer, doctor. Do you wish to accept it?"

  Long seconds passed. The room was quiet except for the laboured sounds of the old man's breathing and the rhythmic electronic noises of the medical machines around them. To Langstock, it seemed Prendergast's words still hung in the air. Two million credits. Looking from one to the other of the expectant faces of Lowe and his aide, it was all he could do not to hurriedly agree to their offer at once. As it was, he resisted the temptation. Tonight, the old man's plight and Langstock's own talents had combined to provide him with the opportunity of a lifetime. Now, whatever else might happen, he refused to sell himself too cheaply.

  "It's a generous offer." Langstock was acutely aware of the nervous timbre of his own voice. "That is to say, I..."

  For a moment he almost faltered, but he thought of the sitting room with its antique furnishings and paintings. He thought of the old man's wealth, so openly and conspicuously on display throughout the apartment. Most of all, he thought of the brandy: a king's ransom in ancient spirits, left out to be consumed freely by the old man's guests despite its value. The thought gave him str
ength, banishing his misgivings. He began again, more firmly this time.

  "You understand there is more to this than simply my personal fee?" he said. "If Mr Lowe is to receive the best possible care, I will need to recruit additional specialists to my staff. Then, there are other questions. A doctor's reputation rests on the quality of his research. Unfortunately, recently my own research efforts have been hampered by a lack of funds..."

  His body was dying. It was betraying him with every heartbeat: the clock of his remaining moments counting down with an unstoppable and remorseless precision. How long now? A few days, perhaps? A week? A month?

  He was bed-ridden. His arms were weak. He could no longer feel his legs. Inside his body, all the familiar processes of life were slowly ending. He relied on machines to filter his blood and purge his waste. He relied on them for sustenance, for every pulse of his heart, for every hoarse and ragged breath. All the things he had once taken for granted were denied to him. His mobility, his freedom, his appetite: already, he had lost so much. His future was uncertain; each new morning felt like the unclimbed peak of some strange and distant mountain. At times, it seemed to the old man that his memories were all he had left to him.

  His memories. They came to him unbidden. His recollections of long-gone days had become more vivid; his past growing brighter as the lights of his future dimmed and faded.

  His memories.

  Lying in his bed as the conversation continued around him, the old man remembered the world as it had once been. He remembered how it was before the Atom War, before the coming of the Judges, before the mega-cities had even been built.

  He remembered the streets of a city called New York. In his memory it was early on a balmy summer's evening, the sun slowly falling towards the horizon. The Twentieth century had not yet died. He was a young man, the whole of his life still ahead of him. Drawn by a sudden impulse, he had decided to take a walk in Central Park. He remembered the pleasure he had taken in the green spaces, his senses glorying in every sensation. The warmth of the sun on his face. The sweet intoxicating smell of fresh-cut grass. The laughter of children as they played nearby.

  Children. He loved children. Attracted by the sound, he turned to watch them. He saw their faces, smiling and innocent, clean and fresh, untouched by the cares of adulthood. A nameless emotion welled up inside him. It was a perfect moment...

  Abruptly, his reverie was disturbed. The memory faded, the pleasing recollection of his youth overridden by the more pressing concerns of the present. Around his bed, Prendergast and the doctor talked in earnest voices. Negotiations continued between them. Figures were suggested, discussed, and amended. Two million credits for the doctor. Another million to recruit three new members to his surgical team on extended contracts. Plus, a five million credit "donation" to be paid to the hospital to fund one of the doctor's pet research projects. In total, eight million credits then. The doctor was a greedy man, but ultimately small-minded. Like many gifted men, he had almost no idea of the true worth of his talents. Presented with the opportunity to name his price he had let his own innate timidity rob him of the chance to press home his advantage. Eight million credits? It was barely pocket change. The old man had billions. While, given the nature of the prize at stake, he would have been willing to pay almost any price the doctor might have asked.

  The prize. The mere thought of what his money and this meeting with the doctor might buy him nurtured a gently guttering flame of hope within the old man's heart. A new life. That was the prize which lay ahead of him. The old man would be reborn and re-made, his health restored. The infirmities which plagued him would be reversed and done away with entirely. He would no longer need to rely on machines to sustain him. He would walk again. He would breathe unaided. He would be able to go back into the world once more, no longer a prisoner in his bed. Above all else, he would be able to indulge in all the pleasures recently denied him by ill-health and invalidity.

  His pleasures. His secret, special pleasures. The old man thought of them now. In his mind the memory of past gratifications burned brightly. With it came a terrible yearning. Of all the hardships he had endured through the last few months of illness, the inability to satisfy his most deeply held desires had been the one he had felt most keenly. It went beyond any purely physical need. It was a hunger imprinted directly into his soul. Without his pleasures, his life had no meaning. They defined his existence. He thought of them constantly: his mind churning with questions of how, where, and when he would next fulfil his desires. Throughout his long life his wealth had often made those questions easier to answer, but the predatory instincts he had developed in his youth had never left him. His instincts, like his desires, were always with him. They lurked, waiting and watchful, just below the surface of his mind. Forever alert. Never at rest. Ready to take advantage of any opportunity which might arise.

  A hospital. Suddenly it occurred to him he would be going to a hospital soon. Naturally, they would put him in a surgical ward. But he wondered whether they had a ward for children...

  "Mr Lowe?" A voice intruded into his thoughts. He saw Prendergast gazing down at him. Looking past him, the old man saw they were alone once more. Apparently, the doctor had left the room without saying goodbye. "It has all been settled, Mr Lowe. Dr Langstock has agreed to perform the procedure. The medical side of things is in place. As for the other matter..."

  Pausing to look over his shoulder Prendergast made sure there was no one within earshot, then turned back to him once more.

  "I have consulted with Gruschenko. He assures me the donor will be available in two days' time." For an instant, an emotion not unlike nervousness passed over Prendergast's face. "Do you find that acceptable?"

  Two days. For a moment, the old man savoured the implications. Two days to his rebirth. Two days to the end of his illness. Two days to being able to indulge in his pleasures freely.

  Two days to the beginnings of immortality.

  Did he find that acceptable, Prendergast had asked.

  Silent in his bed, his mind aflame with notions of the bright possibilities of the new life ahead of him, the old man smiled.

  ONE

  REQUEST FOR ASSISTANCE

  A few hours later...

  She had received the call from Sector Control at 21.57. A kidnapping at Chuck Lindberg Block. The victim, a three month-old baby boy, was still missing. The street Judge investigating the crime had requested Psi-Judge backup. "Can you respond?" the dispatcher had asked her. She was coming to the end of a double shift. In the last sixteen hours she had dealt with ten murders, three attempted murders, a poltergeist haunting, two arsons, a terrorist bombing, and a psych-case tweaked out on Crystal Jesus who had tried to split her skull open with a crowbar. "Can you respond?" There had been only one answer.

  "Affirmative to that, Control. Psi-Judge Anderson responding. ETA to Chuck Lindberg: seven minutes. Tell them I'm on my way."

  She had made it in six; the powerful engine of her Lawmaster eating up the distance to her destination like it had something to prove. As she arrived at Lindberg and pulled her bike into the block forecourt, a tall stern-featured street Judge named Bryson was waiting. As they rode up in the elevator together, he filled her in on the details.

  "The victim is a male infant named Garret Cooley," Bryson said. "He was snatched four hours ago from a municipal child care crèche while the parents were shopping in the block mall. Surveillance footage from the crime scene identifies the perp as one Lucas Allan Verne - a Lindberg resident, just like the parents."

  Opening one of the pouches on his utility belt, Bryson handed her a 2-D surveillance image printed on a folded square of glossy paper. She saw a grainy close-up of a thin, bearded man in his forties, carrying the baby wrapped in a blanket.

  "He's a psych-case, sentenced to the psycho-cubes three times in the last four years and diagnosed as suffering from acute paranoid schizophrenia with religious delusions."

  "A paranoid schizophrenic?" Anderson sai
d. "And they released him back into the community? Sounds like someone dropped the ball over at the Psycho Unit."

  "I wouldn't disagree." Bryson shrugged. "Though, in their defence, there's nothing in the perp's history to suggest a tendency towards violence. Verne's previous arrests were for Public Order and Noise Annoyance offences: he likes to preach in public without a licence. Last time they released him, the doctors put him on mood stabilisers and anti-psychotics to control his behaviour." He shrugged again. "Looks like he stopped taking his meds."

  "All right, so we've got a missing child who's been kidnapped by a psych-case," Anderson grimaced. "I'm taking it that's the bad news. Assuming the baby is still alive, do we have any idea where Verne might have taken him?"

  "That's why I called in a Psi-Judge," Bryson told her. The elevator stopped, the doors opening on the thirty-second floor. "The perp lives in Apartment 27-C, on the same floor as the Cooley family. I was hoping a psychometric scan of his apartment might be able to turn up some leads..."

  If the interior of the perp's apartment was any kind of guide to his mental state, Anderson did not want to dwell too long on the Cooley baby's chances. As Bryson opened the door and ushered her inside, she was greeted at once by a scene of chaos. The apartment was a mess. The floor was strewn with discarded take-out cartons and rotting leftovers. The furniture was stained, mildewed and in an advanced state of disrepair. The walls were plastered in religious images and pieces of text held in place with a variety of pins, adhesive tape and sticky-tak.

  "Well, I don't see this place getting a write-up in any of the Better Homes 'zines," Anderson said as she stepped forward to inspect the apartment more closely. "Looks like the perp isn't much into housekeeping. Now, let's see what he is into."

  Turning to scrutinise the written materials stuck to the walls, she found a mixture of pages from the Bible and news-zine articles downloaded onto cheap paper from the Megaweb. The Biblical passages were mostly from the Book of Revelations, with references to the signs and portents of the Last Judgement highlighted in red marker pen. The news items concentrated on the Apocalypse War: she saw articles discussing the lingering radioactive legacy left by the nuclear exchanges during the war, the increased incidence of mutation among the Big Meg's population in its aftermath, images of devastated streets and of fallout victims covered in burns and tumours. Taken together, the apocalypse in both its secular and religious incarnations seemed to loom large in the inner world of Lucas Verne. Even as she rifled through more of the flotsam materials around her though, Anderson realised such insights brought her no closer to discovering where the perp might have headed after he abducted the baby.