But Thomas Aiken Is Dead - Part I Read Online Free Page A

understand now why your crime is so important?
    Atia:
No.
    Saahl:
You will. There are certain questions I have been ordered to ask, and that I will now have to order you to answer. They may not be pleasant but your release is contingent on truthful responses.
    The Breacher:
I will be monitoring.
    Atia:
I’m sure you will.
    Saahl:
Please describe the culture among the historik scholars at the research enclave.
    Atia:
Amenable. Many became close friends. Most of us believed something had gone horribly awry with the Cadence, and I don’t just mean the merge. Their original interest in ningen culture stemmed from the same conviction as mine.
    Saahl:
Which is?
    Atia:
That we have lost something vital.
    Saahl:
Something Thomas Aiken had?
    Atia:
Something all ningens had. A certain lack of options. A necessary confrontation with harsh realities. Death, grief, anxiety, ignorance, and inevitability.
    Saahl:
You are more than able to experience these things yourself.
    Atia:
Optionally. It’s completely different.
    Saahl:
What then? You would force every denizen to one day die?
    Atia:
I would impose certain restrictions on them perhaps.
    Saahl:
I had no idea you were such a fascist. It’s ironic. They talk about about you like a ningen saint, you know.
    Atia:
Who?
    Saahl:
You aren’t aware of your following on the tiers? You have become a demi-god of sorts. They think ningen eksist a kind of divine state we should all return to now. Another quarter au and I expect they’ll be building shrines to you.
    Atia:
If there are any tiers left by then.
    Saahl:
If there are any tiers left, yes.

Fran,
    Forgive me for writing to you again. When you return I will give you these letters, deliver them personally. Somehow the thought of it keeps me sane. I have gone slightly manic of late. The living room is now a makeshift detective’s office. One wall is devoted to noticeboards detailing your last instances of contact with friends and family. Another is covered in Salah’s life history, or what I can gather of it. Don’t think me invasive. He’s a stranger to me, and there’s every possibility that a stranger may have kidnapped my daughter. I meant to make the third wall a sort of strategy mindmap area to plan out future action. Instead, I covered it with pictures of you that I found in the attic. I stare at them when I hit a dead end - frozen moments, you graduating or riding your first bike - and will you to come home so hard that I think I might explode.
    Salah’s mother is British. She's meek and nervous on the phone. She agrees to come over and talk this through. I am forced to confront several months of domestic neglect. Unwashed plates, clothes strewn, a living room in total disarray. By the time she appears at the front door the house is almost acceptable. I make us tea and ask her about the journey and tactfully avoid why she is here until we’re both holding steaming mugs of chai and there is a natural pause in the conversation.
    ‘Has Salah ever disappeared before?’ I say.
    She shakes her head.
    ‘Can you think of where he might have gone?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Forgive me, did he have any dealings with criminals or unsavoury characters that might have forced him and Fran into hiding?’
    ‘He was an architect ,’ she says in disbelief.
    ‘I’m sorry. This is a very strange time. It must be for you too.’
    She nods glumly, sips at her tea.
    There is a sting in me that I can’t scratch away or numb. Some paternal area of my brain was activated at your birth and cannot be shut off until I am shut off. Your body is somewhere in the world, whether it’s breathing or not. It occupies space, has skin and extension. You are somewhere beyond my murky bay window and I haven’t a clue where.
    ‘Do you have any idea at all where they might have gone?’
    Salah’s mother begins to cry a little and shakes her head. I offer her some tissues. She declines.
    ‘He was always… so well-to-do.’
    How little this woman knows. You