tabletop in front of him. “And it’s for the greater good that I’m remanding you to our Hibernity facility.”
“Hibernity. What is that?”
“A safe place for brilliant people who nonetheless fail to see reason.”
“You mean a prison.”
Hedrick pursed his lips. “I suppose it is a prison. A humane prison designed to protect the public from dangerous ideas.”
Morrison let a crooked smile spread across his face. “I’ll take it from here, Mr. Hedrick.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morrison.”
Doors behind and to either side opened, and Grady turned to see a dozen swarthy, young, perfectly fit men enter in gray uniforms with inscrutable insignia at their shoulders. The men were identical in every way—with blond crew cuts, square jaws, thick necks, and broad shoulders, though not particularly handsome. They looked, in fact, exactly like a younger version of Mr. Morrison.
The realization dawned on Grady as the men approached calmly. “Oh my God . . .”
Morrison chuckled. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future, Mr. Grady . . . but then, so will everyone.”
Grady turned in all directions as the men surrounded him. They held up devices that looked no more threatening than a TV remote.
“My apologies about the use of physical force earlier, but we can’t use psychotronics in public; technology greater than level four seldom leaves the office. You’re going to feel very sleepy in a moment. Don’t fight it. Just lie down, or you’ll fall down.” Morrison nodded to his younger doppelgängers.
Several of the men aimed their devices and red laser dots found Grady’s scalp. Suddenly he was overcome with drowsiness.
“Sit down right there, Mr. Grady.” Morrison pointed.
Grady felt so sleepy he barely made it to the chair before he blacked out. By the time he came to again, there was a tight collar clamped around his neck—and more importantly he could no longer feel anything below his shoulders. He was suddenly paralyzed.
And yet he was still standing. And somehow breathing.
“What’s happening?”
Morrison was clicking through screens on a holographic display hovering above his wrist. “Nothing to worry about. A modest dose of microwaves to the diencephalons can synchronize your brain’s electrical activity to an external source. We just amplified the delta waves in your brain to put you to sleep.”
“I can’t feel my body!”
Morrison nodded as he continued tapping buttons. “Corticospinal collar. Overrides the signals your brain sends to the muscles. Let’s us send some signals of our own. And it beats having to carry you around.” He closed the virtual screen and focused his gaze on Grady. “You’re just a head on a pole now. So I’d start acting more courteous if I were you.” Morrison raised his hand toward Grady and made a gesture of walking with two fingers.
Grady’s body started walking away.
“Oh God!” It was a horrifying feeling—his body was suddenly lost to him. A traitor. Grady was helpless as his own body carried him off.
He craned his neck back behind him. “People will come looking for me, Mr. Hedrick! I have family. Colleagues. You can’t just make me disappear!”
Hedrick motioned for the guards to stop. Grady’s own body slowly turned around like a zombie to face the BTC director again. “But you’re not disappearing, Jon. Everyone knows where you are. Here . . .”
Hedrick waved his arms and high-definition video images filled the nearby walls. A wave of his hand split the imagery into a dozen live news feeds—a patchwork of overproduced disaster porn depicting a blazing industrial fire. The chyron at the foot of one screen declaring
, “Scientists slain by antitech terror group.”
A reporter in one inset provided voice-over to an aerial image of Grady’s destroyed industrial lab:
“In a video posted online, rabid antitechnology terrorists the Winnowers claimed responsibility for a bombing that left six researchers dead in
“Hibernity. What is that?”
“A safe place for brilliant people who nonetheless fail to see reason.”
“You mean a prison.”
Hedrick pursed his lips. “I suppose it is a prison. A humane prison designed to protect the public from dangerous ideas.”
Morrison let a crooked smile spread across his face. “I’ll take it from here, Mr. Hedrick.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morrison.”
Doors behind and to either side opened, and Grady turned to see a dozen swarthy, young, perfectly fit men enter in gray uniforms with inscrutable insignia at their shoulders. The men were identical in every way—with blond crew cuts, square jaws, thick necks, and broad shoulders, though not particularly handsome. They looked, in fact, exactly like a younger version of Mr. Morrison.
The realization dawned on Grady as the men approached calmly. “Oh my God . . .”
Morrison chuckled. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future, Mr. Grady . . . but then, so will everyone.”
Grady turned in all directions as the men surrounded him. They held up devices that looked no more threatening than a TV remote.
“My apologies about the use of physical force earlier, but we can’t use psychotronics in public; technology greater than level four seldom leaves the office. You’re going to feel very sleepy in a moment. Don’t fight it. Just lie down, or you’ll fall down.” Morrison nodded to his younger doppelgängers.
Several of the men aimed their devices and red laser dots found Grady’s scalp. Suddenly he was overcome with drowsiness.
“Sit down right there, Mr. Grady.” Morrison pointed.
Grady felt so sleepy he barely made it to the chair before he blacked out. By the time he came to again, there was a tight collar clamped around his neck—and more importantly he could no longer feel anything below his shoulders. He was suddenly paralyzed.
And yet he was still standing. And somehow breathing.
“What’s happening?”
Morrison was clicking through screens on a holographic display hovering above his wrist. “Nothing to worry about. A modest dose of microwaves to the diencephalons can synchronize your brain’s electrical activity to an external source. We just amplified the delta waves in your brain to put you to sleep.”
“I can’t feel my body!”
Morrison nodded as he continued tapping buttons. “Corticospinal collar. Overrides the signals your brain sends to the muscles. Let’s us send some signals of our own. And it beats having to carry you around.” He closed the virtual screen and focused his gaze on Grady. “You’re just a head on a pole now. So I’d start acting more courteous if I were you.” Morrison raised his hand toward Grady and made a gesture of walking with two fingers.
Grady’s body started walking away.
“Oh God!” It was a horrifying feeling—his body was suddenly lost to him. A traitor. Grady was helpless as his own body carried him off.
He craned his neck back behind him. “People will come looking for me, Mr. Hedrick! I have family. Colleagues. You can’t just make me disappear!”
Hedrick motioned for the guards to stop. Grady’s own body slowly turned around like a zombie to face the BTC director again. “But you’re not disappearing, Jon. Everyone knows where you are. Here . . .”
Hedrick waved his arms and high-definition video images filled the nearby walls. A wave of his hand split the imagery into a dozen live news feeds—a patchwork of overproduced disaster porn depicting a blazing industrial fire. The chyron at the foot of one screen declaring
, “Scientists slain by antitech terror group.”
A reporter in one inset provided voice-over to an aerial image of Grady’s destroyed industrial lab:
“In a video posted online, rabid antitechnology terrorists the Winnowers claimed responsibility for a bombing that left six researchers dead in
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