Wait for the Ricochet (1b)
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“You’ve got to be kidding me. Sigerson?” John didn’t try to hide the awe in his voice. “You want me to plant an idea in him?”
They stood aside a mobile bed made in crisp white linens, in a room behind so many doors that John had lost track of their count, in a building whose location he was forbidden to ask. The level of security measures made John reconsider his perception of his employer - posh nutter became powerful nutter. On the bed, a sleeper lay, DreamShare equipment attached to his skull along with an EEG monitor. John recognised him immediately - they had never met, but there were rumours.
“This is my brother, Sherlock Holmes. I see you are acquainted with one of his many assumed identities. He resorted to aliases on those occasions when he felt that field research was necessary.”
“Yeah, they kept popping up every now and again. Vernet, it was him too, wasn’t it? And Hollock. Oh, I can see why that one.”
Mycroft Holmes winced.
John couldn’t tear his eyes from the contours of the dreamer’s face, sharp and riveting even in sleep. How could someone with such outstanding looks ever succeed as an Extractor? The target’s mind was never a safe playground, as the subconscious could be easily alerted by anything it perceived as alien and intruding. Sigerson - or Holmes, better get used to his true name - must have been a master of disguise to pass through the guards of a trained target’s mind unnoticed. What a contrast to John’s own approach - him being just what he was, an invisible man. Sherlock Holmes was anything but invisible.
“The man is a legend. Brilliant theorist - I mean, everyone of us has a copy of his Science of Extraction somewhere; he’s practically set the basis for what we do.”
At last it occurred to John that Mycroft Holmes probably knew better than anyone how exceptional his own brother was, so he finished rather lamely: “I didn’t think he’d be taking any jobs nowadays. I always assumed he’d be one of those who work for the Government.”
“My brother works, in fact, for me,” Holmes replied with an odd hint of self-satisfaction that John decided not to pry into.
“Well, that’s him.” John gestured to the cables and optical fibres that were connected to a panel on the wall, and from where they obviously led to another room. “Who’s on the other end of the line?”
Holmes hesitated a moment, the words classified and clearance hanging in the awkward silence. John folded his arms.
“If I’m to accomplish what you want me to, I’ve got to know.” It wasn’t a threat, merely a fact. Mycroft Holmes bowed to the inevitable.
“James Moriarty.” Holmes began pacing the room. “Promising mathematician, won the Gauss Prize five years ago. Instead of dutifully assuming a professoriate, he left academia and public life altogether. Only recently did we realise that he has become a criminal mastermind, protecting and organising the criminal underworld in exchange for their obedience and a share of their profit.”
“A consulting criminal?” It sounded unbelievable. “Don’t tell me you’re so concerned over the levels of petty thievery, mugging, or robberies in London.”
“You won’t coax me into telling what I would be concerned over,” Holmes replied in obvious amusement at John’s attempt to sneak a peek of information about his mysterious client. “Let’s say that this man got ahold of something we don’t like to see in anyone’s possession.”
“So you’ve asked Sig- pardon, your brother, to extract it for you.” So far, John was getting it. “What went wrong?”
“Sherlock is not waking,” Holmes sighed. “The usual kicks don’t work. And yet, his brain activity scans show that he’s not entered Limbo. He’s still with us, but the scans also show that he’s not merely dreaming anymore- the activity is encompassing more parts of his brain now. I suspect that he’s been trapped into the belief that his dream is real.”
Hence the inception - John understood that. He scratched the back of his head absent-mindedly. “And I thought that the Navigator was only a myth.”
“Excuse me?” The man beside him stiffened.
“The Navigator. Nobody ever knew his true name and most of us assumed he was a product of drunken imagination. God knows that some Extractors get sloshed regularly to forget what they sometimes got to see.”
“If you could stick to the facts, Mr. Watson.”
“Right.” John was surprised. Until now he couldn’t imagine his client looking impatient. “Okay. It should be a man capable of overtaking another sleeper’s dream and trapping people inside. Some swear that he’s able to pull people into a deeper layer of the dream without having to fall asleep in the first one. Everything about him is a bit of an old wives’ tale, I’d say-”
“Are you aware, Mr. Watson, that the name Moriarty means ‘navigator’ in Irish?”
Oh shit.
A realisation dawned on John. “You didn’t know it was him.”
“I didn’t know he existed. Sherlock never mentioned him.”
Did Sherlock know? John wondered. Sigerson had a reputation of being a reckless researcher-perhaps he had underestimated the myth surrounding the Navigator, or perhaps he had trusted himself enough to face him.
“How long has he been in there?” John noticed the IV lock on Sherlock’s forearm.
“Five days,” was the answer.
“Five...days?” John was bewildered. “Bloody hell, that can be several years in a dream! What are they doing there?”
“We don’t know.” Holmes pursed his lips as if to admit a failure was something he wasn’t quite used to doing.
“You haven’t yet sent anyone in there - to have a look, perhaps?”
“Oh yes. One or two of the governmental Extractors, as you’d put it, have tried.”
“They tried and failed?” Something gave him the feeling that he really didn’t want to know the answer.
“They tried and died.”
“I’ll be completely honest with you, Mr. Watson.” Holmes dropped the adjective in such a manner that John almost began to miss his previous evasiveness. “So far, Moriarty has disposed of every intruder we’ve sent inside his and Sherlock’s dream, no matter how carefully disguised. His vigilance is exceptional. You’ve been chosen as a man who might have a chance to get past his guards unnoticed.”
“Might have?”
“I’m being honest.”
John Watson was never a man to turn down a challenge. You’re an adrenaline junkie, his best friend told him when they were kids. The bravery of a soldier, that’s how it was called in the Army. John was under a strong suspicion that, from Holmes’ point of view, he was simply stupid enough to accept.
“Okay. What’s Sherlock’s totem?”
Holmes blinked, an odd shade fleeting across his otherwise indifferent face.
“You know, his reminder. Something to test the difference between a dream and the reality. It would be a small item, something he would-”
“I know what it is,” Holmes interrupted him. “Sadly, I have no idea what my brother’s totem might be. It is supposed to be a very personal thing, isn’t it?”
“So it is.” John looked perplexed. “But you’re his brother.”
“We weren’t that close,” Holmes retorted, apparently horrified by the idea. John briefly wondered if he should inquire after Sherlock and Mycroft’s mother. Then he thought better of it. A woman who birthed two such men must have been a phenomenon of her own.
“He would have it with him, to test himself right after awakening,” he said instead. “Can I have a look at the contents of his pockets?”
John was presented with an assortment of various odds and ends. Sherlock Holmes must have been fond of coats with capacious pockets to stuff all of it inside. John discarded the nicotine patches and crumpled notes - too impersonal. Sherlock’s phone was an expensive Blackberry indistinguishable from the market model. A set of lock-picks definitely looked interesting, if only for its metaphorical significance - opening the secret door of themind. Sadly, there was no way John could guess how exactly the lock-picks would work as a totem. He turned an old pipe between his fingers; the stuff sticking to its insides definitely wasn’t tobacco ash. John knew that Sigerson experimented with drugs, was he trying to smoke crack? Pocket knife, notepad full of illegible scribbling, pencil, and keys with a magnifier glass keychain completed the list.
“Is there something your brother valued, something seemingly impractical that he couldn’t be made rid of it?”
“Aside from his skull, I cannot recall anything that my brother would be overly fond of.”
“Erm...I’m rather fond of my skull as well.” John suppressed a twitch in the corners of his mouth.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean the one that encases his brain,” Holmes explained. “It’s simply a rather odd item of accessory that usually adorns his mantelpiece.”
“Human skull?” Why doesn’t that strike me as odd at all?
“Yes. My brother put very little merit to social behaviour. He always preferred the company of his ‘friend’, as he likes to call it, above the company of any living person.”
John couldn’t help but laugh. “Alas, poor Yorick,” he quoted. “That’s not very helpful. I guess I’d have to figure it out once I get there. Assuming that I’ll get close enough to him.”
“You would have to earn his trust. I have to warn you that very few people have ever achieved that.”
John put on his easiest, most affable grin: “A man who prefers to talk to a skull and whose own brother doesn’t know his totem? A poster-boy of friendliness, I’m sure.”
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Next chapter
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“You’ve got to be kidding me. Sigerson?” John didn’t try to hide the awe in his voice. “You want me to plant an idea in him?”
They stood aside a mobile bed made in crisp white linens, in a room behind so many doors that John had lost track of their count, in a building whose location he was forbidden to ask. The level of security measures made John reconsider his perception of his employer - posh nutter became powerful nutter. On the bed, a sleeper lay, DreamShare equipment attached to his skull along with an EEG monitor. John recognised him immediately - they had never met, but there were rumours.
“This is my brother, Sherlock Holmes. I see you are acquainted with one of his many assumed identities. He resorted to aliases on those occasions when he felt that field research was necessary.”
“Yeah, they kept popping up every now and again. Vernet, it was him too, wasn’t it? And Hollock. Oh, I can see why that one.”
Mycroft Holmes winced.
John couldn’t tear his eyes from the contours of the dreamer’s face, sharp and riveting even in sleep. How could someone with such outstanding looks ever succeed as an Extractor? The target’s mind was never a safe playground, as the subconscious could be easily alerted by anything it perceived as alien and intruding. Sigerson - or Holmes, better get used to his true name - must have been a master of disguise to pass through the guards of a trained target’s mind unnoticed. What a contrast to John’s own approach - him being just what he was, an invisible man. Sherlock Holmes was anything but invisible.
“The man is a legend. Brilliant theorist - I mean, everyone of us has a copy of his Science of Extraction somewhere; he’s practically set the basis for what we do.”
At last it occurred to John that Mycroft Holmes probably knew better than anyone how exceptional his own brother was, so he finished rather lamely: “I didn’t think he’d be taking any jobs nowadays. I always assumed he’d be one of those who work for the Government.”
“My brother works, in fact, for me,” Holmes replied with an odd hint of self-satisfaction that John decided not to pry into.
“Well, that’s him.” John gestured to the cables and optical fibres that were connected to a panel on the wall, and from where they obviously led to another room. “Who’s on the other end of the line?”
Holmes hesitated a moment, the words classified and clearance hanging in the awkward silence. John folded his arms.
“If I’m to accomplish what you want me to, I’ve got to know.” It wasn’t a threat, merely a fact. Mycroft Holmes bowed to the inevitable.
“James Moriarty.” Holmes began pacing the room. “Promising mathematician, won the Gauss Prize five years ago. Instead of dutifully assuming a professoriate, he left academia and public life altogether. Only recently did we realise that he has become a criminal mastermind, protecting and organising the criminal underworld in exchange for their obedience and a share of their profit.”
“A consulting criminal?” It sounded unbelievable. “Don’t tell me you’re so concerned over the levels of petty thievery, mugging, or robberies in London.”
“You won’t coax me into telling what I would be concerned over,” Holmes replied in obvious amusement at John’s attempt to sneak a peek of information about his mysterious client. “Let’s say that this man got ahold of something we don’t like to see in anyone’s possession.”
“So you’ve asked Sig- pardon, your brother, to extract it for you.” So far, John was getting it. “What went wrong?”
“Sherlock is not waking,” Holmes sighed. “The usual kicks don’t work. And yet, his brain activity scans show that he’s not entered Limbo. He’s still with us, but the scans also show that he’s not merely dreaming anymore- the activity is encompassing more parts of his brain now. I suspect that he’s been trapped into the belief that his dream is real.”
Hence the inception - John understood that. He scratched the back of his head absent-mindedly. “And I thought that the Navigator was only a myth.”
“Excuse me?” The man beside him stiffened.
“The Navigator. Nobody ever knew his true name and most of us assumed he was a product of drunken imagination. God knows that some Extractors get sloshed regularly to forget what they sometimes got to see.”
“If you could stick to the facts, Mr. Watson.”
“Right.” John was surprised. Until now he couldn’t imagine his client looking impatient. “Okay. It should be a man capable of overtaking another sleeper’s dream and trapping people inside. Some swear that he’s able to pull people into a deeper layer of the dream without having to fall asleep in the first one. Everything about him is a bit of an old wives’ tale, I’d say-”
“Are you aware, Mr. Watson, that the name Moriarty means ‘navigator’ in Irish?”
Oh shit.
A realisation dawned on John. “You didn’t know it was him.”
“I didn’t know he existed. Sherlock never mentioned him.”
Did Sherlock know? John wondered. Sigerson had a reputation of being a reckless researcher-perhaps he had underestimated the myth surrounding the Navigator, or perhaps he had trusted himself enough to face him.
“How long has he been in there?” John noticed the IV lock on Sherlock’s forearm.
“Five days,” was the answer.
“Five...days?” John was bewildered. “Bloody hell, that can be several years in a dream! What are they doing there?”
“We don’t know.” Holmes pursed his lips as if to admit a failure was something he wasn’t quite used to doing.
“You haven’t yet sent anyone in there - to have a look, perhaps?”
“Oh yes. One or two of the governmental Extractors, as you’d put it, have tried.”
“They tried and failed?” Something gave him the feeling that he really didn’t want to know the answer.
“They tried and died.”
“I’ll be completely honest with you, Mr. Watson.” Holmes dropped the adjective in such a manner that John almost began to miss his previous evasiveness. “So far, Moriarty has disposed of every intruder we’ve sent inside his and Sherlock’s dream, no matter how carefully disguised. His vigilance is exceptional. You’ve been chosen as a man who might have a chance to get past his guards unnoticed.”
“Might have?”
“I’m being honest.”
John Watson was never a man to turn down a challenge. You’re an adrenaline junkie, his best friend told him when they were kids. The bravery of a soldier, that’s how it was called in the Army. John was under a strong suspicion that, from Holmes’ point of view, he was simply stupid enough to accept.
“Okay. What’s Sherlock’s totem?”
Holmes blinked, an odd shade fleeting across his otherwise indifferent face.
“You know, his reminder. Something to test the difference between a dream and the reality. It would be a small item, something he would-”
“I know what it is,” Holmes interrupted him. “Sadly, I have no idea what my brother’s totem might be. It is supposed to be a very personal thing, isn’t it?”
“So it is.” John looked perplexed. “But you’re his brother.”
“We weren’t that close,” Holmes retorted, apparently horrified by the idea. John briefly wondered if he should inquire after Sherlock and Mycroft’s mother. Then he thought better of it. A woman who birthed two such men must have been a phenomenon of her own.
“He would have it with him, to test himself right after awakening,” he said instead. “Can I have a look at the contents of his pockets?”
John was presented with an assortment of various odds and ends. Sherlock Holmes must have been fond of coats with capacious pockets to stuff all of it inside. John discarded the nicotine patches and crumpled notes - too impersonal. Sherlock’s phone was an expensive Blackberry indistinguishable from the market model. A set of lock-picks definitely looked interesting, if only for its metaphorical significance - opening the secret door of themind. Sadly, there was no way John could guess how exactly the lock-picks would work as a totem. He turned an old pipe between his fingers; the stuff sticking to its insides definitely wasn’t tobacco ash. John knew that Sigerson experimented with drugs, was he trying to smoke crack? Pocket knife, notepad full of illegible scribbling, pencil, and keys with a magnifier glass keychain completed the list.
“Is there something your brother valued, something seemingly impractical that he couldn’t be made rid of it?”
“Aside from his skull, I cannot recall anything that my brother would be overly fond of.”
“Erm...I’m rather fond of my skull as well.” John suppressed a twitch in the corners of his mouth.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean the one that encases his brain,” Holmes explained. “It’s simply a rather odd item of accessory that usually adorns his mantelpiece.”
“Human skull?” Why doesn’t that strike me as odd at all?
“Yes. My brother put very little merit to social behaviour. He always preferred the company of his ‘friend’, as he likes to call it, above the company of any living person.”
John couldn’t help but laugh. “Alas, poor Yorick,” he quoted. “That’s not very helpful. I guess I’d have to figure it out once I get there. Assuming that I’ll get close enough to him.”
“You would have to earn his trust. I have to warn you that very few people have ever achieved that.”
John put on his easiest, most affable grin: “A man who prefers to talk to a skull and whose own brother doesn’t know his totem? A poster-boy of friendliness, I’m sure.”
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Next chapter