Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (7 page)

The veranda ringed the cabin, so David walked around. He looked through a window and saw Bruce making fire with a bow and dry tinder. There was a brick fireplace, armchairs and other normal furnishings. Rendered by the graphic artist. Perhaps armchairs were rock-hard. He walked on.

He daydreamed that a race of intelligent beings evolved in this universe and developed science. Physicists would discover that matter is continuous, not discrete. Astronomers would find that their planet is the only planet, their star the only star. They would correctly see themselves as the centre of the universe. Mathematicians might uncover the principles of the general computing machine. If built, it would never outrun the computer that ran their universe: and what, indeed, would they hypothesise the limiting factor to be? God? They could use science to uncover their God.

It was getting too dark to see.

Smiling to himself, he walked inside.

“I was ten years old when I lost my sight. It was diabetes. The doctor had warned my mother about it and she had warned me but, well, I didn’t listen. It didn’t happen quickly. Oh no. I saw it coming.” He broke another leg off the meat he was eating. He tossed it to David.

David caught it, burned his hand, and dropped it. “Maybe later.”

Bruce’s laughter was interrupted by a cough. “How much longer do we have?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. Maybe no time at all. How long since the metadillo attacked me?”

“Metadillo. Nice word. About two hours.”

David leaned back and glanced at the window. It was black. As black as when he had arrived. The days on Planet Shimoda lasted less than three hours. More than ever, David wanted to access the computer and increase the brightness. That would put him on even sensory terms with the metal predator. The rain poured down. Maybe it would rust.

“Well,” he said, “they could arrive at any minute.”

“Who could?” Bruce asked absently. He coughed again.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Bruce smiled. There were red flecks on his teeth. “My guess is a virus. Remember that evolution is working just fine in this universe. We’ve got all sorts of predators, herbivores, omnivores, insectile thingies, bacteria, and, right at the bottom, viruses. I wasn’t born in this world. I have no history of exposure to any microscopic organisms as a child.”

David nodded. “Your immune system hasn’t been toughed up. Vaccinated.”

“That’s right. But there are other systems in my body that – in our world, where my body was ‘designed’ – need environmental stimulation to develop. My visual system, for example. We know that it would never develop without light. And yet mine has.”

“But you intended that, didn’t you?”

Bruce shrugged. “The program I wrote should have compensated. But it was never tested.”

“Until now.”

“Me. The test pilot. The dog in orbit.”

“Maybe this virus is particularly dangerous to humans.”

“It could be. Maybe we should call McWhirter – yet another military application for the project.”

David frowned. “McWhirter’s dead.”

“Oh yeah. You said. She’s still up there, you know.”

“Who?”

Bruce bit his lip. “The dog the Russians sent up. She was called Laika. She’s still in orbit.”

“Not around this planet.”

David’s eyes dropped to the floor. He breathed in little sighs.

“Dave?”

“What?”

“I’m dying. But.”

“But what?”

“I’m living. I haven’t seen hills and trees for thirty years.”

David laughed bitterly. “Was it worth the wait?”

“Yes. You want some food?”

“Is it insect?”

“Of course.”

“No thanks.”

David stood up and walked around the room. The rain sizzled against the windowpane, as though something was frying on its surface. He felt confined by the darkness and he was confused. Why had Bruce brought him here? Both had risked their lives to have this conversation yet they spoke guardedly. The soldiers could bomb their way into the research centre at any time.

“Bruce, I’m here. You have my full attention. What do you want?”

Bruce stopped chewing his food. He spat it out.

“It’s been twenty years, David. Why didn’t you get in touch?”

David sighed. First Jennifer, now Bruce. He was being scrooged. “I didn’t know what to say. When the project was bombed, it was finished.”

“Except it wasn’t finished, was it? The fish tank survived and here I am. Listen, do you ever have nightmares? About children with no eyes?”

David ignored him. “We had this great dream of experimental genetics. We got so caught up in engineering this world that we forgot about the research. What questions did we ever answer with the this?” He gestured about him. “This is nothing better than a cheap video game.”

“No. You’re wrong. I’m living in here. This video game gives me life because it gives me my sight. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course not. I’ve never been blind.”

There was a silence. Bruce chewed some more food with his mouth open. David’s muscles began to tighten. Finally, Bruce said, “I brought you here, Professor Proctor, to tell you something in private.”

“Private? Is this a joke? You brought me here to whisper in my ear? For all we know, there’s an entire company of soldiers standing a few feet away from me. I suppose a walk in the park would have been too much for you.”

“And I came here to die. Kill me.”

“What?”

David felt fury build up inside him but then, when he looked into Bruce’s helpless eyes and the blood on his teeth, his anger evaporated. Bruce was right. He was already dead. If he were removed from the computer, the trauma would kill him. If he stayed, the virus would kill him. The computer had him in checkmate.

David didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “Is this why you wanted me to talk to Hypno? You’re fucking crazy. No way.” There was a noise from the doorway. A footfall on the veranda. Bruce put a finger to his lips. David’s scalp tingled. It was the metadillo. It was back to finish them. Bruce retrieved a spear from his place near the fireplace and stood poised in the middle of the room. Then he nodded at the door.

David groaned. Bruce wanted him to open it. The metadillo would come charging in and then Bruce would spear it, and then the spear would break, and then it would fire its darts at both of them like a spider wrapping flies.

Bruce nodded again irritably.

“Alright, I’m going,” David whispered. He considered removing his mask and leaving the computer. It might save his life. With a shake of the head, he turned the handle. He looked back at Bruce and remembered his words from moments before: ‘Kill me’.

He flung the door open.

Crouched in the darkness, wearing an exact duplicate of his hiking clothes, was Sergeant Caroline Benson. The jacket was too big for her.

“Bloody hell,” David said.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said calmly. “But, actually, I can explain.”

Bruce did not lower his spear. “I don’t know who you are, but get inside now and close the door behind you.”

Caroline stood and brushed the dry mud from her lapels. “Certainly,” she said. She entered the room and sank to her knees. She frowned at David. She genuflected to the floor and sighed. She did not take another breath. There was a stiletto in the base of her skull. It still quivered. David simply vomited. Bruce said, “Shit,” and took Caroline by the shoulders. He threw her outside. He closed the door and braced it with the spear. David heard her body flop down the veranda stairs.

“We’ll have to sit this one out,” Bruce said. He began to check the windows.

“What about Caroline?”

“She’s dead.”

There was a distant booming sound. David’s fillings vibrated. He slid a metre into the floor.

“Did you feel that?” David gasped. Somewhat selfconsciously, he climbed out of the floor.

“Feel what?” Bruce asked absently.

“It must be the soldiers. They’ve blasted through.”

He heard breaking glass. His head snapped to the window, fearing the metadillo. But the window was intact. It must have been the sound of the glass immersion chamber smashing.

David gagged. Somebody was trying to pull the mask from his face. In New World, he appeared to wrestle with his own head. “Bruce,” he gasped, and tried to move forward. There was no time left. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

He tried to embrace his friend because he appreciated – far too late – that he would never see him again. His arms reached

Bruce but they passed through. The microbots were malfunctioning. Bruce smiled and he waved a goodbye. He pointed towards his eyes and then out towards David. “See you later, alligator.” “Bruce!”

Monday, 11th September 2023

Saskia examined her face in the mirror. She pulled different expressions. Her eyes had rings. Her lips were too thin. A smile didn’t suit them. She thought about faces. A person’s face should be greater than the sum of its features. But not hers. It lacked something critical.

She yawned. It was fifteen minutes to nine. At nine o’clock the repair man would arrive. If she did not allow him to find the body and call the police, then Jobanique would.

She left the mirror and entered the main office.

“Computer, are you finished?”

“Ten minutes of image analysis remaining.”

Saskia rubbed her eyes. “Computer, what records do you have following 6:33 on Friday evening?”

“None for approximately fifteen minutes. No real-time data was collected during that period. It was likely that my operation was terminated for maintenance, though this was not recorded in the maintenance log.”

She smiled. It was the murderer. He had returned to temporarily deactivate the computer just as he had erased the central surveillance tapes. But why deactivate the computer?

Simple: so he could do something in the office without threat of observation.

Saskia’s eyes touched every object in the room. She looked for the slightest change: picture frames moved; pens rearranged; a plant pot turned by ninety degrees. Impossible to tell. She did not have a perfect recollection of her office. She examined the desk. She opened the drawers, emptied their contents and checked every surface. Nothing. Then she examined the shredder. It was still broken. In a flush of excitement, she realised that she couldn’t remember breaking it.

The shredder was integral to the desk. It had a thirtycentimetre slot, the mechanism itself and a detachable hopper. She removed the hopper. Inside were slivers of purple fabric. Next, she broke open the shredder itself. Deep in the mechanism, held in tiny teeth, was a little golden eagle. The hat maker had been particularly proud of it.

You are a detective, Saskia Brandt. Detect.

This, then, was the murderer’s hat.

Why did he take pains to shred it?

Because he could not take it with him.

Why couldn’t he take it?

Because if he had it, he could be identified.

Who could the murderer be if the hat was so crucial?

And then remembered examining her face in the mirror. Something had been missing. The burn.

Saskia collapsed into her chair. It was five minutes to nine o’clock. Everything fell into place: the burn, the hat, the timing, the secretary in her fridge, the knowledge of the computer system and the workings of FIB. She knew who the murderer was. And she knew who to call.

Jobanique.

He let the phone ring for nearly a minute. She gave him proud stare. In truth she did not feel angry. She lacked the energy. Solving the case did not lift that burden. Somehow, it made her sink inside her.

“You bastard.”

“Good morning, Detective Brandt,” he replied mildly. He waited for her to speak.

“It is two minutes to nine o’clock. I have time to spare.”

“To spare for what? I’m late for a meeting.”

Saskia erupted. She was surprised. Though her mind was calm, her body thrashed, hammered the desk, picked up the case of the broken shredder and threw it at the window, at Jobanique’s computer-generated face. “You listen to me!”

Jobanique screwed the lid on his fountain pen in the manner of a newsreader. “I’m listening.”

Saskia breathed in and out, in and out. She willed herself not to cry. He would misinterpret it. “I know who the murderer is.”

“Do you.”

Behind her, the computer bleeped to indicate that it had finished its job. “Image analysis done,” it said quietly.

“Give me a hardcopy.”

The desk ejected a sheet of paper. She scooped the computer print-out and held it high. It showed the image that had been reflected in the murderer’s upturned blade. It showed Saskia Brandt frowning in concentration.

“I did it.”

Jobanique smiled robotically, as though for the first time in his life. “I’m still listening.”

“Fine,” she said quietly. “This is what I think happened. On Friday evening I did not fly out to Marseilles. I know this because I remember Simon, my boyfriend, throwing a ladle of boiling pasta at my face yesterday morning. It made a burn. The burn, today, has gone. For a burn to heal so quickly is impossible. What is not impossible, even if it is improbable? That I was not burned. If I was not burned, then my memory of being burned by Simon must be false. If that memory is false, then it is likely that all my memories of Marseilles this weekend are false. So I did not fly out to Marseilles. That would certainly fit with subsequent facts. I would suggest that the memories were deliberately implanted. By you.”

Jobanique gestured impatiently. “I’ve got a meeting to attend.”

“The murderer killed Mary, my secretary, the moment my first memory of the trip to Marseilles begins. This fits with the hypothesis that I am the murderer. The surveillance footage shows that Mary was not surprised when the murderer entered. This is also consistent. Mary was killed by a single stab wound below the ear. That, I suppose, is consistent with a female murderer. Again, when the murder tried to move the body she struggled. I would struggle. And the hat; a broad-brimmed fedora. Concealing not only the entire face but – more than most simple disguises such as a handkerchief or scarf – it concealed the sex of the wearer. I had nowhere to hide the hat where my future self couldn’t find it so I shredded it here. When I visited the hat maker he was surprised to see me. He also knew my name without examining my ID. Clearly I had warned him. And, into the mix, we must count the murderer’s knowledge of the computer system in my office. She was permitted entry to the surveillance tapes because, being me, she had clearance. By the same token she was permitted to perform ‘routine maintenance’ on the computer. And…I remember now that the computer failed to recognise my voice following my discovery of the secretary. That fits: that was my first conscious moment after the memory implant. The computer suggested that my voiceprint had been altered by a malicious user. That user was me. My former self. But this is all indirect. The conclusive evidence is the computer’s analysis of the blade. It reflected the face of the murderer. Here she is. It is me.”