The Bloodlight Chronicles: Reconciliation (6 page)

“I know you're already considering the ramifications of all this. You're very fast,” she said. When he didn't respond she walked behind her desk and poured herself a glass of water. She took a sip and stared at Zakariah over the rim, licking her upper lip with a pink tip of tongue. She took another sip and returned the glass to a silver serving tray.

She leaned forward with both palms flat on the desktop, safe behind her barrier of polished teak. “I'm not Eternal,” she said. “I wish I was. Soon I will be, if all goes well.”

Zakariah sat quietly recording data, piecing it all together.

“I undergo chemical rejuve regularly. I take Eternal blood once a week. I really am eighty-seven years old.” She paused and seemed disconcerted, and Zakariah took strength from this small show of vulnerability.

“When you squeezed my breasts, I felt it,” she said finally.

Zakariah nodded. “Weird quantum science.”

“Synchronous wetware. Two minds in a single avatar.”

“It had to happen.”

“Do you want it all at once, Mr. Davis?”

Zakariah focused his eyes on her pretty face, the inquisitive arch of her eyebrows, and playful tilt of her head. He smiled. “Call me Zak.”

“Thank you. Call me Helena.”

Zakariah took a long drink of nutrient water to put her at ease. He had enough information now to recognize a cloud of responsibility condensing around him, a game plan coming into focus.

“You kidnapped me, Helena.”

“Better me than the local bloodlord.”

“You screwed with my synapses.”

“You're vastly improved.”

“It's the principle of the thing.”

“You would never have agreed in advance.”

“You don't have the right to jump into my brain.”

“I take what I want, Mr. Davis. I pay for what I need.”

“What is the
ERI
to you? Some strategic corporate alliance? Do you think you can buy Eternal life?”

She straightened, her face suddenly austere. She pulled up an office chair and sat behind her desk. “Our interests coincide. Surely you can see that.”

“I see a rich old woman who wants to live forever.”

“I see a cowboy plughead who wants the virus for his only son.”

“We're incompatible.”

“We're complementary. Don't you at least want to hear my proposal?”

“Okay, fine.”

“We're going offplanet to the Source. You and I. Together.”

His body galvanized at the possibility, his quest come true. “Well, then, you got yourself a runner, ma'am.” He raised his glass as though in ceremonial toast.

Helena pursed her lips at his quick change, then pressed her advantage. “I'm giving you a position as a field operative here at the Institute. You work for me. You will follow each detail with precision. Doctor Mundazo is the Head of Operations.”

“Do I get paid?”

“Room and board just like everyone else. All the money goes into the lab.”

“For what?”

“We're planning a public inoculation program.”

“Is that right? What's the price tag on immortality?”

“That will depend on supply and demand. You're in charge of supply.”

“So I work for free, while you get rich?”

“I'm not taking a salary from the Institute. I'm funding operations until the money runs out.”

“You're a dangerous woman.”

“Why, thank you.”

Zakariah paused for a quick survey of his options. The woman had already hijacked his brain. He would be a fool to trust her, but he felt exhilarated by this new challenge. “I assume you have some guidance on the target?”

“Not a lot. The communications interface may be foreign, perhaps alien. Your special talents will be instrumental.”

“So you want me to hack heaven and bring you the treasure on a pillow?”

Helena smiled. “That would be nice, if it's not too much to ask.”

Rix decided it was time to confront his hostess, whom he now suspected was little more than a prison guard. She had a comfy launch couch with Prime One access, to be sure, and gave him food and lodging fit for a prince, but it felt like a gilded cage. Niko had spurned his every intimate advance. She ignored him completely most of the time and never volunteered even casual small talk, let alone secret strategies. On the rare occasions when she deigned to address him, her manner was abrupt and businesslike.

“I've got to find my parents,” he told her over their usual evening meal of steamed vegetables and orange juice. “I can't just hang out here playing in V-space all day.”

“You won't see your parents for a long time, Rix.”

Rix slammed his palm on the table. “How do you know that? You leave every morning on your motorcycle. You never tell me anything. What do you do for a living? How do you pay for this fancy condo?”

Niko shrugged. “I'm a smuggler. Bio-chips, upgrades.” She smiled with insouciance. “Nothing legal, I assure you. Not that it's any of your business.”

“You work for a black lab?”

“It's a family venture.”

“You said I was family. Is that why I'm here?”

Niko laid her fork down. She folded her arms under her breasts. She was wearing a pink tank top and showing a hint of cleavage. “Yes. It was my idea. I didn't want to see you on the street.”

“Where are my parents?”

“Your mother is in hiding. She's staying off the grid, just like you. Your father is in play.”

Rix gaped at her.
Your father is in play
. What the hell did that mean? “Tell me.”

“I don't know the details.”

“Liar.”

Niko eyes shaded like a cloud passing. She turned her face away and looked out a window at gloomy sky beyond. “I like you, Rix,” she said softly. “I would never lie to you.”

“My father had a sister named Niko. You can't possibly be her.”

“No. Your aunt is dead.” She pressed her mouth into a thin line and turned back to face him. “I'm her clone. Just a poor photocopy lacking in hybrid vigour, I'm afraid.”

“Cloning is illegal.”

“Lots of things are illegal,” she said. Her eyes dared him with stony defiance, but her trembling lips betrayed an inner wound. Rix recognized his faux pas like a blow.

“No. I didn't—”

“Oh, never mind.” She waved him away. “I can't expect understanding from you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You've lived your entire life on the run like a rat.”

“So what?”

“So nothing. I'm just saying.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I've lost my appetite.”

Rix followed her into the living room. She reached for a magazine and fumbled through it as though trying to signal some distance between them.

“How did she die?”

Niko held her chin up and sighed through her nose, but kept her back to him, rigid. She tossed the magazine on the coffee table like a flapping bird. “She died during experimental surgery, back in the early days of brain implants.”

“That's harsh.”

Niko turned, arms akimbo, her face tilted up proud and defiant. “It was before my time. I don't know all the details. She wasn't my mother and she's gone now, okay? At least they kept a backup.”

“Jesus, Niko.”

Her face slanted into a delicate sneer. “Do you believe in Jesus, Rix? Is there room in heaven for illegal clones? Was I born without a soul, do you think?”

She seemed so vulnerable to him, so frail of spirit, that he could only open his arms for her and bite his lower lip. She stepped into his embrace.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“Never mind.”

“I wasn't trying to be mean.”

“It's okay, Rix. I'm a big girl.”

They continued to embrace, and Rix felt his body respond with a weird mix of lust and protective responsibility. God, she felt good.

“I just want to help,” he said. “I want to be part of the family.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” Niko murmured. She rubbed his back and sighed into his ear, barely a whisper.

“Well, you seem quite healthy, Helena,” Dr. Silus Mundazo said from behind his clipboard. His head was shaved, his hands in latex gloves, his white lab coat clean and pressed. “Some indications of chronic stress, some weight gain in the upper body—nothing to write home about. However, you do seem to be exhibiting an unusual pattern of brainwave activity in the frontal and temporal lobes, no doubt from the extensive rewiring you've recently undergone.”

“Could this be debilitating in any way?” She felt uncomfortable in her clothes again after being probed and measured by cold instruments. She preferred to dress slowly in front of a full-length mirror and check each layer for proper fit, not throw her clothes on hastily while leaning against a chair in a drafty cubicle.

He shrugged. “Heaven only knows, Helena. We didn't have this case study in medical school. For what it's worth, your partner exhibits much the same symptoms, along with elevated electrical activity throughout the cerebellum. His corpus callosum looks like a six-lane freeway.”

“He's a special case. Flying with Zak is like riding a roller coaster. One is filled with dread and promise at the same time.” Her button-up collar felt uncomfortable at her neck and her bra strap pressed awkwardly into her back. She wondered if she had twisted it while dressing.

“Any feelings of nausea, weightlessness, or stomach trouble after you unplug?”

“No.”

“Any dissociative thoughts? Any voices?”

“No.”

“And how do you feel about him emotionally?”

“Emotionally?”

“Sharing your thoughts, sharing your intimate secrets, that sort of thing.” Silus Mundazo held his pen poised over his clipboard. His eyes stayed downcast.

Helena felt a wave of embarrassment and bristled in defence. “Zak and I have a business relationship, Silus. We're not sharing secrets. We're working.”

Dr. Mundazo looked up, tilted his head slightly to the right. “The young hacker and the wealthy heiress?”

“Oh, spare me the innuendo.”

“Are you having sex with him?”

“Certainly not. Good heavens, I can't believe that question is even relevant.”

He pointed his pen at his clipboard, holding it up for her view. “It's under psychiatric profile.”

“Are you studying to be a shrink at night school, Doctor?”

“Let me remind you of your history in the area.”

“Of course I have a history, Silus. I've been having sex for seventy years.”

“With younger men, I mean.”

“They perform better.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Fine. Duly noted.” He dropped his clipboard to his side. “I have grave concerns about your situation, Helena.”

“That's your job.”

“I must caution you professionally, as a physician and friend.”

“Go ahead, but I need Zak to get to the Source. I can't do it on my own.”

Silus Mundazo sighed with a show of exasperation. “The side effects of this new synchronous wetware could be significant. You should be under close observation, not heading off into hyperspace with a known criminal. As you know, I am on record as being against the whole procedure. Well, the surgeons have come and done their white magic, and now gone back to their dolphins and baboons. I am left to shoulder the responsibility for a human guinea pig, and I don't like it.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Silus, because I'm leaving you in charge while I'm gone.”

“That scares me even more.”

“This mission is important for the people of Earth, not just me. You've been Eternal for so long you've forgotten the fear of death.”

“I can see that your motivation remains quite strong. Motivation has never been your weak suit in the card game of life.”

“Do you think I am in danger of losing my identity? Sacrificing my cerebrum?”

“Is that what you worry about?”

“In the darkness of the night anything seems possible.”

Dr. Mundazo squinted at her in study. He took a long moment to compose his thoughts. “I would think a shared personality could infiltrate your brain to the degree necessary to alter behaviour patterns. You could be controlled without your knowledge or approval. To some extent, of course, we are all influenced by various external media and environmental stimuli around us. But inside us, we like to think we have a tabernacle of consciousness, a private place where no one but God can intervene. Modern technology has taken that away from us now. I'm not sure how we as a race will react when every thought and every sin is exposed to public view.”

Silus's blue eyes shone with resolve like hard diamonds, and Helena felt her composure weaken under his scrutiny. She puffed up her chest with a quick and resolute breath. She had gone too far to turn back now. “Unfortunately, we can't turn technology around, Silus. If we delay, we are run over and flattened underfoot. If we resist, we are branded heretics and burned at the metaphorical stake. If we surf the wave, if we ride the crest, at least we're still in the game.”

P
rime Level Three was bright and clean, guarded vigilantly for the upper crust of society, V-net patrons who paid a monthly surcharge for privileged access. Colours seemed more radiant here than on lower levels, props and adornments animated with higher definition and detail, visitors more respectable and cultured. The entire level operated under Class B encryption, which was a mere formality to any serious hacker but served as a psychological deterrent to most users.

Robot browsers patrolled the streets, sniffing for stray data and gobbling up digital corruption. They looked like dogs to passing users, bulky guard dogs on wheels. The cybertrackers picked up loose files and fragmented data that might otherwise litter the streets and slow down access times. They kept the main thoroughfares antiseptic and comfortable, though they occasionally tagged on to unsuspecting tourists in their thirst for data and had to be dislodged by licensed quarantine control officers. It was a criminal offense to destroy cybertrackers or attempt to manipulate their programs, which made them a target of choice among empowered teenagers on the V-net, who systematically reprogrammed them for recreational warcraft.

Apart from bandit browsers and the occasional ghost avatar, problems and pitfalls were few on Prime Level Three. International traders and diplomats preferred to work uplevel where transmission speeds were optimum and signals unscathed over long distances. Currency experts and commodity speculators, for whom money was often measured in microseconds, thought nothing of the extra expense of working uplevel. The elite were continually driven higher by new and faster technology as they vied to escape the huddled crowds clogging the V-net levels below.

High-profile advertisers targeted the upper levels with billboards, icons, and animated hyperlinks of all shapes and sizes. Cartoon poster boys, sexy teddy bears, and other corporate animatrons offered free exotic vacations and offplanet eccentricities to passersby. Financial consultants, nutritional managers, and spiritual gurus vied together for the latest spark of innovation to capture the fleeting interest of jaded and often cynical users who had already seen the whole world before breakfast. The sophistication of an exploding marketplace demanded outstanding leaps in software development and engineering, and the early programmers who pioneered the Prime-level architecture now held the status of idols in a false religion, exaggerated beyond simple belief, glitzy facades that made mockery of their quest and true accomplishments. Knowledge was power, but business was business.

Helena Sharp had a personal login meter on Prime Level Three and an attractive escalating discount program with free bonus points for air and space travel. She coalesced precisely on schedule to give her quarterly report to the World Council, an unofficial, unpublicized quorum of twelve international power brokers who jokingly referred to themselves as the dirty disciples. Eight males and four females sat around a long, translucent table that looked like a thick slab of smoke-filled glass.

Helena nodded in recognition to the four corners and sat down at the end of the table directly opposite Chairman Tao, a broad-shouldered, stony-faced avatar with flowing white hair and the impeccable image of expensive electronics. He was rumoured to be representing a biosystems conglomerate, but his various allegiances were shrouded in secrecy. He was a biochemist and had been a brilliant scholar in his youth.

Other major financial interests had their places around the table—telecommunications, petroleum multinationals, desalination moguls. Everyone had everything to gain and nothing to lose but money—which was itself merely an illusion, an electronic aberration for which lesser people lived and died.
What will you pay to live forever, my friends?

“Are we under Triple-A encryption?” Helena asked.

“Not yet. We're accessing the Beast now that you're here,” the Chairman replied smoothly. He waited a few seconds, grinning like an emoticon. “Fine, we have confirmation now. We may begin, gentlemen and ladies.”

Problems
, Zak piped up in Helena's inner ear.

What?
she probed.

A massive program has kicked in to crash your party, third from the left. Can't you feel the harmonics?

She eyed the image sharply, a small Japanese woman with black bangs cropped high above her eyes, wearing a black satin suit over a plain pink blouse. She could sense nothing amiss.

How can they crack a Triple-A code from the Beast? It would keep a bank of supercomputers crunching for weeks.

That they even try suggests resources far beyond imagining
, Zak responded.
Perhaps they access the Beast themselves. In any case we will have a few minutes of grace at least.

“Director Sharp, I'm sure you don't need an introduction. I believe you know everyone here intimately. Ostensibly this is a refinancing hearing, but frankly we want a full report on the Eternals. Your mandate has dragged on somewhat.”

The air bristled with a new severity as all eyes turned to face her. Helena pasted on a politician's smile. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “The Eternal communities continue to grow at a slow but steady rate. They live in segregated, somewhat frightened enclaves throughout the civilized world. We monitor several in continental America and have infiltrated a handful. They lack stable organization and have virtually no communication with far-flung outposts. They seem to have little enthusiasm, ambition, or political sophistication. In many areas they are hunted by black-market bloodlords and in less developed countries have been harvested like livestock. As you know, at the Eternal Research Institute we take blood only from willing volunteers, and then only according to established guidelines from the World Health Agency.”

“Oh, spare us the public relations,” said one balding young man to Helena's right, Carruthers, a petroleum magnate. “Any breakthroughs in the transfusion program?”

Jerk
, Helena thought.

Careful
, Zakariah replied.

“No,” she replied evenly. “The transfusions temporarily halt aging, but do not actively regenerate body tissue, even after months of regular treatments. When combined with chemical rejuve, cellular breakdown can be reversed up to a point, as we all know from personal experience, but the permanent catalyst continues to elude us.”

“Why?” asked the Chairman bluntly. “We've all poured a lot of money into this project. Your Institute, your salary.”

Helena continued unperturbed, smiling with practised charm. “The virus infiltrates every living cell in the human body, but not by any known biomechanism. On the subatomic level, we have recorded a series of unexplainable events centred around or within the mitochondria of individual cells.”

“Events, you say?” asked Chairman Tao, tilting forward in his chair.

“Subatomic exchanges of energy, Chairman, producing lightwaves up near the top of the visible spectrum.”

“Impossible,” he countered definitively.

“Even the black market is using spectral analysis to target Eternal blood. Hand-held units are being manufactured in the underground economy.”

“A simple refractory phenomenon,” the Chairman insisted.

Helena raised an eyebrow at him speculatively.

“Most of us don't have the technical expertise to understand this line of questioning,” interposed the Japanese woman, representing a major corporate consortium that controlled three percent of the world's wealth. “What we are looking for is results, the black bottom line. Are we to understand that both are lacking in this report, Director?”

“Our progress has been slow, yes, and in fact we have reached an impasse of sorts. All hope of duplicating, modifying, or artificially transmitting the virus has now evaporated. I am not prepared to download the experimental data at this time, but it is available for burst transmission to appropriate terminals. Suffice it to say that we have exhausted every avenue known to medical science and have stymied some of the best subatomic theoreticians in the world. The financial reports, of course, are at your fingertips. All current activities are adequately funded.”

“Are we giving up then?” demanded the Japanese women, Madame Shakura, her red lips a mere knife slit in her face. “Are you admitting personal defeat?”

Helena looked coolly at the Chairman for some exercise of his authority.

He remained silent, grim as a watchdog.

“Not at all,” she continued unruffled. “The virus can only be transmitted in what we term its activated state. We have not been able to secure an activated sample, but have traced the source of several contagions. We conclude that the virus is being produced offplanet and shipped to Earth in single dosages. We suspect it is being cultured by a small but influential group who plan to use their superior technology to take complete control of this planet.”

Several avatars glistened with white static.

Severe emotional trauma in all listeners
, Zakariah whispered.

No kidding.

“Naturally, to shift our primary focus offplanet will require a considerable financial commitment from all those present,” Helena said. “I have a full report ready for transmittal to authorized terminals, and I trust you will continue to support the Eternal Research Institute in all its varied research and development interests.”
How much time do I have?

Perhaps forty seconds realtime. I'm shutting down all our windows and back alleys.

“The first stage of our new program will require an envoy to the Source, which we know to be one of the planets in the Cromeus colonies. I have already booked passage for myself and my bodyguard through the Macpherson Doorway. I need an immediate commitment of funds to cover the trip.”

“We cannot allow it,” the Chairman croaked, “not you personally.”

“We need time to digest this information,” the Japanese woman stated.

Helena stood up from her chair and stepped behind it. “Madame Shakura,” she answered icily, “I'm sure you can appreciate the importance of these events. All the world is clamouring for the virus. Whoever reaches the Source first will ultimately control the Earth. There are countless groups and governments vying for the information I just shared with you. My obligations are fulfilled. While this informal collusion may have had the luxury of working in the shadows at one time, we are now under the spotlight's glare. We lose ground every second we delay.”

She walked up behind Madame Shakura, who twisted to face her. “In fact, your own security system is about to be breached any moment, and our precious Triple-A conference will be forced to an untimely end. I suggest this committee get its own house in order and leave me to my work.”

Three members at the table stood instantly and stepped backward through transparent doorways that swallowed them like zippered envelopes.

The Chairman looked pained. “How could you possibly know this?”

“Have you confirmed already?” she asked.

“I have confirmed,” Madame Shakura said, her image fuzzy with emotion. “I offer my deepest apologies.” She prostrated her face low to the table.

That's it
, Zakariah said.
We're being piped into Prime Level Five. Very clean. Expensive. Do you want to risk a trace?

Never mind. There's nothing left for us on this planet. We've burned our last bridge.

Helena bowed with respect to Madame Shakura, winked to the Chairman, and turned to leave.

“Get off here. Wait in the shadows. I'll be back in four minutes.”

Rix jumped off the bike and surveyed the storefronts on the street—a pharmax, a public laundry, a cosmetox clinic offering surgery while-u-wait. They were in a decrepit suburban area that didn't look like much, but all the better for daylight subterfuge. He was on a mission at last.

Niko kicked back into the traffic and disappeared up the road. She was headed for a private heliport two blocks over, but he was not supposed to know the details. Plausible deniability, she called it, and he was cool with that.

They had taken a circuitous route to get here, constantly moving, turning, meandering.
Always assume you are being followed until you can prove otherwise
, Niko insisted. She seemed to be professionally paranoid, a chronic case, but Rix was glad to be along for the ride. He paced on the street as he waited. Everyone seemed to be staring at him. Was he acting too suspicious? Probably. He leaned against a lamp post and tried to look nondescript. He scowled and put on a sardonic mask, hoping to blend with the crowd.

Niko pulled up precisely on schedule with a black satchel between her knees. She handed the package to him and moved toward the gas tank to make room on the seat. He hopped behind her and felt the heat of the exhaust between his legs. They swung back onto the roadway and headed uptown toward purple foothills in the distance. He loved to feel the pressure of wind on his body, the thrill of speed. Niko was an aggressive driver; she obeyed the superficial rules of the road but wasted no time accelerating back to the speed limit after each corner.

They turned into a public parking garage after fifteen minutes and headed underground. Rix flipped up his visor as his eyes tried to adjust to the twilight. Niko pulled the bike to the side and stopped. She kicked down the peg and tipped the weight on the kickstand.

“Take the horns, cousin. I'll wait here for you.”

Rix jumped off the bike, startled. He clutched the satchel to his chest.

“What, I'm making the drop?”

Niko stood to face him. She took off her helmet and fluffed her hair.

“The client asked for you. His name is Jimmy. Up three levels, you'll see an area marked with repair pylons, roped off with yellow tape. He'll be there waiting. Think you can handle that?”

“He asked for me?”

Niko checked her wristband. “We're right on the button. Just stick to the basic rules we established.” She beamed reassurance at him. “You'll be fine. The package is prepaid, so you don't have to worry about money or anything.”