The Resurrected Man (16 page)

“So why have we still got him?”

“Because we have something he wants—”

“No. I mean what made Trevaskis see reason?”

“Herold Verstegen saved our collective arse. He talked Trevaskis out of it, not me.”

“I don't understand,” Marylin said.

“There's no way he'd let security be compromised at this point, when we've just got our hands on the best lead we've ever had. For the sake of some petty in-fighting—which is what Trevaskis' grandstanding is really about—the entire KTI network would have to come under review. That's the last thing Verstegen wants.”

“But how did he even
know
about this?”

“He's known from the start—was watching the VTC, in fact. It was the price we had to pay for having unlimited access to QUALIA.”

“Some price,” Fassini muttered.

“Not bad, seeing he ended up helping.” Whitesmith kept his voice carefully neutral. “But that doesn't mean I have to like him pulling the strings.”

Marylin sagged back into her seat, feeling contradictory emotions. Although she could understand Odi's position, the thought that her unprofessional behaviour had been witnessed by “Horrible Herry” made her feel slightly ill. And then there was the fact that Jonah had
almost been pulled out of the case. That would have meant no more VTCs, no more forced contact. Her feelings on that were a little more complex, but at least part of it had been relief. The rest she wasn't so keen to identify. She knew that the only way she'd be truly free of him was to find out for certain, one way or another, the truth about him.

“So now what?” she asked, not letting Whitesmith change the subject so easily. “We keep going as before?”

“Maybe. Nothing's been decided yet. Trevaskis wants time to think things over, to work out the best strategy, while the rest of us go over the data. There's not much else we can do until McEwen is fit enough to help us properly. At the very least, we still need him to unlock the AIs in his apartment.”

“He'll be wanting to look at the file on his father,” Marylin said. “If it's turned up by then.”

“It's already here.” Whitesmith said. “Much faster than we expected. It arrived while I was talking to Trevaskis. He wasn't happy about that, either—making deals with McEwen. But it seemed expedient at the time, which he could see.”

“Except now you have to honour your agreement and actually give Jonah time to go over the file.”

“Trevaskis wants to hold onto it for a while, to ensure his willingness to cooperate.”

“That's not a good idea.”

“The decision's out of our hands.”

She quelled a rising tide of frustration. “If you say so.”

“I do. Believe me when I tell you it might not be as big a problem as you think. With Verstegen on-side, there are a number of new possibilities open to us.”

“You're not about to suggest we give Jonah to
him—
”

“No.” He leaned closer. “Later, when you have time, ask QUALIA about d-med.”

Marylin was totally lost. “D-
med
?”

“Schumacher's latest toy.” Whitesmith winked at her, but his expression was serious. He obviously wasn't going to tell her about it. “And brush up on the details of the unit. I'll call you as soon as I know what's going to happen.”

He stood and looked around. “Do you know where Indira is?”

“Wait. Odi—”

“In her office, I think,” Fassini said.

“Good. I need to talk to her. Speak to you later, Marylin.” With that, the head of the away team strode away.

Marylin bit her lip on a curse.

Noticing her expression, Fassini grinned. “You look like you're about to bust something.”

“Only internally. I hate it when he does this to me.” She cleared the consensual screen and consigned the VTC recording to the MIU database.

“Does that mean we're leaving?”

“Yes. I am, anyway. You can do what you want.”

“I'm rostered with you for the rest of the shift—”

“Then I'm giving you the afternoon off. I have somewhere to go.”

“Not home?”

“Not exactly.” She hesitated. “If you really want to know, meet me outside Sydney's Manhattan Hotel in an hour and a half.”

“Sydney, Australia?”

“Got it.” She stood and began walking for the door. “Don't be late. I'm going to need a drink after what I'm about to do—and you're buying.”

It was winter in the southern hemisphere, and noon along the east coast of Australia. The change in rhythm caught her off-guard as she stepped out of the public booth. Even here, in a country that had embraced d-mat
wholeheartedly as a liberation from the tyranny of distance, the city centre was crowded and noisy. Cars hissed by; pedestrians bustled; advertisements crowded every empty space, actively competing for attention. Some of the more intelligent algorithms had learned to infiltrate the overseers of passersby, prompting brief, startling hallucinations of the products and services available nearby. Marylin increased the vigilance of her anti-intrusion software without even thinking about it, well-used to such inconveniences. Melbourne was even worse.

The air had a chill that penetrated the thermoactive fabric of her uniform. She walked briskly along the cracked pavement, noting landmarks as she went. The last time she had been in Elizabeth Bay was six months before. A lot had changed since then. Old buildings had been restored, some skyscrapers had come down and there were more restaurants and hotels than she remembered. In King's Cross the crime rate had fallen to the point where firearms were rarely worn openly, and the increased sense of security had spread to neighbouring suburbs.

She turned into Greenknowe Ave. and passed the purple art deco facade of the Manhattan Hotel, walking downhill to where the tiny patch of greenery once known as the John Armstrong Reserve had been. It now held a statue of the cyborg Stellarc and a copse of fluid sculptures that echoed with almost-musical sounds. Opposite, curving around the corner of Greenknowe and Onslow Avenues, was a three-storey grey building that had seen better days a century before. The Scotforth had once contained a bookshop and delicatessen, but had long since been converted to single-and double-room offices. The windows on the upper floor were arched and dark; many, she knew, were boarded over on the inside.

In the pillared foyer, all the names bar one had changed. That one was #17: JRM Data Acquisition Services. “By Appointment Only,” said the note by the name—which made Marylin smile. She hadn't had an appointment the day she'd applied for a job, five years earlier, and she didn't have one now. Neither time had she let it bother her.

She took an ancient lift to the third floor. The hallway there was deserted. If the other two offices on that level were occupied, their tenants made no sound.

Number 17 was at the end of the corridor, its door facing a cracked smoked-glass window set high in the wall. Yellow light glinted off the brass doorknob. That at least looked clean. The maintenance nanos she had left behind on her last trip were obviously still functioning.

She took a deep breath and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob. Nothing happened. The security AI should have scanned and approved her palmprint within a split-second, then opened the door. She squeezed to attract its attention. The conducting surface of the knob might have corroded, degrading the signal; increased pressure would correct that. But there was still no response.

Frowning, she tried turning the handle. Much to her surprise, it rotated freely.

She opened the door slowly, careful to keep herself out of the widening gap that would otherwise frame her silhouette. Only when certain the room beyond was empty did she look inside.

The office was in a state of utter disarray. Filing cabinets had been overturned; drawers lay emptied on the ground; the sofa had been slashed. Even the light fittings and power points had been dismantled. The curtained window on the far wall let in just enough light to illuminate the mess. Broken glass crunched under her heels as she stepped inside.

Nothing appeared to have changed since her last visit, however. The office had been ransacked three years ago, around the time of Jonah's disappearance—although the break-in had not been discovered until Marylin drew the MIU's attention to him, sixteen months ago. They had pored over the mess then, but found nothing incriminating.

She moved around a pile of discarded data-cards to the desk. It was an imposing piece of furniture, based on an antique design with four solid legs and two drawers on either side of a gap for the sitter's knees. Its top
was covered with imitation leather that had been attacked by a knife of some sort. Marylin ran a finger along the edge; it came away brown.

The touch of her finger activated the secretary. “How may I help you, Marylin?”

“Hello, SAL.” The AI was simple, a standard model that came with the desk. “I'd like the entry records for the last year.”

“There has been no one here since your last visit.”

Marylin brushed dust from the battered desk chair and sat down. “Which was when?”

“Four-thirteen p.m., January fifteenth, 2069.”

Six months ago; that was right. But—“Why was the door unlocked, SAL?”

“I am unable to answer that question.”

Marylin had half-expected that. Someone had clearly been tampering with the AI's programming and memory. Presumably the same someone who had left the door open on his or her way out. The lock must have been electronically picked, or the entry codes lifted from the MIU files. The overrides for the secretary could have come from there too.

She tapped on the handle of the upper right drawer where Jonah had kept his pistol and receipt book—two of three anachronisms he allowed himself as a PI; the third was the office itself. He had never explained why he had chosen those particular three things, and she—relieved that he hadn't worn a fedora and called her “sweetheart”—had never asked. Most likely he had no real reason. But he had had secrets; she had always know that. Who didn't?

She took a deep breath and opened the drawer. The pistol was gone. The receipt book lay where it always had. On top of the book was the envelope she had put there a year ago, addressed to Jonah. She lifted it out and ran a low-light algorithm over the seal; it hadn't been opened.

Whoever had entered the office in the last year had taken the time to erase their entry record and to steal the pistol, but had ignored the
envelope. She wondered if that made it more or less likely that the intruder was Jonah himself. If it was, he could hardly be accused of breaking and entering. The premises were still in his name, paid for automatically by his housekeeper. But if so, why hadn't he seen her message?

She leaned back into the seat, put her feet on the desk and folded her hands behind her head. The standard position, Jonah had called it, believing it helped him think. Whether it did or not, she had adopted it as well. It was nice to recline, to relax, yet still be at work while pondering a problem. She had missed it many times. There were few desks in the MIU.

The envelope lay in her lap. She had learned little so far.

“QUALIA?”

“Yes, Marylin?” The pleasant “female” voice was as clear as if she was still in Artsutanov Station.

“Odi told me to ask you about something called ‘d-med.'”

“Yes. He warned me that you would do so before long.”

“What is it and why haven't I heard of it before?”

“It is an experimental medical procedure designed to do away with invasive surgical techniques—including nanotherapy. You have not heard of it before because d-med is still in the developmental phase. Its existence is not widely publicised. Also, it has not previously had any bearing on this case.”

“Why the big secret?”

“Some segments of the community will find much about d-med that is disturbing. Its introduction will be gradual, with as much care as possible, beginning with the first public trials next month.”

“Tell me more. I'm assuming Odi has had me cleared.”

“Yes, Marylin, as of this afternoon. D-med is a combination of d-mat, Resurrection and virtual surgery techniques used to train doctors for decades. The patient enters what is in essence an ordinary d-mat booth to be scanned, but instead of being transmitted to another destination
downloaded into an active virtual environment within which the procedure required takes place. This ‘hot-wired' surgery permits real-time interaction with
ceteris paribus
conditions. Not only is it possible to perform procedures while the subject is in the equivalent of stasis, but subtle corrections can be made by manipulating the data rather than the virtual body itself. When the procedure is complete, the patient is reconstituted, completely unaware that time has elapsed.”

“Are you for real?”

“Indeed, Marylin. D-med is a logical development of d-mat technology. It allows or makes much easier procedures that are difficult today. Tissue may be copied and pasted instead of cultured and grafted. Nerves may be rebuilt molecule by molecule. Faulty genes in cancer cells can be altered at will. Naturally, d-med requires an enormous amount of memory and our knowledge of the human body is still not complete, so the technique will not become commonplace in the near future. But it will be an important option, especially in situations where access to the best medical care is not immediately available. In the future, d-med may be employed for purely cosmetic reasons, allowing radical—and sustainable—physical changes only imagined today.”