The Resurrected Man (22 page)

But the true enemy of WHOLE wasn't KTI at all, even though much of its propaganda was directed against the giant corporation. The movement on the opposite end of the ideological spectrum was RAFT, the “Radical Association of Free-Thinkers” that touted technology as a means to make humanity immortal and all-powerful.
Where WHOLE officially concentrated on biosphere and soul, RAFT's more materialistic aims were outwards into space. And where WHOLE was increasingly a terrorist organisation, RAFT used more subtle means to gain what they wanted. The two groups were so antithetical that it had come as a surprise to her to learn that Lindsay Carlaw had been a member of both of them.

But, then, he had been a complex man, as evinced by the relationship he had had with Jonah. Sometimes she doubted she would ever fully understand either member of the Carlaw-McEwen household.

The thought lingered as she continued searching through the data Fassini had mined from the housekeeper's databanks. There was so much of it: incoming and outgoing calls, d-mat transmissions, power usage, data up and downloads (both heavy because of the Pool node in the study), financial transactions carried out automatically in Jonah's absence, and so on. She already knew her time with Jonah so well it hurt; every trivial detail had been dredged out of her memory by hypnosis or drugs, written down by interviewers and etched into her mind a second time on reading the interviews. This was new data to add to her collection. Something, somewhere, she hoped, would reveal a hidden pattern, illuminate a detail she had overlooked, piece more fragments into a larger, coherent whole.

At first she skimmed backwards from the present, looking for irregularities. There were few, if any, to be found. The housekeeper had handled Jonah's affairs with clockwork precision after April 19, 2066. There had been no outgoing calls. His message bank contained just five unviewed recordings: one from her, the rest of little or no relevance that she could ascertain. All five had been taken within two weeks of the last human interaction with the unit.

That last movement itself was fairly innocuous. On the 19th, at 2 p.m., the external door of the unit had opened and shut once, three hours after it had previously opened. The unit had been sealed and remained undisturbed for three years thereafter. Likewise, there were
no d–mat transmissions recorded after that date. Judging by Jonah's movements, it was clear that someone else had been in the unit that afternoon. Who that person might have been, however, remained a mystery; his or her UGI had been erased from the record in accordance with Privacy laws. The only person known to have d-matted into the unit that day was Jonah himself.

She browsed through the last of the transmissions prior to then, noting when Jonah had left the unit and returned. His hours had been highly irregular, with very few periods longer than an hour or two actually spent in the unit. She recognised that behaviour from when she had known him: while on a promising trail, everything else came a distant second. Whatever he had been investigating had obviously captured his interest.

The destinations for each jump were not especially illuminating: various public locations around the world, from former Canada in the United States of America to post-fascist western Europe. As always he had been careful to prevent his route being traced through the system. When time permitted, he would use several jumps to reach a particular destination, or d-mat somewhere nearby and walk or drive the rest of the way. Nowhere in the in or out logs was there a name that looked potentially significant.

One odd detail did catch her eye: a d-mat transmission from the unit to the Science of Consciousness Applied Research labs in Delhi. This surprised her until she remembered that Jonah had been investigating a series of bomb threats prior to the explosion. Where KTI was a leader in the field of transport, SciCon was the innovator in terms of artificial intelligence, and such “soul-less” machines naturally came under the hammer of WHOLE's brand of public relations too, even though Lindsay Carlaw, one of their most prominent members, had been one of SciCon's founders. No doubt Jonah had made a trip or two to look at the scene, to see if the threats had been serious. The explosion that had taken the life of Lindsay Carlaw had occurred the very next day.

Whether SciCon had collaborated with Jonah in his attempt to investigate the threats she didn't know. SciCon's security force was renowned for being draconian, and rumoured to have been deadly on occasions, although the rumours had never been proven. The strict measures were justified on antiterrorist grounds, as well as to enforce the secrecy required to maintain its position in the avant-garde of AI technology. But Marylin shared the private belief of many in the EJC: that SciCon, despite being a theoretically “headless” corporation run on principles of democracy and joint leadership, was in practice directed by a handful of empire-builders spread throughout the ranks. These people wouldn't tolerate even the slightest incursion from the outside, and used their security force with swift ruthlessness against any perceived threat. Had Jonah constituted such a threat, he would have had no luck at all investigating the bomb-threats, despite being Lindsay Carlaw's son.

When she followed the lead of the d-mat transmission one step further, to see how quickly he had returned, she discovered that the person transmitted had
not
been Jonah. It had been Lindsay himself.

She frowned. That didn't make sense. More likely someone had altered the records or somehow attributed the transmission to Carlaw's UGI, although the latter was theoretically impossible—QUALIA checked DNA data against UGI for every transmission to prevent such fraudulent travel—and the former seemed unlikely given that not even QUALIA had managed to penetrate the defences of Jonah's housekeeper.

Lindsay Carlaw using d-mat? It just didn't ring true.

Rising from the chair, she stretched and walked the short distance to the far side of the room. Fassini was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, his legs crossed beneath him.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Not unless you think a list of his power bills for the last five years might be important.” He blinked and focussed on her. “Or how often the carpets have been cleaned.”

She considered the latter. “Is it regular?”

“Once every three months.”

“No chance the cleanings coincide with any of the murders?”

“None. The last, apart from when we took out the body, was ten weeks ago.”

“What about maintenance calls?”

“None in the time we're looking at. There was a heap of activity prior to McEwen going into deep sleep, but nothing too out of the ordinary. No stocking up on supplies, for instance.”

“Or paying bills in advance,” she said, remembering her own data.

His eyes followed her as she walked across the room, returned, and leaned against the desk.

“He's innocent,” he said.

“I don't know.”

“But it
couldn't
have been him—”

“Not this version of him, no. He was there when the apartment was sealed, three years ago. There's no way he could've got out without leaving some trace.”

“So what's the problem? He's innocent.”

“It's not that simple. Not if he copied himself and the copy committed murder. The law might regard him and his copy as a single individual since they share the same genetic code.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Jargon.”

“But it's a valid point. What if he copied himself with the
intent
to commit murder via the copy? That at the very least makes him an accessory to murder.” A thought struck her: the person who had opened the door on April 19, 2066, might have been Jonah after all. To d-mat out would have left evidence proving that a copy existed. How else could Jonah have left the apartment yet remained in the tub at the same time?

“Lots of people have thought about murder and never committed it,” Fassini persisted, playing devil's advocate with stubborn devotion.

“This is more than
thinking
about it.”

“Unless he was copied against his will. Or the copy was forced to act against its will.”

She shook her head. The whole issue was full of questions that had little bearing at that moment. Their main priority was to gather evidence and, ultimately, to apprehend the killer. What happened after that was up to the lawyers.

“Or it's all one big setup.” She closed her eyes and summoned the video feed. Jonah was on his hands and knees; not moving anywhere, just holding himself in that position as though trying to prove to himself that he could. He was like a child, self-centred and stubborn in degrees that varied from annoying to admirable.

“I still can't work out whether you're pissed at him or not,” he said.

She smiled despite herself. “To be completely honest, neither can I.”

QUALIA interrupted her before she could take the thought further.

“Marylin, you have an incoming call.”

She blinked and checked her overseer. The AI was right. The feed had kept her from seeing the flashing window. She selected it immediately, guessing it would be Whitesmith.

She was wrong.

“I hear we have a problem, Officer Blaylock,” said Jago Trevaskis, his face a dark blotch on a red background.

She unconsciously straightened, consciously cleared her workspace of any distraction. “What do you mean, sir?”

“You and Jonah McEwen have had over twenty-four hours to establish a civil working relationship, and have failed. My personal opinion is that this experiment has gone on long enough. Do you agree?”

She thought frantically. Who was she to tell the Director of the MIU what she thought of his opinion? “With respect, sir, there have been extenuating circumstances. Jonah's condition, both physical and
mental, has placed an enormous strain on proceedings to date. Our first meeting was exceedingly awkward for that reason. And this time—” She stopped, painfully aware how close she was to the precipice. There would be no excuse for insubordination with the Director of the MIU.

“Yes, Officer Blaylock?” he prompted.

To hell with it
, she thought. “This time our attempt has been hampered by an inequitable exchange of information.” She chose her words carefully, trying to minimise the damage they would do. “He gave us his data; we should reciprocate in kind. I am in the awkward position of attempting to gain his trust while representing an organisation that has lied to him and kept information from him. Is it any wonder that we're not having much luck so far?”

Trevaskis nodded. “It may surprise you to learn that I agree with you. Nor do I blame you for your failure to date. It simply seems to me to be a case of cutting our losses and trying another course of action before we lose any more time. If you and he aren't able to work together under these circumstances, then obviously it would be fruitless to try further.”

“But, sir, all you have to do is give him the file on Lindsay Carlaw and—”

“And I will be giving in to his demands. Why should I do that?
He has no power
, Marylin! It's important that he be reminded of that. And you too, it would seem.”

Marylin bit her lip, feeling a terrible disappointment bloom in her stomach. She had been given a golden opportunity both to atone for the past and to prove herself in the eyes of her employers, and she had succeeded at neither.

Then she caught herself: the game wasn't over yet. Officially, Trevaskis was only asking for her opinion, not handing down a decision. Not yet.

And besides, it wasn't
her
fault if Trevaskis put his own insecurity
ahead of the job before them. She had the feeling that she was caught in the middle of an interdepartmental power struggle.

“What have you decided to do, sir?”

He almost smiled. “As a matter of fact, I've decided to give him the file when he comes out of the unit. We'll just let him sweat a while, first.”

“He won't bargain with you again.”

“I'm not even going to try. He'll get his three hours, of which only one is left. In fact we'll
make
him take it. As of now, all links into and out of the unit have been severed apart from those that lead directly to the MIU. He can't call anyone without our knowledge and permission, and no one can call him, either. I've also overridden the isobloc's security charter, so his door won't open unless I say so. He won't like it, but that's bad luck. If he doesn't come out on schedule, I'll send in an armed response team.”

She shook her head. “Sir, I think you are overreacting—”

“Over or not, some sort of reaction is called for. If you can talk sense into him by then, maybe I'll reconsider. But I'd advise against trying. The situation down there is volatile enough without you exacerbating it any further. As of now, I'm tired of watching valuable time and resources slip through my fingers. I want results, Officer Blaylock, and I intend to get them.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. You can assume that I have Officer Whitesmith's full agreement on this. He will be arriving in
Faux
Sydney shortly, with the response team, should worst come to worst.”

“But—”

There was no point arguing. He had already gone.

But have you gone completely crazy?

She tried to call Whitesmith to see if he really did agree with Trevaskis, but he was locked in an unbreakable conversation. Out of desperation, she tried Herold Verstegen, too. He was also locked. The same conversation, she assumed. Trevaskis probably had every reason to be paranoid. Served him right, she thought. To hell with them all.

She called up the view of the unit again. Jonah would have realised by now that his lines had been cut. She couldn't let him get away from her this time. There
had
to be a way to patch things up. Not by “talking sense” via VTC, though—not with Trevaskis listening in. And the door was as good as welded shut.

Jonah raised his head. She followed his gaze and realised that he was staring at the d-mat booth. The green light was glowing in the centre of its open door.