Silhouette (24 page)

“All that's actually been proven is that communication of existing thought can happen between parts of the brain and cyberware, for the purpose of information exchange and manipulation of equipment by the brain, but not the other way around, except for the most rudimentary stimulation of the senses. No one's been able to actually create thought or cause complex action, which leads me to my second reason—”

“Paul mentioned something,” I interrupted. “About a ‘bridge' in the brain linking the parts.” He nodded in response, and turned slightly toward the closed door to Paul's room, as if he was remembering that his son was on the other side of it.

“He knows much more about it than I do,” was his answer. “As I told you, it was
his
thing, not mine. But I know it's nothing more than theory at this point, which leads me to—”

“What about Geneva?” I interrupted again, and he nodded again.

“The reason for Geneva was primarily the danger of ‘mind reading,' which is possible with the tech we have, rather than the more theoretical ‘mind control.' But they did go on to discuss the ethics of the latter, because of certain assumptions that I don't share, but which have to do with my second reason why what they fear will probably never happen.” He paused and looked at me.

“What's your second reason?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” he said with the wry smile and a little laugh. He seemed happier than I'd ever seen him before, like a crushing load he always carried had been lifted from his back.

“It's all based on a naturalistic misconception about human nature,” he explained. “The brain doesn't determine what the brain does, as if we are merely physical beings. The mission-control center in Homo sapiens is the
mind
, otherwise known as the heart, the soul, the spirit, very subtle mind, jiva, et cetera. Choices of the will, meditation, conscience, worship, metaphysical desires—things like that all start with this immaterial part of us, which directs the brain, not the other way around … so you can't force someone to do something by manipulating their brain. The brain stores information which can be read or impaired, and bodily senses can be stimulated and simulated through it … so you could make it a lot harder for the mind or soul to make certain choices, maybe, but you can't
make
it decide something. No human being can, anyway.”

“What do you mean, ‘no human'? Are you talking about aliens now?”

“Well, if there was a being or beings whose realm was the spirit, or who were powerful spirits themselves,” that wry smile again, “maybe they could.”

Watching his eyes widen as he spoke of the supernatural, I found myself growing more wary and tense again. Then he shifted his weight slightly and rested both hands on the top of his cane, and both of mine gripped the boas tighter as I realized why I had been subconsciously concerned about the walking stick. If what Paul had told me was true, then the old man himself might have implants that could trigger the chip in my head, or he might need external controls to do so. And the cane, being close to him at all times, would be ideal for such a purpose. I tried not to stare at the slight movements of his fingers or let paranoia overtake me, because he might have been merely adjusting his grip on the handle. But I imagined him manipulating a button and turning off my brain, or exploding it with another, and I made sure my index fingers were resting on my own triggers, in case the unthinkable occurred and I needed to take him with me.

“Is this a religious, a Christian thing?” I asked him.

“Not exclusively. Most early humanists were not naturalistic, and the basic idea of free will is something that's pretty popular with atheists and agnostics, too. I'll admit that I find the Edwardian explanation quite compelling, but that's rather obscure now … very few orthodox Christians are welcomed to the academic table these days, at least in the English-speaking world.” He took his left hand off the cane again and scratched his ear with it, and my soldier/cop instincts told me this slight movement might be a diversion, so I fixed my eyes on the top of the black stick until he was done. But he continued talking without event. “Actually, most of the best work in this century has been done by Buddhists … the Dalai Lamas have been partnering with neuroscientists since the 1990s to prove the ‘elasticity' of the brain, as they call it. Meditation practices can reshape the pathways of the brain … it's been documented time and again. No, Christianity is not the only worldview that elevates the mind over the brain.” At this point he ruminated for a few seconds, then added, “Huh, ironic … There's the real mind lift, I think.”

I stared at him, still holding the boas in front of me and trying to decide whether or not I needed to understand what he was talking about.

“You know I have killer rounds loaded in both of these,” I said, nodding toward the guns. “I assure you that if you did something to my brain, they would still go off.” I then nodded toward his cane, trying to appear much more sure about what I said than I actually was. Saul also looked down and nodded at the cane. Then I added, “Or do you have an implant yourself?” and directed my gaze back to his gray head.

“You
are
a decent detective, Michael,” he said with another indecipherable smile. “And not far from the truth on both counts.” His eyes looked down to the cane, then up toward his forehead.

My fingers pressed harder on the warm plasteel of the triggers.

“But I assure
you
,” the old man continued, “that I could do no such thing, and would not, because I now believe that you will be our true peacer.” His words puzzled me, but they felt genuine enough for me to loosen up a little. Only a little, though.

“Did my son tell you these lies about me?” he asked.

“Your son is my friend,” I answered.

“Yes…” he said with a sigh. “And he is my son. But that does not leave me blind to his … weaknesses.

“Paul is two people, Michael,” he continued. “One on the outside, and another on the inside.”

“Aren't we all?” I said.

“No, not like him. You and I have dual natures, in a way, but we are both good and bad on the inside. They struggle against each other. But my son surrendered to the bad long ago, and he merely presents morality, compassion, loyalty, and friendship on the outside, to gain the power that he craves. There is a difference. He has no conscience—one of those faculties of the soul I mentioned—or his conscience has become thoroughly calloused. My responsibility, I must admit … God knows I've had to make many hard decisions, but I've never assumed they were right, and I know some were very wrong.

“‘It's good to be the king,' people say, but actually it's
hard
to be the king. Paul doesn't think in these terms at all, however; he just wants to rule. I realized this about him in recent years, about the same time I found out that I was dying. So I knew I had to do something about the future of BASS.”

“You're dying?”

“I have a tumor in my brain.” He nodded. “And out of over three hundred fifty types of cancer that have been identified, this is one of the dozen or so they still cannot treat effectively.” He shook his head and exhaled a tired laugh. “And not long ago I realized that it would be a crime against the world if I left my son in charge of all this, though I do love him dearly. I began the process of rearranging my testamentary orders, so that the company would be decentralized upon my death. I was about to make you and Darien the primary officers, as soon as I was sure of your qualifications.” I wondered what he meant by that last part, while he looked over at Paul's door, as if expecting the younger Rabin to emerge at any time. “Unfortunately, my son found out about my plans, and he's been trying to stop them.” He lowered his head in shame, sadness, or both.

“So you're saying that Paul killed them?” I asked, and putting it into words made my legs feel weaker beneath me and the guns heavier in my hands.

“Once you jettison this ‘neurocide' nonsense,” he answered, “who else could have pulled it off?”

“So he's framing me for the murder,” I said, more a statement than a question, because the truth had now fully dawned on me.

Images flickered through my mind, of Paul affirming his friendship over the years. Of Paul calling me the night Lynette died. Of Paul assuring me that we would find the killer. Of Paul telling me about the neurochip and the death image. Of Paul convincing me that the old man was responsible, and had lost it completely. Of Korcz saying that someone high up in BASS was rotten. Of Paul explaining how we had to quickly destroy his father, one way or another. Of Lynn questioning his word, and refusing to believe the worst about the older Rabin. Of Kim lying dead on the street. Of Paul contriving for me to be here, right now, so that I might take my “revenge.”

“And he planned to kill both of us tonight,” I finished.

“And I still do,” came Paul's voice from behind the door as it was opening. I swung both of my guns around and locked them on the big man, who held two of his own and walked calmly toward us. “I was waiting and hoping,
Michael
, that you would put the old man out of his misery for me.” He spat my name, like I had never heard it from him before. “But all you did was talk … and talk and talk … even a million-dollar drug couldn't diffuse your sickening limey loyalty, I suppose.”

“You put it in my drink at the ranch,” I said.

“Yeah, I bought it from a very happy Czech on the Continent. It's supposed to cause an initial fit of rage, and then raise your aggression level for about a week. Their military uses it. But obviously it didn't work as well as I'd hoped.” He stopped the same distance from both of us, making a triangle.

“Oh, it worked,” I said. “Only now I want to kill
you.
”

“Good luck,” he said, smiling broadly, and for the first time I noticed that the air around his body was shimmering.

He was wearing one of the experimental shields, and now I was completely sure that I would be dying tonight.

 

22

“But the drug didn't have to work, you see,” Paul continued, proud of his devious machinations, and obviously able to put us away in his own good time. “They'll find it in your body, and assume that you took it to prepare yourself for more murder and mayhem, which will fit the profile I've constructed.”

“Which is?” I asked, glad that he was talking while I frantically tried to figure a way out of this.

“You're already under suspicion for murdering your superior, since I leaked a hint of that and the video clip to Harris. Even the
possibility
that you killed your own daughter to get ahead makes you look like a monster, or at least highly unstable. And why stop with Darien? Why not take out the Rabins as well? Chinatown security scanned your card today, and the cameras at Cyber Hole recorded you asking them when our bodyguard would be gone, with no official authorization. And beyond all that, I have a film of you from my home theater saying, ‘I just killed three people, including my own daughter.'” He smiled even bigger at me. “You're history, man.”

“Why would you do this, Paul?” the old man broke in, though his sad eyes said that he already knew the answer.

“Because like you said, I'm not going to let you take away my chance to be king.” I wondered if he meant king of the Bay Area or king of the world, but I supposed that both would be true of the man who inherited BASS. “I grew tired of living in your shadow a long time ago, and then you bring in these two pretty boys to upstage me more. You
must know
what everyone, big or little, says about Paul Rabin: ‘If the Mayor wasn't his father…'

“I'm taking no more of that,” he finished. “Every knee will bow.”

“Did you kill D and the kids yourself?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, and I winced involuntarily. “The kids weren't a part of the original plan—they were just there when the best time came around. But we can't have witnesses, of course.” He felt my glare, and added, “But if you hadn't dropped your daughter off that night, maybe she wouldn't be dead. So maybe you did kill her after all.”

“And Kim?” I asked, ignoring his taunts.

“Who?”

“Kim, the tech we chased in the city.”

“Oh, yeah. I sent a message to him that he knew too much and we were coming to kill him. That's why he ran. You almost did him in yourself when I told you the wrong fingers for the bird … that would have been even better, but at least you were seen all over the city chasing him, so if someone had to be tagged for his murder, it could be you. Then, when I found him, I slammed into him with the falcon when he was near the front of the trolley, and now he's resting in pieces.” He shrugged apologetically for the joke. “But that was
really
fun. I've been wanting to do this kind of stuff for years, and those acting classes sure paid off. You were so snowed…”

“You obviously haven't turned on the cameras up here,” I said.

“Give that man another degree!” he said sarcastically. “But enough talk. Now we're going to have a good old-fashioned gunfight, though it'll be somewhat one-sided. At the end, you'll both be dead—my beloved father and his killer, who I tried to stop.”

I noticed for the first time that his two guns were boas, like mine, to make sure the ordnance evidence would not be an issue.

“I may even wound myself, for effect,” he said with a shrug. “I haven't decided yet.”

He waved the guns around for a moment, deciding whom to shoot first, then pointed one at each of us. “Goodbye, old man,” he said to Saul.

“Goodbye, Paul,” said the gray-haired man, and then made his move in an explosion of motion that was remarkably fast for a man of any age—especially his. He simultaneously threw his cane at Paul and jumped in front of me, clasping my shoulders in his hands and carrying me to the floor. Saul yelled, “Go, Michael!” as Paul instinctively fired both boas at our falling figures. As we neared the floor, I felt the impact of several bullets on the old man's body and was sprayed with blood from at least one exit wound, but I was not hit myself. Paul got off only a few rounds in this initial flurry, because Saul's cane had begun spraying a heavy gas while it was still in the air. From where I now lay, behind the old man's limp body, I saw the shielded man staggering back, unsure whether the gas would affect him.