Silhouette (8 page)

The holo flashed from one environment to another, in perfect cadence with the rhythm of the music, sometimes displaying various settings in different places at the same time. I soon realized that this particular holo was depicting a medley of moments from the life of the singer, who was alternately shown bellowing his lyrics passionately. Amid the barrage of utterly realistic images from his childhood and adolescence (Christmas gifts, a funeral, his first sexual encounter, his father yelling, etc.), the man repeatedly disappeared and reappeared on another side of me. So did the other musicians, but the one stationary feature low on the horizon of the holo was the title of the song and the name of the artist: “Remembering” by Prisoner. I had heard it before.

Fading voices calling, flashing visions passing

A spiral of time, unhindered by

Remembering

Long lost joys emerging, conquered pains returning

A bittersweet thrill, forgetting but still

Remembering

Paul reached the controls, turned it off, and motioned to the plush seat I had bumped into while taking in the show. I sat down, and he did the same in another chair, planting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“I'm supposed to be the one feeling bad,” I said to him, and he grunted, rubbing his eyes. “What's wrong?”

He shifted in his seat with his head down for a few minutes. Apparently, he was still working on whether or not he should tell me.

“You remember that I told you I was going to talk with the old man,” he finally said. I nodded. “Well, I've had some suspicions since … last night really. So I tested them today when I was talking to him about you and D.…” He rubbed his eyes some more, looking simultaneously angry, despondent, and desperate. “And
I can't believe it
 … but they've proven to be true.”

“Paul,” I said sympathetically, leaning forward. “Tell me what it is.”

After a moment, he seemed to gather enough moral courage, and looked up at me.

“I know who killed your daughter,” he said.

I jerked back, upright again, staring into his anguished eyes.

“Who?” I asked, barely a whisper.

He put his face back down in his hands, and said, “You did.”

 

7

My initial response to Paul's revelation had two very odd qualities. The first was that I immediately found myself looking around the large room, which I suppose was the result of a subconscious prompting to make sure I was really there, or that no one was watching. The high walls and ceiling were designed to hide the holo equipment in them, and the wide, flat floor was filled with rows of deluxe chairs like the one I was sitting in, capable of tilting and rotating in any direction desired by its occupant.

The other peculiarity of my nascent reaction to Paul's words was that I somehow had a feeling, in defiance of all plausibility, that they were true. This feeling was short-lived, though, because just moments later I began to wonder how they possibly could be. Paul obviously wasn't joking, however—I saw that in his eyes. And I had never seen him exhibit any signs of encroaching insanity. So I just looked at him, numbly waiting for him to explain.

“Let me start—” he said, then hesitated, digging down deep for courage again. “Let me start from the beginning.” He hesitated again. “Look, Michael. I'll be honest with you. I don't know if I should be telling you this—that's why you had to come out here, away from the walls with ears. But you're my friend, and he's gone way too far this time.” I wondered who “he” was, but just continued watching him as he talked with his head down, trying to convince himself. “Some things are just …
over the line.
I've seen too many of them, and I can't look the other way anymore.” He pulled a handkerchief out and wiped the sweat off his brow.

“Years ago,
my father
,” he said those words with tight lips, “launched a black op called Mind Lift, meaning stealing your mind or maybe improving it, or both, I don't know. The initial research and development was being done in the second lab at the cathedral—the one that's underground. The original idea was to send criminals back out into the streets, so that we could observe through them, and even use them for arrests when the time came. But soon the old man started talking about doing it to peacers. I wasn't for it, of course, so it was pulled from that lab. But I
knew
it had been transplanted somewhere else, because there was no way he was gonna just give up that kind of brainpower, not to mention all the time and money that'd already gone into it.”

“Paul,” I interrupted. “I'm not following you.”

“What part?”

“What were they developing?”

“Implants, chips. For wireless neural interface.” He pointed to the back of his head. “Jackless two-way communication with the carrier's brain. One way, to see and hear through him; the other way, to control him.” He was now pointing at the front of his head and away from it, alternately.

“Control him?”

He nodded. “You've heard of this, right?”

“I know that there were rumors of it in other countries,” I recalled. “And they had a meeting in Geneva to deal with it.”

“Right, right,” Paul said. “And it was about that time that the old man pulled it from the lab. But he moved it. He told me where back then, and even gave me limited access, but I didn't want to press him about it. My mother was sick and he was already starting to get a little crazy, cloistered up there in his dark domain. But I always wondered if he and his need-to-know goons went on with the peacer plans.”

“So did they?” I asked, the lump in my stomach becoming even more noticeable.

“Yes!” His head in his hands again. “Oh God, Michael, they did! And
I am so sorry
that I didn't find out until now. Some friend I've turned out to be…” His shoulders shook from the sobs trying to escape. A light finally went on in my mind, and the knot behind my belt turned into a stabbing pain.

“You're saying I have one of those things in my head?” I forced out, then tried to breathe. Paul looked up at me again.

“This morning, when we found out the murderer could have been someone D and your daughter both knew,” he looked down again, “and it could have been someone from BASS, I got the wild idea in my head. So when I told the old man about it, I asked him point-blank if Mind Lift had really died. He was more than evasive, man—he just stopped talking to me. I know him, Michael. That was when I knew.” He saw me shaking my head in disbelief, staring at a seat beside him, and continued.

“He's lost it, man. Ever since my mother died, it's gotten worse and worse. He has this sadistic streak, and the power has done something to him. Nobody sees him like I do, believe me, but I don't even know him anymore. For some reason he saw D as a threat; I think maybe because D found out something about the project. He was asking me some questions related to it in the last few weeks—and now he's dead.”

“You're saying,” I gasped, my head still moving back and forth, “that your father …
used me
 … to kill D? He made me do this, with some wetware in my head?” Like most people who were successful or hoped to be successful, I had vowed long ago to stay free of any such implants, because it was assumed to be a safer route to avoiding potential risks to health and privacy. And now it seemed that all the suspicions and fears were being proven true.

“Forgive me, Michael, please.”

“This isn't about
you
, Paul,” I snapped, then tried to change my tone when I saw how it stung him. “I have questions. You've got to help me with this.”

“Absolutely. We're in this together,” he said, then asked me if I wanted a drink. “This's got to be a hell of a nightmare—I can't even imagine.” I declined the drink, then asked my first question.

“How did this thing get in my head?”

“Early on, after you came,” Paul answered. “I don't know a lot of the details, but they put you out somehow, then erased the memory of it.”

“That's possible?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. You've got to realize, Michael: between what's on the hill and what we have in the Silicon Valley, BASS owns
the most
cutting-edge technology in the world. World leaders aren't kissing the old man's ass just for aerocar science, they're into this neuro stuff, too. Min isn't just a bodyguard, he's a showpiece, a floor model of a
personal
computer, with a capital
P.
He's got those two custom jackpatches behind his ear, which you can see, but he can also send and receive wireless from
inside
. What you see in your glasses, he sees without them. Neuro-optical retinal implants.”

“So if I have this in me, why can't they hear what we're saying right now?”

“Right, good question,” he said, progressing out of the self-pity mode and into one of industry. “After I talked to the old man, I knew you were busy at the Stick, so I paid a visit to the black-op lab in the valley. Like I said, I have access—but even I had to endure four checkpoints and a fake floor before I could get there. And even then, the technocreep I talked to could only tell me certain things, and show me certain things. The old man has a lot going on that even his son doesn't know, believe me.”

“What did you find at the lab?” I said, hurrying him on.

“I went under the pretense of investigating D's murder, because I knew they wouldn't tell me anything about you, or anyone else who has the chip. Hell, the guy I talked to probably didn't know himself who did it, they have so many layers of intrigue. But I asked him if they monitored the chips, and he said no, they only activate them, especially the older ones, when there's a particular job to be done or a specific memory to be accessed, erased, or whatever. He explained this, something about cost-effectiveness and the danger of seepage in the brain; I didn't understand much of it.

“But then he dropped a bomb on me: he told me that D's chip—yes, he had one, too—had been recovered by the scene techs last night and sent to him this morning. It was almost totally destroyed by the blast, but a recovery process yielded some data, including—” He reached behind him to the place on his belt where I wear my guns, as I instinctively tensed, and brought out a small datafold. He slid a tiny disk out, gripped it between finger and thumb, and waved it in front of me. “A picture of the murderer,” he finished.

When he got no reaction from me except a deer-in-the-headlights stare, he reached over to the entertainment console and inserted the disk into a special plug-in attachment, which was necessary because this kind of storage device was used only by poor people who had no wireless tech. Within seconds, one wall of the theater, like an old flatmovie screen, displayed the image. It was a slightly blurry but recognizable shot of a black figure silhouetted against a backdrop of various shades of intense light. An uninformed observer would probably never have been able to identify the perpetrator by looking at the image, but to those who knew what they were looking at, like Paul and me, there could be no doubt.

The last person Darien Anthony saw was Michael Ares.

I closed my eyes and involuntarily visualized the scene from what must have been D's perspective. The dark shape now imprinted in my mind moved closer, revealing my own features as they contacted the dim light from inside the car. I looked to the right and saw Lynette pressed up against the window, saying “Daddy! Daddy!…”

“This is the kind of evidence you were hoping for,” Paul said, gesturing to the screen and mercifully rescuing my mind from its trip to hell. “But what can you do with it? The old man may be twisted, but he's also a genius. When the investigating officer
is
the murderer, he would never suspect himself, so the crime will never be solved. If he
does
find any evidence that points to himself, he would ignore or suppress it. And you never would've even had any idea, if I hadn't poked around and been inclined to tell you.” He grunted and shook his head. “If I wasn't thinking of a way right now to put him out of his misery, I would admire the old bastard.”

“How could I have killed them when I was at the symphony with Lynn?” I asked.

“What did you do before that?” Paul asked. “Do you remember?”

“I gave Lynette to D at the castle,” I said, straining my traumatized brain.
Fading voices calling, flashing visions passing.
“Then I went to pick up Lynn at her friend's.”

“Was there enough time in there that you could have stopped at D's?”

“I don't know,” I said.
A spiral of time
 … “I'm not sure exactly when I did what. I just know I got Lynn around seven, because that's when I was supposed to pick her up.”

“Hmph.” He nodded. “Tech put the time of the murder between six and eight. By the way, had you planned ahead of time to see the Requiem, or did you decide on the spur of the moment?”

“It was after I got Lynn.”

“Hmph,” he said again, and I caught his drift. Mozart's Requiem is, of course, a Mass for the dead.
Hostias! Sanctus!
I looked up again at the silhouette on the screen, holding my eyes open this time to keep the image stationary.

“How can I get the imp out of my head?” I asked.

“You can't,” Paul answered. “In case anyone ever found out, they made it impossible to remove without the death of the carrier. The old man probably figured he could use it as leverage if any of you discovered the truth. He probably can kill you with it if he wants—that's why we need to sit on it right now and plan how to deal with him. You can't do anything reckless or impulsive, Michael. You understand that, right?”