The Resurrected Man (11 page)

“That seemed to go okay,” Fassini said as they waited for the car to arrive. “No problems extracting information, anyway.”

She just nodded, then groaned as a red light began to flash in her primary visual field.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. Hang on; I've got a call. Who is it?” she asked her overseer, using prevocals.

“Public Officer Odi Whitesmith,” responded the gender-neutral voice.

She ignored a twinge of apprehension. “Put him through.”

Whitesmith's face appeared in the window, framed by one of the cubicles of the MIU forensic lab in Artsutanov Station. “Hello, Marylin. How's it going down there?”

“Ahead of schedule. We've finished the interview.”

“Damn.” He frowned briefly. “Where are you, then?”

“Still at her address.”

“Better than nothing, I guess. Hold on for a second while I give you the latest news.”

“Okay.” She sighed inaudibly. “What is it?”

“We've sent QUALIA on a quick pass through the GLITCH archives to see if anything showed up right away.”

“And?”

“We have two hundred and seventy-five hits on Jonah's UGI.”

Her mind tripped over the number. Such searches usually took hours to find even a handful of positive matches. “There's no doubt?”

“None. In fact, there are probably ten times that number waiting to be found. Errors do occur, but not on that scale.”

“So—”

“So, Marylin, there's another Jonah McEwen loose out there, and we're hot on his heels at last.”

She was silent for a long moment as she absorbed the information. The GLITCH network existed solely to track the movement of people across the globe by means of visual triggers and Universal GLITCH Identifiers. If Jonah's new UGI had been detected, then that meant that he had been somewhere other than his unit's spa in the last three years. Two hundred and seventy-five times, at least. Evidence didn't come much harder than that. “How long until we can trace the duplicate's current location?”

“GLITCH has come up with nothing so far, but QUALIA will keep trying. Later today we hope to have an answer. All he has to do is walk into the open and he'll be picked up.”

“It can't be that easy, Odi. Why would the Twinmaker lead us to Jonah when he knew it'd be so simple for us to get hold of
him?
There must be something else, something we're not seeing.”

“You might be right. But if we're being misled, then it must be for a reason, and I for one intend to find out what that reason is.”

Something in his voice nagged at her. “Have you told Trevaskis about this yet?”

“Not yet. I will when we have some concrete data.”

“That could be a while. You're taking a risk, working without his approval—”

“How? We're still looking into his skin theory back in
Faux
Sydney. The fact that it's not getting anywhere is hardly my problem. At least
I've
made some progress, and stand to make some more very soon.” The image of his face smiled evilly. “If your little friend doesn't know anything about what's going on, I'll eat a raw steak in Thailand.”

“You're talking about Jonah, I presume.”

“Who else?”

She suppressed a sharp retort.
Your little friend.
He should have known better. “Have you started interviewing him yet?”

“Bahr's reading him his rights at the moment. I thought I'd take
the opportunity to check up on you, let you know what's going on. See what you uncovered.”

“I appreciate it, Odi, but—” Beside her, Fassini touched her elbow. The car had arrived. “We found nothing and I'm keen to get out of here. Can debriefing wait until later?”

“Debriefing can. But first I want to run something else by you, before you leave.”

Here it comes
, she thought. Fassini opened the door for her and she swung inside, putting the briefcase of equipment she hadn't even used on the floor. “Better make it quick, then.”

“Basically, I've decided to give Jonah the opportunity to assist us in the investigation.”

All thoughts of leaving suddenly vanished. She held up a hand to stop her partner as he began to program the car to return to the EJC office.

“You must be joking,” she said to Whitesmith.

“Far from it.”

“Why?”

“Lateral thinking, Marylin. Finding him like this has put everyone in a spin. We weren't expecting it. We don't know what it means. But it opens up a wealth of possibilities we've never considered before. Like putting him to work and seeing what he comes up with.”

She shook her head. “It won't work.”

“Why not? He's been involved in this sort of investigation before.”

“But that was different.”
Before.
“He could be a serial killer, Odi—”

“He
isn't. You know as well as I do there's no way he could've committed the murders himself. It's the other him we're after.”

“And you know you're only splitting hairs. Whichever one it is, how can we possibly trust him?”

“Because we have no choice. He's our closest link to the Twinmaker. There's something in him with the potential to become a psychopath. We need to know what that is and how to deal with it before someone else dies. I don't want him walking away too soon.

“And besides, Marylin, we're
not
trusting him. Far from it. We're giving him the rope to hang himself. It makes sense if you look at it that way.”

She neither agreed nor disagreed, unable for the moment to get past the thought of being that much closer to him, after so long spent first avoiding him then trying to find him.

“Do I have any say in this?” she asked.

“Not really. Not about him being involved, anyway.”

“Have you spoken to Jonah himself about it yet?”

“Not yet. Give me another five minutes and I will have.”

“He'll like it even less than me.”

“We have leverage over him. Anyway, if he wants to maintain his innocence much longer, he's going to have to give us a reason to believe him. He'd be a fool to say no.”

“Don't be so confident. He's smart enough to know that we need him, too. If you try to force him like you did last time, the two of you'll lock horns and nothing will get done.”

He nodded. “I know, now. He's like you in that respect.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Just don't
you
lose sight of the real issue here. It's not whether we treat Jonah fairly or not. It's catching the Twinmaker. Everything else is secondary. I don't know how you can even consider sticking up for him, given what he's probably been involved in.”

“I'm not sticking up for him, Odi. I just think you're taking a big gamble.”

“Hardly. He's going to be bed-bound for a couple of days yet. I don't see how much damage he can do from there.”

“Then what
good
is he going to be?”

“Come on, Marylin.” Whitesmith's tone of voice was reproving. “We'll give him someone to liaise with by VTC, maybe show him a few unimportant sites and so on. Work him into it gradually.”

She resisted the temptation to repeat her question. If they were
going to give him access to trivial data only, there was no point having him involved at all. Unless just by having him onboard Whitesmith hoped Jonah would let something slip—some apparently unimportant detail they hadn't picked up before. Which did make a kind of sense, she forced herself to concede. But that didn't get rid of the fact that he was inextricably linked to the Twinmaker; whoever liaised with him would be constantly reminded of the fact.

“If he agrees, when do you see this happening?”

“Soon. Very soon, in fact.”

“Do you have an itinerary in mind?”

“Yes.”

“And I presume you realise how hard it's going to be to find someone suitable to act as a liaison?”

“All too well. It needs to be someone who knows both the case and Jonah well enough to spot any slips. Someone I can trust to be discrete and not screw it up.”

“You're asking a lot,” she said, then went cold as the realisation of where he was headed hit home.

“Exactly,” he said. “That's why I called you.”

A translucent veil descended between her and the car, and she barely heard him ask: “How would you feel about working with him again?”

Jonah stared in disbelief at the images of the three people apparently floating in the air at the end of the bed. He had been awake barely half an hour and felt only slightly less exhausted than he had the previous times he had regained consciousness. Part of him wondered if he was dreaming again or whether QUALIA was screwing with his mind.

Work with Marylin again?
Who did they think they were kidding?

But they seemed serious enough.
Odi Whitesmith had outlined the suggestion concisely and with no undue drama. Then Stephanie Bahr, the MIU's in-house legal adviser, had backed him up, stating flatly that the EJC could make charges of data fraud stick, given that Jonah's UGI logged him outside his apartment in
Faux
Sydney. That would enable them to hold him in custody until the source of the discrepancy, his copy, had been located and dealt with. The matter of his obligation to assist the EJC in his capacity as a licensed Private Investigator (dues paid until 2075) didn't come up, although they must have been as aware of it as he was; no doubt they were saving that for later, should he prove to be difficult.

There was no mention, either, of charging him with murder. He had wondered what the legal situation was for a serial killer who, technically, left his victims alive and unharmed. He guessed this was his answer: under the current law, an offence would not be recognised. Murder had become, in this case, a victimless crime.

The third person, Herold Verstegen, had remained silent for the most part, except to reinforce the MIU's policy when needed. Jonah hadn't been told what his position was, but the deference of Whitesmith and Bahr to him suggested that he was superior in rank to them. If Verstegen thought the plan was workable then there was a fair chance the MIU was serious.

QUALIA had already hinted at the possibility of him helping them catch himself, and he could understand why his input might be needed. But to let him actively investigate the case—with Marylin—smacked of last resort, of desperation.

He was perversely amused by the unexpected reversal of the situation, but was too weak to revel in anything yet, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy and strapped to the bed as he was. He still had a long way to go before he could feel confident of his future. The station security guards standing outside the door to his room and the medical attendant hovering out of sight behind the bed were a constant reminder of that.

“Okay,” he said, speaking via his new prevocal implants. “I'll do it on one condition: that you give me the EJC file on my father's death.”

Verstegen brushed away a lock of thin, blond hair that had drifted into his eyes. Big-boned and wide-faced, he looked out of place in his habitat suit, despite the typically pale skin of a station occupant. The background to his image was blurry; he could have been anywhere.

“I don't think that's particularly relevant,” he said, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a big man.

“I don't care what you think. It's what I want. And if this arrangement ends up being long-term, I'm going to need time to look into the file properly.”

“You plan to reopen the case?” Whitesmith asked, surprise showing on his lean, cola-coloured features. “After three years?”

“I'm not planning anything and I won't until I see what the inquest found. If it tells me everything I need to know, if the investigators did their job properly, then I won't need to do anything at all.”

“It still seems pointless. What difference could it possibly make now?”

“To my peace of mind, plenty. ‘Now' for me is still three years ago, don't forget. My father's been dead less than two days.”

“So you keep saying.” Verstegen folded his arms and turned to the other two. The elastic fabric of the habitat suit emphasised the rounded cast to his shoulders.

“Can we get the file?” Whitesmith asked Bahr.

“I don't see why not.” The lawyer, too, looked uncomfortable in free-fall, but at least she had common sense enough to keep her brown hair short. “Unless it's been sealed for security reasons or contains speculation that might influence a case still under trial, it should be available to us.”

“How soon?”

“Twenty-four hours at most.”

“And the cost?

“A basic retrieval fee. It'd be free if we could prove we needed it.”

Whitesmith nodded. His eyes met Jonah's. “It's settled, then. We'll get the file for you if you help us track down the Twinmaker.”

“I'll do my best,” he said. “But I can't guarantee anything. You do understand that?”

“Yes. As long as you're cooperative, we'll keep things as they are. We'll return you to full health and mobility and keep the Earth Justice Commission off your back.”

“They know about this?”

“Of course. KTI pays our bills, but the MIU is still a subordinate department of the EJC. Director Trevaskis reports to Chief Commissioner Disario just like any other department head. In this case, however, the information goes no lower than her.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like information restriction to me.”

“Of course it is,” said Verstegen. “The KTI network covers eighty percent of the world's landmass and is still spreading. The combined economy of the solar system—including those states that still oppose d-mat on ideological grounds—depends on its presence. Any loss of confidence in the network would be catastrophic, no?”

Jonah took a moment to consider what Verstegen was saying. His thoughts were still sluggish and his powers of deduction remained unreliable. But he could see that KTI had expanded significantly since his last memory, when the d-mat network had encompassed just forty percent of the world's market and had a toehold on maybe another twenty percent. Given a practically unlimited energy supply and few barriers to trade, the world had embraced d-mat technology with open arms.

For the most part, anyway.

“If WHOLE gets hold if this information, you mean.”

Verstegen half-smiled, emphasising the deep lines around his mouth and eyes. “There are other groups who could use the existence of the Twinmaker to promote their cause. Quebec is still isolationist,
for instance, along with the United Arab Emirate, and Tasmania. Any of these governments would jump at the opportunity to level the playing field.”

“So the Twinmaker can't belong to any of these groups,” Jonah said, letting his intuition speak. “Otherwise it
would
be public knowledge.”

“Or his activities are not known to them.”

“Either way, then, he's a loner.”

“That is what the profilers predict.”

So what's your point?
Jonah wanted to ask. Something told him that there was more Verstegen wanted to say. It was in his body language or the tone of his voice, or some other subtle indicator; Jonah couldn't decide what made him suspicious, but he was sure he was right. His instincts couldn't have been that scrambled.

Something about him rang a bell, but he couldn't pin it down.

Selecting a private channel, he asked: “QUALIA, who
is
Verstegen?”

“Herold Locke Verstegen is Director of Information Security, Kudos Technologies Incorporated.”

“So he doesn't work for the MIU?”

“No, although the MIU has liaised closely with his department in recent months.”

“Who has seniority then? Verstegen or the Director of the MIU?”

“Neither. The positions are independent of each other.”

But in interpersonal terms, Jonah bet, Verstegen pulled the strings.
KTI pays our bills
, Whitesmith had said. And as far as Verstegen was concerned, KTI came first; the legality of its operations was a lesser priority. Sometimes it truly was best to fight fire with fire; from Verstegen's perspective the MIU and its team of investigators and lawyers, all bound to EJC guidelines, could not be an entirely effective means to combat the Twinmaker. Hence Verstegen's opinion that there was potentially more to the Twinmaker than the MIU's profilers could offer. He wanted Jonah to follow his own leads, wherever they took him, rather than toe the EJC line.

Jonah was relieved to think there was someone who might back him up if he came head-to-head with Whitesmith again. But was it that simple? Could Verstegen really be that desperate? If so, then why the hell didn't he just hire a PI off the streets to do the dirty work the MIU couldn't?

Whitesmith didn't give him time to consider the question further. “To start with, you'll relay through Marylin while we monitor the exchange in parallel. We've missed the interview with the latest victim, but you'll be able to review it with her while it's still fresh in her mind.”

“What about the background?”

“QUALIA has the files pertaining to the murder; you will have access to them if you need detailed information about the crime itself.”

“Will I have access to the file on
me?
”

“We're leaving that up to Marylin.”

“Why?”

“It contains several statements she made under oath regarding the nature of your relationship with her, plus transcripts of interviews conducted under hypnosis.”

There goes that idea.
Far from handing it to him on a platter, Jonah knew that Marylin would fight until she dropped to keep that information restricted.

“Marylin's agreed to do this?” he asked.

“We would hardly proceed if she had not.” Verstegen's eyes were coldly amused at the question, and the answer seemed to give him a deep sense of satisfaction that Jonah could only guess at.

“I'd be interested to know what she thinks about it.”

“You can ask her yourself,” Whitesmith said.

“Not on your life.”

“She feels a lot of resentment,” observed QUALIA, the smooth voice sounding only via postauditory channels.

“To me?” Jonah asked. “I'm the one who was dumped.”

“She has never said anything about regretting her decision.”

“I'll bet she hasn't.”

“It's an interesting contradiction,” QUALIA concluded, “and one I am at a loss to explain.”

“Do you believe that you and Officer Blaylock will be able to maintain sufficient emotional detachment?” Verstegen asked.

Jonah gave the question careful consideration. It had always been a rush coming head-to-head with Marylin, and disharmony had been part of the formula, but he would never tell Verstegen that. “Yes, I think so.”

“Obviously we cannot expect immediate results.”

“Obviously,” Jonah replied, thinking,
You smart bastard.
He felt as though he was floundering already.

The in-house lawyer stirred. “Would you like me to sit in on this?” she asked.

“You aren't required to,” Verstegen said. “Just make certain you obtain the file on Lindsay Carlaw. Have it downloaded into Officer Whitesmith's overseer the moment it arrives.”

Bahr nodded stiffly, realising that she'd been dismissed. “Of course. I'll get onto it straightaway.”

Jonah inched his body into a more comfortable position. He could feel very little from the neck down, but knew that he had been immobile too long. He was already restless. VTC wasn't the same as getting out of bed, but it was a start.

He would do it. He had no choice.

“You'll be looking at the exterior of the latest victim's home,” Whitesmith said. “Marylin's there right now with Officer Fassini, one of our field agents. We can start any time you're ready.”

“I'm as ready as I'll ever be,” he said, mustering a certainty he didn't really feel. “Let's get it over with.”

The medical attendant moved forward to ensure that his various attachments were in place. Verstegen's face remained animated during
the procedure; Whitesmith's had frozen, obviously maintained by AIs while he conferred in private elsewhere.

The nurse moved away after a moment.

“QUALIA, dear,” Verstegen said, “please open the link to Officer Blaylock.”

“Yes, sir. The link is open.”

Before Jonah had time to consider that brief exchange—
dear?—
Verstegen's face vanished along with the others, and the room. The darkness of empty VTC took their place.

An image of a gold, antique wristwatch appeared out of nowhere, glinting in bright sunlight. The second hand inscribed a quarter turn from seven to ten, then:

“It's
buli
time. Welcome to the show, Mister McEwen.”

Jonah heard the voice, saw the lips move on the man who had spoken, but couldn't assimilate the two sensory inputs into one coherent experience; it was like watching an old film with out-of-sync sound. Even as he tried to concentrate, a wave of dislocation swept through him. He was lying in a bed in a hospital in a space habitat in geostationary orbit—but at the same time he was on the other side of the world, inside somebody else's head.

He felt confused, overwhelmed—worse than he had on his first relay VTC. He hadn't expected it to be this bad. To make matters worse, the world suddenly swept through one hundred and eighty degrees as his borrowed eyes turned to face the opposite direction. He thought he might be sick.