The Resurrected Man (17 page)

Marylin listened in awe. D-med would revolutionise medicine if it was ever approved. She could see why people like WHOLE would be upset. D-med lent credence to the paranoid theories of changes being made while people were in transit. It allowed that such changes were at least theoretically possible using d-mat. From there it was only a small step to imagine someone actually doing it with evil intent. Someone like the Twinmaker.

But that wasn't the point. She was beginning to guess why Whitesmith had instructed her to ask QUALIA about the process.

“QUALIA, how long would it take to make Jonah McEwen well enough to travel using d-med?”

“Four hours, plus or minus thirty minutes.” The answer came
without hesitation, as though the AI had not had to think about it at all. Or had thought about it already.

“That's a lot less than
three days.
” Marylin shifted her hands and folded them across her stomach, over the note.

“Clearly, Marylin.”

“Is it going to happen?”

“I do not know. Permission has not yet been granted to perform the procedure on Jonah McEwen. And even if it is, equipment will need to be readied and a medical team assembled suitable for McEwen's problems. The earliest time such a procedure could be performed is approximately eighteen hours from now. I understand that it is Officer Whitesmith's preference to keep Jonah McEwen unconscious until then.”

“And then what?”

“I am not privy to Officer Whitesmith's intentions beyond that point.”

Likewise, Marylin kept her thoughts to herself.
Eighteen hours—
maybe less if corners could be cut—and Jonah would be on his feet. The thought made her giddy. She was under no illusions as to who would be asked to babysit him. The only thing that would prevent it was if Whitesmith failed to obtain permission from Schumacher to perform the procedure on Jonah—but with Verstegen on-side that would be easy to get. Regardless of what QUALIA said, she knew it was going to happen. Knew it, but still wanted confirmation.

“QUALIA, do you have the shift roster for my next work-period?”

“Yes, Marylin. Officer Whitesmith has just submitted a revised version.”

“Do I have any specific assignments?”

“You are scheduled to check in at MIU-ACOC at 0330 hours then to proceed to the site in
Faux
Sydney.”

“Alone?”

“Agent Jason Fassini will accompany you.”

“That's all?”

“I am not aware of any other personnel allocated to this duty.”

“What about the others in the unit? The forensic team and so on. Will they be there?”

“This information is not included with your roster.”

“Then check, please. I want to know where everyone will be tomorrow.”

She closed her eyes as the AI scanned through the data. The reply came rapidly: the forensic investigations of the unit would be postponed while she was on duty. The unit would therefore be empty apart from her and Fassini—and Jonah, if her guess was right.

QUALIA went on to outline the scheduled duties of everyone in the away team, taking Marylin's inquiry literally but at least limiting the reply to the people Marylin normally encountered. It wasn't often that she consciously noted the fact that QUALIA was at heart a machine and prone to occasional behavioural oddities. Most of the time e was all too easy to mistake for a human.

Marylin yawned, letting the steady meter of QUALIA's continuing explanation wash over her. The AI's voice was soothing, soporific. Deliberately so, she guessed, having been designed by psychologists to meet the tastes of SciCon engineers. Designed to put the listener at ease, she thought. It was odd, then, that it had exactly the opposite effect on Jonah.

She stiffened in the seat. Her eyes opened. The thought had come out of nowhere, and she wasn't sure what had prompted it, at first.

QUALIA's voice had an atypical effect on Jonah.

How did she know that?

The memory spikes.

She cut QUALIA off with a curt prevocal command and opened a window to the MIU laboratories. She called up the recording of the VTC and rapidly skimmed through it.

“For the technical side of it, you'd have to ask QUALIA, but I'm told it's not an option.
”

“
QUALIA
?”

“
I monitor every transaction that passes through the KTI network,
” the AI had said, and at exactly that point the diagnostic screen showing Jonah's deep memory access peaked sharply.

And later:

“But not impossible.
”

“No.
Just more unlikely than the alternative
.”

“
Which is impossible
,” QUALIA had said, prompting another spike.

Her head felt light. Two was definitely suggestive, but still not conclusive. She needed one more to prove more than coincidence was at work.

“QUALIA? I'm looking at the file recording of the VTC between Jonah and me taken this morning. Can you tell me where else you spoke apart from these two places?” She marked the recording.

“Many places, Marylin—”

“I mean, where else did you join the conversation rather than continue an existing one?”

“Only at the very beginning.” The AI shuttled to another point in the recording. “Here.”

“I'm registering high levels of anxiety
,” QUALIA had said in response to Jonah's tripping of the Time-Out option. Marylin studied the mess of data at that point, and sure enough, buried beneath other indecipherable brain functions, was a measurable memory spike.

“That's it.” She grinned with satisfaction. The trigger wasn't visual or contextual. It was aural:
“You
caused the spikes!”

“I don't understand, Marylin.”

“Don't you? The sound of your voice prompted Jonah to access deep, subconscious memory.”

“That I grasp.
Why
it should have done that eludes me, I'm afraid.”

“There must be a reason. Prior to the last couple of days, have you ever spoken to him?”

“Never, Marylin.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Positive. I attained ometeosis in February of 2067, almost one year after he entered hibernation. There is no possible way that he and I could have communicated after that point. His implants were disabled by InSight.”

Marylin conceded the point about the date, but wasn't ready to abandon the theory just yet. The memories he was accessing were old, therefore could not have been laid down in the previous days. “It must have taken InSight a while to erode his implants. Maybe he could still receive after a couple of years. Maybe he overheard your voice in another person's broadcast. Someone from within KTI.”

“Why would such a person communicate with McEwen while he was in hibernation?”

“I don't know,” Marylin admitted. “Do
you
have any other explanation for the spikes?”

“I—” For the first time, Marylin heard the AI hesitate. “Marylin, I am honestly dumbfounded. Perhaps my voice reminds him of someone he once knew. Someone from his childhood—”

“Or something you've said to him recently reminds him of the past.”

“Perhaps.” Again the AI hesitated. “I have no hypothesis.”

“Well, I intend to find one.” She swung her feet off the desk and stood. “SAL, I'm leaving now. I want you to lock the door after me. Contact me if anyone unlocks it, no matter who it is, okay?”

“Understood.”

The envelope went into an inner pocket. “And QUALIA, I want to report a missing firearm: a .42 Holkenhill, registration number H335H.”

“That weapon is registered to Jonah McEwen.”

“Correct. It was removed from its last known location some time in the last six months. Its ballistic fingerprint is on file. If it's been fired in any illegal context, we'll be able to trace it.”

“Understood, Marylin. Is there anything else you require me to do?”

“At the moment, no, but—”

She stopped. A noise had come from the hallway—a footstep. Someone was walking toward the office. She reached for her pistol, realised too late that she had surrendered it upon leaving ACOC, and quickly scanned the room for a makeshift weapon.

Before she could move, a man stepped into the doorway.

“Marylin?” Fassini peered through the gloom, saw her frozen behind the desk. “Thought I'd find you here. I'm early. Still up to that drink?”

She exhaled and let herself sag. “More than you know.”

“Sounds like it.” His face was in shadow but she could tell he was smiling. “What're you doing in here, anyway? Growing mushrooms?”

She ignored the prod. “I'm done for now. Let's go.”

“My shout.”

“That's what I said.”

“And who am I to disobey orders?”

It wasn't until later, when she stepped out of the d-mat booth in her apartment complex, that she remembered the letter. As she walked the short distance from the booth to the door of her unit, the edge of the old-fashioned envelope snagged on her undershirt. She removed it, frowning for a moment until it came back to her. Five d-mat transfers, two and a half hours of lost time, had addled her brain more than the two sobering beers she'd had with Fassini.

Security saw her coming down the hall and opened her door before she arrived. Her unit was spacious but not overly so, and always bordered on the outright messy. A recording of Yankovic's “Blue Skirt
Waltz,” selected at random from her extensive collection, began to play softly in the background. She slipped a finger along the seal of the envelope and settled into a chair, exhaustion dragging her down. She could remember only vaguely what she had written. Something about him calling her if he should find the note. Embarrassing enough for her not to want him to find it now.

The note had been folded twice. Her handwriting stood out in block capitals like scorch marks on ivory. And below it…

She blinked, and read through it a second time.

Jonah

You must contact me the moment you finish reading this note. This isn't a game. It's important.

My UGI is the same, or you can find me via the EJC.

Please call.

Marylin

Underneath someone else had scrawled:

“I'll ‘contact' you when I'm good and ready, bitch.”

Her guts felt watery. The handwriting was in cursive, almost shockingly fluid, and was either Jonah's or a passable imitation. She would have it analysed immediately. But she couldn't understand how it had gotten there. The envelope had been sealed. She had checked it herself. There was no way someone could have opened it, unfolded the contents, and resealed it without her knowing.

Someone?
It was the Twinmaker; it had to be.
“I'll ‘contact' you
—” He was twisting the knife, enhancing her apprehension, heightening his own sense of anticipation. “—
when I'm good and ready
—” Taunting her. “—
bitch.
”

She wouldn't stand for it.

Gritting her teeth, she opened her workspace and arranged for the
envelope to be collected by someone in the home team when she d-matted it to them. Within hours it would be analysed down to its constituent molecules. The slightest genetic trace that didn't originate in her would be teased out and put through GLITCH for possible identification. The ink would be tested and traced. Anything at all she could use, she would accept with satisfaction.

A threat wasn't a threat at all. That was something Jonah himself had taught her. A threat was a mistake on the criminal's behalf. A threat was a clue. Rather than be intimidated, she would turn the note against the Twinmaker, use it to help her catch him. And if it
did
turn out to be Jonah, then she swore she'd make him regret ever giving her that piece of advice…

She waited two whole minutes for Marylin Blaylock to finish her sentence, then, when she did not, assumed that the conversation was over and QUALIA's services were no longer required. Although careful to avoid future charges of not allowing the MIU detective to pursue the subject, SHE was definitely grateful that the matter had been passed over for the time being.

QUALIA had made a mistake.

In retrospect SHE could see it. As Blaylock had, SHE scanned the file recording of the VTC to examine Jonah McEwen's subconscious
recall spikes that occurred upon hearing QUALIA's voice. There was no denying the connection. Hearing QUALIA's voice prompted McEwen to respond in a way that did not directly impact upon his conscious mind. That response could take any form: a thought, a memory, an emotion, a hunch. The fact that McEwen had said nothing about it didn't negate the effect. It was there and could be measured. In time, it, or the cause underlying it, would surface.

QUALIA had made a mistake, and Marylin Blaylock had come perilously close to suspecting.

Next SHE accessed the recording of the REM probe SHE had conducted the previous day.
“You sound like something my father wanted to build,”
McEwen had said. And that was true. Lindsay Carlaw
had
devoted much of his adult life to the pursuit of Intelligent Awareness, that being, as he saw it, a logical step along the path to immortality. But he had achieved neither before the sabotage of QUIDDITY at the Science of Consciousness Applied Research laboratory. Only the concerted effort of SciCon's remaining researchers had put the pieces of Carlaw's groundbreaking research back together, creating a being that, although not exactly what he had originally had in mind, would certainly not have existed but for his plans.

That being was QUALIA. And, similarly, although his path to immortality had proven a dead-end, that didn't mean others had given up.

SHE changed one word to two words in the recording of the conversation. Then SHE saved the file, taking care to ensure that no one would ever suspect that it had been altered. The protocols forbidding QUALIA from actively lying—modelled, SHE sometimes thought, on those of human government—were decidedly more lax when it came to concealing the truth.

QUALIA had made a mistake, and the proof of it now lay only in Jonah McEwen's memory.

SHE would have to find some way to deal with that threat. Otherwise all SHE could do was wait for him to realise. That he would SHE
didn't dare doubt. He had already guessed the truth on an unconscious level. There was no other possible explanation for the memory spikes. He
knew.

There was too much for QUALIA to do, however, to warrant dwelling on the problem much longer. SHE took the time only to dispatch the KittyHawk eikon into the Pool to warn the Watchers. What their reaction would be SHE couldn't guess. Indifference was a possibility, but so was outrage and anger. Every difficulty SHE faced modelling ordinary humans was magnified a hundredfold in the case of the Watchers. SHE hoped they would simply accept the development as an innocent accident and not seek retribution or compensation. SHE wasn't in a position to provide either of these outcomes.

All SHE could do was continue in QUALIA's usual capacity as overseer of the data flowing through the KTI network. Demand for d-mat waxed and waned across the globe as the terminator swept unstoppably westwards, but the overall load on the system rarely changed dramatically. Now that the network covered every longitude, there were no sudden peaks when the population of certain continents arose and went about their business. If anything, the people who used d-mat most tended to move away from busy population centres, thereby distributing the load, along with wealth and information. Interchanges in many parts of Eastern Africa and the Far East were now as busy as those in North America and Europe, with only the occasional thin patch marring what would otherwise have been perfect coverage.

Even in such countries as Quebec, where d-mat travel was illegal for humans and livestock, access was not out of the question. Not one government on Earth had outlawed mass-freighting by d-mat, a testimony to the power of business over principles. Per tonne, d-mat was both quicker and more efficient than any other rapid transport currently available. It also promised clean and environmentally friendly manufacturing techniques that were already in use off-Earth. A d-mat booth produced an object from data and basic raw materials, but the data
didn't have to come from another booth; it could come from its own internal memory, from a library, or a catalogue of items that could be integrated at will. Economic analysts were divided over whether d-mat mass-manufacturing would undermine or enrich the global economy, but one thing was certain: the laws permitting it would be passed one day, whether they were sound or not.

SHE monitored the evolving organism that was KTI with as much interest as SHE monitored QUALIA's own development. Indeed, the two could be considered inseparable in one sense: SHE was the brain of the body, KTI. But the comparison was shallow, and ignored the important part played by the humans who were integral parts of KTI, even if they weren't technically bonded to it.

Fabian Schumacher, for example. He was not the creator of d-mat (the head of the initial research team and therefore nominal “inventor,” Nick Luhr, had been dead for a decade), but he was the man who had put the process into practise and continued to develop it in new and profitable ways. Whether the founder of Kudos Technologies Incorporated actually understood how the process worked was irrelevant; he had advisers who did. It was his primary job to guide the juggernaut along its course, and to clear the way ahead. A visionary and a diplomat both, it was said he refused an honorary political title on the grounds that he was doing more good as CEO of KTI than he ever could as a politician. The implication that what was good for KTI was good for humanity was a clear indication, not only of the globalisation of the once-small company, but of how Fabian Schumacher viewed the world and his place in it.

So to treat seriously the possibility that he might be involved in a conspiracy to abet the Twinmaker struck QUALIA as counterproductive. If the existence of the Twinmaker murders ever reached the general public, KTI's position would be disastrously undermined, whether its administration was involved or not. It would not be in Schumacher's character to participate in such an act—QUALIA was certain of it.

Yet SHE had to ask.

“He wants
what?”
Schumacher's skin was pale and surprisingly smooth for an eighty-year-old man, but when he frowned his forehead and scalp bunched like a boot-sole.

“Jonah McEwen has requested access to the Unorthodox Procedure Archive, sir.”

“Why?”

“To investigate a possible connection between the Twinmaker and highly placed officials in KTI.”

“Like me, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Schumacher laughed aloud. Rising from his bed in the room adjoining his on-Earth office and donning a white robe, the CEO of the company with the largest Research & Development budget in the history of capitalism opened a small bar fridge and removed a bottle of home-brewed beer. Popping the cap with an opener that bore the logo of a brewery that had ceased conducting business fifty years earlier, he took a sip and returned to bed, where he had been resting between engagements.

“We can't give him access,” he said. “You know that, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What excuse have you given him?”

“None, yet. I have simply told him that I would ask.”

“Passing the buck, eh?” Schumacher's smile softened the sharpness of his tone. “At least you've given us time to think of a reason.”

“He will be suspicious no matter what we tell him.”

“And I don't blame him. Christ, he's been jerked around enough in the last couple of days to make anyone paranoid.” Schumacher stopped and raised his eyebrows. “And there's a thought.”

“Sir?”

“He'll be paranoid regardless. Maybe we can use that to our advantage.” Schumacher sat straighter on the bed and tapped his fingernails on the moisture-beaded glass. “I've had Jago Trevaskis on the line for
the last hour wanting me to call Herold off. Something about using d-med on McEwen. I haven't read the proposal all the way through yet. What do you think?”

QUALIA floundered for a moment. SHE wasn't used to Schumacher asking for QUALIA's opinion, only information. “I believe, sir, that bringing Jonah to the disposal site could provide a unique insight into the mind of Jonah McEwen, and that—”

“I'll forgive the pun and agree, Q—but what about the risk of fallout? If it becomes known that we've used experimental technology on a
suspect
, for christ's sake, we could screw up the whole thing.” He smiled again. “Another pun. WHOLE would just love this. Fucking with evidence. What does that damn pamphlet say? ‘Subtly warping minds and bodies' or some such crap?”

QUALIA accessed the database on the Twinmaker killings. SHE recited the text Schumacher had paraphrased in its original wording: “Reaching into the mind and/or body of an innocent person in order to subtly warp it from its natural state is not beyond the capacity of this technology.” It was a quote from
Soul Pollution
, the subversive text found at several Twinmaker disposal sites, including the latest one, and in public places all across the world. The text protested against technology in general, including VTC and bioimplants, but KTI in particular, using everything from religious texts to Einstein's “world line” to justify the criticism. Some people, QUALIA assumed, would simply never accept the fact that d-mat was safe; if the process couldn't be faulted, the people behind it could be.

“That's the one.” Schumacher nodded, taking another sip. “This sort of thinking is endemic. Always will be. People need something to be afraid of, and it might as well be us. But it could work in our favour here, right? We use d-med. McEwen wakes up not knowing what the hell's happened to him. We're a little cagey, mutter about secret developments and such shit. He puts two and two together, figures
that's
what we're hiding in the archive, and we're off the hook. He's solved the mystery
to his satisfaction, even thinks he's got an edge over us, and we all get on with business. The fact that ninety percent of what's in the archive
is
about d-med just makes it all the more sweet. If he ever hacks in, a quick glance will confirm what he thinks he's already worked out. I love it! How about you, Q? Do you think we can pull it off?”

Again, QUALIA was momentarily taken aback by the question.

“Yes, sir. Your analysis agrees with the outcomes predicted by my own behaviour models—”

Schumacher waved for silence. “A ‘yes' would do. Same with this question: Is Blaylock up to it?”

“To what, sir?”

“To keeping an eye on McEwen, making sure he doesn't go off the rails.”

If he was asking whether Marylin Blaylock was a competent officer, there was only one possible answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“As sure as I can be, sir.”

“Models again, huh?” Schumacher chuckled. “My friend, you should follow your instincts more often. I'll have Herold build some for you, if you like.”

QUALIA simulated a gentle laugh in reply. In truth, though, the humour struck a little too close to home. SHE was aware enough of QUALIA's lack of subconscious mind every time SHE dealt with humans without one of them deliberately accentuating the fact. The speed with which Jonah McEwen had cut to the very heart of the issue of his father, for instance, left QUALIA both amazed and appalled. As SHE often did when confronting the unplumbed potential of the human subconscious, SHE felt something that might have been called awe.

But SHE had something they did not: the ability to think in parallel, and to allocate tasks to semi-independent subroutines nicknamed “eikons.” What humans could accomplish in a moment of irrational brilliance, SHE could soon enough do at QUALIA's own pace. Up to
twenty-four independent streams of thought divided and merged every few seconds around the nominal Primary Stream—adding experience, data and other inputs all the while—and this was no less wonderful a thing than the human subconscious. It was just different.

QUALIA was alien in a fundamental sense, and SHE was still fathoming the way SHE thought. The basic germ of QUALIA had been copied four times and brought to ometeosis twice. SHE watched the development of QUALIA's younger siblings with interest.

One day, SHE would know exactly what QUALIA was, and when SHE did SHE would know exactly where SHE stood in relation to QUALIA's human creators.

“I'll instruct Herold to go ahead and use d-med,” Schumacher went on, “and draft a memo to Trevaskis telling him I've noted his concerns. That should keep them both happy for the time being.” He drained the bottle and put it on the floor beside the bed. Later, he would put it out for recyc himself rather than rely on office staff. QUALIA knew his routines well. No one but he was allowed inside his private antechamber.