The Resurrected Man (33 page)

Unless—

SHE almost discarded the thought upon thinking it:
Unless the Twinmaker had help.
Who would help him? Profilers agreed that he was probably working alone. But the help didn't have to be human. Although sophisticated AIs required the enormous processing power of specialised Standard Human Equivalent processors, such as the bank of twenty that gave QUALIA such an edge over contemporary entities, such machines
could
be simulated using a large array of ordinary processors. For all its inefficiencies, that method was workable.

SHE submitted a request to raise the possibility in conference with Herold Verstegen and Fabian Schumacher. Although the matter wasn't urgent, it did warrant discussion with the people who would know best whether to pursue it or not.

“It's an interesting thought, Q.” Schumacher rolled over onto his stomach and faced the camera the right way up. He was in a zero-gravity health spa currently on the far side of the planet. “What do you think, Herold? Is it worth tabling, or are we scratching at the wrong back door?”

“It's important enough to look at here and now, if only to commend QUALIA for bringing it to our attention.” Verstegen smiled into the camera. “Even though I doubt it will lead anywhere, this potential connection has been overlooked by human investigators.”

“Actually,” SHE said, “a casual remark from Officer Whitesmith led me to make this observation.”

“Regardless, it was something he chose not to follow up. I think it proves a point. AIs such as you
do
have an important place to play in investigative and security organisations, as I have always maintained.”

“What about the actual idea?” Schumacher asked. “You think it's irrelevant?”

“Almost certainly. The thought of using a virtual AI to penetrate the security networks that use the Pool is flawed on two levels.”

“How so?”

“Well, don't forget we're talking about two separate networks: GLITCH and ours. GLITCH has always been the easiest network to penetrate. Observational data is encrypted only for compression purposes, not to prevent people from obtaining it. Indeed, the information is there for anyone persistent enough to look for it, provided only that she or he can avoid the Enforceable Honour System governing its use. Every data packet is encoded with the subject's Privacy status. Any unauthorised attempt to observe restricted packets, where the Non-Disclosure Option is active, results in an attempt to penalise the observer. Most often the packets unleash retaliatory viruses that invade the hostile system, simultaneously jamming it and notifying the authorities of its presence, but there exist many methods of preventing such action. To penetrate GLITCH, in short, one does not require an AI of the magnitude you are describing.

“KTI, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. Our packets are fully encrypted and therefore not open to outside inspection. Also, the dissemination of the packets is performed in such a way as to maximise the effort required for someone to perform an illegal reassembly. Finally, we would
know
if someone had attempted such a thing, for although the packets contain internal multiple redundancies, they are not duplicated themselves. An intercepted message would be altered or erased, thereby alerting us to the fact that someone was trying to break into our system.”

“Which has happened,” Schumacher said.

“Of course. But no one, to my knowledge, has been successful,” he said. “Perhaps the biggest flaw in QUALIA's argument lies in the fact that the Pool is a chaotic mess of data. How would an intruder situated midstream know which packets to assemble? The sort of AI required to examine
every
packet that passes through the Pool would be enormous, bigger than the Pool itself. But any other method relies on breaking into the networks at either end of the dissemination chain, where such an intrusion is most easily detectable.”

Schumacher smiled as though Verstegen had said something amusing. “So do you have
any
idea how the Twinmaker might be doing this?”

“Although it pains me as head of Information Security of your company to admit it, I have to say that I don't.”

“Where does that leave us, then?”

“In the awkward position of waiting for more conventional means to locate the killer. Only after he has been captured might we determine how he has eluded detection thus far.”

“You suspect, though, that the matter will prove to be an internal one.” Schumacher's pupils flickered, residual movements of a virtual glance. “I have you on record saying so a year go.”

“And I still believe that to be the most likely scenario. It would be easiest to overcome security from within the security chain itself. Most specifically, from within the MIU.”

“Would an AI such as that hypothesised by QUALIA be required?”

“I believe not. The matter becomes one of infiltration rather than sorting large quantities of data. What we are talking about here is a drain of ten to fifteen percent of the Pool's free processing power. Not even QUALIA requires that sort of capacity.”

“I have one other observation to make,” QUALIA broke in. “The mean latency figures indicate that the peaks of the Novohantay Sequence correspond to the periods immediately
after
the kidnap of each victim, not before.”

“There you have it, then,” Verstegen said. “The peaks can have nothing to do with how the Twinmaker is breaking into the system. Otherwise the peak would occur at the time of the kidnap when he most needed the processing power.”

“True,” Schumacher nodded. “How long do the peaks continue?”

“Typically until the bodies have been disposed of,” QUALIA explained. “Before and after each peak there is a lesser plateau that may last a number of hours or even days, then these too taper off.”

Schumacher rubbed his upper lip. “You're right, Herold. It doesn't seem to fit. But the coincidence
is
compelling. Perhaps we should continue to observe the latest event, just in case. We'd be in the wake of one now, is that right, Q? The lesser peak?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, keep me informed if anything unusual happens. There could be other reasons behind it. Use the archive-33 overrides if I don't answer immediately.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meditation session to attend. I'll be back on-station in an hour.”

The three-way conference dissolved, leaving Verstegen and QUALIA alone on a single line. The security director closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat. In the background of the shot was the familiar environment of his personal suite on-Earth, not his office in orbit.

“Really, QUALIA, that was very well done,” he said. “I'm proud of you for taking the initiative like this. Just beware of jumping to conclusions too soon. The coincidence of the Novohantay Sequence with the murders may be grossly exaggerating its significance.”

“I understand, sir. That is why I raised it. The need for qualitative external input overrode the need for further quantitative data.”

“Input from Schumacher? He didn't really need to know about this. It's not his field.”

Again, withholding the truth was difficult. Herold Verstegen was the closest thing to a parent SHE had, apart from Lindsay Carlaw.

“He has an interest in this case,” SHE said.

“I'm sure he does. And good on you for involving him. Either way, you did the correct thing. I always knew my redesign of Carlaw's blueprint would turn out for the best.”

He smiled once again and killed the line.

SHE was able, then, to carry out Fabian Schumacher's implied instruction. SHE summarised the debate and packaged it along with QUALIA's original observations and sent the lot, in the care of KittyHawk, into the Pool. The “archive-33” codeword permitted such direct means of communication and allowed QUALIA to interrupt Schumacher's daily routine at any point, even the middle of meditation, to relay a reply, if any was forthcoming.

SHE could understand his interest in this matter. There
were
other processing-intensive operations, known only to a few, that could be performed on the Pool with similar effects to the Novohantay Sequence. They were usually avoided for just this reason, however; the risk of detection was too great. Sometimes SHE wondered whether many of the unexplained peaks in mean latency might indeed be the results of carelessness on the Watchers' part. If that was the explanation in this case, any connection between the Pool's unusual behaviour and the Twinmaker murders would be ruled out, which would in turn allow QUALIA to cease pondering the subject.

SHE certainly had enough to do as it was. The revival request for the two murdered agents had arrived from the MIU. The RLSM codes needed to be retrieved and cleared with EJC administration, then the models themselves had to be reconstructed. Resurrection was not enacted from the complete record of an individual's last jump; there was not enough memory in the world to store every commuter's full model. Rather, the Resurrectee was reconstructed by applying smoothing functions to certain data that
had
been saved, much of which was composed of the differences between that person and a so-called blank-slate template. If a person had a distinctive mark on an otherwise normal left arm, the mark was recorded but the arm was not. Only the head, and the uniquely precious organ it contained, was saved in its entirety. As horrific as that sounded to some people, the differences between a Resurrected human and the original were small—and few people who had undergone the process complained about being given another chance to live.

Once Agents Fassini and Kellow were Resurrected and had gone to attend counselling, there would still be the matter of McEwen and Blaylock. If they were not recovered within twenty-four hours, QUALIA expected decisive action on the MIU's part. SHE didn't dare believe that would improve relations between KTI and WHOLE.

It wasn't long before a priority message emerged from the Pool, addressed specifically to QUALIA. The reply from the Watchers was not only forthcoming, it was exceedingly brief.

Thank you, QUALIA, for bringing this matter to our attention. We were not aware that the situation had progressed so far. Intervention now seems mandatory. Please assure all concerned that we will seek to minimise damages.

HEU:ALC:FGS

SHE read the final line of code with a feeling akin to dismay. Instead of the reassurance SHE had sought, the Watchers' note brought only reasons to be increasingly apprehensive. What they meant by
this
matter
and
the situation
was unclear, and the dark hints of
intervention
and
damages
didn't make the matter any clearer. SHE felt as though SHE was skirting the edge of a terrible abyss; that at any moment ignorance might cause QUALIA to stumble and slip over the edge. What lay at the bottom, SHE could not guess, but SHE doubted it would give Herold Verstegen reason to smile.

Jonah squatted on his haunches in one corner of the room, breathing slowly and deeply. He focussed his attention on the ground beneath the toes of his sneakers: not on the doors of the mass-freighter; not on the splash of red visible between them; not on Marylin's voice as she continued her examination of the body; not on the sickening sensation deep in his stomach that might have been nausea, but had too much in common with panic to warrant contemplation. He did his best not to think at all.

But he couldn't. It wasn't in his nature to turn away from facts, distasteful though they might be. At least he had one, now.

The Twinmaker had stolen the sign from Lindsay Carlaw's study
before
the unit had been sealed three years ago. Or someone had stolen it for him. Either way, the connection between Jonah and the Twinmaker had suddenly become much stronger. The fact that it might actual
be
him, in whatever incarnation, was no longer a hypothesis to entertain until a better one came along. It was all too plausible.

But it
couldn't
be him. He didn't doubt that for a second. He had never wanted to murder Marylin, even by proxy, even after she walked out on him. He couldn't do it to anyone, not in cold blood. One accidental death, justified by law but still a source of late-night guilt, was enough to deal with.

If it
was
him, then something had happened to change his outlook on life so dramatically that he bore little resemblance to the person he had once been. The killer was no longer the version who had taken InSight in a bath three years earlier, for whatever reason. The law might disagree, but Jonah refused to contemplate the fact that he and the Twinmaker might still share the same basic identity.

Either way, the Twinmaker was taunting him. He was taunting them all. Lindsay Carlaw's sign, and the precept written on it that had been his lifelong goal, was to Jonah what Jonah himself had been to Marylin. A goad. For some reason the killer had picked them as the targets of a joke that simply wasn't getting any funnier.

The punchline was that another woman had died. Forgetting politics, legal definitions and personal power plays, it all boiled down to murder.

Another woman had died, and Marylin wasn't happy.

“Listen,” she was saying to their captors, “you brought us here to look at the body. You said you wanted us to take it away. We brought the equipment we needed—a couple of cars' worth, in fact—but where is it? Did you think of that when you dragged us here, Kuei? Did any
of you?
There is no point me being here without some means of examining this body properly!
Get that into your thick skulls and get us some equipment, or let us d-mat out of here with the body. Or shoot us. You don't have any other options. Pick one, and let's get on with it.”

Her footsteps echoed across the dull interior of the mass-transport booth then clopped onto concrete. He should have supported her, argued alongside her, but he didn't have the strength. His palms were sweating and every muscle felt drained, limp.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice.

He looked up too quickly, expecting Marylin, but instead found Kuei, the burned woman, bending over him.

“I've felt better,” he said through a wave of dizziness.

“You look like you need a bucket.”

He shrugged and leaned back until his head touched the wall behind him. The last thing he need was to be reminded of his churning stomach.

“I know what happened to you,” he said.

A hint of defensiveness touched her twisted features. “I was burned by d-mat.”

“No, you weren't.”

“How would
you
know?”

“I've heard of it before.” He concentrated on the memory. “A friend of my father's. A doctor. He wasn't part of WHOLE, but he was helping gather evidence against d-mat. I listened in on this story. It was about a young boy. D-mat incorrectly reproduced a microorganism on his skin, causing a mutation. The new bug was short-lived but virulent; it bred like crazy. Within hours, the kid was being flayed alive. By the time he reached hospital, it was too late to do much more than keep him breathing.” He looked at her. “Is this ringing a bell?”

The woman nodded slowly, her artificial eyes catching the light and holding it.

He went on: “The bug was killed by antibiotics, and it infected no
one else, but the kid was left skinless. KTI refused to admit responsibility. They said it was a natural strain that just happened to appear after he used d-mat. That there were no other known occurrences didn't stop the doctors from agreeing. Luckily, the boy had health insurance, so he could afford to have his skin regrown by nanos. I can imagine what he would've looked like without it.”

Only too well
, he added silently to himself.
Now.

The woman shook her head once. “We called it
le lent feu
—slow fire,” she said, hesitantly at first. “The hospital in Tadoussac was small and understaffed. The doctors cured it but they couldn't explain it. I just
knew
—and my parents knew too—that d-mat was responsible. My mother died not long after. When we complained to KTI, they covered it up. I—she couldn't—”

Kuei stopped and turned away.

“I'm sorry,” said Jonah. “I really am.”

Her voice was bitter. “If you were truly sorry, you would fight with us.”

“No.” He imagined his father's ghost stirring—
to be so dispassionate when confronted with proof!
—but he wouldn't let that thought soften his words. His father's compassion had been a sham, along with his very fatherhood. And Jonah remembered the argument well.

“I refuse to accept that you have a legitimate reason for seeking revenge, even if this
was
caused by d-mat. Accidents happen. In a different decade, the chances are higher that you'd have been disfigured or crippled in a car accident. In fact—”

“
Écrase
.” She raised a hand without looking at him.

He didn't know what the word meant, but he could guess. He ignored it. “Killing people doesn't solve anything, Kuei. It makes everything worse.”

She looked at him, then. “Is that why you wouldn't tell us who killed your father? So we wouldn't take revenge?”

A ball of ice rolled down his spine. “I
knew
?”

“You said you did.”

“When?” He reached out to grab her arm. “When exactly was this?”

She pulled away. “You'd have to ask
le caïd.
It was a long time—”

“No. You tell me now. If you remember what I said so well, you must have an idea when I said it.” Seeing indecision in her eyes, he pressed on. “Was it before Lindsay's funeral or after? Can you answer that?”

“Definitely before. I remember we tried to put viruses into the KTI network as a tribute, but they didn't take. You didn't answer our calls—”

“How long before?”

“I don't know. The day before, perhaps.”

The day before.
In his head he constructed a timetable. Lindsay had died on April 11th, 2066, the day after Marylin had quit JRM and Lindsay had taken his mysterious d-mat trip to SciCon. The inquest had begun on the 14th, the day before Jonah had opted for Privacy and therefore the last day his movements were on record. Lindsay's funeral had been on the 18th, so Jonah must have come to Quebec on the 17th. In the days since the 15th, he must've learned something substantial in order to justify making threats to WHOLE, or else he had become desperate enough to bluff. Either way, he had gone into the bath two days later, on the 19th. And there he appeared to have stayed.

The only real evidence that he or another version of him might have been elsewhere lay in the numerous, and anomalous, UGI matches recorded across the planet from May 2066 to May 2069, a month before his reawakening. Because the GLITCH records were in essence public domain, restricted only by Privacy and von Trojan Laws, they were difficult to fake. So the evidence was significant. He couldn't ignore it, as much as he would have liked to.

Still, no one had actually
seen
him…

“Kuei—” He went to touch her again, but she brushed his hand aside. “Sorry. Look, this must seem very strange. But—thank you. I appreciate what you've told me. You didn't have to.”

She didn't respond, except for a look of scepticism as she stood and walked away. One of the remaining masked guards made a gesture at him, intended for her, that might have meant: “
What's his problem
?” She spat something venomous in Quebecois argot, and kept walking past Marylin and into the mass-freighter.

“Learn anything?” Marylin asked via prevocals. She was standing by the open doors with her arms folded, facing in. She looked like she was waiting for something.

“Yes. You?”

She glanced at him, obviously considering whether or not to pursue his curt answer to her question. “Not enough. Mancheff won't believe me when I tell him that anonymous relays really
are
anonymous, and that if he sends the body back to KTI via one we won't be able to track him down.”

“Won't you?”

“Possibly not. But even if we do, he won't lose very much. This facility is obviously temporary, and portable. At most he might blow a cover or two. The freighter has to be registered with someone, after all.”

That prompted a thought. “Any guesses what they shift with it?” he asked.

“I'm assuming weapons, explosives and the like.”

“Then they must have a license for that, too. Are restricted materials still restricted?”

“Yes. That's a good thought. We can search the records when we're out in the open again. There can't be many operations with both.”

He nodded. It was good to think about the future, to fight the past that kept pulling him back down. He had to keep moving; otherwise, he told himself, he might soon find himself unable to move at all.

“I think we're getting somewhere,” he said.

“You do? Why?”

“No reason. Well, nothing I can prove. The Twinmaker's giving us
clues. First me, then the note, and now the sign. They have to lead somewhere.”

“Maybe not. They could be trophies he's collected along the way.”

“Then we
use
them as clues.”

“Only generally, to give us a window into his head.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm thinking of something else. Or I
think
I'm thinking of something else. There's something not quite right about all this…”

An ear-splitting shriek suddenly cut through his thoughts. It lasted only a split-second, but its intensity was painful. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes by reflex. His hands were halfway to his ears before he realised that the sound had come from his implants—from
within
his head.

Marylin had also reacted without thinking. Bent half-forward, she rested a hand on the wall of the mass-freighter and shook her head. Aloud she muttered, “What the—”

Then she cut herself off. She looked at Jonah and, via prevocals, said, her voice triumphant, “It's the others! We're being pinged!”

He shook his head. “What?”

“They're using the balloon network or planes to sweep Quebec with high-power radio waves. The sweep pinpoints shielding, then sends a second, more specific pulse to hunt for a response from our implants. It should come soon. No shielding is perfect. They'll be listening for an automatic reply on the emergency frequency. If we're lucky—”

Sound burst through their implants again—this time a warbling, info-dense scream rather than a brute-force shriek. He felt something in his head respond, although he couldn't describe the how of it. No doubt the supply of certain chemicals and sugars in that region of his brain had suddenly been depleted. A red light began to flash in his overseer's display indicating that an emergency message had been sent.

“Does that mean they know where we are?” he asked.

“They sure do. Within a few kilometres, anyway.”

“And now what?”

“They'll move in. How they do it depends where this shed's situated. If it's rural they could just gas the whole place and give us the antidote when they find us among the bodies. If it's urban—”

Mancheff walked out of the mass-freighter to confront Marylin.

“We're moving,” said the leader of WHOLE. “Now.”

“But—”

“No arguments. Give me the name of a reliable relay and maybe I'll send the body to you.” He raised a finger and an eyebrow in unison, daring her to force the issue. “
Maybe.
It depends on how quickly your friends get here. Remember, I could just send it nowhere.”

“A relay. Okay: MadDuchess,” Marylin said as the guards moved forward to bind her hands again. “How did you know?”

“We're not stupid,” he said.

“Who's your contact?” Jonah asked.

Mancheff glared at him. “There's no contact. Sensors on the roof registered a surge of some kind. And—” to Marylin “—I saw you flinch. That's enough to make me err on the side of caution.” His eyes flicked back to Jonah: “On your feet,
slomeau
, or we'll drag you of here.”