The Resurrected Man (7 page)

Innocent
…?

She shuddered. Indira Geyten looked up, but said nothing. Marylin's gratitude never waned. The one thing she wanted no one could give her except Jonah himself—and that was the answer to one question.

But she doubted, somehow, that he was dreaming of her.

Lying on his back with his head under water, Jonah listened to the muffled sound of his own thoughts and watched random images chase currents across the blackness above him. The patterns they made looked like glowing lattices, drifting gracefully in and out of focus. He might have been that way forever, for all he could tell—a passive observer alone in a sea of reflections. Time had no meaning; he was anchorless, drifting, lost.

It wasn't until a voice called to him from the depths of the ocean that he began to wonder why.

“Jonah, can you hear me?”

The speaker was female and her tone warm and comforting. A faint accent reminded him of his mother, although he knew it couldn't be her. This woman's voice possessed none of the overtones of resentment and self-hatred he would always associate with the woman who had given him birth.

Click

“Jonah?”

He tried to sit up, but found that he could not. His head remained submerged. For a moment he panicked. Claustrophobia and a sudden fear of drowning made him want to cry out, but he was unable to utter a sound—

“Be at ease, Jonah,” the woman said. “I can hear you.”

A sense of peace passed through him at the woman's words. The pressure on his skull and face eased, as did the paralysis holding his body rigid. For a moment, he could move, and he did so feebly, writhing on the surface of what felt like a waterbed, but one that didn't surge when he tried to roll over. He felt light, giddy, disoriented—

Then all sensation ebbed, and he could no longer feel his body at all. He was floating in darkness, alone but for a voice whispering into his ear.

“There,” said the woman. “We have you stable, now. I apologise for the rough awakening. It was not our intention to interrupt a lucid dream.” The woman's tone became more businesslike: “If you wish to communicate, do not attempt to speak aloud. Your body is undergoing extensive nanotherapy and will not respond to your instructions. Instead, I have installed a prevocal monitor in your cortex that will detect anything you wish to say before the impulses leave your brain. The commands required to operate the implant have been written into
your amygdala and do not require conscious direction. My records indicate that you were once familiar with this method of communication. Is this true? Please answer ‘yes' or ‘no.'”

Jonah didn't realise at first that the woman had stopped speaking, or that a reply was expected of him. He did his best to remember what she had said.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The woman sounded pleased. “You will note also that you heard your reply, just as you can hear my own voice. We have provided you with postauditory and postoptic inputs as well. A new overseer has been installed and is in the process of being optimised as we speak.”

The darkness became a densely woven pattern of dark grey lines scrolling from left to right then back again, not unlike the patterns he had been dreaming of. He recognised the design; it was a default form constant provided by the MindSet.7 virtual overseer—supposed to be a soothing alternative to the near-zero input of closed eyes while waiting for VTC, CRE or any other application involving direct visual stimulus to begin. Instead of being soothed, however, he felt nauseous.

“Why?” he asked, concentrating on the woman's voice rather than the pattern.

“Why what, Jonah?”

“Why are you doing this? What's going on?”

“You have suffered a peculiar form of brain damage, Jonah.”

“Brain damage?
” Despite the calming effect of the woman's voice, he was chilled by the thought. “How?”

“Your prefrontal cortex has been altered, along with sections of your limbic system. We are still mapping the damaged areas, but it seems indisputable that your memory has been affected in a specific and deliberate fashion. In addition, various peripheral add-ons have been impaired. Many have ceased functioning entirely; others have mutated and caused secondary damage. Until we determine the precise amount of repair required to restore you to full capacity, we can do
little more than replace the applications you have lost. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Jonah went to nod, remembering only when nothing happened that he was temporarily bodiless. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good. I don't want you to be concerned, however. We have already rectified some of the problems in your hippocampi. Given time and the proper care, you will recover.”

The woman's tone hinted that he should accept the prognosis without questioning it. Indeed his head had cleared already: he
could
remember some things, now, albeit with an effort.

But he couldn't let it rest there. “You said the damage was deliberately inflicted,” he said. “How? Who did it?”

“We'll come to that later, Jonah—”

“No,
now.
There's something you're not telling me.”

The woman was silent for a moment. He wondered whether he had offended her. When she spoke again, though, her voice was as smooth as ever.

“When I say the word ‘InSight,' Jonah, what does it bring to mind?”

He thought carefully before answering, puzzled by the question. “I'm familiar with it, of course, but other than that—”

“Perhaps if I explained that it is a product name, with a capital ‘I' and ‘S.'”

“I'm still not sure. It sounds like wetware. An entrainment add-on?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I'm guessing. Maybe I saw an ad or something.”

“If I said that we'd found traces of the InSight v-med agent in your system, would you be surprised?”

“Of course I would. I don't use that shit.”

“Well, Jonah, InSight
is
responsible for your present condition. Although it was originally designed to compartmentalise and restimulate memories and their emotional associations, thus allowing users to relive experiences from their past, prolonged use causes abnormal
structures to form in the brain, that impair conscious recall—both of the compartmentalised memory and in general—and the ability to reason. Not only have we located such structures, but, to be honest, there are more than just traces of the InSight agents present; your prefrontal cortex is riddled with it, to the point where we doubt we will be able to remove it all. At best, we can only render it inoperative.

“And,” she added, “as far as we can tell, you installed it yourself.”

“
I
did?” Briefly he wondered if the woman was lying, then discarded the thought; why would she go to so much trouble to reassure him only to drop a bombshell like that? “I don't understand.”

“Neither do we. That is the purpose of this conversation. I want to ask you questions designed to ascertain the severity of your memory impairment. You may call a halt at any point, but it is my hope that you will persist until we have at least a rough idea of where we stand. Your present state of semiconsciousness will in no way impede the progress your body is making. I will ensure that you do not become unduly fatigued or distressed.”

“You still haven't answered my question,” Jonah said, fighting the serenity arising within him in response to his increased agitation, realising only then that his mood was being altered by psychopharmaceuticals. “Why are you
doing
this?”

“To put it bluntly, Jonah, we need your help.”

“‘Help?' You must be out of your mind! I want some answers first.”

“Jonah, please remain calm. Do you recall a conversation you had with Officer Whitesmith in which you stated that, in exchange for information regarding the crimes you were suspected of committing, you would happily and truthfully answer every question he asked?”

Jonah's thoughts froze. Yes, he did remember saying something like that; the memory was vague, dreamlike, nightmarish in tone. “I spoke to Mary, too?” he ventured.

“That's correct; Officer Blaylock was present at your awakening. But it is your comment to Officer Whitesmith with which I am most
concerned. At the time, neither of you were able to fulfil the other's expectations, so the offer of glasnost was not followed up. Would you be prepared to repeat the offer now, to me? An exchange of information would greatly benefit us both.”

Jonah fought down the images the woman had raised—of mutilated bodies, of feeling like he was dying, of guilt. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I have been honest regarding your condition when it would have been much easier to have told you a comforting lie. I can only assure you that I will tell you the truth in every other respect.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“That's up to you, Jonah.”

“I don't even know who you are, or where I am.”

“You are in the orbital medical research centre of Kudos Technologies Incorporated, otherwise known as KTI, of which company I am an employee. My duties include monitoring d-mat traffic along the KTI network, optimising routes to allow the most efficient transfer of data through the Pool and ensuring that no illegal transfers are attempted. It is in this last capacity that I am currently acting as an adviser to the MIU. Are you familiar with that acronym?”

“Whitesmith used it, but he didn't tell me what it was.” He remembered unfamiliar black and grey uniforms with the insignia of the Earth Justice Commission on the left breast pocket.

“It stands for Matter-transference Investigative Unit. The MIU exists solely to investigate d-mat-related crime, and operates as an independent agency within guidelines laid down by the EJC. The MIU is funded solely by KTI, and was founded in 2067 to underscore KTI's commitment to preventing d-mat from being used for illegal purposes. As patent-holder of the process, KTI is morally obliged to ensure that no one is harmed by it. I have worked for both companies since—”

“Hold on. You said 2067.”

“That is correct. The current date is June 27, 2069. What date do you think it is?”

“I don't know.” He concentrated, trying his best to recall any date at all. “The last year I remember is '66.”

“That concurs with your earlier interviews, and other data we have gathered since.” The woman paused, as though she was considering her options. “No doubt, Jonah, you are as curious as I am as to what has happened in those three years. Can we come to an arrangement?”

Jonah thought about it—or tried to. When he attempted to think in a straight line, his thoughts became clouded, confused; facts refused to fall into place and extrapolation from them was well nigh impossible. He couldn't even decide whether it was a side-effect of the mood-altering drugs he had been given or whether he was experiencing another symptom of brain damage. The woman had mentioned something about impairment of his ability to reason logically; perhaps that was it.

The
woman
…?

One thing, suddenly, was clear to him.

“You're not human,” he said.

“That is correct, Jonah. How did you guess?”

“I—” He attempted to trace the process of deduction behind the knowledge, but was unable to. “I just knew.”

“Impressive, regardless. It didn't seem necessary to tell you earlier, but perhaps I should have. This conversation is not occurring in real-time; it has been slowed by a factor of five in order to reduce the stress on your neocortex. A human would find the lag between replies frustrating, so I have been asked to perform the interview. I hope you don't mind.”

He ignored the opportunity to say that he didn't. “So what are you, then? You don't sound like an AI.”

“I'm pleased to hear you say that. Although I am not ashamed of my mechanical ancestors, I do not like to be mistaken for one of them.
I am a QUantum ALgorithmic Intelligent Awareness—usually abbreviated viated to ‘QUALIA'—composed of twenty Standard Human Equivalent data processors in an array designed to induce consciousness rather than to imitate it.”

“QUALIA,” he echoed. The word evoked a vivid image of his father's body, until he realised that he was confusing it with QUIDDITY, the project Lindsay had been working on. The memory subsided, but the connection remained. “Is that your name?”

“No,” said the voice. “But you may call me that, if you wish. I am the sole member of the class of being that name defines. My designers would also prefer you to use the Third Gender Protocol when referring to me, rather than female pronouns. This voice is merely one of many that I can adopt at will; I have no true sex as you would understand it.”

Another time, he might have smiled at the defensive tone in its—
es
, he corrected himself—voice. E sounded almost annoyed at es designers, and at him. “You sound like something my father wanted to build.”

“Yes,” e said again. “I met him, once, and found him to be a remarkable man. In fact, I feel as though I owe much of my existence to him—just as you must, although in quite a different way.”

Jonah was silent. Aaron Lindsay Carlaw hadn't been his genetic father, but his death could have come as no greater blow had they had half their genes in common. Reminded of it, he felt as though someone had stuck an electrode into a gaping surgical incision. This time, however, the grief was manageable, no doubt due to psychopharmaceuticals, and faded within a minute. It left in its wake only the memory of the bloody mess in his d-mat booth—a gruesome reminder of why he was talking to a discorporate consciousness in the first place.