The Terminal Experiment (v5)

by Robert J. Sawyer

  And what about those twin studies the Control sim had mentioned? Nature, not nurture, guided our behavior. When we weren’t dancing to a chemical tune, we were marching to the genetic drummer.

  Yet Rod Churchill had been getting help.

  If he’d really been killed in the way Detective Philo suggested, the sim would have known that Rod was taking phenelzine, would have looked it up in a database of drugs, would have understood what Rod was being treated for. Could the sim have failed to realize that although the treatment might be new, the condition could have been longstanding? Surely that would have been enough evidence to commute any death sentence the sim had been contemplating?

  No—no version of him would have killed Rod Churchill, knowing of this chemical problem. Pity him, yes, but surely not kill him. In fact, this called into question all of Sandra Philo’s case. The sims, after all, had admitted to neither of the murders, and all Philo’s evidence pointing to Peter, and from there to the sims, was circumstantial.

  Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He would not have killed Rod Churchill. Rod had simply done something stupid, failing to follow his doctor’s orders. And Hans Larsen? Well, Peter had always contended that dozens of angry spouses might have wanted him dead—including, now that he thought about it, Larsen’s own wife, who, Peter seemed to recall, worked in a bank and could have embezzled the funds needed to hire a hitman.

  Fog, that’s all the case against him was. Empty fog.

  And he’d prove that. He’d audit his own finances. Hiring a hitman would surely have cost tens of thousands of dollars, if not hundreds of thousands. Philo might never find the missing funds, even if she subpoenaed his financial records. But Peter had the advantage of thinking precisely the same way the sims did. If he looked— really looked—and could not find any missing money, well, then he could rest easy.

  Peter dialed into his company’s mainframes, logged on to the corporate accounts database, and started digging. He used an accounting expert system made by Mirror Image to help him audit. As he moved through each account, each financial database, and found nothing amiss, his confidence grew. He was interrupted after an hour or so by the locksmith, who had finished his job. Peter thanked the man, paid him, and went back to his searching. Philo had been wrong, completely wrong. Just another cop who loved conspiracy theories. Why, he’d give her a piece of his mind—

  His computer beeped.

  Good Christ, thought Peter. Good Christ.

  A discrepancy in the subrights licensing account. No memo, no payee’s account number, no cross-referenced invoice. Just a whopping big debit notice:

  11 Nov 2011 EFT CDN$125,000.00

  Peter stared at the screen, his jaw slack.

  The timing was just about right. Hans had been killed three days later.

  But surely it had to be something innocent. A refund for a licensing deal that had fallen through, maybe. Or an adjustment because of an overpayment to his company. Or …

  No.

  No, it could be none of those things. Peter’s comptroller was meticulous. No way she’d make an entry like that. And the notation EFT. Electronic funds transfer. Exactly what a sim would have to use.

  He was about to log off when the console beeped at him again. Another hit in his database search:

  14 Dec 2011 EFT CDN$100,000.00

  Peter let out another sigh of relief. There—proof that this was all innocent. Surely no hitman would work on an installment plan. Whatever was causing these debits had to be something routine, then. Patent payments, perhaps. Or …

  Two days ago. That second transaction had been just two days ago.

  And then it came to him.

  What Cathy had said.

  “What will happen,” she’d asked, “to the detective when she gets too close to the truth? Will you want her dead, too?”

  It couldn’t be, thought Peter. It could not be.

  Killing Hans he could understand. Perhaps he didn’t approve, but at least he understood. Killing Rod Churchill was more difficult to fathom, given the extenuating circumstances. But maybe, just maybe, the electronic sim didn’t see biochemistry as an excuse.

  But Sandra Philo hadn’t done anything evil, hadn’t hurt Peter in any way. She was just doing her job.

  But now, apparently, she had become inconvenient.

  Christ almighty, thought Peter. The guilty sim didn’t just have reduced morality or skewed morality. It had no morality at all.

  Easy, Peter. Let’s not get ahead of the data …

  But—no. It was there, even within the flesh-and blood Peter—buried deep, but there: a desire for self-preservation. There was no one else he wanted dead—that was true. But the detective was putting him, and the sims, at risk. If he were to get rid of anyone now, it would be her. If any version of himself were to get rid of anyone now, it would be her.

  Damn it. God damn it. He’d have no more blood on his hands. Peter immediately activated his telephone; a valid address was as good for dialing as was a name. “Toronto Police Service, 32 Division, on Ellerslie,” he said.

  The Bell logo danced off the screen. A craggy sergeant appeared. “Thirty-two division,” he said.

  “Sandra Philo,” said Peter.

  “It’s her day off,” said the sergeant. “Can someone else help you?”

  “No, it’s—it’s personal. Do you know where she is?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” said the cop.

  “I don’t suppose I could get her home number?”

  The cop laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Peter broke the connection and dialed directory assistance. “Philo, Sandra,” he said, then spelled the last name.

  “There is no such listing,” said the computerized voice.

  Of course. “Philo, A.,” he said. “A for Alexandria.”

  “There is no such listing.”

  Dammit, thought Peter. But a cop would be crazy to have a listed phone number—unless it was still under her ex-husband’s name. “Do you have any listing for anyone with the last name Philo?”

  “There is no such listing.”

  Peter clicked off. There must be some way to get a hold of her...

  City directories. He’d seen them at the public library. Originally, they’d been designed to find the name that went with an address, but with them now on random-access CD-ROMs, it was just as easy to do the reverse, finding an address that went with a name. Peter called the telephone reference line for the Central Branch of the North York Public Library.

  “Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “Quick reference.”

  “Hello,” said Peter. “Do you have city directories there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell me the address for Alexandria Philo, please? P-H-I-L-O.”

  “Just a moment, sir.” There was a pause. “I have no

  A. Philo, sir. In fact, the only Philo is listed as Sandy.”

  Sandy—a non-gender-specific version of her name. Exactly the sort of precaution an intelligent woman living alone would take. “What does Sandy Philo do for a living?”

  “It says ‘civil servant,’ sir. I suppose that could mean just about anything.”

  “That’s her. What’s the address, please?” “216 Melville Avenue.” Peter jotted that down. “Is there a phone number?” “It’s marked unlisted.” “Thank you,” said Peter. “Thank you very much.” He clicked off. Peter had never heard of Melville

  Avenue. He called up his electronic map book and looked it up. It was here in Don Mills. Not that far. Maybe a twenty-minute drive. It was crazy, he knew—a paranoid fantasy. And yet …

  He hurried to his car and put the pedal to the metal.

  CHAPTER 43

  Peter tried to blow holes in his theory on the way there, but instead it kept making more sense, not less. Sandra’s day off. A day when, very likely, she wouldn’t be armed. The perfect day to kill a cop.

  The traffic was heavy. Peter leaned on his horn. Despite the computerized map d
isplay on his dashboard, he managed to make a wrong turn, finding himself in a dead end. Cursing, he turned around and headed in the other direction. He was driving recklessly, he knew. But if he could just warn Sandra, tell her that someone might be after her—she could protect herself, he was sure of that. She was a cop.

  Finally, he turned onto Melville Avenue. Number 216 was a townhouse. Nothing ostentatious. Grass needed cutting. A brown United Parcel Service van was parked out front.

  A sign warned that parking on the street was illegal before six p.m. Peter ignored that.

  He looked up at the house. The front door was closed. Funny, that. Where was the delivery person?

  Peter’s heart was racing. What if the killer was inside?

  Paranoia. Madness.

  Still …

  He got out of his car, fumbled with his trunk keys, found the tire iron, grabbed it in both hands, and hurried up to the door.

  He was about to press the buzzer when he heard a sound from inside: something smashing to the floor.

  He hit the buzzer.

  No response.

  In for a penny, thought Peter, in for a pound.

  There was a narrow floor-to-ceiling frosted window next to the actual door panel. Peter hit it with the tire iron. It cracked. He smashed the metal rod against it again with all his strength. The glass shattered. Peter reached inside, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

  His brain fought to take it all in. A short staircase led up from the entryway to the living room. At the top of the stairs was a big man in a UPS uniform. In his hands was a device that looked a bit like an oversize wallet made of gray plastic. Lying on the floor behind him was Sandra Philo, unconscious or dead. A large broken vase was lying near her. The sound he’d heard: when she’d fallen to the ground, she must have knocked it down.

  The big man raised the device he was holding and took aim at Peter.

  Peter hesitated for half a second, then—

  He threw the tire iron as hard as he could. It pinwheeled through the air.

  The man pressed a button on his weapon, but it made no sound. Peter dived forward.

  The tire iron hit the man in the face. He tumbled backwards, falling over Sandra.

  Peter thought for a second about simply running away, but of course he couldn’t do that. He bolted the short flight into the living room. The killer was dazed. Peter scooped up the strange weapon as he passed. He hadn’t a clue how to use it, but then he noticed something more familiar—Sandra’s service revolver— protruding from a holster draped over the back of a chair a couple of meters away. Peter shoved the strange device into his pocket and got the gun. Standing in the middle of the room he aimed it at the killer, who was slowly regaining his feet.

  “Stop!” said Peter. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  The big man rubbed his forehead. “You wouldn’t do that, mate,” he said in an Australian accent.

  Peter realized he didn’t know if Sandra’s gun was loaded, and, even if it was, he wasn’t sure how to fire it. It probably had a safety mechanism of some sort. “Don’t come any closer,” said Peter.

  The big man took a step toward him. “Come on, mate,” he said. “You don’t want to be a killer. You’ve no idea what was going on here.”

  “I know you killed Hans Larsen,” said Peter. “I know you were paid $125,000 to do it.”

  That shocked the man. “Who are you?” he said, still moving closer.

  “Stay there!” shouted Peter. “Stay there or I’ll shoot.” Peter looked down at the gun. There—that must be the safety catch. He moved it aside and cocked the weapon. “Stay back,” he yelled. But Peter himself was backing up now. “I’ll shoot!”

  “You don’t have the balls, mate,” said the man, moving slowly across the living room toward him.

  “I will shoot!” cried Peter.

  “Give me the gun, mate. I’ll let you walk out of here.”

  “Stop!” said Peter. “Please stop!”

  The big man reached out a long arm toward Peter.

  Peter closed his eyes.

  And fired—

  The sound was deafening.

  The man tumbled backwards.

  Peter saw that he’d hit him in the side of the head. A long red scrape ran across the right side of his skull.

  “Oh my God …” said Peter, in shock. “Oh my God …”

  The man was now splayed across the floor, like Sandra, dead or unconscious.

  Peter, barely able to keep his balance, his ears ringing furiously, staggered back to where Sandra was lying. There was no sign of injury to her. Although she was breathing, she was still out cold.

  Peter went down to the small den off the front hall and found the video phone. It was engaged, and the screen was filled with numbers. Peter recognized the logo of the Royal Bank of Canada; Sandra must have been logged on to do some at-home banking when she’d been interrupted by the delivery man. Peter broke the connection.

  Suddenly the killer appeared in the doorway. The gouge across the side of his head was dry. Beneath it, Peter could see what looked like shiny metal—

  Shiny metal. God.

  An immortal. An actual immortal. Well, why not? The fucking guy made enough money.

  Peter still had Sandra’s gun. He aimed it at the man.

  “Who are you?” said the Australian. Yellow teeth were visible when he spoke.

  “I—I’m the guy who hired you,” said Peter.

  “Bull.”

  “I am. I hired you by electronic mail. I paid you $125,000 to kill Hans Larsen, and a hundred K to kill this detective. But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want her dead.”

  “You’re Avenger?” said the man. “You’re the guy who hired me to cut that bloke’s dick off?”

  Good God, thought Peter. So that’s what the mutilation had been. “Yes,” he said, trying not to show his revulsion. “Yes.”

  The Australian rubbed his forehead. “I ought to kill you for what you tried to do to me.”

  “You can keep the hundred thousand. Just get the hell out of here.”

  “Damn straight I’ll keep the money. I did my job.”

  The tableau held for several moments. The Australian was clearly sizing Peter up—whether he would use the gun again, whether Peter deserved to die for having taken a shot at him.

  Peter cocked the trigger. “I know I can’t kill an immortal,” he said, “but I can slow you down long enough for the police to get here.” He swallowed hard. “I understand a life sentence is a terrifying thought to someone who will live forever.”

  “Give me back my beamer.”

  “Not a chance,” said Peter.

  “Come on, mate—that thing cost forty grand.”

  “Bill me for it.” He waved the gun again.

  The Australian weighed his options for a moment more, then nodded. “Don’t leave any fingerprints, mate,” he said, then turned and left through the still-open front door.

  Peter leaned over the phone, thought for a second, then selected text-only mode and dialed 9-1-1. He typed:

  Police officer wounded, 216 Melville Av., Don

  Mills. Ambulance needed.

  All calls to 9-1-1 were recorded, but this way there’d be no voiceprint to identify him. Sandra was unconscious; she hadn’t seen Peter, and the police would probably have no reason to think anyone had been there besides the assailant, whom Sandra presumably could describe.

  Peter reached behind the phone, disconnected the keyboard, and wiped the keyboard jack with Kleenex. Still carrying the keyboard, he went back upstairs to check on Sandra. She was still unconscious, but she was also still alive. Peter, shaken to his very core, retrieved the tire iron. As he staggered out the door, he wiped the doorknob, then headed out to find his car. As he drove slowly away, he passed an ambulance, its sirens blaring, heading toward Sandra’s house.

  PETER DROVE FOR KILOMETERS, not really sure where he was going. Finally, before he killed himself or someone else through his carelessness, he
pulled over and called Sarkar at work on his car phone.

  “Peter!” said Sarkar. “I was just about to call you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The virus is ready.”

  “Have you released it yet?”

  “No. I want to test it first.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got pristine versions of all three sims backed up on disk at Raheema’s office.” Sarkar’s wife worked only a few blocks from Mirror Image. “Fortunately, I use her place for off-site storage of backups. Otherwise that police raid would have turned them up. Anyway, for a test run, I want to mount versions on a fully isolated system and then release the virus.”

  Peter nodded. “Thank God. I wanted to come see you anyway—I’ve got a device here that I can’t identify. I’ll be there in …” He paused, looked around, trying to figure out exactly where he was. Lawrence East. And that was Yonge Street up ahead. “I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

  WHEN PETER ARRIVED, he showed Sarkar the gray plastic device that looked like an overstuffed, rigid wallet.

  “Where did you get that?” asked Sarkar.

  “From the hitman.”

  “The hitman?”

  Peter explained what had happened. Sarkar looked shaken. “You say you called the police?”

  “No—an ambulance. But I’m sure the police are there by now, too.”

  “Was she alive when you left?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what is that thing?” said Sarkar, pointing at the device Peter had brought with him.

  “A weapon of some sort, I think.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Sarkar.

  “The guy called it a ‘beamer.’”

  Sarkar’s jaw dropped. “Suhanallah!” he said. “A beamer …”

  “You know what that is?”

  Sarkar nodded. “I’ve read about them. Particle-beam weapons. They pump concentrated radiation into the body.” He exhaled. “Nasty. They’re banned in North America. Completely silent, and you can hold one inside a pocket and fire it from in there. Clothing, or even thin wooden doors, are transparent to it.”