More silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her look down at the body she was wearing, as if she’d spilled something down herself. “Do you know how I feel?” she asked.
“No.”
“I slept with my husband, and I feel like he’s been unfaithful to me.” A choked laugh. She smeared angrily at her eyes. “I feel like I’ve been unfaithful. To something. You know, when they put me away I left a body and a family behind. Now I don’t have either.”
She looked down at herself again. She lifted her hands and turned them, fingers spread.
“I don’t know what I feel,” she said. “I don’t know what to feel.”
There was a lot I could have said. A lot that has been said, written, researched, and disputed on the subject. Trite little magazine-length summings-up of the problems inherent in resleeving—how to make your partner love you again, in any body; trite, interminable psychological tracts—some observations of secondary trauma in civil resleeving; even the sanctified manuals of the fucking Envoy Corps itself had something trite to say on the matter. Quotes, informed opinion, the ravings of the religious and the lunatic fringe. I could have thrown it all at her. I could have told her that what she was going through was quite normal for an unconditioned human. I could have told her that it would pass with time. That there were psychodynamic disciplines for dealing with it. That millions of other people survived it. I could even have told her that whichever God she owed nominal allegiance to was watching over her. I could have lied, I could have reasoned. It all would have meant about the same, because the reality was pain, and right now there was nothing anyone could do to take it away.
I said nothing.
The dawn gained on us, light strengthening on the closed-up frontages behind us. I glanced at the windows of Elliott’s Data Linkage.
“Victor?” I asked.
“Sleeping.” She wiped an arm across her face and snorted her tears back under control like badly cut amphetamine. “You say this is going to hurt Bancroft?”
“Yeah. In a subtle way, but yeah, it’ll hurt.”
“Installation run on an A.I.,” Irene Elliott said to me. “Installing an erasure-penalty virus. Fucking over a known Meth. You know what the risks are? You know what you’re asking me to do?”
I turned to look her in the eye.
“Yes. I know.”
Her mouth clamped down on a tremor.
“Good. Then let’s do it.”
CHAPTEr THIrTY–ONE
The run took less than three days to set up. Irene Elliott turned stone-cold pro and made it happen that way.
In the limo back to Bay City, I laid it out for her. At first she was still crying inside, but as the detail mounted she clicked in, nodding, grunting, stopping me and backing me up on minor points I hadn’t made clear enough. I showed her Reileen Kawahara’s suggested hardware list, and she okayed about two-thirds of it. The rest was just corporate padding, and Kawahara’s advisers, in her opinion, didn’t know shit.
By the end of the journey she had it down. I could see the run already unfolding behind her eyes. The tears had dried on her face, forgotten, and her expression was clean-purpose, locked-down hate for the man who had used her daughter, and an embodied will to revenge.
Irene Elliott was sold.
I rented an apartment in Oakland on the JacSol account. Elliott moved in and I left her there to catch up on some sleep. I stayed at the Hendrix, tried to do some sleeping of my own without much success, and went back six hours later to find Elliott already prowling about the apartment.
I called the names and numbers Kawahara had given me and ordered the stuff Elliott had ticked. The crates arrived in hours. Elliott cracked them open and laid out the hardware across the floor of the apartment.
Together we went through Ortega’s list of virtual forums and worked it down to a shortlist of seven.
Ortega had not turned up, or called me at the Hendrix.
Midafternoon on the second day, Elliott kicked on the primary modules and cruised each of the shortlist options. The list fell to three, and Elliott gave me a couple more items to go shopping for. Refinement software for the big kill.
By early evening the list was down to two, with Elliott writing up preliminary intrusion procedures for both. Whenever she hit a glitch, we backed up and compared relative merits.
By midnight we had our target. Elliott went to bed and slept eight solid hours. I went back to the Hendrix and brooded.
Nothing from Ortega.
I bought breakfast in the street and took it back to the apartment. Neither of us felt much like eating.
At ten-fifteen local time, Irene Elliott calibrated her equipment for the last time.
We did it.
Twenty-seven and a half minutes.
A piece of piss, Elliott said.
I left her dismantling equipment and flew out to see Bancroft that afternoon.
CHAPTEr THIrTY–TWO
“I find this exceptionally difficult to believe,” Bancroft said sharply. “Are you quite sure I went to this establishment?”
Below the balcony on the lawns of Suntouch House, Miriam Bancroft appeared to be constructing an enormous paper glider from instructions in a moving holoprojection. The white of the wings was so bright it hurt to look directly at them. As I leaned on the balcony rail, she shaded her eyes from the sun and looked up at me.
“The mall has security monitors,” I said, affecting disinterest. “Automated system, still operational after all these years. They’ve got footage of you walking right up to the door. You do know the name, don’t you?”
“Jack It Up? Of course, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never actually used the place.”
I looked around without leaving the rail. “Really. You have something against virtual sex, then? You’re a reality purist?”
“No.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I have no problem with virtual formats, and as I believe I’ve told you already, I have used them on occasion. But this place Jack It Up is, how can I put it, hardly the elegant end of the market.”
“No,” I agreed. “And how would you classify Jerry’s Closed Quarters? An elegant whorehouse?”
“Hardly.”
“But that didn’t stop you going there to play cabin games with Elizabeth Elliott, did it? Or has it gone downhill recently, because—”
“All right.” The smile in the voice had turned to a grimace. “You’ve made your point. Don’t belabor it.”
I stopped watching Miriam Bancroft and came back to my seat. My iced cocktail was still standing on the little table between us. I picked it up.
“I’m glad you take the point,” I said, stirring the drink. “Because it’s taken a lot of pain to sort through this mess. I’ve been abducted, tortured, and nearly killed in the process. A woman called Louise, not much older than your precious daughter Naomi, was killed because she got in the way. So if you don’t like my conclusions, you can go fuck yourself.”
I raised my glass to him across the table.
“Spare me the melodrama, Kovacs, and sit down, for God’s sake. I’m not rejecting what you say, I’m just questioning it.”
I sat and leveled a finger at him. “No. You’re squirming. This thing’s pointing up a part of your character you despise for its appetites. You’d rather not know what kind of software you were accessing that night over at Jack It Up, in case it’s even more grubby than you already imagine. You’re being forced to confront the part of yourself that wants to come in your wife’s face, and you don’t like it.”
“There will be no need to revisit that particular conversation,” Bancroft said stiffly. He steepled his fingers. “You are aware, I suppose, that the security camera footage you base your assumptions on could be faked very easily by anyone with access to newstape images of me.”
“Yes, I am.” I’d watched Irene Elliott do exactly that only forty-eight hours previously. Easy wasn’t the word. After the virus run, it had been like asking a concert Total Body
dancer to encore with stretching exercises. I’d barely had time to smoke a cigarette while she did it. “But why would anyone bother? A distracter, to tinsel me off course, assuming of course that some wrong turn would have me sniffing around the ruins of a derelict Richmond mall in the first place. Come on, Bancroft, get real. The fact I was out there in the first place proves the validity of that footage. And in any case, those images aren’t the basis for anything. They just confirm what I’d already worked out, which is that you killed yourself to avoid viral contamination of your remote stack.”
“That is a quite remarkable leap of intuition to make after only a six-day investigation.”
“Blame Ortega,” I said lightly, though Bancroft’s enduring suspicion in the face of unpleasant facts was beginning to worry me. I hadn’t realized he would take so much wearing down. “She’s the one who put me onto the right track. She wouldn’t wear the murder theory from the start. She kept telling me you were too tough and smart a Meth motherfucker to let anyone kill you. Quote, unquote. And that brought me back to the conversation we had here a week ago. You told me I am not the kind of man to take my own life, and even if I was, I would not have bungled it in this fashion. If it had been my intention to die, you would not be talking to me now. Envoys have total recall; those were your exact words.”
I paused and set down my glass, searching for the fine edge of deceit that always lies right up against the truth.
“All this time, I’ve been working on the assumption you didn’t pull the trigger because you weren’t the type to commit suicide. I ignored all the evidence to the contrary because of that single assumption. The electron-tight security you’ve got here, the lack of any traces of intrusion, the handprint lock on the safe.”
“And Kadmin. And Ortega.”
“Yeah, that didn’t help. But we straightened out the Ortega angle, and Kadmin, well, I’m coming to Kadmin in a moment. The point is, as long as I equated pulling that trigger with suicide, I was jammed. But then, what if those two acts were not synonymous? What if you’d torched your own stack, not because you wanted to die, but for some other reason? Once I let myself think that, the rest was easy. What were the possible reasons that you’d do it? It’s not an easy thing to put a gun to your own head, even if you do want to die. To do it when you want to live must take the will of a demon. No matter how much you might know intellectually that you’ll be resleeved with the bulk of your mind intact, the person you are at that moment is going to die. You had to have been desperate to pull that trigger. It had to have been something—” I smiled faintly. “—life threatening. Given that assumption, it didn’t take long to come up with the virus scenario. Then all I had to do was work out how and where you’d been infected.”
Bancroft shifted uncomfortably at the word, and I felt a stab of elation run through me. Virus! Even Meths were afraid of the invisible corroder, because even they, with their remote storage and their clones on ice, were not immune. Viral strike! Stack down! Bancroft was off balance.
“Now, it’s virtually impossible to snug something as complex as a virus into a disconnected target, so you had to have been jacked in somewhere along the line. I thought of the PsychaSec facility, but they’re sewed up too tight. And it couldn’t have been before you went to Osaka for the same reasons; even dormant, the virus would have tripped every alarm at PsychaSec when they set up the ’cast. It had to have been sometime in the last forty-eight hours, because your remote stack was uncontaminated. I knew from talking to your wife that the likelihood was you’d been out on the town when you got back from Osaka, and on your own admission that could quite possibly include some kind of virtual whorehouse. After that, it was just a matter of doing the rounds. I tried a half-dozen places before I hit Jack It Up, and when I punched up their inquiries the viral contam siren nearly blew my phone out. That’s the thing about A.I.s—they write their own security and it’s second to none. Jack It Up is sealed off so tight it’ll take the police months to tunnel in and see what’s left of the core processors.”
I felt a vague pang of guilt as I thought of the A.I., thrashing like a man in an acid vat as its systems dissolved around it, consciousness shriveling down a tunnel of closing perspectives into nothing. The feeling passed rapidly. We’d chosen Jack It Up for a variety of reasons: It was in a roofed-over area, which meant there would be no satellite coverage to dispute the lies we’d planted in the mall surveillance system; it operated in a criminal environment, so no one would have a problem believing an illicit virus had somehow got loose inside it; but most of all it ran a series of software options so distasteful that it was unlikely the police would ever bother to investigate the wreckage of the murdered machine more than cursorily. Under its heading on Ortega’s list, there were at least a dozen copycat sex crimes that the Organic Damage Division had traced to software packages available from Jack It Up. I could imagine the curl of Ortega’s lip as she read the software listings, the studied indifference with which she would handle the case.
I missed Ortega.
“What about Kadmin?”
“It’s hard to know, but I’m betting whoever infected Jack It Up in the first place probably hired Kadmin to silence me and make sure the whole thing stayed covered up. After all, without me stirring things up, how long would it have been before anyone realized Jack had been iced? Can’t see any of its potential clients calling the police when they got refused entry, can you?”
Bancroft gave me a hard look, but I knew from his next words that the battle was almost over. The balance of belief was tipping toward me. Bancroft was going to buy the package. “You’re saying the virus was introduced deliberately. That someone murdered this machine?”
I shrugged. “It seems likely. Jack It Up operated on the margins of local law. A lot of its software appears to have been impounded by the Transmission Felony Division at one time or another, which suggests that it had regular dealings with the criminal world in one form or another. It is possible that it made some enemies. On Harlan’s World the yakuza have been known to perform viral execution on machines judged to have betrayed them. I don’t know if that happens here, or who’d have the stack muscle to do it. But I do know that whoever hired Kadmin used an A.I. to pull him out of police storage. You can verify that with Fell Street, if you like.”
Bancroft was silent. I watched him for a moment, seeing the belief sink in. Watching the process as he convinced himself, I could almost see what he was seeing. Himself, hunched over in an autocab as the sordid guilt over what he had been doing at Jack It Up merged sickeningly with the horror of the contamination warnings sirening in his head. Infected! Himself, Laurens Bancroft, stumbling through the dark toward the lights of Suntouch House and the only surgery that could save him. Why had he left the cab so far from home? Why had he not wakened anybody for help? These were questions I no longer needed to answer for him. Bancroft believed. His guilt and self-disgust made him believe, and he would find his own answers to reinforce the horrific images in his head.
And by the time Transmission Felony cut a safe path through to Jack It Up’s core processors, Rawling 4851 would have eaten out every scrap of coherent intellect the machine ever had. There would be nothing left to dispute the carefully constructed lie I’d told for Kawahara.
I got up and went back to the balcony, wondering if I should allow myself a cigarette. It had been tough to lock down the need the last couple of days. Watching Irene Elliott at work had been nerve-racking. I forced my hand to relinquish the pack in my breast pocket, and gazed down at Miriam Bancroft, who by now was well on the way to completing her glider. When she looked up, I glanced away along the balcony rail and saw Bancroft’s telescope, still pointed seaward at the same shallow angle. Idle curiosity made me lean across and look at the figures for angle of elevation. The finger marks in the dust were still there.
Dust?
Bancroft’s unconsciously arrogant words came back to me. It was an enthusiasm I had. Back when the stars were still somethi
ng to stare at. You wouldn’t remember how that felt. Last time I looked through that lens was nearly two centuries ago.
I stared at the finger marks, mesmerized by my own thoughts. Someone had been looking through this lens a lot more recently than two hundred years ago, but they hadn’t kept at it very long. From the minimal displacement of dust it looked as if the programming keys had been used only once. On a sudden impulse, I moved up to the telescope and followed the line of its barrel out over the sea to where visibility blurred in the haze. That far out, the angle of elevation would give you a view of empty air a couple of kilometers up. I bent to the eyepiece as if in a dream. A gray speck showed up in the center of my field of vision, blurring in and out of focus as my eyes struggled with the surrounding expanses of blue. Lifting my head and checking the control pad again, I found a max amp key and thumbed it impatiently. When I looked again, the gray speck had sprung into hard focus, filling most of the lens. I breathed out slowly, feeling as if I’d had the cigarette after all.
The airship hung like a bottleback, gorged after a feeding frenzy. It must have been several hundred meters long, with swellings along the lower half of the hull and protruding sections that looked like landing pads. I knew what I was looking at even before Ryker’s neurachem reeled in the last increments of magnification I needed to make out the sun-burnished lettering on the side that spelled it out: Head in the Clouds.
I stepped back from the telescope, breathing deeply, and as my eyes slid back to normal focus I saw Miriam Bancroft again. She was standing amidst the parts of her glider, staring up at me. I almost flinched as our eyes met. Dropping a hand to the telescope program pad, I did what Bancroft should have done before he blew his own head off. I hit memory wipe, and the digits that had held the airship available for viewing for the last seven weeks blinked out.
I had felt like many kinds of fool in my life, but never quite as completely as I did at that moment. A first-order clue had been waiting there in the lens for anyone to come along and pick it up. Missed by the police in their haste, disinterest, and lack of close knowledge, missed by Bancroft because the telescope was so much a part of his world view it was too close to give a second glance to, but I had no such excuses. I had stood here a week ago and seen the two mismatched pieces of reality clash against each other. Bancroft claiming not to have used the telescope in centuries almost at the same moment that I saw the evidence of recent use in the disturbed dust. And Miriam Bancroft had hammered it home less than an hour later when she said while Laurens was staring at the stars, some of us kept our eyes on the ground. I’d thought of the telescope then; my mind had rebelled at the downloading-induced sluggishness and tried to tell me. Shaky and off balance, new to the planet and the flesh I was wearing, I had ignored it. The download dues had taken their toll.
Altered Carbon Page 38
