by Eric Brown
Halliday lifted the flap of his jacket, looked at the hole drilled neatly through the padding. He poked his finger through the hole, stared at it.
His com rattled silently against his ribs.
‘Barney?’ he said.
‘Hal?’ Barney shouted. ‘What the hell . . .? Where are you?’
The waiter returned, holding out a bottle of brandy. Halliday took it. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘The . . . The Waterfront,’ the waiter stammered.
Halliday relayed the information to Barney and cut the connection. He tipped the bottle and took a mouthful of brandy, feeling the liquid fire cut a path directly to his stomach.
Barney arrived two minutes later. He took in the scene, then came to the table and touched Halliday’s shoulder. ‘You okay, Hal?’
‘I’m fine.’ He indicated the corpse. ‘There was nothing I could do, Barney.’ He pulled the chu from his head and dropped it onto the table.
Barney sat down, accepted the brandy from Halliday and took a slug. ‘I’ve contacted Wellman. He’s on his way.’
Halliday recounted the gunfight, how in the end he was sure that it was Dan Reeves, and not the machine intelligence, who had taken his own life.
‘There’s a woman’s body by the archway,’ Barney said.
‘Reeves’ wife or whatever. She followed him here, argued with him.’ He stopped, as the image of how Reeves had calmly shot her in the head flashed into his mind’s eye. ‘Then he shot her. Jesus Christ. . .’
‘What is it, Hal?’
‘It’s just occurred to me: if the woman hadn’t followed him she would still be alive now, and Reeves would have turned down the mews unhindered. He wouldn’t have shot her and then seen me. I would have followed him down the news, used the freeze. He’d be on his way to some hospital now to have the interface removed.’
Halliday tried not to dwell on what must have been going through Reeves’ tortured mind when he hooked his mouth around the barrel of the revolver and pulled the trigger.
A police team arrived, a couple of uniformed officers, a detective and a forensic scientist. Halliday and Barney showed their identification, and Halliday began a detailed report of what had happened.
Five minutes later, Wellman swept into the restaurant. He’d changed his suit for a jade, double-breasted affair with a red carnation in the lapel. He looked more than ever like the big wheel in some successful bordello, perhaps with Mafia connections.
He took one look at the remains of Dan Reeves, then turned away. He nodded Halliday and Barney. ‘Your action has saved many lives, gentlemen.’
Somehow the knowledge, the abstract concept of lives saved, failed to make Halliday feel any better.
‘Do we really need to remain here any longer?’ Wellman said. ‘I’m going to the safe house to appraise Joseph of events. Mr Kluger, I can write you a cheque for your work so far.’
Barney nodded. ‘Sounds good to me.’
Halliday looked at his watch. It was seven. He recalled promising Kim that he’d call and arrange to meet her for a meal.
He looked at Barney. ‘I said I’d see Kim tonight.’
‘Go for it, Hal. Here, take the car.’ He gave Halliday the keys of the Ford and followed Wellman from the restaurant.
Halliday took the footpath along the waterfront, hunching in his jacket against the cold wind. He had no appetite, but he could order something light and watch Kim eat, let the sight of her take his mind off the events of the day.
His com vibrated. He stopped, staring up at the lights of Manhattan, bright against the night sky, and took the call.
A familiar voice said, ‘Mr Halliday?’
‘Joe - is that you? Joe?’
‘I need to see you, Mr Halliday. I’ll be at the Himalayasite in five minutes. It’s important.’
‘Fine. I’ll be there. Joe, what is it?’
No reply.
‘Joe? Joe . . .?’
Kosinski had cut the connection. Halliday sighed. So much for the fantasy of watching Kim eat her meal while he got quietly steamed on red wine.
He came to a main street and a minute later he was in a taxi heading downtown. He closed his eyes as the taxi carried him through the darkness. Soon, the meeting with Joe Kosinski concluded, he would cease his involvement with VR, Cyber-Tech, Wellman and Kosinski for good . . . and not a second too soon.
He paid off the taxi and climbed into the Ford, then drove north towards West 23rd.
The fairy-tale castle of the Mantoni VR Bar filled the night with the glow of its ersatz white marble. Halliday waited in line for five minutes, then bought an hour’s pass at reception and made his way to the waiting room. The Bar was busier today, and he was forced to wait for what seemed an age in the plush crimson lounge until a booth became free.
A uniformed hostess with a lockjaw smile showed him to a vacant booth. The jellytank was filling up with fresh goo, following the departure of the previous user. He entered his preferences into the screen on the wall, going to the Himalayasite as himself, unaltered. He undressed, stored his clothes in the wall-unit, and attached the leads and faceplate.
He stepped into the tank, sat down and lay back. His senses departed as he floated buoyantly, and seconds later he was flooded with the visual information of the virtual Himalayasite.
Despite knowing what to expect, he was amazed again by the fidelity of the image, the reality of the experience. Around him the mountains thrust great snow-streaked ramparts into a cloudless blue sky, and a warm breeze played over his face. From a distance came the slow tolling of the lamasery bells.
This time, Joe Kosinski was already waiting for him at the Buddhist shrine. He was dressed in the same maroon robes, his shaven head a severe contrast to his fly-away hair in the real world. He sat cross-legged before the similarly seated, though more fully proportioned, image of Siddhartha Gautama.
‘Mr Halliday,’ Joe said.
‘Hal, please,’ Halliday said. He sat down on the timber bench. ‘It worked, Joe. Wellman had some techs set up an image of you supposedly calling the Cyber-Tech offices. LINx was monitoring and sent Dan Reeves.’
‘What happened?’
‘He died in the ambush,’ Halliday said. ‘He took his own life.’ He could not bring himself to describe the death of the woman or the details of the bloody finale in the restaurant.
Joe Kosinski nodded. ‘It’s almost over, Hal. It’s coming to an end. LINx no longer has implantees to control, and soon we’ll be able to eradicate it from the Net.’
‘How’s the program coming along?’
‘Oh,’ Joe said, smiling. ‘It’s finished. That’s why I summoned you here.’
‘You confident it’ll work?’
‘Hal, I developed LINx and its prototypes. I know it intimately. I know what brought it into being, and I know what will kill it. Why do you think it was so eager to eliminate me?’
Halliday shook his head. ‘It’s been a nightmare. Joe. The deaths . . . the needless deaths.’
The silence stretched. ‘Don’t you think I feel a measure of responsibility?’
Halliday waved. ‘I didn’t mean to blame you. You weren’t to know what’d happen. It was a fluke, a terrible, tragic accident.’ He shook his head. ‘You were no more responsible than the parents of a child who grows up to be a killer.’
‘Some people would claim that parents are responsible for the actions of their children, Hal.’
He looked at the young computer-scientist in the guise of a Buddhist monk. Was he playing the devil’s advocate? ‘You don’t really believe that’s true, though?’
Joe hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps not so much in the case of parents, but as for LINx ... It was my programming. I sequenced its parameters, its initial range of references.’
‘But it grew into something different, something almost evil. That had nothing to do with you.’
The monk gestured. ‘Perhaps I will atone when the program wipes LINx forever from the Net.’ He
looked up at Halliday. ‘I need you to collect the program and deliver it to Wellman.’
‘It isn’t with you at the safe house?’
Joe laughed. ‘Call me paranoid, Hal. I lived in constant fear of LINx finding out where I’m in hiding. I couldn’t risk the possibility of the program being discovered by Dan Reeves. I completed it a few hours ago and deposited the needles in a sealed envelope at Connelly’s, off Broadway. I told the bartender you’d be along to collect it later today.’
Halliday nodded. ‘I’ll do that. When you get out of the tank, Wellman and Barney will be with you. I could meet you back there when I’ve picked up the program.’
‘We’ll have a celebratory drink, Hal. To the success of the program.’
Halliday smiled. ‘I’ll drink to that, Joe.’
He gave Halliday the address of the safe house, an exclusive street on the Upper West Side.
They watched the hunched shape of a yak make its way slowly up the hillside towards them. Halliday had seen the huge, hunched beasts from a distance during his first visit to the site, but never this close - and, as ever in VR, he was surprised again by the reality of the image.
He turned to Joe.
‘Hal . . .’
‘What is it?’ Halliday stared at him. Joe was scratching his chest through the robes, a frown on his face. ‘Hal, I feel bad.’
The yak looked up, straight at them, and something about the fixity of its stare struck Halliday as most unlike that of an animal. The way it was looking at Joe, with a strange air of intent, was not animal-like at all. Halliday told himself that in VR you could appear as anyone or anything you liked, and that included a yak.
Only then did he begin to wonder how anyone else had discovered Joe’s location in VR.
He glanced at Joe, and wished he hadn’t. Something was happening to the kid. The flesh of his face was changing colour, blackening. Smoke was rising from his robes. Joe sat immobile, unable to move, an expression of utter terror in his eyes.
Halliday backed off, panic clutching his chest.
The yak came to a halt before them, its bulbous, rheumy eyes staring out at Joe with typical bovine melancholy.
The yak opened its mouth. ‘Joe Kosinski?’ it asked.
Then it changed shape in an instant. From a huge-headed, sad-eyed animal it became something all streamlined metal with a thrusting, prognathous jaw.
‘Get out of here, Joe!’ Halliday cried.
He was aware of the slicing sickle teeth only when they tore into the burning Buddhist monk with a ferocity he knew must be a metaphor for something that was occurring in the real world - for in virtual reality, he knew, you could not be harmed.
Then the monster turned from the gory remains of Joe Kosinski, its jaws dripping with virtual blood, and grinned.
‘And now you, Halliday,’ it said.
* * * *
Twelve
By the time Barney and Wellman reached the safe house on the Upper West Side, snow was beginning to settle on the sidewalks in a thin, sparkling mantle. Wellman parked the Benz outside a three -storey town house and led the way inside.
They found Joe Kosinski already jellytanked in a big room on the second floor, stacked with computer terminals and flatscreens. Wellman hurried over to a screen on the wall and ran his fingers over the touch-control. Barney, following, stopped on the threshold and stared at the jellytank. Although he had tanked before, he had never witnessed anyone else in virtual reality. Often, when immersing himself in the goo, he had wondered what a sight he must present while in virtual reality: a naked body in suspension, caught in a nexus of leads. Now he knew. Joe Kosinski floated with his arms raised, legs spread - a body seemingly in freefall - and from time to time his limbs twitched and jumped.
Barney looked up as the room was flooded with a bright green glow. Wellman was adjusting the image on the flatscreen, a panoramic scene of mountains and green valleys.
The viewpoint swept across the greensward, panning in on two figures seated beside an image of Buddha. Barney recognised Hal, exactly as he appeared in the real world, something about the appearance of the shabby New Yorker incongruous in such idyllic surroundings.
Seated cross-legged beside Hal was a young man in the maroon robes of a Buddhist monk. It was a while before Barney recognised Joe Kosinski, his long hair cropped to the scalp.
The two men were talking, though no sound could be heard. Wellman ran his fingers across the touch-control beneath the flat-screen, frowning with concentration.
Barney watched him, trying to work out what he felt about the man. He had disliked the rather prissy, fastidious Wellman when they’d first met, and there was something about his strict adherence to formality that stuck in Barney’s craw. He was not the type of guy who would ever become a drinking buddy, but, once fate had thrown them together, Barney had to admit that Wellman had worked hard and with ingenuity.
Sound filled the room, deafening, ‘. . . do you think it was so eager to eliminate me?’ Joe was asking.
Wellman modulated the volume. They were talking about responsibility, who was to blame for what had happened. Kosinski seemed to be blaming himself, but Hal was saying that it was nothing but a terrible accident.
Even in virtual reality, Hal spoke with a soft, slow drawl. He was rubbing the stubble of his jaw, a contemplative gesture Barney was familiar with in the real world.
He wondered if Lew and the Mantoni technicians had watched him and Estelle in virtual reality like this the other day, watched while they had made love . . .
Joe Kosinski was saying, ‘I need you to collect the program and deliver it to Wellman.’
‘It isn’t with you at the safe house?’
Kosinski explained that he had feared LINx might locate the safe house and send Reeves for the program. ‘I completed it a few hours ago and deposited the needles in a sealed envelope at Connelly’s, off Broadway. I told the bartender that you’d be along to collect it later.’
Wellman turned to Barney. ‘He’s done it, Kluger.’
Kosinski was saying, ‘We’ll have a celebratory drink, Hal. To the success of the program.’
The two men seated in the shrine, the Buddhist monk and the black-clad New Yorker, lapsed into silence and watched a big bovine animal cropping grass nearby.
Barney became aware of the smell, the slightest whiff of burning rubber, but it was so faint that he hardly gave it a second thought.
He watched the screen. It was clear that the two men had no more to say, were more intent on watching the yak before them, which seemed to be approaching with deliberation.
Then Joe Kosinski began scratching his chest, and the skin of his face was turning black.
‘Wellman . . .’ Barney said.
He had come across the smell before, somewhere - then he had it. It was the gel used in the tanks, which no matter how hard he scrubbed himself on emerging from VR. always seemed to linger on his skin.
He heard a sound, behind him. He turned.
‘What the hell. . .?’ Wellman cried.
Something moved in the jellytank; Joe, with unaccustomed vigour. His legs were threshing in the thick, restrictive medium of the jelly.
Barney looked back at the screen. The yak was lifting its big head, staring straight at Joe Kosinski, whose face and hands were blackened now and smoking.
Barney turned again and stared at the jellytank. The gel was bubbling, the body of Joe Kosinski bucking as if being subjected to electric shock treatment.
He moved to the tank, reached out, but even before his hand made contact with the tank, he was beaten back by the heat. Inside the jellytank, Joe Kosinski’s flesh was beginning to burn.
Wellman cried out and snatched at the leads which snaked over the side of the tank. They came away in his hand, burned through. In desperation, Wellman reached into the tank; barely had he submerged his right hand to the wrist than he snatched it out, yelling with pain.
Barney looked around, frantic now. He picked up a cha
ir, yelled at Wellman to stand back, and swung it with all his strength at the side of the jellytank. The glass cracked, seemed to hold together for a second, and then collapsed, and the gel pulsed out in a steaming, obscene mass. Barney backed to the door in a bid to evade the spreading gel, Wellman beside him.
As Barney stared, he knew that they could do nothing to save Joe Kosinski. If he was not already dead, then he was dying: he lay in a contorted mess in the ruins of the jellytank, his flesh blackened, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony.
