Altered Carbon

by Richard Morgan

  'File overprint,' I confirmed. 'Most places in the Protect­orate this isn't even illegal. Course, when it's a Machine Error, it's not usually so extreme, just a double-up prob­ably, and the retrieval systems yank you out in a few hours anyway. Makes a good story. How I met myself, and what I learned. Good dating conversation, maybe something to tell your kids. You got kids, Miller?'

  'Yes.' His throat worked. 'Yes, I have.'

  'Yeah? They know what you do for a living?'

  He said nothing. I took a phone from my pocket and dumped it on the table. 'When you've had enough, let me know. It's a direct line. Just press send, arid start talking into it. Head in the Clouds. Relevant detail.'

  Miller looked at the phone and then back at me. Around us the doppelgangers had almost assumed full substance. I lifted a hand in farewell.

  'Enjoy yourself.'

  I surfaced in the Hendrix's virtual recreation studio, cradled in one of the spacious participant racks. A digital time display on the far wall said I had been under less than a full minute, of which my real time in virtual probably only accounted for a couple of seconds. It was the pro­cessing in and out that took the time. I lay still for a while, thinking about what I had just done. Sharya was a long time ago, and a part of me I liked to think I'd left behind. Miller wasn't the only person meeting himself today.

  Personal, I reminded myself, but I knew it wasn't this time. This time I wanted something. The grudge was just a convenience.

  'The subject is showing signs of psychological stress,' said the Hendrix. 'A preliminary model suggests the condition will extend into personality breakdown in less than six virtual days. At current ratios, this equates to approximately thirty-seven minutes real time.'

  'Good.' Unpinning the trodes and snapping back the hypnophones, I climbed out of the angled rack. 'Call me if he cracks. Did you lift that monitor footage I asked you for?'

  'Yes. Do you wish to view it?'

  I glanced at the clock again. 'Not now. I'll wait for Miller. Any problems with the security systems?'

  'None. The data was not secured.'

  'How very careless of Director Nyman. How much is there?'

  'The relevant clinic footage is twenty-eight minutes, fifty-one seconds. To track the employee from departure as you suggested will take considerably longer.'

  'How much longer?'

  'It is impossible to give an estimate at this time. Sheryl Bostock departed the PsychaSec facility in a twenty-year-old military surplus microcopier. I do not believe that ancillary- staff at the facility are well paid.'

  'Now why doesn't that surprise me?'

  'Possibly because — '

  'Skip it. It was a figure of speech. What about the microcopier?'

  'The navigation system has no traffic net access, and so is invisible in traffic control data. I shall have to rely on the vehicle's appearance on visual monitors in its flight path.'

  'You're talking about satellite tracking?'

  'As a last resort, yes. I'd would prefer to begin with lower level and ground-based systems. They are likely to be more accessible. Satellite security is usually of high resilience and breaching such systems is often both diffi­cult and dangerous.'

  'Whatever. Let me know when you've got something.'

  I wandered around the studio, brooding. The place was deserted, most of the racks and other machines shrouded in protective plastic. In the dim light provided by the illumimim tiles on the walls, their ambiguous bulk could equally have belonged to a fitness centre or a torture chamber.

  'Can we have some real lights in here?'

  Brightness sprang out across the studio from high-intensity bulbs recessed into the low ceiling. I saw that the walls were postered with images drawn from some of the virtual environments on offer. Dizzying mountain-scapes seen through racing goggles, impossibly beautiful men and women in smoky bars, huge savage animals leaping directly at sniperscope sights. The images had been cut directly from format into hologlass and when you stared at them they seemed to come alive. I found a low bench and sat on it, remembering wistfully the bite of smoke in my lungs from the format I had just left.

  'Although the program I am running is not technically illegal,' said the Hendrix tentatively, 'it is an offence to hold a digitised human personality against that person's will.'

  I glanced bleakly at the ceiling. 'What's the matter, you getting cold feet?'

  'The police have already subpoenaed my memory once, and they may charge me with compliance at your request to freeze Felipe Miller's head. They will also want to know what has happened to his stack.'

  'Yeah, and there's got to be some hotel charter some­where says you don't let people into your guests' rooms without authorisation, but you did that, didn't you?'

  'It is not a criminal offence, unless criminality results from the breach of security. What resulted from Miriam Bancroft's visit was not criminality.'

  I jerked another glance upwards. 'You trying to be funny?'

  'Humour is not within the parameters I currently operate, though I can install it at request:.'

  'No, thanks. Listen, why can't you just blank the areas of memory you don't want anyone looking up later? Delete them?'

  'I have a series of inbuilt blocks that prevent me from taking such action.'

  'That's too bad. I thought you were an independent entity.'

  'Any synthetic intelligence can only be independent within the boundaries of the UN regulatory charter. The charter is hardwired into my systems, so in effect I have as much to fear from the police as a human.'

  'You let me worry about the police,' I said, affecting a confidence that had been ebbing steadily since Ortega disappeared. 'With a little luck, that evidence won't even be presented. And if it is, well, you're already in to the depth of compliance, so what have you got to lose?'

  'What have I got to gain?' asked the machine soberly.

  'Continued guest status. I'm staying here until this thing is finished, and depending on what data I get out of Miller, that could be quite a while.'

  There was a quiet broken only by the humming of air conditioning systems before the Hendrix spoke again.

  'If sufficiently serious charges accrue against me,' it said, 'the UN regulatory charter may be invoked directly. Under section 143a, I can be punished with either Capacity Reduction or, in extreme cases, Shutdown.' There was another, briefer hesitation. 'Once shut down, it is unlikely that I would be re-enabled by anybody.'

  Machine idiolect. It doesn't matter how sophisticated they get, they still end up sounding like a playgroup learning box. I sighed and looked directly ahead at the slice-of-virtual-life holos on the wall. 'You want out, now'd be a good time to tell me.'

  'I do riot want out, Takeshi Kovacs. I merely wished to acquaint you with the considerations involved in this course of action.'

  'OK. I'm acquainted.'

  I glanced up at the digital display and watched the next full minute turn over. Another four hours for Miller. In the routine the Hendrix was running, he would not get hungry or thirsty, or have to attend to any other bodily functions. Sleep was possible, although the machine would not allow it to become a withdrawal coma. All Miller had to contend with, apart from the discomfort of his surroundings, was himself. In the end it was that which would drive him insane.

  I hoped.

  None of the Right Hand of God martyrs we put through the routine had lasted more than fifteen minutes real time, but they had been flesh and blood warriors, fanatically brave in their own arena but totally unversed in virtual techniques. They had also been endowed with a strong religious dogma that permitted them to commit numerous atrocities so long as it held, but when it went, it went like a dam wall and their own resultant self-loathing had eaten them alive. Miller's mind would be nowhere near as simplistic, nor as initially self-righteous, and his condition­ing would be good.

  Outside, it would be getting dark. I watched the clock, and forced myself not to smoke. Tried, with less success, not to t
hink about Ortega.

  Ryker's sleeve was getting to be a pain in the balls.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Miller cracked at twenty-one minutes. It didn't need the Hendrix to tell me, the datalink terminal that I had jacked into the virtual phone suddenly sputtered to life and started chittering out hardcopy. I got up and went over to look at what was coming out. The program was supposed to tidy up what Miller was saying so it read sanely, but even after processing, the transcript was pretty incoherent. Miller had let himself slide close to the edge before he'd given in. I scanned the first few lines and saw the beginnings of what I wanted emerging from the gibberish.

  'Wipe the file replicants,' I told the hotel, crossing rapidly back to the rack. 'Give him a couple of hours to calm down, then jack me in.'

  'Connection time will exceed one minute, which at cur­rent ratio is three hours fifty-six minutes. Do you wish a construct installed until you can be delivered to the format.'

  'Yeah, that would be — ' I stopped halfway through settling the hypnophones around my head. 'Wait a minute, how good's the construct?'

  'I am an Emmerson series mainframe synthetic intelli­gence,' said the hotel reproachfully. 'At maximum fidelity, my virtual constructs are indistinguishable from the projected consciousness they are based on. Subject has now been alone for one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Do you wish the construct installed?'

  'Yes.' The words gave me an eerie feeling even as I was speaking them. 'In fact, let it do the whole interrogation.'

  'Installation complete.'

  I snapped the phones back again and sat on the edge of the rack, thinking about the implications of a second me inside the Hendrix's vast processing system. It was some­thing that I had never — as far as I knew — been subject to in the Corps, and I had certainly never trusted any machine enough to do it once I was operating in a criminal context.

  I cleared my throat. 'This construct. Will it know what it is?'

  'Initially, no. It will know everything that you knew when you exited from the format and no more, though, given your intelligence, it will deduce the facts eventually unless otherwise programmed. Do you wish a blocking subprogramme installed?'

  'No,' I said quickly.

  'Do you wish me to maintain the format indefinitely?'

  'No. Close it down when I, I mean when he, when the construct decides we've got enough.' Another thought struck me. 'Does the construct carry that virtual locator they wired into me?'

  'At present, yes. I am running the same mirror code to mask the signal as I did with your own consciousness. However, since the construct is not directly connected to your cortical stack, I can subtract the signal if you wish.'

  'Is it worth the trouble?'

  'The mirror code is easier to administer,' the hotel admitted.

  'Leave it, then.'

  There was an uncomfortable bubble sitting in the pit of my stomach at the thought of editing my virtual self. It reflected far too closely on the arbitrary measures that the Kawaharas and Bancrofts took in the real world with real people. Raw power, unleashed.

  'You have a virtual format call,' announced the Hendrix.

  I looked up, surprised and hopeful.

  'Ortega?'

  'Kadmin,' said the hotel diffidently. 'Will you accept the call?'

  The format was a desert. Reddish dust and sandstone underfoot, sky nailed down from horizon to horizon, cloudless blue. Sun and a pale three-quarter moon hung high and sterile above a distant range of shelf-like moun­tains. The temperature was a jarring chill, making a mockery of the sun's blinding glare.

  The Patchwork Man stood waiting for me. In the empty landscape he looked like a graven image, a rendering of some savage desert spirit. He grinned when he saw me.

  'What do you want, Kadmin? If you're looking for influence with Kawahara I'm afraid you're out of luck. She's pissed off with you beyond repair.'

  A flicker of amusement crossed Kadmin's face and he shook his head slowly, as if to dismiss Kawahara from the proceedings completely. His voice was deep and melodic.

  'You and I have unfinished business,' he said.

  'Yeah, you fucked up twice in a row.' I ladled scorn into my voice. 'What do you want, a third shot at it?'

  Kadmin shrugged his massive shoulders. 'Well, third time lucky, they say. Allow me to show you something.'

  He gestured in the air beside him and a flap of the desert backdrop peeled away from a blackness beyond. The screen it formed sizzled and sprang to life. Close focus on sleeping features. Ortega's. A fist snapped closed around my heart. Her face was grey and bruised-looking under the eyes. A thin thread of drool ran from one corner of her mouth.

  Stunbolt at close range.

  The last time I'd caught a full stun charge was courtesy of the Millsport Public Order police and, although the Envoy conditioning had forced me back to a kind of con­sciousness in about twenty minutes, I hadn't been up to much more than shivering and twitching for the next couple of hours. There was no telling how long ago Ortega had been hit, but she looked bad.

  'It's a simple exchange,' said Kadmin. 'You for her. I'm parked around the block on a street called Minna. I'll be there for the next five minutes. Come alone, or I blow her stack out the back of her neck. Your choice.'

  The desert fizzled out on the Patchwork Man smiling.

  I made the two corners of the block and Minna in a minute flat. Two weeks without smoking was like a newly dis­covered compartment at the bottom of Ryker's lungs.

  It was a sad little street of sealed-up frontages and vacant lots. There was no one around. The only vehicle in sight was a matt grey cruiser waiting at the curb, lights on in the gathering gloom of early evening. I approached hesitantly, hand on the butt of the Nemex.

  When I was five metres from the rear of the cruiser, a door opened and Ortega's body was pitched out. She hit the street like a sack and stayed down, crumpled. I cleared the Nemex as she hit and circled warily round towards her, eyes fixed on the car.

  A door cracked open on the far side and Kadmin climbed out. So soon after seeing him in virtual, it took a moment to click. Tall, dark-skinned, the hawk visage I had last seen dreaming in fluid behind the glass of the Panama Rose's re-sleeving tank. The Right Hand of God martyr clone, and hiding beneath its flesh, the Patchwork Man.

  I drew a bead on his throat with the Nemex. Across the width of the cruiser and very little more, whatever else happened afterwards, it would take his head off and probably rip the stack out of his spine.

  'Don't be ridiculous, Kovacs. This vehicle is armoured.'

  I shook my head. 'Only interested in you. Just stay exactly where you are.'

  With the Nemex still extended, my eyes still fixed on the target area above his Adam's apple, I lowered myself into a crouch beside Ortega and reached down to her face with the fingers of my free hand. Warm breath stirred around my fingertips. I felt blind towards the neck for a pulse and found it, weak but stable.

  'The lieutenant is alive and well,' said Kadmin impati­ently. 'Which is more than we shall be able to say for either of you in two minutes' time if you don't put down that cannon and get into the car.'

  Beneath my hand, Ortega's face moved. Her head rolled and I caught her scent. Her half of the pheromonal match that had locked us both into this in the first place. Her voice was weak and slurred from the stun charge.

  'Don't do this, Kovacs. You don't owe me.'

  I stood up and lowered the Nemex slightly.

  'Back off. Fifty metres up the street. She can't walk and you could cut us both down before I can carry her two metres. You back off. I walk to the car.' I wagged the gun. 'Ortega keeps the hardware. It's all I'm carrying.'

  I lifted my jacket to demonstrate. Kadmin nodded. He ducked back inside the cruiser and the vehicle rolled smoothly down the block. I watched it until it stopped, then knelt beside Ortega again. She struggled to sit up.

  'Kovacs, don't. They're going to kill you.'

  'Yes, they're certa
inly going to try.' I took her hand and folded it: around the butt of the Nemex. 'Listen, I'm all finished here in any case. Bancroft's sold, Kawahara will keep her word and freight Sarah back. I know her. What you've got to do is bust her for Mary Lou Hinchley and get Ryker off stack. Talk to the Hendrix. I left you a few loose ends there.'

  From down the street, the cruiser sounded its collision alert impatiently. In the gathering gloom of the street, it sounded mournful and ancient, like the hoot of a dying elephant ray on Hirata's Reef. Ortega looked up out of her stunblasted face as if she was drowning there.

  'You — '

  I smiled and rested a hand against her cheek.

  'Got to get to the next screen, Kristin. That's all.'

  Then I stood up, locked my hands together on the nape of my neck, and walked towards the car.

  PART 5 : NEMESIS

  (SYSTEMS CRASH)

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  In the cruiser, I was sandwiched between two impressive musclemen who, with a bit of cosmetic surgery to mess up their clone good looks, could have hired out as freak fighters on bulk alone. We climbed sedately away from the street and banked around. I tipped a glance out of the side window and saw Ortega below, trying to prop herself upright.

  'I cream the Sia cunt?' the driver wanted to know. I tensed myself for a forward leap.

  'No.' Kadmin turned in his seat to look at me. 'No, I gave Mr Kovacs my word. I believe the lieutenant and I will cross paths again in the not too distant future.'

  'Too bad for you,' I told him unconvincingly, and then they shot me with the stunner.

  When I woke up, there was a face watching me from close up. The features were vague, pale and blurred, like some kind of theatrical mask. I blinked, shivered and hauled in focus. The face drew back, still doll-like in its lack of resolution. I coughed.