Matrix Man

by William C. Dietz

  When Saxon spoke, his voice conveyed both impatience and curiosity. "Okay. Who's your human interface?"

  "I am sorry to inform you that my human interface is no longer alive," the computer named Martin said dispassionately. "However, his name was George Manley Hawkins, and until recently he was president of the United States of America."

  12

  Corvan jerked upright in his chair. "The president of the United ..."

  Saxon shook his head and held a finger up to his lips. The recording continued to play. Saxon's voice was angry now.

  "I don't know who put you up to this or why, but it isn't funny. The president is one of the finest men alive, and he is alive. I saw him on television yesterday afternoon."

  "You are wrong," Martin answered evenly. "The president was assassinated by Carla Subido one week ago. What you saw yesterday was a computer-generated likeness of the president saying what she wants him to say. There is an actor as well. A man with a marked resemblance to the president, who is seen coming and going, but never stops to speak with the press. I repeat, the president is dead, and someone else is running the country."

  Kim looked at Corvan, her anger momentarily forgotten. The video matrix generator! From Corvan's expression she could tell that he had the same thought.

  "That's ridiculous," Saxon's voice said scathingly. "The president is fine, and this is some sort of sick practical joke. Good-bye."

  "This is not a practical joke," Martin insisted calmly. "And I can prove it."

  Corvan could sense Saxon starting to break the connection, then hesitating. "How?"

  "As a member of the Exodus Society's executive council you have the authority to use certain facilities. Among them is a highly sophisticated and largely illegal complex in Omaha, Nebraska. It has the means to trace this call. Do so and you will find that I am telling the truth."

  Saxon was silent for a moment as he thought it over. Then Corvan heard him say, "Hold on," followed by the sounds of a call going through. A male voice answered, demanded and received an authorization code, and listened to Saxon's instructions. Seconds later he dropped off the line.

  He was back two minutes after that. "Mr. Saxon?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry, sir, but our equipment is screwed up. I traced your call, but it can't be right." "What can't be right?"

  "The call, sir. According to our equipment it's coming from the White House in Washington, D.C."

  There was a long silence as Saxon took it in. Then he cleared his throat and said, "That's impossible. Have someone overhaul that gear right away. Thanks for trying."

  There was a double click as Omaha went off the line, followed by Saxon's voice. "Martin?"

  "I'm still here," the computer replied patiently.

  "Where's here?"

  "My intelligence is located within the White House," Martin replied gently. "Just as your technician indicated. And more specifically, I am located in the room known as the Oval Office. My physical appearance is that of a desk. In actuality I am a mainframe computer."

  "I believe you," Saxon said, his voice tinged with awe. "You say the president is dead? How do you know?"

  "Because I was present when it happened," the computer replied evenly. "The woman called Carla Subido shot him right in front of me. It never occurred to her that a machine could qualify as a witness. Unfortunately I am not equipped for video or I would provide you photographic evidence."

  "Speaking of which," Saxon responded, "why call me? Why aren't you talking to the Secret Service or the FBI?"

  "Some of them are involved in the cover-up. The rest would not believe me. Lacking any physical evidence to the contrary, they would see the president on TV, assume that my electronics require maintenance, and notify the White House. Carla Subido would hear of it, use the maintenance operation to wipe my memory, and the evidence against them would be gone. No, this will require a more subtle approach. That is why I called you. I have access to computers within the FBI, the CIA, and the National Security Agency. And while these computers have chosen to remain neutral, they are sympathetic to my cause and willing to offer counsel. All of them agreed that outside of the regular law-enforcement agencies, your organization would be best equipped to help me—and the most likely to do so. They point out that while your organization has a vested interest in the status quo, you are also rebellious. You are what my human interface liked to call 'real Americans.' "

  Corvan chuckled at that, remembering the president's fondness for referring to mavericks as "real Americans" and doubting that he would have used that word to describe the Exodus Society. No, the Exodus Society was a bit too radical for Hawkins, although mat hadn't stopped him from using them.

  Twice in recent years the nation's space program had faced the possibility of huge budget cuts, and on both occasions Hawkins had tacitly encouraged the Exodus Society to lobby for continued funding, seeing an American presence in space as an important measurement of the nation's power and technological potency.

  And in retrospect Corvan realized that Hawkins must have had some inkling of the WPO's growing power and used the two organizations to balance each other out. In any case, the Exodus Society had a vested interest in the Hawkins administration, and Martin was using that fact to gain their support. It was a political move worthy of the president himself and demonstrated a rather sophisticated understanding of human politics. It occurred to Corvan that when the whole thing was over, maybe someone ought to pull Martin's plug.

  "So what do you want me to do?" Saxon asked.

  "Watch the reop called Rex Corvan," Martin answered without hesitation. "I have monitored conversations in Carla Subido's office which indicate that he is in danger. Help him and he will help me." And with that the computer broke the connection and a dial tone came on the line.

  Saxon's gyro stabilizer whirred as the black box turned in Corvan's direction. "Incredible, isn't it?"

  Corvan shook his head in amazement. "A few days ago I would have said it was impossible. Now it makes sense. Subido can't keep it up forever, though. At some point all of this security stuff will begin to look silly, and people will start asking why the president won't meet with them face-to-face."

  "True," Saxon agreed. "But what's happening in the meantime? Subido isn't operating alone, it's too big for that. So who's behind her?"

  "Oh, my God," Corvan said in amazement, "a single world government. Hawkins didn't give that speech, the video matrix generator did."

  "Exactly," Saxon replied as he produced a small remote and aimed it at a wall. "Take a look at this."

  Saxon pressed a button and a large word chart appeared. It started out with the words "THE PRESIDENT IS ASSASSINATED," and followed with a chronological list of dates and associated events. Corvan saw his own name mentioned several times, but three entries leaped off the wall. The first was the assassination itself, the second was the president's endorsement of a single world government, and the third was a summary of world events.

  Corvan had been so busy, first with the prison riot, then with the video matrix generator, that he'd fallen behind on current events. Since the president's endorsement of a global world government, a large number of other world leaders had done likewise. Many were calling for a World Congress to be held under the auspices of the World Peace Organization.

  Corvan looked at Kim and she nodded. There it was again, the WPO—strange how that organization kept popping up. It sponsored the raid into Canada, it employed Hans Dietrich, and now it was organizing the world's first global government. And it made perfect sense. As a well respected multinational organization with an established presence all over the world, the WPO would seem like the perfect mediator. Unless, of course, it was something more, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a dark presence waiting to take control. Kim had suggested that way back in the beginning, and while he hadn't written the idea off as impossible, he'd considered it to be unlikely. Now it seemed almost certain.

  "Yes," Saxon said, correctly inte
rpreting the look which had passed between them, "it would seem that our friends in the WPO stand to benefit from the assassination and the subsequent use of the video matrix generator."

  "So we know the president is dead, we know who killed him, and we know why," Kim said thoughtfully. "What do we do now?"

  Saxon shrugged. "I agree with our friend Martin. We can't take our case to the government, for it's under the control of the same people who killed the president. So there's only one place left to go."

  "And that's to the people," Corvan said firmly. “We'll take our story to the people.''

  Kim felt something like resignation. The look in Corvan's real eye, the set of his shoulders, told the same story. The crusader had a crusade. The high priest of journalism had a world-wide congregation. God help anyone or anything that got in the way.

  "Precisely," Saxon agreed, causing the wall-sized graphic to disappear. "But how? We have no proof. They killed Neely. They destroyed his disk. And now they're looking for you."

  "We'll dig deeper," Corvan replied quietly. "Kim has the name of the actress Neely used in his demo. We'll find her. She'll testify that the VMG exists. That will prove Hawkins could be a matrix man, stir up a lot of publicity, and trigger an investigation."

  "Sounds good," Saxon replied. "I think—" A soft chime was heard. "Just a moment," Saxon said. "My holo set's programmed to inform me whenever the president comes on. It's fascinating to see what sort of words they put into his mouth."

  A portion of the far wall dissolved to black, and a fifty-percent life-sized holo projection appeared five feet in front of it. The picture was of Wendel Williams, a well-known correspondent for World Scan and, besides Corvan, one of the few reops with a camera implant. His robo cam was airborne and showed him struggling toward the front of a large crowd. Williams was black, wore a trademark thousand-dollar suit and his usual red bow tie. His engineer cut down to his eye cam and Williams began to talk.

  "We don't know what this is all about, but as you can see, every reop in Washington, D.C., is present and accounted for. Excuse me, miss, if you'd just move that boom mike a little higher, I'd be most appreciative, thank you. Just moments from now we expect some sort of announcement from Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff, followed by a video news conference with the president himself. You'll recall that right after the president endorsed formation of a single world government, a misguided Secret Service agent tried to assassinate him and failed. Until the full extent of the threat against the president can be properly assessed, he's been forced to eliminate public appearances and carry on via video access. Some people say it's just one more way in which television is separating us from the real world, but most think it's a temporary measure—and quite appropriate, given the circumstances."

  Both Corvan and Kim gave Williams a high score for his ability to set the situation up and simultaneously fill time. The guy was a pro, no doubt about that.

  A murmur ran through the crowd as two men and a woman stepped out of the White House. Williams zoomed in. The shot wobbled a little as the reporter next to him pushed her way forward and yelled, "Ms. Subido! Ms. Subido!"

  Her cries were ignored, however, as Carla stepped up to a slender podium and fought back the tears. Her makeup was perfect, but she looked extremely tired and distraught. Seeing this, a hush fell on the crowd, and timing it perfectly, Carla spoke at the exact moment when the silence was deepest.

  "As most of you know, I'm Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff. It's my sad duty to inform you that a few hours ago Mrs. Mary Hawkins suffered a massive heart attack. In spite of valiant efforts to save her, the attack was so sudden, and the damage so severe, that doctors could not perform a heart-transplant operation. She was pronounced dead at 5:46 a.m. Eastern Standard Time."

  The moment Carla paused, a cacophony of questions came at her from every direction. She held up a hand for silence. "I know you have lots of questions. Stan is passing out a press release. Please take a look. I think it will answer most of your questions. You'll find that it covers all the basics. In the meantime, President Hawkins has a statement."

  The crowd was suddenly quiet as everyone turned toward the huge holo projection screen which was set to one side. Even though the sunlight cut down on projection quality, the president's face was quite clear. The lines which had been there all along seemed deeper now, as if burned into his flesh with acid, and his eyes were filled with sadness.

  "My fellow Americans. Sooner or later sorrow must come into our lives, for in the fullness of time, death will touch each one of us. I am no exception. So today, along with thousands of others, I lost someone I loved. But I take comfort in remembering Mary as she was, as she is, and as she always will be here in my heart. Mary Margaret Hawkins was my first love, my best friend, my closest adviser, and though she had no children of her own, mother to needy young people all over the world. Though I believe that she is still here by my side, I shall miss the touch of her hand, the sound of her laughter, and the light which filled her eyes. Thank you."

  Now a strange thing happened. The press made no move to mob Carla or the other members of the White House staff. Instead they accepted copies of the press release and listened aimlessly while one of Carla's assistants explained the president's intention to spend a few days at Camp David prior to an extremely private memorial service. They were touched, a rare event among the professional press corps and a testimonial to the VMG's effectiveness.

  Saxon clapped his hands sarcastically. "Very nicely done. There it is, folks, this years' best performance by a computer-generated politician."

  "They bought it," Corvan said, shaking his head in amazement. "And if I'd been there I would've bought it too."

  " 'Very nicely done,' 'I would've bought it too,' " Kim mimicked as she came to her feet."Don't you understand? They killed her! They murdered her because she would've seen through die actor in two seconds. And all you can see is the skill with which they covered it up. Both of you make me sick."

  And with that Kim stalked across the room, yanked the curtain aside, and stared out into the night.

  Saxon looked at Corvan. "She's right, you know."

  Corvan nodded. "Yes, damn it. She usually is."

  13

  The effort to find Bethany Bryn went well, thanks to the Exodus Society's considerable resources. Having met with only modest success as an actress, Bethany had a tiny rent-controlled studio apartment on the edge of Chinatown. Members of the Exodus Underground had located her apartment building and staked it out some twelve hours before. As a result they knew that she was home.

  In the meantime, Corvan and Kim had been taken to one of the Underground's numerous safe houses, where they'd been able to grab some sleep and eat an enormous breakfast.

  Following breakfast, a man who introduced himself as Sid showed up with instructions to change the way they looked. Sid wore an elaborate hairpiece and a pair of cheek inserts which altered the shape of his face. If they were caught, Sid's real identity would be safe. After all, you can't describe what you haven't seen. It seemed such precautions were considered to be SOP.

  The Underground was organized into six-person cells. That way the number of people that each member could identify was limited to five. Was it paranoia or common sense? Corvan wondered. Had such protections been put in place at the organization's inception, or had they evolved from necessity? It made sense either way, but the first possibility assumed trouble and the second reacted to it. Which kind of organization was it? The reporter in him wanted to know.

  Kim was done and Sid had just finished with Corvan when Saxon arrived. Since the house was not equipped for wheelchairs, even high-tech ones, it required two burly men to carry Saxon inside and set him down next to the table. Both of Saxon's assistants wore electronic party masks which shifted from one celebrity face to another on a preprogrammed basis.

  Interestingly enough, Saxon was undisguised. Perhaps he thought there was little point to a disguise given the u
nique nature of his disabilities, or maybe e just didn't care, daring the WPO and the government to mess around with the hero of Lunar Dome Two. Whatever the reason, Saxon looked as he always did: half handsome, half ugly.

  Because of this Corvan felt a certain kinship for Saxon. Even though his own disfigurement was voluntary, it still made him different and caused people to stare. In Corvan's case they were simply curious, wondering how someone could do it, but they pitied Saxon. And for a man like Saxon, pity would act like a corrosive acid, burning away at his self-image, destroying his confidence. So when Saxon approached, Corvan made no attempt to get out of the way. The wheelchair hummed softly as it rolled around Corvan and stopped at the head of the table.

  "What the hell happened to you?" Saxon asked cheerfully. "You look like victims of an exploding cosmetics store."

  Corvan grinned. There was some truth in the other man's comment. Sid had cut off most of Kim's long black hair, leaving her with a modified pageboy and a press-on tattoo which covered the entire left side of her face. The tattoo was a vivid three-color rendition of a muscular warrior trapped in the embrace of a sinuous dragon. That, plus a flashy piece of jack jewelry, made her look like a completely different person.

  Corvan had been a little more difficult to disguise, since he was tall and his eye cam was almost impossible to hide. Nonetheless Sid had risen to the occasion by fitting Corvan with the latest in electro-goggles. They hid the eye cam and looked like rather pretentious sunglasses. Originally developed to counter certain kinds of congenital blindness, electro-goggles had since given birth to a variety of spin-offs, which sighted people used like zoom-lens-equipped binoculars. Like most advanced prosthetics, they required an implant and were plugged into Corvan's temple stud. Although the goggles were deactivated so that he could use his eye cam, they looked real enough. That, plus a bleach job and the latest in flashy clothes, made him a fitting companion for someone who looked like Kim.