The Noise Revealed

by Ian Whates

  None of which had prevented their ultimate failure. She didn't doubt that Philip was dead, and presumably Malcolm as well. She'd left a delayed message for Malcolm, set to be delivered while she was still beside him as Tanya - an additional layer of subterfuge that had amused her at the time. Now it seemed that the message was destined to never be delivered at all.

  Lara sat up, the flexiseat responding to her movements by raising its back, converting from a couch into a chair.

  She gazed out the window, still not quite able to believe that this really was her window. Ever since Catherine had plucked her from the obscurity of Susan Tan's team and fast-tracked her promotion, things had been happening so quickly she was still trying to get her head around it. Not that she was complaining, and she would never ever tire of the view from this window.

  Enough navel gazing. Time to make a call she really wasn't looking forward to.

  She spoke into the air. "Priority call to Catherine Chzyski."

  Nothing happened.

  She repeated the instruction and then tried to call up a screen; both requests met with the same lack of response.

  Something was clearly up, but she had to let Catherine know about Philip and Malcolm, even if that meant delivering the tidings in person.

  Her mouth was dry after the protracted period in Virtuality. She stopped to grab a bulb of ice-chill from her deliciously retro dispenser, sipping at the pure cold water as she rehearsed what she was going to say to Catherine. The direct approach seemed best. Deliver the news and then explain the circumstances. Satisfied, she dropped the empty bulb into the machine's recycling chute and headed for the door. The biscuit of the office carpet was annoying her; it was too bland, too neutral. She reset it to crimson on the way out, which was far more in keeping with her mood.

  Lara was so preoccupied that at first she didn't notice anything amiss. Only when the unmistakable sound of gunfire penetrated her thoughts did she register the unusual stillness around her. Okay, the exec level was never a bustling thoroughfare, but right now there was nobody else in sight at all. Until, that is, she had nearly reached the end of the corridor, at which point a figure in full matt battledress stepped out immediately in front of her, gun levelled at her chest.

  To her own considerable surprise, she didn't hesitate. In Virtuality, Tanya would have multiple countermeasures to call upon, but all Lara had was her training and her skill. Jahainô was a fighting style which had been practiced for centuries. Its roots lay in an amalgamation of various disciplines that had been prominent on old Earth. Lara knew herself to be pretty damned good at Jahainô, but she'd never used it in anger before, at least not in the real world.

  So this was new territory. The rules were much the same though. She swivelled and kicked, evidently surprising the soldier as much as herself. The sole and heel of her boot slammed into his gun, jerking it from his hands without the trigger finger even twitching to fire off a round. He was bigger than her and armoured, so she followed with an upward blow to the soft tissue under his arm and a kick to the knee. The latter was a little off target as he rolled, landing on his thigh just above the knee, but it was enough to cause him to cry out and to send him crashing to the floor.

  She was off, sprinting for the stairs that led to the floors above. In the corner of her eye she registered the arrival of more soldiers coming up the stairwell, and she strove all the harder. Nearly there. Two more steps and she would be on the stairs, with a wall between her and the guns.

  A voice yelled out, "Halt!" It was immediately followed by the crack of a gunshot and something punched her in her right shoulder. The impact sent her sprawling, crashing into the wall. Agony coursed through her body.

  She pulled herself up with her left hand and looked back to where the soldier stood. She found herself staring down the muzzle of his gun. Behind the soldier holding it, others moved, tending to the one she'd felled, but they were no more than dim shadows. The soldier's finger seemed to move in slow motion as it squeezed the trigger, giving Lara time for regret, time to mourn the future which was about to be cruelly snatched away. Her final thoughts before the bullet punched a hole through her skull and tore her life away were of Jenner, the man she loved; the man she would never be able to say that to again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "No." Leyton was adamant, his face fierce, the anger and hurt for once plain to see in his usually granite countenance.

  Mya wasn't fooled, though. She knew that he was in denial, refusing to face up to the truth she'd just hit him with. She had no idea why it had all come tumbling out, why she suddenly found it so easy to tell him about Louis and what she'd discovered about his death, when it had been impossible to do so before. Perhaps her relationship with Pavel gave her the strength, or maybe it was simply the passage of time. Either way, when he'd stared at her and at the gun she held and asked, 'Why, Mya?' she felt compelled to explain. Once the words started to flow they became a torrent, and with their release something inside her eased, a knot of tension she hadn't even realised was there. She made no effort to hide the tears that trickled from the corners of her eyes.

  "There's no reason you should have known." She snivelled, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, decorum forgotten.

  "Of course I'd have known," he said. "If I ever killed one of ours, I always made a point of knowing. I don't take what we do for granted, Mya, I never have, and I know for a fact that I didn't kill Louis."

  "You did, Jim. You did."

  "Mya, it never happened."

  "Liar!" She screamed the word, shocked at her own loss of control. She steadied the gun and determined to keep a tighter rein on her emotions.

  "You know me better than that. This recording you saw must have been doctored. To make you hate me, to break us apart. You know the official line on operatives getting involved with each other."

  "Don't listen to him, Mya," Benson cut in. "He's just saying whatever it takes to save his own skin. Focus on what's real, on what matters."

  "Of course the recording was hard to get to," Leyton continued, speaking calmly, ignoring Benson. "They knew you'd smell a rat if they made it too easy for you, but they also knew that you'd find a way, that where Louis was concerned you'd never give up until you discovered what had happened. Your psych profile would have told them that much."

  "Shut up!" she yelled, hand pressed against her head, to push her tight dark hair backwards along her skull. It was all too much; everything was a jumble of hurt and pressure. Her head ached with it.

  He took a step towards her.

  "Don't, Jim." She raised the gun a fraction.

  "It was a set up," he said, not coming any closer, "intended to break us apart."

  Could he be telling the truth? Pavel hadn't said anything more, wisely giving her space, doubtless confident she'd believe him, but did she? Mya knew better than anyone just how cunning and manipulative Pavel could be. He hadn't been put in charge of the eyegee unit by accident. Had he been playing her all along? No, what they had was real. It might not be as deep or as bells-and-fucking-whistles wonderful as what she once thought she had with Jim, but that was in the past. Pavel was her here and now, and they both knew where they stood and what they wanted.

  "Don't let him confuse you, Mya," Pavel said.

  He was right. They'd come here for a reason: to stop this interference in the smooth acceptance of the Byrzaens by humanity as a whole. An inevitability that would see Pavel rise to the very pinnacle of government, with her at his side. She couldn't let anything sway her, not now.

  So why was she crying? Why did she feel so wretched as she focused the muzzle of the gun on Leyton's forehead? She tried not to look at his eyes, but couldn't help herself. There was no fear there, no pleading; just the same implacable acceptance of whatever life might bring that she'd always found in them.

  "I'm so sorry, Jim, really" she said through the tears, and pulled the trigger.

  Kethi ramped up her metabolism, taking it from one extreme
to the other far quicker than she'd ever dared try before. How much time had passed? For her, a single heartbeat, but for the universe in general...? She had no idea. That was the problem with slowing her metabolism to this extent - enough to fool anyone into believing she was dead - there was no gauge for measuring the normal flow of seconds and minutes, any of which were likely to be vital at present. She could only hope her judgement was more or less right, that she hadn't left it so long that whatever drama was set to unfold had already run its course in her absence.

  She shut down blood flow around her wound and dampened the pain receptors in the vicinity. The bullet hadn't hit anything vital, and doing this, the pain became tolerable. Grabbing her gun from the floor, Kethi ran, quick-timing all the way. As she approached Catherine Chzyski's office, she slowed, rejoining the normal world. A single guard outside the open door sent her ducking back around a corner, and she heard voices. Mya's screaming, and Jim's quiet, reasoning, sounding completely unfazed. She wasn't too late. If not for the guard she would have sobbed with relief. Instead she concentrated on listening. There seemed to be a pause in conversation, which struck her as ominous. As Mya started to form an apology, instinct told Kethi it was now or never.

  She ramped up to her highest tempo and sprinted, brushing past the guard; it must have felt like a battering ram. She was in the room, focused on Mya, not daring to risk a shot, not with such a small target. Instead she ran straight at the other woman, slamming into her and pushing the gun hand away. She felt the impact jar through her, but knew that the blow would be worse for her target. Her bones were bound to shatter. The gun went off but the bullet flew harmlessly into the wall. Kethi didn't hesitate, swivelling to shoot the next most immediate threat - the eyegee - followed by the two ULAW troopers. Headshots, all three, straight in the face. They would have died even as their brains were processing the need to react. Benson wasn't armoured. Kethi shot him in the shoulder. Only then did she slow, breathing hard but not yet craving food or feeling desperately weary, thanks to the adrenaline still coursing through her body. She knew both reactions would come after she'd drawn so much from her systems in such a concerted burst, but not right now.

  Catherine Chzyski stared at her in open astonishment, which she reckoned was quite an achievement. Jim moved in on the injured Benson, dragging the man's arms behind his back, which brought a stifled cry of pain.

  "Now," he growled, his mouth close to Benson's ear, "you're going to call off the rest of your men, or I will kill you, slowly, you piece of shit!" He prodded the injured shoulder, which produced a further gasp.

  At Kethi's feet, Mya stirred. The small woman looked frail and crumpled, reminding Kethi of when she'd first seen her, the gaunt figure they'd rescued from Sheol station such a short time ago. The fingers of the hand that had been holding the gun were twisted at improbable angles, like in a child's drawing, and her crumpled chest rose and fell raggedly, as if breathing was hard and not bringing enough oxygen to fulfil her body's needs. Blood ran from her mouth. Kethi didn't need to be a doctor to know that this woman's body was badly broken inside.

  "Jim..." The voice was barely louder than a whisper. It induced a fit of harsh, blood-burbling coughs. Her head never rose from the floor. "I really, really am sorry..."

  Leyton wasn't listening. Kethi alone was there to hear Mya's final words. Her chest stopped heaving, the eyes remained frozen open. Only the blood continued to flow, pooling around her head to form a devil's halo.

  In the hours following the ULAW forces' withdrawal, as the shock of what had happened began to sink in, Malcolm visited Benson in his cell - a small room without windows, commandeered for the purpose and hastily cleared of the equipment it usually stored.

  Malcolm arrived without fanfare or warning, but if he'd expected the government man to be nonplussed by his sudden appearance he was disappointed. Benson might almost have been expecting him, for all the reaction he showed.

  "Well, well, the great Malcolm Kaufman," the prisoner said. "The inventor of the Kaufman drive, not to mention, of course, The Sun Seeker, here to visit me in my humble little cell. I'm honoured."

  "Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Benson?"

  If there were any justice in the world this man would be dead, his memory disgraced, but the universe paid no heed. While the corpses of many more worthy men and women grew cold, Pavel Benson received expert medical treatment and lived on, albeit for the moment in somewhat reduced circumstances.

  "Whatever you say. I am, as you can see, entirely at your service," he said.

  Malcolm felt tempted to dispute that, to voice his conviction that Benson had never really been at anyone's service but his own, not even ULAW's. Instead he concentrated on what had brought him here. "First off, let me stress that this meeting is off the record. I've ensured that no recording is being made and that no one need ever be aware that I've visited you."

  "Oh?"

  Gods, this man was calm. No hint of contrition over his actions or fear for his own safety, just an air of resignation tinged with a heavy hint of cynicism. "After we've had this little chat, I'm going to persuade Catherine Chzyski to let you go."

  Not even this news brought a discernable reaction. Benson was good, no question about that.

  "Seems to me that she's going to have little choice in the matter, in any case," he said. "If she doesn't free me, ULAW will level this building and everyone in it."

  "Nice try, but that's a load of crap and we both know it. If this was an official ULAW action they'd have slapped us down hard by now, made demands KI couldn't ignore, and reclaimed you. They haven't. In fact, we've yet to hear a peep from any official channels. This is you, acting in your own interest, which makes your position a lot weaker, don't you think?"

  "Semantics. I'm a ULAW official who brought the forces at his disposal to bear..."

  "Without official sanction," Malcolm interrupted. "I thought we'd agreed to cut the bullshit."

  Benson's smile was a thin one. "Very well, let's assume for the moment that you're right, that the action in question doesn't have the full weight of the government behind it... yet. Why would Catherine Chzyski or anyone else feel inclined to let me go?"

  "Because you represent the only chance of getting ULAW off our backs."

  Benson chuckled. "Really, is that what you think I am?"

  "Indeed I do. You see, you're going to persuade the government to leave everyone involved in this alone. No assassinations, no recriminations, no persecution of any sort."

  For the first time Malcolm saw a glimmer of reaction in Benson's grey-blue eyes. He could imagine the thought processes. Malcolm Kaufman isn't an idiot. He must have something up his virtual sleeve, but what?

  "And why would I want to do that?"

  "Because if you don't, I'm going to personally bring your world crashing down around your ears. Not just you; ULAW, the Byrzaens... all of you."

  Now he had him. Malcolm could see the curiosity. "And exactly how are you going to manage that?"

  Malcolm smiled.

  He had been astonished to receive the message. It arrived anonymously and he felt certain that any attempt to trace the source would prove devilishly hard, but there was no need to. He knew who this was from: Lara Chenin. News of her death had been one more blow in a day of so many. Then this had arrived, a message from beyond the grave. She must have sent it not long before the attack, setting delivery on some form of time delay for reasons of her own. The message was terse, containing just one word. Four fateful letters: 'Done.' Not much as final words went. However, attached was a parcel of data code. He didn't open it immediately, didn't interfere with the parcel in any shape or form, not until he was sure of his own security. He knew what this was, what it had to be.

  Lara had perfected the virus.

  Malcolm absorbed that fact slowly, allowing its import to permeate his consciousness by steady osmosis. Here was the trump card that might just get them all out of this mess, but it needed to be played carefully. />
  The moment to do so had now arrived.

  "I've done a little research into you, Pavel Benson," he said, "and I discovered something very interesting: you have an eidetic memory. Not computer enhanced or reliant on technology in any way; genuine photographic recall. That's an incredibly rare gift, in this day and age, and I can only imagine how useful it's been to you over the years. Well, now it's going to prove useful to me."

  A line of coding appeared in the air between them.

  "Memorise this, Mr Benson, and, for everyone's sake, make sure you get it right."

  "What is it?"

  "I'll tell you once you've memorised it."

  Benson scanned the coding sequence for a couple of seconds, as if to make sure he had it, then he nodded.

  The line of code vanished.

  "What I've just shown you is the first fragment of an incredibly intricate piece of code, a virus. It was written by a lady called Lara Chinen, a rather brilliant young woman whom you've just caused to be murdered - an incidental death during this little 'action' of yours. As for what the virus does... It's a doomsday weapon, if you will. It's designed to destroy a whole universe, a place we refer to as the realm of veils, though you doubtless have your own name for it.

  "If this virus were ever released, it would completely disrupt the fabric of that brane, restructuring it in such a way that it would become incompatible with the physics of our universe, impossible to access or to utilise for you, for us, for the Byrzaens. Am I painting a clear enough picture?"

  Benson nodded. All of a sudden the slimy weasel didn't look quite so composed.