The Resurrected Man

by Sean Williams

  “There,” said the woman. “We have you stable, now. I apologise for the rough awakening. It was not our intention to interrupt a lucid dream.” The woman's tone became more businesslike: “If you wish to communicate, do not attempt to speak aloud. Your body is undergoing extensive nanotherapy and will not respond to your instructions. Instead, I have installed a prevocal monitor in your cortex that will detect anything you wish to say before the impulses leave your brain. The commands required to operate the implant have been written into your amygdala and do not require conscious direction. My records indicate that you were once familiar with this method of communication. Is this true? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

  Jonah didn't realise at first that the woman had stopped speaking, or that a reply was expected of him. He did his best to remember what she had said.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” The woman sounded pleased. “You will note also that you heard your reply, just as you can hear my own voice. We have provided you with postauditory and postoptic inputs as well. A new overseer has been installed and is in the process of being optimised as we speak.”

  The darkness became a densely woven pattern of dark grey lines scrolling from left to right then back again, not unlike the patterns he had been dreaming of. He recognised the design; it was a default form constant provided by the MindSet.7 virtual overseer—supposed to be a soothing alternative to the near-zero input of closed eyes while waiting for VTC, CRE or any other application involving direct visual stimulus to begin. Instead of being soothed, however, he felt nauseous.

  “Why?” he asked, concentrating on the woman's voice rather than the pattern.

  “Why what, Jonah?”

  “Why are you doing this? What's going on?”

  “You have suffered a peculiar form of brain damage, Jonah.”

  “Brain damage?” Despite the calming effect of the woman's voice, he was chilled by the thought. “How?”

  “Your prefrontal cortex has been altered, along with sections of your limbic system. We are still mapping the damaged areas, but it seems indisputable that your memory has been affected in a specific and deliberate fashion. In addition, various peripheral add-ons have been impaired. Many have ceased functioning entirely; others have mutated and caused secondary damage. Until we determine the precise amount of repair required to restore you to full capacity, we can do little more than replace the applications you have lost. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  Jonah went to nod, remembering only when nothing happened that he was temporarily bodiless. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. I don't want you to be concerned, however. We have already rectified some of the problems in your hippocampi. Given time and the proper care, you will recover.”

  The woman's tone hinted that he should accept the prognosis without questioning it. Indeed his head had cleared already: he could remember some things, now, albeit with an effort.

  But he couldn't let it rest there. “You said the damage was deliberately inflicted,” he said. “How? Who did it?”

  “We'll come to that later, Jonah—”

  “No, now. There's something you're not telling me.”

  The woman was silent for a moment. He wondered whether he had offended her. When she spoke again, though, her voice was as smooth as ever.

  “When I say the word ‘InSight,’ Jonah, what does it bring to mind?”

  He thought carefully before answering, puzzled by the question. “I'm familiar with it, of course, but other than that—”

  “Perhaps if I explained that it is a product name, with a capital ‘I’ and ‘S.’”

  “I'm still not sure. It sounds like wetware. An entrainment add-on?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I'm guessing. Maybe I saw an ad or something.”

  “If I said that we'd found traces of the InSight v-med agent in your system, would you be surprised?”

  “Of course I would. I don't use that shit.”

  “Well, Jonah, InSight is responsible for your present condition. Although it was originally designed to compartmentalise and restimulate memories and their emotional associations, thus allowing users to relive experiences from their past, prolonged use causes abnormal structures to form in the brain, that impair conscious recall—both of the compartmentalised memory and in general—and the ability to reason. Not only have we located such structures, but, to be honest, there are more than just traces of the InSight agents present; your prefrontal cortex is riddled with it, to the point where we doubt we will be able to remove it all. At best, we can only render it inoperative.

  “And,” she added, “as far as we can tell, you installed it yourself.”

  “I did?” Briefly he wondered if the woman was lying, then discarded the thought; why would she go to so much trouble to reassure him only to drop a bombshell like that? “I don't understand.”

  “Neither do we. That is the purpose of this conversation. I want to ask you questions designed to ascertain the severity of your memory impairment. You may call a halt at any point, but it is my hope that you will persist until we have at least a rough idea of where we stand. Your present state of semiconsciousness will in no way impede the progress your body is making. I will ensure that you do not become unduly fatigued or distressed.”

  “You still haven't answered my question,” Jonah said, fighting the serenity arising within him in response to his increased agitation, realising only then that his mood was being altered by psychopharmaceuticals. “Why are you doing this?”

  “To put it bluntly, Jonah, we need your help.”

  “‘Help?’ You must be out of your mind! I want some answers first.”

  “Jonah, please remain calm. Do you recall a conversation you had with Officer Whitesmith in which you stated that, in exchange for information regarding the crimes you were suspected of committing, you would happily and truthfully answer every question he asked?”

  Jonah's thoughts froze. Yes, he did remember saying something like that; the memory was vague, dreamlike, nightmarish in tone. “I spoke to Mary, too?” he ventured.

  “That's correct; Officer Blaylock was present at your awakening. But it is your comment to Officer Whitesmith with which I am most concerned. At the time, neither of you were able to fulfil the other's expectations, so the offer of glasnost was not followed up. Would you be prepared to repeat the offer now, to me? An exchange of information would greatly benefit us both.”

  Jonah fought down the images the woman had raised—of mutilated bodies, of feeling like he was dying, of guilt. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I have been honest regarding your condition when it would have been much easier to have told you a comforting lie. I can only assure you that I will tell you the truth in every other respect.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “That's up to you, Jonah.”

  “I don't even know who you are, or where I am.”

  “You are in the orbital medical research centre of Kudos Technologies Incorporated, otherwise known as KTI, of which company I am an employee. My duties include monitoring d-mat traffic along the KTI network, optimising routes to allow the most efficient transfer of data through the Pool and ensuring that no illegal transfers are attempted. It is in this last capacity that I am currently acting as an adviser to the MIU. Are you familiar with that acronym?”

  “Whitesmith used it, but he didn't tell me what it was.” He remembered unfamiliar black and grey uniforms with the insignia of the Earth Justice Commission on the left breast pocket.

  “It stands for Matter-transference Investigative Unit. The MIU exists solely to investigate d-mat-related crime, and operates as an independent agency within guidelines laid down by the EJC. The MIU is funded solely by KTI, and was founded in 2067 to underscore KTI's commitment to preventing d-mat from being used for illegal purposes. As patent-holder of the process, KTI is morally obliged to ensure that no one is harmed by it. I have w
orked for both companies since—”

  “Hold on. You said 2067.”

  “That is correct. The current date is June 27, 2069. What date do you think it is?”

  “I don't know.” He concentrated, trying his best to recall any date at all. “The last year I remember is ’66.”

  “That concurs with your earlier interviews, and other data we have gathered since.” The woman paused, as though she was considering her options. “No doubt, Jonah, you are as curious as I am as to what has happened in those three years. Can we come to an arrangement?”

  Jonah thought about it—or tried to. When he attempted to think in a straight line, his thoughts became clouded, confused; facts refused to fall into place and extrapolation from them was well nigh impossible. He couldn't even decide whether it was a side-effect of the mood-altering drugs he had been given or whether he was experiencing another symptom of brain damage. The woman had mentioned something about impairment of his ability to reason logically; perhaps that was it.

  The woman…?

  One thing, suddenly, was clear to him.

  “You're not human,” he said.

  “That is correct, Jonah. How did you guess?”

  “I—” He attempted to trace the process of deduction behind the knowledge, but was unable to. “I just knew.”

  “Impressive, regardless. It didn't seem necessary to tell you earlier, but perhaps I should have. This conversation is not occurring in real-time; it has been slowed by a factor of five in order to reduce the stress on your neocortex. A human would find the lag between replies frustrating, so I have been asked to perform the interview. I hope you don't mind.”

  He ignored the opportunity to say that he didn't. “So what are you, then? You don't sound like an AI.”

  “I'm pleased to hear you say that. Although I am not ashamed of my mechanical ancestors, I do not like to be mistaken for one of them. I am a QUantum ALgorithmic Intelligent Awareness—usually abbreviated viated to ‘QUALIA’—composed of twenty Standard Human Equivalent data processors in an array designed to induce consciousness rather than to imitate it.”

  “QUALIA,” he echoed. The word evoked a vivid image of his father's body, until he realised that he was confusing it with QUIDDITY, the project Lindsay had been working on. The memory subsided, but the connection remained. “Is that your name?”

  “No,” said the voice. “But you may call me that, if you wish. I am the sole member of the class of being that name defines. My designers would also prefer you to use the Third Gender Protocol when referring to me, rather than female pronouns. This voice is merely one of many that I can adopt at will; I have no true sex as you would understand it.”

  Another time, he might have smiled at the defensive tone in its—es, he corrected himself—voice. E sounded almost annoyed at es designers, and at him. “You sound like something my father wanted to build.”

  “Yes,” e said again. “I met him, once, and found him to be a remarkable man. In fact, I feel as though I owe much of my existence to him—just as you must, although in quite a different way.”

  Jonah was silent. Aaron Lindsay Carlaw hadn't been his genetic father, but his death could have come as no greater blow had they had half their genes in common. Reminded of it, he felt as though someone had stuck an electrode into a gaping surgical incision. This time, however, the grief was manageable, no doubt due to psychopharmaceuticals, and faded within a minute. It left in its wake only the memory of the bloody mess in his d-mat booth—a gruesome reminder of why he was talking to a discorporate consciousness in the first place.

  There had been a dead body in his unit. How it had got there was a mystery to him. In his present state, there was little he could do to work out where it had come from, so—

  “Okay,” he said, gratified that he had been able to reason something. “We have a deal.”

  QUALIA's voice expressed gratitude and relief. “I'm glad to hear it.”

  He refused to be lulled, if that was es intention. “You go first. I want to know where I stand.”

  “Very well, Jonah, but I will be brief. When you have met your side of the arrangement, we can discuss the situation in more detail.”

  “Fair enough, I guess.”

  “I am about to display an image,” e warned.

  Jonah did his best to prepare for the parting of the neutral wallpaper, but was still startled when the picture of a woman appeared before him. The woman was shown from the shoulders up and might have been entirely naked below that point. She was blonde and had green eyes. Her expression was one of relaxed amusement.

  “One,” QUALIA stated.

  “Should I recognise her?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Be patient. There are more to come.” E let him study the picture a moment longer. “Two.”

  The picture changed to show another woman in profile from the waist up, dressed this time in a sweater. Also a blonde, although her hair was a touch longer; her eyes might have been green, too, but Jonah couldn't be sure from that angle.

  “Three.”

  Definitely green in the third photo. This woman was dressed for a CRE orgy—transparent wrap exposing oiled nipples and thighs, with body-art consisting of circles arranged around a bullseye focussed on the clitoris. A typical kerhane outfit. Given the lack of body hair, Jonah guessed that the thick mane on her head was probably not real—but it was blonde. He was beginning to see a pattern.

  “Four.”

  “Blonde hair,” he said, “green eyes, slim figures, probably late twenties or early thirties—not that it's easy to tell these days. All women, or reasonable facsimiles thereof. I presume we're going somewhere with this?”

  “Five. Yes, Jonah.”

  The fifth picture also matched the pattern. “Well?” he prompted.

  “Keep watching.” Three more faces appeared in quick succession. “Are you beginning to see a resemblance to someone you once knew?”

  He studied the latest face more closely. It did look vaguely familiar. “I'm not sure.”

  “Perhaps if I show you a composite image, blending the features of all eight faces so far.”

  The face before him changed and rotated to look him in the virtual eye.

  “Yes,” he breathed, startled. “It's Mary.”

  “Public Officer Marylin Agueda Blaylock,” QUALIA confirmed. “The resemblance is uncanny, and only increases as the features of the remaining faces are added to the composite.” E counted from nine to fifteen in quick succession, changing the combined face as e went. Then e paused slightly before concluding with: “The features of the most recent subject have yet to be added to the database.”

  Jonah guessed that the sixteenth woman was the body lying in pieces in his d-mat booth. “They're dead, aren't they?”

  “Yes. The first was kidnapped and murdered one month after Officer Blaylock assumed a Class 2 Detective position in the MIU.”

  “What's the connection?”

  “We don't know for certain. But it is clear that some sort of transference is occurring: the murderer is doing to his victims what he fantasises about doing to Marylin Blaylock.”

  “Or someone who looks very much like her.” He recalled the fact that she had changed her hair colour to flat brown and now wore it cropped short. He couldn't blame her for taking that small step away from the composite face before him. “There are bound to be others who have her features. Couldn't it be someone else the killer is after—not her?”

  “Unfortunately, that is probably not the case.”

  “Oh?”

  “There is another connection: the killer uses d-mat to kidnap his victims.”

  “So…” Jonah struggled to work it out. After a second or two, he gave in and followed a gut feeling, instead of reason. “The killer is someone who works for KTI?”

  “Correct. Officer Blaylock's position frequently brings her into contact with technicians, researchers and administrators of the d-mat network. Any one of these people may have been motivated to
perform the crimes, or—at the very least—may have shown someone else how to infiltrate the network.”

  “Someone such as me?”

  “Yes. Evidence given by Officer Blaylock indicates that you and she parted on unfriendly terms five days before you opted for Privacy. When she tried to contact you later, you had disappeared. Your continued absence made us more suspicious, especially when the murders persisted and no other leads were forthcoming.”

  He wanted to ask: She tried to contact me? Instead, he concentrated on what QUALIA was telling him. “No leads at all?”

  “None, Jonah. You are it—especially now that we have found both you and the body of the latest victim in the same location.”

  Jonah absorbed this in silence. He had to admit that the situation did look incriminating, in context. Almost too incriminating.

  “I didn't think that was possible,” he said. “Infiltrating the network, I mean.”

  “Neither did I.” QUALIA's tone of voice hinted at self-deprecation; given es stated position as overseer of the KTI network, Jonah could understand that. “There are many safeguards in place to prevent such a thing from occurring, even from within KTI itself. The killer has somehow evaded them all.”

  “Do you think that I'm capable of doing this?”

  “On the available evidence, no,” e admitted. “And Officer Blaylock agrees.”

  “Well, then.”

  “It's not as simple as that, Jonah.”

  He sighed. “I didn't think it would be.”

  “Of course not. Remember that you could have an accomplice within KTI or be employing someone else's knowledge.”

  “True.” He conceded the point with reluctance.

  “Perhaps you can see, now, why Officer Whitesmith was under such stress at the disposal scene this morning. Until the killer is caught and brought to justice, KTI is operating on the assumption that it has been infiltrated by persons inimical to its operation. This, as you can imagine, is taking its toll on the relationship between KTI and its supposed watchdog, the MIU.

  “And there is another disturbing detail of which you should be aware, Jonah. The murderer has several unique signatures; one of them is the presence of WHOLE hard-print literature at the disposal scene.”