The Resurrected Man

by Sean Williams

  A translucent veil descended between her and the car, and she barely heard him ask: “How would you feel about working with him again?”

  Jonah stared in disbelief at the images of the three people apparently floating in the air at the end of the bed. He had been awake barely half an hour and felt only slightly less exhausted than he had the previous times he had regained consciousness. Part of him wondered if he was dreaming again or whether QUALIA was screwing with his mind.

  Work with Marylin again? Who did they think they were kidding?

  But they seemed serious enough. Odi Whitesmith had outlined the suggestion concisely and with no undue drama. Then Stephanie Bahr, the MIU's in-house legal adviser, had backed him up, stating flatly that the EJC could make charges of data fraud stick, given that Jonah's UGI logged him outside his apartment in Faux Sydney. That would enable them to hold him in custody until the source of the discrepancy, his copy, had been located and dealt with. The matter of his obligation to assist the EJC in his capacity as a licensed Private Investigator (dues paid until 2075) didn't come up, although they must have been as aware of it as he was; no doubt they were saving that for later, should he prove to be difficult.

  There was no mention, either, of charging him with murder. He had wondered what the legal situation was for a serial killer who, technically, left his victims alive and unharmed. He guessed this was his answer: under the current law, an offence would not be recognised. Murder had become, in this case, a victimless crime.

  The third person, Herold Verstegen, had remained silent for the most part, except to reinforce the MIU's policy when needed. Jonah hadn't been told what his position was, but the deference of Whitesmith and Bahr to him suggested that he was superior in rank to them. If Verstegen thought the plan was workable then there was a fair chance the MIU was serious.

  QUALIA had already hinted at the possibility of him helping them catch himself, and he could understand why his input might be needed. But to let him actively investigate the case—with Marylin—smacked of last resort, of desperation.

  He was perversely amused by the unexpected reversal of the situation, but was too weak to revel in anything yet, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy and strapped to the bed as he was. He still had a long way to go before he could feel confident of his future. The station security guards standing outside the door to his room and the medical attendant hovering out of sight behind the bed were a constant reminder of that.

  “Okay,” he said, speaking via his new prevocal implants. “I'll do it on one condition: that you give me the EJC file on my father's death.”

  Verstegen brushed away a lock of thin, blond hair that had drifted into his eyes. Big-boned and wide-faced, he looked out of place in his habitat suit, despite the typically pale skin of a station occupant. The background to his image was blurry; he could have been anywhere.

  “I don't think that's particularly relevant,” he said, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a big man.

  “I don't care what you think. It's what I want. And if this arrangement ends up being long-term, I'm going to need time to look into the file properly.”

  “You plan to reopen the case?” Whitesmith asked, surprise showing on his lean, cola-coloured features. “After three years?”

  “I'm not planning anything and I won't until I see what the inquest found. If it tells me everything I need to know, if the investigators did their job properly, then I won't need to do anything at all.”

  “It still seems pointless. What difference could it possibly make now?”

  “To my peace of mind, plenty. ‘Now’ for me is still three years ago, don't forget. My father's been dead less than two days.”

  “So you keep saying.” Verstegen folded his arms and turned to the other two. The elastic fabric of the habitat suit emphasised the rounded cast to his shoulders.

  “Can we get the file?” Whitesmith asked Bahr.

  “I don't see why not.” The lawyer, too, looked uncomfortable in free-fall, but at least she had common sense enough to keep her brown hair short. “Unless it's been sealed for security reasons or contains speculation that might influence a case still under trial, it should be available to us.”

  “How soon?”

  “Twenty-four hours at most.”

  “And the cost?

  “A basic retrieval fee. It'd be free if we could prove we needed it.”

  Whitesmith nodded. His eyes met Jonah's. “It's settled, then. We'll get the file for you if you help us track down the Twinmaker.”

  “I'll do my best,” he said. “But I can't guarantee anything. You do understand that?”

  “Yes. As long as you're cooperative, we'll keep things as they are. We'll return you to full health and mobility and keep the Earth Justice Commission off your back.”

  “They know about this?”

  “Of course. KTI pays our bills, but the MIU is still a subordinate department of the EJC. Director Trevaskis reports to Chief Commissioner Disario just like any other department head. In this case, however, the information goes no lower than her.”

  Jonah raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like information restriction to me.”

  “Of course it is,” said Verstegen. “The KTI network covers eighty percent of the world's landmass and is still spreading. The combined economy of the solar system—including those states that still oppose d-mat on ideological grounds—depends on its presence. Any loss of confidence in the network would be catastrophic, no?”

  Jonah took a moment to consider what Verstegen was saying. His thoughts were still sluggish and his powers of deduction remained unreliable. But he could see that KTI had expanded significantly since his last memory, when the d-mat network had encompassed just forty percent of the world's market and had a toehold on maybe another twenty percent. Given a practically unlimited energy supply and few barriers to trade, the world had embraced d-mat technology with open arms.

  For the most part, anyway.

  “If WHOLE gets hold if this information, you mean.”

  Verstegen half-smiled, emphasising the deep lines around his mouth and eyes. “There are other groups who could use the existence of the Twinmaker to promote their cause. Quebec is still isolationist, for instance, along with the United Arab Emirate, and Tasmania. Any of these governments would jump at the opportunity to level the playing field.”

  “So the Twinmaker can't belong to any of these groups,” Jonah said, letting his intuition speak. “Otherwise it would be public knowledge.”

  “Or his activities are not known to them.”

  “Either way, then, he's a loner.”

  “That is what the profilers predict.”

  So what's your point? Jonah wanted to ask. Something told him that there was more Verstegen wanted to say. It was in his body language or the tone of his voice, or some other subtle indicator; Jonah couldn't decide what made him suspicious, but he was sure he was right. His instincts couldn't have been that scrambled.

  Something about him rang a bell, but he couldn't pin it down.

  Selecting a private channel, he asked: “QUALIA, who is Verstegen?”

  “Herold Locke Verstegen is Director of Information Security, Kudos Technologies Incorporated.”

  “So he doesn't work for the MIU?”

  “No, although the MIU has liaised closely with his department in recent months.”

  “Who has seniority then? Verstegen or the Director of the MIU?”

  “Neither. The positions are independent of each other.”

  But in interpersonal terms, Jonah bet, Verstegen pulled the strings. KTI pays our bills, Whitesmith had said. And as far as Verstegen was concerned, KTI came first; the legality of its operations was a lesser priority. Sometimes it truly was best to fight fire with fire; from Verstegen's perspective the MIU and its team of investigators and lawyers, all bound to EJC guidelines, could not be an entirely effective means to combat the Twinmaker. Hence Verstegen's opinion that there was potentially more to the Twinmak
er than the MIU's profilers could offer. He wanted Jonah to follow his own leads, wherever they took him, rather than toe the EJC line.

  Jonah was relieved to think there was someone who might back him up if he came head-to-head with Whitesmith again. But was it that simple? Could Verstegen really be that desperate? If so, then why the hell didn't he just hire a PI off the streets to do the dirty work the MIU couldn't?

  Whitesmith didn't give him time to consider the question further. “To start with, you'll relay through Marylin while we monitor the exchange in parallel. We've missed the interview with the latest victim, but you'll be able to review it with her while it's still fresh in her mind.”

  “What about the background?”

  “QUALIA has the files pertaining to the murder; you will have access to them if you need detailed information about the crime itself.”

  “Will I have access to the file on me?”

  “We're leaving that up to Marylin.”

  “Why?”

  “It contains several statements she made under oath regarding the nature of your relationship with her, plus transcripts of interviews conducted under hypnosis.”

  There goes that idea. Far from handing it to him on a platter, Jonah knew that Marylin would fight until she dropped to keep that information restricted.

  “Marylin's agreed to do this?” he asked.

  “We would hardly proceed if she had not.” Verstegen's eyes were coldly amused at the question, and the answer seemed to give him a deep sense of satisfaction that Jonah could only guess at.

  “I'd be interested to know what she thinks about it.”

  “You can ask her yourself,” Whitesmith said.

  “Not on your life.”

  “She feels a lot of resentment,” observed QUALIA, the smooth voice sounding only via postauditory channels.

  “To me?” Jonah asked. “I'm the one who was dumped.”

  “She has never said anything about regretting her decision.”

  “I'll bet she hasn't.”

  “It's an interesting contradiction,” QUALIA concluded, “and one I am at a loss to explain.”

  “Do you believe that you and Officer Blaylock will be able to maintain sufficient emotional detachment?” Verstegen asked.

  Jonah gave the question careful consideration. It had always been a rush coming head-to-head with Marylin, and disharmony had been part of the formula, but he would never tell Verstegen that. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Obviously we cannot expect immediate results.”

  “Obviously,” Jonah replied, thinking, You smart bastard. He felt as though he was floundering already.

  The in-house lawyer stirred. “Would you like me to sit in on this?” she asked.

  “You aren't required to,” Verstegen said. “Just make certain you obtain the file on Lindsay Carlaw. Have it downloaded into Officer Whitesmith's overseer the moment it arrives.”

  Bahr nodded stiffly, realising that she'd been dismissed. “Of course. I'll get onto it straightaway.”

  Jonah inched his body into a more comfortable position. He could feel very little from the neck down, but knew that he had been immobile too long. He was already restless. VTC wasn't the same as getting out of bed, but it was a start.

  He would do it. He had no choice.

  “You'll be looking at the exterior of the latest victim's home,” Whitesmith said. “Marylin's there right now with Officer Fassini, one of our field agents. We can start any time you're ready.”

  “I'm as ready as I'll ever be,” he said, mustering a certainty he didn't really feel. “Let's get it over with.”

  The medical attendant moved forward to ensure that his various attachments were in place. Verstegen's face remained animated during the procedure; Whitesmith's had frozen, obviously maintained by AIs while he conferred in private elsewhere.

  The nurse moved away after a moment.

  “QUALIA, dear,” Verstegen said, “please open the link to Officer Blaylock.”

  “Yes, sir. The link is open.”

  Before Jonah had time to consider that brief exchange—dear?—Verstegen's face vanished along with the others, and the room. The darkness of empty VTC took their place.

  An image of a gold, antique wristwatch appeared out of nowhere, glinting in bright sunlight. The second hand inscribed a quarter turn from seven to ten, then:

  “It's buli time. Welcome to the show, Mister McEwen.”

  Jonah heard the voice, saw the lips move on the man who had spoken, but couldn't assimilate the two sensory inputs into one coherent experience; it was like watching an old film with out-of-sync sound. Even as he tried to concentrate, a wave of dislocation swept through him. He was lying in a bed in a hospital in a space habitat in geostationary orbit—but at the same time he was on the other side of the world, inside somebody else's head.

  He felt confused, overwhelmed—worse than he had on his first relay VTC. He hadn't expected it to be this bad. To make matters worse, the world suddenly swept through one hundred and eighty degrees as his borrowed eyes turned to face the opposite direction. He thought he might be sick.

  “Marylin, the link is established.” That was Whitesmith, clearly intending his voice to be heard by both of them. Reminding them that they were being observed.

  “I know,” she said.

  The sound of her voice so close at hand—as though from within his own head—destabilised him even further. He wanted to shut his eyes, to blot out the VTC, but they were already closed. The image was coming direct from her optic nerve to his; there was nothing he could do to stem the flood of sensory input, except—

  The view went black as he tripped the Time-Out option on the VTC command border. Thankfully, he hadn't forgotten how to do that. All he was picking up now were sounds: Marylin's breathing, the crunch of her feet on gravel, startlingly loud, and finally his name.

  “Hello, Jonah.” Her tone was cold.

  Not “Jon” any more. And not “Jon and Mary,” either. He had to keep that firmly in mind if this was to work. He was in the future, now—a future in which the things he still felt, she had had time to deal with. The realisation came as a deep shock, even though he had thought he was ready for it.

  “I'm registering high levels of anxiety.” QUALIA's voice, coming through his postauditory implants, was a reminder of yet another level of reality close by.

  “I'm fine,” he said.

  “Are you positive? I can—”

  “I said I'm fine. Just give me time to get my bearings.”

  “Very well, but if you need assistance, all you have to do is ask.”

  Jonah shook his head, not caring how the people monitoring the VTC interpreted his discomfort. Relaying was hard enough under the best circumstances. He fought to ignore the real world and to prepare himself for the view through Marylin's senses alone.

  When he reentered the VTC, he saw—

  Green. Marylin was walking around something white and onto a grassy verge. A slate pathway led from the curb to a shallow verandah, with a slight detour around an oak that looked a hundred years old but almost certainly wasn't. Behind the oak was a house at least three storeys high. The facade was triangular in cross-section. Somewhere inside that building, he assumed, was the unit in which Yoland Suche-Thomas lived.

  Every step Marylin took gave him vertigo. Ironically, the giddiness finally helped him to adjust. He had experienced exactly this disorientation many times before. Disregarding the three years he had spent in hibernation, it had only been a matter of weeks since he had last used Marylin as a relay.

  “Marylin, I'm here.” She stopped.

  The agent accompanying her, Fassini, swung into view again as she glanced at him, possibly for reassurance. It was hard reading body language from the inside although that didn't stop him trying.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, using her prevocal implants.

  “No. Just getting used to my new wetware. Everything's been updated.”

  The view thro
ugh her eyes rocked as she nodded. Whether she believed him or not was irrelevant.

  “You've missed the interview,” she said.

  “Did you learn anything important?”

  “Did we, Jason?”

  The MIU field agent met Marylin's gaze, but it was clear he was making eye-contact mainly for Jonah's benefit.

  “Everything's amtlich,” he said, also by prevocals. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “So why am I here?” he asked.

  Her eyes wandered; the white object hovering in the periphery of her vision was a car, the only one parked in the street. “The intention, as I understand it, is to give you an opportunity to look around,” she said.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “You tell me. It's safer not to presume.”

  He didn't reply immediately. She was playing with him, testing him. And given the way her eyes kept returning to the car, she wanted to be elsewhere.

  “I don't know,” he said. “But let's do it anyway. At least walk around the building.” He couldn't resist adding: “It's not as if I've got anything better to do.”

  She grunted and headed up the path with brisk, businesslike steps. Fassini walked beside her, watching her with an almost protective air.

  “How's the link?” he asked.

  At first, Jonah assumed he was asking Marylin. After a few seconds of silence, he realised his error and answered: “Fine. Blinking a bit, though.”

  Marylin upped her anti-allergen intake to combat airborne irritants. “We can talk,” she said, “discuss the case, review the interview, whatever, but don't expect to tell me what to do. You're just along for the ride, Jonah.”

  “Yes, I realise that.”

  “I'm the experienced one, this time.”

  Overstating the obvious, Jonah thought, but kept the comment to himself.

  The view dimmed as she stepped under the shadow of the house. Poor-light algorithms quickly restored the image; she had obviously kept her own eyes, rather than opt for new ones that could see in infrared. The verandah was made from pine, or a fair imitation thereof, and contained a small outdoor setting and a number of potted plants, the soil dark from recent watering. The main door, behind a security screen, also appeared to be made of wood, although he assumed a more resilient material lay at its heart. One window opened onto the verandah; it was curtained and dark and almost certainly bulletproof.