The Resurrected Man

by Sean Williams

  You knew me…The past tense dismayed her, cut her more deeply than she would've guessed possible. More deeply than the questions that followed, which were obviously the core of his problem. Could he really have become someone like the Twinmaker?

  She didn't know how she could answer without making things even more uncertain than they already were. And the more she thought about it, the more difficult it was to be sure what she thought.

  Before she could decide, he leaned forward and kissed her.

  That surprised her—but not half as much as her response.

  Don't think.

  She kissed him back for what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than a second or two. His lips were soft; she could feel the heat radiating off his cheeks; their tongues touched once, twice—

  Just do.

  Then he backed away, and his eyes were wide, almost frightened. “What are we doing?”

  “Answering your question, I guess.”

  “I don't understand. You hesitated. That was enough.”

  She could see genuine confusion in his eyes, but she didn't want to spell it out. Would I kiss someone who might be a serial killer?

  “This can't be happening,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn't make sense.”

  “Does it have to?”

  “Of course it does! You can't just switch me off and on like a—” He performed a mental U-turn. “But that's not what you're doing, is it? Christ. Three fucking years. You've had all the time in the world to change your mind.”

  “I—” Had she changed her mind? She didn't know. All she knew was that, at that moment, kissing him back had felt right, regardless of the long-term ramifications of the act. Now, though, she was beginning to feel stupid, even though he had been the one to make the move.

  She rolled away. “I'm sorry.”

  “No. Hey. Don't be sorry.” He followed her across the bed, brought her back to face him. “Listen. It's just—it's me. I'm not thinking straight. Being this close to you, so soon, makes me feel—” He paused. “I don't know how it makes me feel, to be honest.”

  “No? Well, that makes two of us.”

  He looked so lost she took his nearest hand in hers and squeezed, momentarily glad for the silence. Too much was going on inside her head for words to express, and she didn't want to screw anything up by saying the wrong thing. If it wasn't already too late.

  Her fingers were sweating.

  She raised his hand and studied it, genuinely surprised and beginning to be concerned, but also relieved to have found a distraction.

  “One thing I can tell you,” she said. “You're burning up.”

  “I am?” Again, he was confused for a moment. “I don't feel hot.”

  “Hasn't your overseer said anything?”

  “No.”

  “I couldn't be imagining it.” The sense-memory of his cheeks near hers was still strong, as was the evidence in her hands. She was certain no one healthy should radiate that much heat.

  He still didn't believe her. She flattened his hand and pressed their palms together. “Let's link up and I'll have my overseer check yours. It could be misdiagnosing—”

  He pulled his hand away. “No. I'll be okay.”

  “Jonah—”

  “What're you so worried about? QUALIA installed my overseer just days ago. It couldn't be malfunctioning. It's probably just my new bits still falling into place. I'll settle down eventually.”

  She studied his eyes, searching for any sign that he was lying. She couldn't tell. “I guess if you feel okay—”

  “I wouldn't go quite that far,” he said. “But I'm definitely healthy enough to want a shower.”

  “Is that your way of changing the subject?”

  “It might be.”

  “Well, the bathroom's free. Go for your life.”

  He nodded and went to stand up.

  “Wait, Jonah—”

  He stopped, half on the bed and half off. “What?”

  “Don't be offended.” She felt unexpected regret that the moment had ended; the urge to touch him was still strong. “But please don't try that again. Not until all this is over, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked relieved. “We're both too fucking hopeless for words, aren't we?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm glad the feeling's mutual.”

  Jonah turned on the shower while he undressed, but didn't step in immediately. The sight of himself in the mirror caught his eye, as it had before talking to Mancheff.

  He did look sick, or at least wrong. There was no denying it. His body had muscles he didn't remember beneath skin slightly the wrong colour, both no doubt the fault of d-med and neither permanent, but still disconcerting. The only thing that looked right was the scar in the place of his right nipple, which he'd been meaning to have fixed for years. Marylin had good reason to be concerned.

  But there was little he could do about it under the circumstances. Worrying would only make him feel worse.

  The strips of Marylin's body armour lay on the cabinet like discarded socks—poor treatment for something worth more than a year of her old salary. He envied her the resources of her job with the EJC, even if he himself would gladly forego them all in exchange for independence. That was her decision. He couldn't expect her to fall into line with his expectations. Not any more.

  His lips still tingled with an echo of hers. Kissing her had been insane, but the urge had been too strong to resist, just for an instant. And she had responded. That was the craziest thing of all.

  It was, he told himself, something else he could do little about, for now.

  He spent fifteen minutes under the shower, but felt no better for it. Dressed in underpants and jeans, he emerged from the bathroom to find Marylin asleep. She had curled onto her left side, facing the door and the empty half of the bed. The hotel's internal infotainment feed flickered on, its meaningless procession of current events made only marginally more irrelevant for appearing in poor fidelity via his jacket. He let it ramble. They had plenty of time to kill, and, even as he lay on the bed next to Marylin, careful not to disturb her, he knew that sleep would be difficult to find.

  With the right equipment and know-how, he might have hacked his way through the channel and to the outside world. But a brief attempt earlier had brought him up against security systems he had never encountered before—software developed during his hibernation. He would never crack them without assistance, so had given up without trying.

  In the outside world, the time was eight o'clock in the morning, an hour later at MIU-ACOC. He and Marylin had arrived in Canada fourteen hours earlier, and had been locked in the room together for over an hour. He wondered what Whitesmith and co were up to. Whether they were still trying to sweep Quebec in the hope of pinging Marylin and him again, or if they had developed a new strategy. The body might have reached them, assuming Mancheff had decided to send it. That would distract them for a while. But not for too long, he hoped. The longer Mancheff kept them captive, despite what Mancheff had said earlier, the less likely they were ever to be released.

  He folded his hands behind his head and lay back. The bed seemed to rock beneath him. The tempo of Marylin's breathing became more rapid, and she mumbled something unintelligible. Then she settled again, her brow slightly furrowed as though it had collapsed under the weight of her thoughts.

  The bed was still moving, though. Jonah swallowed nausea and tried to think of nothing at all.

  At some point, he supposed, he must have fallen asleep, because suddenly someone was calling his name. The voice was male and tantalisingly familiar, but very faint. It seemed to be coming from the end of the bed.

  “Jonah? Jonah? Can you hear me?”

  He looked up. The voice was coming from his coat.

  “Jonah?”

  He sat bolt-upright in surprise. The face on the infotainment channel was one he knew wel
l. Long, yet rounded, with a nose that should have looked out of proportion but somehow didn't. Eyes that were brown and sharp, filled with a keen, observant intelligence. Thick, white hair. A thin-lipped, almost cruel mouth that rarely smiled.

  “Lindsay?”

  “Hello, Jonah. It's been a long time.”

  “But—”

  “Not too loud. You don't want to wake her.”

  Jonah glanced down at Marylin beside him, his mind in turmoil. She slept on, unawares. That, oddly, reassured him, took the edge off the shock of seeing his father again. A feeling of dislocation crept over him.

  “I do, actually. You two never met.”

  “Now isn't the time. This is between you and me. I'm here to offer you my help.”

  “I don't need your help.”

  “Are you sure? I can leave now, then, if you want.”

  “No. Wait!” He slithered to the edge of the bed and reached out with one hand, as though he could physically restrain the image of his father. “You have to tell me who killed you!”

  Lindsay looked puzzled. “Don't you remember? No one did.”

  “No one?”

  “That's what I said.”

  “But that means you're—”

  “Alive? Of course I am. I have been all along.”

  “Where are you, then?”

  “I can't tell you that. I'm sorry.”

  Jonah blinked. “Of course. You faked your own death and moved in with Elvis.”

  “There's no need to be sarcastic.”

  “Maybe. But why didn't you come back earlier? Why are you here now?”

  “Because I didn't realise, earlier, what was going on. The Twinmaker is getting out of hand. He needs to be neutralised.”

  “Can you tell me who he is?”

  “No, but I can tell you where he is. Will that do? I hesitate to intervene any more than that. I am violating protocol enough as it is.”

  Jonah studied the image. It was grainy and in poor colour. The voice was soft. He had to concentrate to understand what Lindsay was saying.

  Protocol?

  “The Twinmaker contacted me an hour ago, seeking asylum,” Lindsay said. “He's in a GLITCH-free zone on Mars, waiting for a reply. We're stalling him for the time being—long enough, hopefully, for you to get to him.”

  “I'll have to get out of here, first. Your friends in WHOLE locked us in.”

  “I know. I'll unlock the door in a moment.”

  “You will? I thought you'd go along with anything your mate Mancheff decided.”

  “My motives are not so simple that I can't disagree with an ally. Besides, your captors left some time ago. Their plan was to leave you here and let the MIU know when they were well on their way.”

  “Really? I guess that's what I might've done. But it doesn't explain why you're helping me.”

  “Because I can.”

  Jonah felt the bubble of unreality surrounding him stretch. “You say the Twinmaker contacted you. Does that mean he knew you were alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “You told him.”

  “I did?”

  “According to him, that is the case.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know. My awareness of that period is somewhat limited.”

  Jonah baulked at that, finally. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I'm finding this a little hard to accept.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “Everything. You, the Twinmaker, WHOLE—”

  “Don't be suspicious, Jonah. Trust me, please.”

  “Why should I? I'd be insane to, really. This can't be happening.”

  Lindsay looked hurt. “It is, Jonah.”

  “Really? Then how can you see Marylin? How did you find me here when the MIU has failed to so far?”

  “Patching into your coat via the internal media link was a trivial feat. In a similar fashion, I have obtained access to your room's security system. As to how I found you, once I'd followed the chain from our old housekeeper to the MIU, and from there to WHOLE, all I had to do then was locate Karoly Mancheff.”

  “And he told you?”

  “I didn't actually talk to him, but he had the information I needed.”

  Jonah shook his head. “I don't buy it. It's too convenient, too glib. There's nothing I can check. Everything you say could be meaningless crap. It always was before.”

  “I can understand you feeling that way,” Lindsay said, the lines tightening around his eyes. “I've had a long time to think about our relationship, and I am sorry for many of the things I said and did—and for just as many that I didn't say or do. But there's nothing I can do to correct them, now, and this has nothing to do with the past. This is about the Twinmaker. This is about you. And it is also, ultimately, about QUALIA.”

  “Ah.” Jonah nodded. “The missing link. Is there anything you won't try to wedge into this?”

  Lindsay sighed. “Go on, then. Try the door.”

  “Why?”

  “It's unlocked.”

  “It can't be.”

  “It is. Check it!”

  “No!” Jonah folded his arms and turned away. He could see Lindsay's face in the corner of his eye—lips pursed disapprovingly—and all of a sudden he felt five years old again.

  “Okay, look.” He turned back. “If, just for the sake of the argument, I accept that you're real, will you tell me precisely where the Twinmaker is?”

  “Of course. Otherwise this conversation would serve no purpose.” Lindsay relaxed slightly as he related the information. “The GLITCH address is opaque, as I said, so you'll have to use the KTI identifier. That is K-9738-S-8435-A. The MIU has provided you with an all-access ID, so you won't need money or special authorisation to get there. All you need is a booth.” A map appeared on the screen, overlaying Lindsay's face. A cursor danced. “You're here. Elevators here and here. Down two levels to the subbasement level and along these corridors. The booth is a mass-freighter. It is powered up, but not expecting deliveries for another hour. That should give you plenty of time. There's only one booth at the other end, so you'll have to go alone.”

  Jonah studied the map and the information. It all sounded reasonable enough, but for a few basic details.

  “I saw you die with my own eyes, Lindsay. How do you explain that?”

  “Jonah, please. Can't we just get on with it? I've given you an opportunity to confront the man you seek. Isn't that enough?”

  “Should it be? What happens if I don't take it?”

  “Then you may never have such an opportunity again.”

  “To do what, exactly?”

  “That's up to you. It always has been, wouldn't you say?”

  The screen went blank for a second.

  Jonah leaned forward, startled. “Wait, Lindsay—”

  The hotel's infotainment channel returned. Panic gripped him.

  “Lindsay? Lindsay, come back!”

  “Jon?”

  He turned at the sound of Marylin's voice, realising only then that he had slid off the bed and onto his knees before the coat. How he had got there, he didn't remember. His head was spinning.

  She was half-awake, her eyes barely open. He had woken her by shouting. The thought suddenly occurred to him that he might have woken himself up, too.

  “Jon?”

  “Mary—shhhh. It's okay.”

  “Who're you talking to?”

  “No one. It's just—” a dream? “—just a movie. Go back to sleep. It's okay, really.”

  He climbed onto the bed and lay next to her. She moved closer, and for a moment he didn't know what to do. His first instinct was to pull away, but he knew that would only wake her again. Deciding that fighting it would be counterproductive, he put an arm around her. Her breathing slowed almost instantly.

  “Mm?”

  “Shhhh. Go back to sleep.”

  He tried to relax with her, but failed completely. His mind was turning, and the burbling of the infotainment ch
annel kept him anchored to reality. He was awake now, he was sure of that. But he felt hot and giddy at the same time. Had he been asleep before? Could he have dreamed or hallucinated the entire conversation in some feverish daze?

  He replayed as much of the encounter as he could recall. Lindsay had given him an address, he remembered that clearly, but on other points, he was uncertain. Lindsay hadn't seemed entirely comfortable. And he hadn't quite looked right, either. Something, somehow, was wrong. A lack of emotion, perhaps? Or his complete evasion of the matter of his death?

  Jonah frowned at the ceiling. It had to be a dream, a harmless wish-fulfilment created by his unconscious and limited to the information he had. There could be no substance to it. Lindsay was still dead and the door was still locked no matter how much he wanted it to be otherwise. He was stupid to let it bother him this much.

  But what, he wondered, if it wasn't a dream? What if the image he had just spoken to had been genuine but its source hadn't been real? If it had been a computer-generated image—an electronic copy of Lindsay's face and voice—nothing but a convincing fake?

  Then—why? And who was actually behind it? And what would be waiting for him on Mars?

  He shut his eyes tight, willing himself to sleep, or at least to stop thinking. He counted Marylin's breaths instead, hoping his body would adopt her rhythms.

  A dream. Yes, that's all.

  At fifty-one, the meal-maker went ping.

  He sat up, only reluctantly conceding that he had heard the sound at all. Slowly, so as not to disturb Marylin again, he slid down the bed, then off it, and knelt in front of the boxy appliance.

  A green “ready” light was flashing.

  He opened the door.

  Inside was a note handwritten on a small piece of paper. It said:

  So you don't forget: K-9738-S-8435-A.

  ALC

  Jonah held it up so he could see it better. It was written in Lindsay's handwriting. The initials were Lindsay's and the ink was still wet. It even smelt like him…

  The world turned around Jonah for a moment, as though everything had suddenly, fundamentally changed, leaving him dizzy and disoriented—

  Then it settled back the way it was, and nothing had changed at all, except for one thought: