The Resurrected Man

by Sean Williams

  “Yes, I—” SHE stopped in mid-sentence, intending to summarise why the argument had fallen in favour of that decision but realising midway that SHE could not recall exactly how that argument had gone. “That is, Director Schumacher—”

  “Yes?”

  QUALIA was frozen by the accusing look on Marylin Blaylock's face. Was that what SHE was feeling? Could it possibly be guilt?

  SHE was saved once again from a moment of awkwardness—this time by an alert summoning QUALIA's attention elsewhere in the KTI network. Leaving an eikon behind to apologise to Blaylock, SHE headed immediately to the site of disturbance—where SHE found something so unexpected that for a moment SHE did not truly believe QUALIA's diagnostic programs.

  But it was true. Something had relaxed its grip on the Resurrection procedures required to bring Jonah back to life. His LSM could now be accessed. The crisis was over.

  But why now? QUALIA wondered, even as SHE quickly processed the information before orders could officially come from above to terminate the experiment. What had happened to change the situation?

  Jonah himself was philosophical when he awoke from the seizure and was told the news.

  “Someone got what they wanted,” he said. “That's all that matters.”

  SHE agreed. Things had worked out for the best. Jonah's existence was no longer in jeopardy; the MIU was no longer threatened; working relationships could return to normal. And SHE—

  SHE could savour the surprisingly sweet feeling of relief while it lasted, certain that it would not be for long.

  “Da nu ego na khuy!”

  “Language, Marylin.”

  “Don't patronise me, Jason.” She turned on the MIU agent. “They would've killed him!”

  “You don't know that—”

  “Neither do they!”

  “What does it matter? If he had died, we could've just Resurrected him again later.”

  She couldn't meet Fassini's eye. The comment was too close to that made by his own killer. You have Resurrection. This is not murder.

  “Maybe,” she muttered, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. They were sitting in a recessed stall not far from the Resurrection suite in which Jonah was supposed to be revived. News had just arrived that the sabotage had been overcome.

  “Anyway,” Fassini said, “dying's not what it used to be. It's an occupational hazard, now.”

  “That doesn't make it right.”

  “No. It just changes the way we look at things. I don't mind dying as long as some good comes out of it. And in this case—well, maybe.”

  She remembered that she was theoretically visiting him, not hanging around in order to be close when Jonah returned. Fassini had been Resurrected twelve hours ago. Although physically fit, he had not yet been released.

  “How're you coping?”

  “Fine. Once I've got through Triple-R counselling and proven that I'm not suffering from identity-shock or looking for revenge, I'll be out of here.”

  “How long?”

  “Usually a day or two. But I'm not going to sit around. I'm already off the stup and onto Phase Three Reorientation.”

  She caught the argot for drugs. “They're much more strict here than I expected. I'm amazed they let me through.”

  “Meeting friends face to face is recommended practice, I'm told. Keeps the ties to the real world strong, and helps everyone around the victim deal with his recovery.”

  She nodded. It was odd to hear him using words she didn't normally associate with death: victim of and recovery from. Death was now something one could get over, an avoidable accident. But it was even more disturbing to hear him refer to himself in the third person—as “the victim,” as though he wasn't really himself. Maybe this was a symptom of the identity crisis Resurrection counsellors feared. If it was, there was very little she could do to help him through it. Recovery was up to him alone.

  On the heels of that thought came another. Every newly Resurrected person was given the chance to repeal legal reexistence. Although she couldn't understand why someone would do so, there was, in essence, little difference between an aborted Resurrection and the acts of the Twinmaker. Both involved taking copies from d-mat data then killing the copy. The only distinctions, perhaps, were that one was sanctioned by the EJC and that permission was always sought from the victim first.

  “Jonah didn't have to go through all this,” she said.

  “He's a special case.” Fassini looked wistful. “Half his luck.”

  Activity in her workspace distracted her. “Hang on, Jason.”

  It was Whitesmith. “Just had word from QUALIA. He's on his way.”

  “About time. ETA?”

  “Fifteen minutes. Trevaskis wants a rapid debriefing. I'm telling him not to get his hopes up because I doubt McEwen will want to, but I still have to ask. Can you come down here and help me negotiate? You talked him into the simulation in the first place; he'll listen to you.”

  And look where it got him, she wanted to say, but didn't. Whitesmith didn't like asking, that was for certain. “It wasn't my intention to talk him ‘into’ anything, Odi. I only told him what I thought was right.”

  “Whatever. Just do it for me again. He did ask for you before the simulation ended, if it makes you feel any better.”

  It did, surprisingly. “Is that all he asked for?”

  “Fassini as well. Don't know why. How's he doing, by the way?”

  “Fine. Do you want me to—?”

  “No. But let him know we might need him later. Will he be up to it?”

  Marylin glanced at the MIU agent, who was dressed more formally than usual in a station jumpsuit and tapping restlessly on the arms of his chair. “I think so.”

  “Good.”

  “I'll be down soon.”

  “Thanks, Marylin. And I'm sorry about before, by the way; I was overcompensating. From now on, you're on your own.” He smiled. “If we get through this in one piece, you'll be C-1 before you know it.”

  She nodded vaguely and killed the line. Whitesmith's casual promise seemed to echo in the virtual silence. C-1 before you know it. It prompted an uncomfortable realisation.

  “What's wrong?” Fassini asked. “You look like you've been hit by an icy-cold vaffler.”

  “I've just had a thought,” she said.

  “Oh? About?”

  “About me. I'm not happy.”

  “I didn't think you ever were.”

  “I'm not happy here, Jason.” She stood. “But I used to be. Life wasn't supposed to be this serious.”

  He stared up at her. “Dying doesn't make it any funnier.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “In every jest…” He lifted one shoulder. “I always thought I'd be able to avoid it if it happened to me, but I couldn't. It happened too fast. So you tell me: is knowing we have Resurrection worth the life we have to lead in order to get it?

  “I don't know.” She'd thought it was, once.

  “Everyone has a different answer to that question,” he said. “I guess I already know mine, although I reserve the right to change it at any time. You have that right, too. No one will think you're crazy for exercising it.”

  Maybe, she thought, she'd be crazy if she didn't.

  Whitesmith was waiting for her outside Resurrection Suite 23.

  “You look tired,” he said.

  “You can talk,” she shot back. “If you don't get some sleep soon, we'll be hauling your arse out of here before long.”

  He smiled. It looked ghastly. “Get your punches in while you can. You've got five minutes until the audience arrives and we have to be civil to each other.”

  “At a stretch, we can probably manage it.” She indicated the closed door behind him. “Shall we?”

  “When they let us. I don't think they like me much.”

  “So let's talk.” She leaned next to him against the wall. “Have we learned anything from this little escapade?”

  “Us? No, no
t really. Jonah? Hopefully. We'll only know when he tells us.”

  “We've learned something, surely. We know that hot-wiring a human works, and that superimposition of this sort can be used to unlock memories frozen by InSight. That might come in handy if there are other people with Jonah's problem.”

  “A few,” Whitesmith said. “You'd be surprised how many people manage to fuck up their own heads. Or have them fucked up for them.”

  “There you go, then.”

  “Learned nothing about the case is what I meant.”

  “How about Indira? The autopsy results on the latest victim must be available by now. I haven't had a chance to look at them.”

  “The usual stuff, more or less. Except—yes, you'll like this—you remember the sign that Jonah said used to be in his father's study?”

  “There is no such thing as unnecessary death.”

  “That's the one. Apparently it's one of the weapons the Twinmaker used to torture her. Bashed her pretty bad, too. One of the corners has a distinct notch, an imperfection from when it was carved. Some of the injuries carry that mark. There's even—”

  She raised a hand. “It's okay. The details can wait.”

  “Anyway, she died from shock. We'll send a clone patrol tomorrow to check her out.”

  “For what it's worth.”

  “Right.” He ran a hand through close-cropped curls, then sniffed his fingers. “I really need a shower.”

  She patted him on the shoulder, not bothering to contradict him. He didn't smell, but she understood the need to bathe. It had been the same in Quebec. A shower was a good substitute for sleep or home.

  “Why don't—”

  She was interrupted by the door opening behind them. A medical attendant looked out.

  “He's arrived,” said the woman, her expression forbidding. “Can I assume that you intend to forgo the usual procedures?”

  “You can assume whatever you like,” said Whitesmith, “as long as you let us in.”

  Whitesmith went first. Marylin nervously followed him. This was the first time she'd actually seen someone emerge from the Resurrection apparatus. Although smaller and less complicated than she'd expected, basically a d-mat booth with a few extra touches lying on its back, its purpose made it seem doubly arcane.

  “He's still not quite cohere,” said the intern, bending close over the coffin.

  “Are you sure?” Marylin moved forward. “He could be having another memory seizure.” She too leaned in to look. Jonah's face was slack and blank. His expression revealed nothing to her, except that hers, if he even saw it, likewise meant nothing to him. “QUALIA, can you—?”

  “Now that he is no longer hot-wiring,” said the AI, “I am unable to diagnose his mental condition with the same degree of accuracy. A medical cage will have to be installed before I can hazard a guess.”

  “Could it be permanent?” she asked, trying not to think what they would do if Jonah had been brain-damaged by the experience.

  “Unlikely,” said the intern. “He'll be with us before long.”

  Jonah's eyes flickered open, and scanned the faces of the people bending over him. “Mary?”

  “Déjà vu, Jonah. We have to stop meeting like this.”

  He sat up, or tried to. His movements were sluggish and clumsy. “Meeting…?” he echoed.

  “That's okay.” She helped him upright. “I was joking.”

  “I'm not.” He cleared his throat. “We need to have one. A meeting. Soon.”

  “You should rest first.”

  “No, it's important. I have to tell you all something.”

  “Who?” she asked. Then, sensing Whitesmith nudging her from behind, she added: “What?”

  He ignored the second question as though he hadn't heard it. “The whole gang: you, Whitesmith, Trevaskis, Verstegen, even Schumacher if you can get him. Face to face, and soon. No VTCs.”

  “Why?”

  “I know who killed my father.”

  His eyes suddenly rolled up into his head and he sagged like a puppet. She grabbed him before he could bang his head on the edge of the coffin and, with the intern's help, managed to lie him on his back. With a whirr, the sides slid down and they were allowed greater access to his naked body.

  The medical supervisor examined him closely. “If this man comes to any harm as a result of your intervention—”

  “He won't,” Marylin said. “This is just a seizure. You can tell because his lips are moving.”

  Whitesmith leaned over her shoulder to see. “Is he prevocalising anything?”

  “Fragments only,” said QUALIA. “Very few distinguishable words.”

  “Any names?”

  “Several, including those of Marylin Blaylock, Lindsay Carlaw and Herold Verstegen. Yours too, Officer Whitesmith, and mine.”

  “The whole gang,” he quoted. “Except for Schumacher.”

  Jonah stirred.

  “I know who killed Lindsay,” he announced, then stopped, looking puzzled. “Did I say that already?”

  “Yes. Why don't you just tell us now and—”

  “Forget it, Whitesmith.” He sat up again. “Did I mention that I want to talk to Jason Fassini?”

  “Yes, before you left the simulation.”

  “Good.”

  “Why is that good, Jonah?” Marylin asked.

  “Because I need a gopher.”

  “What can he do that I can't?”

  “Nothing, Marylin, except swear with a smile on his face.” He slipped into a dressing gown handed to him by the intern. “You're too close, too canny. You're even too suspicious, if not suspicious enough in my opinion. He, on the other hand, may be a good agent, but he's no investigator. I'm safe using him. He won't second-guess me.”

  “On what?”

  He smiled. “You're going to have to wait too, I'm afraid. The walls have ears, as they say.”

  She leaned back. “You're playing a game, aren't you? You want someone to sweat, and you think this is the best way to do it.”

  His smile didn't change, but that was the only reply she got.

  They had to use a wheelchair to take him to an empty recovery room. Barely had he reached his feet when another memory lapse knocked him out.

  “This is going to be frustrating,” Whitesmith muttered.

  “It's frustrating already.” Marylin let the intern and the attendant arrange Jonah in the chair then moved in to take control. They left the suite and its staff rapidly behind. “A more cynical person might think he was doing it deliberately.”

  “If he was in your shoes, you mean?”

  “No. Cynicism isn't the same thing as paranoia. Jonah is, in his own peculiar way, something of an optimist.”

  “Really? Not that I've seen.”

  “Well, it's hardly been the right circumstances, and I did say he was peculiar.”

  Whitesmith glanced at her. “You're doing it again. Defending him.”

  “Maybe.” She squeezed the handles of the wheelchair as tight as she could. “He's not really in any position to look after himself.”

  “Don't bet on it.”

  Jonah jerked awake. “Shit! That was a bad one.”

  “I'm here if you want to talk about it,” she said. “Or there are counsellors.”

  “Not yet.” He shook his head violently, as though clearing out water. “Have you spoken to the others?”

  “Who?”

  “Trevaskis, Geyten, Schumacher—”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, don't leave it too long. I want to get this out of the way. But first—no, wait, I have to tell you something I might have forgotten before. The meeting needs to be in my unit, where it all started. That's the only place I can be sure we'll have complete privacy.”

  “In Faux Sydney? But—” That's so far away, she'd been about to say. Protestations of distance and inconvenience held little water in a world containing d-mat. “It'll be hard to get Schumacher.”

  “I'd like him there if he can ma
ke it, but it won't kill me if he can't.”

  “Does that mean he's innocent?” asked Whitesmith.

  “Does asking that mean you've wondered about him?” Jonah replied. “No clues. You'll have to wait and see. All of you.”

  Marylin could practically hear Whitesmith bite his tongue. “You were going to say something else, Jonah. What was that?”

  “Fassini. I really do need to see him beforehand. How soon can we arrange that?”

  “Well, he's not far away. He was Resurrected twelve hours before you and is still going through counselling.”

  “He was?” Jonah looked surprised, then appalled as he realised. “Oh god, yes—of course. I'd forgotten that. If you think I shouldn't bother him—”

  “We can work around that.” She opened a channel in her workspace while she pushed the wheelchair. Fassini answered immediately. He was on his way moments later.

  “How's the other one—Lon Kellow?”

  “Taking it slowly, the last I heard.”

  They arrived at the recovery room. It was empty, Marylin having requested that Fassini wait outside to give them a chance to settle.

  “I need a pen and piece of paper,” Jonah said. The sterile, pastel-coloured room contained little more than a desk and a handful of chairs.

  “A pen?” she echoed.

  “Or a pencil. Something to write with, and on.”

  She glanced at Whitesmith, who shrugged. He turned to go looking for what Jonah had requested, muttering: “It'll be an abacus next.”

  When they were alone, Marylin pulled up a chair and sat opposite Jonah.

  “How're you feeling?” she asked him, studying his face.

  “Honestly?” He held out his hands; they were shaking. “Wired. Dosed. Tilted. Geil. Take your pick.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes flickered in a pointless attempt to see if anyone was watching or listening in. “Because I know, Marylin. Trust me. We'll get this sonofabitch yet.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “Because I really need a break from all this.”

  “That I can understand. I need to ask you a favour, too.”

  “You can ask.”

  “As soon as I have the pen and paper, I'm going to write a note to Fassini. If I black out midway—”

  “You want me to promise not to read it?”