The Resurrected Man

by Sean Williams

  “No, I wouldn't do that. I just want you to keep quiet about it. Don't say anything or do anything differently, if you can. Let it happen the way I want it to. Otherwise—” He looked even more uncomfortable. “Otherwise, we won't have any evidence to speak of, and the killer will walk free.”

  “Which one?” she asked. “Your father's murderer or the Twinmaker?”

  He shook his head, infuriatingly reticent. “Promise me.”

  “I can't promise anything but to do what I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  There was movement in the open doorway.

  “I found these.” Whitesmith handed Marylin a sketch pad and pencil. “They belong to one of the interns. We have to give them back afterwards.”

  Marylin passed them to Jonah, who nodded gratefully.

  “Jason Fassini is out here,” Whitesmith went on. “Shall I—?”

  “Not yet.” Jonah wheeled himself closer to the table. “We'll call when we're ready. Any luck with the invitation list?”

  Whitesmith opened his mouth, then closed it. Marylin threw him an expression of pained apology as he took the hint, backed out the way he had come and closed the door after him.

  Jonah had settled at the table and was already writing on a piece of paper, shielding the page carefully with one hand.

  “When everything's organised,” he said without looking up, “I'm going to need a moment or two on my own. Nowhere special; here will be fine. Fifteen minutes should be enough.”

  She resisted the temptation to peek at what he was writing. “You're asking for an awful lot of favours, Jonah.”

  He raised his head for a second then returned to the task. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

  “Do you really know what you're doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why won't you tell me?”

  “Because you won't like it.”

  Something in his voice warned her not to pry, but she couldn't help herself. “Am I in any danger?”

  “Yes and no. Both of us are.”

  “How?”

  He shook his head in frustration. “Maybe you should help Whitesmith organise the meeting in Faux Sydney. I'd really like to get this under way soon. The quicker we can all agree on a time—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence and sagged nose-down onto the page.

  She tried to rearrange him into a more comfortable position, noting how solid he was under the robe compared to when she had first seen him in the bath, days ago. She caught only a glimpse of what he had written on the page; the rest was obscured by his head. What she could see had something to do with SciCon.

  Mindful that if she could see it prying eyes might too, she arranged the sleeve of the robe to cover the rest of the page. She didn't know if he was doing the right thing, but she did know that she could either support him or defy him. She couldn't do both.

  “Will he be okay like that, QUALIA?”

  “Yes, Marylin. I have instructed his overseer to see to his well-being when it can or to summon help when it cannot. At some point I would like to examine him in detail to ensure that his InSight-affected tissues have not been traumatised by the superimposition.”

  “You'll have to ask him when he wakes up.” She bent down to look at his slightly flattened face. A thin line of saliva led from his twitching lips onto the page. She thought he might be saying her name, but she couldn't be sure.

  The door opened behind her, and she jumped.

  “Sorry, Marylin.” It was Fassini, just his head visible. “Officer Whitesmith asked me to check on you. It was too quiet in here, if you know what I mean.”

  She did. The room was soundproof. “Wait outside, Jason. Not much longer, I hope.”

  He nodded once and backed out.

  Taking too long.

  She put a hand on Jonah's shoulder, intending to see if he would respond to a gentle shake, and he suddenly started awake.

  “Holy—” They retreated from each other like startled rattlesnakes. He touched a hand to his eyes, then remembered the page in front of him and turned it over. “Holy hell,” he said. “That's what Lindsay used to say when something went wrong. I never understood it as a kid, but then, religion was always a mystery to me.”

  “Was that what the flashback was about?”

  “No, not really. I was watching an old recording from my childhood. It was late one night not long after he died. I think I'd been drinking.” He rubbed his temples with one hand. “Felt like it, anyway.”

  She nodded at the page. “Can you finish this now?”

  “Yes. Leave me alone and I'll get it done more quickly.”

  She backed away and left him to it. She sought out Whitesmith via her workspace. He was busy with another call, but not for long.

  “It's turning out to be surprisingly easy,” he said. “Indira's in, of course, and Jago. Verstegen too. We might even have Schumacher, if we can fit it into his schedule.”

  “How soon are we looking?”

  “There's a window in an hour.”

  Her stomach turned. “That's soon.”

  “I know. No one's happy about losing the half-hour to go to Faux Sydney, but they'll do it if they have to. With security, of course. I'm sending a team in to double-check the grounds now.”

  “Now you're being paranoid.”

  “I know, but with everyone in the same spot, more vulnerable than they would be up here, it might pay to be. The Twinmaker likes a scene, in case you hadn't noticed.”

  She grunted, and Jonah looked up.

  “Almost done,” he said, bending back to the page to write another line, then straightening up in the seat. He folded the page in two before she had even a chance to see how much he had written. “There. You can send in Fassini.”

  “Hear that?” she asked Whitesmith.

  “Got it.”

  The door opened to admit the recently Resurrected agent.

  Marylin stood. “I'll leave you two alone, if you like.”

  “It won't make any difference,” Jonah said.

  “Regardless. I think I need a break from playing nurse.” She headed for the door. Fassini waved her through. It shut silently behind her.

  Outside, Odi Whitesmith stood waiting. He looked up as she approached.

  “Are we getting somewhere, or is he just taking us for a ride?”

  “He certainly thinks he knows what he's doing,” she said.

  “No guarantees, in other words.”

  “No.”

  “Schumacher's agreed,” he said. “If we're wasting his time—”

  “He's not stupid, Odi. He'll know this is a long shot. In fact,” she added, the thought only hitting her then, “the fact that he's agreed so readily might tell us something.”

  Whitesmith cocked an eyebrow. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

  “I'm not saying anything, except maybe we shouldn't write Jonah off just yet. If he really does know what he's doing—”

  “Then I for one will be pleasantly surprised. And someone else, too, no doubt—somewhat less pleasantly.” He smiled at the thought. “It's all so desperately Agatha Christie, isn't it?”

  “Do you really think the Twinmaker might be one of us?”

  “I guess so. Doesn't seem much point to it, otherwise.”

  She nodded. Desperate—yes, that was exactly the right word.

  The door opened and Fassini emerged.

  “He's passed out again,” said the agent. “Should we—?”

  “No,” Marylin said. “QUALIA will keep an eye on him.” The AI didn't respond, but she assumed e had heard. “How did it go?”

  “Well, I think. I told him what you were organising, Officer Whitesmith, and he seemed pleased.”

  Whitesmith made a sound that Marylin couldn't interpret.

  “Did he give you the note?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know he's aske
d you to do something for him. Will you do it?”

  For the third time, looking uncomfortable, Fassini said: “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Later. Look, Marylin, you'd be best not to worry about it.”

  “But I do.”

  “Well, don't. It's no big deal. At least,” he added, puzzled, “I can't see how it could be.”

  That puzzled her, too, until she remembered what Jonah had said in the simulation—that he couldn't even talk to anyone without the Twinmaker overhearing. That was true in Artsutanov Station, too. Hence the elaborate procedure with the pencil and paper, shielding the words he wrote from anyone's view, possibly asking Fassini to track down the information he himself was unable to find. But what was the advantage of passing the buck to Fassini? The Twinmaker would know something was going on, and would watch the agent just as closely as he watched Jonah.

  The information Jonah wanted might have seemed irrelevant to Fassini, but that was only because he didn't have the other pieces required to complete the puzzle.

  No doubt it would make sense once they were combined in Faux Sydney.

  No doubt…She had rediscovered her confidence in him, it seemed. That was encouraging, although it in no way made up for the disadvantaged position she found herself in. She hated being dependent on anyone, on any level. Especially when there was so much at stake.

  The voice of QUALIA intruded on her thoughts.

  “Jonah wishes to know the anticipated time for the meeting in Faux Sydney.”

  “0600 Goliath time,” Whitesmith said. “It'll be confirmed in a moment or two.”

  “He will be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

  “Why doesn't he tell me this himself?”

  “He has temporarily deactivated his overseer and requested that I have sole access to sensors within the recovery room.” The AI sounded mildly amused at Jonah's ultra-cautious behaviour. “He also requests that no one be allowed to use the booth in the unit itself. Even he will come via the nearest public rank.”

  “Whatever.” The quick shake of Whitesmith's head expressed as much bemusement as annoyance. “Just tell him to hurry the fuck up.”

  “I will pass on your sentiments, sir.” QUALIA paused. “Excuse me. There is another matter that demands my attention.”

  “Fine.”

  Marylin sat down near Whitesmith. “Time-out without any inputs,” she mused aloud. “What's he up to now?”

  “I dread to think.” Whitesmith looked up at Fassini. “Do you know?”

  “No, sir. He didn't talk much, and it's not in the note.”

  “Here's hoping he doesn't have a stroke or something while he's alone in there.”

  “I'm sure QUALIA would let us know,” Marylin said, before realising how it contradicted what she'd said just seconds ago about the room having no inputs. Presumably the AI was still watching him. But she didn't want to ask while QUALIA was busy elsewhere. It wasn't that important, anyway. In ten minutes, though, if Jonah hadn't emerged from the room, she swore it would be.

  And within hours, she hoped, it would all be over. The thought sent a quiver through her gut. Even if Jonah knew what he was talking about and everything went as he planned—if the Twinmaker didn't somehow screw things up—she didn't believe it could be a painless process. Nothing ever was.

  Jonah closed his eyes on the interior of the d-mat booth and thought: This is it. No turning back now.

  Then he chided himself for being melodramatic. Once they arrived, there would be nothing to lose but pride if things went wrong. It was if things went right that most worried him.

  He checked the time in Goliath: 0513. Marylin and Whitesmith had left several minutes before him.

  Poor Marylin—

  He added a silent prayer that the Twinmaker would take the bait as planned. It was, after all, his last chance.

  —and poor me.

  They arrived fifteen minutes early. He guided himself up the long path to the unit with Marylin and Whitesmith bringing up the rear, distant and official. Local time was 0945. Security was already tight. Drones flew overhead, silent specks circling lazily through the clear, blue sky, watching their every move like hawks. Guards had inspected them for unauthorised weapons upon emerging from the booths and more were in evidence at the unit itself. There was no one inside, however; the housekeeper had made certain of that.

  “Feels like weeks,” said Whitesmith as they walked through the door. “Where do you want us?”

  “Lounge.” Jonah parked the wheelchair in the dining room and walked the rest of the way. He felt fine but didn't know when he would have another seizure. “I'll be back in a second.”

  He went into the study and locked the door behind him. Jago Trevaskis was due shortly, to be followed soon after by Geyten and Verstegen. Schumacher would arrive last of all, pleading limited time but more likely wanting to make an imposing entrance.

  And why not? Jonah asked himself. He was hardly one to criticise grandiose gestures. He was overdoing it himself with the entire meeting.

  But he had no choice. Although the thought was like crystal in his mind, and seemed to be flawless no matter which angle he examined it from, he knew how misleading that feeling could be. Too many times something perfect in theory fell apart in practice. And if Fassini didn't come through in time…

  He quashed that fear.

  Taking a seat in front of his father's terminal, he spoke softly yet clearly for the benefit of the unit's housekeeper.

  “House? I want you to relay certain sections of your security data to another site. Can you do that using Lindsay's node in the Pool?”

  “Yes, Jonah.”

  “Good.” The signal would be masked by the other data flowing through the node. If he was lucky, the MIU wouldn't notice the increase. “The address is—” He consulted his restored memory. “Lilith22. It's a blind feed, I think, so don't worry about a response. Just send the audiovisual data from the lounge for the next two hours, or until I instruct you to stop. Got that?”

  “Yes, Jonah.”

  “Also, I want to send a short message to the same address. Address it to Karoly Mancheff and mark it private. I don't care about the angle; just start recording now.” He paused for a split-second, then spoke more loudly: “This is what you wanted to hear. Be ready to answer me when I ask for you. Stop recording. Send it immediately.”

  “Yes, Jonah. Marylin Blaylock is requesting entry to the room you are currently occupying.”

  “Don't let her in yet. First, I want you to retract all security clearances. Don't talk to or obey any instructions from anyone else but me. Then shut and lock the door and disable the display on the d-mat booth, but keep it on and open to transmissions.”

  “Yes, Jonah.”

  “Lastly, shut down all external inputs except for those from the following people.” He listed two names.

  “But these people are—”

  “Don't argue. Just enter the order.”

  “Yes, Jonah.”

  “Okay.” He took a second to see if he had forgotten anything. Hopefully not. “You can let her in now.”

  The door swung open. Marylin eyed him with suspicion and stepped into the room.

  “We thought you'd disappeared.”

  “Just testing my new memories,” he said, indicating the dead screen in front of him. “No luck. Someone must've erased it after I last got in.”

  “Or your new memories are wrong.”

  “That's sacrilege, Marylin.” He stood.

  She didn't move out of the way. “I hope you know what you're doing, Jonah.”

  “That makes two of us. Is anyone else here yet?”

  “Indira Geyten and Jago Trevaskis. Herold Verstegen is—”

  Click

  —conscious, horribly so, as the gas-gun came up and fired again, this time delivering a stream of nanoware into his bloodstream. He could neither move nor make a sound. All he could do was hang limp, face-down, as he was dragged out of the lounge,
along the hall and into the bathroom. He couldn't feel his body but could feel the cold of the tiles against his cheek and hands. Nothing happened for a long while, then he felt his clothes fall away—cut, he guessed. The world shifted underneath him. He was in the air, swinging. His hands flopped like dead rabbits as he was dumped unceremoniously into the bath.

  He had time to think—What the hell?—then was embraced by chill porcelain and lying helpless on his back—

  Click

  —and Herold Verstegen was leaning over him, looking concerned.

  The sight made him jump.

  “Ah, you're back.” The Director of Information Security turned away. “It's okay. He's still with us.”

  No thanks to you, you slippery fuck.

  Jonah sat up. He was in the lounge room with Marylin, Whitesmith, Geyten, Trevaskis in a wheelchair of his own, and, walking into the room as though he owned it, a spry but small old man who bore only a passing resemblance to his promotional images: Fabian Schumacher. He was holding a glass and looking frustrated.

  “What sort of house doesn't have beer?”

  It was time.

  He stood.

  “Marylin?” She was instantly by him, looking concerned. What the hell did his face look like? His heart was pounding. The three of them—he, Marylin and Verstegen—formed an equilateral triangle in the centre of the room.

  What?

  “Marylin, I want you to do me another favour. Don't question it, this time. Just do it.” He put every ounce of command he could muster into his voice. He couldn't afford her not to do what he said. “You did come armed, didn't you?”

  “Of course, I—”

  “I want you to take out your weapon and point it at Herold Verstegen. Do it now, before he has a chance to draw his own gun. Do it, Marylin, before he even moves. Point it at him as though you mean it because—I swear to god—if he even so much as thinks he's going to weasel out of this one, I'll grab your gun and shoot him myself!”

  The room went horribly quiet.

  For one crazy instant, Jonah thought no one had heard him, that he had imagined saying the whole thing—then he saw the weapon in Marylin's hands and the expression on Verstegen's face. There was no mistaking the look of murderous anger cast in Jonah's direction, but he had frozen, left hand on its way to the bulge under his right armpit.