The Credulity Nexus

by Graham Storrs

  “The chip wrangler you used to change your identity.”

  “That's right. How did you guys find me anyway?”

  Shah smiled. “The old-fashioned way. We used a blood-hound. Cute little chap, about the size of a large spider. Followed your scent from the house to the station. After that, finding where you'd gone was easy.”

  Rik nodded. “Look... What was your name again?”

  “Shah. Rajan Shah.”

  Rik grinned. “Like 'Bond, James Bond', eh?”

  “Wrong agency.”

  “Yeah. Right. Look, Shah, I really need to finish this job 'cause I really need the money. All these people getting killed all around me is not exactly what I signed up for. I don't like being used by people like Newton Cordell and his charming wife, and I don't like being mixed up in something that's likely to get me killed, or arrested, or both.”

  “So tell us where the package is and we'll take it from here.”

  “You know, I'd really like to do that, but I just can't. If I don't do what I was hired for, I don't get paid, and I'll probably end up being killed anyway, either by Cordell's people, or by the Turgu.”

  “Who are these Turgu people you keep talking about?”

  Rik shook his head wearily. “Turgu was a 13th Century king of Babylon, or some such crap. I don't know. There's a gang boss in Heinlein who believes the 'spirit of Turgu' inhabits his little gang of hoodlums, or something whacko like that. I helped someone out of a jam who they thought shouldn't be helped. Turns out this guy owed them money. He skipped. So now they say I owe them instead.”

  “What a sordid little life you lead.”

  “Well, you know, being shut up in here with you isn't helping much. Look, can we get back to the point? Why don't you tell me what's in this package of Cordell's so I can understand why I'm suddenly target of the month for this transhuman chick?”

  Shah sighed heavily. “We don't know what it is. We think maybe it's a bioweapon. GSG 9 – the German Federal Police anti-terrorism group – got a tip-off from someone at the lab that a special project was underway that had extraordinary security. Their informant didn't know what was going on. Now she's dead.”

  “Bioweapon, huh?” Of course, the idea had occurred to Rik – how could it not? – but he'd suppressed it, preferring to think he wasn't sending anything so deadly through the post to his friend. “You're just assuming that, right?”

  Shah caught the anxiety in Rik's voice. “Bloody hell, man, what have you done with it?”

  “With what? I never said I had the package.” Rik sank back into his seat, scowling at the table. He had to find a way to make sure Blake didn't open the damned thing.

  “We need to get that package somewhere safe, Rik.”

  “I wish I could help you.” He kept on scowling at the table until a thought struck him. “What the hell would Cordell want with a bioweapon, anyway? He's a legit businessman, as far as I know. Richest man in the system. Bit of a God botherer, but not some whack-job terrorist.” For an instant he actually felt better, then he remembered just how devoutly religious Newton Cordell was reputed to be. “Shit, you don't think he's gone nuts and wants to wipe out the Muslims or something, do you?”

  Shah shook his head in frustration. “We haven't got a clue what he's up to. Neither have you, obviously. All we know is that that package would be safer in our hands than wherever the hell you've stashed it.”

  “Yeah, I bet. Don't you guys have enough bioweapons already? You've got that Porton Down place cooking them up all the time, right?”

  “We shut down that facility nearly thirty years ago. But that's exactly the kind of place this stuff belongs. Not in a locker at an airport, or in a hole at the side of the motorway where some curious dog might dig it up.”

  The more Shah said, the more Rik wanted to get to a safe distance and call Blake.

  “Look, I've been very co-operative,” he said. “I've answered all your questions. Now I'd either like to get on my way or I'd like to call my lawyer.”

  Shah looked tired. He seemed like he'd had enough for one day. Rik wondered which way the man might jump if he pushed him a bit harder. These days, every country had its anti-terrorism laws, under which they could do pretty much whatever they liked. If Shah wanted to hold him, question him, or even torture him, shouting for a lawyer wouldn't do much good. Nevertheless, he had to get out of there.

  He stood up.

  “OK, Shah, I've had enough of this crap. I want–”

  Shah put a finger to his temple – meaning he was talking on his cogplus. Rik clenched his jaw in frustration and sat down again.

  “There,” said Shah, putting his hand down. “Sorry about that.”

  There was a light tap at the door and a woman walked in. She was a brunette in her late twenties, pretty, but not excessively so, with an exotic, Middle Eastern look about her. Her trim figure and precise movements suggested good genes or a good workout regimen. Probably both. She crossed the little room, click-clicking on the vinyl floor, and shook hands with Shah. She was wearing a concealed holster, and her handbag was too heavy not to contain a second gun.

  “Mr. Shah,” she said.

  “Ms. Freymann,” he replied.

  They both turned to look at Rik.

  Shah spoke first. “Rik, I'd like you to meet Fariba Freymann. She works for the U.S. Government.”

  “Don't tell me,” said Rik. “The IRS, right?”

  Shah ignored him. “Ms. Freymann will be accompanying you on your trip to Los Angeles.”

  Rik hadn't seen Shah in the role of gift horse until that moment, but now that he did, he couldn't quite believe it. “What? You're trading me to the CIA? For what? And why do they want me? I still don't have the package.”

  Shah smiled. “Keep talking, Rik. You might just change my mind.”

  Rik couldn't help smiling back. He liked Shah. The man had that easy sophistication that the Brits sometimes have. He was smart and cool and knew the score. Rik imagined he could kick back with this guy and have a beer. He didn't meet many people he could say that about.

  “OK, but I hope you got a good price.” He turned to the woman, Freymann. “When do we leave?”

  She didn't answer him but turned to Shah. “I'll get it organised. Can you keep him here for two more minutes?”

  “Of course,” said Shah, and she click-clicked out of the room. Both men watched her go.

  “Does she know what's chasing me?”

  “She's fully briefed, and she's been monitoring our conversation in here.”

  “Do you know her? Can she handle it?”

  Shah smiled again. “She's not there for your protection, Rik. She's taking you back to the States for interrogation.”

  “And don't think I'm not glad of the company.”

  “We couldn't have held you, anyway. Not long enough to get you to talk.”

  “You're breaking my heart. Just one thing I wanted to ask you before I go.”

  The door opened again and Fariba Freymann stepped in. “OK, Mr. Drew, let's go.”

  He glanced briefly at her. “Just call me Rik.” Turning his attention back to Shah, he continued, “I can see how you and the Germans managed to trail me from Berlin to here, but how do you suppose the upload managed to find me?”

  Chapter 9

  Blake Bonomi arrived home to find a car parked in his drive. It was unusual, but not unknown for Brie's friends to still be visiting when he came home. He did a quick check of the calendar in his cogplus for any dinner dates or visits he'd forgotten about, but there was nothing listed.

  The car was a muscular, new four-wheel drive. A European make, but that meant nothing these days. He peered in through the windows as he walked by it. There were take-away cartons on the back seat and coffee cups in the front. Everything about it suggested it was a man's car. He paused at the doorstep and took a look at the licence plate. Local registration. He had his cogplus record the number. Blake didn't like surprises, and he didn't like things t
hat were out of the ordinary.

  He opened the door and went in, moving quietly. Somewhere in his head, a voice told him that some strange guy visiting his house while he was away at work could only add up to one thing. The better part of him was telling it to shut its dirty mouth, but he moved cautiously even so, listening for sounds that might explain what was going on.

  “Oh, hi!” His wife walked into the hallway from the kitchen. “I didn't hear you come in. I was just making a coffee.” She lowered her voice. “We've got visitors. They said they want to talk to you about Rik.”

  “Shit, Brie, you shouldn't have let anybody in.” Brie didn't know that Rik had gone underground. She didn't know that people were probably looking for him. He unbuttoned the strap on his handgun. “You go back to the kitchen. Better still, go round to Margie's place, and stay there 'till I come for you.”

  She was half shocked and half amused. “Don't be silly, honey. It's the FBI.” Before he could stop her, she pushed open the door to the sitting room and walked in. “Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting. This is my husband, Blake.”

  Two men were standing in the room, one opposite the door and the other to the side, on Blake's left. As soon as he saw them, he knew they weren't FBI. And there was Brie, right in the centre of the triangle.

  “Let's talk about this outside,” Blake suggested.

  The man to his left drew a gun and pointed it at Brie. “Let's not,” he said.

  “We're here for the package,” the one opposite said. He too had his gun drawn.

  “It's OK, Brie.” Blake could tell from his wife's open-mouthed gape and her shallow breathing that she was petrified. “Just relax, honey. These men aren't going to hurt us.” Which, of course, was a lie. Whether he told them where the package was or not, there was going to be bloodshed. Brie looked around at him, confused and disoriented. “Why don't you sit down over there, Brie, while I tell them what they want to know?” He needed to get her out from between the three of them. Out of the crossfire.

  “Stay where you are, Mrs. Bonomi,” said the man on the left. “You.” He waved his gun at Blake. “Start talking.”

  It might be the best chance Blake would get. For that instant, neither gun was pointing at Brie. He threw himself at the man who'd just spoken, drawing his weapon and yelling at Brie to get down. A shot exploded from his right, but it must have missed him because he was still alive. He had barely enough time to get his gun free of its holster before he slammed into the man he was charging at.

  He felt a hot pain as a bullet tore across his ribs. Then they were both on the ground and he was rolling to his left, hoping to use the downed man as a shield.

  He fired a shot into the struggling man beside him at point blank range, and the struggling stopped. Almost at the same time he felt a hammer-blow to the stomach. The other gunman had hit him. Gasping with pain and shock, his vision blurring, he swung his weapon up to return fire. The gun felt like lead, and his arm shook with the strain of lifting it.

  Brie was still standing where she had been, screaming at him in horror. The gunman had grabbed her by the shoulder and was pulling at her, trying to put her between himself and Blake's gun. Blake had maybe another second to finish it, or he and Brie were both dead. Another shot from the gunman hit Blake in the left shoulder and jerked him sideways just as he squeezed the trigger with his last scrap of strength.

  Falling back, ablaze with pain and barely conscious, he waited for the shot that would finish him.

  -oOo-

  Omega Point was nothing special until you looked inside. On approach, it looked like a thousand other space stations: a big, puck-shaped metal shell swinging on the end of a long, long tether attached to a lump of asteroid. Inside, it was something else.

  Beyond a huge docking bay, big enough to hold half-a-dozen standard service shuttles, were meeting rooms and luxuriously-appointed guest rooms. Beyond these was nothing but a maze of narrow, unlit corridors, tunnelling through a solid block of computational matrix. Omega Point was, without doubt, the most powerful computing grid in the Solar System.

  Within that mass of circuitry ran dozens of climate models and economic models, the analyses of hundreds of massive data sets from Earth- and space-based physics labs, the crunching of vast biological models at quantum resolution, and the data mining of records on billions of individuals on behalf of hundreds of government agencies. This was one of the ways Omega Point earned its keep, hiring out its massive computational resources to whoever could afford them. The other way was through the rent fees paid by its twenty-thousand-plus uploaded inhabitants.

  When the fabulously rich died – as they still did, no matter what treatments and augmentations they had – most of them opted to be uploaded into a computer somewhere. Some had their own facilities, built just for that purpose, but many chose to join one of the transhuman communities and to live in virtual worlds among their peers. The biggest, most expensive and most powerful of those communities was Omega Point.

  Expensive, so that it could keep out the riff-raff. Powerful, because the Life Extension by Cerebral Upload Act of 2045 gave the power of attorney over a person's assets to “any mental construct that was an unique and exact replica of the mental state of that person at the time of death.” Twenty-thousand-plus uploads of the world's wealthiest men and women constituted a massive accumulation of money and influence. The most concentrated bloc of power in the Solar System, in fact.

  Fortunately for everyone else, the inhabitants of Omega Point never spoke with one voice. If they ever did, it would be a deafening roar that would be heard from the cities of Earth to the most distant research outpost on the farthest Kuiper Belt object.

  Instead, the scene being played out in this particular virtual world within Omega Point was far more typical of the state of affairs among its magnates.

  “Stop flapping about and come down here!”

  The great monster furled its feathered wings and plunged towards the ground. Missing it by a talon's length, the beast rose again in a controlled stall, its enormous wings spread wide to hold the air as it gently stepped out of the sky onto the rocky hillside below. The human head on top of the multi-hued bird's body tilted down to look at the man who had commanded it.

  Martin Lanham scowled back with an expression of distaste. He presented in human form – not the overweight, ageing form he'd had when truly human, but a leaner, taller, more handsome, and very much younger version of who he had once been. He wore a well-tailored business suit, the kind he had worn since starting out in the motor industry back in the 1980s.

  “What the hell are you supposed to be?” Lanham demanded.

  The gigantic bird with the human head answered him. “I'm a ba,” it said, sounding offended. “I like it.”

  “Well, you look stupid.”

  “It's something I found in the Egyptian Book of the Dead. It represents the divine part of the human soul. The ba can leave the deceased's body and fly to the netherworld, or it can return to Earth. It inhabits a new body when it is reincarnated. I thought it was a rather nice metaphor for what I have become.”

  “And what have you become, Celestina?”

  The monster raised one wing in a languorous, dramatic gesture, and morphed into a beautiful woman. “The same as you, Martin: an unfettered soul.”

  Lanham sighed. “Some of us are more fettered than others. I need to know what's going on. Your reports have been somewhat sketchy.”

  The woman walked over to the chaise longue which had incongruously materialised nearby. She sank into the couch, arranging her long limbs. A light, warm breeze started, delicately lifting her hair and stirring the chiffon dress she wore. When she was happy with the effect, she smiled at Lanham. “Theft is an art-form, Martin, not an exact science.”

  “I don't need to tell you what is at stake. Do you want a war with the humans?” He didn't move, yet he was suddenly standing over her, angry and perhaps a little larger than before.

  “Oh, you worry too mu
ch. It will never come to that.”

  Lanham gritted his teeth and tried to control his temper. Celestina might look and act like a silly, pampered air-head, but she was a dangerous and powerful woman. Before her death she had been an organised crime boss, a rich and cruel man who commanded armies of killers, thieves, extortionists and thugs. Since her upload she had changed her sex, and now spent her days in obscure and incomprehensible fantasy worlds. Yet she still maintained her old business interests, still ruled her old, dark empire. He needed her on his side. There were forces Celestina controlled to which he otherwise had no access.

  “Just tell me why it is taking so long, Celestina, and then I'll leave you to your...” He waved a hand at the barren desert landscape, unable to find a word. The chaise longue and its voluptuous occupant were the only splashes of colour in the wide, rocky wilderness.

  Celestina turned her big eyes towards Lanham and looked up at him from under long lashes. “Cordell's wife had someone with her, a private dick.” A display opened in the space beside them. It showed Rik's picture and a potted biography. “He's a nobody,” she said. “Some ex-cop loser Cordell hired as a courier. But he's been very lucky. He now has the package, but he's been picked up by UK security services. I'm taking steps to ensure that holding onto what we want will cost him more than Cordell is able to pay.”

  Lanham scowled at Rik's data sheet, not scrolling through the dismal facts of the man's life, but looking at the face in the picture. He didn't like what he saw.

  “Is your agent down there up to the job?”

  Celestina smirked. “She's very highly motivated. I'm sure she'll be fine.” An image of the woman appeared beside Rik's data sheet, a three-dimensional model which rotated slowly in the air. “Beautiful, isn't she?”

  Lanham regarded the hairless robot body. The black skin had a carbon sheen, and the long fingernails looked like steel talons. High-breasted, wide hipped and with a face sculpted from onyx, she could have been beautiful, if you liked your women to look like sophisticated killing machines. Lanham's tastes were less extreme.