Soulminder

by Timothy Zahn

  They were waiting when the man was brought in—a younger man, wearing middle-class clothing. “What happened to him?” he asked.

  One of the ambulance men rattled off something too fast for Sommer’s limited Spanish to follow. “Frank?” he murmured.

  “He was murdered by a terrorist gang,” Everly translated.

  Sommer looked at him sharply. “He was what?”

  “Señor Everly is correct,” Diaz said, his voice dark and angry. “Radical terrorists are once again becoming active throughout Chile.”

  Sommer frowned across the room, trying to see the patient around the physician and transfer techs moving between him and the table. “I don’t see any sign of bleeding.”

  “Oh, they don’t use firearms for this sort of thing,” Diaz snorted. “They seem to find it more amusing to use a more local form of death: curare-tipped airgun darts.”

  “Quieter and harder to trace,” Everly said. He glanced meaningfully at Sommer. With a quiet sigh, Sommer nodded back.

  So much for the elimination of crime.

  At the table one of the techs inserted a needle into the victim’s arm and hung the attached IV bottle to a hook. “What’s the IV for?” Sommer asked.

  “It’s a glucose drip,” Diaz answered. “It’s standard procedure for all transfers here.”

  “I see,” Sommer murmured, trying to remember if he’d seen any references to that in the Chilean reports. It seemed a totally superfluous addition to usual Soulminder procedure. The doctor had a hypo now, and was injecting it into the patient’s neck. “I presume he was given neuropreservatives in the ambulance?”

  “I would presume so,” Diaz said. “That, too, is standard procedure.”

  Sommer nodded. The doctor’s hypo, then, would be flushing solution, designed to remove the remnants of the neuropreservative from the patient’s system. That, at least, was standard Soulminder procedure. The other finished the injection, stepped back to the control board— “Wait a minute—he can’t start the transfer yet,” Sommer said, starting forward.

  Diaz’s hand caught his arm, bringing him to a halt. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, Doctor,” the general said soothingly.

  Sommer wasn’t nearly so sure. He’d seen first-hand what would happen if a soul transfer was tried before the neuropreservative was completely flushed. Namely, nothing at all. The soul wouldn’t remeld with the body under such conditions, and trying to force it would do nothing but put added strain on the brain chemistry. If the attending physician was inexperienced enough to try it anyway …

  He wasn’t. His interest in the Soulminder control board was apparently merely a double-check of the equipment’s readiness, and after a careful inspection he turned back to the table and settled in to wait.

  Sommer clenched his teeth, feeling rather foolish. “I didn’t realize the insurgency problem had started again,” he said, more to change the subject than anything else.

  “It was never entirely gone,” Diaz said. “We’ve made great strides toward reform, but for some people nothing is enough.”

  “Odd that they’d pick on a man clearly wearing a Soulminder bracelet,” Everly commented.

  Diaz shrugged. “We think it’s their way of harassing the government. Forcing us to go through the trouble and expense of reviving one of our citizens; perhaps hoping to prove we don’t really care for the common people at all.”

  “So how many of Soulminder’s clients have they picked on?” Everly persisted.

  “A fair number, I know,” Diaz said. “I’d have to look up the exact figures.”

  “If they were all attacked with the same curare darts, the numbers will be trivial to retrieve from the main Soulminder records,” Sommer pointed out. “As soon as we’ve finished with the perimeter facilities, Mr. Everly and I will be going into the Core. I can dig out the stats then.”

  Diaz’s snort was just barely audible, but Sommer knew what it meant. “I’m sorry, General,” Sommer continued, “but my hands really are tied on this. I’m sure you can understand the reasoning behind it.”

  “I understand,” Diaz said, his voice under careful control. “You will understand, in turn, if I find it insulting that you refuse to allow Chilean nationals into the Soulminder inner sanctum.”

  “It’s not just you,” Everly put in before Sommer could reply. “Every country’s treated the same. Security considerations dictate that only specially chosen people be allowed access to the main Soulminder equipment.”

  Diaz locked eyes with him. “To you, perhaps, it is security,” he said softly. “To many of us, it is little less than a form of economic imperialism.”

  “It’s protection of a trade secret,” Everly countered, his quiet voice a match for Diaz’s.

  For a split second there was genuine hatred in the general’s eyes … but even as Sommer braced himself for an explosion the general took a careful breath and relaxed fractionally. “Call it what you will,” he said stiffly. “It’s still in many ways a slave’s collar around our nation’s neck.”

  Across the room, the man on the table twitched abruptly and gasped something. Sommer spun back, relieved that the awkward confrontation had been interrupted but simultaneously annoyed that he’d missed the crucial parts of the transfer procedure. Unlike the Soulminder people behind the Core’s security wall, all the personnel out here were Chilean, most of them trained locally along Soulminder guidelines, and nothing could replace first-hand observation as a method of evaluating how closely those guidelines were being followed. “I’d like to watch another transfer,” he told Diaz.

  “Of course,” the other said, his eyes on the revived man, the anger of a moment earlier replaced by an almost grudging sense of wonder. “It never ceases to amaze me, Dr. Sommer. That a man could be brought back from the dead … ” He shook his head.

  For a moment they watched in silence as the doctor completed the final check and one of the techs helped the patient off the transfer table. A little wobbly, but otherwise clearly recovered from his ordeal, he was helped into a wheelchair and guided toward the door.

  And on his face, as he passed them, was an oddly absorbed expression. The expression, Sommer knew, of a man who had taken a look beyond earthly life. Who had waited, all alone, in the gray Soulminder tunnel.

  Who had faced the Light.

  “A miracle, indeed, General,” he said, a gentle shiver running up his back at the memory.

  “Yes,” Everly put in. “Kind of puts national pride in perspective, wouldn’t you say?”

  Diaz threw him a look that was almost a glare, but merely nodded. “Perhaps. If you’re ready, Dr. Sommer, I’ll escort you to the Core.”

  And with that, the spell was broken, the miracle gone. Now, it was back to straight, hard-headed business again. Perhaps, Sommer thought, that was precisely what Everly had been going for. “Lead on, General,” he said.

  From the very beginning Sands had decided that the secrets of the Soulminder equipment would remain solely with her, Sommer, and what would eventually become the corporation’s inner circle. The result was that the central chamber—the Core—of each Soulminder facility always reminded Sommer of a cross between Fort Knox and NORAD’s old Cheyenne Mountain fortress.

  For Everly and him, of course, the entrance procedure was reasonably straightforward. Sommer had sent their official clearances via layer-encrypted satellite signal a week earlier, and the counter-checks had also already gone through. At that point all that remained was for the two of them to provide handprints, hold still long enough for the computer to run surface facial and bone structure comparisons with the clearance records, and submit to the standard multi-spectrum scan for concealed weapons, microphones, electronics, dangerous chemicals, and whatever else Everly’s security experts had set up the equipment to look for.

  In nine years no one had yet managed to penetrate a Soulmin
der Core. Sands and Everly intended to keep it that way.

  “Dr. Sommer, Mr. Everly,” a smiling young man greeted them as they came through the final screening and passed through the vault-like inner door. “Welcome to Soulminder Santiago. I’m Martin Van Proyen, in charge here. I don’t know whether you remember me, but I was one of the people you met with in London two years ago when the Italian government went through that corner-cutting fiasco.”

  “Of course,” Sommer assured him, offering his hand. “You were assistant head of the Rome office, as I recall. Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Van Proyen nodded as he shook hands with Sommer and then Everly. “Actually, I’m not sure I have been promoted—officially, I’m still listed as an assistant head, temporarily in charge here until someone a little more senior is found. But since that assignment was a year ago—and since they’re giving me full Station Chief pay and benefits—I think I can assume the promotion came through.”

  Sommer made a face. “Probably can, yes. Sorry about that—what with all the countries clamoring for Soulminder facilities, the personnel office has been sort of buried lately. I’ll look into it when I get back.”

  “I’d appreciate that, sir. Well—” Van Proyen waved around him. “This is it. What can I show you?”

  Sommer looked around. The Core of each Soulminder office was always the same: a half dozen small offices and work areas surrounding the central section, where the computers and actual soul-trap equipment were kept. “I’d like to start with the financial records,” Sommer told him. “I’m particularly interested in how the costs per Mullner tracing and soul transfer compare to other Soulminder offices around the world.”

  Van Proyen’s forehead furrowed. “We can take a look, but I’m pretty sure they’re comparable,” he said. “Our operational costs aren’t anything special, either high or low. The Chilean government’s certainly been paying the standard fees, and we’ve been forwarding them to Washington faithfully.”

  “The money’s all been coming in,” Sommer assured him. “My interest is in how exactly the Chileans plan to put everyone in Santiago on Soulminder for the price they’re proposing.”

  “Ah,” Van Proyen nodded. “That. You’ve got me, Dr. Sommer. All I can suggest is that they’re somehow cutting their own bureaucratic costs.”

  “Or else they’re cutting quality,” Sommer countered grimly. “In which case, your records ought to show a pattern of incompetence or inexperience from the Chileans working out there in the Periphery.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything obvious,” Van Proyen said. “But I’m hardly a walking statistician, either. Let’s go to my office and we can start digging. Oh, before I forget, there was a phone call for you earlier this morning. Archbishop Manzano asked if you might call him whenever you got the chance.”

  Sommer stared at him. “The Archbishop called me?”

  “And called here?” Everly murmured, his tone thoughtful. “Interesting.”

  “What’s so interesting?” Van Proyen shrugged. “He probably wasn’t able to get in touch with you at the hotel.”

  Sommer eyed Everly, an uncomfortable feeling beginning to gnaw at the pit of his stomach. “We haven’t been that hard to find,” he said slowly.

  Everly nodded. “I agree. I’d guess he called here because our phone lines are more secure than the hotel’s would have been.”

  The uncomfortable feeling grew stronger. “You know the Archbishop, Mr. Van Proyen?”

  “Not personally. He’s something of a local hero among the people, though—he was a strong supporter of democracy before the Santos government was elected, and he doesn’t hesitate to speak out against governmental injustice and reform foot dragging.”

  Sommer nodded. The Archbishop’s exploits as the people’s unofficial advocate had received a fair amount of international media coverage over the past year or two, but Sommer never quite trusted media darlings to live up to the hype surrounding them. Apparently, this one did. “Did he leave a number?”

  “Yes, it’s on my notepad. This way.”

  Van Proyen’s desk was as cluttered as Sommer’s own workspace, but like Sommer the younger man seemed to know exactly where everything was. He reached beneath a fat printout, pulled out a notepad, and handed Sommer the top sheet. “I think that’s his residence,” he added. “He said he’d be there all morning.”

  Sommer nodded. Pulling the phone over, he punched up the number. One ring … two— “Hola,” a man’s voice answered.

  “This is Dr. Adrian Sommer,” Sommer said, belatedly wondering if the Archbishop even spoke English. “I have a message to call Archbishop Manzano.”

  “Ah—Dr. Sommer,” the other said, switching to thickly accented English. “I am Archbishop Manzano. Thank you very much for returning my call.”

  “No problem, your Excellency,” Sommer said, trying to keep his voice casual through a dry mouth. On Van Proyen’s phone a red light had begun flashing, alerting him that the call was being monitored. Not all that surprising, really, if the Archbishop was as much a thorn in the government’s flesh as Van Proyen had indicated. “What can I do for you?”

  There was just the briefest hesitation on the Archbishop’s part, and then, strangely, the wiretap indicator flickered once and then went out. “I mainly wanted to add my voice to those urging you to allow the expansion of our Soulminder facility,” the other continued. “I’m sure you realize that the greater part of the Soulminder is reserved for government officials and the upper and technical classes. Only if the program is expanded can the poorer of our people be so protected.”

  Sommer frowned at the phone. “Ah … yes, your Excellency, I’m aware of that. It was my understanding, though, that a sizeable fraction of the Soulminder facilities already here were reserved for the poor.”

  “That is true,” the other agreed. “But the fraction is not nearly sizeable enough.”

  “I understand, sir,” Sommer said. There was something off-key here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Perhaps we could meet later and discuss what’s being done for Santiago’s poor.”

  “I would look forward to such a meeting,” the other said. “I’m sure your schedule is very heavy, but if you find a free hour please let me know.”

  “I’ll do that, your Excellency,” Sommer assured him. “Thank you for your call. I hope we’ll be able to make connections while I’m here.”

  “Good-bye, Dr. Sommer, and may God continue to bless your work.”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  Sommer lowered the handset carefully back into its cradle. “Trouble?” Everly asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Sommer told him.

  “Let’s find out.” Pulling Van Proyen’s chair out from the desk, Everly sat down, keying a handful of commands into the computer. “Probably should start by getting both sides of the conversation.”

  Sommer leaned over his shoulder as the screen filled with a transcript of the conversation. “It wasn’t anything he specifically said,” he told Everly. “More like the way he said what he did.”

  “Uh-huh,” Everly grunted. “That and the fact that the tap on his line got lost?”

  “Well, now that you mention it … ” Sommer paused as Everly keyed in some more commands, and to the right of the transcription a cryptic column of numbers and letters appeared. “What’s all that?” he asked.

  “Tonal information,” Everly told him. “Plus … well, well, well. What a surprise.” He looked up at Sommer. “The wiretap light went out because the line got switched on us.”

  Sommer exchanged glances with Van Proyen. “You mean the government cut us off?”

  “That’s it,” Everly confirmed, tapping a spot on the screen. “Right here, just after you asked what he wanted. Shunted you to a prepared line where they had either a good mimic or an electronic parrot waiting. Let’s s
ee if we can find out which.”

  “How?”

  “Voiceprint analysis—there’s a nice little package of programs around for that sort of thing,” Everly told him, fingers skating across the keyboard. “Standard issue at Soulminder offices—you’d be surprised at the stuff foreign governments and industrial spies try and pull on us. There we go … and the winner is electronic parrot. Damn good one, too. Let me get a deep-probe going on it, see if we can figure out whose design it is. Might tell us where they got it.”

  Sommer chewed at his lip. “You think it’s worth trying to call the Archbishop back?”

  Everly shook his head. “No. They were somehow caught flatfooted by his earlier call here, but they won’t miss again.”

  Sommer looked past him to Van Proyen. “I suddenly don’t think,” he said quietly, “that we want to wait for Frank to finish here before we get started.”

  “Agreed,” Van Proyen nodded, his expression tight as he started toward the door. “Come on, let’s go scare up another terminal.”

  Sommer had expected the search to take perhaps half an hour. It took, in fact, nearly two hours.

  And at the end they found nothing.

  Van Proyen keyed to the last page of the analysis and leaned back in his chair. “It’s not here,” he announced unnecessarily, reaching back to massage his neck muscles. “Wherever it is the Chileans are saving money, it isn’t with basic Soulminder functions.”

  Sommer glared at the display. “You absolutely sure we didn’t miss anything?”

  Van Proyen shrugged. “We looked at the Mullner tracings, transfer operations, non-hospital paramedical work, baseline storage and power costs, and worker efficiency. That’s all there is.”

  “It’s got to be in the way the government’s handling their end of things, then,” Sommer growled. “Paying drastically reduced salaries, maybe?”

  “Could be,” Van Proyen said doubtfully. “But remember that that’s one of the things the Italians did when they were trying to cut costs—and in that case, there was a big jump in worker turnover and general inefficiency. There’s nothing like that here—average stay for the low-level workers was, what, fifteen months?”