by Timothy Zahn
“So, a slap on the wrist?” Sommer countered. “Because they won’t throw al-Hirai to the wolves. Not without a push from us. He has way too many important friends.”
“So they keep al-Hirai,” Marlin said with a shrug. “Does that matter as long as they end the torture?”
“If they end it.”
“I think they will,” Marlin said. “At least the parts that utilize Soulminder. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
Sommer felt his lip twitch. Of course he wanted Soulminder out of the picture. He also wanted all torture to end, everywhere on the planet.
Unlikely, verging on impossible. Still, when battling the dark side of human nature, he’d learned he had to be content with partial victories. “It’s a start,” he said.
“Good,” Marlin said, in a tone that implied that the subject was closed. “With your permission, then, I’d like to move on to the real purpose I came here today.”
Sommer frowned. “Iraq wasn’t the reason?”
“Iraq was the springboard,” Marlin said. “It’s your actions there that we now need to discuss.”
“My people and I were under attack,” Sommer said stiffly. “We defended ourselves. End of story.”
“Hardly,” Marlin said, his voice darkening. “Whether the actions of your security force pushed the boundaries is a topic for another day. What I’m referring to is the fact that you threatened a sovereign state with what amounted to economic sanctions.”
It took Sommer a moment to figure out what the hell the other was talking about. Then, finally, it clicked. “You mean threatening to withhold Soulminder services if they didn’t let us leave?”
“Except that you didn’t just threaten to withhold the services,” Marlin said. “You did, in fact, do so.”
“For two hours,” Sommer said. “Just long enough for us to get away.”
“Was it?” Marlin countered. “You cleared Iraqi airspace in half that time. Are you sure the second hour wasn’t meant to be a punitive display of power?”
“The second hour was so that we could also clear Syrian airspace,” Sommer said between clenched teeth. This was a completely bogus complaint, and he was pretty sure Marlin knew it. “My security chief advised me that the Syrians owe the Iraqis some favors and that General al-Hirai might try to collect. We didn’t consider ourselves safely beyond the general’s reach until we’d reached Turkey.”
“Perhaps,” Marlin said. “Be that as it may, the fact is that you applied sanctions—economic and humanitarian both—to a foreign nation.” He leveled a finger at Sommer. “You’re not a government, Dr. Sommer. You’re not allowed to do that.”
“Really,” Sommer said. “I was unaware the U.S. government had the power to force corporations to sell their products to a given client.”
“You’re a medical facility, Doctor. Under current law, that means we do have that power.”
“I beg to differ,” Sommer said. “Soulminder isn’t mentioned in any of the health-care laws.”
“As a provider, you’re there by implication.”
“Unwritten implications in law or legal contracts don’t usually hold water with the courts,” Sommer reminded him. “Even if they did, in this case they wouldn’t. We don’t provide medicine, medical equipment, advice, or treatment. That makes us not a medical provider.”
“What about the body-repair work you do here?”
“That’s all handled by subcontracted groups,” Sommer said. “Soulminder itself is strictly a technical system, no different from Apple or Hewlett-Packard.”
“I suppose that’ll be for the courts to decide.” Turning off his tablet, Marlin slid it back into his attaché case. “We just thought you’d like to have some advance notice of the legislation we intend to offer to the Hill. Good day, Dr. Sommer.” With a final nod, he turned and left the office.
For several minutes Sommer remained at his desk, gazing out at the Washington skyline, his mind darting between the possibilities like a hummingbird moving between flowers. A series of bad-tasting flowers. Then, hunching his shoulders once to drive out some of the tension that had suddenly taken root there, he picked up the phone and punched in a number. “This is Dr. Sommer,” he told the receptionist at the other end. “Please ask Dr. Blanchard to stop by at her convenience. I need to have a word with her.”
Blanchard watched the recording twice, her narrowed eyes focused on Marlin the whole time. Sommer spent the same time watching her, studying her expression and trying to figure out what she was thinking.
Waste of effort. Blanchard used her psychological training to read other people. She wasn’t at all interested in letting anyone apply those same techniques to her.
The recording ended, and she tapped the stop button. “Okay,” she said slowly, her eyes still on the screen. “Obvious bits first. The whole second part was his ham-handed attempt to bait you. He’s hoping that dropping broad hints about a new government initiative against Soulminder will spur us into preemptive action. No idea what the plan is after that, but it probably depends on our response. If we make a move, they’ll probably pretend there was never anything planned in the first place and try to paint Soulminder as paranoid and confrontational. Option two is that they want to see which way we jump, guess our strategy from that, and modify their own plan accordingly.”
“So your recommendation is that we ignore him and do nothing?”
“Pretty much,” Blanchard said, her forehead wrinkling. “I’m more concerned about the bait itself. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, various arms of the government have been trying to locate your Achilles heel for years. It looks to me like they may have finally found it.”
Sommer gave a little snort. “You mean my hatred for torture? That’s hardly a state secret.”
“It’s not the hatred or the torture per se,” Blanchard said. “It’s your growing frustration that you can’t do anything about it.”
“All part of the same package, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Blanchard said. “Most people who hate an injustice either write letters, start a grassroots campaign, or take a deep breath, decide they can’t change it, and move on to things they can change. The fact that you ordered sanctions—and he’s right; that really was a sanction—means that you’re willing to go that extra mile and take things into your own hands.”
“So they’re planning to take me to court?” Sommer asked, frowning. “Seems rather a waste of time.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Blanchard said. “The only people with basis for court action are the Iraqis, and they’d be fools to bring this incident to international attention. If I’m reading Marlin right, I think he’s hoping to suck you in with an offer that will give you official backing for actions like that.”
And then, finally, Sommer got it. “By making Soulminder effectively part of the United States government.”
“Exactly,” Blanchard said. “You can see his eyes light up when you argued that you were just defending yourselves, and they lit up even more when you brought Syria into the equation. Not only are you aware of international affairs, but you’re also interested in them, and you know how to connect the dots. So the question is—”
“Whether I’m willing to sell my soul to the devil?”
Blanchard pursed her lips. “I was going to say, whether you’d be willing to accept State Department oversight and direction. But you’ve caught the essence of it.” She raised her eyebrows. “So. Are you?”
Sommer looked out the window. That was the question, all right. A simple question, really.
Unfortunately, there was no simple answer.
On the one hand, such a mandate could certainly be used for good around the world. Soulminder wielded enormous power, a power that even well-entrenched despots might hesitate to challenge. Tying Soulminder operations to human rights could lead to a true era of freedom and safety for
billions who currently lived under tyranny. He could stop wars, end border disputes, and bring evil men and women to justice. All simply by using the threat of life and death.
The same threat the tyrants themselves used.
Or rather, the threat the other tyrants used.
“You know the real irony?” Sommer asked into Blanchard’s silence. “I wasn’t the one who ordered the Soulminder shutdown in the first place. It was Frank who did that.”
“But you would have if you’d thought of it?”
“I don’t even know that,” Sommer admitted. “With all the noise and adrenaline … I don’t know. All I can say for sure is that at the time I didn’t disagree with his actions.”
“And now?”
Sommer sighed. “This isn’t what Soulminder was supposed to be, Carolyn,” he said quietly. “I created it to be a last-ditch medical safety net, not a diplomatic bludgeon. Or a toy for rich kids who want to get high in someone else’s body.” He forced a small smile. “But you’ve heard this all before, haven’t you?”
“I have?”
“From Frank,” Sommer said. “I’m sure he related my ranting on the flight to Baghdad.”
She shrugged. “I’d hardly categorize it as a rant,” she said. “Are you upset that Frank told me?”
“Not really. Frank worries about me.”
“Frank worries about everyone. Part of his job.”
“I suppose.”
Another silence settled like fine dust into the room. This time, it was Blanchard who broke it. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Sommer said. “Not yet. But I’ll think of something.”
He stood up, forcing another smile. “Thanks for your time, Carolyn. I’ll let you get back to your real work now.”
“No problem,” she said, her smile looking as forced as his felt. “Like Frank, I consider you to be part of that real work. Speaking of Frank, did you know they’ve tentatively identified Chernov’s shooter?”
“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Sommer said, frowning as he sat back down and keyed his computer. “How come you know?”
“He’d had me run a psychological analysis on Marvin Chernov,” she said. “I guess he felt he owed me for that, because he ducked his head into my office this morning and told me it worked. You’ll have to ask him if you want the details.”
“No need—I’ve got his report here,” Sommer said. “Can’t have me wasting everyone’s time, you know.”
“If you’re bucking for me to come over there and give you a good dope-slap, just keep it up,” Blanchard said, mock-threateningly. “You’re the heart and soul of Soulminder. Anything you do or want is by definition the opposite of wasting time.”
“Understood,” Sommer said. “Consider me properly castigated.”
“I’d rather consider you happy and healthy and satisfied with life,” Blanchard said, turning serious again.
“I’m fine, Carolyn,” Sommer assured her. “I’m just still tired from the Baghdad trip.”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“I don’t bounce back from intercontinental trips like I used to.”
“Then you should go home and get some sleep,” Blanchard said firmly.
“Is that an order?”
“Of course,” Blanchard said. “I’m a doctor. I can do that.”
“You’re a doctor of psychology.”
“Details,” she said, waving a casual hand in dismissal. “My business card says doctor. That should be good enough.”
“Can’t argue with logic like that,” Sommer conceded. “All right, I’ll knock off and take the rest of the day.” He gestured at his computer. “I’ll just read Frank’s report first, if that’s all right with you.”
“It is, but just barely,” Blanchard said, returning to her threatening tone. “And just that report. Deal?”
Sommer nodded. “Deal.”
“Okay.” Blanchard nodded to him. “Good afternoon, Dr. Sommer. And good night. Sleep well, and sleep long.”
“I will.”
He waited until she was gone. Then, stretching tired arms, he settled in to read.
The shooter had been clever. He’d rented a room at a nearby hotel, checking in five days before the shooting with an obviously fake ID—obvious now, though of course it hadn’t been then—in the name of George Michaels. The FBI had run checks of all IDs and credit cards that had been used in area hotels, and that one had popped, though too long after the fact to do any immediate good.
What had caught Everly’s eye, though, was that Michaels hadn’t checked out until a day after the shooting, which had struck him as unlikely for a professional assassin who knew better than to overstay his welcome. The obvious explanation—obvious to Everly, anyway—was that the shooter had turned the room over to Chernov for a post-transfer rest, cleanup, and possibly private detox session for whatever Shrill had had in his system at the time. When Chernov eventually checked out, he simply accepted the charges the shooter had put on the card and walked out.
That should have been the end of it. Only it wasn’t. With Blanchard’s profile on Chernov in hand, Everly had concluded that the man would probably save the credit card with an eye toward using it as a bargaining chip if he ever got caught. Since he would hardly risk being caught with it in his possession, Everly had further concluded that the fugitive would stash it someplace where he could get at it again. Accordingly, he’d ordered a search of the area.
They’d found the card that morning, carefully sealed in a plastic bag beneath a freshly moved stone in a park a block from the hotel. The clear set of Shrill’s prints proved it was the right card, and from the partial they’d also pulled, Everly had obtained a set of tentative matches. The night desk clerk at the hotel had pulled a face from a photo lineup, and Everly had declared victory.
Partial victory, anyway. Just knowing the shooter’s name wasn’t much help in actually finding him, especially since the military records which had come up in response to the fingerprint search were over twenty years old. Adam Jacobi, former Army sniper, despiser of authority and lover of the good life, had done a remarkable job of staying off everyone’s radar since then.
But Everly would find him. Sommer had no doubt about that. Sooner or later, Jacobi would slip up, and when he did, Everly would be there waiting. And then—
Nothing.
Because the shooter didn’t matter. Not really. Chernov was the one who had Shrill’s body. Unless they could find him, Shrill was still doomed to eventual death.
And unfortunately, that would probably never happen. Chernov had billions of dollars stashed away, a body that even facial-recognition programs couldn’t seem to spot, and all the incentive in the world to stay out of sight.
If he succeeded in that effort—if he dropped permanently off the map—sooner or later they would have to shut down Shrill’s trap and let him go.
Sommer stared out at the city, a bitter taste of irony in his mouth. The young man in Baghdad had pleaded with Sommer to open his brother’s trap and allow him to die. But Sommer was powerless to do that, because all such decisions were the sole province of the host nation’s own judicial system.
If the Iraqi government had been sufficiently cowed by Everly’s demonstration of Soulminder power, they might hand out the mercy the young man had asked for. If they didn’t, the victim would stay in the trap, unable to leave. Possibly forever.
Unless Sommer found a way to change that.
A shiver ran through him. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Lord Acton had been the first to use those particular words, but it was a truth that had existed since the beginning of the world. In many ways, Soulminder had the power of life and death, which was about as close to absolute power as anyone could get. But because neither of its founders had ever really wanted power, the lure and corruption
had stayed at bay.
Only now that delicate balancing act was being threatened. For the first time in his life Sommer was feeling the siren song. There were people out there who desperately needed his help. Would it really be so terrible to partner with the government to help them?
Down deep, he knew it would. Because it wouldn’t stop with just helping the helpless. It would continue, carrot and stick together, gradually becoming more powerful and more demanding.
And more corrupt. Because organizations, just like the individuals they were composed of, were equally susceptible to Lord Acton’s dictum.
Soulminder is an archangel, Doctor, so far as earthly creations go. I’m very much afraid that it’ll be beyond your ability to keep it from becoming a demon.
Blanchard was right. His weakness had been discovered, and people who were far more used to wielding power than he was would use every trick in their arsenals to turn him down that path.
Someday I pray that you, too, will long for death and yet be unable to grasp it. The young Baghdad man had spat that curse at him.
The true irony was that, once upon a time, Sommer had indeed wanted death. Back when Soulminder had first become workable he’d been ready to let go of life. But Sands had talked him into living, warning that without him Soulminder could become a monster.
In many ways, it already had. What new horrors would await it, he wondered distantly, with a power-hungry Adrian Sommer in command?
It was in that moment, with the Washington skyline stretched out before him, that he knew what he had to do.
He sat silently at his desk for the next three hours, thinking and planning, staring out the window as the sky slowly darkened and the skyline slowly lit up.
Finally, the plan was complete.
According to the work schedule on the corporate calendar, the next software upgrade for the Soulminder system would take place in six weeks. It would be tight, but he could do it.
He had created Soulminder. He and Sands together, but it was Sommer who had truly given their creation its life.
It was only right that he be the one to kill it.
