by Hocking, Ian
“But you intended that, didn’t you?”
Bruce shrugged. “The program I wrote should have compensated. But it was never tested.”
“Until now.”
“Me. The test pilot. The dog in orbit.”
“Maybe this virus is particularly dangerous to humans.”
“It could be. Maybe we should call McWhirter – yet another military application for the project.”
David frowned. “McWhirter’s dead.”
“Oh yeah. You said. She’s still up there, you know.”
“Who?”
Bruce bit his lip. “The dog the Russians sent up. She was called Laika. She’s still in orbit.”
“Not around this planet.”
David’s eyes dropped to the floor. He breathed in little sighs.
“Dave?”
“What?”
“I’m dying. But.”
“But what?”
“I’m living. I haven’t seen hills and trees for thirty years.”
David laughed bitterly. “Was it worth the wait?”
“Yes. You want some food?”
“Is it insect?”
“Of course.”
“No thanks.”
David stood up and walked around the room. The rain sizzled against the windowpane, as though something was frying on its surface. He felt confined by the darkness and he was confused. Why had Bruce brought him here? Both had risked their lives to have this conversation yet they spoke guardedly. The soldiers could bomb their way into the research centre at any time.
“Bruce, I’m here. You have my full attention. What do you want?”
Bruce stopped chewing his food. He spat it out.
“It’s been twenty years, David. Why didn’t you get in touch?”
David sighed. First Jennifer, now Bruce. He was being scrooged. “I didn’t know what to say. When the project was bombed, it was finished.”
“Except it wasn’t finished, was it? The fish tank survived and here I am. Listen, do you ever have nightmares? About children with no eyes?”
David ignored him. “We had this great dream of experimental genetics. We got so caught up in engineering this world that we forgot about the research. What questions did we ever answer with the this?” He gestured about him. “This is nothing better than a cheap video game.”
“No. You’re wrong. I’m living in here. This video game gives me life because it gives me my sight. Do you know what that means?”
“Of course not. I’ve never been blind.”
There was a silence. Bruce chewed some more food with his mouth open. David’s muscles began to tighten. Finally, Bruce said, “I brought you here, Professor Proctor, to tell you something in private.”
“Private? Is this a joke? You brought me here to whisper in my ear? For all we know, there’s an entire company of soldiers standing a few feet away from me. I suppose a walk in the park would have been too much for you.”
“And I came here to die. Kill me.”
“What?”
David felt fury build up inside him but then, when he looked into Bruce’s helpless eyes and the blood on his teeth, his anger evaporated. Bruce was right. He was already dead. If he were removed from the computer, the trauma would kill him. If he stayed, the virus would kill him. The computer had him in checkmate.
David didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “Is this why you wanted me to talk to Hypno? You’re fucking crazy. No way.” There was a noise from the doorway. A footfall on the veranda. Bruce put a finger to his lips. David’s scalp tingled. It was the metadillo. It was back to finish them. Bruce retrieved a spear from his place near the fireplace and stood poised in the middle of the room. Then he nodded at the door.
David groaned. Bruce wanted him to open it. The metadillo would come charging in and then Bruce would spear it, and then the spear would break, and then it would fire its darts at both of them like a spider wrapping flies.
Bruce nodded again irritably.
“Alright, I’m going,” David whispered. He considered removing his mask and leaving the computer. It might save his life. With a shake of the head, he turned the handle. He looked back at Bruce and remembered his words from moments before: ‘Kill me’.
He flung the door open.
Crouched in the darkness, wearing an exact duplicate of his hiking clothes, was Sergeant Caroline Benson. The jacket was too big for her.
“Bloody hell,” David said.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said calmly. “But, actually, I can explain.”
Bruce did not lower his spear. “I don’t know who you are, but get inside now and close the door behind you.”
Caroline stood and brushed the dry mud from her lapels. “Certainly,” she said. She entered the room and sank to her knees. She frowned at David. She genuflected to the floor and sighed. She did not take another breath. There was a stiletto in the base of her skull. It still quivered. David simply vomited. Bruce said, “Shit,” and took Caroline by the shoulders. He threw her outside. He closed the door and braced it with the spear. David heard her body flop down the veranda stairs.
“We’ll have to sit this one out,” Bruce said. He began to check the windows.
“What about Caroline?”
“She’s dead.”
There was a distant booming sound. David’s fillings vibrated. He slid a metre into the floor.
“Did you feel that?” David gasped. Somewhat selfconsciously, he climbed out of the floor.
“Feel what?” Bruce asked absently.
“It must be the soldiers. They’ve blasted through.”
He heard breaking glass. His head snapped to the window, fearing the metadillo. But the window was intact. It must have been the sound of the glass immersion chamber smashing.
David gagged. Somebody was trying to pull the mask from his face. In New World, he appeared to wrestle with his own head. “Bruce,” he gasped, and tried to move forward. There was no time left. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
He tried to embrace his friend because he appreciated – far too late – that he would never see him again. His arms reached
Bruce but they passed through. The microbots were malfunctioning. Bruce smiled and he waved a goodbye. He pointed towards his eyes and then out towards David. “See you later, alligator.” “Bruce!”
The Murderer Unmasked
Monday, 11th September 2023
Saskia examined her face in the mirror. She pulled different expressions. Her eyes had rings. Her lips were too thin. A smile didn’t suit them. She thought about faces. A person’s face should be greater than the sum of its features. But not hers. It lacked something critical.
She yawned. It was fifteen minutes to nine. At nine o’clock the repair man would arrive. If she did not allow him to find the body and call the police, then Jobanique would.
She left the mirror and entered the main office.
“Computer, are you finished?”
“Ten minutes of image analysis remaining.”
Saskia rubbed her eyes. “Computer, what records do you have following 6:33 on Friday evening?”
“None for approximately fifteen minutes. No real-time data was collected during that period. It was likely that my operation was terminated for maintenance, though this was not recorded in the maintenance log.”
She smiled. It was the murderer. He had returned to temporarily deactivate the computer just as he had erased the central surveillance tapes. But why deactivate the computer?
Simple: so he could do something in the office without threat of observation.
Saskia’s eyes touched every object in the room. She looked for the slightest change: picture frames moved; pens rearranged; a plant pot turned by ninety degrees. Impossible to tell. She did not have a perfect recollection of her office. She examined the desk. She opened the drawers, emptied their contents and checked every surface. Nothing. Then she examined the shredder. It was still broken. In a flush of excitement, she rea
lised that she couldn’t remember breaking it.
The shredder was integral to the desk. It had a thirtycentimetre slot, the mechanism itself and a detachable hopper. She removed the hopper. Inside were slivers of purple fabric. Next, she broke open the shredder itself. Deep in the mechanism, held in tiny teeth, was a little golden eagle. The hat maker had been particularly proud of it.
You are a detective, Saskia Brandt. Detect.
This, then, was the murderer’s hat.
Why did he take pains to shred it?
Because he could not take it with him.
Why couldn’t he take it?
Because if he had it, he could be identified.
Who could the murderer be if the hat was so crucial?
And then remembered examining her face in the mirror. Something had been missing. The burn.
Saskia collapsed into her chair. It was five minutes to nine o’clock. Everything fell into place: the burn, the hat, the timing, the secretary in her fridge, the knowledge of the computer system and the workings of FIB. She knew who the murderer was. And she knew who to call.
Jobanique.
He let the phone ring for nearly a minute. She gave him proud stare. In truth she did not feel angry. She lacked the energy. Solving the case did not lift that burden. Somehow, it made her sink inside her.
“You bastard.”
“Good morning, Detective Brandt,” he replied mildly. He waited for her to speak.
“It is two minutes to nine o’clock. I have time to spare.”
“To spare for what? I’m late for a meeting.”
Saskia erupted. She was surprised. Though her mind was calm, her body thrashed, hammered the desk, picked up the case of the broken shredder and threw it at the window, at Jobanique’s computer-generated face. “You listen to me!”
Jobanique screwed the lid on his fountain pen in the manner of a newsreader. “I’m listening.”
Saskia breathed in and out, in and out. She willed herself not to cry. He would misinterpret it. “I know who the murderer is.”
“Do you.”
Behind her, the computer bleeped to indicate that it had finished its job. “Image analysis done,” it said quietly.
“Give me a hardcopy.”
The desk ejected a sheet of paper. She scooped the computer print-out and held it high. It showed the image that had been reflected in the murderer’s upturned blade. It showed Saskia Brandt frowning in concentration.
“I did it.”
Jobanique smiled robotically, as though for the first time in his life. “I’m still listening.”
“Fine,” she said quietly. “This is what I think happened. On Friday evening I did not fly out to Marseilles. I know this because I remember Simon, my boyfriend, throwing a ladle of boiling pasta at my face yesterday morning. It made a burn. The burn, today, has gone. For a burn to heal so quickly is impossible. What is not impossible, even if it is improbable? That I was not burned. If I was not burned, then my memory of being burned by Simon must be false. If that memory is false, then it is likely that all my memories of Marseilles this weekend are false. So I did not fly out to Marseilles. That would certainly fit with subsequent facts. I would suggest that the memories were deliberately implanted. By you.”
Jobanique gestured impatiently. “I’ve got a meeting to attend.”
“The murderer killed Mary, my secretary, the moment my first memory of the trip to Marseilles begins. This fits with the hypothesis that I am the murderer. The surveillance footage shows that Mary was not surprised when the murderer entered. This is also consistent. Mary was killed by a single stab wound below the ear. That, I suppose, is consistent with a female murderer. Again, when the murder tried to move the body she struggled. I would struggle. And the hat; a broad-brimmed fedora. Concealing not only the entire face but – more than most simple disguises such as a handkerchief or scarf – it concealed the sex of the wearer. I had nowhere to hide the hat where my future self couldn’t find it so I shredded it here. When I visited the hat maker he was surprised to see me. He also knew my name without examining my ID. Clearly I had warned him. And, into the mix, we must count the murderer’s knowledge of the computer system in my office. She was permitted entry to the surveillance tapes because, being me, she had clearance. By the same token she was permitted to perform ‘routine maintenance’ on the computer. And…I remember now that the computer failed to recognise my voice following my discovery of the secretary. That fits: that was my first conscious moment after the memory implant. The computer suggested that my voiceprint had been altered by a malicious user. That user was me. My former self. But this is all indirect. The conclusive evidence is the computer’s analysis of the blade. It reflected the face of the murderer. Here she is. It is me.”
Saskia walked around her desk. She had walked further this weekend than she could ever remember. But what, actually, could she remember? “What did you do to me, Jobanique? Who are you?” She picked up Simon’s picture from the floor. “Who is this man?”
“He is nobody. You’ve never met him.”
A shadow fell across her. “But I remember him.”
“So what? I remember Elvis Presley. Down to business. You only have a minute left.”
Saskia sagged. Her world was vanishing, piece by piece, and her mind with it. So what. Why not dance off the edge of the stage? “So. The question must be why. Why did I do it? Perhaps I was hypnotized. Post-hypnotic suggestion would explain both the murder and the false memories. But a moral human being will not commit murder even under hypnosis.”
Jobanique shook his head. “Allow me. Until last week, you were in jail.”
Saskia blinked. She fought with her mind, tried to remember anything. She could not. She had no childhood, no teenage years, no friends...did she even have an apartment? She realised, then, that she did know where it was. Presumably it did not exist. That explained her urge to remain in the office all weekend.
“My brain has been wiped.”
“Yes,” said Jobanique. “On Friday morning I visited you in custody. You were being held in a woman’s prison in Bonn following a fast-track trial. Your murder was thorough and meticulous. It is one of the more unusual aspects of the female criminal. Your premeditation made it very hard for your lawyer. But it makes you very attractive to me. Have you ever heard the expression –” he switched to English – “‘set a thief to catch a thief’?”
She didn’t understand. “What’s that in German?”
“Einen Dieb aussenden, um einen Dieb zu fangen.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“Over the past few years I have recruited members into my organisation who were, shall we say, semi-retired versions of their prey. That is, detectives with a unique –”
“Criminal.”
“Perspective on crime. We have had some problems, of course. ‘Wet’ incidents. In the past six months, however, a particularly interesting liberalisation of the punishment of murder has emerged. It involves a systematic removal of the muderer’s memories and personality. A true ‘brain-wash’. The murderer is rehabilitated. Everybody is happy.”
“What about the families of the victims?”
Jobanique laughed. “For their own sakes, they are seldom informed. In fact there have only been six of these ‘brain wipes’. Two of them are in your office.”
“My secretary, Mary. And me. What did she do?”
“She played her part, nothing more. We can consider her rehabilitated.”
“So I was lucky.”
“Your crimes were more spectacular.” His smile broadened. “You were given the task to solve a murder and you have succeeded. Well done.”
Saskia frowned. She could no longer look into the face of this man. She was...had been...a murderer. Unbelievable. She did not feel like a murderer. But what did murderers feel like? Did they feel evil? Surely she was evil. What crimes had she committed? Why were they spectacular?
“What happens now?”
There
was a knock at the door. “Your time is up, Saskia Brandt. It is 9:00 a.m.. With this day your new life begins or it ends. Open the door.”
She did so. Outside was a woman in a fashionable blue suit. She had both hands behind her back. She was wearing a purple fedora a la Saskia. Their eyes met like gladiators. The woman brought out her hands: in the left was a small green box; in the right, a small red one. Then she said, “Have we met somewhere before?”
Jobanique said hastily: “That, Saskia, is a code-phrase. If it is directed at you, then you have been recognised as one of my special detectives. You must be very careful with your answer. If you reply freely, then the person knows that you do not yet work for me. This has been perfectly acceptable until now. From this point on, it will lead to your death; immediate or otherwise. So you must give the correct response. That is: ‘In a previous life, perhaps’. The comma is crucial. The other agent will then laugh and you may conduct your business. Do it now.”
“In a previous life...perhaps.”
The woman nodded and laughed tonelessly. She still held the two boxes at arm’s length. “What do I do now?” asked Saskia.
“Now this depends. You may select the red box if you wish to decline my offer. This will probably lead to your survival, although the judge in charge of your case may press for the death penalty. To accept my offer, select the green box. This will bind you to me. You will be my property, though you will receive a generous income and the respect of your peers. You secret will be safe with me. You will be a full-rank detective in the FIB, which is to say that you will investigate serious crime on behalf of the EU government, who employ us. In the event that this contract is terminated, it is likely that a warrant for your death will be issued. I will execute you if you attempt to leave my employment. I will execute you if you tell anyone your real identity or the details of your recruitment. I will execute you if you fail to perform your duties to my satisfaction.” Jobanique waved as though swatting a fly. “Don’t worry too much about the formalities. I’m obliged to spell out the fine print. So which is it to be?”
Saskia could not think. Her right hand, seemingly guided by an invisible force, reached out and took the green box. Her left hand opened it. Her fingers ran over the polished gold metal of a badge and a short, stub-nosed gun. The badge was gold and blue. It held the emblem of FIB and some Latin: Ex tabula rasa . Embossed under her the motto was the name Saskia Brandt. Was that name an implant too? Now it was real.