by Chris Dolley
"How do you mean?" asked Howard, pushing his glasses back over his nose.
"I mean . . . does everything go back to normal? We stop the resonance wave and everyone lives happily ever after."
"I wouldn't go that far," said Howard, smiling. "There's always work to do."
"I know that but," she paused, "I can see how it works for the pre-ParaDim worlds. They're left to develop normally. But what about the ParaDim worlds? Haven't the seeds of chaos already been sown."
Howard shook his head. "Remove the impetus of resonance and all worlds will have the chance of developing normally. Humans are a highly adaptive species. We can adapt to change."
Annalise sank down in the sofa opposite Howard. "But what about the pace of change and weapons proliferation and the greed?"
"There'll always be problems. On some worlds they might be insurmountable. But what else can we do?"
"Disband ParaDim?" suggested Annalise. "Break up all those black spheres and let worlds evolve at their own pace."
Howard looked horrified. He sat up. "Destroy knowledge? Would you burn books? Would you deny hope to the sick and suffering? We're on the verge of eliminating disease; of finding cheap, clean, renewable energy; of finding solutions to our deepest problems. Would you throw away all that?"
Annalise looked away, uncertain. "What if the price was too high? What if you couldn't have the cures without the weapons? What if you cured the sick only to have them wiped out in a war or a genetically engineered plague?"
Howard waved a large weathered hand in a dismissive gesture. "We could talk about this for days. It all depends on whether you're an optimist or a pessimist, whether you think people are inherently good or evil."
Was she a pessimist? Two days ago, she'd have classified herself as an optimist. ParaDim was good. They were curing cancer. Now she wasn't so sure. She'd spent most of the afternoon reading the Chaos files, scrolling through the historical accounts of thousands of worlds. All of them following the same slow path to hell. Knowledge proliferation, trickle-down technology, weapons for all. The ability to construct weapons of mass destruction made available to the zealots, the bigots, the maniacs, the vindictive and the power-hungry—people with little idea of responsibility and an overriding belief in their own destiny. It was like showering sparks over a tinder-dry forest.
"Don't forget," continued Howard, "stopping the resonance wave will allow other voices to be heard and other paths to be taken. We can't save everyone. No one can. All we can hope for is to save those we can and pray for those we can't."
Graham listened from the back of the room, his little voice telling him to stay out of the conversation, that nothing good ever came from arguing, while all the time he felt like railing against ParaDim, injustice and the human race. Why was it that every good idea had to be corrupted? Why couldn't everyone be saved? Why couldn't all weapons be decommissioned? Why couldn't people live together?
He gripped his wrist. Left over right. Took a deep breath.
And spoke. As calm as he could manage. "What about Lucius Xiang and the original ParaDim project?"
Howard looked surprised. "You know about Lucius Xiang?"
"Graham knows a lot more than people think," said Annalise, smiling in Graham's direction.
"Did they ever find what they were looking for?" said Graham, swallowing hard. He was talking too fast, his heart racing, he felt every word so strongly. "Did they find a world where they'd solved the problem of how everyone could live together?"
"LifeSim," Howard said, his face broadening into a grin.
"What's LifeSim?" asked Annalise.
"They found it on one of the very advanced worlds. Part of every child's education—spending a simulated year in the body of another person. From another race, religion, country, sex, social background, age—the list was endless. One year of someone's life compressed into a day, so that each child would know what it was like to be black, white, male, female, straight, gay, Christian, Muslim, poor, old, blind, sick. Brilliant, don't you think?"
"Did it work?" asked Annalise.
"For the majority it did. A few didn't take to it. But most learned to appreciate from an early age that everyone is an individual with their own history, beliefs and needs. To see strangers as living people and not stereotypes or threats."
"Why didn't anyone at ParaDim develop LifeSim?" asked Annalise.
"They do," said Howard. "Eventually. Usually in Phase Three or Four. And after the marketing men have 'improved' the product." Howard's fingers provided the quotes. "They repackage LifeSim as entertainment. Take out all the ordinary people and replace them with the extraordinary." He stressed the "extra" part of the word. "The sports heroes, the killers, the porn stars, the psychos—people with interesting lives."
"Is that going to happen here?" asked Annalise.
He shook his head. "LifeSim is one of our priorities. We're moving the development up. Kenny's assured us. After resonance and disease, LifeSim's the top priority.
"And there'll be no psychos or porn stars," he added. "We're going to do it right."
* * *
Graham went home shortly after that. He didn't trust himself to be around people. Howard meant well, he knew that. And he had enough to worry about with the resonance wave but . . .
Didn't he realize that this world was the same as all the others? The same people, the same high ideals, the same grubby compromises. ParaDim would sell out. Kenny Zamorra would sell out. LifeSim would be shelved or repackaged and everyone would throw up their hands and say, "What else could we have done? We're curing cancer. We're the good guys. We only produce weapons for our friends."
He slipped out while Annalise was busy elsewhere.
It was an unsettling journey home.
He was on an emotional roller coaster. He was starting to feel things—intensely—all the time. He felt attracted to girls on the tube, frightened by groups of youths, enraged by newspaper headlines, frustrated by trains that sat for minutes outside empty stations with no word as to why or when they'd ever move. Things that never used to bother him, things that used to belong to the outside world—that world, the world that barely touched him. It was like he'd been moved from audience to stage. Life was no longer something he watched from afar but something he experienced in the round.
It was not a pleasant experience.
Walking home from the station, he had to fight to keep himself in check, force himself to count, subordinate himself to the abstract world of numbers and checkerboard pavements—let the imperfect world slide by overhead.
It wasn't easy.
A group of children made faces at him from the back of a bus. He wanted to make faces back. He wanted to taunt them like they were taunting him. He wanted to run onto the bus and drag them outside. He wanted . . .
He grabbed his right wrist, clasped it with his left hand—tight. Calm. He'd stay calm. He wouldn't look, he wouldn't feel, he wouldn't get involved.
* * *
Annalise Fifteen surveyed her new flat—a three-bedroom apartment in Kensington, courtesy of the newspaper. Jenny had shown it to her that morning and she'd moved in after lunch.
Things were looking up. She had new clothes, a credit card, a thousand pounds in cash and a laptop. And Graham had three five-thousand-piece jigsaws. He'd cleared a six-foot-square area in his bedroom and she'd barely seen him since. Give him a coffee machine and an en suite bathroom and he'd never come out.
Annalise deleted another paragraph of her email and started again. She'd been trying all evening to get it just right, to give it the feel that it came from a ParaDim insider—a whistle-blower—without sounding like a deranged conspiracy theorist. As much as she liked the guys at the paper, she didn't trust them to run with the ParaDim story if the going got tough. She needed other avenues of pressure. If needs be, she'd email every government, every news organization, every ParaDim competitor. She'd tell them ParaDim's plans, their strengths and their weaknesses. Even if most of the recip
ients deleted the file unread, someone would notice.
And if they didn't, she'd keep on until someone did.
Jenny arrived just before ten with a bottle of champagne. She was bubbling with news. The Tracey Minton gang had been arrested, Stephen Landcroft had confessed to three murders and the evidence implicating Victoria Pitt's husband had been found just where Annalise had told them it would be.
Everything was great and everybody loved Annalise. The police, the paper, Jenny.
"What about the ParaDim story?" asked Annalise as the bubbles settled.
"Great story. We're really keen. Though it's going to take longer to research without documentary proof."
"What about the disappearance of Kevin and the two scientists?"
"ParaDim says they know nothing about it." Jenny shrugged and took another sip of champagne. "It's going to be difficult to prove otherwise without more evidence. Can't you hack in and download evidence of ParaDim's activities?"
"No," said Annalise, thinking quickly. "They've blocked all their internal files."
"But you do have access to the crime files?"
"Census files," corrected Annalise. "Why?"
"Nothing. Have you seen the papers today?"
Was she changing the subject?
"No," said Annalise.
"There's a big political scandal. It's been going on for days. A government minister accused of corruption. You know, the usual story—did he, didn't he?"
Annalise waited for the question.
"But you'd know, wouldn't you? If he did or not? You could look it up on the crime . . . sorry," she corrected herself, "the Census database."
She looked so innocent—Jenny—even her eyes appeared to hold nothing back. An innocent question between friends over a glass of wine.
"You want me to find out?"
"Only if you have no objections. We'd make it worth your while, of course."
Was this how it started? The slippery slope into temptation. New Tech weapons are a good story but here's a bunch of better ones. Next, someone'll say—"Hey, why bust ParaDim's ass when they're the ones with the golden database that solves crime and boosts our circulation?"
"Perhaps next week," said Annalise. "The files need time to be updated. Anything I did now would only uncover half the story."
The doorbell rang.
Both women looked over their shoulders.
"Were you expecting anyone?" Jenny asked.
"No," said Annalise, darting a look towards Jenny. "Who else knows we're here?"
"I've told no one, I swear."
Annalise put down her glass and leaned forward to stand up. Jenny stopped her. "I'll handle this. You hide in the bedroom."
Annalise pulled the bedroom door open and peered across the lounge towards the front door.
Jenny slid the chain into place and opened the front door a crack.
"Dave?" she said, taken aback. "What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" came the policeman's muffled reply. "I was told this girl lives here."
There was a pause. Annalise could see Jenny looking at something—a picture, a photograph—something small that Dave pushed through the gap in the door.
"It's late, Dave," Jenny said, returning the picture. "I told you earlier. She'll talk to you when she's ready and only through a lawyer."
"This girl? She's your source?" He sounded shocked.
"Dave, whatever it is, it can wait. Now go. She's not talking and that's final."
"I'm sorry, Jenny, but I'm not here to interview her. I'm here to arrest her."
Annalise almost fell through the door in surprise.
"What for?" said Jenny, her voice rising.
"For the attempted murder of Adam Sylvestrus."
Forty-Four
Annalise felt like she'd been hit by a truck. She didn't see the front door open or the two policemen walk in. She was somewhere else, suspended in disbelief, trying to figure out how her crazy world could have possibly become any crazier.
"Miss Mercado?" said a male voice.
Annalise's eyes refocused to find two men standing a few feet away from her.
"Don't say a word," said Jenny from the middle of the room. She had a phone in her hand. "I'm calling a lawyer."
"Miss Mercado?" repeated the taller of the two men, though looking at them both there was little to choose between them—both were tall, thick-set and wearing suits that looked as though they'd been slept in for days.
"What?" she said.
"Annalise Mercado, I'm arresting you in connection with the attempted murder of Adam Sylvestrus . . ."
The preprepared statement droned on. The policeman's voice monotonous and barely punctuated with a breath let alone emotion. In the background, she could hear Jenny remonstrating with a lawyer, telling him to put his dinner in the oven and get the hell over to Ladbroke Road. She'd meet him there.
It all seemed so unreal.
"I didn't do anything," Annalise said to no one in particular.
"I know you didn't," said Jenny, appearing magically at her side and supporting her arm. She turned on the taller of the two men, presumably Dave, and asked him. "Who put you up to this?"
"No one put anyone up to anything," he replied. "This case is as cast iron as they come."
"I've never even met the man," said Annalise.
"We have twenty witnesses who disagree with you, miss."
"That's ridiculous. I've been here all day."
"But not Wednesday. On Wednesday you filled a waste bin with petrol, set light to it, threw it in Mr. Sylvestrus's car and slammed the door shut."
* * *
Annalise sat in the back seat of the police car. Numbed. They'd known her name. She hadn't told anyone her name. Not the paper, not the hotel, no one. She was Phoenix, she was Lisa Brown, she was anyone but Annalise Mercado.
Yet the police had both her name and address. An address she'd only moved to a few hours earlier. How? She'd covered her tracks so well.
She groaned when it came to her. She'd given Jenny three names to prove her story—Kevin, Howard and Tamisha. A reporter would have rung ParaDim and asked questions. Even a harmless request for confirmation of employment would have rung alarm bells. Those three names linked together in a single enquiry. A newspaper asking questions before they'd even been declared missing.
She held her head in her hands. How could she have been so stupid!
But how had that led anyone to her flat? Were they tracing all calls made by Sketch reporters? Were they having them followed?
Graham!
Panic! Was her arrest a ploy to isolate Graham? Get her out of the way so they could get to him unhindered? She'd asked Jenny to stay with him and not to open the door to anyone but would that be enough?
Had she now put Jenny at risk?
"You have to put a police guard on the flat," she shouted at the two men in the front of the car.
Neither of them so much as looked round.
"Jenny's in danger," she implored. "If you're a friend, Dave, you'll help her. The least you can do is call and warn her. Tell her not to open the door to anyone. Not to a doctor, not to anyone. Tell her they'll be plausible. Tell her to check the windows . . ."
"Tell her yourself," Dave said, handing her his cell phone. "Just do it quietly."
She grabbed the phone. If ParaDim was scanning the call she'd give them something to think about. She'd make sure they knew that Jenny was a high-profile reporter who'd not only be missed if anything happened to her, but had been warned that same night in front of police witnesses that ParaDim was after her.
And she'd tell Jenny to look in the top drawer of her dresser. She might not be able to mention the gun over the phone but she'd make damn sure Jenny had some protection.
* * *
Annalise sat at a battered table in a police interview room. Waiting. Counting the minutes as they ticked relentlessly towards Saturday. A bare light burned into her eyes and glared off the stark white
walls. Everything was so quiet. The woman police constable by the door stared into space, not saying a word.
The door opened. A dapper middle-aged man in a suit and what looked like a paisley waistcoat came in, his broad red face showing advanced signs of five o'clock shadow.
"Miss Mercado?" he said, holding out his hand. "Jerry Saddler. I'll be representing you."
He placed his briefcase on the table and released the catches. "I'll have you out of here within the hour."
He took her briefly through the charges and the procedures.
"Let them know you have nothing to say and the interview will proceed the quicker for it. Remember, do not volunteer information. It's up to them to make their case; you don't have to help them."
Advice Annalise ignored within five seconds of the interview starting.
"I'm the victim, not Adam Sylvestrus," she said, stabbing her index finger against the table.
"You threw a burning waste bin into his car," said the younger of the two policemen—a Sergeant Davis? Something like that. Annalise's thoughts had been elsewhere when they'd introduced themselves.
"To stop them pushing Graham into the back of their car!"
Her lawyer leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I really think . . ."
She brushed him away and continued without pausing. "I had to stop them getting Graham into the car. Once he was inside, they'd have killed him. Didn't your witnesses tell you about the guy with the gun stuck in Graham's back?"
She looked from face to face. Didn't they believe her? Hadn't they interviewed the other witnesses?
"Can I have a moment alone with my client?" asked Jerry.
"I don't need a moment alone. I'm innocent and can prove it."
"You're saying that Adam Sylvestrus was attempting to kidnap your friend?" asked Dave.
"That's right."
"Why?"
"Because he's obsessed with him. You ask at the DTI, where Graham works." She paused and leaned over the table, tapping on the piece of paper the sergeant was making notes on. "Graham Smith," she said slowly. "He's a messenger at the DTI in Westminster Street. Sylvestrus wanted him to take medical tests. Wouldn't take no for an answer."