by Dave Swavely
“I have to check something on the equipment,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye, and stepping to the door. “I’ll just be a minute. Wait for me, okay?”
“Forever,” I said, overdoing it.
She fought more tears and left the office. I waited, and in just a few minutes she was back, nothing in her hands.
“I’ve missed you,” she said as she came close again.
“It hasn’t been that long,” I said, putting my arms around her again.
“Oh yes it has,” she answered, and began to position us subtly so that her back was to the one camera. She slipped off her shoes and lowered herself, so that the front of her shirt was now hidden from the other camera by my shoulders. Then, from inside the shirt, she slid a small printed image, which she held with her one hand against the brown skin below her neck. I nuzzled her cheek and looked down at the picture.
It was almost identical to the one that had been taken out of D’s head, according to Paul. My silhouette, with a bright glow filling the background. I remembered Paul saying that he knew how to work the surveillance system in the penthouse, and I realized that he could easily have captured that still anytime I had ridden the elevator to meet with the old man.
I managed to gently transfer the image from Tara’s hand to a pocket inside my jacket, while still enjoying her embrace. I asked her in a whisper if she was able to turn on the top-floor cameras from here, and she told me no. Then I pulled away slightly, though still grasping her hand.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No, thank you,” she answered predictably. I turned away, but she held on to my hand until she had to let go.
I thought of Lynn and left the office.
* * *
“Uncle Paul! Uncle Paul!” my little Lynette was saying, on her knees at the window in the backseat of Darien’s car. She was excited to see my friend there, at the city house, as he walked in through the open gate in front of the car. D himself thought this was unusual, but nonetheless started to lower the passenger-side window to find out why his boss had come to see him. Paul suddenly blurred into action, but before D could react, he and his passengers were meeting their maker in a deafening eruption of fire, metal, and blood.
The scene was playing differently now in my mind as I rode the elevator back up to the penthouse—but I didn’t want to believe it. A new swirl of emotions had obscured the focused anger that had been sustaining me, and now I felt more tired and sick than ever. I was almost sure that I would be dying tonight, and wondered if I was ready. The only thing I was sure about was that I wanted to see Lynn again—even more now that I felt the abandoned hope of innocence clawing its way up through the pain inside me. But something else inside was telling me that I was only kidding myself—creating a virtual reality that was not unlike the analgesic media in which the masses forget their crimes.
The elevator came to a halt, and the security scan ignored my boas, as it usually did, so I drew both of them out as I walked through the little room designed to keep the artificial atmosphere stable.
I passed through the second set of doors and found myself in the big central room of the apartment. Unlike in my dream, there were no mists, only a different feel to the air that was hard to identify or describe. It was rather dark, however, and sparsely decorated. The old man had not brought over any of the furnishings from the house he had shared with Mrs. Rabin, presumably because he didn’t want such reminders of their life together. Instead, the furniture in his new residence was strictly utilitarian, utterly lacking a woman’s touch. It occurred to me that my life would be like this, without Lynn.
“Have you come to me with swords and clubs?” a voice said from the shadows to my right. It was the old man’s, no doubt quoting some of the ancient literature he was so fond of.
I moved toward the voice and saw that he was leaning on his cane, in front of the transteel wall, which was darkened so that the lights of the city shone only dimly behind him. Nonetheless, there was enough light behind him to make him appear as a mere shadow, until I stepped closer and saw his face. The big scar stood out more in the half-light, and he seemed to be unarmed.
“Where’s Paul?” I asked, stopping about six feet away from him, and holding the boas ready.
“In his quarters,” he said, and gestured across the big room to one of its many doors. I saw that a light was on behind the door, and it seemed likely that someone on the other side of it could hear what we were saying, if he wanted to. I moved to my right, so that I could see the door, but kept the same distance from the old man.
“Why are you pointing your guns at me, Michael?”
“Because I’m about to kill you,” I answered, straining my overtaxed mind to guess at the best approach to this mess.
“Forever why?” asked the old man.
I looked in his eyes. Windows to the soul, they say.
“Did you put a chip in my head and make me kill people?”
“What?”
“Did you surgically implant cyberware in my brain to control me?”
“What?”
“Is there an echo in here?” I said, glancing around and then down at the boas. “Answer the question.”
“‘Heavens no’ is the answer,” he said. “But the question you should be asking is, who wants you to think that. Where did you get the idea?”
Not wanting to mention Paul yet, I told him that my investigation had uncovered a black op called Mind Lift, and moved my index fingers to the insides of the trigger guards for the first time as I studied his response.
“Well, my son wanted to do the mind-control thing,” he said sadly, “when my Legacy Project was first being developed. He called it Mind Lift initially, then changed it to Romans something, in an attempt to make it more palatable to me … because of his mother, I suppose.” He sighed. “But Paul was always misusing the Good Book. So when I found out what it was, I pulled it from him, put the previous research under wraps, and kept it pointed in the right direction.”
“So you’re claiming that there’s nothing in my head?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Michael. You’re a very intelligent man, though perhaps a bit naive. But that’s typical for someone who started out military, rather than police, and I think you’re being cured of that.” He smiled again, seeming much more relaxed than usual, but then turned serious. “No, really. BASS didn’t actually do any of that, what you’re asking about; I stopped it before it left the idea stage.” Now he was looking at me sympathetically. “Besides, I don’t think that kind of thing will ever happen.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, then realized that his calm manner had caused me to lower the guns slightly. When I brought my arms back up abruptly, I noticed that his hand tensed on the top of his cane, but didn’t think any more of it at that point because he quickly relaxed again, and the smile returned.
“Well, two reasons. First, because the technology may not even be feasible without doing catastrophic damage to the brain. I don’t understand the science of it very well, but I know some researchers are skeptical, because for decision and bodily action the parts of the brain work in global coordination to the extent that you would have to place integrated wetware all throughout the skull to control someone’s choices. Or at least something that can move throughout, like nanotechnology far more advanced than we have so far.”
He looked at me as if to gauge my understanding, then continued when I didn’t say anything.
“All that’s actually been proven is that communication of existing thought can happen between parts of the brain and cyberware, for the purpose of information exchange and manipulation of equipment by the brain, but not the other way around, except for the most rudimentary stimulation of the senses. No one’s been able to actually create thought or cause complex action, which leads me to my second reason—”
“Paul mentioned something,” I interrupted. “About a ‘bridge’ in the brain linking the parts.” He nodded in response, and turned slightly to
ward the closed door to Paul’s room, as if he was remembering that his son was on the other side of it.
“He knows much more about it than I do,” was his answer. “As I told you, it was his thing, not mine. But I know it’s nothing more than theory at this point, which leads me to—”
“What about Geneva?” I interrupted again, and he nodded again.
“The reason for Geneva was primarily the danger of ‘mind reading,’ which is possible with the tech we have, rather than the more theoretical ‘mind control.’ But they did go on to discuss the ethics of the latter, because of certain assumptions that I don’t share, but which have to do with my second reason why what they fear will probably never happen.” He paused and looked at me.
“What’s your second reason?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said with the wry smile and a little laugh. He seemed happier than I’d ever seen him before, like a crushing load he always carried had been lifted from his back.
“It’s all based on a naturalistic misconception about human nature,” he explained. “The brain doesn’t determine what the brain does, as if we are merely physical beings. The mission-control center in Homo sapiens is the mind, otherwise known as the heart, the soul, the spirit, very subtle mind, jiva, et cetera. Choices of the will, meditation, conscience, worship, metaphysical desires—things like that all start with this immaterial part of us, which directs the brain, not the other way around … so you can’t force someone to do something by manipulating their brain. The brain stores information which can be read or impaired, and bodily senses can be stimulated and simulated through it … so you could make it a lot harder for the mind or soul to make certain choices, maybe, but you can’t make it decide something. No human being can, anyway.”
“What do you mean, ‘no human’? Are you talking about aliens now?”
“Well, if there was a being or beings whose realm was the spirit, or who were powerful spirits themselves,” that wry smile again, “maybe they could.”
Watching his eyes widen as he spoke of the supernatural, I found myself growing more wary and tense again. Then he shifted his weight slightly and rested both hands on the top of his cane, and both of mine gripped the boas tighter as I realized why I had been subconsciously concerned about the walking stick. If what Paul had told me was true, then the old man himself might have implants that could trigger the chip in my head, or he might need external controls to do so. And the cane, being close to him at all times, would be ideal for such a purpose. I tried not to stare at the slight movements of his fingers or let paranoia overtake me, because he might have been merely adjusting his grip on the handle. But I imagined him manipulating a button and turning off my brain, or exploding it with another, and I made sure my index fingers were resting on my own triggers, in case the unthinkable occurred and I needed to take him with me.
“Is this a religious, a Christian thing?” I asked him.
“Not exclusively. Most early humanists were not naturalistic, and the basic idea of free will is something that’s pretty popular with atheists and agnostics, too. I’ll admit that I find the Edwardian explanation quite compelling, but that’s rather obscure now … very few orthodox Christians are welcomed to the academic table these days, at least in the English-speaking world.” He took his left hand off the cane again and scratched his ear with it, and my soldier/cop instincts told me this slight movement might be a diversion, so I fixed my eyes on the top of the black stick until he was done. But he continued talking without event. “Actually, most of the best work in this century has been done by Buddhists … the Dalai Lamas have been partnering with neuroscientists since the 1990s to prove the ‘elasticity’ of the brain, as they call it. Meditation practices can reshape the pathways of the brain … it’s been documented time and again. No, Christianity is not the only worldview that elevates the mind over the brain.” At this point he ruminated for a few seconds, then added, “Huh, ironic … There’s the real mind lift, I think.”
I stared at him, still holding the boas in front of me and trying to decide whether or not I needed to understand what he was talking about.
“You know I have killer rounds loaded in both of these,” I said, nodding toward the guns. “I assure you that if you did something to my brain, they would still go off.” I then nodded toward his cane, trying to appear much more sure about what I said than I actually was. Saul also looked down and nodded at the cane. Then I added, “Or do you have an implant yourself?” and directed my gaze back to his gray head.
“You are a decent detective, Michael,” he said with another indecipherable smile. “And not far from the truth on both counts.” His eyes looked down to the cane, then up toward his forehead.
My fingers pressed harder on the warm plasteel of the triggers.
“But I assure you,” the old man continued, “that I could do no such thing, and would not, because I now believe that you will be our true peacer.” His words puzzled me, but they felt genuine enough for me to loosen up a little. Only a little, though.
“Did my son tell you these lies about me?” he asked.
“Your son is my friend,” I answered.
“Yes…” he said with a sigh. “And he is my son. But that does not leave me blind to his … weaknesses.
“Paul is two people, Michael,” he continued. “One on the outside, and another on the inside.”
“Aren’t we all?” I said.
“No, not like him. You and I have dual natures, in a way, but we are both good and bad on the inside. They struggle against each other. But my son surrendered to the bad long ago, and he merely presents morality, compassion, loyalty, and friendship on the outside, to gain the power that he craves. There is a difference. He has no conscience—one of those faculties of the soul I mentioned—or his conscience has become thoroughly calloused. My responsibility, I must admit … God knows I’ve had to make many hard decisions, but I’ve never assumed they were right, and I know some were very wrong.
“‘It’s good to be the king,’ people say, but actually it’s hard to be the king. Paul doesn’t think in these terms at all, however; he just wants to rule. I realized this about him in recent years, about the same time I found out that I was dying. So I knew I had to do something about the future of BASS.”
“You’re dying?”
“I have a tumor in my brain.” He nodded. “And out of over three hundred fifty types of cancer that have been identified, this is one of the dozen or so they still cannot treat effectively.” He shook his head and exhaled a tired laugh. “And not long ago I realized that it would be a crime against the world if I left my son in charge of all this, though I do love him dearly. I began the process of rearranging my testamentary orders, so that the company would be decentralized upon my death. I was about to make you and Darien the primary officers, as soon as I was sure of your qualifications.” I wondered what he meant by that last part, while he looked over at Paul’s door, as if expecting the younger Rabin to emerge at any time. “Unfortunately, my son found out about my plans, and he’s been trying to stop them.” He lowered his head in shame, sadness, or both.
“So you’re saying that Paul killed them?” I asked, and putting it into words made my legs feel weaker beneath me and the guns heavier in my hands.
“Once you jettison this ‘neurocide’ nonsense,” he answered, “who else could have pulled it off?”
“So he’s framing me for the murder,” I said, more a statement than a question, because the truth had now fully dawned on me.
Images flickered through my mind, of Paul affirming his friendship over the years. Of Paul calling me the night Lynette died. Of Paul assuring me that we would find the killer. Of Paul telling me about the neurochip and the death image. Of Paul convincing me that the old man was responsible, and had lost it completely. Of Korcz saying that someone high up in BASS was rotten. Of Paul explaining how we had to quickly destroy his father, one way or another. Of Lynn questioning his word, and refusing to belie
ve the worst about the older Rabin. Of Kim lying dead on the street. Of Paul contriving for me to be here, right now, so that I might take my “revenge.”
“And he planned to kill both of us tonight,” I finished.
“And I still do,” came Paul’s voice from behind the door as it was opening. I swung both of my guns around and locked them on the big man, who held two of his own and walked calmly toward us. “I was waiting and hoping, Michael, that you would put the old man out of his misery for me.” He spat my name, like I had never heard it from him before. “But all you did was talk … and talk and talk … even a million-dollar drug couldn’t diffuse your sickening limey loyalty, I suppose.”
“You put it in my drink at the ranch,” I said.
“Yeah, I bought it from a very happy Czech on the Continent. It’s supposed to cause an initial fit of rage, and then raise your aggression level for about a week. Their military uses it. But obviously it didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.” He stopped the same distance from both of us, making a triangle.
“Oh, it worked,” I said. “Only now I want to kill you.”
“Good luck,” he said, smiling broadly, and for the first time I noticed that the air around his body was shimmering.
He was wearing one of the experimental shields, and now I was completely sure that I would be dying tonight.
22
“But the drug didn’t have to work, you see,” Paul continued, proud of his devious machinations, and obviously able to put us away in his own good time. “They’ll find it in your body, and assume that you took it to prepare yourself for more murder and mayhem, which will fit the profile I’ve constructed.”