The Resurrected Man

by Sean Williams

  “I'm rostered with you for the rest of the shift—”

  “Then I'm giving you the afternoon off. I have somewhere to go.”

  “Not home?”

  “Not exactly.” She hesitated. “If you really want to know, meet me outside Sydney's Manhattan Hotel in an hour and a half.”

  “Sydney, Australia?”

  “Got it.” She stood and began walking for the door. “Don't be late. I'm going to need a drink after what I'm about to do—and you're buying.”

  It was winter in the southern hemisphere, and noon along the east coast of Australia. The change in rhythm caught her off-guard as she stepped out of the public booth. Even here, in a country that had embraced d-mat wholeheartedly as a liberation from the tyranny of distance, the city centre was crowded and noisy. Cars hissed by; pedestrians bustled; advertisements crowded every empty space, actively competing for attention. Some of the more intelligent algorithms had learned to infiltrate the overseers of passersby, prompting brief, startling hallucinations of the products and services available nearby. Marylin increased the vigilance of her anti-intrusion software without even thinking about it, well-used to such inconveniences. Melbourne was even worse.

  The air had a chill that penetrated the thermoactive fabric of her uniform. She walked briskly along the cracked pavement, noting landmarks as she went. The last time she had been in Elizabeth Bay was six months before. A lot had changed since then. Old buildings had been restored, some skyscrapers had come down and there were more restaurants and hotels than she remembered. In King's Cross the crime rate had fallen to the point where firearms were rarely worn openly, and the increased sense of security had spread to neighbouring suburbs.

  She turned into Greenknowe Ave. and passed the purple art deco facade of the Manhattan Hotel, walking downhill to where the tiny patch of greenery once known as the John Armstrong Reserve had been. It now held a statue of the cyborg Stellarc and a copse of fluid sculptures that echoed with almost-musical sounds. Opposite, curving around the corner of Greenknowe and Onslow Avenues, was a three-storey grey building that had seen better days a century before. The Scotforth had once contained a bookshop and delicatessen, but had long since been converted to single-and double-room offices. The windows on the upper floor were arched and dark; many, she knew, were boarded over on the inside.

  In the pillared foyer, all the names bar one had changed. That one was #17: JRM Data Acquisition Services. “By Appointment Only,” said the note by the name—which made Marylin smile. She hadn't had an appointment the day she'd applied for a job, five years earlier, and she didn't have one now. Neither time had she let it bother her.

  She took an ancient lift to the third floor. The hallway there was deserted. If the other two offices on that level were occupied, their tenants made no sound.

  Number 17 was at the end of the corridor, its door facing a cracked smoked-glass window set high in the wall. Yellow light glinted off the brass doorknob. That at least looked clean. The maintenance nanos she had left behind on her last trip were obviously still functioning.

  She took a deep breath and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob. Nothing happened. The security AI should have scanned and approved her palmprint within a split-second, then opened the door. She squeezed to attract its attention. The conducting surface of the knob might have corroded, degrading the signal; increased pressure would correct that. But there was still no response.

  Frowning, she tried turning the handle. Much to her surprise, it rotated freely.

  She opened the door slowly, careful to keep herself out of the widening gap that would otherwise frame her silhouette. Only when certain the room beyond was empty did she look inside.

  The office was in a state of utter disarray. Filing cabinets had been overturned; drawers lay emptied on the ground; the sofa had been slashed. Even the light fittings and power points had been dismantled. The curtained window on the far wall let in just enough light to illuminate the mess. Broken glass crunched under her heels as she stepped inside.

  Nothing appeared to have changed since her last visit, however. The office had been ransacked three years ago, around the time of Jonah's disappearance—although the break-in had not been discovered until Marylin drew the MIU's attention to him, sixteen months ago. They had pored over the mess then, but found nothing incriminating.

  She moved around a pile of discarded data-cards to the desk. It was an imposing piece of furniture, based on an antique design with four solid legs and two drawers on either side of a gap for the sitter's knees. Its top was covered with imitation leather that had been attacked by a knife of some sort. Marylin ran a finger along the edge; it came away brown.

  The touch of her finger activated the secretary. “How may I help you, Marylin?”

  “Hello, SAL.” The AI was simple, a standard model that came with the desk. “I'd like the entry records for the last year.”

  “There has been no one here since your last visit.”

  Marylin brushed dust from the battered desk chair and sat down. “Which was when?”

  “Four-thirteen p.m., January fifteenth, 2069.”

  Six months ago; that was right. But—“Why was the door unlocked, SAL?”

  “I am unable to answer that question.”

  Marylin had half-expected that. Someone had clearly been tampering with the AI's programming and memory. Presumably the same someone who had left the door open on his or her way out. The lock must have been electronically picked, or the entry codes lifted from the MIU files. The overrides for the secretary could have come from there too.

  She tapped on the handle of the upper right drawer where Jonah had kept his pistol and receipt book—two of three anachronisms he allowed himself as a PI; the third was the office itself. He had never explained why he had chosen those particular three things, and she—relieved that he hadn't worn a fedora and called her “sweetheart”—had never asked. Most likely he had no real reason. But he had had secrets; she had always know that. Who didn't?

  She took a deep breath and opened the drawer. The pistol was gone. The receipt book lay where it always had. On top of the book was the envelope she had put there a year ago, addressed to Jonah. She lifted it out and ran a low-light algorithm over the seal; it hadn't been opened.

  Whoever had entered the office in the last year had taken the time to erase their entry record and to steal the pistol, but had ignored the envelope. She wondered if that made it more or less likely that the intruder was Jonah himself. If it was, he could hardly be accused of breaking and entering. The premises were still in his name, paid for automatically by his housekeeper. But if so, why hadn't he seen her message?

  She leaned back into the seat, put her feet on the desk and folded her hands behind her head. The standard position, Jonah had called it, believing it helped him think. Whether it did or not, she had adopted it as well. It was nice to recline, to relax, yet still be at work while pondering a problem. She had missed it many times. There were few desks in the MIU.

  The envelope lay in her lap. She had learned little so far.

  “QUALIA?”

  “Yes, Marylin?” The pleasant “female” voice was as clear as if she was still in Artsutanov Station.

  “Odi told me to ask you about something called ‘d-med.’”

  “Yes. He warned me that you would do so before long.”

  “What is it and why haven't I heard of it before?”

  “It is an experimental medical procedure designed to do away with invasive surgical techniques—including nanotherapy. You have not heard of it before because d-med is still in the developmental phase. Its existence is not widely publicised. Also, it has not previously had any bearing on this case.”

  “Why the big secret?”

  “Some segments of the community will find much about d-med that is disturbing. Its introduction will be gradual, with as much care as possible, beginning with the first public trials next month.”

  “Tell me more. I'm assum
ing Odi has had me cleared.”

  “Yes, Marylin, as of this afternoon. D-med is a combination of d-mat, Resurrection and virtual surgery techniques used to train doctors for decades. The patient enters what is in essence an ordinary d-mat booth to be scanned, but instead of being transmitted to another destination downloaded into an active virtual environment within which the procedure required takes place. This ‘hot-wired’ surgery permits real-time interaction with ceteris paribus conditions. Not only is it possible to perform procedures while the subject is in the equivalent of stasis, but subtle corrections can be made by manipulating the data rather than the virtual body itself. When the procedure is complete, the patient is reconstituted, completely unaware that time has elapsed.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Indeed, Marylin. D-med is a logical development of d-mat technology. It allows or makes much easier procedures that are difficult today. Tissue may be copied and pasted instead of cultured and grafted. Nerves may be rebuilt molecule by molecule. Faulty genes in cancer cells can be altered at will. Naturally, d-med requires an enormous amount of memory and our knowledge of the human body is still not complete, so the technique will not become commonplace in the near future. But it will be an important option, especially in situations where access to the best medical care is not immediately available. In the future, d-med may be employed for purely cosmetic reasons, allowing radical—and sustainable—physical changes only imagined today.”

  Marylin listened in awe. D-med would revolutionise medicine if it was ever approved. She could see why people like WHOLE would be upset. D-med lent credence to the paranoid theories of changes being made while people were in transit. It allowed that such changes were at least theoretically possible using d-mat. From there it was only a small step to imagine someone actually doing it with evil intent. Someone like the Twinmaker.

  But that wasn't the point. She was beginning to guess why Whitesmith had instructed her to ask QUALIA about the process.

  “QUALIA, how long would it take to make Jonah McEwen well enough to travel using d-med?”

  “Four hours, plus or minus thirty minutes.” The answer came without hesitation, as though the AI had not had to think about it at all. Or had thought about it already.

  “That's a lot less than three days.” Marylin shifted her hands and folded them across her stomach, over the note.

  “Clearly, Marylin.”

  “Is it going to happen?”

  “I do not know. Permission has not yet been granted to perform the procedure on Jonah McEwen. And even if it is, equipment will need to be readied and a medical team assembled suitable for McEwen's problems. The earliest time such a procedure could be performed is approximately eighteen hours from now. I understand that it is Officer Whitesmith's preference to keep Jonah McEwen unconscious until then.”

  “And then what?”

  “I am not privy to Officer Whitesmith's intentions beyond that point.”

  Likewise, Marylin kept her thoughts to herself. Eighteen hours—maybe less if corners could be cut—and Jonah would be on his feet. The thought made her giddy. She was under no illusions as to who would be asked to babysit him. The only thing that would prevent it was if Whitesmith failed to obtain permission from Schumacher to perform the procedure on Jonah—but with Verstegen on-side that would be easy to get. Regardless of what QUALIA said, she knew it was going to happen. Knew it, but still wanted confirmation.

  “QUALIA, do you have the shift roster for my next work-period?”

  “Yes, Marylin. Officer Whitesmith has just submitted a revised version.”

  “Do I have any specific assignments?”

  “You are scheduled to check in at MIU-ACOC at 0330 hours then to proceed to the site in Faux Sydney.”

  “Alone?”

  “Agent Jason Fassini will accompany you.”

  “That's all?”

  “I am not aware of any other personnel allocated to this duty.”

  “What about the others in the unit? The forensic team and so on. Will they be there?”

  “This information is not included with your roster.”

  “Then check, please. I want to know where everyone will be tomorrow.”

  She closed her eyes as the AI scanned through the data. The reply came rapidly: the forensic investigations of the unit would be postponed while she was on duty. The unit would therefore be empty apart from her and Fassini—and Jonah, if her guess was right.

  QUALIA went on to outline the scheduled duties of everyone in the away team, taking Marylin's inquiry literally but at least limiting the reply to the people Marylin normally encountered. It wasn't often that she consciously noted the fact that QUALIA was at heart a machine and prone to occasional behavioural oddities. Most of the time e was all too easy to mistake for a human.

  Marylin yawned, letting the steady meter of QUALIA's continuing explanation wash over her. The AI's voice was soothing, soporific. Deliberately so, she guessed, having been designed by psychologists to meet the tastes of SciCon engineers. Designed to put the listener at ease, she thought. It was odd, then, that it had exactly the opposite effect on Jonah.

  She stiffened in the seat. Her eyes opened. The thought had come out of nowhere, and she wasn't sure what had prompted it, at first.

  QUALIA's voice had an atypical effect on Jonah.

  How did she know that?

  The memory spikes.

  She cut QUALIA off with a curt prevocal command and opened a window to the MIU laboratories. She called up the recording of the VTC and rapidly skimmed through it.

  “For the technical side of it, you'd have to ask QUALIA, but I'm told it's not an option.”

  “QUALIA?”

  “I monitor every transaction that passes through the KTI network,” the AI had said, and at exactly that point the diagnostic screen showing Jonah's deep memory access peaked sharply.

  And later:

  “But not impossible.”

  “No. Just more unlikely than the alternative.”

  “Which is impossible,” QUALIA had said, prompting another spike.

  Her head felt light. Two was definitely suggestive, but still not conclusive. She needed one more to prove more than coincidence was at work.

  “QUALIA? I'm looking at the file recording of the VTC between Jonah and me taken this morning. Can you tell me where else you spoke apart from these two places?” She marked the recording.

  “Many places, Marylin—”

  “I mean, where else did you join the conversation rather than continue an existing one?”

  “Only at the very beginning.” The AI shuttled to another point in the recording. “Here.”

  “I'm registering high levels of anxiety,” QUALIA had said in response to Jonah's tripping of the Time-Out option. Marylin studied the mess of data at that point, and sure enough, buried beneath other indecipherable brain functions, was a measurable memory spike.

  “That's it.” She grinned with satisfaction. The trigger wasn't visual or contextual. It was aural: “You caused the spikes!”

  “I don't understand, Marylin.”

  “Don't you? The sound of your voice prompted Jonah to access deep, subconscious memory.”

  “That I grasp. Why it should have done that eludes me, I'm afraid.”

  “There must be a reason. Prior to the last couple of days, have you ever spoken to him?”

  “Never, Marylin.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Positive. I attained ometeosis in February of 2067, almost one year after he entered hibernation. There is no possible way that he and I could have communicated after that point. His implants were disabled by InSight.”

  Marylin conceded the point about the date, but wasn't ready to abandon the theory just yet. The memories he was accessing were old, therefore could not have been laid down in the previous days. “It must have taken InSight a while to erode his implants. Maybe he could still receive after a couple of years. Maybe he overheard your voice
in another person's broadcast. Someone from within KTI.”

  “Why would such a person communicate with McEwen while he was in hibernation?”

  “I don't know,” Marylin admitted. “Do you have any other explanation for the spikes?”

  “I—” For the first time, Marylin heard the AI hesitate. “Marylin, I am honestly dumbfounded. Perhaps my voice reminds him of someone he once knew. Someone from his childhood—”

  “Or something you've said to him recently reminds him of the past.”

  “Perhaps.” Again the AI hesitated. “I have no hypothesis.”

  “Well, I intend to find one.” She swung her feet off the desk and stood. “SAL, I'm leaving now. I want you to lock the door after me. Contact me if anyone unlocks it, no matter who it is, okay?”

  “Understood.”

  The envelope went into an inner pocket. “And QUALIA, I want to report a missing firearm: a .42 Holkenhill, registration number H335H.”

  “That weapon is registered to Jonah McEwen.”

  “Correct. It was removed from its last known location some time in the last six months. Its ballistic fingerprint is on file. If it's been fired in any illegal context, we'll be able to trace it.”

  “Understood, Marylin. Is there anything else you require me to do?”

  “At the moment, no, but—”

  She stopped. A noise had come from the hallway—a footstep. Someone was walking toward the office. She reached for her pistol, realised too late that she had surrendered it upon leaving ACOC, and quickly scanned the room for a makeshift weapon.

  Before she could move, a man stepped into the doorway.

  “Marylin?” Fassini peered through the gloom, saw her frozen behind the desk. “Thought I'd find you here. I'm early. Still up to that drink?”

  She exhaled and let herself sag. “More than you know.”

  “Sounds like it.” His face was in shadow but she could tell he was smiling. “What're you doing in here, anyway? Growing mushrooms?”

  She ignored the prod. “I'm done for now. Let's go.”

  “My shout.”

  “That's what I said.”

  “And who am I to disobey orders?”