“Latticework Systems,” I say. “Have you heard of them?”
“Yes, the name rings a bell. A shell company, I believe. They tend to buy up property, both intellectual and physical, and hold them for future use, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I think they’re doing a lot more than that,” I say. “I'd like you to look into them for me, if that's at all possible.”
“That shouldn't be a problem. I’ll reach out to our mutual friend if I find anything of note. Is there anything else?”
“Yeah. The Collective... is it real?”
Brenton finally sets his cup down and looks at me with a blank face. “Yes, they’re real, Mr. Ibarra.” I can instantly see that he’s telling the truth, and I can’t help but notice the ‘shit just got real’ expression that washes across his face.
“Is there any way to contact them? For an average Joe like me, I mean?”
“Communication with them requires a special quantum array,” Brenton reveals.
“Go on,” I urge.
“The Collective is too far away, so communication methods using radio and light aren't feasible. It would take too long, plus you would have to deal with massive amounts of data loss, and this is assuming the comms packet even makes it to the coordinates. So, we use a process called quantum propagation. The comms packet effectively jumps across spacetime in a leapfrog fashion, crossing great distances at each jump.”
“Where would I find an array like that?” I ask.
“There are only six of these on Earth. Five of which will be entirely inaccessible to you, as they are controlled by the highest levels of our government.”
“And the last one?” I ask.
“Belongs to my boss.”
“Tucker Berg,” I say, prompting a nod from my synth counterpart. “Fuck!” I curse, knowing the odds of gaining an audience with the richest being on the planet was likely just as impossible as infiltrating one of the synth government’s secret facilities.
“Why the long face?” Brenton asks.
“Why do you think? You haven’t exactly given me any good news here, buddy,” I grumble. “I can’t exactly walk into Tucker Berg’s office and ask to use his quantum telephone because my car broke down.”
“Perhaps not, but you could build a compelling case that confirms why your car broke down and then ask Mr. Berg to make that call for you, Mr. Ibarra,” Brenton suggests, his voice dripping with a peculiar tone.
“You really think he’ll listen to me? A lowly PI?” I ask.
“Mr. Berg feels a certain amount of guilt for what has happened to the organic population, Mr. Ibarra. He’s been a full body cyborg for quite a long time, but he still counts himself among your people. He’ll help you; I have no doubt about that, but only if you can convince him that the threat against the organics is real. You’ll need tangible proof. Something definitive, not circumstantial.”
“I need to know who owns Latticework. That should be more than enough proof,” I say.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Brenton responds.
A glimmer of hope ignites within my mind as I digest Brenton’s words, and for the first time in a while, I realize that all might not be lost. If anyone can do it… if anyone can solve a mystery that may just end up saving the entire human race, it’s Ana, Abdo, and me… two of the sharpest organic minds in the business and the best damn detective left on this godforsaken planet.
I don't want to put any further pressure on Brenton. Abdo was right; he's a good guy… for a synth. So I thank him, tell him where he can get in contact with me, and leave.
CHAPTER 15
◆◆◆
Time passes. And it passes with surprising speed. Abdo's apartment is small but cozy, and he's a gracious but paranoid host. He keeps me well-fed. In exchange for his help, I stay hidden away and I don't make too much noise. He keeps telling me, every morning, that he may have to ask me to leave. But the more I hear it, the hollower it rings.
Not that I have any intention of overstaying my welcome. I'm just waiting to hear back from Brenton. As soon as I get another meeting with him, and get a little more solid evidence, I can make my next move.
But the waiting is a killer. Brenton didn't give me a time frame for when he would contact me, and I'm starting to wish I would have asked for one. If only to remove a bit of the tension that marks my otherwise peacefully boring days.
Mostly, it's Ana and I. Abdo is usually off doing his own thing. Even when he's in the apartment, I don't see too much of him. Ana uses her proxy to go out into the data sphere sometimes to search for new information. Mostly about Karkoff and the other bounty hunters. I'm sure they're getting frustrated, maybe even sick of looking for me. In order to eat, a bounty hunter has to get paid, and in order to get paid, they actually have to find who they're looking for.
I guess calling my situation boring is a bit of a disservice. Really, I'm right in the middle of a very strange and unique experience. Spending days in a small room with the digital ghost of my ex-girlfriend.
We talk. We laugh. We reminisce. Or rather, I reminisce and she laughs about things that, for her, only happened a few weeks ago.
Sometimes I stare at her, when she's focused on something else. And for a moment I'm almost destroyed by an urge to touch her. To put a hand under her chin and gently pull her face around and kiss her. But I can't. She isn't real. And the second I actually try and do it anyway, I'll know that I've lost my mind.
I have to start thinking about what will come after this. After the mystery is solved, after everything is put to bed and I can pat myself on the back for a job well done. It's an exercise in hope, of course, because in all likelihood we'll fail miserably, and I'll end up getting myself killed.
Back when we made our pact, Ana made the details of her wishes quite clear. She was only to be “resurrected” for the purposes of assisting an investigation. After the conclusion of said investigation, her persona was either to be destroyed permanently or else placed back into storage. Back into hibernation. Probably never to rise again.
Both of those possibilities—of erasing her, or of putting her into permanent hibernation—fill me with a sense of dread and sadness too deep for words. Too dark and horrible to even describe. I don't want to think about it, but I have to. Because somehow, I’ve managed to fall in love with a hologram. Though I wonder if she will… or even could ever love me back. Not completely… Not meaningfully, I think. Not the way I’d want her to.
But it doesn't feel that way, when I see her staring into the corner with a frown of concentration on her face. Just the way she always used to, when she was working over a problem in her head.
Is this really her? Could she actually be my Ana?
CHAPTER 16
◆◆◆
“Ana,” I finally say one day, four days past my meeting with Brenton. “I need to tell you something.”
She looks over at me, coming out of some weird hologram sleep state.
“I haven't told you everything,” I continue. “I haven’t lied to you, but I’ll admit that I've left some stuff out.”
“Like what, Rome?”
“Like the fact that...” I sigh. “Like the fact that we broke up. It’s been a while actually. Happened not too long after we made the pact. I still see you in passing every now and then. But we aren't together anymore. I just thought you should know.”
She doesn't look completely bowled over by this news. A bit sad, but not flabbergasted. I guess she saw it coming. Or maybe she just doesn't care, now that she's dead. I want her to say something, if only to stem the tide of crap that's about to come out of my mouth. But she doesn't.
“I still love you,” I say. “It's been almost eight years, but you're still... well, what I mean to say is... shit, this is hard! Ana, I just want you to know something. Yeah, I know what we said. What we promised each other. But, well, I've made a lot of money off murder cases. It’s more than enough.”
“More than enough for what?” she asks
, shaking her head. “Enough for what, Rome?”
“Enough to bring you back. A good quality cyber body for you. Ana...”
She keeps on shaking her head. “I can't believe this. Goddamnit, Rome! You cannot drop that kind of suggestion on me right now!”
“I just thought we should talk about—”
“Talk about what, Rome?!” She snaps. “Talk about replacing me?! I’m dead! Remember?! I sure do because everyone keeps reminding me!”
She’s furious and a part of me wishes I would have kept my damn mouth shut. But I can also tell that she needs to get this off her chest. She’s just as confused as I am and neither one of us knows what the hell we should do when this thing is all over.
“I just… I want you back, Ana. I’m sorry that pisses you off, but I can’t help it. I miss you,” I admit, shaking my head, and reaching up to wipe away tears I didn't even know were there.
That's not all I say to her. She continues to yell at me, and I continue blubbering for a while, meaning every last pathetic word I say. I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to piss me off, so I’ll stop. So, I’ll get angry and take it all back. So, we can let that be the end of it. But I can’t. Even though she’s not real I can’t pretend that I don’t feel the way I feel about her. Anyone who's ever loved and lost someone will understand.
Along the way she grows eerily calm and then suddenly she’s pissed again. Pissed off at me, maybe, or maybe just angry at the fact that she’s dead, that she’s eight years behind the times, and having trouble wrapping her mind around all that is happening. It really must be jarring for her. At least I have the luxury of having lived through those eight years. The luxury of knowing and remembering everything that happened.
Finally, as we sit calm after the emotional storm, she asks, “Why did we break up?”
Can I be honest with her? Do I have a choice? I've been trying to answer that same question to my own satisfaction for years.
“At times it was like you didn't really love me,” I tell her. “It kind of felt like… you loved the fact that I loved you. You were the most important thing in the world to me, and I was maybe the third most important thing to you. Behind the job and your family. There was… friction because of that, I guess. Sort of felt like I was keeping score in that department and it didn’t seem like anything was going to change… It was my fault. I’ll admit that. I wanted you to change for me versus me changing for you… or us changing together. Sort of adapting to each other’s needs, you know? Like I said, I blew it. It was all my fault.”
I hang my head in shame, feeling like I just punched myself in the gut. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?” I continue, not lifting my head to meet Ana’s gaze.
“You’re okay, Rome,” she says, and even without looking at her I can tell that she’s not quite as angry as before. “And it's not just your fault,” she finally says after a long silence. “Is it really ever just one person’s fault? I don't think so. I’ll take my lumps for not letting you know exactly how I felt about you. But, to be honest, from what I remember, I always assumed you knew, you being such a great detective and all.”
“So…” I say, as a sheepish grin spreads across my face, “for the record, are you saying that I was the most important thing in your life?”
Ana shakes her head in playful disgust and frowns at me, although she’s also fighting back a smile.
“Too soon?” I ask, delighted at the fact that she can barely contain her smile.
“Yeah, too soon,” she says, narrowing her eyes, still pretending to be pissed at me. “It’s no wonder I dumped your sorry ass!” she continues, now smiling from ear to ear and cackling at her own comeback.
“Hey! You did not dump me!” I jokingly shoot back. “It was a mutual agreement!”
The camaraderie continues until the waking hours of the next morning. I love seeing her like this. And she knows it.
Still… I hate the encounter just as much as I enjoy it… because it’s over too soon. I try my best to fully live for the moment, but in the back of my mind I can’t help but wonder just how much time we have left together.
CHAPTER 17
◆◆◆
On the fifth day, Abdo comes into our room and tells us something frightening.
“Karkoff was here. While you were asleep. We spoke through the door. I told him I have no idea where you are, and he said he’d be back if he found out I was lying... I hate to do this, Roman, but you have to go.”
I've felt like my time has been up for a while now anyway, so I'm ready to go. And I completely understand Abdo’s caution. Before I leave, I use my omni to grant Abdo access to my stored persona. I feel terrible putting that much weight on his shoulders, but he understands how important solving Ana’s murder is to me. He agrees to resurrect my stored persona to finish the job if something happens to me.
I thank him and promise him that I'll return the favor in some way. If I survive. He nods his head, tries not to let his doubt show through. He promises that he will clean the place up, make sure there's nothing left for Karkoff to find, if the guy gets impatient and barges in.
I'm sure Karkoff is still in the vicinity. Waiting and watching to see if the rats start to leave the sinking ship. Thankfully, I'm good at getting in and out of places without being seen. It's always been a gift of mine, courtesy of my childhood as a street urchin.
I move down the fire escapes like a spider, drop to the ground, and move fast and silent in a random direction. I come to a wall and scuff my way over, grunting as I fall into the shadow of an old silo.
I’m confident that I wasn’t seen, but I know not to hang around long enough to find out if I’m right or not.
The chase continues, but at least I still have the cover of darkness to support my escape.
CHAPTER 18
◆◆◆
Synth offices are strange places. Full of people, but there's no noise at all. No talking. Everyone does their work by projecting themselves through the data sphere. Instant, telepathic communication.
As I walk down the hall, moving with practiced elegance, I glance into a mirror that rears up on my left. I don't even recognize myself. The man in the mirror looks too clean, too friendly and civilized, to be Roman Ibarra. A nice long bath in cryogenic antiseptic had removed most of the human stink from me, and even moisturized my skin to boot.
Not recognizing myself is a good sign. It means all these synths, lost in their digital meetings, won't recognize me either.
Ana knows the way, and in a moment, I'm approaching a door marked BRENTON. I barge in without knocking, shut and lock the door behind me.
Brenton tenses up in his chair. His eyelids open, his eyes roll back into place, and he stares at me for a long, confused second. Then his face drops in a clear expression of fear.
“No,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “It's me. Sorry, but I got tired of waiting.”
“Well that’s too bad,” he says in a tense whisper. “I'm afraid I can no longer be of assistance to you, Mr. Ibarra.”
“What's the problem?” I ask, glaring at him as I slam my hands down on his desk. “Did someone get to you? Was it a guy named Karkoff? What do you know, Brenton? What aren’t you telling me?”
I see Brenton's hand moving, creeping toward his leg with subtle, slow motions. He's going for his omni.
I lunge forward, grappling his arms and locking them up behind his head.
“Don't,” I whisper. “If you ever cared about anything in your life, Brenton, don't tip them off. If you don’t want to help me, fine. Be a damn coward. You wouldn't be the first synth without a set of balls. But for Christ's sake, don't set the dogs on me. I'm trying to do the right thing here. Abdo told me you were pro-human. If that’s true, then prove it. Let me finish my work.”
Brenton might have the appearance of a posh executive, but he's still a synth. Still essentially the perfect version of a human. He can undoubtedly throw off my attempt at a grapple and pin me to the floor
with ease. But he doesn't do it. Instead, I can almost hear the wheels of thought turning in his cyber brain. It takes him a few seconds to respond, which I guess means he was thinking very, very hard.
“Okay,” he tells me. “Let me go. I won't tell anyone. But you have to leave. And leave me out of this completely. I don’t ever want to see you again…”
Fair enough. I release the guy, turn, and rush out of his office. Back in the hall, I slow my pace and walk out with the same relaxed, elegant air as before. To anyone watching, whose mind was busy with other affairs, I would just look like another synth.
But as soon as I get into the street, I throw my hood over my head and take off running again.
Not too far along, I see another mag-tram tunnel and dash down into it. This one isn't boarded up, and there are even a few lights strung up over the station platform. A few plaques to read, a few holograms that play on loop. It's like a little museum, a tribute to the way things used to be.
“Ana,” I say. “Any luck getting into their sphere?”
“You betcha,” her enchanting voice chimes in my earpiece. “I made digital copies of everything I could find on the Collective while you were in the building.”
“Anything of use?”
“Maybe. I found general coordinates. Brenton wasn’t lying when he said they were far away. We could send a comms packet at light speed and it would still take about ninety-thousand years to get there.”
“Goddamnit,” I curse, pissed at the fact that we had reached yet another seemingly dead end.
“It’s not all bad news though,” Ana continues. “I’ve managed to get back into my email account. And believe it or not, apparently, I had some correspondence with Tucker Berg himself.”
“No shit?!” I say, my heart now pounding with excitement. “What’s it say?”
“Short and sweet. I asked about the quantum array and he confirmed that he has one. I also requested a meeting to discuss the reason I needed it.”
Black Marble (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 3) Page 7