by Timothy Zahn
“Adrian!” Sands cut him off.
He spun back to the table. One look at the instruments was all he needed. “What is it?” he snapped, taking a long stride to Sands’s side.
“It’s not taking,” the doctor said tightly, hands hovering uncertainly over the control board. “Gerakaris’s soul isn’t remelding with his body.”
Sands swore under her breath, stepping around the table and elbowing the doctor aside. “Can you tell what’s causing it?” Sommer asked her.
She shook her head. “This has never happened before,” she gritted out.
“Could Pauley have done something to the brain chemistry or Mullner topography while he was there?” Sommer suggested.
The muscles in Sands’s cheeks tightened visibly. “I hope to hell that’s not it. Because if it is … ”
She left the sentence unfinished. Consciously unclenching his own teeth, Sommer shifted his eyes to the bank of readouts. “Let him go,” he said quietly.
Peripherally, he felt all eyes turn to him. “We’ve got no choice,” he said into the silence. “All we’re doing is building up to massive physical trauma in the brain. We’ll put the body on full life-support, let it rest a while, then try again.”
Sands took a deep breath. “All right,” she said, reluctantly but clearly with no better option in mind. “Here goes.”
The readout lights changed, turning from green to amber to red … and the body again died.
“Neuropreservatives,” Sands ordered. The doctor moved to comply, and Sands stepped away from the table to the computer terminal off to the side. Sommer held his breath … “The trap caught him,” she confirmed, straightening up. “He’s back in Soulminder.”
Sommer nodded, turning back to find Royce’s eyes on Gerakaris’s motionless form. The eyes of a man seeing accessory to murder on his record. “Don’t worry, it’ll work,” he assured the agent, trying hard to sound confident.
With a visible effort, Royce broke his gaze away from the body. “I hope so, Doctor,” he said, looking Sommer square in the eye. “Because if it doesn’t—if you can’t put a soul back into a body after someone else has been there—then finding Cavanaugh won’t buy us anything but the chance to hang another murder on him. Pauley will still be dead, and he’ll stay that way.”
Sommer felt his stomach tighten. “I know.”
The Soulminder file on Jonathan Pauley was slender, consisting of nothing more than the usual information taken from those who were willing to pay large sums of money for the security of Soulminder’s safety net. Sommer had gone over both the file and Pauley’s newspaper article three times and was midway through a fourth reading when the call finally came.
Sands was ready to try the Gerakaris transfer again.
He arrived downstairs to find the same team assembled as before, along with Tom Dumata and a handful of Soulminder’s other top people. “Adrian,” Sands nodded to him as he strode into the room. “Anything new come up on the Mullner analysis?”
Sommer shook his head. “The computer’s still checking over the third-order effects, but there was nothing on first or second. I think our original analysis was valid, that there were no inherent incompatibilities between Pauley and Gerakaris.”
Sands grunted satisfaction. “Good. That gives that much more weight to the physiological analysis.”
“The neuropreservatives?”
She nodded. “It’s looking more and more like that’s the culprit. The simulations still go crazy when we try putting two doses of the stuff in that closely together, even when the usual flushing procedures are followed.”
Sommer felt his throat tighten. “Possibly just one more of the lovely psychological side-effects neuropreservatives create.”
“Yeah,” Sands grunted. “Instead of completing the transfer into that emotional snake pit, the soul simply refuses to reconnect.”
“Or can’t do so even if it wants to,” Dumata put in from the readout panel. “I think we’re ready, Dr. Sands.”
Sands looked at Sommer, seemed to brace herself. “Let’s do it.”
It was, for Sommer, a distinct and welcome anticlimax. On the table Gerakaris’s body jerked and gasped … and then the Soulminder indicators went out, and he was back.
“Mr. Gerakaris?” Sommer asked as the other blinked his eyes against the overhead lights. “How do you feel?”
“O—okay,” Gerakaris grunted, his voice sounding strained. “That was—God above, that was strange. How long was I in there?”
“Longer than we originally planned,” Sands said soothingly. “But it worked out all right.”
Gerakaris squinted at her, suddenly tense. “There was a problem?” he asked, his hand tracing a surreptitious up-down, right-left across his chest.
And Sommer found himself staring at that hand. Staring at the imaginary cross Gerakaris had just traced across his chest.
Staring at the mental image of that same hand, and that same motion, an hour earlier …
Someone was calling his name. “I’m sorry,” he said, bringing his thoughts back with an effort and focusing on Sands. “What did you say?”
Sands was frowning at him. “I asked if you wanted to ask any questions before we took him to the examination room,” she repeated.
The question spinning through Sommer’s mind almost came out … but this wasn’t the time or the place to bring it up. Even if Gerakaris had any chance of answering it.
But perhaps there was someone who could. “No,” he told Sands. “There’ll be time enough to talk about the experience after we’re sure he’s all right. Go ahead and start the exam. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Sands’s frown deepened, and he could tell she very much wanted to ask him what was bothering him. But she too knew better than to press the point in front of Gerakaris. “All right,” she said, striving to keep her voice casual. “Give me a hand here, Doctor?”
Sommer left, breaking into a jog as soon as he was out of the room. Back in his office, he read one last time—very carefully—through both Pauley’s Soulminder file and the article. Then, just to be sure, he called up the videotape of Pauley speaking through Gerakaris’s body.
There was no mistake.
He sat silently for several minutes, thinking it through. Then he reached for the phone and punched a number.
A neutral voice answered on the third ring. “FBI.”
“This is Dr. Adrian Sommer at Soulminder,” Sommer identified himself. “I’d like to talk to Special Agent Royce. Tell him it’s important.”
“One minute.”
The phone went blank, and Sommer had just enough time to pick up the Pauley article again before Royce came on. “This is Royce.” The agent sounded tired.
“We just got Gerakaris out of Soulminder,” Sommer told him. “We’re checking him over to be on the safe side, but it looks like the transfer was completely successful.”
“Yeah, your man Dumata just called to tell me that,” Royce grunted. “Congratulations, and I’ll tell you right now that you were damn lucky.”
“No argument,” Sommer agreed soberly. “How’s the search for Cavanaugh going?”
He could almost hear Royce shrug. “Way too early to tell. We’ve sent Pauley’s photo to the Seattle authorities, but we can’t make too much fuss or we’re likely to spook him.”
“I understand.” Unconsciously, Sommer braced himself. “If I may offer a slightly long-shot suggestion … I think there’s a place—or, rather, a group of places—that might be worth staking out.”
He explained where. And then, of course, he had to explain why.
The two men were waiting by the door as he filed out with the others. Young men, Cavanaugh saw, with the look of FBI agents stamped all over their faces.
For a brief moment he considered trying to flee. But the thought was pure ref
lex, without any real force of will behind it. Their eyes were locked on him, now; they’d identified him, and there was no point in making a fuss.
The game was over, and he’d lost.
The young men moved forward together as he approached, coming to stand directly in front of him. “Mario Cavanaugh?” the elder of the two asked quietly.
Again, there was nothing to be gained by lying. “Yes.”
“FBI,” the other said, holding his ID cupped in his hand. “Will you come with us, please?”
“Of course.” Cavanaugh glanced around at the others milling about. But if any of them had overheard the brief conversation they made no sign of it. “Thank you for not—for doing this quietly.”
The agent cocked a slightly puzzled eyebrow at that. “No problem,” he said. “This way, please.”
Walking between them, Cavanaugh stepped through the large ornate doors and out into the sunlight. The game was over, and he’d lost. And yet, he felt none of the angry frustration he should have felt at such failure.
Instead, his mind was filled with genuine relief. Relief that the lie was finally over. And mild surprise that he should feel that way.
Sommer hung up the phone, and for a long moment the office was silent. “Well?” Sands asked at last.
“They’re finished with their interrogation,” Sommer told her. “Royce will be bringing Cavanaugh back here in about half an hour. For his execution.”
The word hung heavy in the air. “He destroyed his own body, Adrian,” Sands reminded Sommer gently. “He doesn’t have any claim to the one he’s using now.”
“I know.” Sommer sighed. “It just seems … I don’t know; wrong, somehow. Execution without due process, or something.”
“It can’t be helped,” Sands said, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice. “Pauley has rights, too. And a lot better claim to those rights than Cavanaugh has.”
Sommer grimaced. “You sound like Congressman Barnswell.”
“Well, maybe for once he’s right,” she growled. “Even Barnswell can’t be wrong all the time.”
“I take it you haven’t seen the bill he’s preparing to introduce into the judicial committee.”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Sands said calmly. “I think it’s a good idea.”
Sommer stared at her. “I thought you were the one who didn’t want Soulminder used as a justice machine.”
“No, no—I was the one who didn’t want it to be a prison substitute,” she corrected him. “Offering maimed victims the temporary or permanent use of their assailants’ bodies is something else entirely. That’s justice, Adrian. More to the point, it’s justice that fits the mood of the country.”
The justice of judicial vengeance. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. “Oh, it fits the mood, all right,” Sommer admitted wearily. “Fits it perfectly. The only problem is that it won’t work.”
“Well, of course it’ll take some overhauling of the legal system—”
“No!” Sommer snapped. “It won’t work. Period. Royce was right, Jessica—the soul isn’t some kind of standardized module you can pull out of one body and plug into another. Habits, memories, temperament—they’re all locked into the brain and body chemistry, as much as they are into the soul itself.” He took a deep breath. “When Pauley was in Gerakaris’s body, he crossed himself, twice. But he did it Eastern Orthodox fashion, not Catholic. The way Gerakaris, not Pauley, would have done it.”
Sands’s eyes were steady on him, the lines around her eyes tight. “That may not be all that significant,” she suggested slowly. Carefully. “Maybe a small habit like that … I mean, they are both very religious men, after all.”
Sommer closed his eyes briefly. “Do you know where they picked up Cavanaugh?”
“No, I didn’t read the—”
“They picked him up in a church. St. James Cathedral, to be exact. Attending Sunday Mass.”
For a long minute the room rang with silence. A strangely horrified silence. “Are you suggesting … ?” Sands’s question faded away unfinished.
Sommer nodded. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt about it. A totally amoral criminal boss attends church … and according to Royce, was actually eager to clear his conscience of all the slime he’s participated in.
“Tell me, Jessica: what do you think would happen to a normal person transferred via justice machine into the body of a psychotic killer?”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, very quietly.
CHAPTER 4
The Hand That Rocks the Casket
The air was dry but comfortably warm as Dr. Adrian Sommer stepped out the door of the unmarked plane and started down the steps, his two companions close behind him. The warmth was a distinct and welcome change from the 747’s overenthusiastic air-conditioning, and an even more welcome change from the January blizzards taking place five thousand-odd miles to the north. It was, he decided tiredly, precisely the right time to vacation in South America.
Some day he would have to try it. A vacation might be nice.
He’d asked that the reception committee be kept small, and for a wonder the Chilean government had taken him at his word. The man in military dress uniform waiting at the foot of the stairway stood there alone, with only a single stretch limousine waiting a discreet distance behind him on the tarmac.
Such willing cooperation was a good sign. Sommer could only hope it would continue.
“Welcome, Dr. Sommer,” the man awaiting him smiled as Sommer reached the tarmac. The other’s English held just the slightest trace of an accent, one composed of what seemed to be equal parts Spanish and British. It was a combination Sommer hadn’t run into before. “I am General Miguel Diaz, Minister of the Interior. On behalf of General Jose Santos and the Chilean government and people, allow me to welcome you to our country. It is an honor to have one of the co-inventors of the Soulminder visit our humble country.”
“It’s an honor to be here,” Sommer told him as they shook hands. “My colleague, Dr. Sands, asked me to thank you personally for your invitation to her, and to send her regrets at being unable to accept.”
“I understand fully,” Diaz assured him. “The day-to-day management of your Soulminder empire must leave Dr. Sands very little time for traveling.”
“It certainly doesn’t,” Sommer agreed. “May I introduce my staff: this is Mr. Samuel Alverez, my technical adviser.”
“Señor Alverez,” Diaz nodded, offering his hand as Alverez stepped eagerly past Sommer to take it. “If I may say so, you look very Chilean to me.”
“You have a good eye,” Alverez said, smiling with a twenty-five-year-old’s standard youthful enthusiasm. “My parents came to the United States from Santiago during the height of the Pinochet regime. This has been my first chance to see their land—I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Your interest does our country great honor,” Diaz smiled. “Perhaps you’ll have time to take a proper tour. If you’re interested, the resources of my office are at your complete disposal.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Alverez said.
“And this,” Sommer said, gesturing to his other side, “is Mr. Frank Everly.”
“General,” Everly nodded, offering his hand.
For just a second Diaz’s eyes narrowed. Then his face smoothed out again, and he took the proffered hand. “Señor Everly,” he nodded. “The same Frank Everly, I presume, who oversees security for all of Soulminder?”
“You’re well informed, General,” Sommer commented, trying to read the other’s face.
“I’m always interested in men of outstanding abilities,” Diaz said, his eyes still on Everly. “To handle security so successfully for so important a corporation as Soulminder is a great achievement indeed.”
“It’s not that hard,” Everly said with easy modesty. “The secret’s
in finding the right people to do all the real work.”
Diaz favored him with a slightly stiff smile. “You’re too modest.” He looked back at Sommer, eyebrows raised slightly. “There are no others, Doctor?”
“None who’ll be coming with us into the city,” Sommer told him. A true statement, but misleading: the rest of Everly’s twenty-man security team was, in fact, already in Santiago, having quietly infiltrated the country as tourists and businessmen over the past two weeks. Members of the team would be moving with them from now on, an invisible defense perimeter augmenting whatever security the Chileans themselves provided. “And speaking of the city … ?” he added, surreptitiously stretching his shoulder muscles.
“Yes, of course,” Diaz agreed, waving the limo forward. “It is a long flight, isn’t it? I remember the first time I flew to the United States—I don’t think I’d ever before had a true feeling for just how long South America really is.”
“I had the same thought,” Sommer nodded. “Somewhere over Peru, I think.”
Diaz smiled. “Well, you’ll have a couple of hours now to recover from the trip.”
“I thought nothing was happening until the formal dinner tonight,” Sommer said, frowning.
“It is,” Diaz said, a slightly sour look on his face. “But the great dog Media proved harder to put off than even the most impatient of our own government officials. I’m sure you’re familiar enough with media sorts, Doctor: if you take their bone away from them one place you must give it back elsewhere or suffer their incessant howling.” He shrugged. “In this case, the only way to keep them from the airport was to promise a news conference at the Ministry this afternoon.”
Unless you just decided to shut them all down for the duration, Sommer thought with a touch of fatigue-driven cynicism. Unfair, really—for all the tendencies to excess inherent in military rule, the recently established government did seem to be working hard at tolerating its detractors. “No problem, General,” he assured the other. “When did you schedule it for?”