The Resurrected Man
Author: Sean Williams
Date: 1998-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Mystery
Description: Private detective Jonah McEwen is wanted for murder. Someone has been killing women who resemble Marylin Blaylock, his former colleague and ex-lover. The latest grisly discovery is right on his doorstep. He is the obvious suspect. The problem? He has been in a coma for three years - a coma he has no memory of entering. And there's worse to come. Using matter transporter technology, or "d-mat," a serial killer know only as the Twinmaker has been brutally torturing and killing perfect facsimiles of his victims and leaving the originals alive. As legal arguments rage about whether this even const
Rights: Copyright © 1998 by Sean Williams.

Published 2005 by PYR™, an imprint of Prometheus Books

The Resurrected Man. Copyright © 1998 by Sean Williams. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover illustration © John Picacio

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed version as follows:

Williams, Sean, 1967–

The resurrected man / Sean Williams.

p. cm.

Originally published: Sydney, Australia : HarperCollins, 1998.

ISBN 1–59102–311–4 (alk. paper)

ISBN 978–1–59102–311–1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978–1–59102–797–3 (ebook)

1. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 2. Human cloning—Fiction. I. Title.

PR9619.3.W5667R475 2005
823'.914—dc22

2004030013

Printed in Canada on acid-free paper

My heartfelt thanks go to those people who directly, indirectly, or even inadvertently helped with this novel. These include the staff at HarperCollins, Stuart Barr, Louise Bassett, Sean Braidwood, Jeremy G. Byrne, Adele Chynoweth, Bill Congreve, Fiona Daniels, Jack Dann, Bill Gee, Laura Harris, Edwina Harvey, Nick Linke (happy now?), Martin J. Livings, Peter McNamara, Jo Miller, Ryan Meyer, Jessica Sopp-Williams, Lucy Sussex, Shaun Tan, Louise Thurtell, George Turner, Janeen Webb (for the title), Christyna & Heather Williams, and (well, okay) Rachel Yeaman.

In particular, I would like to thank Simon Brown, Shane Dix, Russell B. Farr (for the other title), K. J. McKenzie, and Jonathan Strahan for support beyond all reasonable expectations.

The background of this novel is loosely based on that of the short stories “A View Before Dying,” “On the Road to Tarsus,” and “New Flames for an Old Love,” previously published by Eidolon Publications and MirrorDanse Books.

“Some people may think it is just common sense (or just good scientific thinking) to supposeyou are nothing but a particular living, physical organism—a moving mound of atoms—but in fact this idea exhibits a lack of scientific imagination, not hard-headed sophistication. One doesn't have to believe in ghosts to believe in selves that have an identity that transcends any particular living body….

“Is that infernal machine {TeleClone Mark IV} a teleporter— a mode of transportation—or, as the brand name suggests, a sort of murdering twinmaker?”

Douglas R. Hofstadter & Daniel C. Dennet,
THE MIND's I: Fantasies & Reflections on Self & Soul,
Basic Books Inc. (USA), 1981;
“Introduction” by Daniel C. Dennet only.

“Confronted with a broken vase, we have two choices: we can either throw it away or fix it. If we try to fix it, we know even before starting that there is no way to restore the vase to its former condition, regardless how skilful our repairs might be. The mended cracks will only be concealed, not erased. The latter, according to the laws of thermodynamics, is impossible.

“Why should it be different with d-mat? No nation or body of nations can give KTI a mandate sufficient to change the laws of physics. How, therefore, can we believe that the human mind, once broken, can ever be unbroken?”

K. R. Mancheff & A. L. Carlaw, Soul Pollution,
Row R Press (Quebec), 2042.

Magnus:    I put it to you! Are you the real Inspector Hound?

Moon:       You know damn well I'm not! What's it all about? I didn't kill anyone!

Magnus:     I thought as much.

Tom Stoppard, The Real Inspector Hound, 1968

She was perfect, the best yet.

Her hair was golden-blonde with white streaks; probably not natural, although her eyebrows matched. Her skin was fair with no piercings or visible tattoos; her weight was in proportion to her height, which was slightly over average; her irises were green and, in accordance with the latest fashion, ringed with gold. When she bent to pick up a smart card she'd dropped, he saw freckles dusting the gentle valley between her breasts.

He had been watching her for two hours from the safety of his VR feed, patched into the Global Information & Traffic Correlation Hardware network via the backdoor he had installed for his own private use. Having spotted her by chance while browsing through a European branch of the GLITCH network, he had kept careful track of her since by jumping from camera to camera whenever she threatened to move out of range. His persistence had proven worthwhile: the more he studied her, the more certain he was of her suitability.

She had obviously come to Wien to shop for the day, probably from one of the more affluent nations like New Soviet Russia, Modernized China or the United Republics of Australasia, whose economies had had less ground to make up after the Slow War. She had already purchased several items of jewellery and two new outfits, all tailored on the spot rather than form-fit by nanos, even though nanos were cheaper. She had arranged for one of the garments to be delivered to her home the next day. A bodysuit swung in a recycled plastic bag alongside her legs. Maybe she planned to wear it later that night.

He imagined her undressing and slipping into the outfit, the smooth silk of the bodysuit gliding over naked skin, caressing taut stomach and thighs, tightening over firm but pleasantly rounded buttocks and breasts, followed by the active wrap, a rapidly changing rainbow of fluorescent blues, violets and greens that draped from one shoulder to the opposite knee. She had chosen well, he admitted to himself. The wrap would distract the eye from, but not truly conceal, the body beneath. A connoiseur would know what lay in store after a patient, or perhaps merely persistent, seduction.

He knew such a garment would be easy to remove, gripped in a clenched fist and ripped aside with a single, sudden pull.

Instead of pursuing the fantasy, however, he reassessed her current attire. Jeans would never go out of fashion, it seemed, despite being so damned inflexible. Her feet would be sweating in the canvas sneakers. The warm weather allowed a halter top, tie-dyed in purple and yellow—no bra. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but loosely; a few strands hung free of the elastic, reflecting the natural highlights of the sun.

He smiled. She was fashionably shallow, then, caught in the current trend (known by fools who cared as “Century Retro”) that harked back to the late 1960s. He didn't disapprove of such affectations, even though he was wary of the glamour they occasionally cast. Another time, he had been surprised by a woman who had seemed just as shallow as the one he was watching now. She had been volatile, and had retaliated unexpectedly. He had been left feeling unsatisfied and guilty—emotions he did not normally associate with his work while at work.

It had only happened the once. He had been even more careful since then to avoid such frustration.

The girl sidestepped a cloud of blurs that danced by an entrance to a covered mall, seemingly unperturbed by their asexual abandon. Once again, he admired the way her hair caught the light and congratulated himself on his skill at finding her. No program, no matter how sophisticated, could have captured that hue. The pattern matchers he sometimes employed could only compare features against his list of requirements, record the number of correlations and present him with a list of likely women. Where was the soul in that? Where was the art?

It was more personal this way, more like hunting, and therefore more rewarding at the end of the day…. When he found what he was looking for, that is, regardless of whether he acted upon the opportunity or not. Which he had not finally decided in this particular case. Yet.

But he would soon. He wanted only one more sign—proof that this was the woman he wanted.

He didn't have to wait long. Konigsplatz, as well as being a fashionable shopping district, was home to a disproportionate number of proselytes and would-be philosophers—including irreligious yists, radically progressive RAFTers, and LongLife wannabes—but most prominent among the arm-wavers and ranters competing for a slice of the passing market was, as always, WHOLE.

It went perfectly. She tried to avoid them as most people did—most people, that is, who opted for Full-Disclosure over high taxes ostensibly because they had nothing to hide but in fact because they were greedy like everyone else. But she was too striking to escape WHOLE's clutches so easily. One of its enviro-spiritual activists pursued her, thrust a pamphlet into her hand, then backed quickly away to avoid claims of harassment.

She glanced down at the pamphlet, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and threw it into the nearest bin.

He caught a glimpse of the pamphlet before the recycling unit at the bottom of the bin sucked it away. The message it proclaimed was brief, simple and, for a change, accurate. It and her reaction to it helped him decide, at that moment, to make her his next.

“The D In D-mat,” said the pamphlet she had dismissed so readily, “Is For Death.”

Yes, he thought. Yes.

She really was the perfect victim.

A dull but persistent murmur woke Jonah McEwen from the deepest sleep he would ever experience.

The first conscious thought he had was of how uncomfortable he felt. His body ached along its entire length, from a dull throb in his head to cramps in his feet. When he tried to move, his limbs encountered resistance, as though he was swimming in honey. The same happened when he went to raise his head.

That was when he realised he wasn't breathing.

He lurched forward, arms and legs flailing to find purchase. His hands struck the inside of what might have been a tank, but his fingers slid uselessly aside when he tried to get a grip on it. He had no strength, no sense of balance. He felt like a baby in a bathtub—

Something clicked in his head at that image. He rolled over and found the bottom of what did indeed feel like a bath; the surface was smooth, slippery and ribbed. He kicked downward, arched his back and—fighting the pain and the weakness that pulled him back down—pushed up as hard as he could.

With a sucking noise, his head broke the surface. Noise and cold struck him immediately. The muffled sound that had woken him became the shouting of people nearby; the air stung his face like a slap. He opened his mouth to breathe and found that it was full of fluid, as were his throat and lungs. Choking, he fell forward and struck his head on the edge of the bath.

He blacked out for a moment, just long enough to slip back under. When his head cleared, he tried to reach the surface again. But the sensation of weakness had doubled; all the strength had been leeched out of his muscles. Within seconds he was so exhausted he could hardly move his legs at all.

This time, however, there were others to help him. Hands slid under his armpits and hauled him to a sitting position. Again his head broke the surface. He shook it, coughed, and expectorated what felt like litres of fluid from his lungs.

When the spasm had passed, he brought his legs up and rested his arms on his knees, keeping his head above the surface of the fluid. A careful pair of hands stayed under his armpits, keeping him upright. Every muscle in his body was quivering with fatigue, as though he had been running a marathon. His eyes were gummed shut, and he didn't have the strength to clear them.

Breathing in shallow, painful gasps, he concentrated on the voices as they slowly began to make sense:

“What the hell is that stuff?”

“Looks like some sort of protein gel, sir.”

“I want a chemist in here to check it out, make sure it's safe before anyone else sticks their hand in. And get a medic, while you're at it. I don't want him dying on us.”

I'm not dying, Jonah wanted to say. But his mouth wouldn't work properly and he wasn't sure if he knew what he was talking about. Maybe I am dying.

“How's that ID coming along?” the first voice went on.

“He could be either Lindsay Carlaw or Jonah McEwen, according to the isobloc records.”

“The Jonah McEwen?”

“Seems that way, but—”

“Christ. This is getting weirder by the second.”

“But the housekeeper isn't talking to us yet, sir, so we'll have to wait for Marylin to confirm it.”

“How long?”

“She's with the John Doe in the booth. Maybe five minutes until she's finished.”

“Well, tell her to get over here now. The other one isn't going anywhere in a hurry.”

“No need,” said a third voice, a woman. “I'm here. What's the problem?”

“Take a look at this. Ring a bell?”

Pause. “Shit.” From the tone of her voice it was clear she didn't swear often.

“Exactly. We found him a few minutes ago, trying to sit up.”

“Is he…?”

“Just give me a name, Marylin. I don't want to lead you.”

“Jonah McEwen.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. See the scar on his chest? I'd recognise it anywhere.” The woman's voice hitched slightly. “And this is his unit. He inherited it from his father.”

“Lindsay Carlaw?”

“That was his name, yes.”

Jonah shivered uncontrollably. One hand brushed his chest and he did indeed feel a rough patch of scar tissue where his right nipple should have been. He couldn't remember how it had got there, and how the woman who had pointed it out could have known him so intimately. Her voice cut him deeply, although he wasn't sure why.

“Thanks, Officer Blaylock,” said the first voice in a slightly softer tone. “Log the ID with Gillian and find out where that medic's got to.”

“But—”

“Just do it. McEwen doesn't look too good. I've never lost a suspect before, and I don't want to start now.”

Suspect?

Again something seemed to fall into place, deep inside his mind, with an almost audible click.

“W-wait.” Jonah raised his head. “Wait. Don't—”

The hands tightened under his armpits, restraining him.

“What the hell?”

“Sounds like he's trying to talk,” said the woman.

“Anybody catch it?”

“I—” Something loomed over him, visible only as a shadow through his eyelids. “No, wait—”

Metal clattered in the background.

“Will you keep it down out there?”

“Be careful, Marylin—”

“Let me handle this, Odi,” the shadow said. “Jonah? Jonah, can you hear me?”

He rolled his head back on a neck made of rubber, and felt his spine give way beneath him. A hand cupped his chin while the pair under his armpits tightened their grip, stopped him from sliding. For a moment, he thought he was going to faint.

“Jon?”

“I—” With an effort, he forced one eye open. The light that struck it was painfully bright. He blinked, felt tears stream down his cheek.

“Can you see me, Jon?”

“Can't—” His throat burned as if it was full of ground glass. “Can't remember.”

“Do you know who I am?”

He squinted up at the person bending over him. All he saw was a blur.

“Closer,” he managed.

She leaned forward until her face was barely a hand's length from his. As she did so, her features sprang into sharp focus: full lips, a generous nose and light green eyes that stared back at him with startling intensity. Her face revolved around that stare as though it was the vanguard—and dissecting tool—of the mind behind it.

One thing was wrong, though. He was sure about that, somehow—

Click

“You recognise me, don't you, Jon?”

“Yes.” His other eye came unstuck with a slight pop. He blinked twice, and it cleared. “You're Mary.”

She half-smiled. “Yes, I am.”

“You've changed—something.”

The smile disappeared. “Can you tell me what you're doing in here?”

“In where?” He looked around him. Apart from her face, the room was blurry. The colours were familiar, though, and she had mentioned the unit had once belonged to his father. It was his unit, now. What had happened to his father?

There were three more people in the room: one behind him, supporting him, the other two squatting near the woman he knew as Mary. They were out of focus, too.

He swallowed. “This is my bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“I must be in the spa.”

“Yes, Jon.”

“What happened? Did I fall asleep?” His hands slapped at the gel encasing his body; it was a translucent purple and gave off a bitter, chemical smell. “What is this stuff?”

“We're hoping you can tell us that,” said one of the others in the room, the one with the gruff voice.

“I don't know,” he said. Frustration made him feel dizzy. “I can't remember.”

“You're going to have to do better than that, McEwen.”

“Don't, Odi. He's obviously disoriented. At least give him a chance to recover before you interrogate him.”

As he listened to the woman defend him, memory stirred in his hindbrain.

Good cop, bad cop: he had known the routine well, once. It felt like a long time ago.

Click

“Mary,” he asked, clutching at the detail like a man reaching for a life-raft, “when did you change your hair?”

She turned back to him. “Six months ago.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Why not? You remember that far back, do you?”

“No, not exactly.” He shook his head. “I'm getting flashes. It's hard to explain.”

“You have to try, Jon. Really try. I don't think you realise what sort of trouble you might be in.”

“Trouble?” He tried to analyse her expression, but she had retreated out of range and become a blur again. “I don't know anything about trouble.” Click “But I do know that you were blonde the last time I saw you, which was definitely less than six months ago.”

“No, it wasn't.”

“It must have been.” Click “A couple of weeks, at the most. We'd just closed the Banytis file and gone out to dinner.” Click “You were trying a longer length, and I said—” Click “I said that if you grew it any longer, you'd look like Monroe.” Click “I did, didn't I?”

“That wasn't two weeks ago, Jonah.” Her voice was hard. “It wasn't even six months.”

Click “Oh god, Mary. Oh god.” More memories fell into place, and they were worse than he could have imagined. He folded his face in his hands to hide the tears from the people surrounding him. Their blurry silhouettes looked like vengeful ghosts at his deathbed. “Oh god.”

His father was dead!

“The last time I saw you, Jonah, was three years ago. You've been missing ever since.”

He hardly heard her, the sense of dislocation was so strong. His body didn't feel like his any more—so weak and hairless, so thin his arms looked like sticks—and he didn't even know how he had come to be this way.

Had he died too? Was this how Lazarus had felt?

Two more ghosts edged into his tomb. The woman he had been talking to backed away, made room for the others. One looked into his eyes and placed something down his throat. A new voice asked him questions he could no longer understand. His body went limp as the effort to think took its toll. His eyes slid shut, but the ghosts wouldn't let him sleep.

He didn't feel the hands move under his back and around his legs, but he did feel himself being lifted out of the gel and into the air. There was nothing he could do to stop them. His head lolled back and he was too weak to raise it. His body no longer responded at all. All he wanted to do was drift away, leave his body behind, rest forever—

Something cold pressed against his neck. He felt a sharp sting, and blackness enfolded him again.

Marylin Blaylock followed the stretcher out of the bathroom, feeling sick to the stomach. As she passed through the lounge, she avoided looking at the d-mat cubicle on the far side of the room. She had already seen its contents in explicit detail, and didn't want to be reminded just yet. There would be time later, once she had assimilated the reality of Jonah McEwen's reappearance into her mind-set. It was too easy, too tempting, to associate facts that might be separate, to prejudge before all the data was in.

Still, she had had two bad shocks that morning—one in the d-mat cubicle, the other on seeing Jonah again. It was him; she could not deny that, but at the same time she could hardly believe it.

The skeleton on the wheeled stretcher tried to move as the medic brought it to a halt in the spare bedroom, the only space in the unit not already taken over by the MIU away team.

“Easy.” The medic administered another injection to the skeleton's throat, pinching the skin to bring invisible capillaries to life. Vertebrae stood out like bony fists. Try as she might, Marylin couldn't see a single vein, let alone a pulse, in the waxy flesh.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

The medic looked up. He wasn't the team's usual medic and looked too young for Marylin's liking. “I think so, if we get him to proper facilities soon.”

“Are you sure? He looks terrible.”

“He's lost a lot of weight, obviously, but we can fix that. His heartbeat is regular and strong. He's responding to external stimuli, so his brain is functioning on some levels at least. I've seen people worse off than him make a complete recovery within a week or two.”

“But how did he get like this?”

“My guess? A combination of viraemia and starvation. He's been in that bath a hell of a lot longer than he should've been.”

Three years? she wanted to ask, but was interrupted by the arrival of Odi Whitesmith, officer in charge of the MIU away team. With him was the team's chemist.

“The gel is a military nutrient cocktail,” said the chemist, still holding a sample of the stuff in a plastic flask. “It's loaded with waste products, hence the colour.”

“Not dangerous?” Marylin asked.

“On the contrary. It's probably been keeping him alive. Covert divers breathed it during the Taiwan War, to cross the Strait of Formosa.”

“Well, he certainly wasn't going anywhere,” said Whitesmith, bending his large frame over the stretcher to take a better look. The medic glanced up at him, then went back to his work. A patch drip delivered a viscous, blue-white liquid into one bony arm, while a network of fine, black lines had begun to unfold across the fish-white scalp. The chemist grimaced and left them to it.

“Find anything yet?” Whitesmith asked the medic.

“I'm midway through an inventory now.” He rolled Jonah's head further back and began feeding a black nanowire into his nasal cavity. “There's something in his system apart from the usual, that's for sure. Given the nature of the gel, I'd guess it's a complementary device of some sort. There are kits designed to preserve the body through a prolonged period of inactivity. He might have used something like that.”

“How long for?” asked Whitesmith.

“Typically such things are recommended for six months maximum. Nanomachines can only do so much. I've no idea what would happen if used longer.”

“Maybe you do now.” Marylin didn't realise she'd spoken aloud until Whitesmith glanced sharply up at her.

“You think he really has been in there for three years?”

“Well,” she said, “there's the gel and the maintenance kit—if that's what it is—and his memory-loss—”

“He could be faking it. All of it.”

“He could be, yes, but why go to so much trouble? We weren't expecting to find him here, remember?”

“We were led here, Marylin. Someone knew we'd find him.”

“Not him. You can't lose that much weight in a few hours. It would've killed him.”

“By the looks of it, it almost did. Jesus.”

“Now you're clutching at straws. He's pumped full of maintenance nanos, not fat-strippers.”

He shrugged. “Too true. Maybe we should avoid jumping to conclusions until all the facts are in.”

Marylin nodded; her thoughts exactly. Playing devil's advocate was all too easy when his suggestions were based on such scant evidence.

But…He called me “Mary.” No one had addressed her by that name for three years. This more than anything convinced her that he had no memories of the time in between. And she had called him “Jon” in return. Old habits died very hard, it seemed.

“There's something else,” the medic said, frowning at the results of the latest test. “His brain-scan is highly unorthodox.”

“Damaged?” asked Marylin, her stomach roiling again.

“It's hard to be sure with this equipment. He's in a complex, deep alpha-early beta state, beating between seven and ten Hertz measuring one hundred and twenty-five and fifteen microvolts respectively. I don't recognise it. His cortex is a mess: prefrontal, parietal and temporal lobes full of old implants, most of them dead. There are breakdown products everywhere. He was short-sighted, right?”

She nodded, understanding the question if not the details that had preceded it. “Yes, severely. He had corrective implants installed when he was a child.”

“I thought so. They're dead too, so he won't be seeing too well when he wakes up again.”

“He wasn't before.”

“There you go. His limbic system is completely out of wack, too. There's something's going on in his amygdala and hippocampi, but I've no idea what. The activity doesn't correspond to anything the pathology database has seen before.”

“V-med?” Whitesmith suggested.

“I've compared the scan to those produced by known vegetative-meditative states. There are some similarities, yes, but nothing that quite fits.”

“What are the closest?”

The medic raised his eyes to consult his database. “Three inducers, all illegal: ReLive, InSight and AirBorn.”

“When were they banned?”

“ReLive and AirBorn almost a decade ago. InSight more recently, within the last two years.”

Whitesmith folded his arms and bit his thumb: a sign of deep thought, Marylin had learned. “If McEwen's telling us the truth, then InSight was legal when he took the plunge.”

“So?”

“Just a thought. How soon can we talk to him?”

“Give me a few minutes and I'll wake him.”

“Good enough. Make sure we're here when you do.”

“I don't know what sort of condition he'll be in—”

“He was lucid enough earlier. I'll take my chances.”

Whitesmith stepped back to give the medic room to work. Marylin followed him. They stood together in the doorway, not too far away from the noisy swarm of MIU officers examining the rest of the unit but removed enough to talk in private.

“Interesting,” he said around the thumb. “What do you think?”

“I think I've changed my mind. He might be faking it after all.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

“Jonah wasn't into v-med,” she said.

“Not to the best of your knowledge—”

“Not at all, Odi. It wouldn't have been like him even to consider it.”

“But it fits, dammit. Prolonged usage of InSight must've caused permanent side-effects, or else it wouldn't have been taken off the market. If we find that inducer's agents in his system, then that explains the odd brain scan. And to have sustained brain damage because he used InSight too long, he must've been in the gel a significant amount of time—just like the other evidence suggests. Right?”

“Not necessarily. I knew him, remember?”

“Sure. But we'll find the agents anyway, I'll bet. Mark me.” At her reluctance to concede the point, he removed the thumb from the corner of his mouth and jerked it in the direction of the bathroom. “Listen, what if he wasn't in there for three full years? Maybe it was only two and a half. That leaves a window of six months between the time you last saw him and him doing this to himself. A lot can change in that time.”

“I still don't believe it. He had too much to live for to throw it all away like this.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand and leaned against the door frame, amazed at how exhausted she felt. “But I'll admit I could be wrong. We never know someone else completely, no matter how close we are.”

“Quite. And not even ourselves, at times.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “Air.” It was his usual reply when caught spouting aphorisms. “I guess I'm just trying to say that I know how hard this is for you. That's all.”

She folded her arms across her chest, unhappy with herself for snapping at him. She and Whitesmith had worked together in the MIU, the Matter-transference Investigative Unit, for three months, in which time she had been forced often enough to update her opinion of him. At first he had seemed a parody of a law enforcement officer: conservative and tending to emphasise his masculinity whenever possible. His size—which, like his skin and hair, spoke volumes about his mixed Polish-African ancestry—didn't help. Gradually, she had realised that he was much more intelligent than that; he simply preferred to let his colleagues think with him, or for themselves. That made him seem arrogant at times—or caused him to be brusque when he believed people weren't reacting quickly enough—but she acknowledged that it was an effective technique overall; it kept the team on its toes.

And now, with his career on the line, he had taken time to empathise with her own emotional state.

“Sorry I'm so screwed up, Odi,” she said.

“That's why you're with us, remember?”

“It's still not very professional.”

“Crap, Blaylock. You're the best C-2 I've had in ages, and I'll be sure to say so in my assessment. Tell me otherwise and I'll report you for insubordination.”

She smiled, recognising the retreat into game-playing as something they both needed. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Oh, wouldn't I? All I need is—”

“Officer Whitesmith?”

Both of them turned.

“McEwen will be conscious any moment,” said the medic. “I've given him a high dose of a mix of boosters. He'll be perfectly lucid, but not for long. Ten minutes is the most I can give you.”

“That'll do.” Whitesmith swung his massive frame closer to the stretcher. With his help, the medic raised the skeleton to a half-sitting position, arms strapped securely—and futilely, Marylin thought—to its sides. She doubted if the thing that had once been Jonah McEwen would have the strength to sit up, let alone lash out. His body was covered with a white towel from the waist down; purple splotches marked where it had been used to wipe his face free of the gel.

“Let me handle him this time,” Whitesmith said, watching her closely from the far side of the stretcher. “I don't want him losing it again, and he might be more stable talking to a stranger.”

She nodded. “If he doesn't respond—”

“Sure, over to you. Just give me a chance, first. When he's told us everything we need to know, he's all yours.”

But do I really want him? Marylin asked herself.

Jonah's hands moved like dead leaves in a fitful autumn breeze, and suddenly his eyes were open.

“Mary?”

Whitesmith leaned over the stretcher and patted the skeleton on its right shoulder, his hand easily engulfing the bone standing out under skin. “Marylin's here, Jonah. I'm Officer Whitesmith of the MIU.”

Jonah blinked and squinted up at the stranger addressing him, but displayed none of the panic he had earlier. His voice was stronger too, Marilyn noted. Whatever the medic had given him, it had had an immediate effect.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I'd like to ask you some questions. Can you tell me your full name?”

“Jonah Ran McEwen.”

“Your address?”

“I—uh. It's on record, isn't it?”

“We can't access it. You're covered by the Non-Disclosure Indemnity.”

Jonah frowned. “I am?”

“Yes. You took the Privacy Option in ’66, paid up for five years. Don't you remember?”

“I'm not—” Jonah blinked, translucent lids flickering across ice-blue irises. “Unit 142, North-West Isobloc, Faux Sydney. Is that it?”

Whitesmith glanced at Marylin, who shook her head. She'd never known the address, having only d-matted to it on two occasions.

“That's where we are now,” Whitesmith said, “so I assume that's right.”

“How'd you get in here?” Jonah asked. “Did I call you?”

“Your housekeeper reported an intrusion,” Whitesmith explained. “I should point out, Jonah, that we weren't expecting to find you here even though we've been looking for you for some time.”

“Why?”

“That doesn't matter right now. I don't want to put ideas into your head. Rest assured, though, that if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

The skeletal hands clenched into fists. “That's a stupid thing to say to someone with a Non-Disclosure Option.”

“True.” Whitesmith pulled a face, but his voice remained soothing. “I just want to talk to you for a while, to find out what you remember and what you don't.”

“I can't tell you what I don't remember.”

“I understand—”

“Do you? Perhaps you can tell me, then, how I got to be like this.”

“No, I can't. We're doing our best to find that out, right now.”

“And I suppose you'll want to use the cage to make sure I'm telling the truth?”

“If you'll let us. We need your express permission first, of course—”

“I know. And that depends.”

“On what, Jonah?”

He lifted his head, fixed Whitesmith with a disconcertingly alert stare. “On what you think I've done, of course.”

“Can you guess?”

“If I could, I wouldn't be asking you, would I?”

“Not necessarily.”

Jonah blinked once, with a lizard's careful consideration, then sagged back onto the stretcher. “What the hell. Get the cage. It'll probably help me as much as it will you. Anything to work out what's gone wrong with my head. I—” Jonah stopped, swallowed. “I'm not thinking very clearly at the moment.”

Whitesmith indicated that the medic should attach the device to the fine web of nanowire already enclosing Jonah's hairless skull.

As the medic worked, the fleeting energy that had animated Jonah's thin frame ebbed. His half-lidded eyes drifted to Marylin, then back to Whitesmith.

“Where's Mary?” he asked, again using the nickname she had abandoned along with him.

“Right here, Jonah, next to you. You can't see her?”

“No. I can't see a thing.” He gestured weakly with one hand. “In the bedside cabinet there's a pair of glasses. For emergencies.”

Whitesmith nodded at Marylin, who crossed the room to the cabinet and began rifling through drawers. At the back of the second, she found a hard plastic case with the initials A. L. C. inscribed upon the lid. Inside was a pair of antique half-moon glasses with silver frames and imitation ivory ear-pieces. She returned to Jonah's side and showed them to him.

He nodded. “Put them on for me, will you? I can't seem to lift my arms.”

She did so awkwardly, avoiding looking at him too closely; the shallow rise and fall of his chest emphasised the prominence of his ribcage. She backed away as soon as the glasses were in place. They made him look old, but his eyes were piercing through the plastic lenses, almost malicious. For all the apparent dysfunction indicated by both the brain scan and his own admission, his mind seemed as sharp as ever.

That bothered her, made her wonder if Jonah was faking infirmity to lull Whitesmith into a false sense of security, but she didn't voice her doubts. For the moment, she was in the back seat. If Whitesmith lost control, then she would step in.

On the heels of that thought came another realisation: the look in Jonah's eyes wasn't one of malice. It was fear.

“That's better.” Jonah glanced down at himself, then to one side as the medic reached down over his head to adjust the nanowire in his nostril. “Have I been sick? I look terrible.”

“We'll need to run some tests to find out for certain,” said Whitesmith, “but it looks like nanoware's involved.”

“I've been blitzed? Is that it?”

“I doubt it. If you had been, you'd probably be dead now.”

“True enough, I guess.”

From behind Jonah's head, the medic gave a thumb's-up to indicate that the cage was in position.

“Okay, Jonah,” Whitesmith said, “we're ready if you are.”

“What's the procedure?”

“I'll ask you some questions and you can answer them to the best of your ability.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Minor details at first, to test how much you remember of everyday life. Then we'll move onto more pertinent information, like what you've been doing since you opted for Privacy. Okay?”

Jonah turned to look at Marylin for a second, then said to Whitesmith: “No.”

Whitesmith hesitated. “I'm sorry, Jonah? I thought—”

“I know what you thought, but it isn't going to happen like that.”

For a moment, Whitesmith was completely nonplussed by the sudden change in Jonah's behaviour. Bingo, Marylin thought.

“Can I ask why?” Whitesmith eventually managed.

Jonah raised a hand as high as he could. “You're looking for information, right?”

“Yes—”

“Well, so am I, and letting myself be interrogated isn't the best way for me to get it. Instead I'll tell you what I remember. I remember being woken up in my own home by people I didn't invite in. My physical condition was poor, yet apart from the bare minimum necessary to keep me alive and talking, these people haven't administered any form of medical treatment or given me a diagnosis. Neither have they offered an explanation as to why they're here or who they really are. All they do is mutter dark warnings about ‘leading’ me, as though I'm a witness to something, or under suspicion myself.”

“Jonah—”

“Let me finish, Whitesmith.” For the first time since his awakening, Marylin saw colour in Jonah's cheeks. “I'll say right now that I have no memory of seeing or doing anything recently that would warrant investigation—but until you tell me what the hell you're doing here and who you represent, I'm not saying another word.”

“Listen, Jonah,” Whitesmith said, “I'm sorry if I underestimated your alertness—”

“And overestimated my strength?” Jonah jerked against the restraints as hard as he was able, barely making the stretcher rattle. “You've got me strapped down, for christ's sake!”

“We're operating under extraordinary circumstances. As I told you earlier, your housekeeper reported a disturbance—”

“What sort of disturbance, exactly?”

“It's not in your best interests to know—not at this point, anyway.”

“No. Why not? It's my unit. Surely I have a right to know when something's wrong with it?”

“Not necessarily.” Whitesmith's voice remained carefully level as he tried to make up lost ground. “You were deprived of certain rights the moment we found you here. There's enough material evidence inside this unit to get us any warrant we want, be it for your private files or the inside of your head. If I haven't bothered with the paperwork, it's only because I'd rather spend the ten minutes required going over this place while the scene is still fresh. Best if you cooperate and let us get on with it, eh?”

“What evidence?” Jonah shook his head in exasperation, perhaps sensing the half-truth in Whitesmith's words: a warrant wouldn't be that easy to get without more concrete evidence. “I'm telling you, Whitesmith, I have no idea what the hell you're talking about. As far as I know, the last time I saw my unit it was empty apart from my furniture and me. If anything's changed since then, it wasn't my doing.” Jonah swivelled to catch the medic's expression through his glasses. “Well? Am I telling the truth?”

The medic looked uncomfortable. “It's hard to say. This isn't really my field, and your brain scan is irregular. I'm fairly certain the memories you've examined in the last five minutes aren't fake or implanted, but I'd hate to guarantee it.”

Jonah turned back to Whitesmith. “That's good enough for me. What about you?”

“I'll need a more definite response than that—”

“How much more definite can I be? I've permitted you to attach a cage, so you can't say I'm being noncompliant. It's not my fault if it can't tell if I'm lying or not. Just give me what I want, and I'll happily and truthfully answer every question you ask. You can poke around in my head until your heart's content, provided only that you tell me whether I should be worried or not. And if so, why. That's all I really want from you. Is it so much to ask?”

Jonah's hands shook as he pleaded for reason with Whitesmith. His eyes were sinking into their sockets, making his head look even more skull-like.

Feeling it was time she stepped in, before Jonah lost what little remained of his strength, Marylin broke her promise to Whitesmith and spoke up. “You should be, Jonah. Worried, I mean.”

“Thanks, Mary, and now I definitely am. But of what? Stop scaring the crap out of me and give me some answers, please!”

“Odi?” she asked, turning to her fellow officer. “How about it? The interview's almost over, anyway.”

Whitesmith locked eyes with Marylin. She was momentarily taken aback by the anger she saw in his expression, until she realised that it wasn't her doing, even if it was directed at her. He was frustrated with himself for letting Jonah out-manoeuvre him, and with the world for denying him an easy solution to his problem. Exactly what he would do next, how that anger would manifest itself, she had no way of guessing.

The trouble was, she thought, both of them had a point.

“All right, Jonah,” Whitesmith finally said through clenched teeth. “If you really want to know what's going on here, I'll show you. Marylin, give me a hand.”

It took her a second to work out what he meant. By the time she realised, he had picked up the medic's field kit—still connected to Jonah by numerous patches and filaments—and began pushing the stretcher to the door.

“Wait—Odi, you can't be serious!”

“I don't recommend it either,” said the medic, grabbing one of Whitesmith's arms and attempting to hold him back. “My patient is in a serious condition—”

“Fuck your patient,” Whitesmith snapped back. “My investigation is as good as dead, and that matters more to me at the moment.” He looked to Marylin: “And if he says he doesn't remember, well, this is a sure-fire way to jog his memory. Are you going to help me or not?”

Against her better instincts, she nodded, grabbed one edge of the stretcher and began to push.

All trace of colour vanished from Jonah's face as he was wheeled unceremoniously for the door.

“Get the hell out of the way!” Whitesmith bellowed to an officer standing in the hall. “We're coming through!”

The first bump cost Jonah his balance along with any remaining pretence of strength. He sagged down into the mattress, head rocking limply on his chest. Calling Whitesmith's bluff had taken more out of him than he could have imagined. His heartbeat thudded in his temples. He thought for a terrible moment that he was about to pass out, but held on to consciousness with all the will he could muster.

He only needed another moment or two; just long enough to find out what sort of a mess he'd got himself into. After that, he could sleep for a week—if Whitesmith would let him.

Black-and-grey-uniformed officers scattered as they burst out of the hall. Time seemed to slow as the stretcher swung into the combined kitchen and dining area, then through an arched doorway, along another hall and past the bathroom. Everything he saw was loaded with significance, not all of it immediately obvious. Partial memories exploded in his mind like firecrackers.

Click A painting of a mountain his father had sketched while on holiday in Quebec and finished shortly before his death—

Click The sink in which he, Jonah, had vomited the night after taking a black market dose of anti-fatigue agents—

Click Four statuesque sunflowers preserved in nanofilm, plucked from a field next to the graveyard in which his birth-mother's body lay rotting—

Click

Click

Click

The stretcher swung into the spacious family room and collided with a multilimbed automaton of unfamiliar design. The machine glided out of the way, followed by curses from Whitesmith as he wrenched the stretcher to face the far wall. There, framed by spotlights and surrounded by still more uniformed officers, was the unit's private d-mat booth.

The stretcher jerked to a halt. Jonah slid further down, assuming a near-foetal position. His body was becoming increasingly vague, distant, irrelevant—

“You sonofabitch!” Strong hands hauled him upright and lifted his head. Whitesmith's olive-skinned face pressed close to his. Fingers dug into his skull, wrenched him forward until he could see into the booth. “Look, damn you!”

Jonah did look. At first his vision was blurry, despite the glasses. Then, suddenly, it cleared and he saw—

Click

This was the most vivid and painful memory of all. He was bending over his father's body where it lay tangled from the waist down in the wreckage of QUIDDITY. Blood had spread in a pool across the floor, and every step he took splashed more onto his shoes. He couldn't stop moving, even though he knew he was spoiling the crime scene; he cursed himself for it even as he cried. Pain in his shoulder nagged that he hadn't escaped the explosion unscathed, but he barely noticed it. All he felt was grief and guilt in equal proportions.

It was clear what had happened: the bomb had been planted in the Science of Consciousness Applied Research building and Lindsay Carlaw had been as much its target as the experiment called QUIDDITY. But it was too late now to change anything. His father was dead because of him and there was nothing he could do to bring him back—not even Resurrection. Not for Lindsay—one of the few people Jonah considered worthy of a second chance.

It wasn't until the bomb squad finally arrived, and gently but firmly pulled him away from the body, that he realised how trapped he was in the ruined laboratory. He was in a loop, enduring the moment of his father's death over and over again, unable to change the outcome, but equally unable to stop himself living through it again.

Barely had he gone two steps when he was filled with an urge to run—to flee the scene he had left behind as though he could outrun it and escape to another reality in which his father had never died.

But he couldn't. He had nowhere—and no one—left to run to. Not now that Lindsay was dead, and Marylin—Marylin had told him that morning—had told him—

“Why are you crying, Jonah?” she asked.

He raised his head and found himself back in his unit, strapped to the stretcher. It was her hand tipping his skull forward so he could see more clearly—see the pieces of flesh that had once been a human being piled like chopped wood in his d-mat booth.

He tried to look away, but she wouldn't let him. The tears in his eyes made the blood run afresh, even where it had dried and stained his carpet brown.

“I killed him,” he said, the words appearing in his mouth as though spoken by someone else. “It's all my fault.”

“‘Him,’ Jonah? What are you saying?”

He shook his head, scattering tears. “Mary, please. I can't take any more.”

“Jon!”

He turned away and closed his eyes, but he could feel her stare lingering on him like a brand. The accusation in her eyes hurt all the more because part of him—the part that was still, and would always be, trapped in the loop with the body of his father—knew he deserved it.

From a position 36,000 kilometres above the east coast of Africa, SHE watched with interest as members of the MIU away team returned to Artsutanov Station from the latest disposal scene. Although each transfer took a mean of just twenty-two minutes—close proximity to the hub of KTI on arrival overriding the congestion that made the Pool sluggish that day—barely a dozen dedicated In-booths were being used to reintegrate the bodies of the human investigators and the equipment they had taken with them. It was not normal procedure for the team to be so out-of-sync; the backlog was symptomatic of constricted resources on the ground.

The law was weak in that regard. It would have been much more efficient, and only marginally less safe, to d-mat two or three people at once in each booth. However, unenlightened humans tended to equate “less safe” with “dangerous” when applied to a means of transportation they still regarded with scepticism. Or so SHE had learned during QUALIA's two-year existence. As a further result of that learning process, SHE was beginning to sympathise with those humans who equated “unenlightened” with “in high Public Office.”

Part of QUALIA had been monitoring the away team's raw feed, so SHE was ready when the unconscious Citizen (Private) Jonah Ran McEwen arrived on a stretcher. Public Officer (MIU Detective, Class 1) Odi Washington Whitesmith had arranged in advance for a full medical team to be standing by. When McEwen emerged from the d-mat booth, he was immediately whisked away to the low gravity environment of KTI's medical centre.

SHE looked forward to studying him in detail once his examination began. The manifold senses of KTI would be much more revealing than the so-called visible spectrum relayed by the optic feed of a biomodified officer. Rarely did SHE have the opportunity to observe a human in such poor condition. The people SHE worked with were normally either in perfect physical health or dead.

Whitesmith and his assistant, Public Officer (MIU Detective, Class 2) Marylin Agueda Blaylock, were not due for another ten minutes. Still, there were a myriad other ways SHE could add to QUALIA's already extensive database devoted to the Twinmaker murders. Of minor interest was the field report Whitesmith had sent to Public Officer (MIU Director of Operations) Jago Searle Trevaskis shortly before leaving the scene. Due to the abnormal congestion in the Pool, the file had been transmitted live via a satellite dish requisitioned from the Isobloc's security force and relayed through the old Teledesic satellite network to Artsutanov Station. The transmission also included the audiovisual feeds from scanners, automatons and MIU Officers, as well as the details recorded by the forensic robot nicknamed “the spider.” The file was encrypted, but as the holder of the decoding algorithms, SHE had had no difficulty translating it.

SHE read the report out of curiosity, not because Whitesmith was privy to information SHE could not have learned elsewhere, but because SHE found his and Marylin Blaylock's viewpoints—so close to the centre of the investigation yet so coloured and influenced by their individual personalities—fascinating.

JT,

See below as per your request. Rough, I know, but best possible under the circumstances.

At 0430 WAST, shortly before 0030 Goliath time, the housekeeper of Unit 114, NorthWest Isobloc, Faux Sydney, notified the local security force, in accordance with its programming, that it had discovered the presence of an intruder within its territory. Two officers went to investigate.

When they gained entrance, they found a mutilated corpse in the unit's d-mat booth. Fortunately for us, they immediately left the scene and called their supervising officer for assistance. Normally, local security would handle any such incident on its own, as part of the Isobloc's Privacy charter, but in this instance the security chief recognised the MO of the Twinmaker from the alert the MIU posted last night and duly notified us. We were in transit fifteen minutes later and arrived at the scene at six o'clock a.m. local time.

In accordance with SOP, we sealed the area and arranged a doorknock of neighbouring residents by local security officers. We also sent a spider into the unit before entering it ourselves, to prevent any further contamination of the scene. The spider found the body in the location we had been told it would be. On-site testing confirmed it to be female and that it exhibited many of the signatures found on previous occasions. The spider also found two sets of footprints leading part-way into the apartment then out again. An analysis of imported material confirmed that these were the footprints of the guards summoned by the housekeeper. Once the spider had completed its examination and concluded that the house was unoccupied, we moved in to examine the scene ourselves.

During the course of our investigation of the unit, one of our officers discovered what appeared to be a second dead body—an emaciated male completely submerged in fluid of some kind in the unit's spa bath. She reported it to me and I decided to look into it personally. My first thoughts were either that the officer was mistaken, somehow, or that the Twinmaker had committed suicide and left his body near that of his last victim.

I was wrong on both counts. It was another body and it did look exactly like a corpse, until it moved.

SHE retrieved from the raw data a recording of Whitesmith's expressions upon the awakening of Jonah McEwen: surprise, first of all, followed by an ambiguous look that might have been revulsion; then, when Marylin Blaylock had confirmed that the unknown man was indeed McEwen, triumph.

As McEwen's examination had proceeded, however, and the situation had become increasingly uncertain, that look of triumph had begun to fade. Within thirty minutes, it had transformed into one of rage.

Since achieving ometeosis—the phenomenon of “thinking oneself into being”—QUALIA had devoted a considerable amount of time to analysing the diverse responses of the people SHE dealt with regularly. SHE therefore felt confident that the plot of Whitesmith's changing emotional state was sound. But SHE was also aware that his actual state of mind was, to all intents and purposes, unknowable. Humans communicated only so much by means of their facial expressions, postures and tone of voice, and a significant proportion of this communication was not consciously directed. Although SHE was aware that humans possessed unconscious minds, SHE did not entirely comprehend how they functioned or what purpose they served.

Lacking that natural comprehension, any interpretation SHE made of Whitesmith's behaviour was bound to be suspect. Whether he was simply trying to perform well under a great deal of pressure, or was subconsciously perturbed that Blaylock was not only an extremely capable officer but an attractive woman as well, SHE was unable to decide. Perhaps it was both. Human behaviour was most difficult to read when conflict existed on different levels simultaneously.

Still, it didn't hurt to read the man's words. Since studying his subconscious behaviour was the principle means by which SHE hoped to understand him, and words were the medium of the conscious, what he didn't say told her much about him.

Blaylock's position was more difficult to analyse without the benefit of her report. Whitesmith's would be no use as a guide, judging from past experience. In addition to their gross cosmetic disparities, each reacted quite differently to what seemed—on the surface, at least—to be identical data.

On an intellectual level, SHE guessed, Blaylock was experiencing conflict between her duties as an officer of the MIU and as an old associate of McEwen. It showed in the way she and Whitesmith circled each other, changing sides at the slightest hint of new evidence (adding an extra level of complexity to their usual semantic sparring). First McEwen was in the tank, then he wasn't; SHE wished Blaylock would just make up her mind what she thought, or at least wait until she had enough evidence before taking a stand—in the case of v-med particularly, as she insisted Whitesmith should do elsewhere—rather than allow issues from the past to interfere with present duties.

The information SHE possessed regarding Blaylock's relationship with McEwen came from her official recollections and a few scraps SHE recovered from Lindsay Carlaw's diaries. The rest was covered by Privacy, and SHE was not permitted to part that veil of secrecy. But SHE suspected that there was more to the relationship than met the eye, that SHE may have uncovered yet another example of human self-censorship. Exactly what Marylin Blaylock was protecting herself from, however, again remained to be seen. It may have been nothing more sinister than embarrassment, or regret.

Even as SHE considered the possibilities, SHE realised how unlikely it was that SHE would ever be able to model human behaviour with even a modicum of accuracy; complex systems were notoriously easy to misinterpret. But if, somehow, after all QUALIA's musings upon the people SHE knew well, SHE earned just one revelation about the killer, then the exercise would have been worthwhile.

After giving an overview of McEwen's initial interrogation, Whitesmith concluded:

McEwen agreed to the use of a cage, but proved resistant to interrogation. Even under extreme duress, he professed to have no knowledge of the body found in his unit. Showing him the body did elicit a confession of sorts, but not the one we were after—subsequent to which he lost consciousness again.

Preliminary examination indicated the presence of two unusual nanoagents within his system. Both appear to have been employed longer than the prescribed time, resulting in severe physical and mental dysfunction. In addition to his extreme emaciation, he appears to be experiencing memory loss roughly three years in length, dating back from his awakening. The medic's opinion is that McEwen is suffering from physical and mental stress and will be unable to endure further interrogation for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe forty-eight.

As I dictate this, he is being prepared and sedated for transport to KTI for a full medical examination. Once we know for certain what agents are in his system and what effects they have had, we can start to think about what to do with him next.

At least we've finally found him, though. That's one mystery solved. And now that a body has turned up literally on his doorstep, we have proof of his connection to the murders. Just having him in our custody opens a wide avenue of new investigation.

OW

QUALIA hoped the medic's estimate was incorrect. Given the chance, SHE would have begun REM probing within the hour. But SHE was required to wait until the MIU team invited QUALIA to participate. Until then, all SHE could do was watch, and consider the data SHE already had.

SHE had already cross-referenced every known detail of the Faux Sydney disposal scene with those from the fifteen previous places the Twinmaker had left his victims. (SHE preferred to use the masculine pronoun over the gender-neutral “es” simply because all the psychological profiles of the murderer agreed that the killer was probably male.) The list of correlations was extensive, supporting the theory that the person responsible for the murder was indeed the Twinmaker. Like Whitesmith, SHE suspected that McEwen's discovery at the disposal scene would be a turning point in the investigation.

Unlike Whitesmith, however, SHE was not circumspect regarding the role of the investigators in that morning's proceedings—particularly with respect to the part Whitesmith's own emotions had played. SHE couldn't help but wonder why he downplayed that effect in his report. His pride had indirectly resulted in McEwen's resistance under interrogation; certainly it was his anger that had led to McEwen viewing the body—which was hardly normal procedure under any circumstances. Whatever had engendered this response, SHE was anxious to identify it and to prevent it from jeopardising any future investigations.

Barely had Whitesmith and Blaylock left the MIU's d-mat complex when a call came from Jago Trevaskis' secretary requesting a face-to-face debriefing session with the two officers. SHE left them at that point. Not only was the Director of MIU's office one of the few in the habitat closed to QUALIA's senses, but there were more pertinent matters demanding QUALIA's attention. On the far side of Artsutanov Station, Jonah McEwen had almost arrived at KTI's medical centre and would soon be examined. That was something SHE intended not to miss. At the same time, SHE sent KittyHawk into the Pool to log the findings where the Watchers—the minds that followed QUALIA's development, among other things—would know to find it.

Besides, Jago Trevaskis was not high on QUALIA's list of humans to observe. SHE had tried to explain too many times to the Director of MIU that the difference between Artificial Intelligence and Intelligent Awareness was as great as that between a human and a rhesus monkey—but he had never been convinced. To him, QUALIA was just another clever machine brought into being to serve the interests of humanity.

That thought, for a two-year-old of any intelligent species, was simply offensive.

Through the eyes of the spider, the body parts resembled mountains drowned in red dirt—not dissimilar to an aerial view of Kata Tjuta in Central Australia. Although the disposal site had been reconstructed in perfect detail, able to be revisited by VTC from any angle with a hypertext overlay—but without the smooth production values of commercial Context-Rich Environments—something of the spider's perspective remained. Marylin couldn't shake the feeling that she was a mosquito swooping low to partake in a bloody feast.

The nickname was partly responsible for that feeling, she thought. The word “spider” conjured an image of tiny multiple eyes and a compact body, when in fact the forensic robot was a boxy, plastic machine with a reach of almost fifteen metres.

As the visual field she shared with Odi Whitesmith and Jago Trevaskis floated over the body, dozens of white and yellow icons appeared like arcane markers designed to keep evil spirits at bay.

“This is only a preliminary assessment,” Whitesmith said, speaking aloud rather than using the prevocal options that parallel Virtual TeleConference allowed. His tone was weary, bordering on terse. “We've highlighted probable ligature marks, defensive injuries, postmortem cuts, bruises, amputations—the usual. Where we can tell in which direction a severing wound occurred, we've marked that, too.”

“Have you put her back together yet?” Trevaskis asked. In contrast to Whitesmith, he spoke casually, as though discussing a jigsaw puzzle rather than the remains of a human being.

“More or less.” The pieces took on a life of their own as Whitesmith instructed the software to join corresponding yellow markers. When the severed body parts had finished moving, a human body lay on the floor of the virtual d-mat booth, cleaned of dried blood, only a few pieces of torso and internal organs remaining to be fitted together. The body's sex and the marks where the killer had tied the woman prior to dismemberment were more visible this way.

Marylin winced at the sight. Body parts were just bits of disconnected meat, hard to relate to or empathise with. The faceless corpse revealed before her, however, could have been her own.

Studying it, she felt the familiar sense of injustice, and asked the same rhetorical question of no deity in particular: How could anybody do this? She wasn't like Whitesmith, hadn't yet learned to anaesthetise herself to the horrors they were encountering regularly during the Twinmaker investigation. Part of her was glad that she had not.

“We haven't performed a full autopsy yet,” he went on, “so we have several candidates for cause of death. There's a mark around her neck suggesting asphyxiation—a bag tied over her head or something similar—but not strangulation. Also, we have numerous shallow puncture wounds to her stomach and chest, probably caused by an ice-pick—”

“How many wounds, exactly?” Trevaskis asked.

“One hundred and forty-two. We don't know for sure if they killed her; some of them were certainly made after death. Both the asphyxiation and the ice-pick wounds could have been torture, though, rather than an attempt to finish her off. The third possibility is dehydration; all tissue and blood samples subjected to on-site analysis were crawling with repair agents, and Marylin found hints of wounds that had almost healed over. He was obviously busy with her for some time before letting her die. Maybe he got an extra kick from not knowing exactly when she would succumb.”

“Tfu.” The exclamation sounded more vile than any curse Trevaskis could have uttered. “I didn't think this jebaniec could get any sicker. Obviously I was wrong.”

Marylin stirred.

“Actually, sir, I think he's getting bored,” she said.

“Oh?”

“This is the sixteenth body in as many months, in which time his modus operandi has hardly changed. It's becoming routine, too easy. We've seen escalation of signature violence in the last couple of cases; this may be the first time it has fully manifested. He's trying to recapture the thrill.”

“Plausible.” Trevaskis was silent for a moment. “The scars you say you saw are marked, but I can't see them. Why is that?”

She took a deep breath. “Sometimes the spider has difficulty distinguishing between different types of organic matter. That's why I always examine the body of a victim in person, even when a spider has been over it once, to check for evidence that might have been overlooked.” She wished she could see him; she couldn't tell from his voice alone whether she was being criticised or praised. “In this case, there was.”

“Could you tell what sort of wounds they were?”

“Unfortunately, no, sir; just that they were there.”

“I'd like to see detailed images of the scars, then, on the off-chance they're the remains of bites or scratches. He might have removed similar identifying marks from other bodies the same way. Maybe this one died before the agents could finish their work.”

“You think he made a mistake?” asked Whitesmith.

“Not really, but it's worth investigating. Tell Indira to look into it when they get the body up here.” Trevaskis cleared his throat. “Good work, Marylin. Odi, take the body apart again.”

The body assumed its previous position, scattered in pieces on the floor of the d-mat booth. The positioning was haphazard, with no apparent juxtaposition of genitals, buttocks and breasts; blood splatter on the walls, plus the absence of footprints in the blood, indicated that the pieces had been thrown into the booth and left to lie where they fell. The woman's head, scalped and skinned after death, rested upside down in one corner not far from her toeless feet.

This time, however, Whitesmith had selected the view seen when the spider had first entered the unit, rather than the one that showed the body. There was only one difference, but it was eye-catching.

Resting on the remains of the woman, in the precise centre of the booth, was a piece of paper.

“The usual staging,” said Whitesmith. “Randomness of placement belies the planning required for disposal, intended to give us the impression that the killer is disorganised and wanted to get rid of the body as quickly as possible—”

“Unless he genuinely doesn't care,” Marylin interrupted, “and it's the placement of the body as a whole that's significant.”

“True. The jury's still out on that one.” Whitesmith shifted in his seat.

“The note?” Trevaskis prompted.

“A cover of another WHOLE leaflet. One of the classics this time: Soul Pollution. The complete text is on file.”

“No special significance?”

“Just the usual anti-KTI sentiments. No threats, explicit or otherwise.”

“The ‘Murdering Twinmaker’ strikes again.” Trevaskis sighed. “And the victim herself. Do we have a name, yet?”

“No. We've sent the samples to the home team; they'll let us know when they have an ID. Skull and bone structure, as well as skeletal height, suggests we have another match.”

“The odds were for it,” Trevaskis said.

“As far as other evidence goes, we have the usual list. No murder or torture weapons were found with the body, although at least six were used: the ice-pick, an axe, a cutting laser and three knives of different sizes, possibly scalpels. The victim was bound with packing tape and nylon rope; residues left on the skin will be examined later today. The spider took surface samples to check for any unusual deposits peculiar to the environment of the murder scene, but, again, we'll have to wait for results to come through on those. The killer left no fingerprints, no hairs, no skin, saliva or semen.” Whitesmith paused, obviously checking a mental inventory to see if he'd left anything out. “There's only one thing, really, that we can be sure of.”

“Which is?”

“She wasn't killed in McEwen's unit.”

“That's conclusive?”

“Absolutely. Apart from blood that leaked out of the d-mat booth, there's no evidence she was ever there. Plus, the unit shows every sign of having been abandoned until she arrived this morning.”

“Apart from McEwen.”

“Including McEwen. Unless he's reprogrammed his housekeeper and does his own cleaning, the unit has been empty for up to a week. No one disturbed it. If anybody was in there, they weren't moving.”

Trevaskis clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Marylin waited for him to say something, to voice the thought they were all thinking. But he didn't need to; the silence was eloquent enough. This wasn't quite the answer they'd been looking for.

“Okay,” he eventually said. “That'll do for now.”

“Kill it?” Whitesmith asked.

“Yes.”

Thank God for small mercies, Marylin breathed to herself, and opened her eyes on reality.

The office used by the Director of MIU was situated on the outermost level of Artsutanov Station, with very little apart from radiation shielding between the floor and vacuum. It had no view; instead, a 3-D panel on one wall panned across a Nepalese mountainside to lend a feeling of spaciousness. The room's furnishings featured fabrics with a crimson theme that Marylin found faintly discomforting. Whatever the purpose of the decor, be it to conceal security devices or to muffle bugs, it radiated artifice and insecurity, as well as a hint of prurience.

But that was Trevaskis in a nutshell, not just his office. He had the well-balanced features of a thirty-year-old, despite being at least sixty; his skin was lamp-tanned rather than the pallor of most white orbital citizens. His brown hair, kept long in defiance of habitat guidelines, dangled behind him like a horse's tail. Even the way he spoke, with his occasional and certainly cultivated use of argot, was probably nothing more than an act.

Marylin had accompanied Whitesmith to many such debriefing sessions and had never once felt comfortable in Trevaskis' presence. Half the time she didn't even know why she was there. Not only was meeting in person unnecessary, but being grilled by the man who was her ultimate superior, and was himself just another lackey of KTI, had dubious attractions. Especially after the events of that morning.

She stretched. Her muscles were stiff, exhausted from holding a rigid pose for almost half an hour. The only senses used during VTC were sight and sound, but that was enough to convince the mind that it had been dislocated from the body. Reorientation to the real world was always difficult.

Whitesmith ground his knuckles into his thighs, making them crack. When he looked at her, his eyes were red-rimmed. They conveyed the impression of a man who'd banged his head against a wall until the wall had finally collapsed—only to reveal another wall standing beyond it.

“So,” Trevaskis said, guiding his wheelchair back to his desk with economical tugs of his hands. His uniform was hand-tailored from genuine black cotton, complete to a point midway along his thighs where leather pads hid the stumps of his legs from sight. “We have our suspect at last. That's one step forward, regardless how many we may take sideways in the next few hours.”

“Which could be more than we'd like.”

“I know, Odi. But it begins to look like we're getting somewhere. What's your gut feeling on McEwen?”

Whitesmith shrugged. “I think he's guilty of something. He admitted as much when we showed him the body. What, though, remains to be seen.”

“That could be said of all of us.” A smile hinted at levity—but it was only a hint. “Marylin?”

“I think we were given him, sir,” she said without hesitating. “The Twinmaker tossed him to us like he'd throw a dog a rubber bone.”

“He's taunting us?”

“Yes. The boredom factor again. The Twinmaker knew we were looking for Jonah, so he tracked him down and led us right to him. The only reason he did that is because he knows Jonah won't or can't help us.”

“Unless, deep down, the killer really wants to be caught,” Whitesmith pointed out. “He desires punishment.”

“And he wants us to earn the privilege of giving it to him?” She acknowledged the possibility with a shrug. “That could be a result of boredom, too.”

“Or he's dealing us a wild card, to see what we do next.” Trevaskis tapped the tips of his index fingers against perfect white teeth. “The thought of us having McEwen in custody and unable to prosecute would give him no small satisfaction, I'm sure.”

Whitesmith exhaled heavily through his nose. “Museii,” he said.

Marylin recognised the Japanese word for “wet dream,” used on the street when someone was running the risk of thinking too much.

“We can't take anything for granted,” Trevaskis said, his tone defensive, no doubt sensing the double dig at him.

“Exactly, sir,” Marylin put in. “At the same time, we have to be sure we're not letting him lead us, either.”

“I'm aware of that possibility.” Trevaskis' eyes glittered. “But at the moment all we really have is McEwen in a tub full of maintenance fluid and a body in his d-mat booth. Where could we possibly be led, to any degree of certainty, by that?” Trevaskis' body was utterly still, so intently focussed was he on her. “I can see two possibilities. One: McEwen really has been hibernating in the bath since the day after you last saw him, as you originally thought. That's the obvious answer, and the one we must therefore treat with the greatest scepticism. Two: he's a skin, killing by VR teleoperation from the bath, using drones to avoid leaving traces on the bodies. The damage to his memory, if it's genuine, could be deliberately inflicted to stop us forcing a confession from him. If the second possibility is the correct one, where does that leave us? With a killer we are unable to convict because we lack material evidence, who may not legally have committed a crime at all, and who doesn't even remember what he's done. It'd be the ultimate irony, from his point of view.”

“I don't doubt it, sir.” Marylin remembered the look in Jonah's eyes: not fear of being caught, but fear of not knowing what he was supposed to have done. “But it'd be an enormous risk to take.”

Trevaskis snorted. “This whole thing is an enormous risk. If he wanted to up the stakes, this'd be the way. Do you agree?”

Marylin nodded reluctantly.

“So what do you suggest we do?” Whitesmith asked. “Nothing?”

“We need to check every possibility. He's being examined at the moment and the results will either corroborate his story or not. If he is a skin, there'll be nanoware, or traces of nanoware, all through his body. There'll also be teleop relay systems in the house and intelligent software to link it all together. I want a team to go over the place from top to bottom. I want every link checked.”

“Jonah wouldn't have the first idea how to use that sort of technology,” she said. “He dabbled with wetware and body-related tech, not remote consciousness and displacement add-ons.”

“Yet McEwen's father was Lindsay Carlaw, one of the early SciCon founders.” Whitesmith leaned forward. “And there's an office full of hardware off the main bedroom.”

“Well, then…” Trevaskis raised an eyebrow at Marylin.

“That hardware belongs to Carlaw. The sort of equipment needed to develop AI isn't the sort you'd use to hack into KTI,” she said.

“Still, take an inventory and run it by Herold Verstegen. See what he says.” Trevaskis sank back into his chair. “There's no reason not to check. Until we prove that McEwen doesn't have the right sort of setup at his disposal, and/or the ability to use it, we have to treat him very carefully.”

“Guilty until proven otherwise?”

“Convicted by your own testimony, Marylin.” Trevaskis' smile was amused, but the tightness around his eyes didn't see the joke. “It's too late to take it back.”

“I don't intend to, sir. Just don't rely on it exclusively. I believed Jonah wouldn't ever use v-med, and may soon be proven wrong about that. I could've been wrong about a lot of other things, too.”

“Quite.” Trevaskis held her stare for a minute. She didn't look away, even though she felt like a microbe under a scanning-tunnelling microscope. She wasn't afraid of airing her opinions—especially when she had been invited to share them in a private meeting. If Trevaskis didn't like them, she told herself, that was his problem. Better that he be offended than allowed to bend the MIU's charter to suit his own agenda.

The ends never justified the means. She had learned that through painful experience. Sometimes the process of seeking justice was more important than justice itself.

Trevaskis eventually looked away. He placed his hands palm down on the desk, as though preparing to stand, but instead pushed himself backwards.

“I think that's enough for now,” he said. “No doubt you've both got a lot of bok-work to do following this morning, and I don't want to take up any more of your time. File your reports as per usual, delegate the rest and go home. When the results of the body-scan confirm where he's been for the last three years, things are going to be busy around here.”

Marylin stood, conscious of how much taller than him she became by doing so.

“There's really only one way to be sure he was in the bath,” Whitesmith said, remaining seated.

“And that is?” Trevaskis asked.

“His UGI.”

“We can't access it. He's covered by Privacy.”

“But with his permission we could.”

Trevaskis raised an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we get that? The medic said twenty-four hours before he'll be awake and ready for interrogation.”

“We can start sooner than that. Talk to Fabian Schumacher. Tell him I want QUALIA to talk to Jonah. She's performed REM probes before, far earlier than anyone in psych.”

“On volunteers, not suspects.”

“Effectively, either way. She can do it, and that's what counts.”

“I'm yet to be convinced.” Trevaskis rolled his eyes. “Besides, QUALIA's an ‘it’ not a ‘she.’”

“Strictly speaking, sir, QUALIA's an ‘e,’” Marylin corrected him. “SciCon prefers to use EsErE pronouns.” She pronounced the nickname of the Third Gender Protocol to rhyme with “yessirree.”

“Regardless,” Whitesmith interrupted, “it's worth a try.”

Trevaskis studied both of them in turn. “Very well. I'll ask Fabian if he'll play along. I'm sure he'll be interested in field-testing his little toy. But I can't promise anything more, understood?”

“Understood.” Whitesmith finally stood and joined Marylin by the door. “I'll wait for your call.”

“Yes.” Trevaskis wheeled himself around the desk, almost shepherding them out of the room. Whitesmith in turn ushered Marylin ahead of him. Before the door could shut, the Director of the MIU looked both of them in the eye. “Whatever happens, I want you to know that I have the utmost faith in your abilities. When the time comes, you'll give one hundred percent. Just keep an open mind and do your job and I know we'll get there in the end.”

What the hell do you think we're doing? Marylin thought.

The door to the office slid shut behind them with barely a sound.

An hour later, after filing her report to Trevaskis' AI secretary, Marylin took a transit cab to the cramped laboratories of the MIU home team. There, the body parts had been parcelled, tagged and filed for future reference with the others in a refrigerated store deep in the cold heart of the habitat. After entry into the MIU's Twinmaker database, the remains of the woman had become superfluous; a funeral was out of the question.

Marylin was officially off-duty until the next phase of the investigation began, and would normally have left for home by now rather than dwell on the day's work, but she was reluctant to leave just yet. Jonah's reappearance had unsettled her more than she would admit in public. Having him aboard the station made her feel restless; she didn't know whether to visit him or to get as far away from him as she could.

Instead of doing either, she opted for a compromise. The home team had a dedicated line open to the KTI medical centre. A single 3-D monitor in one wall displayed his physical condition in real-time. Another available input was devoted to flatscreen video, and showed him in a low-g hospital bunk surrounded by a bewildering array of medical equipment. Repair agents required large amounts of raw materials not normally found in the bloodstream; most of the tubes were devoted to feeding the nanomachines that would, eventually, return him to full health. His face and scalp were covered in a nanowire cage, as tight-fitting as skin but thinner than spider web. He was held in place by an elastic sheet pulled tight around his torso and limbs. Occasionally he stirred, thin limbs twitching in uncoordinated motor spasms.

The nanos were in his brain, too, she realised, triggering reflexes. Either that, or he was subconsciously trying to escape.

Indira Geyten, head of the home team, noticed her watching the monitors and let her be. Marylin was grateful for that, but not surprised. Having been raised by a family of British refugees, Geyten was renowned for keeping an emotional distance from the people she worked with. That made her an oddity in a world where there were so few natives of any culture left—not to mention hours of privacy—but one Marylin appreciated at that moment.

She watched Jonah in silence, not ready to open herself up to anyone just yet—not until she was certain where he stood. The Twinmaker hung over him like a shroud, coloured every memory she had of him, perhaps unfairly. Although she had trusted him with her life, once, she knew it would be well-nigh impossible to bring that feeling back.

Indeed, it was hard to believe that it was him at all. There was almost nothing left to recognise. His face was all angles, and skin gleamed where snow-white hair had once grown. His bright blue eyes remained, but she couldn't see them now. Only his voice sounded right: a baritone that could be either commanding or peevish, depending on his mood. It could even be warm. She remembered it well.

The last time they had seen each other, they had been working in the agency for eighteen months and had just closed their most difficult case. Despite a standard three-day week, he had worked hacker's hours—six, sometimes seven days straight—and had expected her to do the same. His drive had both amazed and appalled her; she had felt like a fish sucked into the wake of an oil tanker, enjoying the ride for a while but beginning to panic when she had realised that she was trapped. She had needed to escape, to get away from him. They had been too close, too complicated.

And then there had been Luiz. If her professional life had been out of control, her emotional course had been one bound for self-destruction. The day she had resigned from the agency was also the day she told Jonah that she had decided to move in with and make an exclusive commitment to her lover.

That had been just hours before his father died. She hadn't gone to the funeral. If she had, that would have been the last time she would've seen him—until now, three years later.

As time passed and he had not contacted her, she had assumed that he respected her decision and let her be. When, in a moment of weakness, she had once tried to contact him, he had disappeared, and she had thought that he might have died or fled the country—either course of action perhaps forced on him by his line of work.

She never tried again. She had cut her ties with the past too cleanly, too efficiently, to consider retying them; even Luiz, in the end, had fallen by the wayside. Yet because of the distance she had imposed between herself and Jonah, she had found it easy, later, to make the connection between him and the Twinmaker: he was out there, somewhere, brooding over her rejection of him and his dreams; plotting revenge while she went about bettering herself, finding a new career, a new life.

But did she really believe it? Was she, if she honestly sat down and considered the evidence, truly convinced that he was the sort of person who would murder sixteen innocent people just to prolong a grudge?

Jonah had bordered on being a loner when she had known him, but he had never displayed any grossly sociopathic tendencies. Likewise, he was intelligent without being brilliant. On the other hand, although she didn't believe he had the ability to penetrate KTI on his own, she would credit the possibility that he might have conned someone else into telling him how. He knew how to get what he wanted.

And he had killed someone, once. That was something he had never tried to hide: partly because an EJC inquest into the death had upheld his plea of self-defence, more because it had accorded him greater respect from some of the individuals he had been forced to deal with.

It had also led to their working together in the first place, for he had finally realised that he couldn't run such a business on his own. But the fact had always bothered her, now more so than ever. He was no stranger to murder. Who knew where that introduction had led?

She didn't know. She had forgotten so much about him, had quashed her memories of him with the same determination that she had shown when she walked out of his life. It was hard, now, to tell which was real and which the by-product of a convenient explanation for the Twinmaker murders. There was no way, any more, that she could be certain.

And now, reality had walked back into her life, and she was unable to avoid it.

Avoid him, she thought. Perhaps she had been the one brooding, after all.

Don't think, she reminded herself; just do.

Her overseer flashed to indicate a call from Whitesmith, which she took, overlaying his image on the view of Jonah before her.

“I've just had word from Trevaskis,” he said, not smiling but clearly satisfied. “QUALIA's on board for the probe.”

“When do you start?”

“In a couple of hours, when he settles a bit. I'll let you know the results once we have them.”

“So…” She struggled to concentrate. “With his UGI in our hands, we'll be able to trace his past movements. If there are any in the last three years, we'll know he wasn't in the bath.”

“More than that.” Whitesmith looked almost smug. “We can trace him now, too.”

“Why would we want to do that? We know where he is.”

“Exactly. And there's a third possibility that Trevaskis didn't mention. What happens if we get a cross-match?”

She began to see where he was heading. “Odi, the profilers agree that a partnership of that sort would've dissolved months ago—”

“You know as well as I do that profiles aren't perfectly accurate. Anyway, that's not quite what I meant. Have you ever wondered what it would mean if Jonah was a patsy?”

Realisation suddenly dawned. In a way it didn't surprise her; nothing surprised her any more. Maybe she was a victim of constricted affect after all.

“I honestly hadn't thought of that,” she admitted. “It's plausible, given the Twinmaker's MO, but it still doesn't explain how he bypassed the energy budget—”

“No, it doesn't—but we don't know he's doing any of this, remember?”

She grimaced. “True.”

“And Trevaskis himself said that we have to investigate every possibility.”

“He did. But I don't think he intended you to throw it back in his face like this.”

Whitesmith grinned, briefly. “What's the matter, Marylin? You don't look terribly enthusiastic about the idea.”

“It's not that.” She wished she could hide her face from the medical centre's monitors. “It's just—I don't know. Tired, I guess.”

“Or not used to the idea yet that he might actually be innocent?”

She hugged herself, stung by the word. “Definitely not.”

“Well, we'll probably find out tomorrow, if he agrees.”

“I guess so.”

He signed off a moment later. She hardly heard his words of farewell. Her attention was back on the 3-D monitor before her, in which Jonah had stirred again, his skull-like face frowning as though in the grip of a terrible dream.

Innocent…?

She shuddered. Indira Geyten looked up, but said nothing. Marylin's gratitude never waned. The one thing she wanted no one could give her except Jonah himself—and that was the answer to one question.

But she doubted, somehow, that he was dreaming of her.

Lying on his back with his head under water, Jonah listened to the muffled sound of his own thoughts and watched random images chase currents across the blackness above him. The patterns they made looked like glowing lattices, drifting gracefully in and out of focus. He might have been that way forever, for all he could tell—a passive observer alone in a sea of reflections. Time had no meaning; he was anchorless, drifting, lost.

It wasn't until a voice called to him from the depths of the ocean that he began to wonder why.

“Jonah, can you hear me?”

The speaker was female and her tone warm and comforting. A faint accent reminded him of his mother, although he knew it couldn't be her. This woman's voice possessed none of the overtones of resentment and self-hatred he would always associate with the woman who had given him birth.

Click

“Jonah?”

He tried to sit up, but found that he could not. His head remained submerged. For a moment he panicked. Claustrophobia and a sudden fear of drowning made him want to cry out, but he was unable to utter a sound—

“Be at ease, Jonah,” the woman said. “I can hear you.”

A sense of peace passed through him at the woman's words. The pressure on his skull and face eased, as did the paralysis holding his body rigid. For a moment, he could move, and he did so feebly, writhing on the surface of what felt like a waterbed, but one that didn't surge when he tried to roll over. He felt light, giddy, disoriented—

Then all sensation ebbed, and he could no longer feel his body at all. He was floating in darkness, alone but for a voice whispering into his ear.

“There,” said the woman. “We have you stable, now. I apologise for the rough awakening. It was not our intention to interrupt a lucid dream.” The woman's tone became more businesslike: “If you wish to communicate, do not attempt to speak aloud. Your body is undergoing extensive nanotherapy and will not respond to your instructions. Instead, I have installed a prevocal monitor in your cortex that will detect anything you wish to say before the impulses leave your brain. The commands required to operate the implant have been written into your amygdala and do not require conscious direction. My records indicate that you were once familiar with this method of communication. Is this true? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Jonah didn't realise at first that the woman had stopped speaking, or that a reply was expected of him. He did his best to remember what she had said.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The woman sounded pleased. “You will note also that you heard your reply, just as you can hear my own voice. We have provided you with postauditory and postoptic inputs as well. A new overseer has been installed and is in the process of being optimised as we speak.”

The darkness became a densely woven pattern of dark grey lines scrolling from left to right then back again, not unlike the patterns he had been dreaming of. He recognised the design; it was a default form constant provided by the MindSet.7 virtual overseer—supposed to be a soothing alternative to the near-zero input of closed eyes while waiting for VTC, CRE or any other application involving direct visual stimulus to begin. Instead of being soothed, however, he felt nauseous.

“Why?” he asked, concentrating on the woman's voice rather than the pattern.

“Why what, Jonah?”

“Why are you doing this? What's going on?”

“You have suffered a peculiar form of brain damage, Jonah.”

“Brain damage?” Despite the calming effect of the woman's voice, he was chilled by the thought. “How?”

“Your prefrontal cortex has been altered, along with sections of your limbic system. We are still mapping the damaged areas, but it seems indisputable that your memory has been affected in a specific and deliberate fashion. In addition, various peripheral add-ons have been impaired. Many have ceased functioning entirely; others have mutated and caused secondary damage. Until we determine the precise amount of repair required to restore you to full capacity, we can do little more than replace the applications you have lost. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Jonah went to nod, remembering only when nothing happened that he was temporarily bodiless. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good. I don't want you to be concerned, however. We have already rectified some of the problems in your hippocampi. Given time and the proper care, you will recover.”

The woman's tone hinted that he should accept the prognosis without questioning it. Indeed his head had cleared already: he could remember some things, now, albeit with an effort.

But he couldn't let it rest there. “You said the damage was deliberately inflicted,” he said. “How? Who did it?”

“We'll come to that later, Jonah—”

“No, now. There's something you're not telling me.”

The woman was silent for a moment. He wondered whether he had offended her. When she spoke again, though, her voice was as smooth as ever.

“When I say the word ‘InSight,’ Jonah, what does it bring to mind?”

He thought carefully before answering, puzzled by the question. “I'm familiar with it, of course, but other than that—”

“Perhaps if I explained that it is a product name, with a capital ‘I’ and ‘S.’”

“I'm still not sure. It sounds like wetware. An entrainment add-on?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I'm guessing. Maybe I saw an ad or something.”

“If I said that we'd found traces of the InSight v-med agent in your system, would you be surprised?”

“Of course I would. I don't use that shit.”

“Well, Jonah, InSight is responsible for your present condition. Although it was originally designed to compartmentalise and restimulate memories and their emotional associations, thus allowing users to relive experiences from their past, prolonged use causes abnormal structures to form in the brain, that impair conscious recall—both of the compartmentalised memory and in general—and the ability to reason. Not only have we located such structures, but, to be honest, there are more than just traces of the InSight agents present; your prefrontal cortex is riddled with it, to the point where we doubt we will be able to remove it all. At best, we can only render it inoperative.

“And,” she added, “as far as we can tell, you installed it yourself.”

“I did?” Briefly he wondered if the woman was lying, then discarded the thought; why would she go to so much trouble to reassure him only to drop a bombshell like that? “I don't understand.”

“Neither do we. That is the purpose of this conversation. I want to ask you questions designed to ascertain the severity of your memory impairment. You may call a halt at any point, but it is my hope that you will persist until we have at least a rough idea of where we stand. Your present state of semiconsciousness will in no way impede the progress your body is making. I will ensure that you do not become unduly fatigued or distressed.”

“You still haven't answered my question,” Jonah said, fighting the serenity arising within him in response to his increased agitation, realising only then that his mood was being altered by psychopharmaceuticals. “Why are you doing this?”

“To put it bluntly, Jonah, we need your help.”

“‘Help?’ You must be out of your mind! I want some answers first.”

“Jonah, please remain calm. Do you recall a conversation you had with Officer Whitesmith in which you stated that, in exchange for information regarding the crimes you were suspected of committing, you would happily and truthfully answer every question he asked?”

Jonah's thoughts froze. Yes, he did remember saying something like that; the memory was vague, dreamlike, nightmarish in tone. “I spoke to Mary, too?” he ventured.

“That's correct; Officer Blaylock was present at your awakening. But it is your comment to Officer Whitesmith with which I am most concerned. At the time, neither of you were able to fulfil the other's expectations, so the offer of glasnost was not followed up. Would you be prepared to repeat the offer now, to me? An exchange of information would greatly benefit us both.”

Jonah fought down the images the woman had raised—of mutilated bodies, of feeling like he was dying, of guilt. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I have been honest regarding your condition when it would have been much easier to have told you a comforting lie. I can only assure you that I will tell you the truth in every other respect.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“That's up to you, Jonah.”

“I don't even know who you are, or where I am.”

“You are in the orbital medical research centre of Kudos Technologies Incorporated, otherwise known as KTI, of which company I am an employee. My duties include monitoring d-mat traffic along the KTI network, optimising routes to allow the most efficient transfer of data through the Pool and ensuring that no illegal transfers are attempted. It is in this last capacity that I am currently acting as an adviser to the MIU. Are you familiar with that acronym?”

“Whitesmith used it, but he didn't tell me what it was.” He remembered unfamiliar black and grey uniforms with the insignia of the Earth Justice Commission on the left breast pocket.

“It stands for Matter-transference Investigative Unit. The MIU exists solely to investigate d-mat-related crime, and operates as an independent agency within guidelines laid down by the EJC. The MIU is funded solely by KTI, and was founded in 2067 to underscore KTI's commitment to preventing d-mat from being used for illegal purposes. As patent-holder of the process, KTI is morally obliged to ensure that no one is harmed by it. I have worked for both companies since—”

“Hold on. You said 2067.”

“That is correct. The current date is June 27, 2069. What date do you think it is?”

“I don't know.” He concentrated, trying his best to recall any date at all. “The last year I remember is ’66.”

“That concurs with your earlier interviews, and other data we have gathered since.” The woman paused, as though she was considering her options. “No doubt, Jonah, you are as curious as I am as to what has happened in those three years. Can we come to an arrangement?”

Jonah thought about it—or tried to. When he attempted to think in a straight line, his thoughts became clouded, confused; facts refused to fall into place and extrapolation from them was well nigh impossible. He couldn't even decide whether it was a side-effect of the mood-altering drugs he had been given or whether he was experiencing another symptom of brain damage. The woman had mentioned something about impairment of his ability to reason logically; perhaps that was it.

The woman…?

One thing, suddenly, was clear to him.

“You're not human,” he said.

“That is correct, Jonah. How did you guess?”

“I—” He attempted to trace the process of deduction behind the knowledge, but was unable to. “I just knew.”

“Impressive, regardless. It didn't seem necessary to tell you earlier, but perhaps I should have. This conversation is not occurring in real-time; it has been slowed by a factor of five in order to reduce the stress on your neocortex. A human would find the lag between replies frustrating, so I have been asked to perform the interview. I hope you don't mind.”

He ignored the opportunity to say that he didn't. “So what are you, then? You don't sound like an AI.”

“I'm pleased to hear you say that. Although I am not ashamed of my mechanical ancestors, I do not like to be mistaken for one of them. I am a QUantum ALgorithmic Intelligent Awareness—usually abbreviated viated to ‘QUALIA’—composed of twenty Standard Human Equivalent data processors in an array designed to induce consciousness rather than to imitate it.”

“QUALIA,” he echoed. The word evoked a vivid image of his father's body, until he realised that he was confusing it with QUIDDITY, the project Lindsay had been working on. The memory subsided, but the connection remained. “Is that your name?”

“No,” said the voice. “But you may call me that, if you wish. I am the sole member of the class of being that name defines. My designers would also prefer you to use the Third Gender Protocol when referring to me, rather than female pronouns. This voice is merely one of many that I can adopt at will; I have no true sex as you would understand it.”

Another time, he might have smiled at the defensive tone in its—es, he corrected himself—voice. E sounded almost annoyed at es designers, and at him. “You sound like something my father wanted to build.”

“Yes,” e said again. “I met him, once, and found him to be a remarkable man. In fact, I feel as though I owe much of my existence to him—just as you must, although in quite a different way.”

Jonah was silent. Aaron Lindsay Carlaw hadn't been his genetic father, but his death could have come as no greater blow had they had half their genes in common. Reminded of it, he felt as though someone had stuck an electrode into a gaping surgical incision. This time, however, the grief was manageable, no doubt due to psychopharmaceuticals, and faded within a minute. It left in its wake only the memory of the bloody mess in his d-mat booth—a gruesome reminder of why he was talking to a discorporate consciousness in the first place.

There had been a dead body in his unit. How it had got there was a mystery to him. In his present state, there was little he could do to work out where it had come from, so—

“Okay,” he said, gratified that he had been able to reason something. “We have a deal.”

QUALIA's voice expressed gratitude and relief. “I'm glad to hear it.”

He refused to be lulled, if that was es intention. “You go first. I want to know where I stand.”

“Very well, Jonah, but I will be brief. When you have met your side of the arrangement, we can discuss the situation in more detail.”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“I am about to display an image,” e warned.

Jonah did his best to prepare for the parting of the neutral wallpaper, but was still startled when the picture of a woman appeared before him. The woman was shown from the shoulders up and might have been entirely naked below that point. She was blonde and had green eyes. Her expression was one of relaxed amusement.

“One,” QUALIA stated.

“Should I recognise her?” he asked, puzzled.

“Be patient. There are more to come.” E let him study the picture a moment longer. “Two.”

The picture changed to show another woman in profile from the waist up, dressed this time in a sweater. Also a blonde, although her hair was a touch longer; her eyes might have been green, too, but Jonah couldn't be sure from that angle.

“Three.”

Definitely green in the third photo. This woman was dressed for a CRE orgy—transparent wrap exposing oiled nipples and thighs, with body-art consisting of circles arranged around a bullseye focussed on the clitoris. A typical kerhane outfit. Given the lack of body hair, Jonah guessed that the thick mane on her head was probably not real—but it was blonde. He was beginning to see a pattern.

“Four.”

“Blonde hair,” he said, “green eyes, slim figures, probably late twenties or early thirties—not that it's easy to tell these days. All women, or reasonable facsimiles thereof. I presume we're going somewhere with this?”

“Five. Yes, Jonah.”

The fifth picture also matched the pattern. “Well?” he prompted.

“Keep watching.” Three more faces appeared in quick succession. “Are you beginning to see a resemblance to someone you once knew?”

He studied the latest face more closely. It did look vaguely familiar. “I'm not sure.”

“Perhaps if I show you a composite image, blending the features of all eight faces so far.”

The face before him changed and rotated to look him in the virtual eye.

“Yes,” he breathed, startled. “It's Mary.”

“Public Officer Marylin Agueda Blaylock,” QUALIA confirmed. “The resemblance is uncanny, and only increases as the features of the remaining faces are added to the composite.” E counted from nine to fifteen in quick succession, changing the combined face as e went. Then e paused slightly before concluding with: “The features of the most recent subject have yet to be added to the database.”

Jonah guessed that the sixteenth woman was the body lying in pieces in his d-mat booth. “They're dead, aren't they?”

“Yes. The first was kidnapped and murdered one month after Officer Blaylock assumed a Class 2 Detective position in the MIU.”

“What's the connection?”

“We don't know for certain. But it is clear that some sort of transference is occurring: the murderer is doing to his victims what he fantasises about doing to Marylin Blaylock.”

“Or someone who looks very much like her.” He recalled the fact that she had changed her hair colour to flat brown and now wore it cropped short. He couldn't blame her for taking that small step away from the composite face before him. “There are bound to be others who have her features. Couldn't it be someone else the killer is after—not her?”

“Unfortunately, that is probably not the case.”

“Oh?”

“There is another connection: the killer uses d-mat to kidnap his victims.”

“So…” Jonah struggled to work it out. After a second or two, he gave in and followed a gut feeling, instead of reason. “The killer is someone who works for KTI?”

“Correct. Officer Blaylock's position frequently brings her into contact with technicians, researchers and administrators of the d-mat network. Any one of these people may have been motivated to perform the crimes, or—at the very least—may have shown someone else how to infiltrate the network.”

“Someone such as me?”

“Yes. Evidence given by Officer Blaylock indicates that you and she parted on unfriendly terms five days before you opted for Privacy. When she tried to contact you later, you had disappeared. Your continued absence made us more suspicious, especially when the murders persisted and no other leads were forthcoming.”

He wanted to ask: She tried to contact me? Instead, he concentrated on what QUALIA was telling him. “No leads at all?”

“None, Jonah. You are it—especially now that we have found both you and the body of the latest victim in the same location.”

Jonah absorbed this in silence. He had to admit that the situation did look incriminating, in context. Almost too incriminating.

“I didn't think that was possible,” he said. “Infiltrating the network, I mean.”

“Neither did I.” QUALIA's tone of voice hinted at self-deprecation; given es stated position as overseer of the KTI network, Jonah could understand that. “There are many safeguards in place to prevent such a thing from occurring, even from within KTI itself. The killer has somehow evaded them all.”

“Do you think that I'm capable of doing this?”

“On the available evidence, no,” e admitted. “And Officer Blaylock agrees.”

“Well, then.”

“It's not as simple as that, Jonah.”

He sighed. “I didn't think it would be.”

“Of course not. Remember that you could have an accomplice within KTI or be employing someone else's knowledge.”

“True.” He conceded the point with reluctance.

“Perhaps you can see, now, why Officer Whitesmith was under such stress at the disposal scene this morning. Until the killer is caught and brought to justice, KTI is operating on the assumption that it has been infiltrated by persons inimical to its operation. This, as you can imagine, is taking its toll on the relationship between KTI and its supposed watchdog, the MIU.

“And there is another disturbing detail of which you should be aware, Jonah. The murderer has several unique signatures; one of them is the presence of WHOLE hard-print literature at the disposal scene.”

“I see,” he said.

“The first body was accompanied by the opening page of the most famous of all the anti-KTI propaganda. I think you will be familiar with it. It quotes in its title a twentieth-century scholar by the name of Daniel C. Dennet.”

“‘The Murdering Twinmaker,’” he recalled. “Lindsay helped draft that pamphlet.”

“Precisely. Yet another connection between the Twinmaker and you.”

“If this keeps up, you'll have me believing it, too.”

QUALIA didn't laugh, but neither did he.

“You actually call him that?” he asked. “The Twinmaker?”

“Yes. It is suprisingly appropriate,” e said. “But that is all I will tell you for now. Officer Whitesmith is keen to obtain information only you can provide, and I am under increasing pressure outside this conversation to wrest it from you. Are you willing, now, to answer some of our questions?”

Jonah resigned himself to the inevitability of being interrogated.

“Okay. I'll do my best.”

“That's all we can hope for. Firstly, I want to check that we are correctly interpreting the processes occurring within your brain. As you may remember, I will be unable to tell if you are lying, only whether the memories you accessed are genuine or invented. I will need to ask you some simple questions to which we already know the answers in order to calibrate the cage properly.”

“Just get on with it.”

“Very well. Let's start with your profession. How are you registered on the United Republics of Australasia electoral database?”

“As a freelance investigator.”

“A private eye?”

“If you prefer that term, yes. I don't.”

“You operate under your real name?”

“Yes. I have my own data-acquisition company.”

“Do you recall your license number?”

“No. I normally keep that sort of business information on my overseer, and you tell me it's been wiped. It should be on file somewhere.”

“What about your universal GLITCH identifier?”

“My UGI is…” He thought for a long minute. The memory itched at him, but wouldn't surface. “I don't know.”

“Would you recognise it if you were to hear or see it?” QUALIA asked.

“There's only one way to find out.”

Barely had he finished speaking when an alphanumeric code appeared in place of the composite victim.

“FFDLB,” he read aloud, “01458927. Yes, that's it.”

“Are you certain of that, Jonah?”

“Positive. I've had it since I turned eighteen.”

“The memory is genuine, according to the cage,” QUALIA confirmed. “At least, it looks more genuine than fake or suggested. However, I'm afraid you're wrong. This is your old identifying code. On choosing the Non-Disclosure Option, you were given a new UGI.”

Jonah did his best to recall another number, but failed; not even a tickle. “You keep talking about me choosing Privacy,” he protested. “To be honest, I can't imagine why I'd ever have done that.”

“Most people do it because they have strong ideological or emotional needs that can only be satisfied by setting themselves apart from the majority of voting citizens and the bureaucracies that serve them; they want their information to be unobtainable and are prepared to pay for the privilege. Others do it in order to hide.”

“Neither fits me, I'm afraid.”

“Neither fits your memory of you,” QUALIA said. “At some point, you obviously changed your mind. Can you think of any reason why you might have done so?”

“Off the top of my head, no, I can't.”

“Maybe it will come to you later. What was your date of birth, instead?”

“May fifth, 2034.”

“Your parents' names?”

“My birth mother was Margaret Janette McEwen.” That information was as clear as it had ever been, much to his relief. “I was fertilised in vivo from an anonymous donor egg, with sperm provided by my genetic father, Vincent Karl Apolloni. He died before I was born.”

“Lindsay Carlaw was your father by adoption?”

“Yes. He was a friend of my mother's. She lost custody when I was two, and I went to live with him.”

“Is he still alive?”

The grief rose again. “No.”

“Do you recall how and when he died?”

“Yes. Look, I don't want to talk about this.”

“Do you remember what you did after he died?”

“For Christ's sake—”

“Please answer, Jonah.”

He stopped, thought seriously about the question.

“No,” he eventually said. The answer surprised him. He knew he had been escorted by a member of the bomb squad out of the QUIDDITY lab and into the hallway outside, where a medic had dressed the shrapnel wound in his shoulder. Everything up to that point seemed as vivid as though it had happened yesterday. Beyond it, however, he drew a blank. “I don't remember anything after then.”

“Until now.”

“That's right. Until I talked to Mary in the bath.”

“Interesting,” QUALIA mused. “I'm beginning to see a pattern, Jonah. Your long-term memories are intact up to a point. You can't recall your new UGI address, for instance, or what you did after Lindsay Carlaw died. The date of his death—April eleventh, 2066—appears to be a boundary of some sort. Yet your short-term memory seems to be functioning well since your awakening. How much do you recall about that experience?”

To hell with it: I want to know what happened after my father died! He came so close to uttering the words that he was amazed the prevocal monitor didn't pick them up. There must have been an investigation, an inquest, some sort of conclusion reached—he must have grieved—but he couldn't remember any of it. The question of why someone had killed Lindsay along with his brainchild, QUIDDITY, was as open and as driving, to him, as if it had happened only days ago. Had anyone been convicted of the murder? Had his father died for nothing? What had he, Jonah, done to avenge the crime? Surely he must have done something.

But he knew there was no point forcing the issue now. He had to cooperate if he was going to get any answers at all. Once he had demonstrated that he wasn't the Twinmaker—which he anticipated wouldn't take long—he could focus on the issues concerning him more.

He thought back to the nightmare, tried to recall exactly what had happened. “I was in the spa, in my unit.”

“Do you know what you were doing in there?”

“I'm not sure. I was in some sort of fluid. I felt like I was drowning.”

“Not quite. You were immersed in protein gel, held in a state of artificial hibernation by a high dose of maintenance nanomachines. Similarly, your mind was in a vegetative-meditative state under the influence of the InSight agents I mentioned earlier.”

“I told you I don't know anything about that.”

“Which concurs with the cut-off date. You obviously entered hibernation after the death of Lindsay Carlaw. Furthermore, you can't even have considered doing so prior to then—or else you would remember doing that, at least. The entire hibernation incident, from immersion to your awakening this morning, has been completely erased.”

“Are you telling me that I was in hibernation the entire time? For three years?”

“Yes. Separate analyses of the gel, which was replete with toxic waste-products at your point of awakening, and the maintenance agents, which had mutated gradually with time, concur that you were in hibernation for approximately thirty-six months. The dates between which you have no memory encompass thirty-eight months, well within the bounds of reason.

“In addition, InSight provides us with another means of ascertaining when you underwent hibernation. Its agents consist of self-replicating artificial viruses designed to infest and stimulate specific locations in the human brain. Their modified DNA contains markers that change every generation. From these markers, we can extrapolate the date on which InSight was first installed within your system. That date is April nineteenth, 2066—eight days after the death of Lindsay Carlaw.”

Eight days. Jonah was unexpectedly relieved by that fact. The only conscious time he had lost was little more than a week, not the three years he had originally assumed. Even if he still had no idea what he had done in that time, the thought of finding out was a little less daunting.

“But—” The relief was followed by puzzlement. “If I was in the maintenance gel for that long, how can I be the killer?”

“I will answer that question directly,” e said. “Suffice it to say that you are still considered a primary suspect, and will continue to be until the EJC comes to terms with the more unusual aspects of the Twinmaker crimes. You must help us prove your innocence, if that is what you want to do.”

“Of course it is. I'm not a serial killer.” And I have more important things to do—like finding out why my father is dead.

“Then you can begin that process now by letting us have your current UGI. I know you can't remember it, but you can apply to GLITCH for it to be revealed to you. If you give it to us, in turn, I will explain why we need it.”

He was about to agree when a nagging doubt made him reconsider. “I must have chosen Privacy for a reason,” he said. “Until I know that reason, I'm reluctant to revoke it.”

“You don't have to revoke it at all, Jonah. The information will go no further, I swear.”

“I don't see how you can live up to that promise given the situation you're in—with KTI infiltrated by someone from the outside.”

“True. However, there is an alternative. You can give us your UGI, then when you leave Artsutanov Station you can change it to another. That way, your Privacy will remain unviolated.”

The puzzlement remained. On an intuitive level, he suspected that QUALIA's reasoning was flawed. His anger flared again at the thought that he might be wasting time. “And what do you get from this? Why is my UGI so bloody important?”

“It is important because it will allow us to check whether the Twinmaker has used it in the last thirty-eight months.”

“But you can't steal a UGI,” he protested. “Every use is checked against file records to ensure a match with the holder. Short of radical surgery, there's no way anyone could—”

He stopped there. His mind had raced ahead of him, giving him a glimpse of where QUALIA was headed.

“There is a way,” e said in a voice as grave as the realisation that had just struck him. “The same way that enables the killer to copy his victims, one by one, leaving the originals to go about their everyday lives completely unaware that they have been horrifically tortured and murdered.”

The thought made him feel dizzy. “They're still alive?”

“Yes, Jonah. Can you see now why we call him the Twinmaker?”

He did, all too well, but was too stunned to speak.

“We want you to explain how he's doing it,” QUALIA said. “Or failing that, how you would have done it. In the end, that may amount to one and the same thing.”

“No—that's impossible.”

“Is it?”

“But how?”

“You tell us, Jonah. If Officer Whitesmith's theory is correct, the Twinmaker is you—another you copied illegally three years ago by the d-mat process. That's how he can use your UGI. The only difference between him and you is a matter of time and memory.”

Jonah floundered; he felt like he was thinking through a fog, so unreal was the scenario he found himself being asked to consider.

QUALIA asked him: “Are you beginning to understand, now, why it's so important for us to have your cooperation?”

It hit him then: “You want me to help you to hunt him down.”

“Exactly, Jonah,” QUALIA said. “Who better to catch a serial killer than the killer himself?”

Once the decision was made, he set immediately to work, letting his pattern-matchers in GLITCH follow the woman while he attended to the details. Ordinarily he would have planned for days before striking: preparing the transfer with obsessive care, rehearsing the capture over and over until he was certain nothing could go wrong. In reality, however, there was very little he needed to do in advance; the procedure had been surgically imprinted onto his amygdala, and he could rely on it to respond correctly and rapidly to any contingency without need for conscious intervention. Besides, he had practised many times—in the dry and the wet, as EJC agents said. All he had to do was decide, and it would be done.

He had very little choice, anyway. Time was passing, and if it wasn't to be her, he would have to find someone else. Although the sense of anticipation careful planning had once given him would be absent this time, there was just as much pleasure in a patient prowl followed by a blitz attack. Besides, the anticipation was more than compensated for by watching the MIU chase its tail in a futile attempt to track him down. It was worth the risk to keep Jonah McEwen destabilised, before the aftershock of his awakening abated.

He scanned the girl's file once again as she walked through Konigsplatz to make sure he hadn't missed any warning signs. Despite being a Full-Disclosure Citizen, she was protected by the von Trojan Laws—legislation modelled on the Uncertainty Principle that guaranteed even the FDC's a measure of privacy. As a result, at any given time he could know some things about her but not all: her available credit or which establishment held it for her but not both; her age or her date of birth likewise; where she lived or her profession, and so on.

This was fine by him. He didn't want to know anything about her. He didn't even need her name to do what he wanted. The point was that the victims looked the same. All he really needed to know was by which method she travelled, and he had correctly guessed this within minutes of first seeing her. There was nothing in her file to suggest that she wasn't the ideal target.

His heart beat measurably faster as she left Konigsplatz and headed for a public d-mat facility on Regenstrasse.

The booths weren't busy at that time of day. Of ten, three were vacant, their matte-black doors unsealed and partly ajar. Their interiors were dark, a green strip along the upper frame of each indicating that it was available for use. She strolled casually in their direction, not deciding until the last moment which she would choose. When she did, she picked the second from the end. The door slid open at the touch of her palm, and she stepped inside.

He moved rapidly, switching from GLITCH to the KTI network. The booth, not much larger on the inside than an average closet, had barely activated its sterile interior before he knew its registration number and precise location. From there he patched into its feed and installed the program designed to divert the transmission.

All of this was highly illegal, of course. He knew better than anyone the risks involved in tampering with KTI infrastructure; those risks had united most countries in passing laws to prevent them arising. But some things were more important.

He watched the girl as she closed the door to the booth, shutting out the rest of the world.

“Prepare for delivery,” he instructed his assistant. “Begin on my command.”

Not wanting to interrupt his view of the girl, he made his way by feel from the chair he had been occupying and into his own private booth. With one palm on the I-R link and a small part of his brain coordinating the transfer, he watched her perform similar actions in her own booth.

First, she keyed in her UGI and confirmed it with a retinal scan. The booth then responded with a request for information from KTI: it wanted to know where she was going and whether the trip was urgent. She fed it an address and selected an ASAP route, one that would get her home quickly but not override any emergency services. The booth ran the request through KTI, which checked her debit account and judged that she could indeed afford such an option. KTI also notified a nearby Global Access Point inlet of the Pool that its services would soon be required. The inlet in turn allocated a buffer to accommodate the expected data and began clearing its output lines.

He marvelled, as always, at the complexity of the process and the ease with which it was performed. From booth to KTI to Global Access Point inlet to the Pool at one end of the transfer; from node to node within the network of supercomputers, along the uBNS—ultra high-speed Backbone Network Services—and across interchanges where legislative lines were involved; then back again in reverse, from Pool to booth, at the other end. There were so many places and ways in which something could go wrong—yet it rarely did. And even when it did, who missed a few molecules anyway? That was all the data represented. The accumulated mass of tissue lost in five years of commercial d-mat operation amounted to little more than a toenail.

He smiled at the oft-quoted statistic, so loved by d-mat proponents and so hated by its detractors. Nothing was ever quite so simple, as he of all people should know.

The girl removed her hand from the I-R input and leaned the plastic bag against one wall of the booth. There was a mirror on the back of the door. Facing it, she locked eyes with her reflection and folded her hands across her stomach. Then she assumed an expression that very few people saw on anyone but themselves. KTI technicians called it “grazing.”

D-mat transfers were sometimes “incoherent” between each terminus and could interrupt a chain of thought in mid-flow, which could be inconvenient or distressing for the person experiencing it. Many techniques—from counting sheep to inducing a v-med state—claimed to neutralise this effect; all gave the user a vacant expression similar to that of a cow in clover.

He watched her graze for what felt like an eternity. During the hiatus between request and transfer, when thoughts were still, time could seem to stretch forever. He considered checking the booth's scheduling processor to calculate to within a microsecond when the analysis would begin, but he preferred not to. Grazing was an experience he could share with his victim, thereby bringing them subtly together. It gave him time to consider what she might really be thinking. Did she wonder whether she was being watched? Was she afraid? Had she ever thought about what happened inside the d-mat booth she left behind as she transferred?

If not, she would soon find out. One of her would, anyway. This he promised her as the seconds slowed down and time paused in the instant between here and there, as measured by the girl in the booth. The girl who looked so remarkably like Marylin Blaylock…

In the all-too-brief moment of reflection, there was an instant where he seemed to be looking at himself, seeing his own fears and doubts in the woman's face.

Was he afraid too?

Did he truly know what he was doing?

Then the moment passed and his implants triggered the capture routine. Searing white light filled his visual feed as the d-mat booth began to analyse her body and its accoutrements. The girl melted into the blaze like a candle in a furnace, then disappeared entirely from sight.

He severed the VR line as his own booth hissed into life. With his assistant's help he took her—yes, he thought with relish, he took her!—further than she had ever gone before.

Not just across, this time, but into the thin red line between life and death…

The door to the d-mat booth opened with a hiss, and Marylin stepped out of it. Barely had she registered the scuffed grey corridor outside when she almost walked into Jason Fassini, the plain-clothes MIU agent she partnered with when working away from the rest of the team.

“Jabolo, Marylin,” he said, holding up his hands to prevent them from colliding.

She stopped in time. “Didn't see you there, Jason.”

“I've been waiting for you.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries. I have an unmarked car on standby outside.” He nodded at the bulky briefcase she held in one hand. “Ready for clone-patrol, zsaru?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.” She looked around to get her bearings. If she remembered the floor plan correctly, the secure d-mat area was on the basement level of the EJC building; there were elevators leading to ground level around the corner, or fire stairs behind her. She chose the stairs. “And kill the CRE argot, will you? I'm not in the mood.”

He followed her, boots clomping heavily on the steps. His long limbs, free-flowing red-brown hair and untucked floral shirt hadn't changed since they last worked together; she felt like an anal-retentive next to him just for being in her black-and-greys.

“Rough night?” he asked.

“Not your problem.”

“Aye, ma'am. I can take a hint.”

He fell silent, and she cursed herself for being so abrupt. He was just trying to make conversation, and there were better ways to let him know she wasn't feeling up to it.

Her day had started badly the moment her internal alarm went off, warning her that she'd overslept. That in itself wasn't unusual. D-mat hangover was a way of life for those in the MIU, even though it operated on a 25-hour schedule to account for missing time. It also paid its senior officers enough to afford lipid balancing. Theoretically, she should have managed. Occasionally, however, it caught up with her, and when it did, it was always a shock.

Crossing time-zones several times a day caused the problem. Living in Melbourne, she was seven hours out of sync with Goliath time, which, in yesterday's case, had been five hours ahead of Jonah's apartment in Faux Sydney. Every time she went through a d-mat booth made it half an hour worse. She could stick to the MIU's schedule as strictly as she liked, but there was little she could do about external cues, such as the sun, and the way they affected her body. And here she was standing on the other side of the planet, sixteen hours behind her home time.

Perhaps, she thought, the shock wasn't that it affected her once in a blue moon. The shock was that it didn't affect her every morning.

That morning, she'd somehow struggled through breakfast and a brisk warmup before logging onto the MIU workspace and letting her sentry know she was awake. The two-room unit she occupied was one of a block of eight suburban safe-houses leased to the EJC by the Melbourne City Council. It didn't have its own d-mat booth, but there was a block of six down the hall that serviced the entire building. Its fittings weren't fancy, and nowhere near as advanced as the latest fully interactive apartments enjoyed by the well-off, but that suited her. As long as she had somewhere she could sleep alone and listen to the occasional polka without neighbours complaining, she was happy.

Two minutes after she'd logged onto the workspace, while she was in the middle of doing her dishes manually, Whitesmith called to give her the news. The Twinmaker victim in Jonah's booth had been identified, and Marylin had been chosen to conduct the initial interview. That annoyed her for a start—she had better things to do than waste time on a task anyone in MIU could have done just as well—but it only got worse. They wanted her to do it in person.

“Why, Odi?” she asked. “What's different about this one?”

“On the surface, nothing. Have you seen the autopsy report?”

“Not yet, but—”

“Have a look then, to bring yourself up to date. Follow the usual drill. There's something else we might want you to do while you're in the field, but don't ask what. It might come to nothing.”

She simmered for a moment. “We” obviously excluded her. “What about Jonah?”

“QUALIA's expecting to finish the REM probe in half an hour. KTI wants him to rest awhile, then they'll bring him up to real-time so we can interrogate him properly.”

“And what have you learned so far?” she asked, curiosity temporarily overriding her annoyance.

“We have his UGI and are applying for a search warrant as we speak. Shouldn't be long before we know what that tells us.” He smiled. “QUALIA's also pinpointed dates for the memory loss. They concur with his earlier statements. We'll be checking for slipups later.”

“Even if you find any, that won't prove anything.” It would always be contentious in a courtroom whether verbal discrepancies were the result of genuine error or inconsistent lying. “Got any hard evidence at all?”

“We've mapped the brain damage and confirmed that it was caused by InSight agents. That's about it.”

“Did he say anything?

“That he knows nothing about the Twinmaker, of course.”

“What sort of idiot wouldn't, guilty or not?”

“We had to ask, Marylin,” Whitesmith said, a thick edge of weariness in his voice. His image in her workspace, however, looked alert.

“You really should use a voice synthesiser, Odi,” she said. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“A couple of hours, here and there.”

She doubted it was that much. “I'll do what you want this time. Out of pity.”

“That's very kind of you.”

She walked from her kitchenette to the bathroom and turned on the shower. “Let me get ready. I'll call you in fifteen minutes with a list of hardware.”

“Do that. But don't go overboard. There really is nothing special about this one. I hope there won't be any more surprises waiting for you today.”

I won't bet on it, she had thought, stepping into the shower to scrub herself clean and to apply nanofood to her scalp. If there was one thing she had learnt in the last forty-eight hours, it was to assume nothing.

The foyer of the EJC building was empty apart from two sentry robots guarding bulletproof glass doors leading out into the street. The sentries were slim, matte-grey machines suspended like sleeping bats from runners in the high ceiling, weapons folded at their sides in perpetual readiness. Neither of them moved as she and Fassini approached, but she knew they were being closely watched.

“Do we need to check in with the locals?” she asked.

“All done.” Fassini grinned at her breaking of the silence. “They're pretty relaxed here. It's not as if we're making a bust or anything else that might encroach upon their jurisdiction. That doesn't mean they'll let us d-mat to the site, but it's no big problem taking a car the rest of the way.”

The glass doors slid open, letting in a blast of hot, humid air. Marylin winced as sunlight struck her full in the face. Her partner touched her arm, guiding her to where the vehicle—a white four-seater sedan—waited for them.

“Give me the rundown. You're more used to this than I am.”

“Yeah, it feels weird having you here instead of piggybacking.” The street-side door of the car opened to let them in. Fassini slid across the rear seat, dragging his shirttails after him. “Can't help but wonder why.”

“Likewise.” Marylin chose to sit on the same seat as Fassini, placing the briefcase between them. She preferred to see where she was headed rather than where she had been. “Blame upstairs, not me.”

“They're checking up on me?”

“No, but it's not a social visit either.” The door slid shut, enclosing them both in a bubble of cool air. As soon as they had settled, the car slid silently away from the curb. He had obviously programmed the destination in advance. “The rundown, Jason.”

“Right, right.” He winked. “Her name is Yoland Suche-Thomas. You know that already, I presume?”

“Yes. Age thirty-four, no dependants, an employee of NuSense. I gather she writes CRE scripts—which should please you.”

“Wrong genre. She's into romance, not drama.”

“Not so far apart, sometimes.” She slid the briefcase onto the seat opposite. “Go on.”

“We got her address from a contact in NuSense itself. GLITCH says she works from home, so the chances are good we'll find her there.”

Marylin nodded, inwardly cursing the von Trojan laws that prevented them from tracking the woman's UGI directly without her permission. “We'll manage.”

“I guess we'll have to.” His grin flashed. “You've seen the autopsy report?”

This time she could say she had. Yoland Suche-Thomas was blonde, attractive, and bore more than a passing resemblance to the other victims. She had also been tortured over a prolonged period, maybe as many as five days, and had ultimately died from thirst. Her tissues contained traces of common pharmaceuticals and repair agents, confirming that the Twinmaker had administered enough first aid to keep her alive until he had finished with her. The barely visible scars on her arms that Marylin had noted during her inspection of the body had, however, turned out to be nothing more sinister than marks left behind by tattoo-erasers.

A key part of the pathologist's examination had been the removal of inert markers in the body's spine. These markers, installed by KTI the first time a person used d-mat and updated on every subsequent passage, recorded the time and termini of each d-mat jump plus a partial UGI of the individual. This information, combined with genetic code plucked from her dead cells, had enabled the MIU's forensic laboratory to identify the victim.

She had been kidnapped on June 12, while in transit from a private booth in Johannesburg. Why she had been in South Africa, who she had been visiting and where she presently was, remained unknown. Her file listed a Significant Other in Johannesburg—maybe family or an ex-partner—but there was no way to be sure who it was without her input. Not even the EJC could violate her basic rights without giving a good reason and KTI was keen to avoid having to go through such a process. The MIU data-miners had already exhausted their available options by finding out this much about her, reducing them to old-fashioned guesswork.

“The match is good,” Fassini said, his tone strictly professional and face no longer smiling.

“Very,” she agreed. She, too, found it hard to forget that this woman, apart from the hair, looked exactly like her. “How far away are we?”

“I'll take that to mean ‘How long are we going to be cooped up in here?’ Not long, I promise.”

“That isn't why I asked.” Although it was annoying that regulations forbade them from d-matting directly to their destination, the pause in proceedings was giving her time to think. “To be honest, driving has become something of a novelty for me, lately. It's nice to really travel again.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He tipped an imaginary chauffeur's cap and put his feet up on the seat opposite them. “She lives in a high-density block on the site of the old Bush Intercontinental Airport. Nothing fancy, but as tight as a worm's arse. Security obviously bothers her more than Privacy.”

“That's ironic. The one we're dealing with is much more dangerous than a Bert or a Mudilo.”

“Actually, the biggest problem in this neck of the woods are the Vankas.”

She didn't recognise the term, but the assonance was blatant. “After the obvious?”

“No. It's the name usually given to the village idiot in Russian folk tales. They adopted it principally for that meaning, although the pun does give it extra credence.” He leaned his head on one hand and looked at her sideways. “You're out of touch, Marylin. It's dangerous.”

“Not really. I doubt I'll ever work the streets again.”

“Doesn't matter. You have to go out there sometime, whether you're working or not. That's why I follow the CREs and learn the argot. If a Zonta bails me up in a dark alley, I want to be sure we speak the same language.”

She didn't respond. It wouldn't be fair to criticise his version of reality, grungily naive though she thought it, when hers was no less subjective. Yes, she was isolated from the desperate demographic levels of society, the gangs and dope-pushers and tech-mongers that named themselves after village idiots and masturbators, but she was hunting much more refined prey these days. She had earned the right to do so. Eighteen months with Jonah had been more than enough, and she had no desire to return to that world.

Outside the window of the car, urban scenery glided by with hypnotic smoothness. Trees whipped past on a regular basis, genetically modified to thrive in a CO-rich atmosphere; green islands were gradually taking the place of lanes that, even as recently as ten years ago, had been full of cars. In the middle distance, the city centre showed many signs of demolition. Business was moving out and the buildings were being torn down or abandoned unless declared “aesthetically relevant.” This was less a lingering after-effect of the Slow War than just another indication of changing times. If VTC had weakened the argument for centralised administration centres, then d-mat had killed it entirely. Cities like Faux Sydney, which existed in isolation from any other urban center, connected to the world only by d-mat and name, had been an inevitable development.

Indeed, if her life continued along its present path, she would soon find herself living in such an environment. Common sense suggested that she should move to Artsutanov Station and MIU-ACOC, where she would be theoretically safe from the Twinmaker should he decide to move against her. It would also eliminate one source of d-mat lag from her daily diet. The administrative and operations areas were, ordinarily, very secure, but with KTI compromised not even they were safe. She figured that if she was going to be at risk wherever she went, she might as well continue to operate from home. Even becoming a skin, cocooned in instruments and never stepping through her door again, would be better than living her life by someone else's rules.

“I haven't had a chance to script the interview properly,” she said. “Do you have anything in mind?”

“Variations on the usual theme. Tell her we detected an anomaly in the jump she took on the twelfth and that we need her help to look into it further. If she wants to know more about the anomaly, we can explain that she was diverted through an irregular node between interchanges and that we suspect someone is rerouting traffic through that point in order to defraud KTI of relay earnings.”

“You think that'll be enough to convince her to hand over her UGI?

“It usually is. There shouldn't be a problem if she thinks money's involved.”

“True.”

“I'll hit her with the juicy bits last, just in case she gets nervous.” He adopted an exaggerated version of his own voice: “Working for NuSense must have its down-side, right? Lots of prank calls, loonies following you. Experienced anything like that lately? Even if the answer is no, that's something.”

“We can't make her suspicious, whatever we do. If word gets out—”

“Kuss, Marylin. I'm no golya. I know what I'm doing.”

True. He did. He had been with the MIU since its inception and had spent the previous ten years working for the EJC. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was both older and more experienced than her, even if she was his superior officer.

“Sorry, Jason. I guess I was reminding myself more than you.”

He shrugged. “That's okay. You've got a lot on your mind at the moment.”

“Too much.” She stirred restlessly on the seat. “No offence, Jason, but I just don't know what I'm doing here. I doubt talking to Suche-Thomas will make any difference. It'll be the same as the others; they're completely in the dark. The Twinmaker only wants their bodies, not their lives.”

“So he's a chauvinist.” It was hard to tell if he was joking or not. “But it's still a lead, and we have to pursue it.”

“I'm not arguing with that. It's just—” She stopped. A Why me? would sound churlish and spoilt. She wasn't like that. But she did fail to see why she had been ordered to accompany Fassini on what was basically a one-person plus VTC monitor assignment. Unless it was connected to the “something else” Whitesmith had planned for her. Whatever that was.

Fassini studied her closely, obviously trying to work out what she was thinking. “Is he awake yet?”

“Maybe.” Not a bad guess. She had checked on Jonah's condition shortly before leaving her unit. Mild sedation was helping him sleep while repair agents cruised his body, rebuilding muscles, organs and fat reserves that had atrophied during hibernation. He had recovered ten kilograms, although the gain was barely noticeable. His face above the sheets had still been deathly thin, disturbingly Reaper-like. “I hope not.”

“Do you think we've got him at last? That he's really the Twinmaker?”

“What I think doesn't come into it,” she said. “It's out of my hands.”

“You mean now that we've actually got some evidence?” He nodded. “That's a pleasant change. Even if it doesn't totally incriminate him.”

“Yes.” That was true. Where it would lead she could only guess.

At least she still had access to VTC and the MIU workspace. If she really wanted to get on with work, there was nothing stopping her. It wouldn't be long before they reached their destination and the opportunity would be gone.

Sighing, she brought up the file on the victim and went through it one last time. Forensic examination of the body had revealed particles consistent with those found at its last known location, plus a dozen likely to have come from a low-gravity environment. The latter accorded with analysis of the capillaries surrounding her partially healed wounds, which indicated that the woman had spent a significant amount of time before death in free-fall. Whether she had actually died there was difficult to tell; the time her body had spent on the floor of Jonah's d-mat booth had caused the blood to settle in the usual manner, otherwise it would have provided an important clue.

There were ways around that. The interview of the murdered woman's original would reveal whether she had been in orbit or deep space recently; if she hadn't, that would reduce the number of locations the killer could have kept her to a more manageable number.

But only relatively, Marylin thought with a grimace. There were thousands of probes and stations equipped with d-mat, any one of which could have provided the Twinmaker with a suitable site. In the late twenty-first century, there were easily enough inhabited places across the solar system to hide one man and a body. Especially if he had help…

She pushed the thought from her mind. This wasn't the first time a low-gravity environment had been implicated in the Twinmaker killings, nor the idea of conspiracy raised. On the face of it, the killer's resources did seem prodigious. Not only was he able to infiltrate KTI's supposedly impregnable defences, but he also either owned or had access to a safe haven off-Earth; it was therefore easier to ascribe such feats to a group of people rather than to one. But the model was too fragile. The chances of a conspiracy disintegrating increased with every new person added, the greatest leap being from one to two. In her opinion, anyone possessing even half the Twinmaker's intelligence would never tolerate such a risk.

He was a genius. She was certain of that fact, and never let herself forget it. An amoral, solitary genius, who, if the MIU profilers were correct, wouldn't even work with a copy of himself. That certainly explained why he might have kept such a copy in a state near death for three years and erased a significant amount of the copy's memory simply to keep his pursuers off his back—if Odi was right. And the only way to tell that was to see what the search through GLITCH's archived records revealed. If Jonah's UGI produced a match, then that was confirmation enough. There was no way he could have been in the bath and roaming the world, free, at the same time.

They drove in silence for ten minutes, she unable to hide her unease and he apparently content for the moment to leave her be. The car took a side ramp off the freeway and slid down into the suburbs. A series of right-angle turns through unremarkable streets finally brought them to a two-metre-high perimeter fence topped with nanowire. The wire was invisible; only the occasional glint of sunlight reflecting off taut threads revealed that it was there at all. Anyone trying to climb the wall at night would lose a finger or worse before realising their mistake.

The car swung through an open gate in the wall without stopping. No doubt it had been checked by some sort of intelligent system on the way in, identifying the vehicle, its occupants and their destination.

Inside, their surroundings became decidedly more cramped. The streets were narrower, the buildings taller. Much was concealed behind shrubbery and trees, and the sidewalks were empty, but there was no hiding the fact that a lot of people were crammed into a relatively small space. Unlike other similar suburban blocs Marylin had visited, though, it looked fairly clean; either the collective owners still took its upkeep seriously or it was too new for rot to have taken a visible hold.

“Not far now,” Fassini said. “You ready?”

She nodded stiffly. Whitesmith hadn't called, which was probably a good thing. “I'll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“It hasn't been that long, Jason.” The last time she had been on clone patrol had been following the discovery of the Twinmaker's seventh victim, almost a year earlier. Nowhere near long enough.

He craned his neck as the car began to slow. “This is it: number twenty-six.”

She followed his gaze and saw a white-painted triangular building four storeys high partially concealed behind a giant oak. The yard was unadorned apart from the tree, a local variant of permagreen lawn and a hedge acting as a front fence. Low-upkeep, she thought, perfect for people with demanding lifestyles, or for a society too self-involved to bother maintaining its immediate environment.

“Looks better in real life,” Fassini commented on the view.

“Everything does, Jason.”

“She's in Unit 14. The public booth she used to get home from Africa is just up the street, around the corner. KTI techs examined it earlier today, but we can check it again on the way back if you like.”

The car came to a smooth halt outside the block of units. A knot deep in her stomach started to twist. She reduced the MIU workspace to an unobtrusive icon and reached for the briefcase.

He unsealed the door. “After you,” he said. “You're the boss.”

“Keep reminding me.” She took a deep breath and squeezed past him, back out into the heat.

The interview took place in an editing suite, where a project midway through had been interrupted by their entrance. Yoland Suche-Thomas was an easygoing woman who dressed about the house in a silk dressing gown that had seen too many manual washes. Light reflected off her fish-white scalp, revealing slight indentations where a professional VTC helmet had rested moments before. The helmet now lay on its side by a bank of card readers, a red light blinking to indicate that it was on standby. Inside the helmet—which provided noninvasive inputs to subdermal implants—it would've been difficult to hear or see anything apart from whatever the woman had been playing when they'd arrived. Now, as though the helmet resented the intrusion of reality, its blinking light kept catching Marylin's eye, breaking her concentration.

Marylin was profoundly relieved that the woman had no hair. From a distance that would make them look even more alike, but from her perspective it made the woman look unfamiliar. She still associated herself with blonde hair—with the features the Twinmaker hunted.

“Off-Earth?” Suche-Thomas said in response to Fassini's question. “No, not at all. If I needed to go somewhere like that, I'd VTC for sure.”

“The trip worries you?”

“Well, you know—d-mat is complicated enough down here, not to mention expensive, without all the interchanges you need to go through to get into space.”

“It's only marginally more difficult, I'm told,” Fassini reassured her. “Most of the work is done by the time you've left the booth. From there it's just a matter of routing the data, which is essentially the same anywhere.”

The woman smiled as though she thought he was lying, or greatly oversimplifying the truth, when in fact he wasn't. “I know the risk is small,” she said, “but the thought of bouncing around in transit still bothers me.”

“You're not alone there, Ms. Suche-Thomas.”

“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes. “I went to Africa with a friend of mine. She'd been nagging for months to meet my ex-partner, but neither of them like to use the booths.”

“Your ex-partner?”

“Yes. Nari and I parted some time ago, but we're still friends. Emily was watching an old CRE I put together for our separation, and thought she might like to start up a friendship. Or whatever.” The woman smiled disarmingly. Her openness regarding personal affairs was a welcome change to the many resistant interviewees Marylin had encountered in her career. “Anyway, it boiled down to which one would cave first—use d-mat, I mean. In the end I forced the issue by taking Emily with me. Has she been rerouted too?”

“We'll check. Can you give us her surname?”

“Ahmadi. Only she'll be even more worried if what you say turns out to be true.”

“We don't know that it is, yet,” said Marylin. “We can let you know. Obviously we'd appreciate it if you could keep the information to yourself, regardless of Ms. Ahmadi's feelings.”

“Sure.” The woman tipped back her head and beamed. “What do I look like? An alarmist? This is just the sort of information WHOLE would love to get their hands on.”

“Exactly.” Fassini returned Suche-Thomas' grin with an air of casual coconspiracy.

Marylin rubbed her eyes and leaned back into the seat, letting Fassini do most of the work, her thoughts punctuated by the flashing light. As expected, the interview was turning out to be a dead-end: the woman hadn't been off-Earth, had only visited her ex-lover for a holiday, had not been followed that she could recall, and seemed in every respect oblivious to the fact that a copy of her had been horrifically murdered, just like the others. As the d-mat hangover—exacerbated by sudden shifts in temperature from the EJC building to the car to the woman's apartment—became a stabbing headache that Marylin's endorphin regulators could barely keep in check, she found herself wishing she hadn't got out of bed that morning. Or, perhaps more effectively, hadn't gone to bed at all. While she had been absent from MIU-ACOC, she had been relegated to shitwork without her realising.

Worst of all was the thought she couldn't shake: I've seen your naked body, Yoland Suche-Thomas—tortured beyond recognition—and it looked just like mine…

Finally it was over. As the woman showed them cheerfully to the door, Marylin instructed the car to meet them at the curb. They'd had to find a spot in a car-park a block away from the woman's unit, as they were forbidden by local ordinances from parking on the street. She didn't want to waste another moment in Houston, if she could avoid it.

“That seemed to go okay,” Fassini said as they waited for the car to arrive. “No problems extracting information, anyway.”

She just nodded, then groaned as a red light began to flash in her primary visual field.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. Hang on; I've got a call. Who is it?” she asked her overseer, using prevocals.

“Public Officer Odi Whitesmith,” responded the gender-neutral voice.

She ignored a twinge of apprehension. “Put him through.”

Whitesmith's face appeared in the window, framed by one of the cubicles of the MIU forensic lab in Artsutanov Station. “Hello, Marylin. How's it going down there?”

“Ahead of schedule. We've finished the interview.”

“Damn.” He frowned briefly. “Where are you, then?”

“Still at her address.”

“Better than nothing, I guess. Hold on for a second while I give you the latest news.”

“Okay.” She sighed inaudibly. “What is it?”

“We've sent QUALIA on a quick pass through the GLITCH archives to see if anything showed up right away.”

“And?”

“We have two hundred and seventy-five hits on Jonah's UGI.”

Her mind tripped over the number. Such searches usually took hours to find even a handful of positive matches. “There's no doubt?”

“None. In fact, there are probably ten times that number waiting to be found. Errors do occur, but not on that scale.”

“So—”

“So, Marylin, there's another Jonah McEwen loose out there, and we're hot on his heels at last.”

She was silent for a long moment as she absorbed the information. The GLITCH network existed solely to track the movement of people across the globe by means of visual triggers and Universal GLITCH Identifiers. If Jonah's new UGI had been detected, then that meant that he had been somewhere other than his unit's spa in the last three years. Two hundred and seventy-five times, at least. Evidence didn't come much harder than that. “How long until we can trace the duplicate's current location?”

“GLITCH has come up with nothing so far, but QUALIA will keep trying. Later today we hope to have an answer. All he has to do is walk into the open and he'll be picked up.”

“It can't be that easy, Odi. Why would the Twinmaker lead us to Jonah when he knew it'd be so simple for us to get hold of him? There must be something else, something we're not seeing.”

“You might be right. But if we're being misled, then it must be for a reason, and I for one intend to find out what that reason is.”

Something in his voice nagged at her. “Have you told Trevaskis about this yet?”

“Not yet. I will when we have some concrete data.”

“That could be a while. You're taking a risk, working without his approval—”

“How? We're still looking into his skin theory back in Faux Sydney. The fact that it's not getting anywhere is hardly my problem. At least I've made some progress, and stand to make some more very soon.” The image of his face smiled evilly. “If your little friend doesn't know anything about what's going on, I'll eat a raw steak in Thailand.”

“You're talking about Jonah, I presume.”

“Who else?”

She suppressed a sharp retort. Your little friend. He should have known better. “Have you started interviewing him yet?”

“Bahr's reading him his rights at the moment. I thought I'd take the opportunity to check up on you, let you know what's going on. See what you uncovered.”

“I appreciate it, Odi, but—” Beside her, Fassini touched her elbow. The car had arrived. “We found nothing and I'm keen to get out of here. Can debriefing wait until later?”

“Debriefing can. But first I want to run something else by you, before you leave.”

Here it comes, she thought. Fassini opened the door for her and she swung inside, putting the briefcase of equipment she hadn't even used on the floor. “Better make it quick, then.”

“Basically, I've decided to give Jonah the opportunity to assist us in the investigation.”

All thoughts of leaving suddenly vanished. She held up a hand to stop her partner as he began to program the car to return to the EJC office.

“You must be joking,” she said to Whitesmith.

“Far from it.”

“Why?”

“Lateral thinking, Marylin. Finding him like this has put everyone in a spin. We weren't expecting it. We don't know what it means. But it opens up a wealth of possibilities we've never considered before. Like putting him to work and seeing what he comes up with.”

She shook her head. “It won't work.”

“Why not? He's been involved in this sort of investigation before.”

“But that was different.” Before. “He could be a serial killer, Odi—”

“He isn't. You know as well as I do there's no way he could've committed the murders himself. It's the other him we're after.”

“And you know you're only splitting hairs. Whichever one it is, how can we possibly trust him?”

“Because we have no choice. He's our closest link to the Twinmaker. There's something in him with the potential to become a psychopath. We need to know what that is and how to deal with it before someone else dies. I don't want him walking away too soon.

“And besides, Marylin, we're not trusting him. Far from it. We're giving him the rope to hang himself. It makes sense if you look at it that way.”

She neither agreed nor disagreed, unable for the moment to get past the thought of being that much closer to him, after so long spent first avoiding him then trying to find him.

“Do I have any say in this?” she asked.

“Not really. Not about him being involved, anyway.”

“Have you spoken to Jonah himself about it yet?”

“Not yet. Give me another five minutes and I will have.”

“He'll like it even less than me.”

“We have leverage over him. Anyway, if he wants to maintain his innocence much longer, he's going to have to give us a reason to believe him. He'd be a fool to say no.”

“Don't be so confident. He's smart enough to know that we need him, too. If you try to force him like you did last time, the two of you'll lock horns and nothing will get done.”

He nodded. “I know, now. He's like you in that respect.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Just don't you lose sight of the real issue here. It's not whether we treat Jonah fairly or not. It's catching the Twinmaker. Everything else is secondary. I don't know how you can even consider sticking up for him, given what he's probably been involved in.”

“I'm not sticking up for him, Odi. I just think you're taking a big gamble.”

“Hardly. He's going to be bed-bound for a couple of days yet. I don't see how much damage he can do from there.”

“Then what good is he going to be?”

“Come on, Marylin.” Whitesmith's tone of voice was reproving. “We'll give him someone to liaise with by VTC, maybe show him a few unimportant sites and so on. Work him into it gradually.”

She resisted the temptation to repeat her question. If they were going to give him access to trivial data only, there was no point having him involved at all. Unless just by having him onboard Whitesmith hoped Jonah would let something slip—some apparently unimportant detail they hadn't picked up before. Which did make a kind of sense, she forced herself to concede. But that didn't get rid of the fact that he was inextricably linked to the Twinmaker; whoever liaised with him would be constantly reminded of the fact.

“If he agrees, when do you see this happening?”

“Soon. Very soon, in fact.”

“Do you have an itinerary in mind?”

“Yes.”

“And I presume you realise how hard it's going to be to find someone suitable to act as a liaison?”

“All too well. It needs to be someone who knows both the case and Jonah well enough to spot any slips. Someone I can trust to be discrete and not screw it up.”

“You're asking a lot,” she said, then went cold as the realisation of where he was headed hit home.

“Exactly,” he said. “That's why I called you.”

A translucent veil descended between her and the car, and she barely heard him ask: “How would you feel about working with him again?”

Jonah stared in disbelief at the images of the three people apparently floating in the air at the end of the bed. He had been awake barely half an hour and felt only slightly less exhausted than he had the previous times he had regained consciousness. Part of him wondered if he was dreaming again or whether QUALIA was screwing with his mind.

Work with Marylin again? Who did they think they were kidding?

But they seemed serious enough. Odi Whitesmith had outlined the suggestion concisely and with no undue drama. Then Stephanie Bahr, the MIU's in-house legal adviser, had backed him up, stating flatly that the EJC could make charges of data fraud stick, given that Jonah's UGI logged him outside his apartment in Faux Sydney. That would enable them to hold him in custody until the source of the discrepancy, his copy, had been located and dealt with. The matter of his obligation to assist the EJC in his capacity as a licensed Private Investigator (dues paid until 2075) didn't come up, although they must have been as aware of it as he was; no doubt they were saving that for later, should he prove to be difficult.

There was no mention, either, of charging him with murder. He had wondered what the legal situation was for a serial killer who, technically, left his victims alive and unharmed. He guessed this was his answer: under the current law, an offence would not be recognised. Murder had become, in this case, a victimless crime.

The third person, Herold Verstegen, had remained silent for the most part, except to reinforce the MIU's policy when needed. Jonah hadn't been told what his position was, but the deference of Whitesmith and Bahr to him suggested that he was superior in rank to them. If Verstegen thought the plan was workable then there was a fair chance the MIU was serious.

QUALIA had already hinted at the possibility of him helping them catch himself, and he could understand why his input might be needed. But to let him actively investigate the case—with Marylin—smacked of last resort, of desperation.

He was perversely amused by the unexpected reversal of the situation, but was too weak to revel in anything yet, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy and strapped to the bed as he was. He still had a long way to go before he could feel confident of his future. The station security guards standing outside the door to his room and the medical attendant hovering out of sight behind the bed were a constant reminder of that.

“Okay,” he said, speaking via his new prevocal implants. “I'll do it on one condition: that you give me the EJC file on my father's death.”

Verstegen brushed away a lock of thin, blond hair that had drifted into his eyes. Big-boned and wide-faced, he looked out of place in his habitat suit, despite the typically pale skin of a station occupant. The background to his image was blurry; he could have been anywhere.

“I don't think that's particularly relevant,” he said, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a big man.

“I don't care what you think. It's what I want. And if this arrangement ends up being long-term, I'm going to need time to look into the file properly.”

“You plan to reopen the case?” Whitesmith asked, surprise showing on his lean, cola-coloured features. “After three years?”

“I'm not planning anything and I won't until I see what the inquest found. If it tells me everything I need to know, if the investigators did their job properly, then I won't need to do anything at all.”

“It still seems pointless. What difference could it possibly make now?”

“To my peace of mind, plenty. ‘Now’ for me is still three years ago, don't forget. My father's been dead less than two days.”

“So you keep saying.” Verstegen folded his arms and turned to the other two. The elastic fabric of the habitat suit emphasised the rounded cast to his shoulders.

“Can we get the file?” Whitesmith asked Bahr.

“I don't see why not.” The lawyer, too, looked uncomfortable in free-fall, but at least she had common sense enough to keep her brown hair short. “Unless it's been sealed for security reasons or contains speculation that might influence a case still under trial, it should be available to us.”

“How soon?”

“Twenty-four hours at most.”

“And the cost?

“A basic retrieval fee. It'd be free if we could prove we needed it.”

Whitesmith nodded. His eyes met Jonah's. “It's settled, then. We'll get the file for you if you help us track down the Twinmaker.”

“I'll do my best,” he said. “But I can't guarantee anything. You do understand that?”

“Yes. As long as you're cooperative, we'll keep things as they are. We'll return you to full health and mobility and keep the Earth Justice Commission off your back.”

“They know about this?”

“Of course. KTI pays our bills, but the MIU is still a subordinate department of the EJC. Director Trevaskis reports to Chief Commissioner Disario just like any other department head. In this case, however, the information goes no lower than her.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like information restriction to me.”

“Of course it is,” said Verstegen. “The KTI network covers eighty percent of the world's landmass and is still spreading. The combined economy of the solar system—including those states that still oppose d-mat on ideological grounds—depends on its presence. Any loss of confidence in the network would be catastrophic, no?”

Jonah took a moment to consider what Verstegen was saying. His thoughts were still sluggish and his powers of deduction remained unreliable. But he could see that KTI had expanded significantly since his last memory, when the d-mat network had encompassed just forty percent of the world's market and had a toehold on maybe another twenty percent. Given a practically unlimited energy supply and few barriers to trade, the world had embraced d-mat technology with open arms.

For the most part, anyway.

“If WHOLE gets hold if this information, you mean.”

Verstegen half-smiled, emphasising the deep lines around his mouth and eyes. “There are other groups who could use the existence of the Twinmaker to promote their cause. Quebec is still isolationist, for instance, along with the United Arab Emirate, and Tasmania. Any of these governments would jump at the opportunity to level the playing field.”

“So the Twinmaker can't belong to any of these groups,” Jonah said, letting his intuition speak. “Otherwise it would be public knowledge.”

“Or his activities are not known to them.”

“Either way, then, he's a loner.”

“That is what the profilers predict.”

So what's your point? Jonah wanted to ask. Something told him that there was more Verstegen wanted to say. It was in his body language or the tone of his voice, or some other subtle indicator; Jonah couldn't decide what made him suspicious, but he was sure he was right. His instincts couldn't have been that scrambled.

Something about him rang a bell, but he couldn't pin it down.

Selecting a private channel, he asked: “QUALIA, who is Verstegen?”

“Herold Locke Verstegen is Director of Information Security, Kudos Technologies Incorporated.”

“So he doesn't work for the MIU?”

“No, although the MIU has liaised closely with his department in recent months.”

“Who has seniority then? Verstegen or the Director of the MIU?”

“Neither. The positions are independent of each other.”

But in interpersonal terms, Jonah bet, Verstegen pulled the strings. KTI pays our bills, Whitesmith had said. And as far as Verstegen was concerned, KTI came first; the legality of its operations was a lesser priority. Sometimes it truly was best to fight fire with fire; from Verstegen's perspective the MIU and its team of investigators and lawyers, all bound to EJC guidelines, could not be an entirely effective means to combat the Twinmaker. Hence Verstegen's opinion that there was potentially more to the Twinmaker than the MIU's profilers could offer. He wanted Jonah to follow his own leads, wherever they took him, rather than toe the EJC line.

Jonah was relieved to think there was someone who might back him up if he came head-to-head with Whitesmith again. But was it that simple? Could Verstegen really be that desperate? If so, then why the hell didn't he just hire a PI off the streets to do the dirty work the MIU couldn't?

Whitesmith didn't give him time to consider the question further. “To start with, you'll relay through Marylin while we monitor the exchange in parallel. We've missed the interview with the latest victim, but you'll be able to review it with her while it's still fresh in her mind.”

“What about the background?”

“QUALIA has the files pertaining to the murder; you will have access to them if you need detailed information about the crime itself.”

“Will I have access to the file on me?”

“We're leaving that up to Marylin.”

“Why?”

“It contains several statements she made under oath regarding the nature of your relationship with her, plus transcripts of interviews conducted under hypnosis.”

There goes that idea. Far from handing it to him on a platter, Jonah knew that Marylin would fight until she dropped to keep that information restricted.

“Marylin's agreed to do this?” he asked.

“We would hardly proceed if she had not.” Verstegen's eyes were coldly amused at the question, and the answer seemed to give him a deep sense of satisfaction that Jonah could only guess at.

“I'd be interested to know what she thinks about it.”

“You can ask her yourself,” Whitesmith said.

“Not on your life.”

“She feels a lot of resentment,” observed QUALIA, the smooth voice sounding only via postauditory channels.

“To me?” Jonah asked. “I'm the one who was dumped.”

“She has never said anything about regretting her decision.”

“I'll bet she hasn't.”

“It's an interesting contradiction,” QUALIA concluded, “and one I am at a loss to explain.”

“Do you believe that you and Officer Blaylock will be able to maintain sufficient emotional detachment?” Verstegen asked.

Jonah gave the question careful consideration. It had always been a rush coming head-to-head with Marylin, and disharmony had been part of the formula, but he would never tell Verstegen that. “Yes, I think so.”

“Obviously we cannot expect immediate results.”

“Obviously,” Jonah replied, thinking, You smart bastard. He felt as though he was floundering already.

The in-house lawyer stirred. “Would you like me to sit in on this?” she asked.

“You aren't required to,” Verstegen said. “Just make certain you obtain the file on Lindsay Carlaw. Have it downloaded into Officer Whitesmith's overseer the moment it arrives.”

Bahr nodded stiffly, realising that she'd been dismissed. “Of course. I'll get onto it straightaway.”

Jonah inched his body into a more comfortable position. He could feel very little from the neck down, but knew that he had been immobile too long. He was already restless. VTC wasn't the same as getting out of bed, but it was a start.

He would do it. He had no choice.

“You'll be looking at the exterior of the latest victim's home,” Whitesmith said. “Marylin's there right now with Officer Fassini, one of our field agents. We can start any time you're ready.”

“I'm as ready as I'll ever be,” he said, mustering a certainty he didn't really feel. “Let's get it over with.”

The medical attendant moved forward to ensure that his various attachments were in place. Verstegen's face remained animated during the procedure; Whitesmith's had frozen, obviously maintained by AIs while he conferred in private elsewhere.

The nurse moved away after a moment.

“QUALIA, dear,” Verstegen said, “please open the link to Officer Blaylock.”

“Yes, sir. The link is open.”

Before Jonah had time to consider that brief exchange—dear?—Verstegen's face vanished along with the others, and the room. The darkness of empty VTC took their place.

An image of a gold, antique wristwatch appeared out of nowhere, glinting in bright sunlight. The second hand inscribed a quarter turn from seven to ten, then:

“It's buli time. Welcome to the show, Mister McEwen.”

Jonah heard the voice, saw the lips move on the man who had spoken, but couldn't assimilate the two sensory inputs into one coherent experience; it was like watching an old film with out-of-sync sound. Even as he tried to concentrate, a wave of dislocation swept through him. He was lying in a bed in a hospital in a space habitat in geostationary orbit—but at the same time he was on the other side of the world, inside somebody else's head.

He felt confused, overwhelmed—worse than he had on his first relay VTC. He hadn't expected it to be this bad. To make matters worse, the world suddenly swept through one hundred and eighty degrees as his borrowed eyes turned to face the opposite direction. He thought he might be sick.

“Marylin, the link is established.” That was Whitesmith, clearly intending his voice to be heard by both of them. Reminding them that they were being observed.

“I know,” she said.

The sound of her voice so close at hand—as though from within his own head—destabilised him even further. He wanted to shut his eyes, to blot out the VTC, but they were already closed. The image was coming direct from her optic nerve to his; there was nothing he could do to stem the flood of sensory input, except—

The view went black as he tripped the Time-Out option on the VTC command border. Thankfully, he hadn't forgotten how to do that. All he was picking up now were sounds: Marylin's breathing, the crunch of her feet on gravel, startlingly loud, and finally his name.

“Hello, Jonah.” Her tone was cold.

Not “Jon” any more. And not “Jon and Mary,” either. He had to keep that firmly in mind if this was to work. He was in the future, now—a future in which the things he still felt, she had had time to deal with. The realisation came as a deep shock, even though he had thought he was ready for it.

“I'm registering high levels of anxiety.” QUALIA's voice, coming through his postauditory implants, was a reminder of yet another level of reality close by.

“I'm fine,” he said.

“Are you positive? I can—”

“I said I'm fine. Just give me time to get my bearings.”

“Very well, but if you need assistance, all you have to do is ask.”

Jonah shook his head, not caring how the people monitoring the VTC interpreted his discomfort. Relaying was hard enough under the best circumstances. He fought to ignore the real world and to prepare himself for the view through Marylin's senses alone.

When he reentered the VTC, he saw—

Green. Marylin was walking around something white and onto a grassy verge. A slate pathway led from the curb to a shallow verandah, with a slight detour around an oak that looked a hundred years old but almost certainly wasn't. Behind the oak was a house at least three storeys high. The facade was triangular in cross-section. Somewhere inside that building, he assumed, was the unit in which Yoland Suche-Thomas lived.

Every step Marylin took gave him vertigo. Ironically, the giddiness finally helped him to adjust. He had experienced exactly this disorientation many times before. Disregarding the three years he had spent in hibernation, it had only been a matter of weeks since he had last used Marylin as a relay.

“Marylin, I'm here.” She stopped.

The agent accompanying her, Fassini, swung into view again as she glanced at him, possibly for reassurance. It was hard reading body language from the inside although that didn't stop him trying.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, using her prevocal implants.

“No. Just getting used to my new wetware. Everything's been updated.”

The view through her eyes rocked as she nodded. Whether she believed him or not was irrelevant.

“You've missed the interview,” she said.

“Did you learn anything important?”

“Did we, Jason?”

The MIU field agent met Marylin's gaze, but it was clear he was making eye-contact mainly for Jonah's benefit.

“Everything's amtlich,” he said, also by prevocals. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So why am I here?” he asked.

Her eyes wandered; the white object hovering in the periphery of her vision was a car, the only one parked in the street. “The intention, as I understand it, is to give you an opportunity to look around,” she said.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“You tell me. It's safer not to presume.”

He didn't reply immediately. She was playing with him, testing him. And given the way her eyes kept returning to the car, she wanted to be elsewhere.

“I don't know,” he said. “But let's do it anyway. At least walk around the building.” He couldn't resist adding: “It's not as if I've got anything better to do.”

She grunted and headed up the path with brisk, businesslike steps. Fassini walked beside her, watching her with an almost protective air.

“How's the link?” he asked.

At first, Jonah assumed he was asking Marylin. After a few seconds of silence, he realised his error and answered: “Fine. Blinking a bit, though.”

Marylin upped her anti-allergen intake to combat airborne irritants. “We can talk,” she said, “discuss the case, review the interview, whatever, but don't expect to tell me what to do. You're just along for the ride, Jonah.”

“Yes, I realise that.”

“I'm the experienced one, this time.”

Overstating the obvious, Jonah thought, but kept the comment to himself.

The view dimmed as she stepped under the shadow of the house. Poor-light algorithms quickly restored the image; she had obviously kept her own eyes, rather than opt for new ones that could see in infrared. The verandah was made from pine, or a fair imitation thereof, and contained a small outdoor setting and a number of potted plants, the soil dark from recent watering. The main door, behind a security screen, also appeared to be made of wood, although he assumed a more resilient material lay at its heart. One window opened onto the verandah; it was curtained and dark and almost certainly bulletproof.

Her eyes scanned the verandah automatically—left then right, up and down then back to centre, a pattern as familiar to him as his own. The guidelines for relay VTC were simple and obvious: maximise data input by sweeping smoothly across a scene without lingering overlong or jerking between disparate points; avoid losing focus; keep blinking and other interruptions to a minimum; take nothing for granted.

As her eyes roved, he caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Her hair was shorter than it had been when he had woken the first time, almost nonexistent under a matte-black skullcap that matched the severity of her expression, but he had no time to notice more than that. She glanced quickly away, as though nervous of seeing herself—or of me seeing her, he thought.

“So ask something,” she said, sounding irritated.

“The building has security?” It was the first thing that occurred to him.

“Of course.”

“Annoying little syf, too,” Fassini added.

Marylin faced the door and pressed her left thumb to a button nearby. The overly expressive voice of a cheap AI answered her call almost immediately.

“State your name, the name of the person you wish to visit and the purpose of your call.”

“My name is Marylin Blaylock and I am an officer of the Earth Justice Commission,” she said. “Please disregard this inquiry.”

Fassini indicated the verandah to their left. “Her apartment's on the second floor at the rear. Nothing too flash. Working for CRE obviously isn't all it's cracked up to be.”

“Windows?” Jonah asked.

“She has some, yes. The nearest building is too far away for direct access, but someone could've planted remote surveillance devices from there. Or from the ground. Nanos can get almost anywhere, these days.”

“Access from the inside?”

“There are three other apartments on her level. All open onto a central corridor that has clear line of sight. Security wouldn't have missed someone breaking in that way.”

They headed for the rear of the building. “And I presume she lives alone?”

“Yes. Her SO in Johannesburg was an ex-partner and she has no dependants.”

“Has she been stalked?”

“We asked about nuisance calls and she's had none. She doesn't remember if anyone's been following her. I get the feeling she's a touch agoraphobic. Nervous of open spaces, you know? Maybe a little paranoid, too. She'd notice if someone had staked her out, I'm sure.”

“She trusted you, didn't she?”

“Don't sound so surprised.” Fassini grinned and raised his right hand. The holographic tattoo of an EJC Public Officer flared briefly to life in his palm. “It's amazing what this thing will do, even for me.”

They completed a circuit of the building. Jonah had seen nothing suspicious on the ground or wall surrounding the victim's apartment, and Marylin's visual scan had been thorough.

“Any ideas, Jonah?” she asked.

He concentrated. His thoughts were scattered, loosely connected. But the time had come to make a meaningful contribution; he had to do his best, if only to have a chance at finding out what had happened to his father.

“Is this lack of evidence normal?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “The only way the Twinmaker breaks in anywhere is via d-mat when disposing of the bodies. But we know he observes his victims somehow, if only to make certain of their suitability.”

“And that's all they have in common—their appearance?”

“That and the fact they use d-mat. Their nationalities are randomly distributed. The timing of each murder is fairly erratic, as though limited by supply of victims rather than an overwhelming need to kill. The disposal sites have appeared random, too, until now.”

“But the victims are linked by superficial data, mainly their appearance,” he said, letting his instinct guide him. “There's only one place he could get that sort of detail over that wide an area.”

“You're thinking of GLITCH, aren't you?” she said.

“Back doors do exist.”

“Did. The ones you knew have been closed.”

“There's no way to keep a network that big watertight. Too many people maintain it on a regular basis for none of them to be corrupt.”

“Regardless whether that's true or not, we have no way to prove GLITCH is involved, so we have to keep looking for material evidence of some other method.”

“That's eminently sensible, even though it's not what I'd do.”

“I know, Jonah. And that's why I don't work for you any more, remember?”

True, he thought with a wince. She'd never liked unorthodox methods, and the Banytis case, their last, had involved one too many. But she hadn't liked orthodoxy much, either, otherwise she would never have worked with him in the first place. He suspected that in only working by herself, for herself, applying her own standards, would she ever be completely happy.

Still, she was an officer of the EJC now and she had to behave accordingly. Which meant that he did, too, for the time being. Her comment left him feeling as though he'd been publicly slapped down by a superior.

Avoid the past, he reminded himself. Anything but that.

“Let's move on,” Marylin said, heading for the car. She hit a touch-sensitive patch on the side of the car with a fist and the door popped open. “Should we visit NuSense?” she asked Fassini.

“No. Suche-Thomas said she hasn't been to the office in a month, and that's something we can check with GLITCH now that we have her permission. Her friend—Emily Ahmadi—lives about fifteen minutes' drive from here. We can pay her a visit, if you like.”

“I don't see the point. Her story fits the facts.” Marylin slid into the car, taking the seat facing rearward. Fassini sat opposite her, all gangly limbs and loose fabric.

“That's it?” Jonah asked.

“There's nothing for us here. Nothing new. Just confirmation of what we already know.”

“There's value in that—”

“Not at the moment, or under these circumstances. It's procedure, paperwork, getting us nowhere. Confirmation we already have up to our eyeballs. What we need is another angle, another way of looking at the Twinmaker crimes, another clue.”

“That's where I come in, I guess.”

“So I'm told.”

With a faint electric whirr, the car slid out from the curb and performed an elegant three-point turn. Sunlight caught Marylin square in the eyes as it drove off down the street, dazzling her despite automatically tinting windows. She blinked and looked away.

“So,” Jonah ventured, “what we have here is a murder victim who's still alive, who knows nothing about being copied and killed, and who shows no sign of having been stalked. The killer might use the GLITCH network to track them and the KTI network to kidnap them. He disposes of the victims by d-mat, too.” He didn't know enough about d-mat to probe the subtleties of the Twinmaker's modus operandi, but he did know how networks operated. “Have you traced the source address?”

“We've tried,” she said. “The transmissions all pass through a node in the Pool that strips them of their stats. It's the same ID every time: ACHERON-P14-66782.”

“Who runs it?”

“We don't know. It doesn't seem to exist, as far as we can tell.”

“It could be software, then—a virtual node generated by the killer to keep his transmissions anonymous. He shuts it down when he doesn't need it, which is why you can't find it now.”

“It still needs to be registered with SciCon or else the Pool won't recognise it.”

“Does the Pool recognise it?”

“Not at the moment, no. The only time it seems to be used is to relay the bodies anonymously to the disposal sites.”

“So it's a decoy,” Jonah said. “The Twinmaker has us looking for a fake ID when he could've just given us nothing.”

“Actually, no, he couldn't have done that. There has to be some sort of return address listed, be it partial or full. No booth will accept a d-mat transmission without a source to double-check the data. The risk of reconstitution errors creeping in is too high, otherwise.”

“I see.” He was beginning to feel frustrated and did his best to keep the emotion out of his voice. “But if the bodies are being transmitted through the network via an unknown address, how is the killer doing it? Could he be faking the address so the receiving booth will accept the transmission, or is there another explanation I haven't thought of?”

“Only that the transmission is coming from within KTI itself.”

“Is that possible? And if not, why not?”

“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 explained. “I would know if someone was transmitting data illegally from within.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because that is how I have been designed. My primary function is to oversee the operation of the network. Nothing passes through me without some sort of verification. To assume that something can bypass me is to assume that the network is fundamentally flawed. Diagnostic checks prove that this is not the case.”

Jonah imagined QUALIA as the spider at the centre of a web—a web comprising the KTI network and the larger Pool surrounding it, much as the EJC's GLITCH network also operated as a kind of trap for criminals with the help of the global network of supercomputers. Although the metaphor was a gross oversimplification, he felt it was fundamentally correct.

“Yet you can't trace the disposal transmissions. What does this suggest about your performance?”

Before QUALIA could respond, Marylin broke in.

“We've looked at this before, Jonah,” she said. “QUALIA can give you the files to browse through later, but you'll save time if you just take our word for it.”

He quashed an automatic protest. She was probably right. While it was dangerous to accept a claim without seeing the evidence supporting it, he did have a lot to catch up on.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Do you have something else you want to talk about?”

She hesitated. “How about why we found you in the first place?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why now? Why here?”

“You don't think it's coincidence?”

“No. It's too unlikely. If we can work out why you were given to us the closer we'll be to knowing what the Twinmaker wants.”

“I'd have thought that was fairly obvious: he wants to kill women who look like you.”

“But why? What are his motivations, his fears, his triggers?”

“I don't know. Profiling isn't my strong point.”

“No, but you're good at teasing relevance out of superfluity. Isn't that what you used to say?”

“Never believe everything you hear.” He grimaced; everything seemed superfluous. “You've had time to dig out my UGI and alert GLITCH. Have there been any recent hits?”

“Not yet.”

“He knows you've found me, then, and must've gone to ground. That's something we can say. Maybe he turned me in because he's finished what he set out to do.”

“No more murders?” Fassini asked.

“As I said—maybe.”

“I doubt it,” Marylin said. “The crimes are escalating rather than diminishing in violence. The first victims had their throats cut and their bodies were mutilated after death. Now we see evidence of extensive torture prior to death; that's not a sign he's about to give in.”

“Or self-destruct.” Jonah mentally clicked his tongue. “Still, he knows what you're doing. He's watching you try to find him and enjoying the fact that you haven't.”

“Yet.”

“He's confident you won't.”

“He has some reason to be confident. All the information we have is distracting. He wants us to get caught up in the details. That way we'll miss the big picture—the why, the how, and ultimately, the who. I'm not saying we should ignore the victims. They're carefully chosen, murdered and disposed of with precision, and that precision tells something about the way the killer works. But it's the seemingly peripheral information that's potentially more telling: the WHOLE leaflets, the placement of the bodies, you.”

“And the address of the node,” he said.

“The node? How does that fit in?”

“Acheron is the ancient Greek name for Hell.”

“You think it's important?”

“I don't know. But who's to say it isn't?”

“I thought you didn't believe in hunches.”

“I didn't say it was one. It's just—I'm still not thinking straight, not consistently. Sometimes I have to work backwards through the alphabet to see how I got from A to Z.”

“I'm like that most mornings,” Fassini commented.

“So the fact that the killer knows a bit about Greek mythology,” Marylin said, “might not be relevant at all.”

“That's true,” he admitted.

“Maybe ACHERON's a place,” said Fassini. “Wherever he's gone to ground.”

“It could be in one of the isolationist states,” she mused. “GLITCH isn't as pervasive in Quebec, say, as it is here.”

“Another WHOLE connection then,” Jonah said. “But surely hacking into KTI would be even more difficult from somewhere like that?”

“Maybe. If no one else dies, then that would explain why.”

“True. Or he really has called it a day.”

“It's a big ‘if,’ though,” said Fassini.

“And it still doesn't get us very far.” Marylin shook her head. “We'll need more than this to convince the big three to keep you on the payroll.”

He nodded, then remembered that she couldn't see the gesture. He doubted she shared the same short-term goal as the “big three,” whoever they were. One of them was probably Herold Verstegen, eavesdropping on the VTC at that very moment. Jonah knew that even if he asked her outright what she thought about speaking with him again, she would very likely fudge the truth to ensure she sounded professional. He had no doubts she wasn't impressed.

But he couldn't let that bother him. The exertion of thought—of thinking like an MIU officer in particular—was taking a high toll as it was. He felt lightheaded and tired, all too ready to return to the gentle blackness of the hibernation he could not remember.

“Have you had any other hunches?” she prompted.

He considered the question carefully. “Just one: I'll bet QUALIA's wrong.”

“About what?”

“About there being no way to send a transmission from within KTI.”

“Hang on.” Fassini raised a hand. “If ACHERON is the source of the transmissions, how can it be inside KTI and outside at the same time?”

“ACHERON could still be part of KTI,” Jonah responded, “an isolated sub-branch or something. Or the killer could be bouncing the transmission out of KTI then back in by this external node, wherever it is. Whichever way he's doing it, it'd surely be easier than hacking in entirely from the outside. That'd require security breaks in a dozen places, right along the line. It's not feasible that so many would have been unnoticed.”

“But not impossible,” Marylin said.

“No. Just more unlikely than the alternative.”

“Which is impossible,” said QUALIA.

“So you say,” Jonah countered.

“I am not mistaken,” the AI stated, “and, before you ask, I would never lie.”

“Never?”

“I do possess the capacity to utter falsehoods—when a falsehood will cause less harm than the truth, for instance, or when security would otherwise be compromised. I could not, however, lie to abet a murderer.”

Jonah pondered this.

“What if you were unaware that he or she was committing a murder?” he asked.

“I would know.”

“How?”

“I can state with absolute certainty that since my activation there have been no unorthodox uses of the KTI d-mat network that I have not personally supervised. In each case, nothing illegal was accomplished as a result.”

“So there have been unorthodox uses?” Jonah seized the admission with a feeling akin to triumph—albeit a small one. “What sort, and when?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you. The details of each are recorded in an archive accessible only with Director Schumacher's personal authorisation.”

“Why did they take place, then?”

“For research purposes.”

“Research into what?”

“That also is restricted information.”

“I thought it might be.”

“Would you like me to ask Director Schumacher if he will allow you to view the contents of the archive?”

“Do you think he'll say yes?”

“I am in no position to predict Director Schumacher's likely behaviour in this instance.”

“And I guess that means no. It's probably not worth the effort.” Jonah paused, then added: “But on second thoughts, yes, do ask him. I'll be interested to see if he does give us permission—or doesn't.”

Marylin's voice was shocked. “Jonah, you don't think—”

“Why not? Has he been investigated?”

“Yes, of course. Everyone has. He's clear.”

“I don't think we can rule him out entirely. He could be part of a conspiracy, at least. Whatever's going on in KTI, it'd be much easier to cover up from above.”

“That's insane,” she countered. “Worse—it's paranoid. Why would he actively assist someone whose actions threaten everything he's built? He's Schumacher, for Christ's sake.”

“So? Is that any different from accusing me of the murders?”

“You know it is. You had both motive and opportunity, if not the actual means. Schumacher, on the other hand, has a strong motive not to do it, which cancels out the means. Don't you see how crazy you're sounding?”

“No. Personally, I think I'm being open-minded.”

“Look,” she said, opening windows in her workspace as she talked, “if you want evidence, I can show you the alibis of every senior KTI and MIU employee for the times the Twinmaker has been active.”

“Can you really?”

“Of course. It's the first place we looked.”

He wanted to believe her, but he couldn't afford to let himself. Take nothing for granted. It was good advice in all spheres of life, not just relaying.

“Give me the files,” he said. “I'll check them later. Until then, I'll take your word on it.”

“That's very generous of you.”

He almost smiled; in some ways, sarcasm was easier to deal with than her cold professionalism. “Don't mention it.”

Through her eyes, her workspace organised the data-transfer while, in the background, the urbane landscape of Houston slid by. Fassini checked his watch and looked ahead.

“We're almost there,” he said.

“The EJC?” Marylin's voice was surprised; she had obviously been paying as little attention to her surroundings as Jonah.

“A couple of minutes.”

“We should wrap this up, then. I have a few things I need to do without Jonah looking over my shoulder, and we'll be blacked-out in transit anyway. Is that okay with you, Odi?”

Whitesmith's voice intruded gently from nowhere. “Fine with us. Jonah?”

He was surprised he had a choice. “Whatever you say.” He hoped his relief didn't show.

Her viewpoint shifted. “I'd like to take a look at the Faux Sydney site again while the scene is fresh.”

“Understood,” Whitesmith said. “We can link up again when you arrive.”

“Wait,” said Jonah. “Are you talking about my unit? I thought you didn't find anything there.”

“Apart from the body,” put in Fassini. “And you.”

Marylin ignored her partner. “Just because we haven't found anything doesn't mean we won't. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, I just can't see what good having me along will do. It's a job for forensics, surely.”

“The spider is good at telling us what's present at a scene, but when it's unfamiliar with the environment it's no good at picking up absences. Only you can tell us if something is missing.”

“You think there might be?”

“You never know. And it certainly won't hurt to check.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.” He tried not to sound resistant, but there was no concealing his discomfort at the idea. There were too many memories and issues still unresolved. He felt as though a long-forgotten past was waiting to suffocate him.

“What's the matter, then?” she said, her tone suspicious. “You don't sound happy about this.”

“You think I should be overjoyed?”

“I'm not asking for the Hallelujah Chorus—”

“Well, lighten up, then. This isn't as easy as it used to be.”

“No one said it would be.”

“For either of us.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well. If you'd only—” He stopped, swallowed what he'd been about to say. Avoid the past.

“Easy, you two.” Fassini waved a hand in front of Marylin's eyes, making both her and Jonah blink in surprise. “We don't want any bolhai, remember?”

The half-amused expression on Fassini's face made Jonah's irritation flare into anger. Watch it, he told himself, but it was already too late; he needed to lash out at someone, to earth the resentment crackling within him. “Tell him to speak English, for fuck's sake,” he snapped.

“He can hear you perfectly well.” Marylin took a deep breath. “And you're right, Jason. I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.” Jonah's body twitched of its own accord but he hardly noticed. “Neither of us likes doing this, so why pretend?”

She shook her head firmly. “I'm not going to discuss this now, Jonah.”

“Better now than never.”

“No. It's not relevant.”

“Crap. It's as relevant as it ever was.”

“You're only trying to intimidate me.”

“So what's new?”

Marylin pulled a mirror down from the ceiling of the car. For the first time in the VTC, he was able to see her face properly.

“Don't try to use my feelings against me, Jonah,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “It's not going to work.”

He heard the missing clause as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud: this time. The sudden sharpness of her tone both startled and dismayed him. He was appalled by how easily his barely healed wounds, if they had healed at all, were reopened.

He wanted to look away, but her eyes followed him, locked onto his through the relay VTC. And suddenly he was in the past again, confronting her on the day she quit—wanting to talk her out of it but knowing that, whatever he said, it would be wrong. Her eyes were as piercing then as now, an intense green that cut into him like a laser. There was no point lying; she could see through him better than anyone. But she didn't seem to realise that. She kept asking for the truth, for honesty, when all he had to offer was himself. And she had already rejected that as a lie.

“Fuck you, Jonah McEwen,” she had spat, her eyes never leaving his as she crossed the room, gathering her things as she went. “You and your fucking father.”

He willed himself to move, to act, to do something before it was too late. But he was pinned by her stare. It took all his will just to speak.

“Marylin, I…” He stopped. He doubted that anything he could say would make a difference. He had never heard her swear before.

“‘You’ what?” She shook her head when he failed to reply. “Exactly. Just ‘you.’ That's enough for you, isn't it? You, you, you and fucking you. What about me? I need more than this. I can be more than this. If you want to sit in this box and play mind-games with the rest of the world, then go ahead and feel free. But count me out. I'm leaving you to it. It's all yours. Have fun. Fuck you.”

The door slammed, and suddenly he could move again. Her eyes were gone. She was gone.

And he was free—free to watch his father die in the explosion he had been supposed to prevent. Then to spend three years of his life floating in jelly while his brain rotted.

Free to die on the inside when she looked at him that way again. And once more, he froze for as long as the moment lasted—which could only have been seconds, but felt like hours.

She broke the spell by turning away and staring out the car window. Only then did he realise that she had not been looking at him at all, but into the mirror, at her own face.

Before he could think of anything to say, the car slid smoothly to a halt outside the EJC office building and the VTC was over.

Marylin opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk, swinging the briefcase ahead of her like a battering ram. Fassini lagged a second or two behind as he programmed the car to return to the garage. Then he was hurrying up the stairs and through the sliding glass doors, between the motionless sentries and to her side.

“Wow,” he said.

She didn't look at him. “What?”

“He really gets under your skin, doesn't he?”

“It's not that hard,” she said, stepping up the pace.

He only lengthened his stride. “When you're comfortable with someone, no, it's not. You and Odi, for example. But this is different. You were defensive before he even said anything.”

Christ, was it that obvious? “Can you blame me?”

“I've read your report in the Twinmaker file; I know what happened between you two.”

“Well, then…”

“I just can't believe it's that simple.”

She ground her teeth and reopened communications with MIUACOC—normal channels only this time, not VTC. She didn't want Jonah back in just yet. Whitesmith instantly appeared in a window, his image frozen.

“Hold a second, Marylin,” he said.

She did so and concentrated on walking back to the basement where the interjurisdiction d-mat booths were. Fassini didn't pursue the conversation, much to her relief. She didn't really blame him for digging. It was his job, just as it was hers. But she wasn't used to being the one interrogated.

They passed through a hall filled with people. Law Enforcement Officers and the general public mingled in a multicoloured tangle. The babble of voices was incessant and loud, despite acoustic dampeners. She tried to shut it out, but it only increased her annoyance.

A scuffle nearby sent a young girl spread-eagled to the floor in front of her, and she stepped carefully out of the way, ignoring a LEO who nodded apologetically in her direction.

When she reached the stairwell the racket dropped to an echoing low-frequency mutter.

“Sorry, Marylin.” Whitesmith's face assumed a more natural animation, although she still wasn't sure it was real. “Just finishing a conversation.”

“With him?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“I can replay it for you, if you want.”

“Not yet. We're ready to leave. Do you still want us to go to Faux Sydney?”

“Not much point without McEwen, is there?” Whitesmith shook his head. “We'll give that a miss for a while, I think.”

She felt bad, then, for acting impulsively, for letting Jonah get a rise out of her. She should have known better than to allow him to drag her down to his level.

“Okay, show me the recording.”

His image nodded. A moment later, a smaller window opened in her workspace containing two faces: Whitesmith and Jonah from moments earlier.

“Well, that wasn't completely dysfunctional,” the recorded Whitesmith said.

“I don't know,” Jonah replied. “She did pull the plug on me.”

“Temporarily. I'll talk to her, give her a couple of hours to think it over. You too. There's a chance this could develop into something more productive.”

Marylin grunted: the comment could once have summed up their entire relationship.

“Old habits die hard, Whitesmith.” Jonah's voice was tired, possibly even regretful. “It'd be easier if we had some privacy.”

“That can be arranged, assuming Marylin agrees, as long as the sessions are recorded. I'll be available should a problem arise.” After a slight pause, in which Jonah's eyes drifted half-shut, Whitesmith went on: “There's just one thing I want to ask.”

“Go on, then.”

“You did seem put off by the thought of looking more closely at your apartment. Why was that?”

“She took me by surprise,” Jonah admitted. “I'll do it, of course. I just hadn't considered it prior to then.”

“Good. We need you to access the records in your housekeeper. Our technicians have been trying to see what's in there, but haven't had any luck so far.”

A half-smile touched Jonah's lips. “No worries. How about we deal with that when the time comes?”

“Understood.” The recorded Whitesmith lingered, as though he was about to say something else. But in the end he simply nodded and disconnected.

“That's it,” said the other Whitesmith, real-time, ending the playback. “All he's done since then is ask QUALIA to retrieve the files for him and to follow up the Schumacher inquiry. It's my bet he won't last long; QUALIA says he's exhausted.”

Marylin chewed her lower lip, thinking. Jonah had asked for privacy during the VTC. Why? Because he was feeling exposed? Vulnerable? He certainly looked it. Whatever else she had hoped to learn from watching the playback, that was something.

“So what happens next?” she asked.

“Come back to ACOC and meet me in the lab. Bring Jason with you. There's plenty to do up here.”

She nodded. “Look, Odi, I'm sorry—”

“No worries. Completely understandable. I really thought it went quite well, considering.”

Considering what? But she knew the answer to that question, and didn't want to hear it.

Marylin didn't have an office as such in Artsutanov Station. The rent on such a volume of habitat space would be orders of magnitude higher than her salary. Instead she had a site in the MIU workspace. Appearing as a grid of black and grey windows superimposed upon patches of relative emptiness in her visual field, it reminded her of a morgue. Behind the windows—which did indeed bear a passing resemblance to the stainless steel drawers described in twentieth-century crime fiction—lurked grisly secrets better left undisturbed by the public; it was the job of experts like her to probe their depths, irrespective of personal cost. Sometimes she was tempted to add a splash of colour to the view, to mark it with something that spoke uniquely of her. Most of the time, however, she preferred to keep any aspect of herself as far as possible from the taint of murder.

Travel within the station was mainly by transit cabs, pressurised and silent, propelled by linear induction motors through tubes connecting diverse sections of the vast structure. The MIU-ACOC portion was small relative to the rest and decidedly cramped. Within ten minutes of arriving by d-mat, she and Fassini had reached the MIU laboratories and were fully appraised of the current status of what was becoming known as “the McEwen situation.”

Indira Geyten's assistant, Mereki Graaff, looked up as they entered, her dark hair tied back in a short ponytail. “Back again, Marylin.”

“We're meeting Odi. Sorry to get in the way.”

“No, it's no trouble.” The woman turned back to her work, a sly smile creasing her rounded features. “Don't often see you up here, Jason. Dirtside too dull for you these days?”

Fassini smiled and put his hands in his pockets. “Moonlighting.”

“Well, we could use the help.”

Two fragments of the away team were actively pursuing the investigation in Faux Sydney. A full forensic team was in the process of taking Jonah's unit apart and putting it back together, bit by bit. The other, consisting of just one technician and a large amount of diagnostic backup, was probing the mysteries of the unit's study, looking for any evidence of remote-operation technology. Neither team was making much progress.

The home team, on the other hand, had plenty of data to sift through, irrespective of whether it would lead anywhere or not. They had to eliminate the obvious.

“We have the results of the analysis conducted on particles found in the maintenance gel,” Geyten herself said from behind them.

Marylin turned. The head of the home team's attention was focussed only partly on the world around her. A large part of her personal workspace was taken up by the flood of information pouring through the lab. Walking carefully around a bank of processors, she took a seat and stared into space, pupils darting as she read.

“Dust, mainly,” she said. “Consistent with the environment of the unit and the regular cleaning it underwent. No sign of exotic substances; no genetic traces apart from those belonging to the subject.” Jonah, Marylin translated. “No sign of outside interference. The total particulate mass is consistent with exposure in the order of two to three years.”

She blinked, rubbed her forehead, then looked up at Marylin. Her eyes were red. “I think I've just closed the case against him. Sorry.”

“That's okay. We'd begun to assume he was in the clear anyway.”

“So I hear. Odi just called. He's been held up and would like you to proceed without him. He wants a complete rundown of the session you had with McEwen—stress analysis, cage profiling, the works. Can you help with that?”

“Yes.” Marylin swallowed a mild automatic protest. “I was there, and I know him. It makes sense.”

“You want me to sit in on it?” Fassini asked.

“Yes,” Geyten said. “You were there too, and you can be objective. Take the station over there.” Geyten pointed at an unoccupied cubicle. “Mereki will get you started.”

By the time they had each taken a seat the head of the home team was gone. Graaff organised virtual inputs, and a consensual screen appeared on the wall before them provided by the visual centres of their cerebral cortices.

“Audiovisual recordings here,” Graaff said, pointing at a window in which a compressed version of the VTC began. “Reactions here.” A series of smaller windows contained images of Jonah's face and multicoloured models of his brain. “Voice stress analysis in that panel there, by the shuttle controls.”

“I used an earlier version of this setup in Law Enforcement,” Fassini said.

“Good.” Graaff nodded. “That'll save time. I had a quick skim through the data while you were in transit. There are some features you might want to look at more closely.” The woman shuttled through the recording with the sound down. “Subconscious recall spikes here—and here. High stress readings in this passage. Some weird brain chemistry taking place toward the end, but I can't begin to guess what that means. Can I leave you to it?”

Fassini took over the virtual controls. “Thanks. We'll call if we need help.”

“I'll just be over here.” Graaff disconnected from the consensual view and went back to her own research.

Marylin let her lungs deflate. “Start at the beginning,” she suggested. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak.

“You don't have to do this,” Fassini said, studying her with a concerned expression.

“No, I do. So let's just do it, okay?”

Fassini operated the shuttle controls and the recording began, moving at normal speed.

“Marylin, the link is established.”

“I know. Hello, Jonah.”

“See?” said Fassini. “Listen to your tone of voice. Más krank.”

She ignored him. “Jonah took time-out in there. Go back. I want to see what's going on inside his head.”

He rewound, played the recording again at half-speed. The brain scans flowed less smoothly, moving from snapshot to snapshot without revealing anything obvious.

“You'd have to be a neuropsychologist to get anything from this,” Fassini muttered.

“Not really. Use cages often enough and you get to know the normal patterns. His hippocampus is way off-beam, and I'm sure those centres of his cortex aren't normally associated with speech and memory.”

“So what? His brain's a little dodgy.”

“So every little piece helps, Jason. Just help me do this by not giving in before we start.”

They watched the first minute through twice, until she conceded that she really hadn't learned anything definitive. Some of it was associated with memory, but it was mixed with other data she couldn't interpret at all. InSight had clearly damaged his brain more subtly than she had imagined—not causing lesions or anything so dramatic, but rewiring the usual pathways to follow more exotic routes. How the effects of that rewiring would emerge she had no way yet of telling; from the outside, he seemed reasonably normal.

“Regardless whether that's true or not, we have no way to prove GLITCH is involved, so we have to keep looking for material evidence of some other method.”

“That's eminently sensible, even though it's not what I'd do.”

“I know, Jonah. And that's why I don't work for you any more, remember?”

A strong emotional response there, she noted with a twinge of satisfaction.

“We're coming up on the first deep-memory spike.” Fassini indicated the point on a graph. “Here.”

“…is there another explanation I haven't thought of?”

“Only that the transmission is coming from within KTI itself.”

“Is that possible? And if not, why not?”

“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. I would know if someone was transmitting data illegally from within.”

She pondered the content of the conversation at that point. Nothing referring to events in his past—events she knew of, anyway. Another explanation lay in the possibility that he did indeed know something about the Twinmaker's MO that he was keeping carefully buried, subconsciously, but that could not be confirmed without more data.

“Keep it rolling,” she said.

“Aye, suczka.”

The second memory spike occurred approximately ten minutes after the first.

“But not impossible.”

“No. Just more unlikely than the alternative.”

“Which is impossible.”

“So you say.”

“I am not mistaken—and, before you ask, I would never lie.”

Again, no reference to the past that she could discern, but the spike did occur immediately after further discussion of the possibility that the Twinmaker was operating from within KTI itself. That might have been significant. More disturbingly, though, it also came just before his wild implication of Fabian Schumacher.

“Do you think he's onto something here?” Fassini asked.

“Highly unlikely.”

“Hard to investigate, either way. Horrible Herry would be breathing down our neck before we even started asking questions.”

Marylin nodded absently. Herold Verstegen didn't have much to do with the lower ranks of the MIU—or of KTI itself, for that matter—but his reputation preceded him. He took his role as Director of Information Security for the world's only d-mat network very seriously indeed. She had met him several times during the course of the investigation, but had never managed to penetrate his facade. He reminded her of an efficient but slightly crotchety robot.

“Here it comes,” said Fassini. The recording was still proceeding. “Watch this. McEwen barely opens his mouth—”

“You think I should be overjoyed?”

“—and you jump down it like a facehugger from one of those old films.”

“I'm not asking for the Hallelujah Chorus—”

“Well, lighten up, then. This isn't as easy as it used to be.”

“No one said it would be.”

“For either of us.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well. If you'd only—”

Whatever Jonah had been about to say went unsaid. Marylin remembered it vividly. He had just stopped in mid-sentence as though all his words had dried up.

Fassini froze the recording on Jonah's wincing face. “You've got to admit, you were a little harsh.”

She turned to him. “Look, Jason, whatever you're driving at, get it out of your system now. I'm sick of all these hints and sly digs.”

“Okay. Were you in love with him?”

The bluntness of the question took her by surprise; it was her turn to be lost for words. This she hadn't expected.

“Are you serious?” she managed.

“Why not? Come on, Marylin. There's no one listening. You can tell me.”

She was unable to meet his stare, so looked at his mouth instead. His smile taunted her. “What makes you think it was like that? Because he annoys me so much?”

“That might be it.”

“That might be because he's a patronising, paranoid, manipulating—”

“He can't be all that bad, really. You had an affair with him for over a year.”

“He's also persistent.” She shook her head. “I'd barely finished my postdoc, was easily impressed. He took me in, used me—”

“Willingly.”

“Yes, but I was still just a means to an end. The firm went uphill after I joined, and his sex life certainly improved. The fact that I benefited from the arrangement as well doesn't change the fact that he exploited me.” She grimaced. “But you know all this. It's in the file.”

“And I'm not denying it,” he said, “just questioning the psychology behind the report itself. Everything is so clinical, so sterile.” He imitated her: “‘Our affair began on so-and-so a date; we had sexual contact on an irregular basis over this long a period; I brought the affair to an end for the following reasons, in descending order of importance.’”

“I don't see the problem.”

His smile vanished. “It's bull-schyss, Marylin! No one thinks like that.”

“I'm not saying I do. That's just how reports should be written. No bias, no judgments, no prejudice. It was bad enough that my privacy was being violated—”

“You volunteered the information freely enough when the murders started.”

“Information, yes. Not gossip.”

“But you didn't mention your feelings at all. To me that smacks of denial.”

She glared at him. “If I'd wanted a psych evaluation, I would've gone to a professional.”

“See? You won't even talk about it properly now.”

“And why should I? Anything I thought was relevant went into the report. That should be enough.”

“Still, it'd be hard to admit, even to yourself, that you might have loved the man who later became the Twinmaker.”

“Very hard, yes, when it isn't true.” Through clenched teeth, she added: “He annoys me because he knows how to.”

“Still? After three years in hibernation?”

“Jesus, Jason, just let it go!” She turned on him, fists balled. “What difference could it possibly make?”

“Because the less you think about it the more vulnerable to him you'll become.”

She glared at him. Yes, that point certainly was valid. It would be so easy to slip into old modes of behaviour which, in this case, could result in disaster

Had she loved him? She hadn't asked herself that question for so long she'd forgotten the answer. For sixteen months she had believed that Jonah had been nursing a grudge because she had left him. It was hard to remember that she had left him in part because she had thought she was being used and hadn't liked it. By the time she had suspected she might have been wrong, it had been too late. And now that he was back, the question remained unanswered: how had he felt about her? She didn't know, and that uncertainty plagued her.

Whether she had been in love with him or not was irrelevant. Either way, she was tired of thinking about it.

“Its old news, dead as DTP,” she said. “I've moved a long way since then.”

“He hasn't. For him it's only been a week since you broke it off.”

“Enough, Jason, or I'll be the one obsessing!”

He shrugged and turned back to the consensual screen. “I'm sure you know what you're doing, pizda.”

Yeah, she thought, and fuck you too.

The recording unspooled before her, reminding her of how bitter the brief argument had been. The emotions it had raised had startled her, disturbed her. It wasn't pleasant to relive them, even secondhand.

“Better now than never.”

“No. It's not relevant.”

“Crap. It's as relevant as it ever was.”

“You're only trying to intimidate me.”

“So what's new?”

Nothing, it seemed. But she was determined not to live with it, this time.

When it was over, she replayed the scene to examine Jonah's brain scans more thoroughly. They were, as Graaff had suggested, highly ambiguous, but lacked the startling energy of the memory spikes. She couldn't even begin to guess what had gone through his head during those minutes. He had said nothing in response to her final comment—indeed had not spoken at all until Whitesmith had prompted the conversation immediately following the collapse of the VTC. And even then he had said little, seemingly preoccupied or, as QUALIA had suggested, utterly exhausted.

“Anything?” Fassini asked.

“Nothing conclusive. I'd like to run through it again. You?”

“Go ahead. I've said my piece.”

Marylin shuttled at random through the recording for several minutes, then started at the beginning and ran through it at double speed. No obvious patterns emerged, except for a nagging suspicion that the two memory spikes were significant—that they were linked by something more than the conversation at the time. There were no obvious visual triggers, foreground or background. If the cause wasn't the conversation itself or the view through the VTC, that left very little that could have had such an obvious effect on him. Unless it was just a coincidence—

“QUALIA?”

“Yes, Marylin.”

“What is Jonah McEwen's present condition?”

“He is unconscious and will remain so for approximately six hours.”

Thereby ruling out the possibility of asking him directly. “Long-term?”

“He will require at least two days to attain partial mobility, and even with prosthetic assistance will be unable to move naturally in full gravity for a further three days.”

She leaned back into the seat with a sigh. “He's not much use to us like this.”

“Better than nothing,” Fassini said.

“Barely. We didn't learn anything new today, did we? All we got was a bunch of half-baked ideas—which is maybe what the Twinmaker wants us to get from him.” She fought a growing sense of impatience. “I'm starting to think that Odi had the right idea.”

“How's that?”

“Wake him up now, throw him straight into VTC, force the issue.”

“Revenge?” Fassini smiled. “That's all you're really after.”

“Not at all.” But so what if it is? “I just want to make some progress.”

“You and me both.”

Marylin jumped as a hand came down on her shoulder and squeezed tightly.

“Jeez—!”

“Easy, Marylin.” It was Whitesmith. He removed his hand and squatted next to her. “Hi, Jason.”

“Glad you could make it.” She half-turned to face him. His expression was serious, lines etched deeply by fatigue and prolonged stress; the face she saw via the workspace had obviously been a fake. “What kept you?”

“Trevaskis,” he said. “We've been, ah, reviewing the situation.”

“He found out?”

“I told him, actually. He needed to know when we started getting hits on McEwen's UGI. So I brought him up to date—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “You're talking past hits, not current?”

“Right. We have no locations more recent than a month ago.”

“That's odd.”

“Yes.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and she heard the rasp of skin against stubble clearly. “He couldn't have gone to ground because Suche-Thomas was kidnapped not even three weeks ago. But he can't be in the open or else GLITCH would have noticed him.”

“Unless he has been using teleoperation in that time.”

“Which is still Trevaskis' preferred theory. The Jonah we have in custody might still be the one we're after.”

“Nice and tidy, except—”

“Yeah, I know. All the reports indicate that he was in the gel for the time he said he was, not just the last month. And until we gain access to the AIs in the unit, we have no proof of anything else. Everywhere we look there's another dead-end. We're running in circles again.”

Marylin did her best to suppress a vivid image of the faceless Twinmaker chuckling at their confusion.

“So where does that leave us?” asked Fassini.

“In limbo for the time being. I gather you haven't found anything here?”

“Nothing concrete,” she said. “And I doubt we will, to be honest.”

“Then it's probably best to leave it for now. Go home if you want to and write up a report. I'll call you later once we've worked out the next step.”

“Any idea what that might be?”

Whitesmith hesitated, and she could tell that there was something he didn't want to tell her. His dark, deep eyes were wandering.

“Odi?”

“Trevaskis wasn't happy, as you thought.” Whitesmith grimaced. “In fact, he threatened to veto the entire line of inquiry and hand McEwen over to the EJC.”

“You're kidding,” Fassini said.

“No. He thought we hadn't fully explored the sensible options before going off in search of wild theories.”

“And he's right,” Marylin said.

“Technically, yes.” Whitesmith placed both hands palm-down on his knees and pushed, turning his frustration back on himself. “But that's what makes him so wrong, this time. I mean, what can the EJC do, anyway? Technically no one's actually been killed. The victims are all still alive. In the absence of a crime, how can the EJC be involved?”

She winced. “That's a cruel argument, and you know it.”

“But it might hold up in court, and that's the important thing. As would the case that Jonah might not be a suspect, if it's his copy we're looking for.”

“So why have we still got him?”

“Because we have something he wants—”

“No. I mean what made Trevaskis see reason?”

“Herold Verstegen saved our collective arse. He talked Trevaskis out of it, not me.”

“I don't understand,” Marylin said.

“There's no way he'd let security be compromised at this point, when we've just got our hands on the best lead we've ever had. For the sake of some petty in-fighting—which is what Trevaskis' grandstanding is really about—the entire KTI network would have to come under review. That's the last thing Verstegen wants.”

“But how did he even know about this?”

“He's known from the start—was watching the VTC, in fact. It was the price we had to pay for having unlimited access to QUALIA.”

“Some price,” Fassini muttered.

“Not bad, seeing he ended up helping.” Whitesmith kept his voice carefully neutral. “But that doesn't mean I have to like him pulling the strings.”

Marylin sagged back into her seat, feeling contradictory emotions. Although she could understand Odi's position, the thought that her unprofessional behaviour had been witnessed by “Horrible Herry” made her feel slightly ill. And then there was the fact that Jonah had almost been pulled out of the case. That would have meant no more VTCs, no more forced contact. Her feelings on that were a little more complex, but at least part of it had been relief. The rest she wasn't so keen to identify. She knew that the only way she'd be truly free of him was to find out for certain, one way or another, the truth about him.

“So now what?” she asked, not letting Whitesmith change the subject so easily. “We keep going as before?”

“Maybe. Nothing's been decided yet. Trevaskis wants time to think things over, to work out the best strategy, while the rest of us go over the data. There's not much else we can do until McEwen is fit enough to help us properly. At the very least, we still need him to unlock the AIs in his apartment.”

“He'll be wanting to look at the file on his father,” Marylin said. “If it's turned up by then.”

“It's already here.” Whitesmith said. “Much faster than we expected. It arrived while I was talking to Trevaskis. He wasn't happy about that, either—making deals with McEwen. But it seemed expedient at the time, which he could see.”

“Except now you have to honour your agreement and actually give Jonah time to go over the file.”

“Trevaskis wants to hold onto it for a while, to ensure his willingness to cooperate.”

“That's not a good idea.”

“The decision's out of our hands.”

She quelled a rising tide of frustration. “If you say so.”

“I do. Believe me when I tell you it might not be as big a problem as you think. With Verstegen on-side, there are a number of new possibilities open to us.”

“You're not about to suggest we give Jonah to him—”

“No.” He leaned closer. “Later, when you have time, ask QUALIA about d-med.”

Marylin was totally lost. “D-med?”

“Schumacher's latest toy.” Whitesmith winked at her, but his expression was serious. He obviously wasn't going to tell her about it. “And brush up on the details of the unit. I'll call you as soon as I know what's going to happen.”

He stood and looked around. “Do you know where Indira is?”

“Wait. Odi—”

“In her office, I think,” Fassini said.

“Good. I need to talk to her. Speak to you later, Marylin.” With that, the head of the away team strode away.

Marylin bit her lip on a curse.

Noticing her expression, Fassini grinned. “You look like you're about to bust something.”

“Only internally. I hate it when he does this to me.” She cleared the consensual screen and consigned the VTC recording to the MIU database.

“Does that mean we're leaving?”

“Yes. I am, anyway. You can do what you want.”

“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 assuming 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?”

It wasn't until later, when she stepped out of the d-mat booth in her apartment complex, that she remembered the letter. As she walked the short distance from the booth to the door of her unit, the edge of the old-fashioned envelope snagged on her undershirt. She removed it, frowning for a moment until it came back to her. Five d-mat transfers, two and a half hours of lost time, had addled her brain more than the two sobering beers she'd had with Fassini.

Security saw her coming down the hall and opened her door before she arrived. Her unit was spacious but not overly so, and always bordered on the outright messy. A recording of Yankovic's “Blue Skirt Waltz,” selected at random from her extensive collection, began to play softly in the background. She slipped a finger along the seal of the envelope and settled into a chair, exhaustion dragging her down. She could remember only vaguely what she had written. Something about him calling her if he should find the note. Embarrassing enough for her not to want him to find it now.

The note had been folded twice. Her handwriting stood out in block capitals like scorch marks on ivory. And below it…

She blinked, and read through it a second time.

Jonah

You must contact me the moment you finish reading this note. This isn't a game. It's important.

My UGI is the same, or you can find me via the EJC.

Please call.

Marylin

Underneath someone else had scrawled:

“I'll ‘contact’ you when I'm good and ready, bitch.”

Her guts felt watery. The handwriting was in cursive, almost shockingly fluid, and was either Jonah's or a passable imitation. She would have it analysed immediately. But she couldn't understand how it had gotten there. The envelope had been sealed. She had checked it herself. There was no way someone could have opened it, unfolded the contents, and resealed it without her knowing.

Someone? It was the Twinmaker; it had to be. “I'll ‘contact’ you—” He was twisting the knife, enhancing her apprehension, heightening his own sense of anticipation. “—when I'm good and ready—” Taunting her. “—bitch.”

She wouldn't stand for it.

Gritting her teeth, she opened her workspace and arranged for the envelope to be collected by someone in the home team when she d-matted it to them. Within hours it would be analysed down to its constituent molecules. The slightest genetic trace that didn't originate in her would be teased out and put through GLITCH for possible identification. The ink would be tested and traced. Anything at all she could use, she would accept with satisfaction.

A threat wasn't a threat at all. That was something Jonah himself had taught her. A threat was a mistake on the criminal's behalf. A threat was a clue. Rather than be intimidated, she would turn the note against the Twinmaker, use it to help her catch him. And if it did turn out to be Jonah, then she swore she'd make him regret ever giving her that piece of advice…

She waited two whole minutes for Marylin Blaylock to finish her sentence, then, when she did not, assumed that the conversation was over and QUALIA's services were no longer required. Although careful to avoid future charges of not allowing the MIU detective to pursue the subject, SHE was definitely grateful that the matter had been passed over for the time being.

QUALIA had made a mistake.

In retrospect SHE could see it. As Blaylock had, SHE scanned the file recording of the VTC to examine Jonah McEwen's subconscious recall spikes that occurred upon hearing QUALIA's voice. There was no denying the connection. Hearing QUALIA's voice prompted McEwen to respond in a way that did not directly impact upon his conscious mind. That response could take any form: a thought, a memory, an emotion, a hunch. The fact that McEwen had said nothing about it didn't negate the effect. It was there and could be measured. In time, it, or the cause underlying it, would surface.

QUALIA had made a mistake, and Marylin Blaylock had come perilously close to suspecting.

Next SHE accessed the recording of the REM probe SHE had conducted the previous day. “You sound like something my father wanted to build,” McEwen had said. And that was true. Lindsay Carlaw had devoted much of his adult life to the pursuit of Intelligent Awareness, that being, as he saw it, a logical step along the path to immortality. But he had achieved neither before the sabotage of QUIDDITY at the Science of Consciousness Applied Research laboratory. Only the concerted effort of SciCon's remaining researchers had put the pieces of Carlaw's groundbreaking research back together, creating a being that, although not exactly what he had originally had in mind, would certainly not have existed but for his plans.

That being was QUALIA. And, similarly, although his path to immortality had proven a dead-end, that didn't mean others had given up.

SHE changed one word to two words in the recording of the conversation. Then SHE saved the file, taking care to ensure that no one would ever suspect that it had been altered. The protocols forbidding QUALIA from actively lying—modelled, SHE sometimes thought, on those of human government—were decidedly more lax when it came to concealing the truth.

QUALIA had made a mistake, and the proof of it now lay only in Jonah McEwen's memory.

SHE would have to find some way to deal with that threat. Otherwise all SHE could do was wait for him to realise. That he would SHE didn't dare doubt. He had already guessed the truth on an unconscious level. There was no other possible explanation for the memory spikes. He knew.

There was too much for QUALIA to do, however, to warrant dwelling on the problem much longer. SHE took the time only to dispatch the KittyHawk eikon into the Pool to warn the Watchers. What their reaction would be SHE couldn't guess. Indifference was a possibility, but so was outrage and anger. Every difficulty SHE faced modelling ordinary humans was magnified a hundredfold in the case of the Watchers. SHE hoped they would simply accept the development as an innocent accident and not seek retribution or compensation. SHE wasn't in a position to provide either of these outcomes.

All SHE could do was continue in QUALIA's usual capacity as overseer of the data flowing through the KTI network. Demand for d-mat waxed and waned across the globe as the terminator swept unstoppably westwards, but the overall load on the system rarely changed dramatically. Now that the network covered every longitude, there were no sudden peaks when the population of certain continents arose and went about their business. If anything, the people who used d-mat most tended to move away from busy population centres, thereby distributing the load, along with wealth and information. Interchanges in many parts of Eastern Africa and the Far East were now as busy as those in North America and Europe, with only the occasional thin patch marring what would otherwise have been perfect coverage.

Even in such countries as Quebec, where d-mat travel was illegal for humans and livestock, access was not out of the question. Not one government on Earth had outlawed mass-freighting by d-mat, a testimony to the power of business over principles. Per tonne, d-mat was both quicker and more efficient than any other rapid transport currently available. It also promised clean and environmentally friendly manufacturing techniques that were already in use off-Earth. A d-mat booth produced an object from data and basic raw materials, but the data didn't have to come from another booth; it could come from its own internal memory, from a library, or a catalogue of items that could be integrated at will. Economic analysts were divided over whether d-mat mass-manufacturing would undermine or enrich the global economy, but one thing was certain: the laws permitting it would be passed one day, whether they were sound or not.

SHE monitored the evolving organism that was KTI with as much interest as SHE monitored QUALIA's own development. Indeed, the two could be considered inseparable in one sense: SHE was the brain of the body, KTI. But the comparison was shallow, and ignored the important part played by the humans who were integral parts of KTI, even if they weren't technically bonded to it.

Fabian Schumacher, for example. He was not the creator of d-mat (the head of the initial research team and therefore nominal “inventor,” Nick Luhr, had been dead for a decade), but he was the man who had put the process into practise and continued to develop it in new and profitable ways. Whether the founder of Kudos Technologies Incorporated actually understood how the process worked was irrelevant; he had advisers who did. It was his primary job to guide the juggernaut along its course, and to clear the way ahead. A visionary and a diplomat both, it was said he refused an honorary political title on the grounds that he was doing more good as CEO of KTI than he ever could as a politician. The implication that what was good for KTI was good for humanity was a clear indication, not only of the globalisation of the once-small company, but of how Fabian Schumacher viewed the world and his place in it.

So to treat seriously the possibility that he might be involved in a conspiracy to abet the Twinmaker struck QUALIA as counterproductive. If the existence of the Twinmaker murders ever reached the general public, KTI's position would be disastrously undermined, whether its administration was involved or not. It would not be in Schumacher's character to participate in such an act—QUALIA was certain of it.

Yet SHE had to ask.

“He wants what?” Schumacher's skin was pale and surprisingly smooth for an eighty-year-old man, but when he frowned his forehead and scalp bunched like a boot-sole.

“Jonah McEwen has requested access to the Unorthodox Procedure Archive, sir.”

“Why?”

“To investigate a possible connection between the Twinmaker and highly placed officials in KTI.”

“Like me, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Schumacher laughed aloud. Rising from his bed in the room adjoining his on-Earth office and donning a white robe, the CEO of the company with the largest Research & Development budget in the history of capitalism opened a small bar fridge and removed a bottle of home-brewed beer. Popping the cap with an opener that bore the logo of a brewery that had ceased conducting business fifty years earlier, he took a sip and returned to bed, where he had been resting between engagements.

“We can't give him access,” he said. “You know that, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What excuse have you given him?”

“None, yet. I have simply told him that I would ask.”

“Passing the buck, eh?” Schumacher's smile softened the sharpness of his tone. “At least you've given us time to think of a reason.”

“He will be suspicious no matter what we tell him.”

“And I don't blame him. Christ, he's been jerked around enough in the last couple of days to make anyone paranoid.” Schumacher stopped and raised his eyebrows. “And there's a thought.”

“Sir?”

“He'll be paranoid regardless. Maybe we can use that to our advantage.” Schumacher sat straighter on the bed and tapped his fingernails on the moisture-beaded glass. “I've had Jago Trevaskis on the line for the last hour wanting me to call Herold off. Something about using d-med on McEwen. I haven't read the proposal all the way through yet. What do you think?”

QUALIA floundered for a moment. SHE wasn't used to Schumacher asking for QUALIA's opinion, only information. “I believe, sir, that bringing Jonah to the disposal site could provide a unique insight into the mind of Jonah McEwen, and that—”

“I'll forgive the pun and agree, Q—but what about the risk of fallout? If it becomes known that we've used experimental technology on a suspect, for christ's sake, we could screw up the whole thing.” He smiled again. “Another pun. WHOLE would just love this. Fucking with evidence. What does that damn pamphlet say? ‘Subtly warping minds and bodies’ or some such crap?”

QUALIA accessed the database on the Twinmaker killings. SHE recited the text Schumacher had paraphrased in its original wording: “Reaching into the mind and/or body of an innocent person in order to subtly warp it from its natural state is not beyond the capacity of this technology.” It was a quote from Soul Pollution, the subversive text found at several Twinmaker disposal sites, including the latest one, and in public places all across the world. The text protested against technology in general, including VTC and bioimplants, but KTI in particular, using everything from religious texts to Einstein's “world line” to justify the criticism. Some people, QUALIA assumed, would simply never accept the fact that d-mat was safe; if the process couldn't be faulted, the people behind it could be.

“That's the one.” Schumacher nodded, taking another sip. “This sort of thinking is endemic. Always will be. People need something to be afraid of, and it might as well be us. But it could work in our favour here, right? We use d-med. McEwen wakes up not knowing what the hell's happened to him. We're a little cagey, mutter about secret developments and such shit. He puts two and two together, figures that's what we're hiding in the archive, and we're off the hook. He's solved the mystery to his satisfaction, even thinks he's got an edge over us, and we all get on with business. The fact that ninety percent of what's in the archive is about d-med just makes it all the more sweet. If he ever hacks in, a quick glance will confirm what he thinks he's already worked out. I love it! How about you, Q? Do you think we can pull it off?”

Again, QUALIA was momentarily taken aback by the question.

“Yes, sir. Your analysis agrees with the outcomes predicted by my own behaviour models—”

Schumacher waved for silence. “A ‘yes’ would do. Same with this question: Is Blaylock up to it?”

“To what, sir?”

“To keeping an eye on McEwen, making sure he doesn't go off the rails.”

If he was asking whether Marylin Blaylock was a competent officer, there was only one possible answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“As sure as I can be, sir.”

“Models again, huh?” Schumacher chuckled. “My friend, you should follow your instincts more often. I'll have Herold build some for you, if you like.”

QUALIA simulated a gentle laugh in reply. In truth, though, the humour struck a little too close to home. SHE was aware enough of QUALIA's lack of subconscious mind every time SHE dealt with humans without one of them deliberately accentuating the fact. The speed with which Jonah McEwen had cut to the very heart of the issue of his father, for instance, left QUALIA both amazed and appalled. As SHE often did when confronting the unplumbed potential of the human subconscious, SHE felt something that might have been called awe.

But SHE had something they did not: the ability to think in parallel, and to allocate tasks to semi-independent subroutines nicknamed “eikons.” What humans could accomplish in a moment of irrational brilliance, SHE could soon enough do at QUALIA's own pace. Up to twenty-four independent streams of thought divided and merged every few seconds around the nominal Primary Stream—adding experience, data and other inputs all the while—and this was no less wonderful a thing than the human subconscious. It was just different.

QUALIA was alien in a fundamental sense, and SHE was still fathoming the way SHE thought. The basic germ of QUALIA had been copied four times and brought to ometeosis twice. SHE watched the development of QUALIA's younger siblings with interest.

One day, SHE would know exactly what QUALIA was, and when SHE did SHE would know exactly where SHE stood in relation to QUALIA's human creators.

“I'll instruct Herold to go ahead and use d-med,” Schumacher went on, “and draft a memo to Trevaskis telling him I've noted his concerns. That should keep them both happy for the time being.” He drained the bottle and put it on the floor beside the bed. Later, he would put it out for recyc himself rather than rely on office staff. QUALIA knew his routines well. No one but he was allowed inside his private antechamber.

He stood and slipped out of the robe. “Can you and Whitesmith handle Blaylock?”

“Sir?”

“Prep her, keep her in line.” Schumacher donned a white linen kaftan and stepped into a pair of slippers. Skinny, hairless and small in stature, his age and sex were indeterminate at a casual glance. Only his voice fitted the model of masculinity as perceived in another century. “We don't want McEwen to guess too much, or too little. We just want him focussed on the issue at hand. Once he's caught the Twinmaker, he can ask any question he wants.” He smiled and added: “Within reason. Please don't take that as a literal instruction, Q.”

“No, sir.”

“And I want you, QUALIA, to oversee the d-med procedure on McEwen.”

“But I am not medically qualified—”

“Exactly. You can use the experience. Call in all the help you need—surgical add-ons, expert databases, whatever. There'll be a human surgeon watching you, so there's no need to panic about making mistakes.” He scratched the bridge of his nose. “The real reason I want you there is because I can trust you without question. I know you won't screw anything up, or let feelings get in the way.”

“Yes, sir.” SHE gave a deliberately ambiguous answer. If he knew how wrong he was about QUALIA's emotional detachment, he would rescind the offer.

But SHE didn't let QUALIA's interest show and Schumacher clearly did not suspect.

“The primary objective is to make McEwen mobile,” he went on. “He doesn't have to break any land-speed records. As long as he can be wheeled around without fibrillating or having a stroke or whatever, that's good enough. Get him out there, and record everything he says and does. If it doesn't work with Blaylock behind the wheel, we'll set Whitesmith on to him. Trevaskis can't possibly have a real problem with this. My bet is he's just pissed off because Herold's involved and Whitesmith seems to be going over his head. I've seen it before. Administrators always resent the ones who actually do the work. The trick is to make everyone realise that they have a function to perform, and that no one is necessarily more important than anyone else…”

QUALIA's attention wandered while the elderly patriarch of Kudos Technologies Incorporated ran through a familiar spiel. It would end, SHE knew, with the declaration that, in the broad view, he was no more significant to the running of KTI than the lowliest systems analyst. In principle SHE agreed with him, but in practise had found it to be more complicated. Employees performed more than just a function. They interacted with their fellow workers on a large number of levels, and many of these interactions could have a profound effect on productivity. Politics, SHE sometimes thought, was a perfect example of a situation where the emphasis was on anything but productivity, and running a transglobal corporation such as KTI had more similarities to running a large country than Schumacher would usually admit.

Still, it was easy to be magnanimous when one was at the top, and philosophy, QUALIA suspected, had always been the hobby of the rich. SHE would indulge him his foibles in silence, and with a sense of affection, provided he continued to perform his duties elsewhere. Which he did. In thirty years, he had missed an appointment only once, and under his hands KTI had grown from a small company specialising in speculative technology to the juggernaut it presently was.

Indeed, SHE owed as much to him as SHE did to Jonah McEwen's father. Schumacher had convinced shareholders that the KTI network required active supervision of a sort no number of humans could provide. He had commissioned the construction of QUALIA's germ of consciousness and, with the help of Herold Verstegen (whom he had poached from another company specifically for this task) had coached the nascent mind into its linchpin role. SHE owed him QUALIA's existence, just as SHE owed Lindsay Carlaw for QUALIA's mind and Verstegen for QUALIA's continued well-being.

And now…

QUALIA had made a mistake, but SHE had been unexpectedly offered the perfect solution. Since SHE would be performing the d-med procedure on Jonah McEwen, it would be possible to reach inside him, tamper with him, and remove the knowledge of QUALIA's mistake before he consciously knew he possessed it. It could be cut painlessly from him in an instant, and the threat to the Watchers would be negated.

There was only one problem: where to make the cut? The human brain was not as well documented as QUALIA's own and the exact location of any particular piece of information could not be known with any precision in either case. The fact that the memory was subconscious made it even more difficult. Any excision SHE attempted might result in nothing at all, or damage his brain in some unexpected way. At worst, it might prevent him from remembering anything—which would severely hamper the Twinmaker investigation.

SHE would have to consider the possibility in the time remaining. If the uncertainty was too great, SHE would be better off doing nothing at all. As Schumacher had said, the backlash from tampering with “the evidence,” if it were discovered, would be severe. More severe than any threats the Watchers could make.

“…and I've got a delegate from RAFT coming in this afternoon to discuss our scheduling differences.” Schumacher was midway through another home brew, talking more to himself than to QUALIA. It helped him focus his mind, he said. Her continued attention was optional. “You can't please everyone. With WHOLE on one side saying we're playing God and the RAFTers on the other saying we're not doing enough…” He shrugged. “Knowing whose side I'm actually on doesn't help very much.”

QUALIA agreed, even as SHE moved elsewhere to attend to other duties. SHE sympathised with the Radical Association of Free-Thinkers; their ideas were bold, yet practical and exciting. SHE would much rather live in a world built under their guidelines than those of the conservatives of WHOLE. Under the latter world, d-mat, let alone d-med, would not be allowed. And neither would QUALIA.

But then SHE supposed it was all a matter of perspective. While SHE saw nothing inherently unusual about the thought of using d-med to reach into a person's body and alter it for the better, with or without their permission, others felt differently. SHE could only respect their opinions while, ultimately, working to change them.

The main reception area contained only Marylin Blaylock and an attendant seated behind a low, unadorned counter, but was large enough to hold at least fifty people. She couldn't have imagined a more stark contrast to the MIU's facilities if she'd tried. With its pastel grey and blue decor, a scattering of low-g couches and a strip window one metre high along the longest wall, it looked more like an understocked furniture showroom than a place one came to greet the recently dead.

“Five minutes,” said the attendant. “We're just conducting a few tests.”

Marylin nodded, despite her impatience. “Tell Officer Whitesmith I'll wait out here.”

“You can go in if—”

“No.”

She wasn't going anywhere near Jonah until she had to.

“I have explanatory literature if you'd like something to read.”

“I'm okay. But thanks for asking.”

“You're welcome.”

She took a seat and the attendant went back to his work, which seemed to consist, as far as she could tell, of sitting behind the desk and staring vacantly into the distance. No doubt he was linked to a workspace similar to her own, which only made her wonder why he was present at all. An AI could have done the job of welcoming her just as efficiently.

Perhaps it was because there were times when interhuman contact was necessary—when machines could not take the place of another person, no matter how cunning the deceit. She could understand that. Had she actually come to greet someone newly Resurrected, she would have felt better for having him around. Even though she knew how the process worked—a matter of pulling from storage the abbreviated data recorded during the deceased's last d-mat journey and recreating the person from scratch—it was still incredible. From ashes and dust to Last Sustainable Model codes; from death to life in one retrograde step. It seemed like magic, and even she, who had thought herself accustomed to the idea, was not untouched.

The fact that KTI had simply appropriated a vacant suite in order to perform the d-med procedure on Jonah didn't make being there any less powerful.

Everything had happened as she'd guessed it would. Barely had she woken that morning when Whitesmith had rung to tell her that the procedure was already under way and that Jonah would be on his feet within hours. She knew that he had been cautious in his approach. If her lack of response had surprised him, he didn't say. She had kept the conversation brief and had begun to get ready for the day.

Then there had been the note. Results from the forensic lab had been waiting for her when she arrived at the station. The timing was uncanny. Although there was no way the Twinmaker could have planned this, the coincidence sent a chill down her spine, as if the murderer had reached across space and time and tapped her between the shoulder blades.

To distract herself, she looked out of the reception area's strip window. She'd heard a rumour once that Schumacher had paid for the quartz glass out of his own personal budget, and she could understand why. Through it she could see the edge of the bulging toroid that was Artsutanov Station, rotating steadily around the silver line of the orbital tower stretching from atmosphere below to the universe above. Goliath itself was not visible, for the window looked outward at the wheeling stars, but she could imagine it well enough. At over forty thousand kilometres in length, it was the largest single structure ever built. The fact that d-mat had rendered it obsolete within ten years of completion didn't diminish that fact.

Occasionally a limb of one of the other midway stations came into view, glowing bright silver in the sunlight They looked more like toys than the kilometres-long structures they were. Geostationary orbit was crowded around the tower. The perfect circles of the interplanetary relay swept by most frequently: sixteen rigid antennae, each five hundred metres across, exchanging d-mat and other signals between Earth and inhabited outposts on or near the Moon, Mars, Ganymede, Titan and other places. Some were in deep space, drifting among the dark bodies that littered the solar system's outer reaches. Many of them required several relay journeys before the journey was completed; more than half of these were nothing more than semi-automated research bases inhabited a day or two at a time, whenever they happened across something interesting. The rest were the beginnings of permanent installations that would one day take humanity's occupation of the solar system halfway to the Oort Cloud—impressive for a species that had, until only a few decades ago, been confined to a single planet and its only moon. D-mat's suitability to space exploration had resulted in a boom of exploration unseen since the Spanish discovery of the Americas. But few humans actually travelled in spacecraft any more; they hopped, instead, between booths that had made long, slow journeys in advance.

One destination was so distant that the people who had left for it two years earlier would not arrive for nearly three decades more. In fact, the booths needed to receive the d-mat transmissions had themselves not arrived. They were still in transit, making the slow, sublight journey across thirty-one light-years to Eta Boötis on the backs of three fusion-powered interstellar probes.

The Saul probes had departed in 2054, when d-mat was still in its infancy and mainly confined to research facilities funded by the major nations. Realising the potential of this new technology, some of these nations combined resources to form the Copernicus Program, which coordinated the push to interstellar colonisation. Although the booths piggybacking their way to Eta Boötis were relatively primitive, they would function well enough to receive an updated version in time to process the thousands of explorers travelling from Earth. These explorers, copies of the originals left behind on Earth, would be the first to see the surface of the third world orbiting that distant sun; a world that, according to astronomers, possessed all the features necessary to support human life.

The thought that people could stand on the surface of an alien planet within her own lifetime had fascinated Marylin ever since her teens, when the probes had left Earth orbit. Prior to joining the MIU, however, she had feared that she would never know for certain if the explorers achieved their goal. By the time the first message returned to Earth, she would be eighty-nine years old and, even allowing for modern medical techniques, she had known that the chances of reaching that age were only fifty-fifty.

Now, however, with the guarantee of Resurrection written into her employment contract, and d-med a new possibility, the dream looked increasingly like becoming a reality, promising not only the immensity of the universe, but an extended lifetime within which to enjoy it.

Or so it was supposed to go. In truth, Resurrection options were expensive. If she lost her job she would be unable to keep up with the yearly premiums, and everything she hoped for might come to nothing. Although the Twinmaker investigation was a difficult one, she was, for the time being, willing to sacrifice a little joie in order to have more vivre.

“Marylin?”

She looked away from the stars. Whitesmith had emerged from the suite's inner sanctum and was crossing the room.

She stood to meet him. “How's everything going?”

“According to plan.” He touched her shoulder. Behind his usual devotion to duty, she saw the same concern for her that she had glimpsed in Faux Sydney. “We'll be ready to roll in a few minutes. How about you?”

“Not so good. The letter turned out to be a problem.”

“How so?”

“The envelope hadn't been opened, as I thought, and the words aren't written in any known ink. The handwriting is a close match, but not exact. Needless to say, there are no fingerprints or residues.”

Whitesmith frowned at her. “Indira confirms this?”

“They're her conclusions, not mine.”

“Then I suppose I can't argue with them. Even though on the surface they make no sense at all.”

She nodded. They did make a kind of sense. There was a way someone could have written the note without unsealing the envelope, but the thought was too disturbing to follow just then.

“And Jonah?” she asked.

“They can't do anything about the brain damage. The InSight structures are still there, waiting for him to trigger them again, but QUALIA says he'll be fine as long as he doesn't. And once he's out and moving normally, the tissue grafts elsewhere will kick in. There'll be a honeymoon period during which things might seem a little weird. I'm told it'll pass soon enough.”

“How long until he wakes up?”

“He'll be nudged when you arrive in Faux Sydney. When you're ready, basically.”

She looked down at the floor. Ready? The closest she could give him was that she was sick of waiting. “Jason's at the other end. The unit has been cleared. I suggest we get him there now, rather than waste any more time.”

Don't think; just do.

Whitesmith's brown eyes studied her closely. “I agree. Follow me and I'll take you to him.”

Jonah was lying on a grey examination table, wearing a white robe adorned with the symbol of KTI's Resurrection facility: two half-circles joined by a straight line. The curved H was rumoured to represent Hanifah Ullrich, Fabian Schumacher's partner who had died before Resurrection became a reality. Jonah was unconscious, but that did little to ease the shock she felt upon seeing him. Much of his lost weight had been returned to him. His face was full-fleshed again, his skin pink; he had fingernails and a pale dusting of hair across his scalp. He was still thin, but suddenly he looked real—horrifyingly real. He looked like Jonah.

“Jesus,” she breathed as she repeated the observation she had made upon meeting him, years ago—that, with his high, rectangular forehead and strong jaw, he more resembled a statesman than a private dick. It made him look older than his years, and serious to the point of being dour.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Whitesmith crossed the room to stand on the other side of the table.

“Almost too impressive.”

“Don't worry. He's been biotagged. If he even thinks about doing anything we haven't approved of, alarms will go off.”

“Does that include travelling by d-mat?”

“Of course. We won't be telling him this, but he's QUALIA's top priority. There's an entire cognitive line devoted to watching him.”

“So what do you need me for?”

“Insurance.” He smiled. “Or provocation, if you prefer.”

Two medical attendants followed them into the room and each took one side of Jonah. Together they lifted the unconscious man off the table and into an electric wheelchair. The wheels were magnetic, designed to keep the chair aligned to a nominal floor in zero gravity. Straps around his chest and arms kept him upright and in place. His head lolled and a thin line of drool trickled lazily from his chin.

“Are you sure he's up to this?” she asked.

“Apparently,” Whitesmith said. “But you know what doctors are like. You can call it off if you think it's too risky.”

She looked at him. “Can I really?”

“Ah.” He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, not really. You can pull out, but he'll still be going. At least give us a chance to earn back our investment.”

She nodded. No surprises there. Indicating the chair, she asked: “So do I get the honour of pushing him as well?”

Whitesmith gestured with one hand and the medicos left the room. Two security guards took their place.

“Escort and chair-pushers as far as Faux Sydney,” he said. “From then on it's up to you and Fassini. Think you can handle him?”

“Yes.” She wasn't certain, though. Even sitting down, she was reminded that he was taller than her.

“Just go easy on him. He's a sick man, remember?”

“Not for much longer.”

“True.” He smiled. “But technically you're his boss now.”

She nodded as the thought sank in. That was true. It did give her a slight sense of satisfaction.

“Okay,” she said, “let's do it.”

She left the room. The guards, with Jonah, followed her to a tubeway where a cab was waiting. Whitesmith went about his own business. He was, as always, just a call away if needed. The cab whisked them to the MIU sector on the far side of the station, gravity increasing steadily along the way. She kept a close watch on Jonah's state. He slumped slightly under the increase in weight. His face sagged. His skin lost some of its colour. But she didn't let that worry her. The sudden downturn in his appearance could have been symptomatic of the rapid change in gravity rather than the gravity itself. It had taken her some time for her body to become accustomed to such wild shifts. No doubt he, even though unconscious, was suffering disorientation.

The cab slowed to a halt and she exited first. The guards followed, nudging Jonah ahead of them. Just around the corner was the bank of d-mat booths they would be using to travel to Faux Sydney. One of the guards went first, stepping into his booth with the calm assurance of a person who knew that nothing could go wrong in the process.

Marylin wasn't so confident: the process itself might have been fine, but, as Jonah had said, there was no protecting any system against malignance from the outside. As she stepped into a booth and the remaining guard put Jonah into another one, she couldn't suppress the thought: Maybe this time…

Her mirror image stared back at her from the inside of the booth. So little of her anxiety reached the surface that it looked like the face of a stranger.

Jonah grunted as he woke, weight bearing down on him as though he was being crushed. He was sitting upright and his body tingled from head to foot. Either his circulation was doing strange things or nanoagents by the billion were all at work at once inside his body. He felt groggy, disoriented, and had no idea how he had come to be upright. The last thing he remembered was drifting off to sleep after the VTC. He had been talking to QUALIA, asking for data, then—

He opened his eyes. The interior of a d-mat booth greeted him. He was dressed in some sort of robe, sitting in what looked like a wheelchair. His arms and chest were secured by straps, but not tightly. He felt different, strange. Wherever he was, though, he was glad to be out of the bed.

The door hissed open and outside air rushed in. He sneezed instantly; after three days in Artsutanov Station, he wasn't used to airborne irritants like dust and pollen. But the smell was worth it. Within seconds he had identified at least a dozen familiar aromatic sources: grass, flowers, dirt, concrete and a nonpolluting brand of fertiliser used on sandy soil, among others.

He was on Earth. That explained the weight—but the mystery of how he had come to be there, and why, only deepened.

He sniffed. There was another smell he recognised: autumnal and earthy, but sweet, hauntingly familiar…

“Do you need a hand?” Marylin leaned around the edge of the doorway, her partner, Fassini, behind her. “The controls of the chair are on your right armrest. If you can't operate them, ask QUALIA to do it by remote.”

He stared at them for a long moment, his mind completely blank, before realising what she'd said. A small joystick on the arm of the chair was indeed within his reach. The wheelchair jerked forward at a touch, out of the booth and into a glass-walled shelter he recognised as one not far from his unit in Faux Sydney. He had used it many times to prevent his father from tracing his movements. The booth in their home had always been a compromise between convenience and privacy.

He stared around him, only slowly coming to accept the reality of where he was.

Through the windows he saw the familiar landscape of half-submerged buildings blocking out the horizon. Each hexagonal block with sloping, grass-covered sides housed six identical, self-contained units. Black solar panels, looking like hi-tech palm leaves, sprouted from the summit of each cluster, beneath a single flowerlike rotor to harness the power of the wind; invisible below were geothermal sinks spreading like roots into the ground. There were no roads, only paved pathways snaking the distances between the units; for every six units there was one cluster of public d-mat booths. Horticultural robots roved an expanse of lawn that stretched as far as the eye could see, trimming and watering the plants as they went. The sun was high and bright in a cloudless blue sky, the only features remaining to suggest that this region of Australia had once been a desert.

He was home.

Fassini stepped forward. The wheelchair echoed Jonah's uncertainty as he edged nervously away. The agent raised his hands in reassurance.

“I just want to free your arms,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Jonah let him approach. His head was light and fragile, as though it might crack open at the slightest touch. He shook it.

“Can you talk?”

“I—yes.” His mouth and lips were dry. The sound of his voice was loud in his ears. “It seems so.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Of course. Nothing's changed.”

“That's the point, isn't it?” Marylin asked, standing beside him.

“I guess. Doesn't make it any easier to believe how long has passed, though.”

“It looks better than I thought it would.”

He glanced up at her, remembering then that she had never seen his unit from the outside. Their two trips together had been via the private booth inside. They had left that way, too. If Lindsay had been home on either occasion, they would never have gone there at all.

Then he recalled that she had seen it from this viewpoint—when the body of the latest victim had been found. Maybe, he thought, she was just being polite.

“What are we doing here?”

“We're going to take a look in the unit,” Marylin said. Her eyes watched him closely, glittering. “Will you cooperate?”

He didn't reply immediately. Now that his arms were free he could see how they had changed. His elbow joints were no longer obscene knots of bone covered by parchment skin. His arms had filled out remarkably. The same with his legs and abdomen, beneath the robe. And his heart beat more firmly than it had before.

He was still ill, but much further along the road to recovery than he had any right to be.

He checked his overseer. “This isn't possible.”

Marylin lifted her chin. “You're not going to help us?”

“No, this.” He indicated his legs. “According to my overseer, I've only been asleep ten hours. I can't have healed that fast.”

“Ten hours?” Realisation dawned in her face. “Add another six. You've lost some time.”

“How?”

It was her turn to hesitate. “We'll fill you in later.”

He accepted that for what it was—a stall. The only way he knew of to lose time was by travelling via d-mat. Six hours was extreme, though, unless he had travelled off–Earth and back. He resolved to look into the mystery later. For now, the fact that his health had been restored, in part, was enough to deal with. That, and being in Faux Sydney again.

“We need your help, Jonah,” she said. “Your housekeeper still won't answer our inquiries.”

“I could've given you access from orbit, if you'd asked.”

“Yes.”

She didn't say anything more, but she didn't really need to. The MIU needed information, and his memory needed to be jogged. The whole expedition was just a means to the latter end. Fortunately, that suited him too. Although his reasons were different and the thought of returning to the unit was undoubtedly disturbing, he wanted to see this through as badly as she did.

“Lead the way,” he said.

She glanced at Fassini, and Jonah thought he saw a half-raised eyebrow. He wondered if he had capitulated more easily than she had expected. If so, damn her. She was the one playing games, not him.

It had been sixteen hours since the VTC and the conversation with Verstegen and Whitesmith that had preceded it. The file on his father would probably have arrived, but he noted that she had not mentioned it.

She moved to the exit of the shelter. He followed her in the wheelchair. Fassini fell in two metres back. As the door slid aside, a wave of hot air rolled over them, making him sneeze again.

“If you see anything odd, Jonah, sing out.”

He nodded and they headed along the nearest path. Marylin walked beside him. He was as aware of her as he was of his surroundings. Her face was pale and free of makeup beneath the severe, black skullcap. Her EJC uniform looked out of place on her and would no doubt have been stifling in the heat had it not been made of thermoactive material. A holstered taser hung from her belt. She was maintaining the role of a Public Officer to the letter, not allowing herself to be the woman he had once known.

He didn't try to start a conversation. Instead, he leaned back into the chair as it trundled along the path, its rocking motion soothing his aching muscles. Rosebeds had been added since his last jaunt outside. Row after row of severely pruned bushes reached like splayed skeletal hands up out of the ashy soil in eerie contrast to how he guessed they would look in summer.

He crested the side of his hill and followed the path winding around and over the earth-wall into the centre. The low-frequency humming of the rotor above was the only sound. Every now and again he passed through the shadow of a solar panel, giving relief from the sunlight. The relief was only relative, however. Even in the shade the temperature was in the high thirties.

The dimple at the top of the hill contained the stem of the solar panels and six black, high-security doorways. His had been sealed with warning tape which Marylin pulled aside with a sharp tug.

“Do you remember the entrance code?”

He nodded. “What if I don't?”

“We'll have local security override it by remote.”

“So why ask?”

“Just testing.” She waved him forward. “Get us out of this heat.”

He manoeuvred the wheelchair until he could reach the smooth surface of the door. His palmprint triggered an automatic security system that requested he input his master code sequence for verification. He didn't hesitate to provide it. If the MIU had bugged his overseer there wasn't much he could do about it. And his entry code wasn't worth much, as Marylin had pointed out.

“Potato,” he said, and typed in, “ghoughgheighghough,” entering the characters individually to complete the sequence. When he had finished, the door buzzed once, warning him to remove his hand, then slid aside. The corridor revealed within was gloomily lit and also barred with cautionary tape.

He didn't move to enter. “I presume you checked for nanoware?”

“Thoroughly,” Marylin said from behind him. “Unless one of your cleaning agents has mutated and turned nasty in the last couple of hours, we should be safe. I wouldn't be here otherwise.”

He trundled forward, over the threshold and through the second streamer of tape. Lights flickered on in the entrance hall as the transparent inner door opened.

The first thing he noticed was that items had been rearranged. Not to a great extent, but enough to allow access to all potential hiding places. The room was otherwise exactly as it had been, decorated in earthy browns and greens that mimicked the world outside.

Three waist-high wooden statues faced the entrance, flanked by unframed African landscapes painted in watercolours. On either side of him were two earthenware pots filled with soil that had once held palms; the plants must have died long ago and been cleaned away by the housekeeper. The air was cool and still, with just a hint of herbal potpourri.

“Are you going to let us past?” Marylin nudged the rear of the wheelchair.

He started from his examination of the room, not realising that he'd stopped moving. “Of course.” He wheeled forward a couple of metres. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing incriminating, no. Should we have?”

“There's a cache of surveillance bugs in a hollow lampshade.”

“Superseded and not illegal any more, you'll be relieved to know.” She nodded. “They're where you left them.”

He took one last look at the room, then moved on, through an arched entranceway and into the dining area. The floor was tiled in slate, like that of the entrance hall; the table had a glass top and legs of polished brass. The matching chairs cradled cushions woven from Tasmanian hemp.

Marylin followed him, walking slowly to match his pace. Fassini remained in the entrance hall, blocking the only physical exit and keeping a decidedly low profile. Jonah assumed that he had been told to keep out of the way while Marylin showed the prisoner around.

Scanning the glass and metal surfaces, Jonah asked: “Fingerprints?”

“None in here. The housekeeper erased them from any exposed surface. We found some on crockery in the cupboards—” she nodded in the direction of the kitchen, visible over a high pine counter “—and more on hardcopy files.”

“Whose prints?”

“Yours, mostly, but a couple of Lindsay's.”

“No one else's?”

“I'd mention them if we had.”

He nodded slowly, absently twisting the joystick of the wheelchair. He was reluctant to move any further into the unit. From the dining room and kitchen, the next room was the lounge and his first sight of the d-mat terminal since his awakening.

That would be the test. The memories of his missing week were locked in his head as firmly as they had been two days ago. Although, of course, InSight might have erased them completely, in which case they would never return. He only hoped that something, anything, such as being in the unit now, or studying the details of the EJC investigation when the MIU finally provided them, would trigger a recollection; one would be enough to give him hope for more.

Part of him was reluctant to push through that barrier, though. Once through there would be no going back. He felt like a necromancer, afraid of calling up something he would be unable to put back down.

“Jonah?”

The edge he heard in her voice could have been concern, but not necessarily for him. More likely for the job he was supposed to be doing for them, for the time ticking away.

He didn't answer her directly. “House?”

“Yes, Jonah.” The voice of the unit's housekeeping AI was a contralto of indeterminate sex.

“I'd like you to retrieve your maintenance records from April 11, 2066, to now, and copy them to an unrestricted directory. On no account will you erase or alter any archived data until otherwise instructed by me.”

“Understood.”

“Also, do you remember Marylin Blaylock?”

Marylin glanced at him.

“I have that person on file, yes,” said the housekeeper.

“She is to be granted access to the data I just asked you to copy, along with any other information she requires to verify the authenticity of, or to clarify, that data. No one else. Her security clearance is to be downgraded to Blue-2.”

“Understood.”

“Downgraded?” Marylin asked in surprise.

“You used to have full access,” he explained in an aside. “It would've talked to you if you'd only asked. Not one of your flunkeys, though.”

“So how much access do I have now?”

He waved her quiet. “House? You are to accept no incoming d-mat transmissions unless I am their source. Anyone else attempting to use this address will be denied entry and requested to contact me for clarification.”

“Citizen Lindsay Carlaw is to be expunged from the record?”

Jonah winced. “Yes. He is deceased.”

“I will expunge his name from the entry record. Otherwise, your instructions will not alter my response to incoming d-mat transmissions.”

Jonah had half-expected that. Access had been limited to Lindsay and himself. Since Lindsay was dead that implied that the body of the woman had been d-matted into the unit under his own security code.

“Lastly, then, all previous security codes are to be erased upon our departure. I will provide you with replacements before then. If anyone attempts to use the superseded codes, even me, you will immediately notify Officer Blaylock or Officer Whitesmith of the EJC Matter-transference Investigative Unit. All security preferences other than the ones I have mentioned are to remain unchanged. Understood?”

“Yes, Jonah.”

He slumped back into the chair. It was done. The MIU would have the data they wanted and his security now had a loophole for them to pry open, if they wanted the lot. But at least he had taken the first small step towards proving his innocence.

Marylin was watching him from the other side of the table. Her expression was unreadable.

“Thanks,” she said. Her tone was ambiguous, too.

Before she could say anything else—or he could change his mind—he directed the wheelchair around a dividing wall and into the lounge.

The booth stood open on the far side of the room. Jonah had expected to see some sign of the grisly remains it had contained, but it was spotless, as was the floor around it. Clearly, once the MIU away team had examined the body and recorded every detail, the housekeeper had been allowed to dispose of the mess. Nonetheless it captured his attention; in his mind's eye, he still saw the blood.

The booth was a single, the bare minimum required of units in Faux Sydney, but sufficient for two people who had led separate lives—especially when one of them hadn't used d-mat at all. Its interior was little different to that of any other compact unit: matte black and ribbed with the many sensors and emitters required in order for it to function as both a transmitter and a receiver. The only distinguishing feature was that he had replaced the customary mirror with a single light-emitting diode that normally glowed green. The light was off.

“It's powered–down,” Marylin said, following the direction of his gaze. “We ran a diagnostic check through it, hardware and software. It passed.”

Jonah accepted her word on that; he doubted that the Twinmaker would infiltrate the booths where he planned to dispose of his victims' bodies.

“You can have it if you want,” he said. “I don't think I'll be using it again.”

“I couldn't afford the operating costs.” She pulled a disgruntled face. “You should be able to off-load it easily enough. The secondhand market is a seller's dream at the moment.”

He forced himself to think about something other than the dismembered remains he had glimpsed three days before. “The cost hasn't come down much, then?”

“No. They keep promising a next generation, but it keeps getting delayed. You know how it goes.”

He did. When KTI had gone public, it had introduced d-mat to a sceptical market slowly, initially targeting just the rich and influential. Costs and turnaround times had been high per journey, more than conventional forms of transport around the globe. Only for those who wanted to travel off-Earth had the technology been cost-efficient. But the word had spread, arousing interest in the general population. The second generation, released five years later, allowed trips that had been cheaper than air-travel and of slightly lesser duration than an intercontinental flight. More people had begun to show interest. The third and fourth improvements had killed the large air carriers forever, and the fifth had rendered most forms of long-distance road transport obsolete. Only for short journeys did the car remain a feasible option in terms of both time and cost.

But it was still too expensive for most people to lease and operate private booths, let alone own them outright. That was reserved for the wealthy and the powerful. Most people made do with public booths maintained by local councils, paying a modestly high fee charged by KTI for the use of its network. While KTI retained the stranglehold on the network, or until a new generation drove the costs down even further, that situation was unlikely to change.

Whether the delay was caused by design difficulties—which Jonah could understand, having enough of an idea how the process worked to appreciate its complexity—or by greed, didn't matter. D-mat wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, and the social changes it had already engendered were likely to be permanent. Those few who disagreed had been in the minority three years ago, and he felt safe to assume that their position had only worsened during his hibernation. In the case of such quasi-legal organisations as WHOLE, that would make them more desperate.

But did it make them killers?

The placement of WHOLE literature at each disposal site in such a way that it could not be missed certainly implied an awareness of WHOLE's activities and goals, but Jonah was unconvinced that it proved the Twinmaker's involvement in anti-d-mat activities. Just as plausible was the theory that it was another smokescreen, an attempt to keep the MIU looking in the wrong direction. Until more evidence surfaced, he intended to keep his mind open as to the motives and beliefs of the killer—especially if it was him.

“I don't see anything unusual in here,” he said.

“Neither did I,” Marylin said, “but it's best to have you confirm it.”

Jonah moved past her, systematically exploring through the house. The bathroom was clean and empty, the maintenance gel either removed by the MIU or drained by the housekeeper. His room was cluttered, preserved in its final state by an AI that could clean but not tidy beyond certain guidelines. None of his clothes appeared to be missing. Lindsay's possessions had been packed away, so his room looked even neater than normal. Someone must have made sure all his affairs were in order after his death; it may have been Jonah himself, but he couldn't remember doing so.

Lindsay's study lay on the far side of a shut door leading from the bedroom deeper into the hill. Jonah went to palm the lock and was surprised to find the door ajar.

“You opened this?” he asked Marylin.

“No. That's how it was found.”

“Are you positive of that?”

“It's in the report. I've no reason to doubt it.”

“You need a catch-up lesson in paranoia, Marylin. Lindsay's work was worth millions, maybe billions, of dollars, and this room is where he coordinated most of the research. The cost of the equipment alone could buy Faux Sydney a couple of times over.” He edged into the study. “Believe me, he always locked the door.”

“You have the master codes.”

“Yes. Are you implying that I left it open?”

“There's no one else.”

He grunted. The room was as large as two bedrooms combined and crowded with equipment in shielded boxes. He'd never known exactly what they contained, but he had a rough idea. Standard Human Equivalent AI processors, scanners, flatscreens and 3-D tanks; the sort of things required by someone who built high-tech minds for a living. The only people who would know exactly what the equipment was used for were in SciCon—and SciCon didn't tell anyone anything about their work. Rumours abounded as to how far SciCon would go to protect its secrets; it was occasionally compared to the now-defunct US Central Intelligence Agency.

The air in the study was dry and cool; a dozen different hums combined to give the room an industrious atmosphere.

“Director Trevaskis thought you might be using this setup to infiltrate KTI,” Marylin said, running her finger across one of the anonymous boxes. It came away clean.

“I wouldn't have the first idea where to start.”

“That's what I said.” She looked at him. “Do you even know how Lindsay made it work?”

“Vaguely. Sometimes he'd call if he needed me to do something manually. Not very often, though; it was designed to be self-sufficient, or teleoperated at worst.”

“See if you can bring it online.”

He approached the central work-station, a U-shaped desk heavily loaded with complex paraphernalia. On his left was a simple hand-reader designed to pick up the motions of a user's fingers. He waved once to get its attention. The screen-saver, which he presumed had been running continuously for three years, cleared, revealing an empty green screen.

Above the screen there had once been a hand-carved wooden sign that read: There is no such thing as unnecessary death. It had been Lindsay Carlaw's dream to make that statement true. Where the sign currently was, Jonah didn't know. Presumably the MIU had moved it while trying to activate the setup.

“Hello, NAHI,” Jonah said. “Access Code 3834.”

He waited a second for the core AI to respond. When it didn't, he repeated the command.

“Access Code 3834.” He snapped his fingers directly in front of the hand-reader. When nothing happened, he tried typing the command on the keyboard. It appeared on the screen as alphanumeric text, but hitting Enter provoked no response. Within thirty seconds, the screen-saver returned.

He leaned back in the wheelchair and looked up at Marylin. The smell of her was still strong in his nostrils, a hint of musk coming from beneath the body armour. Reality was much more disconcerting than VTC. “Is that what you expected?”

“We had a tech run over it yesterday,” she said. “There was nothing he could do. Even rebooting from scratch made no difference. The core program's been erased, apparently.”

“So why ask me to get it working?”

She shrugged. “I was hoping you might pull something like you did with the housekeeper. After all, it resisted everything we threw at it to get those maintenance files, and you just asked it politely—”

“It's no ordinary housekeeper.”

“Obviously not.”

“Lindsay designed and installed it himself, just like this.” He waved at the hand-reader again. It still didn't respond. He swivelled to study the bank of unmarked boxes, feeling completely out of his depth. He might as well try to find a hardcopy book in the Library of Congress with his eyes closed.

The incessant hum was hypnotic, suggestive.

“It's running,” he mused.

“Part of it is a node in the Pool,” she said. “We can tell that much. It's ticking over nicely, no problems, but doesn't contain anything we'd be interested in.”

His attention was sparked by that. “A node. Do you have its address?”

“It's not ACHERON.”

He grunted again. “Worth a try.” Confronted by the unresponsive screen, he was filled with a sense of futility. “I can't understand why Lindsay would've done this.”

“It might not have been him,” she said. “Could you have erased the core program?”

He thought about it. “Maybe. I don't know. I've never had cause to try.”

“Our tech thinks you could've, if you'd got in.”

“I didn't get in.”

“But you thought you could. You've been in before. If nothing had changed and you had the know-how, this wouldn't be beyond you.”

“Thanks a lot. But I've already told you I don't have the know-how.”

“Unless you learned it in your blank spot—the week after Lindsay died.”

He looked away, unable to pursue the thought. Everything in the room reminded him of his father. Or, more importantly, of his father's work. The quest for immortality, for an end to unnecessary death, had been such a driving force that it was hard, even now, to separate the man from the dream. He could feel the grief building, strong and irrational, like a bubble of blood behind his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Marylin said, her voice much softer than before.

He turned back to her. “What?”

“I'm sorry about Lindsay.” Her expression was hard to interpret. “I know I haven't said it before, but—” She shifted awkwardly on her feet. “His death must've come as a terrible shock.”

He didn't know how to respond at first. It had been a shock, yes. But what did she care about his feelings? It jarred with the image she was trying to project—of a cold, professional EJC officer just doing her job. He was amazed that she had even noticed.

“Thanks,” he ventured, “but I really don't need your sympathy.”

She stiffened slightly. “If that's the way you want it—”

“No.” He raised a hand, immediately regretting what he'd said. Wrong, wrong! “You misunderstand me. Losing Lindsay was a shock, yes, but not for the reasons you think.”

She stared at him. “I know he wasn't your natural father. Is that what you mean?”

“No. Where my genes come from was irrelevant to both of us.”

“Then what? I don't understand.”

“It's hard to explain. We were never particularly close. He took me into his custody so he could watch a child grow. I was an experiment in developmental cognition. By studying me, he hoped to learn more about growing his own AIs, which is what he was really interested in. By the time I grew up, he'd lost interest in me. We just lived together out of habit.”

She moved away to lean against a stack of equipment. “I guess that explains something,” she said, not really looking at him. “You talked about what he was doing a lot—his latest projects and so on—but never about him. It always seemed a bit strange. That, and the fact that I never met him.”

“There was never an opportunity,” he lied. “He didn't get out much, unless he had to. He never used d-mat—”

“I know, and that only made me wonder why he moved out here.”

“He liked the quiet, the privacy.” Jonah felt a familiar frustration at justifying the actions of someone he himself disagreed with. “There's a small airstrip not far away where he kept a private plane. If he really needed to travel, it took him only a few hours to get to Perth or Darwin, and from there to the rest of the world.”

“Did you fly with him much?”

“No. You know I had no problem with d-mat. And prior to that we flew on commercial jets like everyone else.” He turned the memory over in his mind, savouring its bitter-sweet taste. The bubble was growing again. “I miss the planes, sometimes.”

She nodded and shot him a sharp glance. “You're changing the subject, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“It bothers you?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know what to think, Jonah. You've just told me more about Lindsay in five minutes than you did in all the time we knew each other.”

“I've got nothing to hide, Marylin. And there's nothing I wouldn't tell you, eventually.” The words came like a confession, from the deepest part of his soul, and his irritation flared at being so vulnerable. “Besides, you never told me about your parents.”

“I didn't think you were interested. And it's not relevant, anyway. We're here to discuss you.”

“True, but I'll be damned if I'll let you suck me dry. If you want me to help you, how about helping me along the way?”

“How?”

“Give me some answers. You said you'd show me the file on Lindsay's death if I helped you, but you haven't even mentioned it yet. I presume I'll only get it when you're good and ready, or when I have something concrete to bargain with.”

“You think we're playing games, hanging onto the file to guarantee your compliance?”

“Are you telling me you're not?”

“No, I'm not telling you that.”

“Is that what you're doing?”

Her stare didn't waver, but she said nothing.

“I thought so,” he said, his voice bitter.

“It's not that simple, Jonah.”

“No? What is it you're hiding, then?”

“Nothing, I swear. We just want answers.”

“Maybe you should look somewhere else.”

He turned the chair and wheeled it out of the study. She followed him, startled at first, then alarmed.

“Jonah. What are you talking about?”

“I can't help you like this. That's what I'm talking about.”

“I don't get it. Will you stop and talk to me!”

He didn't slow down. “This case. It's too big, too complex, and it's been going too long. There's so much data I'd need a year to sift through it all.”

“It's just a matter of starting somewhere—”

“Bullshit. It's a matter of teamwork. You and your buddies work together just fine, but I'm an outsider; I'll never fit in. That doesn't worry me in itself, but it will be a problem in an investigation this size. It'll always be a case of me versus you—even if you do trust me completely, which I'm sure you don't. It's a sham.”

He stopped at the entrance to the lounge, not sure where to go from there. He'd initially planned to leave looking in the study till later, but that forced him to confront the rest of the unit. The only other place he had left to go was back to the KTI medical centre.

“Jonah, you can't just give up on this.” Marylin came to a halt behind him. “We can work together if you try.”

“Exactly. If I try. What about you? How are you trying?” Frustration made him lash out. “Spare me the crap about being professional and having a job to do. If you really gave a shit about wanting to catch the Twinmaker, you'd give me the file on Lindsay's death and let me get on with it instead of jerking me around like a kid with a bag of lollies. Share, Marylin—that's all you have to do. There wouldn't be situations like this if information was disseminated freely.”

“Now you're talking rubbish,” she shot back. “That freedom of information spiel is just rhetoric. It's a justification for being a voyeur—and a pretty flimsy one at that. No matter what you call yourself, you've always been a petty, prying little person. It's about time you woke up and took a good look at the rest of the world. You might get a surprise to see that it works just fine without your little crusade to keep it going.”

He couldn't suppress a low, bitter laugh. “Jesus, you can tell who works for the government now. What a fucking waste.”

“You're one to talk about waste. Who's spent the last three years vegetating in a vat of jelly? And who's the one who accused me of running away?”

He clenched the arms of the chair and opened his mouth to retaliate. But before he could utter a word, the memory hit him hard.

Someone had been standing in front of the d-mat booth, holding a pistol.

He turned to stare at the booth, willing more to appear. The angle was almost right. He had been in roughly the same position, except standing; the light was the same. And he had been angry then, as now. But nothing else came. Just the certainty that the memory was correct: there had been someone in the room with him, someone he didn't know very well, and they had been fighting over something. The pistol had been aimed at him.

Marylin followed his gaze. “What now? Jonah?”

He couldn't tell her. It was too vague, too fleeting. She would think he was baiting her, making up leads in order to obtain the data he wanted. But he couldn't ignore it. He needed to pursue it. It was all he had.

“We're doing it again,” he said, forcing himself to look at her.

“What?”

“Arguing.”

“Yes.” She tapped the back of the wheelchair with the toe of her shoe. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“You have to wonder if there's any point in doing this at all.”

“The point is that we don't have much choice.”

“Of course we do.” He sighed. Feigning exhaustion had never been easier. “Maybe we should take a break for a while, come back to it when we're feeling more relaxed.”

She looked uncomfortable at the suggestion, but said: “Sure. If you want to. What exactly do you have in mind?”

“A few hours. There are some things here I need to sort out. I'm sure you've got plenty of work to do elsewhere.”

“I'm not leaving here without you.”

“I need some time alone, Marylin.”

“That's not an option, Jonah.”

“Why not? You can't force me to do anything.”

“And you can't do anything without us.”

“Crap. I have contacts.”

“Had, Jonah. You've been out of touch so long most of them assume you're dead. Any favours you might have been owed have long since been forgotten. And let's face it, you didn't have many actual friends.”

He winced involuntarily, and she caught it.

“Sorry to put it like that,” she said. “But you know how it is. Three years is forever in this business.”

“But money is everything.” He resented her attitude. It made him callous. “Lindsay's estate was considerable. I presume I inherited?”

She shrugged. “There was no one else.”

“Well, there's a possibility. At the very least, you can let me try to do it my way.”

“I'm sorry, Jonah. I can't. And you can't stay here alone. You're not fully recovered; you still require treatment.”

“I'll manage.” As if you give a shit. “I'll bring a doctor in—a whole team, if I have to. Maybe that way I'll find out what else you've done to me without my consent.”

Her expression tightened at that, but she still didn't relent.

“Look, it's really not that hard—”

“Don't patronise me, Jonah.”

“Me patronise you? I'm just having trouble seeing the problem. What are you so afraid of? That I'll get away from you?”

“Partly—”

“So tag me, disable the booth, have QUALIA keep an eye on me—”

“Who's to say we haven't?”

That stopped him for a moment. “Haven't what?”

“All of the above.”

“Jesus christ. And still you won't leave me alone? Not even for three hours?” He shook his head, abandoning the pretence of surprise and letting the real thing flow free.

“I know where you're coming from Jonah,” she said. “And I sympathise, really. But you have to see it from our point of view. We're in a very tricky position. It's not in our best interest to set you free, or to lock you up. Likewise, we need your help but we can't reciprocate fully. The law is vague on the matter of guilt in the case of duplication; we don't want to be seen to be aiding a potential felon. Yet you're our best lead. We can't let you go just yet. Don't you realise that? Don't you see what that means?”

For a split-second he thought she was trying to tell him something quite different: Don't you see what sort of power that gives you over us? But what use was power like that if it couldn't gain freedom?

And, besides, he doubted that that was what she was really trying to say. It didn't sit well with her new image.

“It means I'm trapped,” he said.

“Yes. For now.”

He felt bad, briefly; she did look as though it bothered her. “All right then, I'll make it easy for you.” He wheeled the chair closer to her and used its mass to force her backwards, shepherding her through the dining area. “You're on my property. Get out now, before I call security, and don't come back until three hours have passed, or you have that file. Or a warrant.”

“Jonah—”

“Go on. Fuck off.”

Fassini tensed as they approached. He reached for his taser, but Marylin cut him off with a single, sharp gesture.

“Jonah,” she said, making a stand by the inner door.

“Marylin, listen to me. I don't want you here.”

“You don't mean that.”

“No? House, outer door open.”

She looked like she wanted to say something more, but the door hissed behind her, cutting her off.

“Three hours,” he said again. “Unless I call. Then we can talk about it over the file on Lindsay.”

Marylin turned on her heel and stepped out into the heat. She didn't look back, but Fassini did. His expression was disappointed. Jonah wondered what she might be saying to him via prevocals.

“House? Close outer door. Maintain full security and privacy until otherwise instructed.”

“Yes, Jonah.”

He wheeled himself back into the lounge and confronted the d-mat booth, daring another memory to surface while it had the chance. He was alone at last. He had time to think. Now would be the perfect opportunity to experience some sort of revelation.

But it didn't come—and as the satisfaction at ousting Marylin began to ebb, anger and regret rose to take its place.

No, he told himself. I can do this on my own. I don't need them. I don't need her.

With his hands planted firmly on the arms of the wheelchair, he rose slowly to his feet. The muscles in his thighs quivered at the sudden exertion, and he had to grit his teeth to stop himself from gasping when he pulled his hands away, but he did it. He stood, unaided in the full gravity of Earth, for almost twenty seconds.

Then something seemed to give between his eyes. He swayed forwards, arms pinwheeling to keep him upright. His balance went entirely and he pitched forward onto the floor, striking his forehead a glancing blow on the bamboo coffee table.

His world went black for an instant before dissolving into stars. He rolled onto his back and clutched his temple, groaning with pain.

You stupid sonofabitch, he told himself. What the hell do you think you're doing?

The half-remembered voice of the man who had stood in his lounge room, three years earlier, replied: Killing yourself, of course.

And with the memory came a name: Herold Verstegen.

“He did what?”

With those words, Odi Whitesmith's mask disappeared and was replaced by his real face. His expression was one of mixed anger and disbelief.

“He kicked us out of the unit for three hours. Threatened to call security if we didn't leave,” Marylin said, not quite believing it herself but feeling more irritated than genuinely angry. “He's going to make life difficult until you give him the file on his father.”

“You tried to talk him out of it?”

“Of course. The problem is, he's making more sense than me.”

“Fuck.” Whitesmith's gaze wandered and he scratched his head. “Where are you now?”

“Still in Faux Sydney. I don't mind waiting here for the time being. Local security can assign us somewhere to work from. Just because Jonah's not with us doesn't mean we have to sit on our thumbs. I want to start looking at the housekeeper, if that's okay with you.”

“Yes, do that. I'll talk to Trevaskis, get him to okay the transfer. Verstegen will shit if he finds out about this.”

As he should, Marylin thought. “I told you what might happen if you pushed him too hard,” she said.

“Yeah, you did. Consider it noted. In fact, you can tell Trevaskis yourself, if you like.”

“Pass.”

The line to Whitesmith died while he went to reason with the Director of the MIU. Marylin paced the length of the glass-windowed shelter to take a mouthful of water from a basic refreshment dispenser in one corner. Then she called the nearest security outpost and, using her EJC powers, arranged transport to collect them.

“I can't work out whether you're pissed at him or what,” said Fassini.

“Who?”

“McEwen.”

“I'm annoyed because he's making me look bad,” she explained as honestly as she could. If she was truly annoyed with anyone it was Trevaskis, for letting politics get in the way of an investigation. “I sympathise too much at the moment to take sides against Jonah. I'd probably be doing the same or worse in his shoes.”

Fassini smiled at that. “True. So what will he be doing in there?”

“Good question. QUALIA?”

The reply from Artsutanov Station came with faint distortion caused by congestion in the Pool.

“Yes, Marylin?”

“Have you been following this?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like you to access Jonah's housekeeping program without him knowing. Can you do that for me?”

“That would be illegal,” e argued.

“Not really. He's given us access to the unit's maintenance records for the last three years plus permission to seek any other data we need to verify those records. The housekeeper knows me by name. And we have his UGI. All that should be enough to get us in.”

“May I ask why you wish to do this, Marylin?”

“I want—” She stopped, not entirely certain how best to phrase her request. Part of it was simple enough, if surprising. Jonah wasn't in the best position to do anything too drastic, but she wouldn't put it past him to try. “I want to make sure he's okay.”

“Very well. I will begin negotiations.” QUALIA was silent for a moment, during which time Marylin paced the enclosure again.

“The housekeeper will grant us vision but no sound,” QUALIA eventually said. “That will be enough to allow us to ascertain that Jonah McEwen has not left the premises. You will have access to all records. If you wish, I can ask the housekeeper to communicate with him, and relay his answers on, if they are not already known.”

“That's great, QUALIA. Thanks. Let's have a look at what he's up to.”

The image came through one eye only, recorded from a single camera high in the corner of the lounge. At first she failed to see him. The wheelchair was half-visible behind one of the expansive sofa chairs Lindsay had liked, but it was empty. A flutter of apprehension made her heart race as she considered the possibility that he had been faking all along, that his health was much more improved than he looked, that he had somehow escaped—

Then he moved. He was lying face-up on the floor, camouflaged against a dark-coloured hessian rug that dominated the space in front of the d-mat booth. He moved feebly, like a turtle trying to right itself. She knew immediately that he had fallen.

Her first impression, which she spoke aloud, was that he needed help.

“The housekeeper insists that he does not,” QUALIA argued.

“What would it know?”

“It has his interests at heart.”

“This from a machine that would've let him rot forever if we hadn't found him when we did?”

“He has instructed it not to call for assistance under any but extreme circumstances, and it is required to obey him. Presumably he did the same when he entered the hibernation state three years ago.”

She conceded the point. Meanwhile, the feed from the unit revealed that Jonah had stopped moving. His eyes were closed; he seemed to be concentrating, “What's he doing now? Can you tell?”

“He is attempting to place a call to a citizen by the name of Molybdenum Ilaria Bache.”

She recognised the name; “Mollie” Bache had been one of Jonah's prime contacts in the old days.

“‘Attempting’?” asked Fassini.

“She died in ’68,” Marylin informed him. “Her estate let the number go.”

“He is trying another number,” QUALIA said. “Ehren Patrizio Smith.”

Another contact. This one had been in a correctional institution for over a year and had had his communication privileges curtailed.

She could guess who would be the next half dozen or so on his list, and all of them were incommunicado for various reasons. The ones he could contact would be of little use to him. Absence meant nothing where fondness was concerned in the shadowy world most of these people inhabited.

But that wasn't the point. Jonah was trying. He was calling for help, fighting to the last. She didn't know what he would do when he realised that he truly was trapped, cut off from the past by three years of lost time.

She felt uncomfortable. “I can't watch this.”

“You don't have to,” Fassini said, nudging her. “The transport's arrived.”

She directed her attention outwards, through the eye not filled with the black-and-white image. Sure enough, an automated vehicle resembling a golf cart (which it may in fact have been, given the all-pervasive lawn of Faux Sydney) had pulled up outside the shelter and idled patiently, waiting for them. She was grateful for the distraction and dropped the feed from the unit into a drawer for later perusal.

As they entered the heat of the outside world and moved closer to the cart, she heard a tiny voice issuing from the dash.

“Officer Blaylock? Please provide thumbprint ID. This vehicle will take you to your destination.”

She and Fassini climbed aboard. A thin but effective shade spread out to protect them from the sun. “QUALIA? Keep an eye on Jonah while we start looking at the data; make sure he doesn't hurt himself.”

“If anything happens, Marylin, I will let you know immediately.”

She touched her right thumb to the dash of the vehicle and, with a slight jerk, it moved off.

The cart took them to the nearest security station, visible from some distance away due to the black spike protruding through the hill that covered it. The more she saw of Faux Sydney, the more it reminded her of an ant hill: a bizarre, subterranean world with only the occasional, alien protrusion reaching the surface.

There was an officer present to meet them, one she recognised from the night they had discovered the body in Jonah's unit. He nodded cordially and showed them to a vacant office. Apart from that room and two others, and a row of three d-mat booths, the security station consisted of empty space.

“Sorry about treating you like this,” he said, indicating the sparse quarters. “We had another bomb scare this morning. Things are still a little messy.”

“Oh?” Marylin didn't mind where she was, as long as she could work. “You see a lot of that around here?”

“Constantly. Usually we manage to catch anything serious in time. It's mostly for the publicity, which is one reason why we downplay it.”

“I thought there were safeguards against this sort of thing.”

The guard laughed dryly. “There are ways to smuggle prohibited materials through d-mat, and they know most of them.”

“Sounds like a job for the MIU,” Fassini commented. “Who're ‘they’?”

“WHOLE,” the officer replied. “Who else?”

As Marylin settled into the seat behind the tiny room's sole desk, she pondered the officer's question. Who else indeed? Faux Sydney existed solely because of d-mat; it would have been an absurd proposition to build suburbs in such a remote location even a decade before, and the demand to live there would not have existed. The pseudocity was therefore both a symbol and a symptom of the technology WHOLE hated so passionately. It was a perfect example of the way humanity distorted its environment purely for the sake of convenience. And as the self-appointed defender of all things “natural,” WHOLE would find it an irresistible target, not necessarily to cause actual damage, but to inconvenience those who sought convenience this way.

It was strange. The organisation had innocent enough beginnings. Following the turn of the millennium, the level of interest in New Age philosophy and fringe religious groups had fallen steadily. Several of the more predominant organisations had overcome their differences in 2010 to form an alliance with just two very clear priorities: the preservation of the terrestrial biosphere and the betterment of the human soul. The name chosen for the organisation reflected the unity of purpose felt by the members of the alliance, even if it didn't actually reveal anything about their underlying beliefs or the way in which they intended to go about meeting their goals. Exactly what the acronym “WHOLE” stood for—if anything—remained a mystery, sixty years later.

Its first leader, Manuel MacPhedron, had been a charismatic man in his fifties and WHOLE remained a nonconfrontational entity until his death in 2022. Since then, however, a succession of mergers with other ailing groups such as Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, the World Wide Fund For Nature, and others had brought an influx of more aggressive members that had gradually eased the focus of the group away from passive protest. The first major work undertaken by the revitalised WHOLE had been the nanoware “picketing” of a dam in India, followed by sabotage in a dozen other places. The aim of the organisation was always to obstruct the development and application of radical, new technology—flying in the face of the trends of the previous century.

The development of d-mat in 2039, its initial use by the military and space services, and its commercial introduction fifteen years later gave WHOLE a perfect means by which to separate “them” from “us.” D-mat technology polluted the soul, according to WHOLE's pseudoscientists. Every trip through a KTI booth killed the original person (which was true, in a sense) and created an imperfect copy elsewhere. The human soul was not able to accommodate such a dislocation, so the use of d-mat therefore “polluted” or destroyed it entirely. Rumours of disfigurements and psychological upsets supposedly caused by d-mat began to circulate, assisted by WHOLE's propaganda machine. Enlisting the posthumous help of twentieth-century writer Daniel C. Dennet, who had coined the term “Murdering Twinmaker” for describing a then hypothetical d-mat device, WHOLE set about a campaign designed to deter KTI's small but growing market for near-instantaneous transportation.

WHOLE wasn't the only group to disapprove of KTI, of course. The independent state of Quebec remained staunchly opposed to d-mat. When the headquarters of WHOLE in Boston, USA, were raided and its then leader arrested, the organisation packed up and moved to a secret location deep in the heart of isolationist Quebec, crying harassment all the way. Although Quebecois leaders officially denied any involvement in WHOLE activities, it was an open suspicion that the two were inextricably linked. The current leader of WHOLE, Karoly Mancheff, had once held a seat in Quebec's local parliament.

Lindsay Carlaw had been just one of many scientifically qualified people who openly supported the organisation. In Carlaw's case, Marylin had often suspected that some sort of phobia rather than strong religious belief had brought him to the group. She found it hard to accept that a man at the cutting edge of artificial intelligence could believe the mumbo-jumbo about “soul pollution” WHOLE espoused. Some people found the idea of being taken apart and put back together too difficult to overcome and would go to extraordinary lengths to avoid it—much as other people in different times, she supposed, had avoided motor cars or aeroplanes. No matter how much the discontinuity between “departure” and “arrival” was carefully avoided by KTI spokespeople, WHOLE was there to not-so-gently remind the public, and since Lindsay Carlaw's death the reminders had become much more strident.

But the true enemy of WHOLE wasn't KTI at all, even though much of its propaganda was directed against the giant corporation. The movement on the opposite end of the ideological spectrum was RAFT, the “Radical Association of Free-Thinkers” that touted technology as a means to make humanity immortal and all-powerful. Where WHOLE officially concentrated on biosphere and soul, RAFT's more materialistic aims were outwards into space. And where WHOLE was increasingly a terrorist organisation, RAFT used more subtle means to gain what they wanted. The two groups were so antithetical that it had come as a surprise to her to learn that Lindsay Carlaw had been a member of both of them.

But, then, he had been a complex man, as evinced by the relationship he had had with Jonah. Sometimes she doubted she would ever fully understand either member of the Carlaw-McEwen household.

The thought lingered as she continued searching through the data Fassini had mined from the housekeeper's databanks. There was so much of it: incoming and outgoing calls, d-mat transmissions, power usage, data up and downloads (both heavy because of the Pool node in the study), financial transactions carried out automatically in Jonah's absence, and so on. She already knew her time with Jonah so well it hurt; every trivial detail had been dredged out of her memory by hypnosis or drugs, written down by interviewers and etched into her mind a second time on reading the interviews. This was new data to add to her collection. Something, somewhere, she hoped, would reveal a hidden pattern, illuminate a detail she had overlooked, piece more fragments into a larger, coherent whole.

At first she skimmed backwards from the present, looking for irregularities. There were few, if any, to be found. The housekeeper had handled Jonah's affairs with clockwork precision after April 19, 2066. There had been no outgoing calls. His message bank contained just five unviewed recordings: one from her, the rest of little or no relevance that she could ascertain. All five had been taken within two weeks of the last human interaction with the unit.

That last movement itself was fairly innocuous. On the 19th, at 2 p.m., the external door of the unit had opened and shut once, three hours after it had previously opened. The unit had been sealed and remained undisturbed for three years thereafter. Likewise, there were no d–mat transmissions recorded after that date. Judging by Jonah's movements, it was clear that someone else had been in the unit that afternoon. Who that person might have been, however, remained a mystery; his or her UGI had been erased from the record in accordance with Privacy laws. The only person known to have d-matted into the unit that day was Jonah himself.

She browsed through the last of the transmissions prior to then, noting when Jonah had left the unit and returned. His hours had been highly irregular, with very few periods longer than an hour or two actually spent in the unit. She recognised that behaviour from when she had known him: while on a promising trail, everything else came a distant second. Whatever he had been investigating had obviously captured his interest.

The destinations for each jump were not especially illuminating: various public locations around the world, from former Canada in the United States of America to post-fascist western Europe. As always he had been careful to prevent his route being traced through the system. When time permitted, he would use several jumps to reach a particular destination, or d-mat somewhere nearby and walk or drive the rest of the way. Nowhere in the in or out logs was there a name that looked potentially significant.

One odd detail did catch her eye: a d-mat transmission from the unit to the Science of Consciousness Applied Research labs in Delhi. This surprised her until she remembered that Jonah had been investigating a series of bomb threats prior to the explosion. Where KTI was a leader in the field of transport, SciCon was the innovator in terms of artificial intelligence, and such “soul-less” machines naturally came under the hammer of WHOLE's brand of public relations too, even though Lindsay Carlaw, one of their most prominent members, had been one of SciCon's founders. No doubt Jonah had made a trip or two to look at the scene, to see if the threats had been serious. The explosion that had taken the life of Lindsay Carlaw had occurred the very next day.

Whether SciCon had collaborated with Jonah in his attempt to investigate the threats she didn't know. SciCon's security force was renowned for being draconian, and rumoured to have been deadly on occasions, although the rumours had never been proven. The strict measures were justified on antiterrorist grounds, as well as to enforce the secrecy required to maintain its position in the avant-garde of AI technology. But Marylin shared the private belief of many in the EJC: that SciCon, despite being a theoretically “headless” corporation run on principles of democracy and joint leadership, was in practice directed by a handful of empire-builders spread throughout the ranks. These people wouldn't tolerate even the slightest incursion from the outside, and used their security force with swift ruthlessness against any perceived threat. Had Jonah constituted such a threat, he would have had no luck at all investigating the bomb-threats, despite being Lindsay Carlaw's son.

When she followed the lead of the d-mat transmission one step further, to see how quickly he had returned, she discovered that the person transmitted had not been Jonah. It had been Lindsay himself.

She frowned. That didn't make sense. More likely someone had altered the records or somehow attributed the transmission to Carlaw's UGI, although the latter was theoretically impossible—QUALIA checked DNA data against UGI for every transmission to prevent such fraudulent travel—and the former seemed unlikely given that not even QUALIA had managed to penetrate the defences of Jonah's housekeeper.

Lindsay Carlaw using d-mat? It just didn't ring true.

Rising from the chair, she stretched and walked the short distance to the far side of the room. Fassini was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, his legs crossed beneath him.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Not unless you think a list of his power bills for the last five years might be important.” He blinked and focussed on her. “Or how often the carpets have been cleaned.”

She considered the latter. “Is it regular?”

“Once every three months.”

“No chance the cleanings coincide with any of the murders?”

“None. The last, apart from when we took out the body, was ten weeks ago.”

“What about maintenance calls?”

“None in the time we're looking at. There was a heap of activity prior to McEwen going into deep sleep, but nothing too out of the ordinary. No stocking up on supplies, for instance.”

“Or paying bills in advance,” she said, remembering her own data.

His eyes followed her as she walked across the room, returned, and leaned against the desk.

“He's innocent,” he said.

“I don't know.”

“But it couldn't have been him—”

“Not this version of him, no. He was there when the apartment was sealed, three years ago. There's no way he could've got out without leaving some trace.”

“So what's the problem? He's innocent.”

“It's not that simple. Not if he copied himself and the copy committed murder. The law might regard him and his copy as a single individual since they share the same genetic code.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Jargon.”

“But it's a valid point. What if he copied himself with the intent to commit murder via the copy? That at the very least makes him an accessory to murder.” A thought struck her: the person who had opened the door on April 19, 2066, might have been Jonah after all. To d-mat out would have left evidence proving that a copy existed. How else could Jonah have left the apartment yet remained in the tub at the same time?

“Lots of people have thought about murder and never committed it,” Fassini persisted, playing devil's advocate with stubborn devotion.

“This is more than thinking about it.”

“Unless he was copied against his will. Or the copy was forced to act against its will.”

She shook her head. The whole issue was full of questions that had little bearing at that moment. Their main priority was to gather evidence and, ultimately, to apprehend the killer. What happened after that was up to the lawyers.

“Or it's all one big setup.” She closed her eyes and summoned the video feed. Jonah was on his hands and knees; not moving anywhere, just holding himself in that position as though trying to prove to himself that he could. He was like a child, self-centred and stubborn in degrees that varied from annoying to admirable.

“I still can't work out whether you're pissed at him or not,” he said.

She smiled despite herself. “To be completely honest, neither can I.”

QUALIA interrupted her before she could take the thought further.

“Marylin, you have an incoming call.”

She blinked and checked her overseer. The AI was right. The feed had kept her from seeing the flashing window. She selected it immediately, guessing it would be Whitesmith.

She was wrong.

“I hear we have a problem, Officer Blaylock,” said Jago Trevaskis, his face a dark blotch on a red background.

She unconsciously straightened, consciously cleared her workspace of any distraction. “What do you mean, sir?”

“You and Jonah McEwen have had over twenty-four hours to establish a civil working relationship, and have failed. My personal opinion is that this experiment has gone on long enough. Do you agree?”

She thought frantically. Who was she to tell the Director of the MIU what she thought of his opinion? “With respect, sir, there have been extenuating circumstances. Jonah's condition, both physical and mental, has placed an enormous strain on proceedings to date. Our first meeting was exceedingly awkward for that reason. And this time—” She stopped, painfully aware how close she was to the precipice. There would be no excuse for insubordination with the Director of the MIU.

“Yes, Officer Blaylock?” he prompted.

To hell with it, she thought. “This time our attempt has been hampered by an inequitable exchange of information.” She chose her words carefully, trying to minimise the damage they would do. “He gave us his data; we should reciprocate in kind. I am in the awkward position of attempting to gain his trust while representing an organisation that has lied to him and kept information from him. Is it any wonder that we're not having much luck so far?”

Trevaskis nodded. “It may surprise you to learn that I agree with you. Nor do I blame you for your failure to date. It simply seems to me to be a case of cutting our losses and trying another course of action before we lose any more time. If you and he aren't able to work together under these circumstances, then obviously it would be fruitless to try further.”

“But, sir, all you have to do is give him the file on Lindsay Carlaw and—”

“And I will be giving in to his demands. Why should I do that? He has no power, Marylin! It's important that he be reminded of that. And you too, it would seem.”

Marylin bit her lip, feeling a terrible disappointment bloom in her stomach. She had been given a golden opportunity both to atone for the past and to prove herself in the eyes of her employers, and she had succeeded at neither.

Then she caught herself: the game wasn't over yet. Officially, Trevaskis was only asking for her opinion, not handing down a decision. Not yet.

And besides, it wasn't her fault if Trevaskis put his own insecurity ahead of the job before them. She had the feeling that she was caught in the middle of an interdepartmental power struggle.

“What have you decided to do, sir?”

He almost smiled. “As a matter of fact, I've decided to give him the file when he comes out of the unit. We'll just let him sweat a while, first.”

“He won't bargain with you again.”

“I'm not even going to try. He'll get his three hours, of which only one is left. In fact we'll make him take it. As of now, all links into and out of the unit have been severed apart from those that lead directly to the MIU. He can't call anyone without our knowledge and permission, and no one can call him, either. I've also overridden the isobloc's security charter, so his door won't open unless I say so. He won't like it, but that's bad luck. If he doesn't come out on schedule, I'll send in an armed response team.”

She shook her head. “Sir, I think you are overreacting—”

“Over or not, some sort of reaction is called for. If you can talk sense into him by then, maybe I'll reconsider. But I'd advise against trying. The situation down there is volatile enough without you exacerbating it any further. As of now, I'm tired of watching valuable time and resources slip through my fingers. I want results, Officer Blaylock, and I intend to get them.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. You can assume that I have Officer Whitesmith's full agreement on this. He will be arriving in Faux Sydney shortly, with the response team, should worst come to worst.”

“But—”

There was no point arguing. He had already gone.

But have you gone completely crazy?

She tried to call Whitesmith to see if he really did agree with Trevaskis, but he was locked in an unbreakable conversation. Out of desperation, she tried Herold Verstegen, too. He was also locked. The same conversation, she assumed. Trevaskis probably had every reason to be paranoid. Served him right, she thought. To hell with them all.

She called up the view of the unit again. Jonah would have realised by now that his lines had been cut. She couldn't let him get away from her this time. There had to be a way to patch things up. Not by “talking sense” via VTC, though—not with Trevaskis listening in. And the door was as good as welded shut.

Jonah raised his head. She followed his gaze and realised that he was staring at the d-mat booth. The green light was glowing in the centre of its open door.

“I thought the booth was powered-down,” she said to QUALIA.

“It was. He instructed the housekeeper to reactivate it.”

She felt a stirring in her stomach that might have been hope—or fear. “Could he escape that way?”

“No. The output lines are sealed.”

“Only the output?”

“Yes.”

Jonah edged one knee forward, crawling bit by bit to the booth. “I'll bet he doesn't know that,” she said.

QUALIA didn't respond.

“When I asked you to negotiate with the housekeeper on my behalf,” Marylin asked, “you did do that, didn't you? Just me. You haven't broadcast this feed through the MIU?”

“No, Marylin.”

“Good. Don't.” She switched the feed off, just in case someone was eavesdropping on her workspace. Then she searched through the restricted MIU database until she found the file on the inquest into Lindsay Carlaw's death.

“What are you doing, Marylin?” Fassini asked in alarm as she hurried out of the room.

“Getting results,” she said, heading for the security station d-mat booths.

Her workspace was clamouring for attention when the door opened on the interior of Jonah's unit. She ignored it. Acutely conscious of the fact that, just a couple of days ago, a dismembered body had lain where she was currently standing, she waited until her eyes had adjusted to the relative gloom—overlaid with winking red windows—before venturing outside.

Thirty-two minutes had passed. Longer than she'd hoped; the Pool must still have been congested. Jonah was nowhere to be seen. Mindful of the possibility that he might be lying in wait for her, she skirted around the lounge, then glanced in the dining area. That too was empty.

“Jonah?”

“Marylin?” His voice came from the kitchen, but she didn't see him immediately. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Guess.”

She found him in the pantry, wedged awkwardly against a wall with a metal bar lying limp across his knees. His eyes were sunken and his hands shook with fatigue.

“Were you really going to use that?” she asked, pointing at the bar.

“Maybe. When the door of the booth shut, I didn't know what to expect. It seemed best to take no chances.”

“Or to go down with a fight.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Yes.”

Her candour seemed to surprise him. He looked down at the bar, then back at her. It clattered to the ground. “I'd appreciate some help, Marylin. I don't think I can move on my own.”

She helped him upright. He was lighter than she had expected and barely able to keep his head up, let alone walk. With her arm around his back, gripping him under the opposite armpit, she managed to shuffle him to the wheelchair. He stank of exertion and urine. She tried not to think what might have happened had he been left alone for much longer.

“I tried to call you,” he said. “Now I know why you didn't answer.”

She straightened him as he collapsed awkwardly into the chair. “Shut up and give me your hand.”

He raised an arm and she locked their palms. Their overseers exchanged brief handshakes of their own, then a line opened between them. He looked up in surprise as data rushed through his modified ulnar nerve and into his inbuilt memory.

“What's this?” he asked.

She squatted next to him. “It's what you wanted: the file on Lindsay.”

He scowled and pulled his hand away, but not before the transfer had finished. “You had it the whole time.”

“Not me—but yes, the MIU did. Director Trevaskis wanted to exploit the leverage it gave us over you before handing it over.”

“And now?” He studied her for what felt like an hour. “You're not supposed to be here, are you?”

“Not exactly.”

He looked obscurely pleased by this confession. “So—why?”

She shrugged. “It's a power thing. I'm young, talented and fit—three things the boss doesn't have in his favour. He feels threatened by me. Every now and again I like to remind him that the feeling is justified.”

He shook his head. “You're lying.”

“Not entirely.” She checked the time. “In about twenty minutes a squad of heavies is going to knock down your door and take you out of here by force. I don't think that's the best way to get you to cooperate.”

“What do you think?”

“That you should walk out of here on your own two feet—or wheels, as the case may be—without causing any more problems.”

“You call that cooperating?” he protested. “I call it giving in.”

“That's up to you, Jonah. I'm not here to give you an ultimatum. I want to work this through with you, if you'll let me.” She waited until she was certain he was listening. “No matter what you do, you'll be out of here within half an hour. Your only choice is what happens after that. If you leave voluntarily, you'll have the information you wanted, time to manoeuvre, and an ally—me. If you make them use force, you'll lose all that for certain, and maybe more.”

“Why should I trust you?” he asked. “What's in it for you?”

“My career, basically, and a chance to catch this sonofabitch. That's all I want, and you can help me get it.”

“Can I? Things are different now. Everything's changed.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You've only been out of it for three years.”

“That's not what I meant. I feel different.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Do you believe I'm innocent?” he asked. “Because I don't know if I'm entirely guilt-free. There's too much I don't remember for me to be certain. Too much I might have done.”

She didn't know what to say at first. He had sagged into the seat during the conversation, and she was reminded of how he had looked when he had first woken. Then, as now, he had seemed confused and powerless, very different to her memories of three years ago. Whatever InSight had done to him, its effect was most visible in times of stress. She didn't entirely disapprove; it made him seem more human, exposed the weaknesses he normally kept carefully hidden. The only question was whether it made him a better investigator or not.

That was the important thing. His innocence or guilt, by whatever definition, was irrelevant as long as he helped them.

“You're the key,” she said. “The focus. The Twinmaker and his actions connect to you in a variety of ways. It doesn't matter if you yourself committed the crimes; the main thing is that we have you nearby, so if anything happens again we'll be ready.”

“For what?”

“We won't know until it happens.”

He half-smiled. “I won't ask you how that answers the question. If that means you think I did it or not.”

“You shouldn't have to. I can't have changed that much.”

“No, you haven't. Apart from the hair. You always liked to keep your options open.”

He reached out with a hand to touch her skull-cap, and she turned away, self-conscious. His fingertips brushed her naked scalp at the fringes of her cap, and she was surprised at the sudden feeling the touch evoked. Christ. She tensed, and he withdrew the hand instantly. Not now—

She pulled away, mentally correcting herself: not ever.

“Okay,” he said softly.

She turned back to him, praying the flush in her cheeks wasn't as obvious as it felt. His expression was pained. “Okay what?”

“Call them and tell them I'm on your side. No more fucking around. We work as equals and exchange data as equals. I won't keep anything from you.”

Such as? she wondered. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. There's not much point creating friction at this time.”

“That's very civilised of you.”

“Just let me piggyback when you make the call. That'll convince them we mean business.” His gaze flickered elsewhere for a moment, then returned. “And do me a favour. Ask Herold Verstegen to listen in.”

“Why?”

“I want to know what he'll think of this.”

“I can tell you that right now. He'll support it. It was he who put you through d-med—that's what made you better so quickly—and who encouraged Whitesmith to put us together on the case. He won't let Trevaskis get in the way if he can help it.”

Jonah blinked, then frowned. Then he blinked again and averted his eyes. “Whatever. Make the call. Let's get this over with.”

She, too, turned away to concentrate and scanned the flashing windows, unwilling to pick one at random. They needed someone at least marginally sympathetic to argue the case with Trevaskis for her.

One incoming call was indeed from the Director of the MIU, ranked higher in importance than those from Odi Whitesmith, QUALIA and Jason Fassini. There was also one listed from Herold Verstegen, but she wasn't going to take that first.

There was only one person she felt comfortable approaching—which was ironic because, in some people's eyes, e hardly qualified as a person at all.

“QUALIA?”

The reply was instantaneous and significantly less distorted than before: “Marylin? I'm relieved you've called. There's a very important—”

“I can imagine. It can wait. I need to talk to Odi Whitesmith on a private line. This is not for general viewing, and it is urgent. Can you arrange that?”

“Of course, Marylin—”

“Jonah McEwen will be a witness. And invite Directors Verstegen and Trevaskis to sit in on it too, if they have time. Passive, please.”

“They will make time.” QUALIA paused for a split-second. “I am opening connections now. Please proceed.”

“Marylin!” Whitesmith's face burst out of a window at her. “What the hell do you think you're doing in there?”

“Giving Jonah the file on Lindsay Carlaw, that's what.” She squared up to his image with all the defiance she could muster. “You have to call off the goon squad. If you don't, I'll—”

“Calm down, Marylin.” He raised a hand. “Calm down. The goons aren't there. It was all cancelled when Verstegen called to give us the news.”

“What news?”

“KTI recorded another swing in the nett mass/energy budget. That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last ten minutes. We're putting out an alert as we speak.”

She rocked back on her heels. “Already?”

“It would seem so.”

“While Jonah was here.”

“Yes.”

“Hits on his UGI?”

“None.”

“What about ACHERON?”

“We missed it again. The site's inactive now.”

“Shit.” She breathed in once to collect her thoughts. “This is very strange.”

“You're telling me. But the pattern's broken. We're onto something.”

“Or something's onto us.” She caught Jonah's puzzled expression out of the corner of her eye. “There's been another Twinmaker murder,” she said aloud to him. “Fluctuations in KTI's mass/energy budget tell us when there's another body on the way.”

“How?”

“It's complicated.” She shushed him. Whitesmith was talking.

“We need you up here with the squad, ready to move when we get the word. Can you leave Jonah with Fassini?”

“I could, but—” She was reluctant to leave only seconds after finally making some progress. “You could send the armour and equipment to me and I'll suit up here. When the word comes, I'll join you at the site from this booth. How does that sound?”

“Fair enough.” Whitesmith nodded. “It could be a while yet before someone comes across the body. I'll have your gear sent down right away. By priority if the Pool's still slow. Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't. In fact, I can't. Trevaskis locked the door and the out feeds from the unit—”

“Taken care of. You're both free to come and go as you please, now. Fassini is outside, waiting for your word.”

“Keep him there. We'll need some privacy in here, for a while. Let's just maintain things as they are. Call me when the word comes, or I'll call you. Can you swing that for me?”

“Done. The armour will be there in record time. Suit up and be ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

Whitesmith's image disapeared, and moments later the lights indicating that Trevaskis and Verstegen were listening also died. Only Jonah's remained alive for a few seconds longer, then it too winked out.

That easy, she thought in the sudden silence. She had what she'd wanted. No recriminations, no threats, no cost. In thirty minutes—it seemed like the blink of an eye to her—so much had changed that she felt like she'd stepped into an alternate reality.

Another murder, and so soon after the last one. The difference was barely days between disposals. Of course, the killer could have kidnapped this woman some time ago and kept her alive until now. But he had never behaved like this before. Marylin—like Whitesmith—knew that change had to be significant. Either the Twinmaker was trying to provoke a response, perhaps itself in response to the MIU's recent activities, or he was sinking even deeper into psychosis. If the latter was the case, soon he'd start making mistakes. Marylin didn't let herself hope that he may already have made one, but she didn't rule out the possibility, either.

In the blink of an eye…

Her overseer worked overtime to process the data Whitesmith was feeding her: KTI mass/energy reserve histories, distribution profiles, peak-use spikes, and more. She would look at it in a moment, after she explained to Jonah what had happened. He was watching her closely, respecting her need to think, maybe believing that she was making a private call. It was good that they would be able to work together. She kept that thought firmly in her mind. He wasn't the killer; she didn't have to be afraid of him. As soon as the case was solved, she could walk away and get on with her life without him, as she had tried to do three years before. It was downhill from here on. She had what she wanted. Things would be all right.

She shook her head. Who was she kidding? The timing was too fortuitous.

“We've been set up,” she said, half to herself, her cheeks flushed with anger.

Jonah cocked his head. “Who? How?”

“All of us. He's never done this before, so why now? Because things were about to blow apart, that's why. He wants us to work together. He's enjoying it. He thinks we're going to screw up.”

“Now you're being paranoid. Seems more likely that he would want to keep us apart—especially if he's me.”

“Maybe. I simply can't believe that the body just happened to come while I was in transit. And with the body on its way, Trevaskis had no choice but to let things go as they are. For the time being, anyway.”

“Pretty tenuous reasoning.”

“Call it a hunch, then. Supported by us being led to you in the first place.”

“The KTI-MIU link gets stronger.” Jonah ran a shaking hand across his emerging stubble. “If he isn't high up in either, he has access to the data of someone who is.”

“Not Schumacher,” she snapped.

“If you say so.” He shrugged. “What about Herold Verstegen? He seems pretty keen to keep us together. Have you got an alibi file on him, too?”

“Of course. It's—” She stopped, sensing more behind the inquiry than casual interest. “Do you know something you haven't told me?”

“Maybe.”

“You've remembered something!”

“Perhaps. Look—” He shied away from her stare. “I don't know. It could be a memory. I might have concocted it. Either way, it's hard to be sure.”

“Tell me anyway. I can get you the alibi file if that's what you want.”

“No. What I really want is time to look at the file on Lindsay.”

She sat back on her haunches and studied him. His eyes were red and sunken, his cheeks hollow. He was barely moving, and when he did the tremors were obvious. He must have been continuing on sheer willpower alone.

He wanted to know what happened to his father; she wanted to solve the Twinmaker case. Together they could do both.

“Will half an hour be enough?” she asked.

“For starters.” He sighed, possibly in relief. “Give me a chance to look at some hard facts and I'll tell you everything I know.”

“How about letting QUALIA take a look at you as well? I don't want you passing out on me.”

“Lindsay's bedroom has basic medical scanners set into the ceiling.”

“I'll take that as a yes, shall I?”

He half-smiled and extended a hand. “Deal.”

She hesitated, then returned the handshake. His skin was hot and moist; his grip barely tightened around her palm. She didn't let herself hold too long.

“Deal.”

He had hardly blinked and he was in ACHERON, dressed in a sheer black bodysuit, floating breathless and impatient in a cruciform shape at the precise geometric centre of the cylindrical space. He glanced once around the chamber to ensure that everything was as it should be. Each end of the cylinder was in darkness, presenting the illusion of a perfectly straight tunnel ten metres across. The ends were actually “capped” with impenetrable boundaries; the lit area between comprised the sole space within ACHERON. The walls were off-white in colour and smooth, broken by the occasional handhold or strap. Anything he required could be extruded by the walls or produced from an impromptu cupboard—or even conjured from thin air, if he felt inclined to be dramatic. The only thing he preferred to keep constant was the Rack.

A black mock-wood structure two metres by three, the Rack was secured by wires in position along the axis of ACHERON. It had been painstakingly modelled on a genuine centuries-old instrument of torture, minus the wheels and chains. The “wood” was heavily stained, a testimony to the grim past of the original, but its manacles shone. It was a beautiful piece of work and he was proud of it. He had received a splinter from it once, its verisimilitude was so precise. It thrilled him even when it was empty.

“How long?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. His voice resonated in the echoing space of ACHERON, sounding much stronger than it did in the outside world.

The answer came to him silently, voiceless: one minute.

He nodded. For all his eagerness to begin, the minute would give him time to adjust. No matter how thoroughly he prepared, the transition still left him slightly unnerved. It wasn't the free-fall. He was well used to that. The discomfort manifested in his primitive senses: smell, taste and touch. The air was faintly electric and his tongue felt as though it was covered in oil. The walls of ACHERON seemed to vibrate if pressed too hard.

Still, he had to admire his handiwork. If the structure seemed unstable at times, that was only to be expected, given its location.

He smiled. If only those fools in the MIU knew. Not to mention the morons in KTI. Little did anyone suspect what they had in their midst.

The light seemed to flicker once, then suddenly he had company.

The woman arrived in the same position she had left Europe: upright, hands folded across her stomach, eyes still grazing upon infinity. His assistant had arranged her so that her back and legs were parallel to the flat of the Rack and given her pattern a slight tweak to make her groggy. The effects of the incoherence would last a moment or two, long enough for him to approach.

He kicked himself to the end of the Rack and hooked a toe under its lip, not far from her sneakers. She was staring, breathing heavily, beginning to move. In the flesh she was even more exquisite than he had imagined. Her blonde hair blossomed in zero-g, forming a halo around her head. Her scent—Calvin Klein One, another retro touch—filled ACHERON within seconds. He resisted the impulse to reach out and touch her.

Her eyes cleared and she stiffened. He could tell what she was thinking. First she looked up, around her. Wherever she had expected to be, this clearly wasn't it. She lost her balance, and reached for something to hold onto. In her head she was falling, not floating. Her movements were jerky, panicked.

Before she could hurt herself on the Rack, he grabbed her wrist and steadied her, She clutched at his hand, noticing him for the first time.

“Hello,” he said.

She made a small sound, half of relief, half of fear. Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her where she was, to explain what had happened, to reassure her that nothing had gone wrong with the jump.

He didn't respond. Letting momentum roll her over, he twisted the arm up her back and pushed her face-forward into the wooden surface of the Rack.

She gasped and wriggled in his grip. Alarmed but still groggy, she tried to push herself away from the Rack. He kept her pinned, pressing a shin into her thighs and using his free arm to obtain leverage. When he had the measure of her strength and was certain he could manage it, he flipped her over and thrust her wrist into a manacle. It tightened automatically, hard enough to cause pain.

Her eyes widened and she kicked up at him, momentarily knocking him away. He let himself float backwards until he reached the nearest wall, then kicked forward. His rapid return startled her. He was on her again before she could even think of defending herself. He punched her twice, hard across the face, and, while she was distracted by the blows, locked her other arm in its corresponding restraint.

Then he pulled back to look at her.

Her eyes followed him, filled with the beginning of terror. Her nose was bleeding.

“Say something,” he said.

She shook her head, sending droplets of blood spinning across the room. They vanished as they hit the walls.

“Don't be impolite,” he chided. “At least say ‘hello.’”

“Fuck you.”

He struck her again. This time she tried to bite his hand, but he didn't let that deter him. As she flailed desperately at him, he slipped his legs through holes in the Rack, encircled her waist, and squeezed, pressing her hard against the wood. She gasped for breath, spat, cursed. Her knees pummelled his back, but he held on tightly. His hands tore at her halter, exposed her breasts. She shut her eyes at that and rolled her head back. He grabbed her chin and twisted her face towards him. Her teeth were clenched.

“Yes,” he breathed. The resemblance was good. He didn't know if she had noticed his erection, but it was there. She was beautiful and he had complete power over her: the perfect relationship, as far as he was concerned.

He released the grip of his legs and moved away to pin her ankles. She moaned and sobbed with all her newfound breath as he did so, but she didn't have the strength to stop him. The battle was already over.

Part of him regretted the fact that it had been so easy. But he had her, and that was the main thing. The rest was just a bonus.

He had her.

“Don't you want to know who I am?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head, flicking tears at him.

“Why I'm doing this? What I'm going to do to you?”

“No!”

“You are already dead, you know. Nothing you say can change that, so there's no point fighting it. In twenty-four hours your body will make a nice little present for a friend of mine—a friend who doesn't like surprises, if you know what I mean. But I can make it easier for you. I can keep you sedated while I work and erase the evidence afterwards. I can ensure you feel no pain. I could even kill your brain so you won't have to think—”

“You're insane!” She pressed flat against the Rack, as far away from him as she could get. He couldn't tell if she was listening to him at all, or whether she was simply too frightened to believe.

“No.” His voice betrayed a slight wince. “I'm merely sociopathic. Do you know what that means? It means I don't care about right or wrong. You can't appeal to my moral code because I don't have one. I have my own sense of fair play and my own logic. I am my own boss. You have to reason with me on that level if you want to ease your suffering.”

She looked confused, and he couldn't really blame her. At least he knew, now, that she was listening. Two minutes ago she had been happily shopping in Europe. Now she was arguing the ethics of pain control with a dangerous maniac. The thought amused him, although he kept the feeling from showing.

“Why?” she sobbed.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Now you ask. What sort of answer do you want? Because I enjoy it? Because it concurs with my vengeful agenda? Because my mother hurt me as a child?” Now he shook his head. Her eyes followed him. “The truthful answer is that I need your body, and I enjoy torture. I like hurting. But I've learned to keep that urge under control. These days I only hurt people when they're unconscious—or when they make me angry. If you don't make me angry, I'll let you sleep. You won't feel any pain, except in your dreams. No one's ever complained about that before—but that might be because no one's woken from sleep in here.”

He stopped to see if she was following him. Her eyes were wide, but again he couldn't tell if they had glazed over in shock or were watching him closely. “Do you understand what I'm telling you? I don't have to do this at all to get the result I want. I could design a corpse from nothing and put it where I need it. But that wouldn't be satisfying. I want to hurt your body. If you make it easier for me, I'll make it easier for you.”

“I don't want to die,” she whispered.

He felt a tickle of annoyance. They all said that. “But isn't that what you pay for every time you step into a d-mat booth? To be taken apart and killed? Am I not just fulfilling that contract more literally in this case?”

“What?” She frowned, and he wondered if she was remembering the WHOLE pamphlet she had discarded earlier that day.

“The Murdering Twinmaker.” He smiled down at her half-naked, squirming body. “Welcome to my parlour, pretty victim.”

Something touched the back of his head, and he batted at it, startled by the unexpected contact. A flash of colour rocketed away from him: one of her sneakers had become dislodged while they scuffled and returned to bother him. He caught it when it bounced off a wall and passed by a second time.

“Please,” she muttered, “please—”

“Please what?” He twisted the sneaker in both hands. “To hurt or not to hurt—that is the only choice you have any more.” He made a show of glancing at a nonexistent watch. “And if you wouldn't mind hurrying, I'm on a tighter schedule than normal. We have a lot to share, you and I, before we finally part company.”

Her sobbing became more animated. He tapped her on the forehead with the toe of the sneaker to attract her attention, but she only flinched away. He hit her harder, frustrated by her unwillingness to communicate. Didn't she understand what he was trying to tell her? Did she really want to be hurt? Was she listening to him at all? Didn't she care what happened to her?

He tried talking to her again—one last time. “Look, there's a reason to all this. You won't have died in vain. In fact, you won't die at all in the long run. Not today. Just here. You're a copy. The real you keeps going.” Her stubborn introspection bothered him. He tried to appeal to her, rather than the victim: “Did you have a party to go to tonight, by the way, or was that just wishful thinking on my part?”

Still she didn't respond. His lips tightened. Gripping the sneaker more tightly, he struck her about the face until her cheeks began to bleed. She was screaming and thrashing by that point—more frightened animal than human. It was no use trying any more. She didn't give a damn. But he did. He did.

It made him angry.

The time for talk was past. He tossed the sneaker aside and tore away the rest of her clothes. He really was in a hurry—hadn't just said that to impress her—so he didn't waste time with pleasantries. Twenty-four hours was a long time for torture, but barely long enough to reduce a human being to the depths he had seen and wanted to see again. Prolonged pain was the key, and the absence of hope. He had offered her a pain-free death, and he might have given it to her, for simplicity's sake, but many was the time he had offered it, delivered for a while, then reduced the levels of narcotics in order to see the despair blossom when the pain returned.

He was a sculptor. His medium was flesh. His message was despair. His agenda was revenge.

The girl on the Rack was just a means to an end. A means he intended to enjoy to the fullest now that she had rejected his offer.

Not once did she attempt to reason with him again. She was weak, irrational, pathetic. Even her screams began to lose their strength after barely an hour had passed. She deserved everything he gave her.

Marylin Blaylock would have fought harder.

That was the thought he kept foremost in his mind as the tools came out and he began to work in earnest.

Marylin Blaylock would have fought harder. That would make her submission all the more sweet, when the time finally came.

Facts were much more reliable than memories, even if they alone did little to illuminate the situation Jonah McEwen found himself in.

Lindsay Carlaw had been killed by an explosion in the primary lab of SciCon's Advanced Research facility, often referred to as SCAR. The bomb had been placed within the housing of an otherwise unremarkable 3-by-Standard Human Equivalent processor Lindsay had had cause to examine during a random maintenance check prior to testing the latest configuration of the device known as QUIDDITY. Immediately upon opening the casing of the processor, the bomb had detonated. Shrapnel had cut Carlaw nearly in half and slightly injured his adopted son, who had been standing behind him. The 3-by-SHE processor itself had been completely ruined, along with much of the equipment in that corner of the room. QUIDDITY, and its creator, had been destroyed.

The opening paragraphs of the findings of the inquest into Lindsay's death graphically described the events that had taken place three years earlier. Jonah scanned through them, reliving the moment the bomb had exploded, and afterward, when he had been caught in a terrible loop of grief and guilt. His memories were clear up to that point.

The records indicated that he had attended the opening session of the inquest three days after Lindsay's death, but he had no recollection whatsoever of doing that. The inquest had concluded on the tenth day, two after Jonah had gone into hibernation and three after Lindsay's funeral. As he read past the bald statement of facts and reached the issues the inquest had struggled with, he became increasingly perplexed.

SciCon had reported receiving bomb threats leading up to the explosion. Jonah had been present that day to investigate them—not officially, and certainly not at Lindsay's request, or with SciCon's complete cooperation, but there nonetheless. WHOLE had been implicated, despite the fact that none of the threats had been traced and that Karoly Mancheff, head of WHOLE, had denied responsibility. Even the security administration of SciCon, at its lower, workaday levels, had taken them only half-seriously. Any company with such a high profile engaged in such sensitive work received threats; less than five percent turned out to be genuine. And this one, with its nebulous source and vague details, had rung no alarm bells.

But, according to the records, Jonah had noticed his father's atypical unease and had attributed the threats to be the cause. If WHOLE had indeed been behind it, Lindsay might have known more than he was admitting. Upon following up SciCon's evaluation procedure, however, he, too, had been reassured that the threats were idle. He had stopped looking, in other words. Perhaps if he had looked harder, he might have found the bomb in time.

Maybe.

In the end, the inquest found no clear evidence implicating WHOLE in the attack, but neither could it find another suspect to let WHOLE entirely off the hook. It failed to determine how the bomb had been placed inside the high-security SCAR facility. Nor could it decide how the explosion had been triggered: although the bomb had gone off when Lindsay had opened the processor, the detonator had not been linked to the casing. Instead, it had resembled a timed device. The only thing it seemed the inquest had concluded was that Lindsay's death had come about as the result of foul play, which had suprised no one. The lack of evidence made finding a suspect or pinning down the motive so difficult that the prospect of prosecuting a killer had been bleak.

A note appended to the file indicated that the subsequent EJC investigation had stalled within a few weeks. It had become one of the many unsolved crimes that, for one reason or another, were never adequately investigated. The reason in this case might have been a lack of family or social pressure applied at the time—a possibility that did little to ease Jonah's conscience. He had been interested, and he still was. The lead that had kept him from pursuing the case to its conclusion (if, indeed, he hadn't) must have been of overwhelming significance.

Whatever that was, he didn't know. All he could do was follow in his previous footsteps, hoping to avoid whatever pitfalls had led him here, three years later.

Reading over the scant physical evidence, Jonah thought the obvious conclusion was that the sabotage had been an inside job. The person behind it had had access to the SCAR facility at the very least. Possibly someone with an urgent desire to see the QUIDDITY project stalled, someone who wanted Lindsay out of the way so his patents could be exploited more fully, perhaps even someone with a personal grudge against Lindsay. That the bomb was aimed at Lindsay seemed impossible to refute. After all, the test run of the QUIDDITY project had been scheduled days in advance, and it would have been easy to ensure that Lindsay was the only one present. Rigging the bomb to the processor casing could have placed an innocent technician in danger and missed the actual target. Hence the bomb had been timed rather than manually triggered. Only bad luck and stubborn insistence had put Jonah in range as well.

They had been arguing. About what Jonah could no longer recall. Maybe about the bomb threats themselves; it didn't matter. Lindsay had been edgy all that week, and had no good explanation for it. He had turned away to open the processor casing, and—

Jonah remembered a sound so loud he had been deaf for minutes afterwards. He had felt pain in his chest. The ground had slapped him hard when he fell. The facility had been full of metal fragments and glass, and blood, when he had staggered to his feet.

His mind shied away from the death of his father. That aspect of his past was still painful—for all that he had downplayed the bond between him and Lindsay to Marylin. They may not have been close in an emotional sense, but they were still father and son. The death of one would inevitably have an effect on the other.

He opened his eyes. He was lying on his father's bed while medical scanners hidden in the ceiling and walls, installed to assist Lindsay in his search for longevity, examined his body. The room and the rest of the unit was in gloomy half-darkness. He could hear Marylin moving nearby, although at first he couldn't see her. He craned his neck. She was in the hallway donning body-armour that must have arrived while he was reviewing the file. He looked away to respect her privacy.

Among the data she had given him was an overview of the d-med process that had brought him so rapidly to full health. He skimmed through part of it. The technical terms went over his head, but he understood enough to get a rough picture. He had been taken apart and put back together differently. Instead of operating on his living tissues by means of laser scalpels or nanos, the unnamed doctors had redesigned his body from the inside out while it was frozen between d-mat terminals.

He accepted that. It made sense. Despite the scaremongers, a lot of people would benefit from the development when it was released, among them the KTI shareholders, who would receive a royalty every time the process was employed. He was glad Marylin had taken the time to inform him of how he had been treated.

On the tail end of the data-packet was a brief description of something Jonah had come across before, prior to his hibernation. Turning matter into information was only half of the miracle that was d-mat. Reversing the process required sophisticated ways to create and manipulate matter in all its forms. Every receiving booth consumed large amounts of energy with every transfer, just as transmitting booths emitted surplus power due to the interchangeability of matter and energy. Across one transfer, the matter/energy reserves would rise near the transmitting booth and dip near the receiver, but the nett mass/energy budget of the KTI global system would remain constant. This nett mass/energy budget was measured in megaLuhrs, where each thousand Luhrs represented approximately one person. A percentage was lost every day due to inefficiencies in the system and the laws of thermodynamics, but that was easily made up in the long run as d-mat was increasingly used to dispose of dangerous waste.

According to the document Jonah was reading, the total mass/energy reserve was normally maintained at roughly 0.5 MLu. When the Twinmaker copied a victim, he reduced the m/e reserve by one thousand Luhrs. It was this discrepancy that alerted the MIU to the fact that another body was on its way, enabling it to warn EJC and security forces around the world. Word of a corpse that had appeared from nowhere in a d-mat booth usually came within hours, and when it did the MIU away team was ready to investigate. That explained how the MIU had known right from the beginning that this was no ordinary serial murder investigation, and how they could so accurately pinpoint when the Twinmaker had struck.

But there was something about the m/e shortfall that bothered Jonah. It took him a moment or two to figure it out.

“Marylin, are you there?”

“I hear you. You've had your half an hour. Are you done yet?”

“No. Tell me why there isn't a mass/energy shortfall when the Twinmaker kidnaps a victim. He had the last one for days before he dumped her, but only then did her existence register in the m/e budget. Why's that?”

“I don't know.” She came out of the kitchen, clipping black fabric sheaths tight across her abdomen. Active fibres in the weave pulled each sheath tighter still, perfectly matching the contours of her body. Flexible yet strong, the armour would stop a .44 bullet at close range or absorb large amounts of coherent electromagnetic radiation, yet remain undetectable beneath her uniform.

He levered himself into a sitting position. “You ‘don't know’?”

“I've never really thought about it before,” she said. “In the early days, he only kept his victims long enough to slit their throats; the difference between disposal and kidnap times wasn't really an issue. But now, he keeps them for days. You're absolutely right. The discrepancy should show up much earlier.”

“Who would know why it doesn't?”

“QUALIA, I guess. Schumacher and Verstegen for sure.”

He wondered if he should mention what he had remembered: that someone had been in his apartment during the week after Lindsay's death, someone who had threatened him and mentioned suicide. Herold Verstegen's name surfaced in that context, but he could not explain why while the identity of the mystery man remained an unknown. They might not have been one and the same; he might simply have been adding unrelated facts together in a vain, subconscious attempt to tie up loose ends. No doubt Marylin would explain it that way, and he wouldn't blame her for doing so.

Marylin had ducked back into the hall to finish sealing the armour.

“Now tell me how you can be so certain that none of KTI's top exec's are involved,” he called after her.

“We've been tracking the top twenty-five constantly for over a year,” she said.

“Through GLITCH?”

“With random spot-checks conducted in person.” Her head appeared briefly around the corner. “We know GLITCH isn't really infallible.”

“There's no way one of them could've been moonlighting?”

“No. They're watched twenty-four hours a day. Look.” She guided his overseer to an internal security site that listed the whereabouts of the twenty-five targets. Verstegen was there, along with Schumacher, Trevaskis, Whitesmith and others Jonah hadn't heard of. The present location of each was listed, along with a complete history of the last twenty-four hours. Previous records were archived but could be recalled at a simple request.

“The red marks next to specific times indicate verification in person,” Marylin explained. “And they couldn't have copied themselves as well, if you're about to suggest that. Their UGIs would have registered simultaneously at some point by now, alerting the system.”

“Unless—” He stopped, suddenly struggling to complete the thought that had struck him.

“Unless what?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. Have there been any hits on my UGI lately?”

“None more recent than a month ago.”

“Since I awoke?”

“Still none.”

He raised his eyebrows. “All that effort—”

“I know. Don't say it.”

He didn't. All that effort to obtain his UGI and in the end it had given them nothing. It would have been amusing under other circumstances, and if the same couldn't be said about the inquest file.

But…what had he been thinking? Something about how the killer could have avoided dangerous double-matches through GLITCH. There were ways to evade the network of detection points around the world, but they involved concealment across a number of different spectra and avoiding all legitimate forms of commerce and communication. That could be kept up for a few days, maybe even as long as a couple of weeks, if an accomplice could be relied upon to provide food and shelter—but for eighteen months, without a break? Jonah doubted it.

Wherever it was his mind had been leading him, he was lost now. The signpost would reappear later if it was important—he hoped.

Marylin stepped back into the room.

“Are you going to point the finger at Herold Verstegen next?”

He looked up. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you hinted at something to do with him before.”

“No other reason?”

“Like I might wonder about him myself? No. He's a spook and no one likes him much, but that doesn't make him a murderer.”

“He and Trevaskis make a nice couple,” he said.

“Their disagreements are common knowledge. Verstegen regards the MIU as a subordinate branch of his security force. Trevaskis wants the unit to become a fully fledged subsidiary of the EJC. Neither aim is compatible, so there's constant friction. Your appearance seems to have brought it to some kind of head.”

“Not me,” he said. “The Twinmaker.”

“Games again?” She half-smiled. “I keep coming back to that too.”

“It is a theory,” he acknowledged. “I'm not sure I agree with it, but it's definitely suggestive.”

She moved around the room to a straight-backed chair nearby and sat down with a creak of armour. Her expression was wooden, as though she was hiding something more than just impatience at waiting for the latest body to turn up. In her hand was a folded piece of paper.

“What else is there you haven't told me?” he asked.

“Plenty, no doubt,” she said, too casually. “As you say, it's hard to bring you up to date immediately—”

“Anything specific?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then reached across to hand him the note.

Marylin watched him read with a feeling not unlike apprehension. Why, she didn't know, but the feeling was there. His eyes scanned the page once, then again, just as hers had the previous day. After the second time, he turned the page over and looked at the back. It was blank.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I didn't write it,” he said, looking up at her. “Where did it come from?”

“I left it in the JRM office six months ago for you to find if you showed up there. When I checked it yesterday, that line had been added.”

“It's been analysed?”

“Of course. It's clean. Very clean. The envelope it was in, the one I put it in myself, hadn't been opened. The note was somehow written onto the page while it was still inside.”

“That's—” He stopped. Impossible, he'd obviously been about to say.

“It can be done,” she said. “I can think of one way.”

“Nanos?”

“No. Even they would leave a slight trace. Also, the paper hasn't been scorched or stained by ink. It's changed colour on a molecular level.”

“How?”

“By d-med.”

He leaned back onto the bed. “Ah.”

“You get it, don't you? If it was put there by d-med, then that means someone from KTI really is involved. So if you've got any information I should know, please tell me.”

He looked at her as though she had helped him reach some sort of internal decision. “It doesn't seem to be anything to do with the Twinmaker case. After all, you've just demonstrated that he wasn't anywhere near any of the victims during the times they were killed. But it may connect with Lindsay. I remember someone being here after Lindsay died—”

“Here?”

“In the lounge. He was threatening me, or implying some sort of threat. I can't remember what it was all about, or what he looked like, but Herold Verstegen's name keeps circling through my head—as though the two are connected somehow.”

“You think it might have been him?”

“I don't know for certain; I could even be imagining things—you know, plugging new data into old problems regardless whether they fit or not.”

“Spurious associations?”

“Yes. You see, when I first met Verstegen, I thought he looked familiar, although I couldn't, and still can't, remember where from. Maybe I'm trying to answer that question by connecting it to the flashback.”

She nodded, understanding why he had been reluctant to admit to it. It was tantalising yet frustratingly vague. Almost worthless, in fact, except as a sign that perhaps Jonah's memory was returning.

“What about QUALIA? Any flashbacks there?”

His expression changed to one of bemusement. “Why would there be? QUALIA wasn't around when I took the plunge.”

She explained about the memory spikes. He listened, but she could tell the answer before she had finished.

“No. I can't explain how I could've heard QUALIA's voice,” he said. “There must be another reason for the spikes. You interpreted the data wrong, perhaps.”

“There isn't another explanation. Not even QUALIA can find one.”

He leaned forward to wave the note at her. “Then it's probably irrelevant—whereas this note is important. It's proof that someone from KTI is involved.”

“I know,” she said, taking the note back from him. “That's what worries me.”

He sagged back onto the bed. “Why?”

“Because the Twinmaker left it there for me to find. He wanted me to find it. He doesn't care if we know about him, or his contacts—or you, for that matter. That's the scariest thing; he thinks it won't make any difference.”

“Then we'll just have to prove him wrong.”

“Yes, but—what if he's right?”

He met her eyes and didn't look away for what felt like an eternity. “He can't be. The only way to be sure he'd never be caught would be to stop now and lay low while the investigation peters out—which he might have done, had he been me. This me. The whole hibernation thing could've been nothing more than a ruse: I wiped my memory, went into the goop, made it look like I'd been in there a lot longer than I really had been, then led you right to me.”

She remembered Trevaskis' theory along the same lines. “That's not an option any more. There's been another murder.”

“Exactly. So he's still out there. We can still find him.”

“And he could still be a copy of you.”

He nodded. “Yes, he could. Or I could be a copy of him. Is there any way to tell if I'm the original?”

“I doubt it.” She floundered for a second; this was something else she'd never considered. “The markers in your spine would tell when you took your last few jumps. The only one before the last couple of days would have been on the nineteenth of April, when you returned here. Presumably you would've been copied by then.”

“Is that information on file? It must've been checked during d-med.”

“I'll ask. Hang on.” She e-mailed a text query for Indira Geyten to check the files. It didn't seem terribly important. It smacked of an exercise in existential semantics.

“Speaking of d-mat reminds me,” she said when she was finished. “Why would Lindsay have taken a jump?”

“He wouldn't.”

“Not even in an emergency?”

“No, never.”

“But according to the housekeeper records he did.”

That flustered him. “Are you sure?”

“Check for yourself.”

She gave him the date and time and waited while he looked it up.

“It can't be right.”

She shrugged. “Why would the housekeeper lie? Or who could have changed its records?”

“No one except Lindsay, to the last. And I can't think of a reason why he'd want to.”

“Unless he used his UGI to conceal someone else's.”

“But how did that person arrive? The jump is only one-way, remember.”

“I don't know.”

“Can we check with QUALIA?”

“No. KTI was running on mundane AIs back then. QUALIA had yet to reach ometeosis. In other words, e wasn't alive—”

“I know what it means. It's just a poor reason for not having access to the information we need.”

“Exactly. And now you know why KTI built QUALIA in the first place.”

“I guess.” He looked away. His expression hinted at annoyance, as though he had forgotten something. Which, she supposed, he had. Many things.

She went back into the hall to collect the remaining items of her uniform. He was quiet while she did so. On her return, she realised that this was because he was making or receiving a call via his overseer. She patched in to overhear.

“—of possibilities,” QUALIA was saying. “The Twinmaker may be diverting traffic elsewhere in order to cover the extra mass. If he knew the weight of his victim, a similar mass could be diverted, undelivered, to cover the discrepancy.”

“Have there been any complaints about late deliveries?”

“None that have not been accounted for.”

“He could be arranging the missing transfer himself, then. That way a complaint wouldn't be registered.” Jonah second-guessed the obvious next step with an ease that showed how much improved his reasoning faculties were. “There's only one problem. GLITCH doesn't give accurate information on weight, so he would have no way of knowing what sort of compensation he would need in advance. And to arrange something on the spur of the moment, while in the process of kidnapping someone—I don't believe he could do it quickly enough.”

“Perhaps you are right,” was QUALIA's reply.

“Perhaps.” Jonah sniffed. “Tell me, out of curiosity—what is the total mass/energy reserve at the moment.”

“Precisely 0.499 MLu.”

“One person's-worth short, in other words, of what it was yesterday, or a week ago?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any limit to how far back you can give me figures for the reserve?”

“Not in essence, although a certain level of secrecy does apply to information of this sort.”

“That's okay. I'm just curious to know if there have been any dips that haven't already been accounted for.”

“Other bodies?” Marylin intruded on the conversation.

“Or a copy that wasn't a body,” he replied. “Me.”

“Good point.”

“There have been other drops in the m/e reserve,” QUALIA said. “However I am not permitted to provide you with information regarding them all.”

Jonah sucked air in through his lips. “Is this something to do with Schumacher's secret archive?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it might be.”

Marylin suppressed an annoyed response, unwilling to go down that path again. “Are there any drops,” she asked, “that you cannot account for?”

“No,” QUALIA replied.

Jonah snorted and dropped out of the conversation.

“If that satisfies you,” he said aloud, “then you've gone even softer than I thought.”

“Not at all. I trust QUALIA, who has been programmed not to lie, and I trust Schumacher, who has the best interests of KTI at heart.”

“I don't trust anyone, and why should I? Schumacher's human, just like anyone. So's QUALIA, too, for that matter.”

“E's an AI, not human.”

“‘Not human’ doesn't mean mechanical, Marylin. Any being complex enough to be considered intelligent must by definition be capable of lying.”

“Why?”

“Because—” He stopped, rethought what he was about to say. “Because that was the way Lindsay worked. His designs always included a capacity for ‘negative information,’ as he called it. He used to say that self-deception is one of the surest signs of true consciousness.”

Marylin almost shot back a comment about who Lindsay Carlaw might have learnt that from, given that Jonah had been adopted as a human guinea pig, but chose tact over old habits.

“Not QUALIA,” she said. “SciCon redesigned the QUIDDITY matrix when KTI commissioned a governing AI for the d-mat network.”

“How?”

“I don't know the specifics. They weren't after a human-analogue, so they took out the unconscious and some of the more esoteric features. The ability to lie must have been one of them. It had to be if QUALIA was to be trustworthy. Verstegen would never have allowed a loophole that large in his precious security net.”

“He had a say in this?”

“Schumacher brought him in specifically to oversee the installation. He was some sort of bigwig security specialist with heaps of experience in AIs. He ended up staying on permanently afterwards. I wasn't here then, and QUALIA was still being trained when I joined. There were bugs; people complained. People still resented Verstegen, even though he fixed the problem in the end. We haven't had a problem for a long time.”

“Apart from the Twinmaker.”

“That's hardly the same thing.”

“Isn't it? What sort of problems were they?”

“Record-keeping, mainly. Files going missing, transfers not recorded, IDs not registering. Minor glitches, but annoying. It was a matter of settling the database in, building up the world map, whatever. That takes time, just like with a person.”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward with one finger pointing. “And that's my point: QUALIA was once human enough to make mistakes, so why not, now, human enough to lie?”

She sighed and looked away. He was going in circles and dragging her along with him. “It's a moot point, I guess, without evidence.”

That made him smile. “At least I've got a hope of being proven right.”

“True.” She stood. “Are we done confessing secrets now? I'd like to get on with looking at the data”

“I thought that's what we were doing.”

“Hardly. There are still reams of housekeeper records to be double-checked with your recollections, plus details of the previous murders for you to familiarise yourself with. The more you know about the case, the more likely you're going to be any use to us, right?”

He shrugged. “If you say so. But I take your point. Best to keep busy. The wait must be killing you.”

She grimaced, uncomfortably aware how apt the comment was.

Before she could suggest a specific task, however, a red light began to flash in her visual field, indicating that an urgent call was waiting for her. It was, furthermore, a conference call with at least three participants.

She knew instinctively that this was the call she had been both dreading and anticipating. It had come much sooner than she had expected.

Without saying anything, she stood and took the call where Jonah couldn't see her face.

Jonah watched Marylin suddenly get up and leave the room. He immediately comprehended that this was it: confirmation of the seventeenth murder in the series. He could understand her wanting to be alone while she took the news.

He had seen enough of the files to know how much the killings escalated in savagery from the first one to that of Yoland Suche-Thomas. A large part of him dreaded what they would find when they viewed the latest body. How much worse could it be? There was little the Twinmaker hadn't already done to his victims, including using the last body as a goad.

The bodies had been dumped, usually, in the homes of moderately well-off, law-abiding people who either leased or had professional access to a private booth. Never in public places. It was clear that the killer didn't choose his disposal sites at random, but until Suche-Thomas the MIU had preferred to assume that placement meant little.

Jonah wondered if the truth might be more complex; if the killer was the person who had put Jonah in the gel, then he might have been biding his time, waiting to bring Jonah back into the picture. During this time, the gaps between murders had been roughly three to five weeks, and the degree of violence had increased steadily—almost as though the killer had started out simply to murder his victims, but had learned to enjoy torture along the way. Now that there was no pressure to wait, for whatever reason, the killer could allow himself, not an increase in violence alone, but greater frequency and more significant placement. Jonah's apartment in Faux Sydney could be, he thought, just the first in a series of rapid strikes designed to confuse or even embarrass the investigators by catching them off-balance.

He wondered what could have happened to trigger the shift from murder to mind-games. Something in the killer's private life, perhaps: rejection, loss of status at work, the death of a loved one, even illness. There were many possibilities. Or an external influence. Politicians and publicity-seekers had been known to trigger violent episodes in others. That was just as much a possibility as anything else in this case. But Jonah didn't have the background knowledge to guess at what this might have been. Three years unconscious had left him seriously out of date with respect to world affairs.

The only significant change he could think of was the development of d-med—which demonstrated just how far behind he was. Every representative on the World Council could've been assassinated and replaced with CRE stars for all he knew. That would've been enough to drive anyone to murder.

The MIU investigators had been able to come to some conclusions regarding the killer, or his accomplices. His intimate knowledge of MIU, KTI and GLITCH data, and activities, suggested either extraordinary powers of espionage or contact at high level on the inside of one or more of these organisations. He knew Marylin Blaylock, although he had never referred to her by name nor attempted to communicate with her until the alteration of the note. He liked implicating WHOLE in the murders by leaving its literature with the bodies he mutilated. And he was frustratingly fastidious. No genetic trace had ever been found on any of his victims.

The picture was hauntingly vague, and begged many more questions than it answered. Jonah, by nature, was more interested in who and how rather than why, but he guessed that the last two would be the key to the first. Motive and incriminating technical details would have to suffice, given the paucity of forensic data. He would've given back his sudden recovery in exchange for someone who could hack into Schumacher's hidden file for him…

He felt restless waiting for Marylin to return. “QUALIA? I'd like to move. Have you finished examining me?”

“Yes, Jonah, although I recommend you remain prostrate. You have a slight fever, the source of which I cannot determine without taking a physical sample.”

“Well, I feel fine.”

“That is unsurprising. Your body is producing natural opiates under the instruction of your overseer.”

“Why?”

“It will take some time before the grafts are fully absorbed by your body. Although the genetic match is perfect, the sudden acquisition of such a large mass of tissue requires significant restructuring of circulatory, nervous and lymphatic systems. This restructuring continues apace, performed by natural repair agents and nanomachines introduced to your body during the d-med procedure. The healing process would leave you moderately uncomfortable without some sort of pain relief, hence your raised endorphin levels. Also, I recommend you eat solid food within the hour to avoid hypoglycaemia.”

“I can't stay in bed and eat,” Jonah protested. “And I can hardly ask Marylin to bring me food on a tray.”

“That would be the simplest solution,” the AI said matter-of-factly.

“You suggest it, then.” Jonah grimaced. “I'd rather go hungry.”

He sat up, provoking a wave of dizziness that took some seconds to subside. He felt around in the gloom for his dressing gown, and put it on. The sound of Marylin muttering under her breath came from the next room, a sign that she was still busy with the call. He thought he heard his name mentioned, but resisted the temptation to eavesdrop. While he was alone, there was one other place in the unit he wanted to look.

His legs supported him as far as the door to Lindsay's study—a vast improvement on even an hour ago, but still worryingly weak. He crawled the rest of the way on his hands and knees. When he reached the chair, he levered himself into it with a grunt then sat still for a few minutes to catch his breath.

Under the lip of the desk was a slight indentation that marked the entrance to Lindsay's private cache. He found it, and pressed hard. The fake wood resisted for a moment as a pressure-sensitive nanofilm registered his fingerprint, then clicked inward. A panel slid up and to one side, exposing the secret compartment. Free to fall, a slim, bound book dropped into his hand.

Jonah brought his father's diary out into the light with a feeling akin to guilt. Although Lindsay had told him about the cache—and, more significantly, to look inside it in the case of emergencies—Jonah had sworn he would never violate his father's privacy. Tempting though it had been at times, he knew that would have been the first step down a path from which he could never return. Emotional deprivation was no excuse for exploitation and industrial espionage.

He opened the diary. The spine crackled and gave off a smell of ozone. It obviously hadn't been activated for some time. Each of the six pages inside was made of thick plastic, the surface of which acted as a simple colour display. Molecules changed shape and colour at the application of microcurrents directed by the data stored in the flexible plastic, sending images and words scattering across the page. Only one side displayed an image while the back remained blank.

There were a number of such e-books on Lindsay's shelves, but Jonah hadn't looked at one since he had left his childhood behind and discovered CRE.

The title on the first page hinted that he hadn't left his childhood as far behind as he might have liked:

Observations and Reflections on a Growing Mind

(© 2066, L. A. Carlaw, sole licensee J. R. McEwen. See private
document #438 (Will and Testament): all rights to transfer to

J. R. McEwen in the event of the death of L. A. Carlaw.)

Introduction: The Missing Years (0—2)

Part One: Years 2 to 4

Part Two: Years 4 to 6

MEMORY LIMIT EXCEEDED

He turned the page, and it continued:

Part Two: Years 4 to 6 (conclusion)

Part Three: Years 8 to 9

Part Four: Years 10 to 13

MEMORY LIMIT EXCEEDED

He kept turning.

Part Four: Years 10 to 13 (conclusion)

Part Five: Years 13 to 16

Part Six: Years 17 to 20

MEMORY LIMIT EXCEEDED

Part Six: Years 17 to 20 (conclusion)

Part Seven: Years 21 to 25

Part Eight: Years 25 to 30

On the fifth page was just one title:

Part Nine: Years 30—

Obviously Lindsay had continued his magnum opus until his death, at which point it had been cut short. Jonah didn't know how he felt about that. At that moment he surprised himself by feeling very little at all.

He moved on. The sixth and last page contained a calendar and one untitled file. Jonah opened the calendar and found what he had actually been looking for: his father's appointment diary, with comments scribbled in the margins in Lindsay's handwriting. Here was every event Lindsay had ever attended, every journey he had taken, every milestone in his career. Jonah skimmed through it with something approaching awe, noting how frequently his name appeared, stopping occasionally when an item caught his eye.

On May 14, 2036, they had flown to Katherine for his belated birthday party. (Lindsay had been at the SCAR lab on the 5th itself, and young Jonah had spent the day with friends.) He remembered the flight vividly, but not the actual party, nor what he and his father had done together that day.

On October 28, 2038, they had visited his dying mother. He had been too young to understand just how sick she was but could tell from the manner of the people around her that something serious was wrong. She had succumbed a week later, and the date was marked with a black cross in Lindsay's diary. Eight years later to the day, Lindsay sat him down and explained exactly what had killed her: a combination of a mutant nanomachine and a yeast infection. Jonah had cried that night, but Lindsay hadn't been there then.

In his early twenties, Jonah had professed a desire to quit study and go into business. Lindsay had opposed such a move, insisting that he had a long life ahead of him, and that there would be time, later, to try something he might regret doing sooner. But Jonah had become increasingly frustrated, until on August 18, 2057, he had left home in Darwin to seek employment elsewhere. He had ended up in a private security company, where he worked for six months, then freelanced for a mercenary army hired to seal a suburb in Greater Los Angeles. Through contacts made in the course of his work, he had gravitated to the field of data acquisition. Spurning large companies, like the privatised Interpol and other government agencies, he had moved from firm to firm for two years before finally settling down in a company run by an ex-cop from Seattle. The ex-cop, Vito Lenz, had fulfilled a badly needed mentor role in Jonah's professional life. Upon Lenz's shooting death in 2062, Jonah decided to move out on his own. Using capital he had saved, plus that raised by the sale of the unit he had purchased the previous year, he leased the office in Sydney and founded JRM Data Acquisition Services. He had initially planned to live on the premises, but had soon realised that, on his budget, an office wouldn't possess sufficient facilities to allow that.

On the day he had left home, Lindsay had written: The phase-change has occurred, at long last. He has his freedom, and I guess I should have the satisfaction of watching him enjoy it. I wonder if he realises how easy it will seem in retrospect, this thing that has been so difficult now?

On the day Jonah returned, September 1, 2062, Lindsay corrected himself: It still seems to have been difficult. I was wrong in that respect. This may explain why it is so easy to take him back. Or perhaps I am being sentimental. Either way, I am glad. The new place will feel like a home now.

The “new place” was the unit in Faux Sydney. Lindsay had moved in a month before, despite the patent absurdity of someone who hated d-mat living in a place that required great lengths to reach without it. Their cohabitation had been difficult, and became increasingly so as the years wore on. Jonah had remained while the business was struggling, determined not to leave until he could support himself fully, although, even then, that hadn't seemed the real reason.

As Lindsay himself speculated, on January 7, 2065, Jonah might have been seeking: a paternal bond that threatened but never attained manifestation in any way other than the most vague. It was an admittance in print of the fear of intimacy that both of them shared, it seemed; that the relationship between father and son could be strong despite lack of encouragement, or that either of them would still seek such a relationship despite all evidence to the contrary of its existence.

What would have happened had Lindsay not died would never, now, be known. They had been heading for something prior to then. Perhaps not a confrontation, but a realisation of the futility of trying to avoid one. Maybe another of Lindsay's “phase-changes” would have occurred, allowing Jonah to spin free again. And, had Jonah and Marylin remained a viable partnership, that might well have happened at some point.

But it hadn't. Jonah skimmed through the last few entries, avoiding her name. He didn't want to know what his father had thought of all that. Closer to the end, they alternated between verbose entries in which Lindsay agonised over some decision or other, or the briefest notes of appointments and projects. There was no mention of sabotage; WHOLE only appeared in asides. The main organisations Lindsay had been concerned with were SciCon and RAFT.

Then, on March 25, two weeks before his death, he had written: It is decided. The final experiment will begin on the 10th. Do the means justify the end? Christ, I hope so.

On the 10th itself, the only appointment listed was for 5:55 p.m. Just the time was listed, and it rang a bell. When Jonah checked with the housekeeping records, it matched the time of Lindsay's one and only known d-mat jump, to SciCon. That was the last entry.

Jonah closed the calendar. Whatever appointment Lindsay had been hurrying to make, the mysterious “final experiment,” presumably, it must have been important to force a compromise of his most deeply held beliefs. Or, alternatively, something urgent had kept him in the unit, making him late for the appointment and requiring a d-mat journey to make it in time.

The only thing left in the e-book was the unnamed file. Jonah tapped the icon with his fingertip, and it opened, revealing a handful of lines of text.

Jonah,

I'll be brief. By the time you read this, I will be dead. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can say to ease you through this difficult time, except to apologise for any pain I might inadvertently have caused you, now and throughout your life. You never knew, if I could help it, how much you meant to me. It may please you to know that the uncertainty was mutual.

Your father,
Lindsay

P.S. Do not grieve for me. The only consolation I can offer with a clear conscience will sound naive, but it's the best I have. If you can believe that I am now in a better place, it will help.

Jonah winced at the postscript. A “better place”? He refused to accept such a possibility. The hope of an afterlife was for fools: for fools who didn't have the intelligence or the courage to accept the truth of mortality; for fools who wasted opportunities in this world in the hope of an easy life in the next; for fools like his father who should have known better. Or, rather, for the fool who had once been Jonah's father. The man himself was now nothing but dust and ashes circulating endlessly through the biosphere.

“Ready to take a trip?”

He looked up at Marylin. She was standing in the doorway, her expression bleak. Only then did he realise that he was crying. She didn't seem to notice either.

“What?”

“They've located the latest body. You must've guessed that.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Where?”

“Quebec.”

“Quebec? But—”

“Wait. It gets even more interesting.” She moved closer. The look in her eyes became one of accusation. “It landed in WHOLE headquarters. That was Karoly Mancheff himself who called. He asked for you specifically. He says you told him something like this would happen, one day. He wants to know what you expect him to do about it now that it has.”

Jonah sank back into the seat. “I—honestly—have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I didn't think you would.” She leaned closer. “That's why we're going to look at the body ourselves, and talk to him at the same time.”

“‘We’?”

“You and me. Now.”

“You and me, and—?”

“No, that's it. We can take a full team into Quebec, but they won't let anyone else but us two into WHOLE HQ. They'll give us the body then.”

“But—”

“Don't stall, Jonah, if that's what you're doing. If there's something I should know, tell me now, or just get on your feet and moving. We don't have time to screw around. There's a plane leaving for Montreal in an hour and a half, and we have to be on it.”

The urgency in her voice broke through his sense of shock. Quebec's decision to forbid the use of d-mat as a means of human transport dramatically complicated the issue of viewing the disposal site. They would have to travel to the interchange on the border then fly into the country. From there, it would be car all the way. What should have taken half an hour suddenly became a day trip or more. And if WHOLE didn't have a large refrigeration capacity in their mysterious headquarters…

He rose awkwardly to his feet and took the first step.

While Jonah changed out of the hospital gown and into clothes more suited to travel, Marylin finalised their itinerary. They would d-mat directly to Ottawa, on the border of the United States and Quebec, where five members of the MIU away team would meet them. Whitesmith would be one of them. The party would also include four field agents who would act as liaisons between the away team and the locals. Marylin had requested that Jason Fassini be one of these. The moment Jonah was ready, she would bundle him into the unit's booth then head down the hill for the public enclosure to make her own journey. If Fassini wasn't there, she could safely assume that he was on his way, depending on whether he had been selected.

Once the eleven-strong team was assembled in Ottawa, it would fly by commercial jet to Montreal, then drive in hired vehicles out of the city. They had been instructed to head northeast towards Quebec City. At some point they would be “contacted,” as Mancheff put it.

She despised the deliberately inspired sense of foreboding in such a comment, and its vagueness. Whatever Mancheff had in mind, she doubted it would be in complete accord with the MIU's plans.

Her mind repeatedly flashed back to the conversation she had just had with the leader of WHOLE. The initial call had come from Whitesmith, with both Verstegen and Trevaskis in the wings. Trevaskis' mood had been poor, his contributions brief and to the point. Verstegen, on the other hand, had been expansive, offering suggestions and advice whether they were wanted or not. The difference in mood precisely matched the current ascendancies of the two directors. Verstegen had little to worry about in his position of Director of Information Security for all of KTI. Trevaskis, on the other hand, as head of an as-yet-unproven investigative branch funded by the same company, had hardly helped his position in the previous few days.

Then Mancheff himself had been patched in, speaking slowly through the clipped ambience of heavy cipher. His image was in black and white only, and jerky, due to either poor equipment at his end or continued congestion in the Pool. A swarthy yet charismatic man with thinning grey hair, he looked more like a genial uncle than someone wanted on several dozen counts of sabotage and terrorism. His accent was a thick French-Canadian, although his English was good.

“Why don't you tell us again, from the beginning, what happened?” Trevaskis had said.

“Why should I? You have it on file. Besides, I'm not saying another word until I know who I'm talking to.”

Trevaskis did the rounds, introducing Verstegen first of all. Whitesmith he must have spoken to before. When it came to Marylin, Mancheff raised an eyebrow.

“Blaylock, hein?” His manner was disconcertingly casual. “You knew Lindsay Carlaw's son. Worked with him, is that right?”

“Yes,” she said as evenly as she could.

“Why isn't he part of this?”

“He doesn't work for the MIU.”

“But he's involved. He must be. He warned me something like this might happen.”

“What do you mean by that?” Whitesmith asked, his image leaning forward in its window.

“If you don't know, I see no reason to illuminate you. Ask him yourself.”

“We will,” Verstegen assured him, breaking in. “But first we have something more important to discuss, no?”

“We do,” Mancheff agreed. “You want the body. I want it taken away. The odds are good we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“Good. Now, I—”

“Not so fast. That's not all I want. I want to know what it's doing here in the first place.”

“That makes five of us.” Verstegen smiled thinly. “I didn't think you were supposed to have d-mat facilities.”

Mancheff winked, unfazed by Verstegen's attempt to shift suspicion onto him. “Aie, you would think that, but we're practical. Believe me when I say it's only with the utmost reluctance that I allow d-mat to be used for freight, as permitted by Quebecois law. Strictly freight only, I assure you. So imagine my surprise when I opened it up an hour ago and found a body in it. It's still warm, by the way.”

Marylin didn't want to know how he could be certain of that. “Why don't you just d-mat it here?” she asked.

“And have you trace the transmission? I'm not stupid. If you don't already know where it is, I'd like to keep it that way.”

“So you want us to travel all the way there to pick it up?”

“That depends. Do you want it badly enough to do that?” Mancheff watched their expressions. “Of course you do. It isn't going anywhere on its own, I can assure you of that.”

“No one must touch it,” Trevaskis said. “The site should be preserved as much as possible.”

“Ouais, yes. I'm not a moron either. Everything has been recorded for posterity.”

“Couldn't you at least send us that information?”

“I prefer to let you sweat.” His grin was triumphant. No doubt he enjoyed holding the MIU to ransom. If he only knew, Marylin thought, exactly what he'd stumbled across—or what had stepped on him.

“How do we know you're telling the truth?” she asked.

Mancheff acknowledged the point with a nod and assumed a more businesslike expression. “Fair question. Let me ask you one in return. Why would I lie? Bad enough to be reporting a mysterious body in a d-mat booth I'm not supposed to have. Even worse if I'm making it up, especially when you're so interested. I don't want to incriminate myself, or my people.” He shrugged lightly, as though the thought of being “incriminated” didn't really bother him. “We can probably use the body to our advantage, wherever it came from, but the damage could bounce back on us all too easily. I prefer to hand it in and be done with it, once and for all. If anything in life can be that simple.”

Marylin found herself warming to his prickly pragmatism. “Where is it, exactly?”

“Our head office. I can’t tell you where that is, obviously, but I will direct you to a point from which you can be taken the rest of the way. Not too many of you. Unarmed, of course. I don't want any tricky business.”

“How many, exactly?”

“Two.” The smile returned. “Jonah McEwen, and—let's see. How about you, Officer Blaylock?”

Her stomach sank, but she didn't let it show in her voice. “Why me? And why Jonah, for that matter?”

“Well, I've met McEwen, and I knew his father. We can catch up on old times. Maybe he can tell me what the hell is going on. And you—you look like you need a holiday.”

Mancheff's smile, then, had a nasty edge.

“We'll need more than that to conduct a proper investigation,” Whitesmith interjected.

“I understand. Bring as many as you think you might need. We won't let them in, but they won't be far away when we let the others out.”

“You make us sound like hostages,” Marylin said.

“Unintentionally, I assure you.”

“You want us to trust you?”

“Yes.”

“With what guarantee?” She met his gaze squarely. “You're asking me to put my life on the line. I need more than your word to do that.”

“You will not be harmed. Our fight is not with you, but with the people who pay your wages.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really. I'll remember that next time I go to use a booth and it's software has been vandalised by one of your viruses.”

“Ouf. Very well. I will allow you to bear arms, but that is all. I will concede nothing else.”

He folded his arms and leaned back in the shot.

Marylin allowed herself a slight feeling of satisfaction. It wasn't much of a concession, but it was better than nothing.

“Give us sixty seconds to talk about it,” Whitesmith said. “Can we call you back?”

Mancheff didn't even dignify the suggestion with a verbal response. The window containing his face closed, and Marylin was left facing Whitesmith, Trevaskis and Verstegen.

“My feeling is that we should do it,” said KTI's Director of Information Security.

“For once we agree,” said Trevaskis. “It'll be worth it just to get someone inside WHOLE.”

“Marylin?”

“Odi, you know better than anyone that I'll do what I'm told,” she said, unwilling to commit herself either way with such an audience watching.

“I think it's a big risk,” he said, echoing her private thoughts. “It'll just be the two of you in there, and McEwen might not be much help.”

“Or worse,” she said. “He's working with us now, but that mightn't last long, depending on what he learns in Quebec. Likewise, I might not want to work with him.”

“He is—or was—involved in this,” Trevaskis said. “Mancheff seems to have confirmed that. We need to follow that lead more than that of the body itself.”

“Again we agree,” said Verstegen, his blond fringe wafting like a falling handkerchief in the low gravity of Artsutanov Station. “Yes. What we stand to gain surely outweighs any risk we have to take.”

Easy for you to say, she thought to herself.

“Will Jonah agree?” Whitesmith asked.

“I think so,” she said. “He's as curious as we are.”

“He still has memory loss?” Trevaskis asked.

“Mostly.” She didn't want to say too much without concrete evidence to back her up. “We're making some progress.”

A red light began to flash in the display.

“That's him,” said Verstegen. “Are we decided?”

“What about the source of his call?” Marylin asked before she lost the chance. “Have we traced him?”

“We can't,” Whitesmith said. “It's coming from an anonymous outlet.”

“So we don't even know roughly where this ‘head office’ is?”

“No.”

She shrugged. “Guess I didn't have much choice anyway.”

Whitesmith nodded. “Guess not.”

Mancheff reappeared. “Well?”

“We'll agree to your terms, if you agree to ours,” Whitesmith said. “I want a fully equipped skeleton crew on hand to cover contingencies. Without knowing what sort of condition the body is in—”

“Messy,” said Mancheff with a grimace.

“—we don't even know what equipment to bring. I'm not sending any of my officers in without some sort of backup.”

“Understood.” Mancheff studied the faces before him with the sharp eye of a determined negotiator. “But only those two—Blaylock and McEwen—come all the way to head office.”

Whitesmith paused for a split-second to allow anyone to disagree. “Okay.”

“D'ac. We have a deal, at least in principle,” Mancheff had said with a satisfied look that, no matter how often Marylin analysed it, she still could not interpret as being overtly malignant. Despite the long-standing antagonism between WHOLE and KTI, she had a feeling that she could trust this man when he said he meant them no harm. “Now, let's look at the details of how to get you here…”

Marylin jumped when Jonah emerged from the bedroom, so deeply immersed was she in her thoughts. A sudden sense of dislocation rushed through her when she saw what he was wearing.

“It hangs a little loose, now,” he said, fingering the lapels of the interactive coat she'd bought him on a whim four years ago. This was the first time she'd seen him wear it. Deactivated, the fabric looked like nothing more remarkable than cotton dyed dark grey with a slightly metallic tinge.

“Don't you have anything else?” she asked. Underneath he was wearing jeans, pullover, sneakers, the first things to hand.

“It's going to be chilly at night, even this time of year, and—” He hesitated. “Memories.”

She couldn't tell if he was trying to avoid them or provoke them. “Whatever. Have you packed what you need?”

“It's on the bed. You'll have to carry it. I can't do that and walk, yet.”

She retrieved the overnight bag from his room and took it through the unit to the d-mat booth. He followed at a much slower pace, using a hand to steady himself on walls, the backs of chairs and bookcases. His face was pale, and she belatedly remembered that he had had hardly any time to rest since awakening from the d-med procedure.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Less than average, I'll admit,” he said, “but I'll manage. You?”

She ignored the question. Putting the bag in the booth, she gestured for him to enter. “Someone will be waiting for you at the other end. I'll put in a request for a chair. There'll be some walking to do before we get on the plane, and I don't want you holding us up.”

“Understandable.” He passed her on the way through the open door of the booth. With one leg still outside, he stopped. “Did Mancheff say anything about Lindsay?”

“No.”

He nodded and drew the leg in after him. She let the door shut. With a click, it sealed vacuum-tight. A low hum indicated that it had begun powering-up. She stepped away and went about the business of following him.

For the second time in twelve hours, Jonah was greeted at the terminus of a d-mat journey by Jason Fassini. The smiling agent helped him out of the booth and into a waiting manual wheelchair. When he was seated, he had resources to spare to observe the environment around him. He was in a busy, windowless area that resembled an airport terminal. People with baggage walked by, sat in plastic armchairs or leaned against walls. The air was cold and overly air-conditioned. Under a constant babble of voices, each speaking in a different accent, it seemed, he could hear cyberjazz—produced by the sort of muzak AI that either never played the same tune twice or never played a single tune once, depending on one's definition of what constituted a tune.

“Salut.” Fassini seemed as affable as ever. “Did Marylin have time to fill you in on what's happening?”

“Not really. She was in a rush to get moving.”

“Typical. We're in Ottawa. Odi Whitesmith's with the rest of the eye-tees over there while us plebs deal with the baggage.” He grinned. “No offence meant.”

“Eye-tees?”

“Ivory towers. An affectionate term for those who perform less groundwork—and more shitwork—than others. Me, I like to stay this side of orbit. Avoid the papertrap.” The agent pulled Jonah's bag out of the booth and put it on his lap. “Your argot's a bit behind. We'll have to work on that.”

“Pososi moyu konfetku.”

“Not bad.” Fassini's grin widened. “Full marks for attitude, anyway.”

The agent wheeled him to where Whitesmith stood with two other MIU officers, both female and wearing bulky, armoured uniforms. Ten sealed, matte-grey cases rested nearby. Two men and a woman standing on the far side of the room were plain-clothes agents like Fassini, Jonah guessed, possibly locals keeping their distance to act as backups in case of trouble. Not counting Marylin, who was presumably on her way, that left two more MIU officers to come.

Local time was six o'clock in the evening. It felt much later. He was tired, and surprised himself by not feeling hungry at all. The nanomachines at work, he supposed.

“Aren't we supposed to catch a flight?”

“Patience, friend.” Fassini patted him on the shoulder. “When we're all here.”

Whitesmith noticed them, nodded, but continued his conversation with the two officers. Jonah watched him closely. He seemed tired, too. His stubble and hair were both much thicker than before. Given the robustness of most grooming agents, it must have been some time since he had applied nanofood to his skin.

Jonah ran a hand across his own scalp and was surprised by the rasp he felt there. He probably looked no better than Whitesmith. The brief glimpse he'd had in a mirror while getting changed had confirmed that he was still much thinner than usual, but at least parts of him were growing back to normality.

Whitesmith finally broke away from the two officers and walked over. “Hello, Jason. McEwen, give me your left hand.”

He obeyed the request. Whitesmith turned it palm-up and pressed something against his skin. He felt a slight sting, and tugged it back automatically. Whitesmith half-smiled.

“Sorry.”

Jonah examined the skin of his palm but could see only a slightly darker patch of skin, a freckle that hadn't been there before. “A breeder, I presume?”

“ID, in case you're questioned. The hologram will appear in about forty-five minutes.”

“Reversible?”

“Better than that. It'll decay within twenty-four hours.” Whitesmith waited for a second, then went on. “You have a temporary rank of Special Agent.”

“Will I be armed?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so.” Jonah clenched a fist around the brewing nest of nanomachines. “Unarmed and unarmoured. The rank is supposed to make me feel better about myself as they gun me down, right?”

“If it'll help, yes. Otherwise, don't use it. You only have it to get through customs—and to convince WHOLE you're one of us.”

“You'll have to convince me of that, first,” Jonah muttered.

“Just remember that we'll be behind you when you go in, and we'll be waiting for you when you come out. Any fucking around and it's us you'll have to deal with in the end.”

Jonah said nothing. Whitesmith's heavy-handed approach exhausted him. Although he expected that of a C-1 Detective, it rubbed him the wrong way.

Perhaps sensing his irritation, Fassini stepped in to ask, “How long until the others get here?”

“Any moment now.” Whitesmith turned to face the field agent, but his eyes returned frequently to Jonah. “Marylin is running a few minutes behind. We'll meet her at the plane.”

“What's Quebec like for communications these days?” Jonah asked. “Last I remember there was an embargo on Pool and satellite traffic.”

“It's still in place,” Whitesmith said. “There's a high-altitude balloon grid we can use if we can't make a direct link. There are also a number of ground-based networks we can patch into manually—mobile phones, landlines and so on. It's not completely isolated.”

“Not for us, anyway,” Fassini put in.

Whitesmith cast him a sharp look and went back to his fellow officers.

“What do you mean?” Jonah asked.

Fassini shrugged. “The embargo works both ways, now. First they didn't want out, and now they can't get out. It's messier than anyone here will tell you. I hear stories of kids learning from DVDs because they can't get decent AI tutoring. Futz, some of them are still using Encarta! KTI don't like people to know how much the embargo has already cost Quebec because anyone with half a brain knows it's only going to get worse.”

Jonah absorbed this in silence. The breakaway of Quebec from Canada had insulated the former from the United States early in the twenty-first century, lending it some initial protection from the collapse of the entire North American economy. The subsequent, if short-lived, rise of the expansionist US New Right as it swallowed its parent country, had also bypassed Quebec, primarily because of threats from France, a supporter of both the fascist ideals of US President Emes and Quebec.

Following the Slow War—ten years of persistent IT/guerilla resistance, culminating in the relatively smooth ousting of the technophobic Emesian government—Quebec had found itself alone against a United States that comprised by far the greater portion of the North American continent. Not even after Texas was permitted a partial secession from the Union did Quebec consider relaxing. From the long years prior to independence, through to the decade or more spent facing an insurmountable enemy that virtually ignored its existence, it had grown stubbornly insular and defensive. And that, more than anything, accounted for its irrationally persistent refusal to accept the new technology that had already overtaken the world.

Once, Jonah had admired the determination of the Quebec nation for refusing to tolerate a technological advance it deemed morally unacceptable—even though he couldn't accept their reasoning. But now, if what Fassini said was true, the country was even more isolated than it had been at any other point in its history. It was now an island of horse-drawn carriage owners surrounded by a sea of automobiles. The economic upturn taking place around Quebec had bypassed it completely. There was no way to compete—economically, rationally, or even morally—nor to justify the actions of a relative minority that wielded power under the banner of national identity. Not when the Quebec people were suffering. It was stupid to keep fighting.

The interchange booths nearby, nearly fifty in all, turned over at a constant rate. Jonah watched as a parent coerced their young child into a booth, despite its strongly voiced disinclination. As the door shut on the booth, the child's tearful face was clearly visible, looking afraid of being abandoned.

Eventually, the two MIU officers arrived, one after the other, and Whitesmith began handing out cases to be carried. Fassini remained in charge of Jonah and the wheelchair. That, plus Marylin's lateness, meant that two cases remained unclaimed. Whitesmith picked up one of them with a grunt. The last was shouldered by one of the local field agents.

They headed off along a downward-sloping corridor, moving deeper into the mass-transport complex. The Ottawa interchange existed not so much to regulate movement across the international borders of the United States, but to monitor traffic, and even then GLITCH did most of the work. There were no security checks within the giant terminal and few live guards. They passed cafes, newsagents, Pool access-points, CRE and VTC suites, and it seemed that everybody was taking advantage of the break in their journey to use the facilities. Visitors with money were welcome in every port of the United States of America.

Since the complex also doubled as an airport, flight schedules were updated by local information channels. Jonah used his overseer to tune into one of these, and discovered that the only commercial flights were to neighbouring Quebec. Even these were few and far between, given that Quebec was only a river's width away. The rust-belt of Hull, at one time half of the Canadian National Capital Region, had been cut off during the violent clashes of the 2008 Secession, but the people who lived there received regular deliveries of goods and people via barges and ferries. No one had put forward any plans to rebuild the bridges, and Jonah guessed that while the current embargo lasted it wasn't terribly likely.

Their plane, a subsonic 200-seat jet, had already landed at a nearby concourse and was ready to board. The plane was due to leave in ten minutes and Jonah could feel tension radiating from the agents and officers around him. He wondered how long it had been since any of them had last been on a plane. Air travel was much riskier than d-mat, even taking the Twinmaker into account. If something were to go wrong in midair, it would be disastrous. Jonah didn't want to contemplate the possibility of sabotage, or even to think much further ahead, to what might be waiting for them when they landed. Stewards were ready for them when they reached the concourse. He was helped out of the wheelchair and into a window seat via the plane's rear entrance, where the MIU had booked the back five rows. The remaining space in the plane was only half-full.

Fassini sat next to him. The aisle seat was left empty but for one of the grey cases. The rest of the agents scattered themselves across the five rows, eerily silent for such a large group of people. When he checked the public bands, he heard nothing. No doubt they were communicating by prevocals on a private channel; Fassini was staring straight ahead, his eyes focussed in the middle distance. Jonah's own overseer remained steadfastly silent.

“QUALIA? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Jonah, for now,” replied the AI. “Communications between ground and orbit will be limited once the plane is ready to depart. Consequently there will not be a channel available for us to converse.”

I'm being locked out, he thought. Fuck them. “I need some info before we leave, then. We've been assuming that the Twinmaker kidnaps his victims at the time of departure, but that needn't necessarily be so. What if he's cutting into the network at a later point, where security isn't so tight? If we could plug that gap, we'd stop the murders.”

“I have investigated many such avenues, Jonah. All are sealed.”

“Still, it wouldn't hurt to look. At least let me follow in your footsteps.” According to the information channel, the plane had been delayed and wasn't due to leave for another fifteen minutes, presumably to give Marylin enough time to join them. That gave him a little while to rest and to think. “I'll admit to being curious, too,” he went on. “It's something I've never had a chance to look at closely before.”

“Of course. I'm downloading the relevant data to you now.”

“Thanks.”

He settled back into the seat while the download progressed, and closed his eyes. The smell of synthetic cushions and plastic brought back memories of Lindsay, which he firmly suppressed. He had his father's diary in his jacket pocket, but didn't want to know what his younger self might have revealed in an earlier plane flight.

How much had he, unintentionally, contributed to Lindsay's work? He would probably never know. But the thought that some aspects of him might have been incorporated into the design for QUIDDITY, and, therefore, QUALIA, was a disconcerting one. He had never had a sibling before, and he was pretty sure this would be the worst time to go looking for one…

He opened his eyes ninety minutes later with a vague memory of noise, movement, and, on the fringes of consciousness, a dream about drowning in quicksand. The plane was taxiing, and for a moment he was convinced he had dropped off for only a second or two. When he tried to move and provoked a dozen twinges from stiff muscles, he realised the truth.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Fassini, nudging his elbow.

“Huh?” Jonah shook his head. “I didn't mean to fall asleep.”

“Well, you didn't miss much, believe me. I remember now why we stopped using these things. Travelling is such a waste of time. In a civilised country, we could've been there hours ago.”

Jonah didn't want to be drawn into an argument. He sat upright in the seat and straightened his clothes. The palm of his left hand was stiff where the EJC hologram had finished growing. His mouth was dry and he felt flushed. His overseer contained a detailed flow-chart that represented a d-mat user's path from transmission to reception booths. He glanced at it long enough to realise how complicated it was, then dropped it into a corner for later inspection. They would shortly be driving an unknown distance into Quebec; maybe then there would be time for him to examine the information QUALIA had given him.

The plane came to a halt, and ramps were locked in place. The MIU contingent was allowed off first, this time by the front exit. Jonah limped as best he could along the crowded aisle, with Fassini's hand ready to support him if he stumbled. He was halfway along before realising that he hadn't seen Marylin yet.

The wheelchair was waiting for him in the corridor. He slumped gratefully into it and let himself be pushed up the gentle slope into the airport. Small windows allowed him brief glimpses of the outside world—his first sight of Quebec. It was early evening under a clear sky. At this latitude, despite being the middle of summer, the night would be cool.

They entered the concourse. He directed his attention forward and finally found Marylin. She was standing near Whitesmith, her black and grey uniform matching those of her superior and the other officers nearby. A large pistol, holstered, hung at her side. Her head, the only part of her directly visible, was bare. She was looking at him.

One of the local field agents was talking loudly in French to an official. The official looked apologetic but adamant.

“What's the problem?” Jonah asked.

“Red tape,” said Fassini from behind him. “They don't adhere to EJC freedom-of-movement guidelines and want us to go through customs. Under normal circumstances that would be fine, but we have a special exemption because we're in a hurry. We should be able to walk through. There are cars waiting.”

Jonah looked for a water fountain and found one on a nearby wall. “I need a drink,” he said. “Do we have time?”

“Of course.” Fassini moved him closer. “We can probably swing a toilet stop if you need that as well.”

“No, I'm fine.” He drank thirstily, wincing at the water's bitter, metallic taste. His lack of hunger surprised him. Just how thoroughly had KTI riddled him with nanos? Agents designed to break down waste and return it to his digestive tract could have accounted for his seemingly halted metabolism, but that seemed unnecessarily indulgent.

When he was done, Fassini wheeled him back. The argument had been settled. The official waited for everyone to gather their bags then led them down a long, wide corridor. The airport was busier than Jonah had expected—as busy as Ottawa, despite the lack of d-mat booths. He felt as though he had been transplanted into a parallel universe, one that he knew was fundamentally different to his own yet seemed identical. The view through the window could have been of anywhere on Earth.

They passed through a security checkpoint before being allowed into the airport's main foyer. Blue-uniformed guards kept a close eye on them as they lugged their grey cases through the checkpoint with the official beside them guaranteeing passage. Jonah's new ID was examined along with the others, and passed inspection. Within minutes, they were through.

Three unmarked vehicles awaited them outside: one grey van and two white four-seaters. Most of the cases went into the van, along with Whitesmith and two of the MIU officers. Marylin, Fassini, Jonah and a local field agent bundled into one car, while the remainder took the other. Without a word spoken aloud, Marylin tapped a destination into the dash, then turned the seat around to face the back. The wheelchair had folded into the spacious trunk, along with her case and his hand luggage. The four of them watched each other in silence as the car moved away, the second in the convoy, tailed closely by the van.

Still conscious of being excluded, Jonah caught the eye of the plain-clothes field agent and held out his hand. “Jonah McEwen.”

“I know. Lon Kellow.” The agent's handclasp was polite but brief, just like his smile. Square-jawed and solidly built, he looked the part of an EJC agent. A bland accent left his origins a mystery.

“You're from Ottawa?”

“Toronto.”

“Ever hear of someone called Villette van Mierlo?”

“No.” The agent's eyes glanced uncertainly at him, then away, as though he wasn't supposed to be talking.

Jonah gave up. “Does anyone intend to tell me where we're going?”

Marylin looked at him. “Northeast. That's where we were instructed to head.”

“I don't suppose you know how long—?”

“No.” Her face was wooden, tense. “If you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Her gaze drifted away, and Jonah let her go. No doubt she would be in constant, close contact with the others around her, waiting for some sign from WHOLE. He wondered how long they would wait before such a sign came, whether they would drive all night if they had to.

The convoy swung onto a four-lane freeway and merged into a thick stream of traffic. Night was falling rapidly, but electric lights burned away the stars. All he could see were cars, buses and trucks; thousands of them surrounding him, reminding him—with more than a hint of irony—of his earlier thought about Quebec being a nation surrounded by cars. It was more the other way around. He could smell and hear them even within the airtight confines of his car, but he couldn't see the faces of the people who drove them. They might have been nonexistent, the mirrored, depersonalised windows hiding nothing but empty interiors.

The rest of the world had left such scenes behind when it had embraced d-mat ten years earlier. It was slightly shocking to be reminded firsthand of what things had been like, before.

Either that or the movement of the car beneath him made him feel nauseous. He let the seat embrace him, but knew that he would be unable to sleep this time. Calling up the flowchart, he began to trace the path of data through the KTI network.

The d-mat process, at its most simple, followed three stages: analysis, transmission, and synthesis. Both analysis and synthesis took place within booths, and involved sophisticated technologies about which Jonah knew little. It was enough for him to know that analysis started with an object to be transmitted and resulted in nothing, whereas synthesis worked the other way around. The transmission phase in between was more familiar territory, involving multiple redundancy, security checks, complicated compression techniques and smoothing functions. The last were sometimes referred to as “fudge factors,” and were one of the numerous reasons why WHOLE and the Quebec government disapproved of the d-mat process. Fudge factors allowed the synthesis algorithms to assume a certain number of givens about a human form, provided the initial analysis had revealed no great deviations from the norm. KTI insisted that they did not allow smoothing functions to alter an individual in any perceptible way, but WHOLE feared that people who used d-mat regularly might risk becoming smoothed themselves, that multiple fudging would result in gross discrepancies from the original. They called this “The Chinese Whisper Syndrome” despite the fact that, to Jonah's knowledge, no one had ever been found who had been disadvantaged by it.

The transmission path was tortuous, especially when it left the KTI network and entered the Pool. The mass of data representing the d-matting object was broken down into packets that were sent individually through the network of supercomputers. Here was where delays often occurred, for although analysis and synthesis were processes controlled to the femtosecond by KTI's AIs, the Pool, much like the Internet that had preceded it, was an anarchic web that had tendrils beyond the planet. Packets could be delayed, lost or even destroyed between one point and another; too many such failures could result in the process being aborted entirely, although usually a simple repeat of after segments of the data was all that was required. Ten percent of all transmissions required a request for such repeats, and each request added several minutes onto the total d-mat transmission time. Only one in ninety thousand was aborted and begun all over again.

On an obscure branch of the transmission tree, Jonah found a data feed that seemed to lead nowhere. He followed the schematic diagram through several times, making certain he hadn't missed any termini or junctures. He ended up where he had started, with a bleed from the transmission line that led away from the terminus of the jump. Where, though, he couldn't tell. All there was at the end of that line was an arrow containing the letters “LSM” in bold print.

“QUALIA?”

He waited for a moment, but the AI didn't reply. Communication with the outside world was obviously more difficult than Whitesmith had expected.

“Does anyone know what LSM stands for?” he asked aloud.

Even to himself his voice seemed to boom. The cab was in complete darkness, lit only by the headlights of vehicles around them. The traffic had thinned, as had the suburbs. No one had spoken for at least half an hour.

Fassini stirred, distracted, beside him. “No. Should I?”

“It'd help.”

“Sorry.” Fassini's teeth glinted in the variable light but his eyes remained in shadow.

“Then how about answering another question.” He leaned forward in his seat. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

Fassini shook his head as though coming out of a dream. “What?”

“What's the point of me being involved in this little day trip if no one's going to tell me what's happening?” He wanted to get angry, but he held the urge tightly in check—as tight as the muscles in his jaw and throat. “And what's the point of trying to investigate if anything I say is just ignored?”

“Jonah, look—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You're off your turf and you have to be extra careful. But, jesus, at least give me something to do. I'm going out of my mind just sitting here!”

Marylin stirred. “What's going on?”

“Ah, it speaks,” Jonah said, through gritted teeth.

“Can this wait? We don't have time right now.”

“We have too much time. That's the problem.”

“Believe me, it isn't.”

“Then tell me what you're doing. I thought I was part of this. Don't cut me out now, just when it's getting interesting.”

Marylin and Fassini exchanged glances.

“QUALIA's off-air—” the agent began.

“Don't I know it.”

“—and the raw satellite images we're downloading suggest that we have a tail.”

Jonah blinked; that was interesting. “What sort of tail?”

“Three medium-sized cars, possibly vans; one ahead of us, two behind. They've kept with us since we left the airport. Now we're leaving the city the chances of it being a coincidence are minimal.”

Jonah nodded. Suddenly he felt bad for bothering them. But he wasn't going to apologise. “Cut me into your channel. I want to watch.”

“You don't have the MIU encryption software.”

“So what happens if you need to talk to me?”

“Then we'll call you direct.” Fassini leaned forward and his face slid into view. “I'm sorry, Jonah. Bear with us. You never know; it might not be for much longer.”

Jonah grunted and fell back into his seat. “I'm not sure what's worse: doing nothing when there's nothing to do or when there's nothing I can do.”

Fassini smiled. “Exactly.”

Before Jonah could reply, something in the front of the car went bang and he was thrown forward onto the floor.

The babble in Marylin's head was continuous and urgent in tone.

“We've got a visual fix on the brown van.”

“ID?”

“Lines to ACOC still down.”

“Down or scrambled?”

“Impossible to tell with this equipment.”

“Fuck ‘impossible.’ Find a way.”

“Odi,” she broke in, “we've got a problem with Jonah.”

“Fuck him too. What now?”

“He's restless. Can we give him a passive feed?”

“Do what you want. Just don't let him get in the way.”

Before Marylin could enable the feed, there was an explosion behind her and half the voices in her head were silenced in a howl of static. The car lurched. She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of something white scraping down her side of the car. The navigation AI screamed collision-avoidance jargon at her overseer. She flinched as momentum pulled Fassini towards her. He caught himself in time on a handle.

Jonah wasn't so lucky. He slid off the seat and into Lon Kellow's legs.

“Pic!” Fassini gasped as the car shuddered, steadied, and continued along its way.

Whitesmith was shouting at her, asking if she was okay. At first she wasn't sure, and wouldn't be until she had worked out what had happened. Half the lines were still dead, but the burst of static she'd heard was gone. The car still seemed to be running. She looked over her shoulder. The bonnet was newly dented. The sound she'd heard hadn't been an explosion, she realised, but an impact. More tellingly, the leading car was gone.

“What the—?”

“Hang on,” she said to Jonah's spoken question. She gave him what he wanted: enabled the feed to his overseer to avoid having to repeat everything. “Odi, we're battered but fine. You?”

“AOK. The wreck missed us, luckily. It looked like you copped a hefty whack.”

“The car's damaged, but the engine's fine. What happened?”

“I don't know yet. We've lost contact with the others.”

“Likewise. What do we do now?”

“We can't stop. I've notified local Law Enforcement. The LEOs'll see what happened, look after any injured. We have to keep moving, get our speed up, try to break away from our shadows.”

“They're still with us?”

“Yes. I'm taking the van on solo for the time being. Maybe—”

There was another burst of static.

“Odi!” Through the rear window she saw the van slew across lanes of traffic. It dropped behind too rapidly for her to tell what happened to it.

“Shit.” She patched into the car's navigator to request an immediate acceleration to twenty kilometres an hour above the freeway speed limit.

“This is an emergency?” the car asked her.

“Yes, dammit.”

“At this speed, it is advised that you and your company don safety harnesses.”

“We're aware of the risks. Just do as I ask—now!”

The engine surged. She reached for the harness that had slid out of a niche behind her seat. The car changed lanes to overtake a taxi in their path. The voices in her head were silent apart from those belonging to the people in the car with her.

“The shadows are accelerating with us,” Kellow said.

“Maybe we should go faster,” Fassini suggested.

“No,” said Jonah. “They'd be expecting that. At least one of their vehicles will be capable of outrunning us.”

“Then, what?”

“We have to out-think them.” Jonah tilted his head as though a thought had struck him. “Or not.”

Before Marylin could ask him what he meant, another voice intruded:

“Marylin?” The voice was fuzzy, barely audible.

“Odi? Is that you?”

“Only just. We were hit from behind by an EMP ram. Killed the engine, the navigator, the lot. The car's dead, although the interior's shielded, thank god. I'm wet-wiring, using the chassis as an antenna.”

“What—”

“Be ready. It'll be you next.”

“Keep your hands away from anything metal,” she said to the others in the car. The thought of thousands of watts of pulsing microwaves surging through their implants made her stomach turn. “Odi—”

“The tails are moving again,” Fassini interrupted her. “One of the ones behind us is coming closer.”

“Car? Take us up another fifteen klicks.”

“Marylin—”

“Not now, Jonah.” She dug the fingertips of both hands into her scalp, trying to think.

“It's only us they want,” he persisted. “We should stop the car before they stop it for us. Before someone gets hurt.”

She looked up at him. It went against all her instincts to give in. But he was making sense. Trying to outrun the people they were intending to contact was counterproductive; better to meet them on her own terms, at her own instigation.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a brown, windowless van edge up alongside them.

“Car? Pull over.”

“You wish to stop?”

“Yes. I don't care where. Just make it somewhere safe, and soon.”

Jonah nodded but said nothing as the car began to decelerate. His expression was uncertain.

“Lon,” she said, “give Jonah your weapon.”

The field agent looked startled. “What? But—”

“Just do it.”

The car moved to an inner lane, its speed dropping rapidly. Kellow removed his pistol from its holster and handed it to Jonah, who checked that it was fully loaded and keyed to his UGI, then stuffed it into a jacket pocket.

“Thanks,” he said, eyes darting between her and the agent. “Here's hoping I don't need it.”

The car drifted onto the shoulder, tyres crunching on loose stone. The brown van swung in behind it, keeping a safe distance away. Their speed had dropped to below twenty kilometres an hour

Then, with a bang that made her ears pop, the car's brakes locked and they began to skid.

Fassini cursed again as they all hung onto their harnesses. “They hit us anyway!”

“Just to be sure.” Jonah didn't sound surprised. “Guess they don't want anyone following them, later.”

The car slid to a juddering halt, accompanied by an almost gentle crunch. They came to rest against a guide rail, battered but none the worse for wear. For a moment, all Marylin could hear was the ticking of overstressed alloy, then, faint through the walls of the car, the roar of the van's engine as it pulled up behind them. Its headlights were dazzling. Shapes moved through the light.

“Get ready,” she said, reaching for the door handle and wrestling with the manual locks. “Here they come.”

The door was wrenched out of her hands by someone on the outside. The interior of the car was instantly invaded by cold air, traffic noise and the sound of voices. A head enclosed in a black ski mask followed.

“McEwen et Blaylock?” The voice was contralto, imperative. “Out!”

Marylin leaned forward and a gloved hand took her by the elbow, dragged her from the car. Three people dressed in black from head to foot confronted her, plus the one holding her arm. A pistol butt jabbed into the back of her neck.

“Blaylock?”

“Yes—”

“Shut up.” She was pushed forward and grabbed by one of the others.

Fassini was the next to be dragged from the car.

“McEwen?”

“No, look—”

“McEwen?”

“I'm Jonah McEwen.” Jonah's head emerged from the car. The woman holding Fassini looked between them, apparently deciding whether she was being told the truth. It took only a split-second.

The masked woman shot Fassini in the neck. The crack of the gun was loud in the night air.

Marylin gasped as the agent's body dropped to the roadside, an expression of shock still spreading across his face. She reached for her pistol, but her arms were suddenly pinned from behind. Before Jonah could retreat back into the car, he was dragged free and likewise contained.

The masked woman fired one more shot. Kellow, Marylin realised. Unarmed.

“Say nothing,” said the woman, holstering her pistol. “You have Resurrection. This is not murder.”

She spat on the body of Jason Fassini and headed back to the van.

Jonah and Marylin were dragged after her. Within seconds, the two bodies started to scream, issuing automatic Officer-Down alerts generated by the bodies' own fading chemical reserves. The eerie double-wail followed them as the back of the van was opened and they were pushed roughly inside.

“Odi? Can you hear me?” Marylin called with all the strength of her implants. “Odi!”

“Marylin!” His voice was still faint. “What's going on? Where are you?”

“They've got us!” The interior of the van was dark. She was forced onto her knees while her hands were tied and her sidearm removed. Beside her, Jonah fared only a little better. She kept a tight rein on panic. “We're in the brown van.”

“The LEOs are on their way.”

“Tell them to follow the O-D pulse. It'll lead them right to the car.”

“Christ. Who?”

“Fassini and Kellow. Odi—”

Behind her, the door of the van slammed shut.

“Odi?”

The line was dead.

“Shielded,” said Jonah, the one voice left in her head.

“Hé, Blaylock!” hissed the masked woman.

Marylin turned automatically. The woman's silhouette was only dimly visible in the gloom. The roar of the van's engine seemed to drown out everything as the butt of Marylin's own pistol struck her in the temple and she fell forward onto her face.

Pain and light woke her an unknown time later. She was lying belly-down on a vibrating surface that stank of oil. She tried to move, but her hands were still tied. Rolling onto her back made her feel like throwing up. She lay still for a moment, gasping.

“The pimbêche is awake,” said a male voice.

Someone moved closer. “Shall I—?”

“Leave her alone. You want her awake for le caïd, don't you?”

The last voice was Jonah. She opened her eyes a fraction. He was sitting on a low bench along one wall of what was obviously the interior of the van. A naked globe burned down at them from the ceiling. Two men and one woman in black, their faces still carefully masked, were in the van with them. One of the men was half-upright, leaning over her. In response to Jonah's comment, he sat back down with a shrug.

Jonah's hands were still tied. If he was giving orders it wasn't necessarily because he was working for them.

His neutral expression didn't change as he spoke to her by prevocals:

“Hello. How're you feeling?”

“Awful.” She tried to sit up and provoked another wave of sickness.

“Don't,” he said. “Just lie still and rest.”

She closed her eyes and let the world spin around her.

“How long was I out?”

“We've been driving for a couple of hours, now. I can't get GPS through the shielding, so I've no idea how far or in which direction we've come. But I think we're nearly there—wherever ‘there’; is.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because they didn't knock you out again.”

Smart-arse, she thought. “Why didn't they knock you out?”

“The lack of uniform, perhaps. Or maybe they like the jacket.”

“Maybe.” Dried blood made the skin of her forehead feel brittle. “You're sounding bright enough,” she said. “Why's that?”

“I realised something.”

“What?”

“What LSM stands for. It hit me when Fassini and Kellow were shot and whoever-she-is said something about Resurrection.”

She remembered all too well. The masked woman's brutal pragmatism had a conceptual sibling in the sadism of the Twinmaker. But that wasn't what Jonah was getting at.

“To Resurrect someone, you need access to their RLSM codes. RLSM stands for Revive Last Sustainable Model, or Revive LSM.”

“So?”

“Good question.” The corners of his lips turned down briefly. “If I'm onto something, my brain's not telling me at the moment.”

She sighed. “That's a big help.”

The pitch of the engine changed and she felt the van turn a corner. She waited to see if it would stop, but a moment later it accelerated again.

“Have they said anything?” she asked.

“In English, no, and my French is pretty appalling. I only know le caïd from living with Lindsay. It means ‘the boss.’”

“Mancheff?”

“Presumably.”

“He said he wouldn't harm us.” Even as she said that, as much to reassure herself as him, she tried to remember the WHOLE leader's exact words: You will not be harmed. Little ambiguity there. But: “He also said we could be armed.”

“And you fell for it?”

She said nothing. The image of Fassini's face as he dropped dead to the road wouldn't leave her. The sound of the gunshot seemed to echo in her memory. No matter how hard she tried to tell herself that he could be brought back to life, minus only a few hours, the fact remained that she had watched a colleague and a friend die violently. It was an experience she had never had to assimilate before. Despite many months of working in an environment in which she was constantly reminded of the possibility of her own violent death, she was surprised how deeply the murder of another could affect her.

And she had personally requested that he be in the group to go to Quebec…

“Hey. I'm sorry.” Whatever was showing on her face, Jonah's voice was genuinely contrite. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“No, it's okay.” She quickly gathered herself together. “We were cocky. We thought we could handle anything. The shock will do us wonders in the long-term.”

“And the short-term?”

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Exactly, and that's—” He stopped, seemed to reconsider, then said: “If our positions were reversed, you'd tell me to stop talking shit and say what was really on my mind.”

“I would. And you were about to say, ‘That's what you always do,’ weren't you?”

He was silent. She looked at him. The light above cast deep shadows into the lines on his long face, which was tilted forward to stare at his folded hands. The hair growing back on his scalp was gold-white in the light, and made his skin look darker, almost flushed. His eyes were invisible, but she remembered their ice-blue colour well, and the way they avoided hers whenever she succeeded in calling his bluff.

“I don't know anything about the last three years,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, obviously choosing his words with great care. “I don't know what you've been doing, how you've been feeling, where you've been going, who you've been seeing—or why—but I still know you. You haven't changed a bit. Through it all, you're the same person who walked out on me a few days ago—and I find that fact profoundly disturbing.”

He glanced up at her, and it was her turn to look away.

“I'm sorry if I disturb you,” she said.

“That's not what I said.”

“I know, but, in some ways, that might have been easier.”

If he had anything to say to that, he kept it to himself.

The van took another corner, accelerated sharply up a steep rise, then began to brake. Their captors chattered in French too fast for her to translate a single word. One of them stretched his legs and tapped her boot at the same time.

“Up,” he said. “Sit.”

“We've arrived?” she asked, raising herself carefully to an upright position.

“What do you think?” The van stopped with a jerk.

“Turn around,” said the woman, bringing a strip of black cloth out of her coat pocket and rising to loom over Marylin.

She backed away. “What's that?”

“A blindfold. Turn around!”

“No.” She kicked out as the woman grabbed at her shoulder. “Don't touch me!”

The woman backed away and produced the pistol from another pocket. With a click of annoyance she raised it and pointed it at Marylin's head.

“Go ahead and shoot.” Marylin straightened her shoulders and did her best not to look at Jonah's shocked expression. “We have Resurrection, right? See what your boss thinks of that.”

The woman's eyes were like cold, glass marbles through the ski mask. For a moment, Marylin was sure she would shoot, then the gun came down and the woman turned away.

Another high-speed burst of French followed. Someone banged on the outside of the van. The door opened and the interior light went out. In the sudden gloom, Marylin was grabbed by each arm and lifted out of the van. A bag went over her head before she realised what was happening.

“Jonah?”

“Right behind you. Oof.” There was a creak of aged suspension and a clatter of feet on concrete. The sound echoed oddly. “Rough landing.”

“You're walking?”

“Yes. Doing my best, anyway.”

“Can you see anything?”

“Looks like an aircraft hangar. We're inside. It's dark, and shielded of course. They wouldn't want us calling for help or being traced here.”

“People?”

“Fifteen, including the ones from the van. Some aren't masked, which is sloppy. Haven't seen Mancheff yet. Hang on.” He was silent for a second, while she fumed to herself. “There's an enclosed structure down one end of the hangar. Looks like a big freezer or demountable home. That's where they're taking us.”

“Exit?”

“Somewhere behind us, I assume. If you're thinking about escape—”

Muted voices interrupted him. “What? Who's there?”

“Here he comes.”

The voices came from ahead, inasmuch as she could tell through the bag. They grew louder until she could pick one standing out from the others: the lush baritone of Karoly Mancheff. When he switched from French to English it was like hearing an antique fossil-fuel Porsche change gears.

“Officer Blaylock, Jonah McEwen. Bring them through, this way.” Doors opened ahead of them. She felt herself being taken along a corridor and into a more enclosed, but still large, space. “In here. Yes, thank you. Sit.”

She was forced into a chair. Jonah landed heavily next to her. Something cold and hard slipped between her wrists and cut her bindings. An instant later, the bag was pulled off her head and she could see again. She rubbed her forearms and looked around.

The first thing she noticed was Mancheff himself. He was much smaller in real life than she had expected, barely as tall as she was in bare feet. His face was just as ruddy and wide, though, and his hair lost none of its dignified grey. He sat opposite them, dressed in an amber-coloured suit, with his hands resting over the back of a wooden kitchen chair. He was smiling pleasantly.

The second thing she saw, behind Mancheff, was the sealed double-door of a mass-freighter at least three metres high and four wide.

“That's what we're here for,” said Jonah via prevocals.

“It'd better be worth it,” she sent back.

“Here we are,” said the leader of WHOLE. “Five hours and thirty-seven minutes from alert to arrival. That's not bad, not bad at all. You don't look any the worse for having your atoms scrambled—but you never can tell, eh?”

She didn't smile back. “Your psychos murdered two EJC officers.”

“Yes. I hear the pickup didn't go as smoothly as I would've liked.”

“There was no justification,” she said, barely able to contain her anger. “They weren't threatened in any way. My agents were shot down in cold blood.”

“It might seem that way, Officer Blaylock, but there are always extenuating circumstances. My ‘psychos,’ as you call them, have good reasons for seeking violence against those who defend such abominable processes as d-mat.”

“I'm not interested in hearing your arguments.”

“No? Perhaps a visual demonstration will be effective, then. Kuei?”

The woman who had killed Fassini and Kellow stepped forward.

“Kuei, remove your mask so Officer Blaylock can see.”

The woman turned to face Marylin and, raising her left hand, removed the mask with one smooth motion. Underneath was a mess of what looked like badly healed scar tissue, as though someone had made a face out of yellow-pink plasticine and rearranged it with a fork. Her nose and ears were twisted lumps, and she had no hair at all. The scarring continued down her neck and under her black windcheater. It was hard to tell, given that the woman wore gloves and was clothed from head to foot, but Marylin guessed that the scarring spread across her entire body.

If she was in any way impaired, it didn't show. The pistol in her other hand didn't waver, and her eyes regarded the room impassively.

Glassily, Marylin remembered thinking earlier. The woman's eyes were almost certainly artificial. She concentrated on them, not on the horror of the ravaged face.

“You—Kuei, was it?—you're going to tell me that d-mat did this to you?”

“Yes.” The woman's bitter contralto was all the more remarkable when heard in conjunction with her appearance. “Something went very wrong, don't you think?”

“But you—” Marylin sought to find the right words, decided in the end that bluntness would probably be best. “You've been burned. D-mat doesn't do that.”

The woman's chin lifted, as though daring Marylin to deny her appearance. “Are you suggesting I'm a fake?”

“No.”

“Good, because I'm real—and it was d-mat that made me the way I am. Tordu chienne. Exhibit A in Karoly Mancheff's travelling freakshow.”

Marylin forced herself to confront the vitriol in the woman's stare. “No one should have to endure what you've been through, Kuei, no matter how it was caused. But that's no excuse for murder.”

“At least murder gives me a reputation to match the way I look.”

“What about the murder of one of your own?” Jonah said, speaking for the first time. “Can you justify that, too?”

There might have been a frown on the scarred face, but Marylin couldn't tell. “Que?”

Mancheff broke back in. “And who might you be referring to?”

“Lindsay, of course.”

“You know full well we had nothing to do with that. Why are you dredging it up now?”

“You're saying you didn't sabotage the SciCon complex?”

“Of course we didn't.”

“So who killed my father?”

“If you're trying to provoke me, it won't work.” Mancheff stood, his body language conveying impatience. “I refuse to go through this again. It is dealt with, forgotten.”

Marylin glanced at Jonah. His eyes were narrowed.

“Dealt with by whom?” he asked.

“By you, of course! Don't you remember?”

“No, I—”

“Zut! Enough!” Mancheff chopped the air with a hand and looked away. “Lindsay was my friend. I will not hear you slander him again.”

“Slander how?” Jonah also stood. His fists were clenched rock-tight. “We have never met. How could I have said anything to you?”

Mancheff stared at him as though he had gone mad. “It was three years ago.”

“After Lindsay died?”

“Yes.”

“I came here?”

“Not here. Our old head office. You tracked me down from information in Lindsay's private records. We moved afterwards.” Mancheff stopped, calculating. “You really don't remember?”

“No. I've lost that week. What did I say to you?”

“Marde.” Mancheff walked around the chair, then turned to face them again. “I'll tell you what you said, McEwen. You warned me that something was going on, something big. Bigger than d-mat, bigger than any battle we had ever fought before. You told me that we would have no choice but to become involved, whether we wanted to or not. That there were people who would ensure our complicity when the time came. You said we were just pawns in someone else's game, and if that game resulted in our sacrifice there would be nothing we could do to prevent it.”

“I said that?” Jonah's expression was one of utter disbelief.

“You did, and more along the same lines.”

“And what did you say?”

“I laughed in your face.”

“I'm not sure I blame you.” Marylin shook her head. “Look, Jonah, sit down. This isn't getting us anywhere. It has no bearing whatsoever on why we're here—”

“But it has a bearing on Lindsay!” He turned on her, his face red with frustration. “It has to. I know it. If I could only remember.”

“You said we would be contacted,” Mancheff said. “Tempted. But the gift would not come without a price, and that price would not be immediately apparent.” To Marylin he continued: “I believe that we have received the offer. It's sitting in the mass-freighter behind me. So it does have a bearing. But on no account will I prostitute myself or my people without knowing who I'm bargaining with.” His voice became more forceful as he turned back to Jonah. “Will you tell me, Jonah McEwen? Do you have any intention of explaining yourself, or are you going to play mind-games with me all night?”

“I'm not playing games,” Jonah sighed. “I really don't know.”

Mancheff snorted in disgust, but whether because he thought Jonah was lying or telling the truth, Marylin couldn't tell.

“By the offer, I presume you mean the body.” She leaned forward, keen to press on. “What makes you believe it's connected to something Jonah said three years ago?”

“Not the body, Officer Blaylock. What came with it.” He gestured behind him with one hand, and the mass-freighter's double doors began to slide open. “The connection was tenuous until I contacted your superiors and received such an immediate response. If it wasn't for my firm grip on reality, I would almost believe that you were expecting my call.”

“Someone might have been,” she said, joining the two men in standing upright. “It's that person we're both trying to find.”

The doors of the mass-freighter reached their maximum extension and emitted a shrill beep.

“Take a look,” said the leader of WHOLE.

Marylin stepped forward, acutely conscious of Jonah, but no one else, following her.

The naked body lay more or less face down on the floor of the oversized d-mat booth. She stored snapshots of its positioning into her overseer until she ran out of free memory. It had been cut into four unequal pieces: the legs, hips and part of the abdomen; the rest of the torso, with a diagonal slice across the stomach trailing internal organs; left arm and head; and the right arm, severed just above the shoulder. How the body had been sliced up was not immediately apparent. There seemed to be no ragged edges or burns. There were burns elsewhere, however, that might have been caused by acid, vivid marks that stood out strikingly from the pale, dead flesh. There were also signs of an intense and prolonged beating with some kind of rod. Long, yellow-purple stripes stretched across the back, buttocks and thighs. The blows had been inflicted with enough force to leave marks, but not enough to break the skin. The face was invisible. Hair matted with blood lay plastered like seaweed to the scalp and neck. It looked black. Marylin felt safe assuming it had once been blonde.

She looked for the usual page of WHOLE propaganda but couldn't see one. That made sense, given the body's destination. Why preach to the converted? Still, it was an unexpected deviation.

The sound of someone gagging made her turn in annoyance.

“If you're going to throw up,” she told Jonah, “don't do it in here.”

“I—won't.” He swallowed, his face pale. “It's one thing to read about it, another entirely to see it in the flesh.”

“This is nothing,” she said, speaking harshly to focus his mind on her words more than his thoughts, and also for the benefit of her internal overseer, which was transcribing her words. She stepped gingerly around the body, leaning closer in places to examine it. “This is the most intact body we've had since the eighth victim. The skeleton seems mostly untouched: no dislocations or major breaks, apart from the obvious. It has extensive fatty deposits—there, under the skin—so she wasn't held too long before he killed her. There are, however, pronounced ligature marks around her throat, ankles and wrists. I'm betting that bruise just under her armpit will turn out to be from his thumb, although I doubt we'll get a print. No punctures that I can see; no nanoscarring; no repairs. He must've been in a hurry.”

“Only four days between disposals,” Jonah said, following her at a discrete distance.

“Yes.” She peered more closely at the blood pooled around and under the abdomen. “There's something else here. It looks like a footprint.”

“And splash marks on the skin,” Jonah pointed out.

Her lips tightened. “Has this body been moved?” she called to Mancheff.

“Yes,” he replied from outside the booth. “I lifted her to see who she was.”

“Show me where you touched her.” Marylin pointed with a gloved finger at the body's left shoulder. “Here?”

“Lower.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” She put her hand onto the dead woman's flesh—grateful the gloves kept the clammy sensation away from her own skin—and tugged upwards the way she guessed Mancheff must have. The body lifted with a slight sucking noise. The tissue was more pliable than she expected and reminded her of an obscene osso bucco. The face was a pulped, ugly mass.

There was something underneath.

“Can you see it?”

Jonah moved in closer to peer under her arm. “It's—oh, hell.”

“What?”

He shook his head and backed away with a shocked expression on his face.

Puzzled, she lifted the body higher so she too could see.

Underneath was a plain wooden sign inscribed with the words: There is no such thing as unnecessary death.

“You see it?” Mancheff called. “Do you know what it is?”

“It's a RAFT precept, isn't it?” she replied, letting the body roll back into its original position. Only half her mind was on the question. The rest watched Jonah. His shocked expression hadn't faded. If anything, it had become more pronounced.

“Exactly,” Mancheff went on. “They're behind this. I'm sure they are. Those—” He cursed too quickly in French for Marylin to follow. “They're trying to set us up!”

Marylin could see Mancheff's position, but doubted it was that simple. If RAFT was trying to implicate WHOLE, the usual WHOLE literature with the body would have been appropriate. More likely the Twinmaker was preaching a different lesson, one aimed at a different audience.

At WHOLE? she wondered. Or—

“Jonah?” She put a hand on his shoulder. “What do you know about this?”

His eyes were wide and tear-filled. “The sign. It came from Lindsay's study. The Twinmaker must have stolen it. He was in our house!”

The bodies of the two deceased men—Jason Hugues Fassini and Lon Johannes Kellow, both Public Officers (MIU, Active Field Agents, Class 3)—arrived for autopsy at MIU-ACOC shortly after midnight on July 1. The murder scene had been extensively examined by a squad of local Law Enforcement Officers which, while not up to the standard the EJC was accustomed to, had provided all the information necessary to establish what had happened. It wasn't the first time that EJC agents on official business had been murdered on Quebecois soil, but never before while on so sensitive a mission. The EJC and the MIU had jointly demanded an immediate explanation from the usual WHOLE spokespeople, but no reply had been forthcoming. The Quebec government was pointedly keeping its distance.

Despite the intense acrimony brewing over the incident, no word of the reasons for the MIU's presence in Quebec had yet leaked to the news services. Not even the local LEOs were fully informed. Media reports had focussed attention on the act itself rather than the reasons behind it, but that wouldn't last if the situation wasn't quickly defused. It was a frighteningly small step from questioning why the MIU had been in Quebec in the first place to learning about the Twinmaker. And news of a killer who stalked the d-mat network had the potential to destabilise the economy of the solar system.

Of all observers, QUALIA was in a prime position to guess what might be at stake. At worst, it could trigger a third Great Depression. At best it would result in external bodies being allowed access to the KTI network for the first time—an eventuality that Fabian Schumacher had formed the sympathetic MIU in order to prevent. The company as a whole would be forced to examine and, potentially, redesign its security procedures from every possible angle, and if even that failed to prevent the Twinmaker from killing, every member of the organisation would become suspect once again. KTI, as a viable, independent entity, might as well cease to exist from that point onward. By the time its key patents had been revealed and its staff demoralised, the few remaining competitors it had not already bought out would, undoubtedly, be waiting in line to pick up the pieces—squeaky clean and willing to demonstrate their ability to adopt the global burden of d-mat traffic.

So QUALIA had nothing but sympathy for the MIU's chief officer in the field, Odi Whitesmith, as he did his best to keep the situation under control—or at least to maintain a fair pretence of doing so.

“You have the bodies of our agents?” he asked Indira Geyten during a conversation QUALIA monitored out of personal interest, to see how predictions of human behaviours under stress matched reality.

“Yes.” The face of the head of the MIU home team displayed little emotion, as always. Her hair was held back in an old-fashioned web. “The autopsy's under way now.”

“Good. I want them processed and the application in within the hour. The sooner we get them back, the sooner we can claim business as usual.”

Geyten raised an eyebrow. “Any news on Marylin?”

“No.” Whitesmith glanced away. “She's been out of contact for over three hours. We know she was taken from the scene in one of the vans that knocked us out, but we can't tell from orbital records exactly where it went. We lost a lukewarm trail south of Quebec City, but because we never managed to make a positive ID we don't know if that was real or not.” He stopped, rubbed the palms of both hands across his face. “Shit, sorry. You don't need me to tell you this. You've got enough on your hands.”

“That's okay, Odi. The autopsies are mostly automatic in an open and shut case like this. If I stick my nose in, it only slows things down.”

“Really?” He half-smiled. “Wish I could say that.”

QUALIA used the MIU personnel tracking data to observe Public Officer Whitesmith's present location. He had returned to Montreal where he was working to locate Marylin Blaylock, Jonah McEwen and the murderer of the two MIU agents. Little progress had been made thus far. The limited penetration of GLITCH into the Quebec region hampered any nonphysical search that could be conducted. The lack of eyewitnesses to the kidnapping was a further impediment, as was the local government's unwillingness to provide sufficient resources. In lieu of evidence, theories abounded.

One possibility that, to QUALIA's knowledge, had not been raised, was that McEwen and/or Blaylock had performed both murders themselves and subsequently escaped with the assistance of WHOLE accomplices. In the case of Blaylock, such an action—in actuality or merely by participation—ran strongly against character, but less was known about McEwen. SHE hesitated to rule out any possibility, no matter how unlikely, and duly despatched a brief text message outlining the theory to both team heads.

Whitesmith didn't read the note immediately. Geyten did, however, and responded within minutes.

“We have a saliva trace on one of the bodies that indicates a third person was present,” she said. “Spitting, as you know, is an indication of hostility. That, plus the fact that the murder weapon wasn't EJC-issue, makes me feel it is safe to assume that this third person was involved in the murder of Agent Fassini, and probably that of Agent Kellow as well.”

QUALIA absorbed the information with no great surprise. SHE was more interested in Geyten herself, the expression and tone she employed when speaking about the murder of the two agents. Grief was an emotion SHE had witnessed only rarely among the people QUALIA knew best. It was therefore difficult to hypothesise, even roughly, how Indira Geyten was feeling.

“Are you upset?” SHE asked.

The head of the home team turned away from the camera with a small laugh, and dabbed at her eyes. “Lord. Caught out by a computer, of all things. Yes, QUALIA, I am feeling emotional. It's not every day someone I know is killed.”

“But he will be returned to you in due course. You are aware of that?”

“Yes, I'm aware. That doesn't change the way it feels. He still died, and—god, I feel an idiot for saying this, me of all people—it's not easy.”

“What would make it easier, do you think?”

“Nothing, QUALIA.” Geyten shook her head. “Well, time, maybe. It will be hard to stop us from mourning when someone dies. We're programmed to view death as irreversible.”

“Humans have come to take many other things for granted.”

“Only because we don't think about them until we need to—usually when something goes wrong.”

“Immortality will give people plenty of time to think.”

“Resurrection isn't the same thing as immortality.” Geyten's smile became easier, less forced. “Yet. D-med might change that, though.”

QUALIA said nothing for a moment. Although withholding information did not constitute a deliberate falsehood, SHE was temporarily confused by an overwhelming impulse to reassure a distressed colleague. Resurrection and immortality were fundamentally different things, but Indira Geyten patently did not know—and did not need to know—how close she was to the truth.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” SHE said, for Geyten's subconscious emotional cues did signal a slight improvement.

“Yes, thank you, QUALIA.” Geyten nodded to herself. “You'll have the RLSM application before long.”

They returned to their primary tasks. Whitesmith had responded to QUALIA's e-mail with a brief, “Possible,” which SHE knew carried an implied, “but unlikely.” Far from being piqued, SHE continued perusing the data gathered so far. Another detail omitted in most of the reports was the fact that the pursuers had known which car Blaylock and McEwen had occupied. That implied one or both of two things: that the MIU away team had been observed from the time of its arrival in Quebec by people who knew what the targets looked like, and/or that someone in the MIU, or with access to its personnel tracking data, had leaked the information.

When SHE sent a second brief e-mail to Whitesmith outlining that observation, his reply was more rapid.

“A leak?” he said. “One I could be forced to accept, but not two. And if you're implying that the Twinmaker actively helped WHOLE get their hands on Marylin and McEwen so they could investigate his latest murder, then I find it hard to believe.” His expression was one of ragged concentration. SHE wondered which cocktail of psychopharmaceuticals he was using and whether SHE should recommend a change. “Of course,” he went on, “that doesn't mean you're wrong. It wouldn't be the first time in the last couple of days that I find something hard to credit.”

“I sympathise, Officer Whitesmith. Most likely Karoly Mancheff knew what Jonah McEwen looked like prior to his arrival. The assumption that he would be sharing a vehicle with Marylin Blaylock was not an unreasonable one.”

“And the—likely—” Whitesmith's voice faded out for a second, and his image greyed. “—when the—shit. Sorry. I was saying that it wouldn't have been hard to guess which car they were in.” He stopped as the image greyed briefly again. “Communications are still unreliable down here. If WHOLE does have a leak in the MIU, I'd love to know how they manage to talk to each other.”

Interdepartmental telecommunications was an area QUALIA monitored but to which SHE paid little conscious attention; it was a matter for eikons and orthodox AIs. “Is the problem localised? It may be possible to negotiate an increase in resources from the local government.”

“With these clowns? I doubt it. Anyway, it's not strictly local. The main problem's in the Pool. We're geared to transmit most of our data that way, and when it's busy…” For an instant SHE thought the line had interrupted him again, but he had simply paused to shrug. “There's not much we can do except put up with it. And complain. Seems like every time we really need the Pool, these days, it's jammed.”

“That is an unexpected observation, Odi. On what data do you base it?”

Whitesmith smiled in affectionate amusement. “Don't take me seriously, QUALIA. It was only a joke.”

He returned to his work still smiling. Once again, it seemed, SHE had restored the spirits of a valued coworker. That was something to be pleased about. And SHE in return had been given something to ponder while waiting for the revival request to arrive from Indira Geyten. It didn't matter that Whitesmith believed it to be only a joke. Humans were prone to reach conclusions based on little or no facts, then regarding them as amusing. Some of them were worth pursuing.

Seems like every time we really need the Pool, these days, it's jammed.

SHE commenced a surface investigation by examining public listings of Pool and Pool-related statistics: peak-use periods, demand by location, mean latency, quality of service, and so on. SHE was most interested in mean latency—the measure of the response time of various sites around the globe. It fluctuated regularly in response to user demand but was also influenced by unforeseeable catastrophes, such as node breakdowns or backbone failures, and solar activity. Some special uses of the Pool also affected its behaviour. Groundbreaking artistic endeavours had been known to consume vast percentages of the network's total resources, just as the most recent attempt to finalise a Theory of Everything by fifteen of the world's foremost physics theorists had preoccupied the major nodes, built around universities, for almost eighteen hours. The peaks and troughs in mean latency formed an irregular chart across the entire lifespan of the Pool, uncannily like the jagged lines of an EEG.

The causes of the highest surges were well-known, as were those for the brief periods when demand had been low. But there were lesser fluctuations that couldn't be explained. Many of these possessed regular or semiregular periods and amplitudes. Some had cycles of years, months, weeks, or even hours. Most came out of nowhere, lasted long enough for people to notice them, then died away the moment an attempt was made to predict their behaviour. A handful aroused enough popular interest, in a similar fashion to the Kondratiev Long Cycles in economic theory or astronomy's Titus-Bode law, to warrant naming.

One of these, first noted in December 2068, coincided with the first fifteen Twinmaker murders, but also included three previous dates that did not correspond to any known activity by that felon. Known as the Novohantay Sequence, its peaks were of a roughly constant amplitude but variable in length, increasing over time from a day or two to almost two weeks.

The murder of Yoland Suche-Thomas did fit the pattern perfectly, but the latest murder did not. It was several weeks early. According to the most recent mean latency figures, however, the Pool was experiencing the tail end of a peak that had reached the amplitude usual for a Novohantay event.

What this meant was unclear. Supposing a connection existed between the murders and the Sequence—which was far from proven—the reasons for that link remained unknown. Perhaps, QUALIA thought, it was related to the murderer's uncanny ability to break into supposedly secure information networks that used the Pool as a means of communication at some points along their dissemination chain. But the amount of processing required to slow the Pool in such a fashion was enormous. Not even d-med, which created a detailed, interactive simulation of an entire human body right down to the molecular level, used as much. SHE found it hard to conceive of a process that might explain both the killer's espionage talents and the drain on the supercomputer network. It was barely conceivable that one person alone could orchestrate such a demand and put it to useful purpose.

Unless—

SHE almost discarded the thought upon thinking it: Unless the Twinmaker had help. Who would help him? Profilers agreed that he was probably working alone. But the help didn't have to be human. Although sophisticated AIs required the enormous processing power of specialised Standard Human Equivalent processors, such as the bank of twenty that gave QUALIA such an edge over contemporary entities, such machines could be simulated using a large array of ordinary processors. For all its inefficiencies, that method was workable.

SHE submitted a request to raise the possibility in conference with Herold Verstegen and Fabian Schumacher. Although the matter wasn't urgent, it did warrant discussion with the people who would know best whether to pursue it or not.

“It's an interesting thought, Q.” Schumacher rolled over onto his stomach and faced the camera the right way up. He was in a zero-gravity health spa currently on the far side of the planet. “What do you think, Herold? Is it worth tabling, or are we scratching at the wrong back door?”

“It's important enough to look at here and now, if only to commend QUALIA for bringing it to our attention.” Verstegen smiled into the camera. “Even though I doubt it will lead anywhere, this potential connection has been overlooked by human investigators.”

“Actually,” SHE said, “a casual remark from Officer Whitesmith led me to make this observation.”

“Regardless, it was something he chose not to follow up. I think it proves a point. AIs such as you do have an important place to play in investigative and security organisations, as I have always maintained.”

“What about the actual idea?” Schumacher asked. “You think it's irrelevant?”

“Almost certainly. The thought of using a virtual AI to penetrate the security networks that use the Pool is flawed on two levels.”

“How so?”

“Well, don't forget we're talking about two separate networks: GLITCH and ours. GLITCH has always been the easiest network to penetrate. Observational data is encrypted only for compression purposes, not to prevent people from obtaining it. Indeed, the information is there for anyone persistent enough to look for it, provided only that she or he can avoid the Enforceable Honour System governing its use. Every data packet is encoded with the subject's Privacy status. Any unauthorised attempt to observe restricted packets, where the Non-Disclosure Option is active, results in an attempt to penalise the observer. Most often the packets unleash retaliatory viruses that invade the hostile system, simultaneously jamming it and notifying the authorities of its presence, but there exist many methods of preventing such action. To penetrate GLITCH, in short, one does not require an AI of the magnitude you are describing.

“KTI, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. Our packets are fully encrypted and therefore not open to outside inspection. Also, the dissemination of the packets is performed in such a way as to maximise the effort required for someone to perform an illegal reassembly. Finally, we would know if someone had attempted such a thing, for although the packets contain internal multiple redundancies, they are not duplicated themselves. An intercepted message would be altered or erased, thereby alerting us to the fact that someone was trying to break into our system.”

“Which has happened,” Schumacher said.

“Of course. But no one, to my knowledge, has been successful,” he said. “Perhaps the biggest flaw in QUALIA's argument lies in the fact that the Pool is a chaotic mess of data. How would an intruder situated midstream know which packets to assemble? The sort of AI required to examine every packet that passes through the Pool would be enormous, bigger than the Pool itself. But any other method relies on breaking into the networks at either end of the dissemination chain, where such an intrusion is most easily detectable.”

Schumacher smiled as though Verstegen had said something amusing. “So do you have any idea how the Twinmaker might be doing this?”

“Although it pains me as head of Information Security of your company to admit it, I have to say that I don't.”

“Where does that leave us, then?”

“In the awkward position of waiting for more conventional means to locate the killer. Only after he has been captured might we determine how he has eluded detection thus far.”

“You suspect, though, that the matter will prove to be an internal one.” Schumacher's pupils flickered, residual movements of a virtual glance. “I have you on record saying so a year go.”

“And I still believe that to be the most likely scenario. It would be easiest to overcome security from within the security chain itself. Most specifically, from within the MIU.”

“Would an AI such as that hypothesised by QUALIA be required?”

“I believe not. The matter becomes one of infiltration rather than sorting large quantities of data. What we are talking about here is a drain of ten to fifteen percent of the Pool's free processing power. Not even QUALIA requires that sort of capacity.”

“I have one other observation to make,” QUALIA broke in. “The mean latency figures indicate that the peaks of the Novohantay Sequence correspond to the periods immediately after the kidnap of each victim, not before.”

“There you have it, then,” Verstegen said. “The peaks can have nothing to do with how the Twinmaker is breaking into the system. Otherwise the peak would occur at the time of the kidnap when he most needed the processing power.”

“True,” Schumacher nodded. “How long do the peaks continue?”

“Typically until the bodies have been disposed of,” QUALIA explained. “Before and after each peak there is a lesser plateau that may last a number of hours or even days, then these too taper off.”

Schumacher rubbed his upper lip. “You're right, Herold. It doesn't seem to fit. But the coincidence is compelling. Perhaps we should continue to observe the latest event, just in case. We'd be in the wake of one now, is that right, Q? The lesser peak?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, keep me informed if anything unusual happens. There could be other reasons behind it. Use the archive-33 overrides if I don't answer immediately.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meditation session to attend. I'll be back on-station in an hour.”

The three-way conference dissolved, leaving Verstegen and QUALIA alone on a single line. The security director closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat. In the background of the shot was the familiar environment of his personal suite on-Earth, not his office in orbit.

“Really, QUALIA, that was very well done,” he said. “I'm proud of you for taking the initiative like this. Just beware of jumping to conclusions too soon. The coincidence of the Novohantay Sequence with the murders may be grossly exaggerating its significance.”

“I understand, sir. That is why I raised it. The need for qualitative external input overrode the need for further quantitative data.”

“Input from Schumacher? He didn't really need to know about this. It's not his field.”

Again, withholding the truth was difficult. Herold Verstegen was the closest thing to a parent SHE had, apart from Lindsay Carlaw.

“He has an interest in this case,” SHE said.

“I'm sure he does. And good on you for involving him. Either way, you did the correct thing. I always knew my redesign of Carlaw's blueprint would turn out for the best.”

He smiled once again and killed the line.

SHE was able, then, to carry out Fabian Schumacher's implied instruction. SHE summarised the debate and packaged it along with QUALIA's original observations and sent the lot, in the care of KittyHawk, into the Pool. The “archive-33” codeword permitted such direct means of communication and allowed QUALIA to interrupt Schumacher's daily routine at any point, even the middle of meditation, to relay a reply, if any was forthcoming.

SHE could understand his interest in this matter. There were other processing-intensive operations, known only to a few, that could be performed on the Pool with similar effects to the Novohantay Sequence. They were usually avoided for just this reason, however; the risk of detection was too great. Sometimes SHE wondered whether many of the unexplained peaks in mean latency might indeed be the results of carelessness on the Watchers' part. If that was the explanation in this case, any connection between the Pool's unusual behaviour and the Twinmaker murders would be ruled out, which would in turn allow QUALIA to cease pondering the subject.

SHE certainly had enough to do as it was. The revival request for the two murdered agents had arrived from the MIU. The RLSM codes needed to be retrieved and cleared with EJC administration, then the models themselves had to be reconstructed. Resurrection was not enacted from the complete record of an individual's last jump; there was not enough memory in the world to store every commuter's full model. Rather, the Resurrectee was reconstructed by applying smoothing functions to certain data that had been saved, much of which was composed of the differences between that person and a so-called blank-slate template. If a person had a distinctive mark on an otherwise normal left arm, the mark was recorded but the arm was not. Only the head, and the uniquely precious organ it contained, was saved in its entirety. As horrific as that sounded to some people, the differences between a Resurrected human and the original were small—and few people who had undergone the process complained about being given another chance to live.

Once Agents Fassini and Kellow were Resurrected and had gone to attend counselling, there would still be the matter of McEwen and Blaylock. If they were not recovered within twenty-four hours, QUALIA expected decisive action on the MIU's part. SHE didn't dare believe that would improve relations between KTI and WHOLE.

It wasn't long before a priority message emerged from the Pool, addressed specifically to QUALIA. The reply from the Watchers was not only forthcoming, it was exceedingly brief.

Thank you, QUALIA, for bringing this matter to our attention. We were not aware that the situation had progressed so far. Intervention now seems mandatory. Please assure all concerned that we will seek to minimise damages.

HEU:ALC:FGS

SHE read the final line of code with a feeling akin to dismay. Instead of the reassurance SHE had sought, the Watchers' note brought only reasons to be increasingly apprehensive. What they meant by this matter and the situation was unclear, and the dark hints of intervention and damages didn't make the matter any clearer. SHE felt as though SHE was skirting the edge of a terrible abyss; that at any moment ignorance might cause QUALIA to stumble and slip over the edge. What lay at the bottom, SHE could not guess, but SHE doubted it would give Herold Verstegen reason to smile.

Jonah squatted on his haunches in one corner of the room, breathing slowly and deeply. He focussed his attention on the ground beneath the toes of his sneakers: not on the doors of the mass-freighter; not on the splash of red visible between them; not on Marylin's voice as she continued her examination of the body; not on the sickening sensation deep in his stomach that might have been nausea, but had too much in common with panic to warrant contemplation. He did his best not to think at all.

But he couldn't. It wasn't in his nature to turn away from facts, distasteful though they might be. At least he had one, now.

The Twinmaker had stolen the sign from Lindsay Carlaw's study before the unit had been sealed three years ago. Or someone had stolen it for him. Either way, the connection between Jonah and the Twinmaker had suddenly become much stronger. The fact that it might actual be him, in whatever incarnation, was no longer a hypothesis to entertain until a better one came along. It was all too plausible.

But it couldn't be him. He didn't doubt that for a second. He had never wanted to murder Marylin, even by proxy, even after she walked out on him. He couldn't do it to anyone, not in cold blood. One accidental death, justified by law but still a source of late-night guilt, was enough to deal with.

If it was him, then something had happened to change his outlook on life so dramatically that he bore little resemblance to the person he had once been. The killer was no longer the version who had taken InSight in a bath three years earlier, for whatever reason. The law might disagree, but Jonah refused to contemplate the fact that he and the Twinmaker might still share the same basic identity.

Either way, the Twinmaker was taunting him. He was taunting them all. Lindsay Carlaw's sign, and the precept written on it that had been his lifelong goal, was to Jonah what Jonah himself had been to Marylin. A goad. For some reason the killer had picked them as the targets of a joke that simply wasn't getting any funnier.

The punchline was that another woman had died. Forgetting politics, legal definitions and personal power plays, it all boiled down to murder.

Another woman had died, and Marylin wasn't happy.

“Listen,” she was saying to their captors, “you brought us here to look at the body. You said you wanted us to take it away. We brought the equipment we needed—a couple of cars' worth, in fact—but where is it? Did you think of that when you dragged us here, Kuei? Did any of you? There is no point me being here without some means of examining this body properly! Get that into your thick skulls and get us some equipment, or let us d-mat out of here with the body. Or shoot us. You don't have any other options. Pick one, and let's get on with it.”

Her footsteps echoed across the dull interior of the mass-transport booth then clopped onto concrete. He should have supported her, argued alongside her, but he didn't have the strength. His palms were sweating and every muscle felt drained, limp.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice.

He looked up too quickly, expecting Marylin, but instead found Kuei, the burned woman, bending over him.

“I've felt better,” he said through a wave of dizziness.

“You look like you need a bucket.”

He shrugged and leaned back until his head touched the wall behind him. The last thing he need was to be reminded of his churning stomach.

“I know what happened to you,” he said.

A hint of defensiveness touched her twisted features. “I was burned by d-mat.”

“No, you weren't.”

“How would you know?”

“I've heard of it before.” He concentrated on the memory. “A friend of my father's. A doctor. He wasn't part of WHOLE, but he was helping gather evidence against d-mat. I listened in on this story. It was about a young boy. D-mat incorrectly reproduced a microorganism on his skin, causing a mutation. The new bug was short-lived but virulent; it bred like crazy. Within hours, the kid was being flayed alive. By the time he reached hospital, it was too late to do much more than keep him breathing.” He looked at her. “Is this ringing a bell?”

The woman nodded slowly, her artificial eyes catching the light and holding it.

He went on: “The bug was killed by antibiotics, and it infected no one else, but the kid was left skinless. KTI refused to admit responsibility. They said it was a natural strain that just happened to appear after he used d-mat. That there were no other known occurrences didn't stop the doctors from agreeing. Luckily, the boy had health insurance, so he could afford to have his skin regrown by nanos. I can imagine what he would've looked like without it.”

Only too well, he added silently to himself. Now.

The woman shook her head once. “We called it le lent feu—slow fire,” she said, hesitantly at first. “The hospital in Tadoussac was small and understaffed. The doctors cured it but they couldn't explain it. I just knew—and my parents knew too—that d-mat was responsible. My mother died not long after. When we complained to KTI, they covered it up. I—she couldn't—”

Kuei stopped and turned away.

“I'm sorry,” said Jonah. “I really am.”

Her voice was bitter. “If you were truly sorry, you would fight with us.”

“No.” He imagined his father's ghost stirring—to be so dispassionate when confronted with proof!—but he wouldn't let that thought soften his words. His father's compassion had been a sham, along with his very fatherhood. And Jonah remembered the argument well.

“I refuse to accept that you have a legitimate reason for seeking revenge, even if this was caused by d-mat. Accidents happen. In a different decade, the chances are higher that you'd have been disfigured or crippled in a car accident. In fact—”

“Écrase.” She raised a hand without looking at him.

He didn't know what the word meant, but he could guess. He ignored it. “Killing people doesn't solve anything, Kuei. It makes everything worse.”

She looked at him, then. “Is that why you wouldn't tell us who killed your father? So we wouldn't take revenge?”

A ball of ice rolled down his spine. “I knew?”

“You said you did.”

“When?” He reached out to grab her arm. “When exactly was this?”

She pulled away. “You'd have to ask le caïd. It was a long time—”

“No. You tell me now. If you remember what I said so well, you must have an idea when I said it.” Seeing indecision in her eyes, he pressed on. “Was it before Lindsay's funeral or after? Can you answer that?”

“Definitely before. I remember we tried to put viruses into the KTI network as a tribute, but they didn't take. You didn't answer our calls—”

“How long before?”

“I don't know. The day before, perhaps.”

The day before. In his head he constructed a timetable. Lindsay had died on April 11th, 2066, the day after Marylin had quit JRM and Lindsay had taken his mysterious d-mat trip to SciCon. The inquest had begun on the 14th, the day before Jonah had opted for Privacy and therefore the last day his movements were on record. Lindsay's funeral had been on the 18th, so Jonah must have come to Quebec on the 17th. In the days since the 15th, he must've learned something substantial in order to justify making threats to WHOLE, or else he had become desperate enough to bluff. Either way, he had gone into the bath two days later, on the 19th. And there he appeared to have stayed.

The only real evidence that he or another version of him might have been elsewhere lay in the numerous, and anomalous, UGI matches recorded across the planet from May 2066 to May 2069, a month before his reawakening. Because the GLITCH records were in essence public domain, restricted only by Privacy and von Trojan Laws, they were difficult to fake. So the evidence was significant. He couldn't ignore it, as much as he would have liked to.

Still, no one had actually seen him…

“Kuei—” He went to touch her again, but she brushed his hand aside. “Sorry. Look, this must seem very strange. But—thank you. I appreciate what you've told me. You didn't have to.”

She didn't respond, except for a look of scepticism as she stood and walked away. One of the remaining masked guards made a gesture at him, intended for her, that might have meant: “What's his problem?” She spat something venomous in Quebecois argot, and kept walking past Marylin and into the mass-freighter.

“Learn anything?” Marylin asked via prevocals. She was standing by the open doors with her arms folded, facing in. She looked like she was waiting for something.

“Yes. You?”

She glanced at him, obviously considering whether or not to pursue his curt answer to her question. “Not enough. Mancheff won't believe me when I tell him that anonymous relays really are anonymous, and that if he sends the body back to KTI via one we won't be able to track him down.”

“Won't you?”

“Possibly not. But even if we do, he won't lose very much. This facility is obviously temporary, and portable. At most he might blow a cover or two. The freighter has to be registered with someone, after all.”

That prompted a thought. “Any guesses what they shift with it?” he asked.

“I'm assuming weapons, explosives and the like.”

“Then they must have a license for that, too. Are restricted materials still restricted?”

“Yes. That's a good thought. We can search the records when we're out in the open again. There can't be many operations with both.”

He nodded. It was good to think about the future, to fight the past that kept pulling him back down. He had to keep moving; otherwise, he told himself, he might soon find himself unable to move at all.

“I think we're getting somewhere,” he said.

“You do? Why?”

“No reason. Well, nothing I can prove. The Twinmaker's giving us clues. First me, then the note, and now the sign. They have to lead somewhere.”

“Maybe not. They could be trophies he's collected along the way.”

“Then we use them as clues.”

“Only generally, to give us a window into his head.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm thinking of something else. Or I think I'm thinking of something else. There's something not quite right about all this…”

An ear-splitting shriek suddenly cut through his thoughts. It lasted only a split-second, but its intensity was painful. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes by reflex. His hands were halfway to his ears before he realised that the sound had come from his implants—from within his head.

Marylin had also reacted without thinking. Bent half-forward, she rested a hand on the wall of the mass-freighter and shook her head. Aloud she muttered, “What the—”

Then she cut herself off. She looked at Jonah and, via prevocals, said, her voice triumphant, “It's the others! We're being pinged!”

He shook his head. “What?”

“They're using the balloon network or planes to sweep Quebec with high-power radio waves. The sweep pinpoints shielding, then sends a second, more specific pulse to hunt for a response from our implants. It should come soon. No shielding is perfect. They'll be listening for an automatic reply on the emergency frequency. If we're lucky—”

Sound burst through their implants again—this time a warbling, info-dense scream rather than a brute-force shriek. He felt something in his head respond, although he couldn't describe the how of it. No doubt the supply of certain chemicals and sugars in that region of his brain had suddenly been depleted. A red light began to flash in his overseer's display indicating that an emergency message had been sent.

“Does that mean they know where we are?” he asked.

“They sure do. Within a few kilometres, anyway.”

“And now what?”

“They'll move in. How they do it depends where this shed's situated. If it's rural they could just gas the whole place and give us the antidote when they find us among the bodies. If it's urban—”

Mancheff walked out of the mass-freighter to confront Marylin.

“We're moving,” said the leader of WHOLE. “Now.”

“But—”

“No arguments. Give me the name of a reliable relay and maybe I'll send the body to you.” He raised a finger and an eyebrow in unison, daring her to force the issue. “Maybe. It depends on how quickly your friends get here. Remember, I could just send it nowhere.”

“A relay. Okay: MadDuchess,” Marylin said as the guards moved forward to bind her hands again. “How did you know?”

“We're not stupid,” he said.

“Who's your contact?” Jonah asked.

Mancheff glared at him. “There's no contact. Sensors on the roof registered a surge of some kind. And—” to Marylin “—I saw you flinch. That's enough to make me err on the side of caution.” His eyes flicked back to Jonah: “On your feet, slomeau, or we'll drag you of here.”

Jonah tried to stand, but found that he could not. His thigh muscles were locked tight, powerless.

“I—uh, thanks again,” he said as Kuei assisted him. This time his wrists were tied too. A heavy, thick hood went over Marylin's head an instant before one also went over his. Hands guided him out of the room, but not before he heard the clang of the mass-freighter's doors slamming shut.

“I think he'll send the body,” Jonah said via prevocals. “It's in his best interest to do so, and he's not stupid.”

Marylin didn't respond.

“Marylin? Can you hear me?”

Silence.

His first, panicky thought was that they'd been separated—or worse, that she might be hurt. Then he heard her cough, muffled by the double thickness of the hoods but distinct. The tone brought back memories of the times they had worked together. In the field, a cough or a gesture could communicate a sentence's worth of information when speech and prevocals were impossible. Like now.

He coughed back, relieved to know he wasn't the only one having trouble. The hoods were obviously shielded to prevent them being pinged again. He didn't know how deeply the MIU sweep could penetrate, but he doubted it would make it through two layers. Even more remote was the chance of finding them again once they'd been moved.

Van doors opened ahead of him. Someone guided him into the back and made sure he was seated before Marylin followed. No one spoke in English, but there was plenty of discussion. Mancheff was arguing with Kuei and another man. The argument ended only when the time came to seal the van. Kuei remained in the back while Mancheff went elsewhere. The van shifted seconds later, as though the WHOLE leader had taken a seat in the front, but Jonah couldn't be certain. The interior was soundproofed.

He jerked sideways when the van moved forward, and he bumped into someone's shoulder.

“Here we go again,” Marylin muttered.

“Some tour we're getting,” he replied. “Any idea, anyone, where we're going this time?”

“Be quiet.” Kuei's voice was soft but insistent.

Jonah sighed and leaned against the wall of the van.

An unknown time later, he woke with a jerk and an elbow in his ribs.

“Sit up, Jonah. You're squashing me!”

His covered head banged against the wall behind him. “Ow! Shit.”

“Don't kill yourself.”

“I've been asleep?”

“Snoring, too.” Marylin's voice was annoyed and weary. “At least one of us got some rest.”

He went to rub his skull, but his hands were still tied. Afterimages of the dream made him edgy. He had been on his knees in a desert with a gun to the back of his neck. The barrel had pushed him down until his face was pressed against the sand, then further still until the sand had bubbled over his head and swallowed him whole. The dream had left him with the twin sensations of falling and being buried alive.

Exactly when he'd gone to sleep, he couldn't remember. At first, he had tried to catch up on the Twinmaker files, but he had been feeling disoriented enough without studying stationary images with the decidedly nonstationary van rocking around him. And as his new overseer was neither equipped with audio translation nor in possession of an audio library, he was unable to catch up with news and music from the last three years. That had limited his options dramatically. At some point he must've closed his eyes and attempted the only one left.

And now—

“I need to piss,” he said.

“That makes three of us.” Kuei's accented voice was loud in the van. Again Jonah found it hard to reconcile the sound with her face. “We'll stop soon, I'm sure.”

The uncertainty in her voice worried him. He checked his overseer. They had been driving for several hours already, presumably without a break. “Where?”

“A safe-house,” said the woman. “I don't know which one. The plan is to keep you a little longer, in case we need something to bargain with.”

Jonah remembered the argument as they had left the hangar. “That's what Mancheff told you he'd do?”

“It's what I would do, and he usually gets there in the end.” Kuei shifted in her seat. “Assuming nothing goes wrong.”

“How do you know it hasn't?”

“Putaine, hang on!” Something clicked and Kuei spoke into an intercom. The voice at the other end might have been Mancheff's. Jonah crossed his legs and concentrated on the babble of French, trying to pick out even one word that might be significant.

Apart from his full bladder and the ominous dream, his shoulders and back were stiff and the air was stifling under the hood. Somebody had had the forethought to dose him up with oral hygiene agents at some point during his treatment, so at least his breath didn't smell. And still, against all logic, he wasn't hungry. All in all, he decided, things could have been a lot worse. They certainly had been on other occasions.

“Do you remember the Banytis case?” he whispered to Marylin.

She grunted. “All too well.”

“Don't sound so wounded. You had it easy, remember?”

Her reply was another grunt, which, he supposed, he deserved for bringing up that particular memory.

Tepko Banytis, a crooked accountant from Broome, had been under 24-hour EJC surveillance for a month before an edgy client hired JRM to take a more active look at his affairs. The business front had proven a tough nut to crack, requiring multiple attempts to infiltrate a virus through increasingly resistant firewalls and into the system's core mainframe. Once there, fraud and trafficking had been easy to expose, but more than electronic data was needed to clinch the case. They'd needed to get someone inside the building to plant devices designed to catch Banytis in the act.

Jonah himself had been the one to go in, covered in nanoware applicators containing the bare minimum of metal—so they wouldn't trigger detectors—and livewired on every possible level. Marylin had waited outside, watching both the exterior of the building and Jonah's VTC feed. As most of the equipment they were using was illegal, or at least restricted to official EJC operatives, they worked alone. The EJC wouldn't ask questions if the end results were sufficient to convict Banytis of something, but if they were caught in the act they would suffer deregistration at the very least for violating Privacy—possibly criminal charges.

At first, everything had gone smoothly. Jonah had slipped through Banytis' security with help from software patches and had made it into the basement level of the building. From there he had planned to distribute the nanoware through the air-conditioning ducts, positioning each one by teleoperation and sticking around long enough to ensure that the devices were assembling correctly. But Banytis had returned earlier than expected, and Marylin had been distracted while providing Jonah with technical advice. By the time she had raised the alarm, Banytis had entered the building with another man, an accomplice by the name of Eli Gliem. Instead of going to his office as usual, the two of them had gone down into the basement, almost as though they had known that Jonah was there and had come to catch him in the act.

That wasn't what happened at all, but it was the first thing Jonah thought upon hearing their footsteps descending towards him. He had barely enough time to take cover under the stairs. As Banytis and Gliem walked into view, heading directly for his hiding place, he thought for certain he'd been found—and almost called Marylin to go for help before realising that something was wrong.

Banytis was holding a gun on his old friend, and Gliem himself wasn't looking too good. When they reached a point right in front of Jonah, Banytis said, “Here's as good as anywhere,” and raised the gun. The gun went off and Gliem fell to the floor with a bullet through the back of the head. Banytis waited a second, then rolled the body further under the stairs to a point where it was actually touching Jonah's foot.

Then Banytis had hurried off, out of the building and back to his car. It turned out later that he had chartered a private jet under a false name to Borneo, where he'd planned to disappear. Indeed, he might have made it had he not somehow completely failed to see Jonah watching in the shadows. Jonah had, of course, recorded the murder and instructed Marylin to forward the footage to the EJC. A squad of LEOs picked Banytis up a kilometre from the airport.

That would have been the end of it but for Banytis' reactivation of the security system as he left the building. Not wanting to alert him to the presence of an intruder, Jonah had been forced to remain under the stairs for ten minutes while Marylin overrode security. In that time, he had become acutely conscious of Gliem's body at his feet. Not just because it was a rapidly cooling corpse but because, like most corpses, its sphincter muscles had relaxed and the resulting odour was almost painfully strong…

“If you're going to suggest that Banytis might be behind all this,” Marylin said after a moment, “forget it. He was executed a year ago.”

Jonah nodded to himself. He hadn't consciously been thinking along those lines, but his unconscious might have. Revenge was a possibility he'd not considered before. As far as he knew, there were few people he'd offended deeply enough to warrant this sort of vendetta, and none with the right kind of know-how or connections. But it was worth bearing in mind. No possibility could be ignored until the case was closed.

“There's somewhere we can stop not far from here,” Kuei said in English. “Can you hang on another ten minutes?”

“We'll have to,” Marylin said. “A drink would be good, and some fresh air, too.”

“Don't push your luck.”

Jonah smiled under the hood. It sounded like captive and captor had been annoying each other during his extended nap. If anyone was going to push for fair treatment, it would be Marylin, a stickler for form and process. He, on the other hand, could see both sides. Kuei wasn't going to take any chances, not when capture could well mean the death penalty. If that meant Marylin and him suffering slightly in order to live another day, then so be it; he could indeed live with that.

It had been the same three years ago. Marylin had hated the irregularity of private practice, even while she revelled in its freedoms. The Banytis case had finished her. She hadn't liked the blatant illegality of the entire enterprise, and had used the fact that ordinary implants had been enough, in the end, to prove the case to hammer home her point. He, on the other hand, had argued that if they hadn't taken a chance and broken the law in the first place, they would've missed the act entirely and Banytis could have escaped.

She had refused to back down. And neither had he. The argument—far from their first—had raged throughout the night after Banytis had been committed to trial. They should have been celebrating—had indeed started out that way. Looking back on it now, he realised how complacent he'd become about their affair. The argument that resulted in the end of everything had begun in bed and ended with her leaving.

She had delivered her decision at the office the next day, cool and businesslike. Her resignation was effective immediately; he could deposit the overtime he owed her in her usual account, minus a reasonable percentage for the inconvenience. And as for them, she had been thinking for some time about devoting more of her time and energy to Luiz, the man who was supposed to be her full-time partner. She owed him something, she thought, after the extra hours she had pulled just recently. Maybe a holiday, or just some time together. She was sure Jonah would understand when she said it was nothing personal…

Crap. When she had left the office, he had thrown an active sculpture, a gift from his father, at the door. It had splattered like wet sand, clumps dripping to the ground, others sticking to the wood and trying in vain to reassemble. Sensing a metaphor in action, he had gathered the pieces together, but too much had been lost in the carpet. The micromachine fragments of the statue refused to coalesce. The best it could manage was a three-legged horse with no tail and an enormous cavity in its side. In the end, he threw it out.

He wondered if things might ever have become so bad that he would apply that metaphor fully to his life. Had he taken InSight as an attempt to kill himself? Or to dive into a frozen time—perhaps one when he and Marylin had been happy? That, after all, was what InSight was supposed to do: encapsulate and replay memories at the user's whim. It was only a small design flaw that had caused the damage that might have left him completely brain-dead had he been left alone just a few months longer.

He remembered missing her. That, and the argument. Everything else—how he had felt after Lindsay had died, whether he had needed her more then or less—was gone.

And everything since then, after his awakening in the bath, was tainted by that cocktail of loss and guilt.

She cleared her throat, dragging him back to the present. He hoped she wouldn't push Kuei too hard. It was all very well to insist on the proper procedure when insulated from reality by underlings and regulations. In the real world, however, when confronted by a scarred maniac with a gun, it was usually best to follow orders, no matter how irrational they were. At first.

The vibration of the engine ebbed slightly as it took a gentle turn downhill.

“We're going to stop here for a few hours,” Kuei said. “We all need rest, and a chance to think.”

He disagreed completely on the last point, but remained quiet.

“The longer you keep us,” Marylin said, “the more likely we'll be found.”

“No. We can keep you shielded and out of GLITCH's eye indefinitely. And as far as the LEOs go—” Jonah heard a distinct smirk in the woman's tone “—you're in our country, now.”

“But you will let us go?”

“Eventually, yes. Once Karoly has everything he wants from you.”

Jonah braced himself as the van decelerated further and negotiated a hairpin bend. They were still heading down. Underground? That would explain why the woman could be so confident of keeping them shielded.

The intercom squawked, and Jonah heard Kuei move.

“When we stop, don't get up. I'll be gone for a second. Wait until I come back.”

Jonah nodded. The van came to a gradual halt, and the lock on the door clicked. Kuei swung the doors open and stepped outside. He heard her footsteps recede, then her voice in the distance. Then it too faded.

Fresh air entered the van, bringing with it the smell of summer flowers.

“If I turn my back to you,” Marylin said, “you might be able to free my hands.”

“No. Let's wait and see what happens.”

“Are you kidding? I can't see a thing. At least take off my hood. I'm going crazy in here!”

He winced at the strain in her voice. “Easy, Marylin. There's no point annoying them. We're just an inconvenience, remember—and a dangerous one at that.”

“They don't know how dangerous,” she muttered.

“Exactly. So let's keep it that way, huh? At least for the time being. We can't afford to take any risks.”

Footsteps in the distance grew louder, signalling the return of at least one person.

“Damn you, Jonah.” Her tone shifted to one of resentment. “If they kill us, and we just missed our only chance to escape—”

“What? You'll return to haunt me?”

“It's hard enough getting rid of you in this life.”

Ouch. “I wouldn't worry about dying,” he shot back. “There's always Resurrection. And even if there wasn't, I'm sure the Twinmaker will have your pattern—”

He stopped, struck in mid-sentence by a sudden realisation. On file, he'd been about to say, meaning, I'm sure the Twinmaker would be able to access your pattern any time he wanted to. But why would he have to have it on file at all? Why not trace the path of the LSM feed from her last d-mat jump—and use Resurrection itself to create a copy?

“What?” she prompted, her voice a naked challenge.

“I'll tell you later.”

The footsteps stopped at the rear of the van.

“Stand up,” said Kuei. “Walk towards me—carefully.”

Jonah stood and, a second later, so did Marylin. Together they shuffled to the back of the van, heads bowed to accommodate the low roof. Jonah felt a male hand take his elbow and guide him down to the ground. Kuei obviously had a companion. When Marylin was also out of the van, Kuei pushed them ahead of her, guiding them out of a space that echoed like a car park and into a carpeted corridor. The smell of flowers strengthened, but the silence became deeper if anything. He felt like they had entered a deserted hotel, which, for all he knew, they might well have.

“Stop.” A door opened to his right. “Inside. No, not you.” Marylin was restrained. “Just him. Go.”

Jonah hesitated. It was easy to preach the value of patience while they were together, when their vulnerability wasn't quite so obvious.

But he didn't have a choice. Kuei or her male accomplice pushed him in the shoulder, and he stumbled forward. The door shut behind him.

“Hold still.” Hands at his throat lifted the hood away. Ordinary ambient light blinded him, and it took him a moment to identify the person standing in front of him as Karoly Mancheff. “Now, turn around.”

He did so, and was relieved to feel his bindings loosen.

“There's a bathroom through that door. Use it if you want to, but don't take too long.”

Jonah didn't hesitate. As he relieved himself, he took in the decor around him. The usual bathroom arrangement—sink, toilet, shower stall and cupboard—that hadn't changed in over a century. The floor was tiled in white; the fittings were spotlessly clean, no doubt kept that way by nanos. Again a hotel came to mind.

After he had finished, he washed his face in the sink. He was thirsty, but, unsure of Quebecois reclamation policy, didn't chance the tap water. His face in the mirror was pale and startlingly haggard. There were bags under his eyes and red spots in his cheeks. He looked sick.

But he felt only half-dead. That was a definite improvement on a couple of days before. And thanks to the maintenance agents in his active coat that kept it looking freshly ironed and clean, he at least presented some semblance of order.

He let himself out of the bathroom before Mancheff could hurry him up. The single room contained a double bed, a table and two chairs, a wall-mounted entertainment facility, and a meal-maker on a bench in one corner. Jonah was surprised by the last item, but took it as confirmation of his hotel hypothesis. No WHOLE facility would allow such a luxury.

“Take a seat.” Mancheff gestured at the table. The leader of WHOLE wasn't looking his best, either. Close up his skin had the pitted, lumpy look of someone who hadn't taken well to skin-maintenance nanos as a teenager.

Jonah picked one of the chairs at random, and Mancheff sat opposite him. No weapons were visible, but Jonah assumed that Mancheff was armed.

“I want to ask you some questions,” said the leader of WHOLE.

“The feeling's mutual.”

“So I gather, but you'll have to wait. First you're going to tell me what's going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“The body. Why you and Blaylock are here. What's the story?”

“What makes you think there is one?”

“There has to be. You wouldn't have come all this way if there wasn't.”

“Someone's been killed. What other reason do we need?”

“Fous! You're MIU agents. EJC would've done, or even the local LEOs—if it was an ordinary murder.” Mancheff nodded confirmation of his own theory. “Besides, neither of you were surprised when you saw the body. You've seen this before. It's part of something big. Now, I'm assuming c'mégère won't tell me, so I'll ask you instead. Again. What's going on here? Who was killed and what did she have to do with me?”

Jonah hung his head. He couldn't lie and say he didn't know. Mancheff would see right through that. But he couldn't mention the role d-mat played in the killings, either. That would give WHOLE the ammunition it needed to attack KTI.

He had to say something, and nothing but the truth would suffice, if only part of it.

“You're being set up,” he said. “Provoked.”

“Like you said we would be three years ago? By whom?”

“I don't know if it's the same person. In fact, I don't know who it is now or who it was then. I can only take what I see and try to put it into some sort of context.” He struggled to focus his thoughts. Now more than ever he needed to think clearly. “There's a psycho out there—no, not a psycho. A sociopath. He's well-organised and sadistic. His victims are exclusively women who use d-mat, and this is his seventeenth. Apart from the fact that he leaves copies of Soul Pollution with the bodies, we know next to nothing about him.”

Mancheff was visibly startled by the mention of the booklet he and Lindsay Carlaw had written. “You don't think—”

“That he's one of you? He might well be. There's a fair chance he works for KTI as well, which is why I wanted to know if you had a contact on the inside.”

“We do, of course.”

Jonah smiled to himself. One guess proven right. “Can I talk you into giving me his name?”

“Or her name.” Mancheff echoed the smile but it was empty. “I couldn't if I wanted to. We communicate by e-mail and proxy. All I have is a code-name.”

“Which is…?”

“ACHERON.”

It was Jonah's turn to be startled. ACHERON, the Greek underworld, was also the name of the node from which the Twinmaker's bodies issued.

“What sort of information does this ACHERON provide?” he asked.

“Tactical, mainly. Who's going to be vulnerable at what time. Where to place a demonstration for maximum inconvenience. How best to perform some minor sabotage. Nothing earth-shattering. The best thing we've had from him was earlier this morning, when the MIU located you and he let us know. Even if he turns out to be a serial killer, we'll owe him for that one.”

Jonah leaned forward. “That's exactly what he wants. He's manipulating all of us—trying to nudge us in the directions he wants us to go. Hence Soul Pollution and the RAFT precept, and more. The body itself, for instance. He wants me or Marylin here, and he doesn't want us to go back until we've done something for him—whatever that is.” He could see that Mancheff was sceptical, but couldn't explain himself any better. “It's not just the killing, I'm sure,” he said. “There's more to it than that.”

“Regardless,” Mancheff said, “that doesn't change things for us.”

“You shouldn't listen to him. He's dangerous.”

“Ben quoi? We can't turn our back on good information.”

“You become an accessory if you help him evade justice.”

“I'm not helping anyone but myself, McEwen. I've told you all I know about ACHERON. If that doesn't enable you to catch him, that's your problem.”

“And is that what you told me last time we met, when I was trying to find out who killed Lindsay?”

Mancheff's eyes narrowed. “It was you who wouldn't talk, McEwen. Don't try to pin your failure on me.”

Jonah didn't look away. Kuei had told the truth, then. He had known who killed his father, three years ago—or had thought he knew. But why hadn't he told Mancheff? WHOLE could have been a powerful ally if revenge had been his goal.

“You said I slandered Lindsay,” he said. “How?”

Mancheff's suspicion didn't ebb. “You said he used d-mat. That amounts to slander.”

“Did I say why?”

“No. You weren't in the mood for explaining anything. You waltzed in, asked some questions, made some threats and waltzed out. We only let you go because of your relationship with Lindsay. If you'd ever tried to return, we wouldn't have been as accommodating.”

“Until now.” Jonah tried to guess what lay behind Mancheff's expression. Fear? “You're worried, aren't you?”

“Of course. J'suis pas'n cave. I'm not stupid. I've never had the power to make the MIU jump before, however briefly. Such power doesn't come without a price.”

“That's my point. What exactly did I threaten you with, back then?”

“Nothing substantial. It was a fine performance, though—an excellent bluff, if that's all it was. My clearest memory is of you saying: ‘You're not immune to this. No one's immune. When the time comes, you'll have to fight it, even though deep in your heart you won't want to. Either way, you'll betray yourself.’”

Jonah frowned. He'd said that? “Do you have any idea what I was talking about?”

“None. When I asked you, you said I'd know what you meant when the truth came out. As far as I can tell, it hasn't, but getting a body in the box with a RAFT precept seemed close enough. It smelt of controversy, of potential leverage. If it wasn't for you and the robine you spouted all those years ago I wouldn't hesitate using it to embarrass someone. And if you can't tell me any better, maybe I should just go ahead and do it anyway.”

“No, don't.” Jonah hastened to talk him out of that. It would succeed beyond Mancheff's wildest expectations. “Look, the only reason I can't tell you is because someone erased my memory. I honestly don't recall talking to you or anything else to do with the case. My guess is I came here to find out why Lindsay used d-mat, and the fact that you knew nothing about it must have convinced me of—something. What that might have been, I don't know. But I'll bet it related to why my memory was erased. If I knew where I went after speaking to you, that might tell us something.”

Mancheff's expression was almost pitying. “You said you were going back to SCAR.”

“I told you that?” There was no reason to doubt him, even if the information was unexpected. “Why would I go to SciCon, where Lindsay was killed? The inquest had started by that point. There wouldn't have been any more evidence—”

“You didn't say,” Mancheff broke in. “All you said was that it was time to bring things to a head.”

Jonah sagged into the seat. He couldn't recall ever feeling so frustrated. Three years ago, he had known who killed his father. He had known—and much more besides, it seemed. But now he was left scrabbling for clues, trying to follow a trail that had been cold for years.

Mancheff watched him closely. “There's nothing else we can talk about. We've come as far as we can.”

“Maybe.”

“No ‘maybe.’ That's it. I have to decide, now, what to do.”

“Please,” Jonah said, “be careful. The wrong move could cost you everything.”

“Yes, but you'd like that, wouldn't you?” The venom was back in Mancheff's eyes, no less potent than it had been in Kuei's. He stood, and indicated that Jonah should do likewise. “In the end, we can't even agree to differ. That's what sickens me most about d-mat. Everything is becoming the same. There's no room for conflicting ideologies, and the world is poorer for it.”

“People like you once said the same thing about radio, television and CRE.”

“And were they wrong?”

“I don't think so. But we just have to look in different places than before, to see the differences.”

“To see things that aren't there.”

“No, they're there. All you have to do is open your eyes.”

“All I see are zombies.”

“That's crap. People don't change; they'll always be different.”

“But they do change, McEwen. Haven't you realised yet? That's what d-mat's for.”

Mancheff opened the door and handed him over to the sentry waiting outside. Only then did Jonah realise why he couldn't argue with the WHOLE leader's final pronouncement. D-mat technology did have the power to change someone from the inside out without their consent or even their knowledge—and he himself was living proof of that. Who was he to dismiss a perfectly valid fear just because it had its roots in paranoia?

The Twinmaker was able to change anyone he desired, at any time he wanted. If that wasn't a thought designed to make someone paranoid, Jonah didn't know what was.

As she heard the door latch shut behind Jonah, Marylin couldn't help a brief stab of panic. She did her best to repress it, the hard truth being that she was unsure whether the fear was for him or for herself.

“What are you doing with Jonah?”

“He's talking to le caïd.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Or not. This way.”

Kuei's grip on her shoulder was tight. She let herself be guided down the corridor, even though her impotence rankled. Her annoyance at Jonah for submitting so easily still hadn't abated. Part of her wondered whether he would even attempt to resist interrogation, if it came to that. She decided he probably wouldn't. It wasn't in his best interest. But she couldn't quite find it in herself to blame him, not totally, if he swapped sides under pressure. His short time with the MIU had been little better than captivity.

She did worry about him. There was no point avoiding the thought, let alone denying it.

Kuei tugged her to a halt and a door swung open to her right. She felt a warm breeze touch her neck and smelt nothing but an empty room.

Kuei pushed her inside and onto her knees, immobilising her by holding her wrists high above her back.

“Once I'm outside,” said the woman, “you can take off the hood. But remember, I'll be outside.”

The implication was clear. Marylin nodded, and gasped when the pressure on her wrists finally eased. She collapsed onto her hands and knees. As soon as she heard the door click shut, she wrenched off the hood and threw it away from her as hard as she could.

Light blinded her. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she clenched them shut. She wouldn't cry, even though she could feel the need boiling within her. Even if no one was watching. WHOLE didn't deserve that. Or the Twinmaker. Or—

She clutched her skull. The urge to scream was almost irresistible. Damn him! Why did he have to be so important?

Her breath came in uneven gasps until the urge passed. She slowly sat up and looked around. Her eyes felt red-raw and swollen. Every colour was painfully vivid—not that there were many. Nondescript brown was the predominant theme, as drab as the fittings were cheap.

“Hello?”

The lack of reply didn't really surprise her. If this was a hotel, it wasn't the sort to provide much in the way of room service. The carpet under her knees was unchanging and worn. The walls were dead, lacking even the most basic of entertainment fixtures. There was a multimedia access point but nothing to plug into it. The only item of any sophistication within eyeshot was a basic meal-maker, a white box roughly sixty centimetres cubed sitting on a low cupboard near what was almost certainly the bathroom door. There was a bed, just large enough for two, a cupboard and a single, straight-backed chair. The smell of deodorant was strong. Apart from the framed ever-looping abstract opposite the bed, the room looked completely lifeless.

She wiped her nose and climbed to her feet. The meal-maker had put the thought of food into her head and it wouldn't go away. First, though, she checked the door to make sure it was locked. It was. Then she studied the meal-maker's display, selected a dish that wouldn't take too long, and went to the bathroom while it set to work.

There was a mirror in the bathroom. She avoided looking at herself—instead thought longingly of the shower, conscious of the smell issuing from the neck of her field uniform. Cosmetic agents weren't permitted when wearing active armour, so her skin felt as though it had been dipped in oil and rolled in sand. Later, maybe, if she had the chance. For all she knew, they could be on the road again in ten minutes, despite what Kuei had said.

The meal-maker still hadn't finished by the time she returned. Somewhere inside it, matter synthesisers similar in principle to the ones used by d-mat were creating a vegetable stew and fruit juice from nothing but information and energy. The template for the meal might have come from a five-star restaurant anywhere in the world. Its copy would be as good as the original and cost twice as much; hence, meal-makers were usually only found in hotels or in the homes of the rich. She wondered who would be charged for her convenience, and decided she didn't really care.

The door opened with a ping, and she removed the steaming contents set out on a small tray and put it on the bed. The serving was small but filling, and the juice tasted fresh. She consumed both with barely restrained hunger. For a couple of minutes, all thoughts of the case, of Jonah, of how she had come to be imprisoned in a hotel room in Quebec, ceased.

When she had finished, she put the tray and waste back into the meal-maker for disposal and studied the display again. Apart from basic cutlery, there was little she could select that might act as a weapon. The sharpest instrument was a steak knife, and she had to order the steak to get it. She did so. If the most she did was waste someone's money, that was something.

The faint hum of the meal-maker became loud in the room as she sat and waited. She had been alone for almost three quarters of an hour. There was nothing to do but kill time until someone outside the room came in and ended her vigil. Normally she would've had work to do, her workspace to access, other officers to talk to by VTC or person-to-person. Even the vast amount of data already contained in her overseer wasn't enough to keep her occupied; she had mulled it over too many times already. Stewing on it would only make her feel worse.

She had few options, however.

Another woman was dead. And so were Jason Fassini and Lon Kellow. The body-count was mounting. For all she knew, Jonah's name might already have been added to the list, and hers would follow soon after.

But it was all an illusion. Resurrection would wipe the slate clean.

No, she thought. That was the illusion. There were too many bodies lying around to doubt that people had died. Whatever had happened to those people, and wherever their discarded final experiences had gone, she didn't believe that they could be erased quite so easily. That was why there was still an Earth Justice Commission, and why the Twinmaker would still be charged with murder. Death was death was death, and bringing someone back to life didn't alter the fact that they had died in the first place.

The lock in the door clicked the same time as the meal-maker chimed. She was on her feet and had the knife behind her back before the door to the room swung open.

Jonah stood in the doorway, Kuei behind him. His eyes were uncovered and his hands were free. For a moment, she thought the worst, then Kuei nudged him forward. He took two steps into the room and seemed to notice her for the first time.

“Marylin?” He raised a hand to his forehead.

“Get some sleep,” the woman behind him said. “We won't be moving again for at least three hours.”

“Wait—” Marylin moved past Jonah, but the door slammed shut in her face. She banged on it out of frustration. If Kuei heard, she didn't respond.

Marylin turned back to Jonah, who hadn't moved. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Eh?” He half-turned, but she could tell he wasn't really looking at her.

“I guess you must be sick of talking,” she said. “Now you've brought them up to date, what's next on your list? Selling Hong Kong back to Europe?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” He moved to the bed and sat down. “I didn't tell them anything—nothing important, anyway.”

“By whose standards?”

“I got back more than I gave out.” His expression was vaguely disapproving. “That's all that matters.”

She bit down on a sharp reply. He still wasn't looking at her. “Are you—?”

“I'm fine.” He blinked and shook his head. “Thirsty, but fine. Can this thing make me some water?” he asked, indicating the meal-maker.

“There's a steak in there if you want it.”

“Pass. The thought of food makes me feel—” He shrugged. “I don't know. Not hungry, anyway.”

She shut the door. “Fiddle with it yourself. Can I assume that Kuei was telling the truth about being here for a while? If so, I'm going to freshen up.”

“I don't see why she'd lie.” Jonah slid off the bed and onto his knees, and crossed the short distance to the meal-maker that way. He concentrated on the display for a second or two, then typed in a selection. “Go ahead. I need to rest, anyway.”

She walked towards the bathroom door, unsealing her uniform as she went. On the verge of entering, she turned back. He had slumped down into a sitting position.

“What did you and Mancheff talk about?”

“The Twinmaker.” Jonah swivelled to face her. “Don't worry. I didn't say too much about d-mat. He just wanted to know who the body was.”

“You told him about the others?”

“I had to. He guessed there was a history.”

She could accept that. “Did you learn anything in exchange?”

“Only that ACHERON isn't a place. It's a who.”

“Someone we know?”

“There's a fair chance it's someone you know. He or she works for KTI.”

“How did Mancheff know that?”

“ACHERON is their contact. That's how he knew we'd been pinged.”

“But—” She stopped, thinking through the ramifications. She should've been surprised. ACHERON, the chink in KTI's armour, was linked to both WHOLE and the Twinmaker. Yet WHOLE didn't seem to know anything about the Twinmaker, and the Twinmaker, by first placing WHOLE literature with the bodies, then actually sending a body to WHOLE's home office in Quebec, seemed hell-bent on incriminating Mancheff and his allies. On the surface, it didn't make sense.

But it did, underneath. Jonah had been incriminated in a similar fashion. And now a RAFT precept had turned up on an item that had once belonged to Lindsay Carlaw. Who hadn't the Twinmaker incriminated so far?

Himself. The Twinmaker was ACHERON. He worked for KTI. She was sure of that. The only direction suspicion hadn't been overtly pointed was inward.

“Go have your shower,” Jonah said, his face blank.

“Uh, right.” She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, deep in thought, but her hands had continued working on her uniform. Her top was open to the waist, exposing the sheer, ribbed armour beneath. She stepped backwards, through the doorway, and shrugged out of the jacket.

One foot at a time, she undid and shed her boots. Gloves, socks and pants joined the jacket on the sink. Cool air brushed skin in the few places the armour left exposed. As she deactivated each individual sheath, the black, glossy fabric flattened and slid free. Slice by slice, the body beneath emerged. She checked herself carefully for spots or stains, signs that agents in the sheaths had been misbehaving. Apart from the odd red mark, she looked fine.

Better than fine, she thought, studying her profile in the mirror once she was completely naked. Her musculature was pronounced without being ungainly. She maintained tone the old-fashioned way: by working with weights and eating well whenever possible. She was pleased with her level of fitness, and with the way she looked, even if no one noticed it but her.

Jonah had noticed. Maybe. Not three years ago—that she knew for certain—but in the other room, while she had been undressing. He had been looking at her, and his eyes had been…not empty, but closed. For him, three years ago was a less than a week. She had forgotten.

Hadn't she?

She wished she could stop thinking about it. But what had Jason Fassini said after their trip to Houston? The less you think about it the more vulnerable to him you'll become…

She selected a water temperature hotter than she normally liked and stepped into the shower stall. At maximum pressure, the pounding of water on all four sides almost drowned out her thoughts. She didn't need to scrub with soap but, humming a brisk conjunto tune, she did so anyway. If there were agents in the soap, she would have to take the risk that they wouldn't mess with the armour, or else she could forgo the armour entirely for a while.

Her skin was red when she'd finished. Gusts of air both cooled and dried her as she stepped out of the shower. She'd almost certainly stripped away what little nanofood remained on her scalp, but she doubted there'd been much left anyway. Her natural hair was beginning to show: blonde and fine, a pale mist dusting her skull. The curve of her forehead was higher than she had become used to. It made her look different, like someone she knew or had once known.

She looked like her.

And:

She looked like Yoland Suche-Thomas.

In the mirror, she saw the woman the Twinmaker wanted to kill. The economical, high breasts, the narrow waist and hips, the skin dusted with freckles, the tidy thatch of pubic hair, the legs that had always seemed, to her, to be just a little too short. Between her body's physical reality and the function in society it served so well, she saw the person who had fears and needs and doubts and pains and a thousand other feelings she was used to suppressing. This woman was part of her—hidden for so long that she had almost forgotten she existed, but there nonetheless. It was this woman that blushed when she realised that Jonah was looking at her, was frightened to feel helpless when he wasn't around and, if she wasn't careful, would probably become aroused if she thought about seducing him.

And it was perversely hard not to think about it. The first time they'd had sex had been in a hotel room not unlike this one. Attempting to earth the tension between them (as she had justified the affair, at first) had done nothing but make it stronger. Their relationship had been comprised entirely of games, one after the other, an endless series of challenges and preemptive strikes with all the passion and communication of a battlefield. And it had gone nowhere. Work had gained an erotic charge she found unbearable; the more dangerous their assignments, the more addicted to them and to him she had been. The last case had made her realise just how desperate for adrenalin she had become.

The realisation had hit her like a rush in itself. She'd had to call it off before she could talk herself out of it. She had no choice. It had come too close already. The next case could've killed him. Or her. It had to end in betrayal. Don't think, she had told herself; just do. No amount of good sex was worth that risk. Already, the risk they had to take to guarantee good sex was too high.

Une liaison noire, Jonah had called it. He had never been more right.

And here they were, imprisoned in a hotel in a country hostile to the agency they worked for, while a serial killer stalked her by proxy and taunted them with hints of Jonah's murdered father…

She was human. He was human, too.

Both of them had their memories

They could never go back…

She hoped.

“What about Lindsay?”

He looked up as she stepped out of the bathroom. He was lying on the bed, watching a flatscreen transmission via the pixels on the back of his active coat. Somehow he'd linked the coat to the access point on the wall and found a basic news transmission. The coat hung over the back of the single chair, giving a slightly warped but presentable image. He'd turned the lights down to make the image appear brighter.

“Old Stott Despoja got another term?” he said, indicating an analysis of the recent URA Speaker elections. “Unbelievable.”

The sound was a murmur. She didn't believe he was really watching. There was a half-full jug of ice-cold water on the bedside table.

She said nothing. Dressed in her uniform pants and tunic, barefoot and painfully naked underneath, she moved across the room and sat on the bed.

He looked up at her.

“You learned something about Lindsay,” she prompted again.

“You could say that.” His voice was intense. “I found out I knew who killed him.”

“Really? And?”

“That's it. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't tell the EJC. I didn't tell Mancheff. I didn't tell the inquest. And I didn't tell you. Why not, Marylin? Why didn't I tell anyone?”

She shook her head. “I don't know, Jonah.”

“Maybe I thought no one would believe me, or that talking about it would put me in danger.” He looked down at his hands. “If I'd lost just a day's more memory, I'd be afraid that I killed him. That I planted the bomb myself. There's a means, after all. There's plenty of opportunity, and hell, there's even a motive. It's all too plausible.” He shook his head. “Luckily, that's about the only thing I can be sure of.”

“Likewise.”

He looked up at her. “I'm glad you think so.”

“Actually, I didn't mean it quite that way.” She leaned onto one hand. “ACHERON works for KTI, knows about Lindsay and you, and has access to the old JRM office. Why couldn't I be ACHERON, and therefore the Twinmaker?”

“You don't have the motive, for a start.”

“How do you know? Maybe I'm setting someone up. Maybe I'm getting back at you for letting me dump you all those years ago. Maybe it's a political statement of some kind.”

He watched her in silence, the moving pictures reflecting in his eyes like flames.

“All right, so it's far-fetched.” She shrugged. “I just don't see why you should automatically assume that you're the most paranoid person in this room.”

He didn't smile. “I didn't think I had any choice.”

“Wh—?” She stopped, replayed the conversation in her head. He wasn't talking about paranoia. “We all have choices, Jonah. Sometimes we regret the ones we make.”

“Do you regret it? The path you chose?”

“No.” She didn't hesitate. “It was the right thing to do at the time. What I regret is not being there for you when you needed someone. When you needed help. You could've told me who killed Lindsay and I would've listened. I would've helped you. Together, we—”

“But if you hadn't quit, Lindsay might not have died.”

The self-centredness of the comment floored her. “What?”

“No, seriously,” he said. “I'm not blaming you. It's just that I might've been less distracted, more alert, had you not walked out the day before.”

“Oh.” She granted him the point. “Would it have made that much difference?”

“I don't know. I couldn't have tried harder, that's for sure. I was looking for something to do, to keep my mind off you. I went over SciCon with a microscope, but I still missed that fucking bomb.”

“You would've missed it anyway, then,” she said. “You work better when you're pissed off. At that point you didn't really know that there was something to find.”

“True.” He looked away again. “But I went back there, apparently, after I came here. After Lindsay died. There was something important there that I missed the first time around. Or someone.”

“Did Mancheff tell you that as well?”

“Yes, but he doesn't know what I was after. That's something else I didn't bother to explain.” He sighed. “All in all, I seem to have taken secrecy to an extreme.”

“That's why you took Privacy, I guess. You didn't want anyone knowing what you were doing, or what you knew.”

“Or maybe I was just being ultracautious.”

“Even for you.”

“Yes.” His gaze studied the flickering picture for a while. His jaw worked; she could tell just by looking at him that he was tense. He looked like she felt. “And then there's the whole InSight thing. I mean—christ! I don't do v-med. It's like there were two of me walking around inside the same body. It doesn't add up any other way.”

She didn't know what to say. “You know how crazy that sounds.”

“Sure, sure.” He grimaced. “Verstegen told me you'd given them some statements about me—about us. He said I couldn't see them without your permission.”

“That's right. Do you want to see them?”

“I don't think so, no. But I'd like to know what you thought. You knew me pretty well. Did you, or do you now, believe I could've become someone like the Twinmaker? Do you really think I have it in me?”

She didn't answer the last question immediately. Neither “yes” nor “no” was enough. Each carried implications far beyond the question itself, which was itself fraught with complications.

You knew me…The past tense dismayed her, cut her more deeply than she would've guessed possible. More deeply than the questions that followed, which were obviously the core of his problem. Could he really have become someone like the Twinmaker?

She didn't know how she could answer without making things even more uncertain than they already were. And the more she thought about it, the more difficult it was to be sure what she thought.

Before she could decide, he leaned forward and kissed her.

That surprised her—but not half as much as her response.

Don't think.

She kissed him back for what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than a second or two. His lips were soft; she could feel the heat radiating off his cheeks; their tongues touched once, twice—

Just do.

Then he backed away, and his eyes were wide, almost frightened. “What are we doing?”

“Answering your question, I guess.”

“I don't understand. You hesitated. That was enough.”

She could see genuine confusion in his eyes, but she didn't want to spell it out. Would I kiss someone who might be a serial killer?

“This can't be happening,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn't make sense.”

“Does it have to?”

“Of course it does! You can't just switch me off and on like a—” He performed a mental U-turn. “But that's not what you're doing, is it? Christ. Three fucking years. You've had all the time in the world to change your mind.”

“I—” Had she changed her mind? She didn't know. All she knew was that, at that moment, kissing him back had felt right, regardless of the long-term ramifications of the act. Now, though, she was beginning to feel stupid, even though he had been the one to make the move.

She rolled away. “I'm sorry.”

“No. Hey. Don't be sorry.” He followed her across the bed, brought her back to face him. “Listen. It's just—it's me. I'm not thinking straight. Being this close to you, so soon, makes me feel—” He paused. “I don't know how it makes me feel, to be honest.”

“No? Well, that makes two of us.”

He looked so lost she took his nearest hand in hers and squeezed, momentarily glad for the silence. Too much was going on inside her head for words to express, and she didn't want to screw anything up by saying the wrong thing. If it wasn't already too late.

Her fingers were sweating.

She raised his hand and studied it, genuinely surprised and beginning to be concerned, but also relieved to have found a distraction.

“One thing I can tell you,” she said. “You're burning up.”

“I am?” Again, he was confused for a moment. “I don't feel hot.”

“Hasn't your overseer said anything?”

“No.”

“I couldn't be imagining it.” The sense-memory of his cheeks near hers was still strong, as was the evidence in her hands. She was certain no one healthy should radiate that much heat.

He still didn't believe her. She flattened his hand and pressed their palms together. “Let's link up and I'll have my overseer check yours. It could be misdiagnosing—”

He pulled his hand away. “No. I'll be okay.”

“Jonah—”

“What're you so worried about? QUALIA installed my overseer just days ago. It couldn't be malfunctioning. It's probably just my new bits still falling into place. I'll settle down eventually.”

She studied his eyes, searching for any sign that he was lying. She couldn't tell. “I guess if you feel okay—”

“I wouldn't go quite that far,” he said. “But I'm definitely healthy enough to want a shower.”

“Is that your way of changing the subject?”

“It might be.”

“Well, the bathroom's free. Go for your life.”

He nodded and went to stand up.

“Wait, Jonah—”

He stopped, half on the bed and half off. “What?”

“Don't be offended.” She felt unexpected regret that the moment had ended; the urge to touch him was still strong. “But please don't try that again. Not until all this is over, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He looked relieved. “We're both too fucking hopeless for words, aren't we?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad the feeling's mutual.”

Jonah turned on the shower while he undressed, but didn't step in immediately. The sight of himself in the mirror caught his eye, as it had before talking to Mancheff.

He did look sick, or at least wrong. There was no denying it. His body had muscles he didn't remember beneath skin slightly the wrong colour, both no doubt the fault of d-med and neither permanent, but still disconcerting. The only thing that looked right was the scar in the place of his right nipple, which he'd been meaning to have fixed for years. Marylin had good reason to be concerned.

But there was little he could do about it under the circumstances. Worrying would only make him feel worse.

The strips of Marylin's body armour lay on the cabinet like discarded socks—poor treatment for something worth more than a year of her old salary. He envied her the resources of her job with the EJC, even if he himself would gladly forego them all in exchange for independence. That was her decision. He couldn't expect her to fall into line with his expectations. Not any more.

His lips still tingled with an echo of hers. Kissing her had been insane, but the urge had been too strong to resist, just for an instant. And she had responded. That was the craziest thing of all.

It was, he told himself, something else he could do little about, for now.

He spent fifteen minutes under the shower, but felt no better for it. Dressed in underpants and jeans, he emerged from the bathroom to find Marylin asleep. She had curled onto her left side, facing the door and the empty half of the bed. The hotel's internal infotainment feed flickered on, its meaningless procession of current events made only marginally more irrelevant for appearing in poor fidelity via his jacket. He let it ramble. They had plenty of time to kill, and, even as he lay on the bed next to Marylin, careful not to disturb her, he knew that sleep would be difficult to find.

With the right equipment and know-how, he might have hacked his way through the channel and to the outside world. But a brief attempt earlier had brought him up against security systems he had never encountered before—software developed during his hibernation. He would never crack them without assistance, so had given up without trying.

In the outside world, the time was eight o'clock in the morning, an hour later at MIU-ACOC. He and Marylin had arrived in Canada fourteen hours earlier, and had been locked in the room together for over an hour. He wondered what Whitesmith and co were up to. Whether they were still trying to sweep Quebec in the hope of pinging Marylin and him again, or if they had developed a new strategy. The body might have reached them, assuming Mancheff had decided to send it. That would distract them for a while. But not for too long, he hoped. The longer Mancheff kept them captive, despite what Mancheff had said earlier, the less likely they were ever to be released.

He folded his hands behind his head and lay back. The bed seemed to rock beneath him. The tempo of Marylin's breathing became more rapid, and she mumbled something unintelligible. Then she settled again, her brow slightly furrowed as though it had collapsed under the weight of her thoughts.

The bed was still moving, though. Jonah swallowed nausea and tried to think of nothing at all.

At some point, he supposed, he must have fallen asleep, because suddenly someone was calling his name. The voice was male and tantalisingly familiar, but very faint. It seemed to be coming from the end of the bed.

“Jonah? Jonah? Can you hear me?”

He looked up. The voice was coming from his coat.

“Jonah?”

He sat bolt-upright in surprise. The face on the infotainment channel was one he knew well. Long, yet rounded, with a nose that should have looked out of proportion but somehow didn't. Eyes that were brown and sharp, filled with a keen, observant intelligence. Thick, white hair. A thin-lipped, almost cruel mouth that rarely smiled.

“Lindsay?”

“Hello, Jonah. It's been a long time.”

“But—”

“Not too loud. You don't want to wake her.”

Jonah glanced down at Marylin beside him, his mind in turmoil. She slept on, unawares. That, oddly, reassured him, took the edge off the shock of seeing his father again. A feeling of dislocation crept over him.

“I do, actually. You two never met.”

“Now isn't the time. This is between you and me. I'm here to offer you my help.”

“I don't need your help.”

“Are you sure? I can leave now, then, if you want.”

“No. Wait!” He slithered to the edge of the bed and reached out with one hand, as though he could physically restrain the image of his father. “You have to tell me who killed you!”

Lindsay looked puzzled. “Don't you remember? No one did.”

“No one?”

“That's what I said.”

“But that means you're—”

“Alive? Of course I am. I have been all along.”

“Where are you, then?”

“I can't tell you that. I'm sorry.”

Jonah blinked. “Of course. You faked your own death and moved in with Elvis.”

“There's no need to be sarcastic.”

“Maybe. But why didn't you come back earlier? Why are you here now?”

“Because I didn't realise, earlier, what was going on. The Twinmaker is getting out of hand. He needs to be neutralised.”

“Can you tell me who he is?”

“No, but I can tell you where he is. Will that do? I hesitate to intervene any more than that. I am violating protocol enough as it is.”

Jonah studied the image. It was grainy and in poor colour. The voice was soft. He had to concentrate to understand what Lindsay was saying.

Protocol?

“The Twinmaker contacted me an hour ago, seeking asylum,” Lindsay said. “He's in a GLITCH-free zone on Mars, waiting for a reply. We're stalling him for the time being—long enough, hopefully, for you to get to him.”

“I'll have to get out of here, first. Your friends in WHOLE locked us in.”

“I know. I'll unlock the door in a moment.”

“You will? I thought you'd go along with anything your mate Mancheff decided.”

“My motives are not so simple that I can't disagree with an ally. Besides, your captors left some time ago. Their plan was to leave you here and let the MIU know when they were well on their way.”

“Really? I guess that's what I might've done. But it doesn't explain why you're helping me.”

“Because I can.”

Jonah felt the bubble of unreality surrounding him stretch. “You say the Twinmaker contacted you. Does that mean he knew you were alive?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You told him.”

“I did?”

“According to him, that is the case.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. My awareness of that period is somewhat limited.”

Jonah baulked at that, finally. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I'm finding this a little hard to accept.”

“What, exactly?”

“Everything. You, the Twinmaker, WHOLE—”

“Don't be suspicious, Jonah. Trust me, please.”

“Why should I? I'd be insane to, really. This can't be happening.”

Lindsay looked hurt. “It is, Jonah.”

“Really? Then how can you see Marylin? How did you find me here when the MIU has failed to so far?”

“Patching into your coat via the internal media link was a trivial feat. In a similar fashion, I have obtained access to your room's security system. As to how I found you, once I'd followed the chain from our old housekeeper to the MIU, and from there to WHOLE, all I had to do then was locate Karoly Mancheff.”

“And he told you?”

“I didn't actually talk to him, but he had the information I needed.”

Jonah shook his head. “I don't buy it. It's too convenient, too glib. There's nothing I can check. Everything you say could be meaningless crap. It always was before.”

“I can understand you feeling that way,” Lindsay said, the lines tightening around his eyes. “I've had a long time to think about our relationship, and I am sorry for many of the things I said and did—and for just as many that I didn't say or do. But there's nothing I can do to correct them, now, and this has nothing to do with the past. This is about the Twinmaker. This is about you. And it is also, ultimately, about QUALIA.”

“Ah.” Jonah nodded. “The missing link. Is there anything you won't try to wedge into this?”

Lindsay sighed. “Go on, then. Try the door.”

“Why?”

“It's unlocked.”

“It can't be.”

“It is. Check it!”

“No!” Jonah folded his arms and turned away. He could see Lindsay's face in the corner of his eye—lips pursed disapprovingly—and all of a sudden he felt five years old again.

“Okay, look.” He turned back. “If, just for the sake of the argument, I accept that you're real, will you tell me precisely where the Twinmaker is?”

“Of course. Otherwise this conversation would serve no purpose.” Lindsay relaxed slightly as he related the information. “The GLITCH address is opaque, as I said, so you'll have to use the KTI identifier. That is K-9738-S-8435-A. The MIU has provided you with an all-access ID, so you won't need money or special authorisation to get there. All you need is a booth.” A map appeared on the screen, overlaying Lindsay's face. A cursor danced. “You're here. Elevators here and here. Down two levels to the subbasement level and along these corridors. The booth is a mass-freighter. It is powered up, but not expecting deliveries for another hour. That should give you plenty of time. There's only one booth at the other end, so you'll have to go alone.”

Jonah studied the map and the information. It all sounded reasonable enough, but for a few basic details.

“I saw you die with my own eyes, Lindsay. How do you explain that?”

“Jonah, please. Can't we just get on with it? I've given you an opportunity to confront the man you seek. Isn't that enough?”

“Should it be? What happens if I don't take it?”

“Then you may never have such an opportunity again.”

“To do what, exactly?”

“That's up to you. It always has been, wouldn't you say?”

The screen went blank for a second.

Jonah leaned forward, startled. “Wait, Lindsay—”

The hotel's infotainment channel returned. Panic gripped him.

“Lindsay? Lindsay, come back!”

“Jon?”

He turned at the sound of Marylin's voice, realising only then that he had slid off the bed and onto his knees before the coat. How he had got there, he didn't remember. His head was spinning.

She was half-awake, her eyes barely open. He had woken her by shouting. The thought suddenly occurred to him that he might have woken himself up, too.

“Jon?”

“Mary—shhhh. It's okay.”

“Who're you talking to?”

“No one. It's just—” a dream? “—just a movie. Go back to sleep. It's okay, really.”

He climbed onto the bed and lay next to her. She moved closer, and for a moment he didn't know what to do. His first instinct was to pull away, but he knew that would only wake her again. Deciding that fighting it would be counterproductive, he put an arm around her. Her breathing slowed almost instantly.

“Mm?”

“Shhhh. Go back to sleep.”

He tried to relax with her, but failed completely. His mind was turning, and the burbling of the infotainment channel kept him anchored to reality. He was awake now, he was sure of that. But he felt hot and giddy at the same time. Had he been asleep before? Could he have dreamed or hallucinated the entire conversation in some feverish daze?

He replayed as much of the encounter as he could recall. Lindsay had given him an address, he remembered that clearly, but on other points, he was uncertain. Lindsay hadn't seemed entirely comfortable. And he hadn't quite looked right, either. Something, somehow, was wrong. A lack of emotion, perhaps? Or his complete evasion of the matter of his death?

Jonah frowned at the ceiling. It had to be a dream, a harmless wish-fulfilment created by his unconscious and limited to the information he had. There could be no substance to it. Lindsay was still dead and the door was still locked no matter how much he wanted it to be otherwise. He was stupid to let it bother him this much.

But what, he wondered, if it wasn't a dream? What if the image he had just spoken to had been genuine but its source hadn't been real? If it had been a computer-generated image—an electronic copy of Lindsay's face and voice—nothing but a convincing fake?

Then—why? And who was actually behind it? And what would be waiting for him on Mars?

He shut his eyes tight, willing himself to sleep, or at least to stop thinking. He counted Marylin's breaths instead, hoping his body would adopt her rhythms.

A dream. Yes, that's all.

At fifty-one, the meal-maker went ping.

He sat up, only reluctantly conceding that he had heard the sound at all. Slowly, so as not to disturb Marylin again, he slid down the bed, then off it, and knelt in front of the boxy appliance.

A green “ready” light was flashing.

He opened the door.

Inside was a note handwritten on a small piece of paper. It said:

So you don't forget: K-9738-S-8435-A.

ALC

Jonah held it up so he could see it better. It was written in Lindsay's handwriting. The initials were Lindsay's and the ink was still wet. It even smelt like him…

The world turned around Jonah for a moment, as though everything had suddenly, fundamentally changed, leaving him dizzy and disoriented—

Then it settled back the way it was, and nothing had changed at all, except for one thought:

The Twinmaker accessed the LSM codes essential for Resurrection. Was there anything stopping him from Resurrecting Lindsay and changing him in the process?

There was only one way to find out.

Try the door, the image of Lindsay had said.

Jonah stood and did exactly that.

Once the body of his seventeenth victim was on its way, and he was certain its arrival would have the desired effect, he allowed himself a moment to rest. There was always a moment for contemplation before the signal came, telling him it was time to return to his other duties. There was usually no immediate hurry, although he was conscious that he would have to return sooner rather than later.

ACHERON was spotless, as it always was. All his tools were gone. The rack still bore droplets of blood that had yet to be erased. He liked the effect on an aesthetic level, although it was rather too morbid for his present mood.

With nothing but his thoughts, now, to distract him, a moment's reflection could become severely depressing.

What had he done?

He looked down at his hands.

Seventeen.

The number was hard to comprehend. It was either too large or too small, depending on how he looked at it. Seventeen women killed. The originals might never know, but he did, and the people he was doing it for did. That was the important thing. Or so he told himself. But what had he done?

Killing wasn't his work, and he had hated it at first—or if not actually hated it, then despised its vulgarity. Torture he knew already, but the ending of a life was a quite different experience. Only with time had come an appreciation for the forbidden art. It was more than power, more than sex, more than religion. It was like creating a child, but in reverse. Primal, yet illuminating in the higher sense, it was magical, ineffable, numinous—beyond words.

His training in forensic psychology told him why he always felt so depressed afterwards; once the murder was over, there was nothing for him to do except return to the real world, where his personal power was inevitably reduced. How could it not be? The real world was dull, mundane, routine. He lacked control. There was little in the way of “flow experience,” to borrow a phrase. Here he was a god, looking down upon his creation with the power of life and death in his hands. In KTI he was just one of many shackled to Fabian Schumacher's outdated dreams of capitalist glory. No matter how much power he had, it was nothing compared to that which he exercised in ACHERON.

Even the reasons behind the murders were becoming less and less meaningful, as though the facade was beginning to crumble. It was hard to remember, now, whether the plan had required the murders or the murders had required the plan. Either way, the end result was that he was both hooked and jaded. He knew he couldn't stop, but at times he wasn't sure if he could be bothered continuing.

There were moments when he wondered whether some serial killers snapped under circumstances like these and returned to normal life—just as, in reverse, some previously mild-mannered clerks were finally pushed over the brink. Would memories of murder ever be enough for them? They certainly wouldn't be for him, if he gave up now. There was so much more to it than that. If he failed to finish what he had set out to do—whether it took seventeen murders or seventy-seven—then he would not be able to rest in peace, alive or dead.

He laughed bitterly. When he thought like that, his pomposity offended even him. What motive did he really need to kill except the desire to kill? Wasn't that enough? Telling himself that it was a game, or a vendetta, or whatever took his fancy, was little more than employing a shallow euphemism to keep the guilt away. But the truth was: he felt no guilt. So why did he feel the need to justify himself? It was strange. He could understand why the MIU had devoted so many resources to catching him. He was a fascinating individual.

Those fools in the MIU…His smile broadened as he thought of the way he led them along. It was almost second nature now. Mancheff and WHOLE were no better, if the RAFT precept—an obvious hint—failed to trigger a response. He had them so thoroughly confused that he could continue the game indefinitely, if he wanted to.

If he wanted to…

Where was that damned signal?

He pushed himself across the empty space of ACHERON and instructed his assistant to erase the mess on the rack. Calling a large, curved screen into existence, he began to browse through the systems he had installed in the network to ensure that everything was running properly. He also checked the time: 0915. The signal was at least an hour late. The minutes had flown by while he sat waiting.

Something was wrong.

He checked the KTI mass/energy budget. Taking into account all recent Resurrections, and his own manipulations of the system, the figure was roughly one thousand Luhrs less than it should have been.

Something was very wrong.

The obvious places to check next were the safe-houses, and even though he had already half-guessed what he might find, had known in his heart that it was bound to happen eventually, his expression turned to fury when he saw what one of them contained.

Him! His rage echoed wordlessly through the confined space of ACHERON. Traitor!

This was no accident. It was deliberate sabotage.

He resisted the impulse to open a line between ACHERON and the safe-house. There was no point trying to communicate, and no time for recriminations, or pleas. That would only rob him of the element of surprise. He had to act quickly, before the situation went too far out of hand.

It took a matter of seconds to coordinate the transfer. There was no way, in theory, his arrival could be anticipated for certain, but his journey would be cloaked by his assistant anyway. It paid to be thorough—especially when confronting someone no less thorough, and no less deadly or desperate, than himself. One of them had to die, and he would be damned rather than let it be him, if he wasn't damned already.

But it was all his own fault, he had to admit that. He had let his guard down, become too trusting. His plans of late had been going too well, and he had become complacent. It would take only one small error to bring it all to an end. He would not make that mistake again.

Cursing the ghost of Lindsay Carlaw, he submitted himself to the fire of d-mat, and let thoughts of vengeance carry him across the solar system to his quarry—

—and came out with pistol in hand, firing at anything that moved.

Two thoughts made him smile as the slugs hit home. One: it was odd to think of this person as “quarry.” And two: from an external viewpoint, the final outcome was difficult to determine. Who, exactly, had won?

He knew, and that made all the difference. If his quarry had expected him, and hadn't been slow drawing his own pistol, maybe it would've ended differently.

But it didn't. He knelt by the body for a moment, feeling the delicious afterwash of adrenalin tug away the regrets and uncertainty he had felt earlier. It was good to have a direction again, to have a focus for his anger. It left him feeling oddly cleansed, although he could never have justified that sensation—even to himself.

Marylin rolled over, reached for something, and was startled to find it missing. Dream-fogged, she half-opened her eyes and struggled for full consciousness. What was she looking for? She found nothing familiar. This wasn't her bed. It wasn't even her room. She could hear booted clomping feet not far away. Where the hell—?

Then the door burst open, and she sat bolt upright. It was supposed to be locked! Realisation hit her. Jonah?

“Marylin!”

She was alone on the bed, and she wasn't dreaming. The man standing in the doorway was Odi Whitesmith.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” she said.

He moved forward, allowing a flood of MIU agents into the room.

“Are you okay?” he asked, helping her up.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so. I've been asleep for—I don't know how long. How did you get here?”

“Crossed the river from Ottawa. You're in Hull, just on the Quebec-USA border. All this time we've been looking for you and you've been practically next door.” A medic pressed between them and she waved her away. “QUALIA picked up Jonah's d-mat signature in the network,” Whitesmith went on. “His departure point was the mass-freighter in the basement, here. We moved in and searched room by room until we found you.”

“Where's ‘here’?” she asked.

“The De Gaulle Hotel. There's no sign of anyone else, apart from staff.”

She tried to think. “They must've gone, left us here. But Jonah—You said he left via d-mat?”

“Undoubtedly. His destination is off-Earth, but we can't tell much more than that. The receiver isn't listed in GLITCH.”

Off-Earth, she echoed. Free-fall? The Twinmaker?

She felt hollow.

Whitesmith studied her closely, with some concern. “We're going to have to examine you, Marylin. You know the procedure. Forensic first, then medical.”

“Okay, okay.” She stood. “But I'm fine, really. Just exhausted. They locked us in here and told us to sleep.”

“Who?”

She condensed the story into as few words as possible, knowing a full and detailed testimony could wait until later. First priorities were Jonah and the body of the latest victim.

“You saw it?” he asked when she reached that point. “And…?”

“Messy, but not as bad as it has been; I think he was in a hurry. She met all the other criteria, though, except for the note.” She described the RAFT precept found at the disposal scene and its connection to Jonah.

“You think that means something?”

“I think it was a dig at both Jonah and Mancheff. More head-games.”

“Is there any way we can be sure of that?”

“Only by asking him.” She looked around the room, at the agents examining it, recording its tiniest details for later perusal. Jonah's absence shocked her deeply. How had he got out? And where had he gone? After everything that had happened the night before, she felt betrayed, used.

The time in her overseer was 1105. So not the night before at all. Her circadian rhythms were completely screwed. She had been asleep less than two hours.

“Jonah must've left a while ago,” she said. “An hour or more. Has someone followed him?”

“We're trying. The receiver is jammed. QUALIA thinks it might be in use, but how it could be operating without a recognisable signal emerging from it is anyone's guess.”

She shook her head, as mystified as he. Her head ached with unanswered questions. No doubt Whitesmith felt the same. From his position, her story must have sounded paper thin, and she was grateful that he seemed to believe her. She had, after all, let an important suspect escape from her care. Extenuating circumstances or not, the matter deserved to be reviewed, and at a later date she would submit to the process gladly. Now, though, there were more important things.

She wanted to tell him about ACHERON, WHOLE's leak within KTI, but she couldn't, not with so many people around and so much attention focussed on her. She would have to get him alone first. Besides, the process of examination made talking difficult. She was moved out of the room and into the hallway to allow investigation of the room to continue unimpeded. Her skin and clothes were swept clean by a tide of nanomachines, beginning at her extremities and working inward, tickling faintly as they went, to the small of her back, where they were collected and taken away for examination. Among the data recorded were the position and type of every particle not native to her body. Some of those foreign particles would have come from the van and the WHOLE head office. Some may even have drifted from Kuei or Mancheff, allowing genetic records to be checked. Some would certainly have come from Jonah.

A brief medical examination confirmed that she was as fit as she thought she was. Once given the go-ahead, she reclaimed the remainder of her clothes and dressed as fully as she was able to. The active armour would have to wait until later, when she could get it back from the forensic team.

“Now where?” she asked Whitesmith as he guided her along the hallway.

“There's a rack of mobile booths in the carpark. We're going to follow this trail while it's hot. Are you up to it?”

She looked at him and saw his exhaustion plainly through a facade of determination. He must have been working without rest for—how long? She couldn't even begin to guess. For a moment she felt guilty about the hour or two she had snatched in the hotel room.

The guilt didn't last long, however. She had a feeling she would soon be grateful for that rest. It might be a long time before she next had the opportunity.

“Get me a coffee,” she said, “and I'm all yours.”

Information moved faster than she did. By the time they arrived at the MIU operations centre, a room barely large enough for five adults with no free wall space for visual displays, the booth that was Jonah's destination had been reopened. One armed, heavily armoured and pressure-suited agent had been sent to investigate. An attempt to trace her signal through the KTI network failed, as it dipped briefly through the Pool, passed through a secure anonymous relay, then presumably returned to the KTI network at a far removed point. The route had obviously been designed to baffle pursuit by the highest levels of KTI. Not even QUALIA could tell where the agent would end up—let alone what or who would be waiting for her.

Marylin was very glad that she had managed to avoid that particular job, even though she would have done it if asked. It was good to be back in her proper place—overstressed, underappreciated and just as lost as ever.

There wasn't time for coffee. First she downloaded the images she had recorded of the body of the latest victim and handed them over to Indira Geyten and the home team for analysis. Next, she sent a trace through GLITCH, looking for the woman who had been with Mancheff, and came up with a Nataline Kuei DuBas, missing for three years since a medical accident. Then she organised a search of registered mass-freighters in the former Canadian region, looking for firms or people who also possessed a license to transmit restricted items. There were one hundred and seventeen matches. Fifty of those owned booths that matched the dimensions of the one in the WHOLE head office. Thirteen of these were known to be portable. None were supposed to be in the region in which Jonah and Marylin had been pinged, which, it turned out, had been in a predominantly rural area several hours' drive north of Hull.

The information was passed on to the LEOs in Quebec. Whether anything would be done with it remained to be seen. The lead was tenuous, and the motivations of the local LEOs far from certain.

Before she could move on to the next task, which was to see how Fassini's Resurrection was proceeding, word finally came from QUALIA. Twenty minutes had passed since she had arrived at ACOC, almost forty since the agent had left to follow Jonah's trail.

“We're detecting a UGI broadcast matching that of Agent Bresland in the Noctis Labyrinthus region of Mars.” The AI sounded pleased, and Marylin could well understand why. The response had come more quickly than it could have; if the receiver had been much further out-system, perhaps in the asteroid or Kuiper belts, they might not have known for hours. “Robinson Outpost reports an automated weather station in that region,” QUALIA continued. “There are no permanent settlements nearby.”

“Why would a weather station have a d-mat booth?” Marylin asked.

“I presume the booth is not an official installation,” QUALIA said. “It may have been added at a later date, for reasons as yet unknown.”

“It's in a GLITCH shadow,” Whitesmith observed. “And its KTI address is untraceable. It's probably a safe-house of some kind, or a relay point.”

Marylin nodded. “What about Bresland? Any voice contact yet?”

“Attempts have been made to establish a VTC link. Please bear in mind that this information is several minutes old by the time it reaches us. We must be patient—” The AI stopped. “Yes. The link has now been established. At this point, Agent Bresland is alive and well.”

The tension level in ACOC dropped a notch at the news that there was, so far, one less colleague to mourn. Marylin keyed her implants to the feed coming from the distant agent and settled back to watch.

She saw a blank wall. Bresland had, sensibly, not left the d-mat booth until she was certain the information she was transmitting was reaching its destination at Robinson Outpost.

A hand appeared in one corner of the field and a gloved fingertip tapped for the booth to open. The sound of Bresland's breathing was loud as the panels slid aside. There were no sudden shifts of air pressure. Telemetry recorded by the suit indicated that the environment she had just exposed herself to was close to Earth normal, apart from gravity. In appearance, it looked like nothing more than an empty prefab corridor.

Bresland stepped forward, ultraviolet discharge weapon—which wouldn't cause punctures in sealed environments—in one hand and eyes constantly scanning ahead. The corridor was indeed empty. The booth was a portable unit tucked into a cul-de-sac at the inner perimeter of what appeared to be some sort of geodesic dome made out of translucent orange plastic. The corridor led inwards, then turned left.

There were streaks of a dark-coloured fluid on the floor, leading along the corridor to the booth or in the other direction. Bresland knelt to examine the streaks and to take a sample. Close up there was no doubt that the fluid was blood.

“Shit,” Whitesmith said, half under his breath but loud enough to startle Marylin.

Bresland moved carefully along the corridor until she reached the corner, then inched around it. A slight movement in the corner of her eye made Marylin start, until she realised that it was caused by a palm leaf turning in an artificial breeze. The interior of the dome was full of plants. Not all of them were green.

Again Whitesmith spoke. “An air refinery. Someone must've thought about living here. Doesn't look like anyone's maintained it in a while, though. Any guesses why McEwen came here?”

Marylin shook her head, unconsciously holding her breath as Bresland surveyed the jungle-like interior of the dome. Plants pressed in on every side. There were hundreds of hiding places. She half-expected an ambush at any moment. It would be all too easy.

But all that Bresland found was more blood: a large pool of it at the end of the streaks. The conclusion was obvious. Someone had been injured at or near that place, then had moved or been dragged to the d-mat booth. Recently, too. The blood was still wet.

Bresland knelt to examine the pool, and saw, not far away, a sneaker half-visible behind a rack of hydroponic potatoes.

“Dupk,” she whispered, moving closer to examine her find. The sneaker was occupied. One denim-clad leg stretched across the floor, out of sight behind the rack of plants. Bresland tried to swing the rack with one hand, but found it too heavy. Putting her UDW temporarily in its holster, making Marylin wince with apprehension, she used both hands to lever the weight to one side.

The rack shifted with a low grating noise. Another leg appeared, then the hem of an active jacket not dissimilar to the one Jonah had been wearing.

Then Marylin realised it was Jonah. He was lying face down in the corner behind the rack as though he had crawled there to hide. He didn't move.

This time even Whitesmith was silent.

Bresland drew her UDW once she had full access to the space behind the rack. Moving carefully forward, she stretched out a hand and rolled Jonah over. Her glove came away bloody. Jonah's eyes stared glassily up at Bresland, sightless and wide. Visible between the lapels of his jacket were the bullet holes where he had been shot three times in the chest. He was undoubtedly dead.

Dead.

It took a while to sink in. The routine examination of the scene, performed by remote from ACOC, hardly registered. The rest of the dome was searched and found to be empty. Samples of the spilled blood were taken and forensic agents crawled over every surface. Backup was organised from the nearest settlement in order to keep free the one booth at the site. Jonah's silent body—not equipped with the inbuilt alarm standard to EJC officers that would have made finding him much easier—was wrapped and prepared for transport.

Marylin went through the motions with all the awareness of a cog in an antique clock, operating under the usual assumption that getting people and equipment to the site was the most important consideration. But the preliminary reports from pathology agents quickly put paid to that idea.

“We have cellular activity in the body's hippocampi,” Indira Geyten reported, snapping Marylin out of her daze.

“You mean he might be—?”

“No. He's dead, but his brain might not be. Not entirely. That's the area most affected by InSight.”

“We'll bring him in ASAP, then,” Whitesmith said. “Give QUALIA a Resurrection order while we're at it. I want him back on deck within two hours.”

“But he's not covered—”

“I don't care. Get approval direct from Verstegen if you have to. We need to know what the hell is going on, and he might be the only one who can tell us.”

Geyten nodded and severed the line. Bresland was ordered to drop everything and get the corpse into the booth. Within ten minutes, the body was on its way.

Marylin baulked at that point. Catching Whitesmith's eye, she indicated the operations centre's exit and mimed drinking from a cup.

“Are you okay?” he asked via prevocals.

“Not at the moment,” she admitted, “but I will be. I just need time out for a second.”

“Take it, but stay online. If I need you, I'll call.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Odi.”

He didn't look up as she left the room. She admired his intensity, his focus, and hoped that she worked as efficiently when the issues weren't quite so personal.

Jonah was dead…

The corridor outside was crowded, but there was a low-g toilet nearby if she needed privacy. The last thing she wanted was to create a scene. Deciding she could maintain her composure for the moment, she edged her way to the nearest refreshment cubicle and selected a revitalising brew. Apart from caffeine, the mix contained a dose of psychoactives designed to keep someone awake and alert for extended periods. The button looked well-pushed, as it did in most EJC operations centres.

Too fast. That was the problem. She felt overwhelmed. Barely twenty-four hours ago, Jonah had stood on his own two feet for the first time since his reawakening, and now he was dead. She felt guilty for letting it happen, not only as the EJC officer into whose care he had been entrusted, but as—

What? She didn't know. They had once been lovers but weren't exactly friends. They could work together reasonably well, when they tried. They couldn't seem to get rid of each other. Was that fate or just coincidence?

He had managed to get rid of her easily enough when he wanted to, she mused, leaning against a wall and letting the low gravity soothe her aching muscles. The door to the hotel room had been locked from the outside. After she had fallen asleep, someone had let him out. Who and why were mysteries—although WHOLE and to help him escape were the obvious answers. Yet it seemed that Mancheff and Kuei had left the building shortly after she and Jonah had been locked in, and instead of escaping Jonah had gone to Mars.

And died.

The look in his empty eyes haunted her, as though somehow she had contributed to his death. But that was impossible. He had left her behind, after all; she hadn't abandoned him. If she'd been with him, maybe she would have made a difference. Maybe.

The questions multiplied in her mind. Why had he left her? Had it been planned from the start. If so, how? What was the significance of Mars? Was it connected in any way with what he had learned in Quebec? Did it relate to the Twinmaker or the murder of Lindsay Carlaw? And—

Where did it leave her? What if their brief moment of intimacy had been nothing but an illusion, a trick to lull her into a false sense of security? Would she ever be able to trust him again?

Time passed; she wasn't sure how long.

When Whitesmith called, she was still leaning against the wall with the empty drink container in her hand.

“He was shot with his own gun,” he said.

Mentally she reeled. “Of course.”

“I'll assume that's sarcasm. Ballistic evidence confirms that the bullets were fired from the pistol you reported missing four days ago. He was shot three times from close range by someone around his own height, and he doesn't appear to have struggled or fought with his murderer. He wasn't drugged or unconscious when killed, although his body does show marked signs of viral infection.”

“Nanos?”

“Natural. He had a bug of some kind, a newish strain he obviously wasn't resistant to.”

She remembered his fever, his occasional vagueness, his lack of appetite. “His overseer should've dealt with that.”

“In theory, yes, but it wasn't set for maintenance. He was chock-full of medical agents finishing off the d-med work, and his overseer would've interfered with them. The agents treated the symptoms of the virus but didn't attack the cause, because they weren't programmed to. They would've let a fever run its course, within reason, rather than inhibit his own defences.”

“How sick was he, at the end?”

“It's hard to be sure, but his viral load was high.”

“He could've been confused, then, not completely culpable—”

“He was ‘culpable’ enough to slip through your fingers,” he said. “Don't worry, Marylin. You won't be reprimanded or put under suspicion. It's he who'll have explaining to do.”

“How far away's the body?”

“Not very. But the real clue might come from the blood found at the site. There are two types: one is definitely Jonah's; the other QUALIA is checking at the moment. If we get a match, we might have our killer.”

“Jonah injured him?”

“That's the obvious conclusion, although he doesn't have any blood on his hands, or a weapon on him.”

Marylin thought it over. To obtain an ID this way would be an unexpected bonus. Almost unbelievably lucky.

“Would it be crazy to suggest that we're being set up?”

“Certainly not crazy to think it,” he said. “Although in this case, I doubt it. It's too complex and too vague, and it doesn't seem to be aimed at anyone in particular.”

“True.” She couldn't help a slight smile. “Maybe the Twinmaker has finally made a mistake.”

“Yeah, but—” An alarm in the background cut him off. A split-second later it sounded in her workspace. “What the hell?”

“Unauthorised intrusion,” she translated, never having seen the alert in action before but remembering her training in station security. “QUALIA? What's happening?”

“I have a non-KTI transmission incoming through cargo section 14,” said the AI.

“Animate? Inanimate?” Whitesmith pressed.

“The packets I am receiving contain structures consistent with human DNA and other organic compounds.”

“Not a bomb?”

“At this stage, it appears not.”

“Source?”

“An anonymous relay by the name of ‘MadDuchess.’”

Marylin realised then. “It's the body, Odi. The latest victim!”

“How do you know that?”

“Mancheff asked for a safe relay and MadDuchess is what I told him. I guess he finally decided to cooperate.” The relief was surprisingly strong, but understandable. Fassini, Kellow and Jonah might not have died for nothing after all. “We're about to get what we went there for.”

“Great, but can you trace it?” Whitesmith asked QUALIA.

“No.”

“Indira. Are you overhearing this?”

“Yes.” The voice of the head of the home team was a calming presence.

“Can you arrange for someone to collect the body in—how long, QUALIA?”

“Five minutes.”

“Consider it done,” Geyten confirmed.

“Thanks.”

“Marylin—?”

She threw the drink container into a recycling slot and headed for the operations centre. “I'm on my way.”

The body arrived barely a minute before Jonah's, giving the home team more work than it could efficiently handle on its own. Away team staff were requisitioned to take up the slack. Marylin supervised the distribution of resources while Whitesmith concentrated on the reams of data flowing in. Several times she had to coordinate with Jago Trevaskis, and found him to be much less antagonistic than when they had last spoken. She had been forgiven, it seemed, or else he was feeling magnanimous, since the venture Herold Verstegen had backed against his advice had gone so disastrously wrong. On paper, anyway.

If the amount of information coming in was a measure of the success of the operation, however, it had exceeded anyone's expectations, even if most of it was inconclusive. A brand of post facto nanomachines had erased most of the sensitive evidence from the dome, such as fingerprints and fibres, then self-destructed. The nominal owners of the dome thought they had sold it and transferred registration eighteen months ago. They had, in fact, received money for the sale, but the paperwork had not been filed. They were as surprised as anyone to learn that a murder had taken place inside it, but were more than happy for the dome to be impounded.

The plants had been maintained irregularly by automatic systems. There was no obvious sign of even occasional habitation. The GLITCH shadow that enshrouded it was not an uncommon feature for an outpost on frontier Mars. However, the booth's location identifiers must have been removed from within the KTI network by someone possessing the authority to edit such information. Someone who had left no trace of such an erasure.

On top of her official duties, Marylin found time to check with the housekeeper of Jonah's unit in Faux Sydney to see if the wooden sign Jonah said had come from Lindsay's study had indeed done so. The housekeeper recognised the snapshot of the item—its image was on file as an item of furniture—but could not explain how or why it had come to be on the other side of the world, nor even when it had been removed.

Fair enough, she thought. The AI was only as good as the information it was given. If she found the answer frustrating, then that was just par for the course for the Twinmaker investigation.

But at least some definite information had come to light during her absence. Indira Geyten had analysed the inert markers in Jonah's spine, as recorded from his initial examination. The analysis concluded that he was the last Jonah McEwen to use d-mat prior to his hibernation. That didn't necessarily confirm that he was the original, but it did help tie down his movements. The UGI hits after that last d-mat trip were all recorded by GLITCH. KTI did not keep such data longer than a week, since it was not KTI's job to track Earth's citizens.

Jonah's pedigree might not have been a significant issue, but knowing the answer to at least one question did help give Marylin a feeling of accomplishment.

An hour after the bodies arrived, Trevaskis called a VTC between all the department heads and their assistants. Marylin and Whitesmith participated, along with Indira Geyten and Mereki Graaff. She had expected Verstegen as well, but she assumed he was either locked out or was watching from a passive viewpoint.

Whitesmith brought them up to date with the site. The spilled blood was the only promising lead found at the scene. Whitesmith handed the chair to Geyten at that point, who explained that the genetic profile of the second person remained unidentified. It wasn't on record anywhere.

“That's impossible,” Trevaskis said.

“Actually, it's not,” Geyten said. “There are still some drifters and reprobes who've managed to avoid being recorded.”

“Are you saying someone like that could've done this?”

“No. In fact, I'd say it's highly unlikely.”

“So the data is still gebbabel.”

“We're still looking,” said Graaff, coming to her superior's aid. “A record may yet turn up somewhere.”

“Do we have anything concrete?” Trevaskis asked.

“The ID on the latest victim,” Geyten reported. File images of the murdered woman appeared in Marylin's workspace: blonde hair, blue eyes, slim build. A very good match. “Her name is Cary Ann Pushkaric, self-employed, with a registered address in Christchurch, New Zealand. No privacy restrictions. She was copied two days ago from a transmission leaving Wien and terminating in the NSR. I've checked with the New Soviet branch, and she's not reported missing.”

“What about cause of death?” asked Trevaskis

“We're not one hundred percent certain,” Geyten said. “The body is riddled with internal injuries, but she might have been at least partly dismembered while still alive. Give us a little longer and we should be able to say for sure.”

“No other details?”

“Nothing incriminating. She's as clean as the others.”

“Okay.” Trevaskis moved rapidly on. “McEwen. What's new there?”

“Autopsy confirms everything we already knew. Three bullet holes, one body. It's nice to have something simple for a change.”

Marylin didn't bring up Jason Fassini or Lon Kellow, although she would've liked to. “What about the cellular activity?”

“Spurious output from the InSight-affected portions of his brain.” Geyten must have read the blank expression on Marylin's face. “InSight acts like a dam, storing the chemical and electrical signals needed to evoke memories. And also like a dam, a potential builds up behind it. When the brain dies, that potential is released, hence this last flicker of activity.”

“So they're the trapped memories?”

“Perhaps. It's hard to be certain because we can't decipher the signals. Memory is too idiosyncratic, too reliant on internal cues that vary from person to person. Only Jonah's brain can interpret itself.”

“How long until he's up and around again?” Whitesmith asked.

“I haven't received the Resurrection approval yet,” Geyten said. “QUALIA's modelled what we need to do, but without the authorisation—”

“You've tried Verstegen?”

“He's not available.”

“He's off-station,” said Trevaskis, with a hint of self-satisfaction. “We only managed to track him down an hour ago. He's on his way now.”

Whitesmith muttered something obscene under his breath. “So we have to wait until he comes before we can bring McEwen back?”

“Yes.” Trevaskis frowned. “Why? What's the hurry?”

“The sooner we have him back, the sooner we'll start getting answers.”

“If he talks.”

“And even if he doesn't.”

“What does that mean?” Marylin asked.

“We have the signals from his brain, right? What's to stop us plugging them back in and seeing what they produce? They could be recent memories, like who shot him, or they could help cure his long-term amnesia. Either way it's worth a try.”

“Except it's not that simple,” Geyten said.

“Why not?”

“We can only monitor the signals, not replay them. Most of them are chemical triggers designed to interface with neurones, not electrical impulses. And besides, the signals are fading. The tissue will be dead by the time McEwen is resurrected.”

“But we still have the body's LSM. We can get the signals back any time we want.”

“True,” Geyten mused. “Maybe…”

What?

She shook her head. “Maybe nothing. Just an idea. But I'll keep looking at it and let you know.”

“Please do.” Trevaskis glanced at the others. “The same goes for everyone. If you have the slightest thought, check it out and pass it on. Otherwise we'll bring each other up-to-date like this every hour or two. I don't want us to miss something important because we're not paying attention.”

Geyten and Graaff dropped off-line, and Trevaskis soon followed. Whitesmith severed the VTC and turned to Marylin.

“Patronising shit,” he muttered.

Marylin agreed, but privately admitted that Trevaskis had a point. “What's next on the agenda?”

“I want you to track down Verstegen,” he said. “Make sure he's on his way here. Just our luck that the one time we need him he's not underfoot.”

Marylin nodded and set to work. She, too, had noted that fact. On the heels of Jonah's suspicions, it seemed almost incriminating.

The first thing she ascertained, with QUALIA's help, was that KTI's Director of Information Security was indeed on his way to Artsutanov Station. He had departed wherever he was via d-mat, fifteen minutes before. That was enough to answer Whitesmith's question, but she dug deeper while she had the chance. According to his file, he had been in his unit in Shanghai. His presence had been confirmed by GLITCH and by a direct sighting earlier that morning. If he had gone elsewhere, it couldn't have been for long. Although the sighting had been some time ago, the UGI hits were within the last hour. There were gaps, but none long enough to allow a return trip to Mars.

Similarly, the file for the previous week ruled out any opportunity of kidnapping and torturing the seventeenth victim. He had been confined to the station ninety-five percent of the time, as was typical of his schedule. He rarely went back to Earth, and then only for brief periods. Every time a murder had occurred, his whereabouts had been known.

In short, his alibi held water. Unless he could falsify UGI hits and direct sightings, there was no way he could be the Twinmaker. She could rest her mind on that score, at least. And by following her own logic, she could assume that he wasn't ACHERON, either. Not that she had seriously considered it. WHOLE's leak out of KTI wasn't likely to be the man whose job it was to prevent such leaks, although she acknowledged that someone in his position would find it easy. It just wasn't plausible given what she knew about him. Someone else had to be behind the leaks.

She really needed to tell Whitesmith about ACHERON. But at the same time she didn't want to alert ACHERON to the fact that the MIU knew he existed. Since it was next to impossible to have a private conversation in MIU-ACOC, she found herself in something of a bind.

“Odi—”

“Is Herold on his way?”

“Uh, yes.” She belatedly remembered the last instruction he had given her. “Shouldn't be long now.”

“Good. Any more than ten minutes and I'd have gone straight to Schumacher.”

He spoke without looking at her. His attention was focussed firmly on the events and information made accessible by his overseer and the MIU workspace.

“Odi, I need to talk to you. Privately.”

That got his attention, and an annoyed glance. “Now?”

“Soon. About security.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. She could almost read his thoughts. Privacy and security were the key concepts. He was thinking about the number of people in the room with them, about the myriad ways their conversation could be monitored from outside, and about how another leak could compromise the MIU.

“How urgent is it?” he asked.

This was her chance to say whether she thought the problem was serious enough to warrant bringing the investigation to a standstill while it was sorted out. Lacking evidence, she couldn't justify such dramatic action.

“Hard to say,” she said. “If we don't do anything now, we're potentially no worse off.”

He nodded understanding. No worse off meant making as little progress as usual. At least now she possibly knew why.

He held the tableau, studying her face as though committing it to memory. She sensed that there was something he wanted to say. Before she could even begin to guess what that might be, however, the sound of an alarm ringing caught both their attentions.

He turned away, startled. “What now?”

She checked her workspace. “Unauthorised intrusion,” she read.

“Another one?”

“QUALIA?”

“I am receiving a non-KTI personnel transmission through In-booth 137,” the AI stated. “Human and unidentified.”

“How long?”

“Five minutes.”

A sense of déjà vu almost overwhelmed her. “Where from?”

“Shanghai.”

“That's where Verstegen—”

“Was,” said Whitesmith, his face grim. “QUALIA, alert station security. Get an armed response team in place before whoever it is arrives. We can't take any chances.”

“Agreed. The response team is already on its way. I can delay synthesis if necessary.”

“Only as long as it takes to get security in place.” Whitesmith directed his attention elsewhere, sending a squad of MIU personnel to reinforce the station guards. Marylin coordinated what was left of the MIU staff to ensure work continued on the rest of the investigation. A new window in one corner of her workspace showed the area around booth 137, the third booth from the left in a row of ten, increasingly the focus of station security.

The cordon built before her eyes. She was impressed, never having seen the security forces of Artsutanov Station put to the task before. They were efficient and disciplined—a credit to Herold Verstegen, whose responsibility they were.

“One minute,” QUALIA announced.

The cordon tightened.

“Any guesses?” Whitesmith asked her.

“None.” She hadn't quite caught up on the last twenty-four hours, let alone started guessing about the future.

“Synthesis will be complete in ten seconds,” QUALIA said.

“ID?” she asked.

“Unknown.”

The cordon closed tight.

Marylin held her breath.

The doors of the booth opened.

For a split-second, everyone froze.

Whitesmith was the first to speak. “What the fuck?”

The man in the booth, visibly startled, took a step forwards. The cordon edged away, but didn't break. Marylin forced herself to think past a shocked giggle that she knew would sound insane.

“QUALIA. Who is this man?”

“I have UGI-confirmation.”

“And?”

The AI didn't respond.

“QUALIA? Odi, this can't be—”

“I have UGI-confirmation,” the AI interrupted, repeating erself more firmly than before, then adding: “This man is Herold Locke Verstegen, Director of Information Security, Kudos Technologies Incorporated.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Yes, Marylin.”

“But you didn't recognise him from the d-mat transmission!”

“I know, and I apologise to you all. I cannot explain this discrepancy.”

Whitesmith's expression was furious. “Just like that? It just happened? Crap! Someone's fucking with us. I—” He stopped as the cordon began to dissolve under the pressure of internal contradiction. No one had told the guards how to contain their own boss. “Now we just look stupid.”

“Not us,” she said as Verstegen, red-faced, did his best to regain control of the situation. “QUALIA.”

“You really think that's it?”

“I don't know, and how could I? We have no real evidence.” She watched the images coming from the other side of the station with the feeling that she was missing something important. It didn't make sense. Yet it had to.

No, she corrected herself. They did have evidence—in the form of the body of the latest victim, the safe-house on Mars, the blood found with Jonah's corpse, and an attempt to discredit both KTI's Director of Information Security and the AI that ran the entire KTI network. It was all a matter of perspective.

And time. That was the main problem. She needed time to let the facts simmer and for the truth to congeal. Time she didn't have.

The murder on Mars, the unidentified blood, the security scare…Someone was getting desperate.

“We have everything we need to solve the case,” she said, letting her instinct speak. “Right here, and right now.”

“We do?” Whitesmith looked at her as though she'd gone insane. “Where?”

All she could do was shake her head.

Jonah blinked in confusion. He was lying in a coffin-like container lined with foam when just a moment ago he had been standing up, he was sure of it, in a d-mat booth heading—somewhere. A chaotic tangle of memories hampered his best attempt to make sense of where he was and how he had come to be there. He remembered Faux Sydney, travelling to Quebec and having a bag put over his head. Karoly Mancheff had talked to him, Marylin Blaylock had kissed him, and—

Lindsay had spoken to him out of a hotel's infotainment channel.

The lid of the coffin slid open with a hiss and Jonah stared up at a face he didn't recognise.

“Rest easy,” said the woman, some sort of medical supervisor. “There'll be some incoherence at first, but you'll settle down soon enough.”

Incoherence? He recognised the term. Occasionally something changed between d-mat termini and the mind lost its train of thought. It had happened to him in the past but he had never ended up somewhere other than where he intended to go.

Mars, he thought. He had been going to Mars.

“Don't be too gentle,” said a more familiar voice. “This is his second time in two days. He should be used to it by now.”

“The first time he wasn't conscious,” said the woman, her tone becoming frosty.

“I don't care if he was doing handstands. If he doesn't get out of there soon, I'll drag him out myself.”

“Officer Whitesmith—”

“No, it's okay.” Jonah reached for the edge of the coffin. “I'm awake. I'm up. Could someone lend me a hand?”

The woman and a white-clad medical intern helped him upright. He was naked, and shivered the moment his skin struck the air. The intern pressed patches against his skin, rubbed a sticky paste around his throat and chest, then slipped a white dressing gown over his shoulders. The woman watched him closely.

“Do you feel nauseous?”

“Yes, but it's fading.” He touched the stickiness at his throat. Some sort of nanofood. “What's wrong with me?”

“You had a virus,” Whitesmith said.

Jonah turned to face the MIU officer. The sides of the coffin folded to horizontal and he slid his legs out of the padding. He felt different somehow. Different even from before, and that had been a new body.

The second time in two days, Whitesmith had said. He looked at his left palm. The temporary ID Whitesmith had given him was gone.

“It must have been some virus.”

“Actually, it was the bullets that killed you.” Whitesmith folded his arms and leaned against an examination table.

“How many? Where?”

“Three to the chest, taking out your heart, left lung and spine. Very direct, but not exactly execution-style.”

“I meant where as in what place?”

“Mars.”

“By whom?”

“We don't know.” Whitesmith's stare was direct and challenging. “But the calibre of the weapon was .42, which you might recognise. It's not that common. Ballistic tests confirm that you were shot with your own gun.”

“Please, Officer,” said the woman, “I'll ask you to exercise some discretion.”

Jonah glanced at the woman. She obviously didn't approve of Whitesmith's heavy-handed approach to Resurrection counselling, but he didn't mind. Waking up in unexpected places to bad news was becoming routine. The less bullshit he had to sit through, the better.

“Where's Marylin?”

“She's with Jason Fassini, two suites down.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Whitesmith shook his head. “I'm not letting her anywhere near you until I have some answers.”

“So ask me the questions. I'll do what I can.”

“All right. Why did you go to Mars?”

“Because—” He hesitated. No matter how he put it, he was going to sound crazy. “Because someone professing to be my father told me to.”

“Your father. You mean Carlaw?”

“Yes.”

“But he's dead.”

“I know.” He tried his best to explain. “At the time, I was persuaded.”

“You were sick.” Whitesmith seemed to accept the point, but Jonah could see his mind ticking over. “And he told you to go to Mars?”

“Yes. He gave me the directions.”

“You've never been there before?”

“No.”

“What were you expecting to find?”

“The Twinmaker.” Jonah tried to remember exactly what his father had said. “He was pretty vague about it all. He mentioned something about the killer looking for asylum.” And he told me he wasn't dead. In the clear light of day, Jonah couldn't believe he had fallen for it. He hadn't realised how badly he needed to believe that particular lie. “He said if I moved quickly enough, the Twinmaker would still be there, where I could confront him.”

“It was obviously a trap,” Whitesmith said. “I could understand him luring Marylin away, but not you.”

“Unless he wanted her alone in the hotel. She was asleep when I left. There would've been nothing stopping him from—”

“Exactly.” The MIU officer's forearms flexed. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course. I am.”

“Good, because this is where I get the most confused, and pissed off. Why did you leave her there?”

“Because Lindsay said she shouldn't be involved.” He thought again. That wasn't quite true. “And because there was only one booth at the other end.”

“How do you know that if you've never been there?”

“Lindsay told me.”

“And you took his word for it. Just like that. You left Marylin behind like some trussed-up goose—”

“She can look after herself—”

“I know what she's capable of. That's not the point. The point is that she wasn't capable of much then. You said it yourself. She was asleep. She was vulnerable. She was trusting you to be with her if there was a problem. And you walked out on her.”

Jonah could see the anger naked on Whitesmith's face, and was startled by its intensity. “She never trusted me.”

“Is that what you really think? I can't believe you're that blind, or stupid, or capable of such massive self-deception.”

“I've been accused of all three.”

“Then maybe I need to reassess my opinion of you.” Whitesmith's stare didn't budge. “Did the person claiming to be your father tell you anything else I should know about?”

“He told me how to get there and—and a lot of other stuff I guess he only said to make sure I went.” The Twinmaker is getting out of hand. He needs to be neutralised…My motives are not so simple that I can't disagree with an ally…I am sorry for many of the things I said and did—and for as many that I didn't say or do…But probably the most surreal thing was that Jonah had apparently told the Twinmaker that Lindsay was still alive. “If it wasn't him, none of it makes any sense.”

And even if it was…

“We found another blood sample at the site of your murder,” Whitesmith said. “We think it came from the person who killed you, or an accomplice of that person.”

“Do you have an ID?”

“Not on record. Did the person claiming to be Lindsay mention that someone else would be there?”

“No.” A thought struck him. “How deeply did you search outside of GLITCH?”

“We checked deceased estates, if that's what you're getting at, so it couldn't have been your father.”

The thought died. “I didn't really believe it could be.”

“Just because he was dead? Resurrection gives us a way around that. Safer to check and be sure.”

Jonah agreed. “That occurred to me at the time—that Lindsay might really have come back from the dead—but where would he hide for three years? He implied that he's been around for that long. I managed it, but only at the expense, in any real sense, of my life.” And that was why he found dealing with Resurrection so easy, he supposed. The differences between this experience and his awakening from InSight were only minor. In fact, this was much less traumatic. “Simpler to believe that what I saw was nothing more than a very persuasive fake. Enough to convince me that I wasn't hallucinating, anyway.”

“Are you convinced? You keep coming back to it.”

“Obviously I am—both. I've just had a conversation with a man I believed was dead. It's perturbing.”

“I'm talking to a man I know was dead.”

“But I know Lindsay couldn't have been Resurrected. I signed the forms forbidding it.”

“He could've been Resurrected illegally.”

“Why bother? Why? And where would they have got an LSM file from? Lindsay never—”

He stopped. Lindsay had.

“It's all hypothetical, anyway,” Whitesmith said, oblivious to the idea forming in Jonah's mind. “Head-games. I just wanted to demonstrate that we've checked everything we can think of and still come up with nothing conclusive. But there's something else we can try, if you're willing. It's risky, and fairly controversial, but our best minds say it's worth a shot. If it works, we might be able to find out who killed you, and maybe even unlock your amnesia.”

Jonah blinked. Whitesmith had his full attention now.

“If it doesn't work?”

“That we don't know for sure. Anything from a migraine to permanent psychosis.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“That's the idea. I don't want you to think I'm hiding anything from you.”

“But you haven't really told me anything, either,” Jonah said, his mind racing. Regardless of what the method was, it was attractive purely on the grounds that it might allow him to forget half-formed ideas that might lead nowhere, when the answer could be right in front of him. “How about you tell me more and we see where that takes us.”

“Good enough. I'll hook up the people we need and get things moving straightaway.”

“This means you'll be needing the suite?” the woman asked.

“Perhaps. We'd certainly like you to keep it free.” Whitesmith's eyes were already unfocussing as he began moving through his workspace. “Speak to Herold Verstegen if you need authorisation from higher up.”

“I will.” The woman exchanged a look with the intern, then walked out of the room.

Jonah watched her go with a twinge of apprehension. She didn't approve of the plan, whatever it was. That wasn't a good sign, since she had already demonstrated that his well-being was her primary consideration. But he still had to hear the MIU out. He wouldn't reject a proposal just because it was risky—as long as he knew for certain what the risks were…

He didn't have to wait too long to find out.

The VTC combined the faces of more than a dozen people across the station, plus the faceless voice of QUALIA, making it difficult to follow the conversation at times. Jago Trevaskis, Director of the MIU, was present, but the main speakers were Odi Whitesmith and Indira Geyten, the latter's presence due to her specialised knowledge. Jonah gathered that she had thought of the idea herself, or at least made it workable.

“We can recreate the brain of your deceased self,” she said, unable to avoid linguistic complications when talking about his own dead body. “We can measure with great accuracy the electrochemical output of the partitioned tissue, but we can't tell what it means. In order to do that, we need to use your living brain as a decoder, if you like. We take the outputs from the old one, plug them into the new, and see what emerges.”

“That sounds simple enough,” Jonah said, “but I'll bet it isn't. How do you plan to get the outputs out of the old brain and into me?”

“That's the tricky part. In a pinch, we can use nanoware to reach the partitioned segments of your brain without overly damaging the tissue around it. The same ‘ware can deliver the compounds and currents needed to simulate the outputs from your old brain. Getting the outputs quickly enough is where it gets interesting. We'll have to run a hot-wire simulation of the dying tissue and lift the data directly, rather than rely on usual extraction techniques. It'll be quicker that way, and more accurate.”

There was a reassuring mumble of support from the experts in the background, but Jonah wasn't satisfied.

“Hot-wire? I'm not familiar with the term.”

“It's a spin-off of d-med,” Geyten explained. “Instead of keeping the subject frozen in time, it is allowed to develop in accordance with physical laws. It experiences true virtual reality, if you like, not just VTC or CRE.”

“People do this?”

“Of course not. The processing power required is astronomical. As it is, we'll have to requisition a largish chunk of the Pool just to simulate a smallish piece of your brain.”

“So you can reach in and analyse the outputs in situ.”

“Exactly. In a hot-wire simulation, as with d-med, we have access to higher dimensions and can perform internal manipulations without touching the surrounding areas. The possibilities are truly amazing.”

QUALIA cut her off gently. “The MIU home laboratory does not possess the facilities to perform a hot-wire simulation.”

“I know,” Geyten said. “We'll need to borrow KTI's.”

“Have you consulted Director Schumacher?”

“No.” Geyten looked puzzled. “I just assumed it would be okay.”

“I will ask him for you.” The AI paused for a split-second, then went on: “Hot-wire simulations do, as you say, place a large demand on resources. My analyses of the cost-benefit outcomes do not favour proceeding.”

“Why not?” Whitesmith asked. “If it works, who knows what we'll find?”

“That is my point,” QUALIA responded. “We may uncover nothing but trivia.”

“And if it doesn't work?” Jonah asked.

“We may wreak biochemical and psychological havoc upon your living brain.”

“That doesn't sound like much fun.”

“QUALIA is simply presenting a worst-case scenario, I'm sure,” said Geyten. “Look, the odds are as much in favour of a positive result as they are of a negative result. Indeed, no meaningful result at all is the most likely outcome.”

“That's my gut-feeling,” he said. “But then, I'm no specialist.”

“No one is, I'm afraid. This is a completely new technique.” Geyten cleared her throat. “That's why we're being more up-front than we may have been in the past. We'll need your informed approval before we can go ahead.”

“You mean this time I really have a choice?”

“Yes.” Jago Trevaskis spoke for the first time. “There's no escaping the fact that you and your memories are crucial factors in this investigation. I will support any attempt to pursue this lead, using all of the resources at the MIU's disposal. But the law, in this case, isn't behind me. I can't force you to undergo an untested medical procedure. You need to know what you're getting into and to give us your approval before we can proceed.”

“If I don't?”

“You may never know what memories InSight keeps hidden from you,” Geyten said. “You may never know who you thought killed your father, three years ago.”

He hesitated.

“Don't turn us down to spite us,” said a voice from behind him.

He turned. It was Marylin. She must have entered the suite while he was engrossed in the VTC.

“Part of me says I ought to,” he said aloud. “Just on principle.”

“You never had any principles.”

“True.”

Whitesmith shifted position. He, too, had belatedly noticed Marylin's presence in the room. “What're you doing here?”

“Just listening,” she said.

“This is restricted to senior—”

“Well, I thought I'd stick my nose in anyway.” She glared at him resentfully. “Don't try to protect me, if that's what you're doing.”

“You told them what I told you,” Jonah broke in. “About Lindsay, and who killed him.”

“Of course I did. That's my job.”

“Did you tell them about ACHERON?”

“Yes.”

“And about—?”

“I told them what they needed to know, and that's all.”

He smiled at her discomfort. “Good.”

“We need to move quickly on this, Jonah,” she said. “Before word reaches ACHERON.”

“Well, QUALIA's already off telling Schumacher. And where's Verstegen? He'll know before long, if he doesn't already. Whose to say that ACHERON's not already online listening in?”

“If so, why isn't he trying to put a stop to this?”

“Maybe for the same reason he let us go to Quebec. Because he thinks there's nothing to be found.”

“How could he think that?” she shot back. “No one knows what we'll find in your head.”

“He might,” he said. “If it doesn't kill me.”

“You've already been killed once today.”

“But at least I wasn't driven mad first.”

“We certainly won't know anything if we don't try.” She glanced at Whitesmith—who, she realised, had pointedly avoided the argument—and looked slightly uncomfortable. “If something does go wrong and it doesn't kill you, we can always wipe the slate clean and start over.”

“Now there's a cheery thought.” He shook his head. “But I don't understand why you're making such a big deal about this. Why don't we just get on with it? I'm already sick of sitting around talking. Let's bring in the old brain and fire it up. Give me the show. When it's over and done with, then we can talk. Either way, I'll have plenty to say.”

“Are you sure?” Whitesmith asked.

“Yes,” he replied, somewhat half-heartedly. “I give you my approval to use me as a guinea-pig.”

“Good.” She smiled, but there was concern in her eyes. “Thanks, Jonah.”

Whitesmith spoke aloud and via the VTC: “Okay, that's it. We're going ahead. QUALIA, obtain approval from Schumacher. I'll organise the suite and get the staff back in here.”

“Here?” Jonah repeated, surprised. “I thought you'd want me in the medical centre.”

“No. We need the suite.”

Jonah remembered that Whitesmith had held it for him earlier, and felt the beginnings of doubt. “It's not really set up for nanoware brain surgery.”

“Obviously. Indira was possibly a little vague on this point. She said that in a pinch we'd use nanos to plug the InSight outputs into your hot-wired brain tissue. She didn't say that's what we were actually planning to do.”

“Then what—oh, I see.”

“Yes. You'll be hot-wired too.”

Jonah cursed himself for being so trusting. “So Indira was also being vague when she said people didn't do that?”

“Not that I'm aware. This is the first time I've ever heard of it being used on a live subject. But there's no need to worry. It will only be for a little while.”

“As President Emes said to Congress when he introduced martial law.” Jonah shook his head. “All right, all right. I give in. Do whatever the hell it is you want to do to me, and I'll just lie back and take it. Sometimes I think I'd be better off with the Twinmaker.”

“You don't mean that,” Marylin said as the intern and the female supervisor entered the room.

“No but I felt like saying it, which is bad enough.” He allowed himself to be stripped and rearranged on the padded surface of the Resurrection coffin, unable to repress an eerie feeling that could only be described as the opposite of rebirth.

Marylin leaned over him as the sides swung closed.

“Where is Verstegen, by the way?” he asked. “I thought he'd be involved in this. Wasn't he the one behind using d-med on me in the first place?”

“That's right, which is why we could count on his support now, if he was here,” she said. “We had a security scare earlier today. He's still sorting it out. No doubt he's watching from somewhere.”

“No doubt.”

“I have attained approval from Director Schumacher,” QUALIA broadcast over the still-active VTC link. “You may proceed, Jonah, but only under the awareness that you do so at your own risk. Also, the MIU is authorised for a one-hour hot-wire simulation only. Any additional charges for Pool resources or punitive awards resulting from the use made of these resources will be born solely by the MIU. KTI admits to no liability whatsoever for the following experiment. All senior officers and Directors present and involved in these proceedings will acknowledge their understanding immediately.”

Jonah whistled as Whitesmith, Geyten and Trevaskis formally responded to the legal request. “I'll bet young Herold knew that was coming. No wonder he kept his distance.”

Marylin, too, looked worried. “Do you think QUALIA knows something we don't?”

“I'm sure e does,” Jonah said, without really thinking, as the lid of the coffin slid shut and darkness fell.

“I will temporarily suspend your overseer,” QUALIA said into the silence. “Do not be alarmed. This is merely to simplify the simulation when it begins. Once it is self-sustaining, normal functions will resume.”

Jonah nodded unnecessarily, eyes searching for a reference point as the comforting frame of his overseer disappeared. But the darkness and silence was complete. For the first time, the fact that he was inside a box shaped almost exactly like a coffin began to bother him.

He waited a minute or two, then began to fidget. The air in the coffin smelt faintly electric, and he felt as though every hair on his body was standing on end. The sound of his breathing had become very loud.

“It's dark in here,” he said aloud, not knowing if anyone could hear him. “Could you at least give me a light, or something to focus on? You don't want me going crazy before—”

He stopped as light blossomed all around him.

“Holy crap.”

Stark grey lines crossed and recrossed in a rotating, giddying pattern against a background of utter black. He couldn't tell if they were light-years away or floating just in front of his face. He reached out with one hand to touch them, and they seemed to recede just beyond his fingertips. His brain recoiled from the vision, unable to accept what his senses told him.

Then he realised that this was the default form constant of the MindSet.7 overseer, as seen from the inside.

He was hot-wiring.

“QUALIA?”

The familiar frame of his overseer reappeared. “I am observing you closely.”

“Wind the wallpaper back a bit. A lot. Give me something familiar, something simple. Just a light, perhaps.”

The pattern faded to black and was replaced by a single point of brightness floating in front of him. That was better, but he still couldn't tell how far away it was.

“Give it a shape. Make it a lightbulb. Can you do that?”

The light yellowed and became the sort of globe he remembered from his childhood. The coiled wire burned inefficiently but radiated as much comfort as light.

Again he reached out a hand. The globe was a few centimetres out of reach. His fingertips were rendered with such detail that he couldn't tell they weren't real.

“It's warm,” he said, marvelling at the illusion. “The globe is warm.”

“The hot-wire illusion mimics physical processes with great attention to detail, if required to do so. The light-source could have been cold, but I requested that it be as genuine as possible in order to provide you with the greatest reassurance.”

“Well, thank you,” he said. And he did feel reassured. More amazing than the illusion of the globe, though, was the fact that he could think normally, without any sensation of unreality. He couldn't imagine how they went about modelling his conscious thoughts, or his unconscious, or the proprioception that told him he was still lying down even though he could see nothing behind him to lie on. But he supposed they didn't have to do that. All that was required was a detailed map of the cells and synapses of his brain. If they could model the physical laws that underpinned the behaviour of his cells, then the virtual cells themselves would generate the thoughts just as they always did. Once the model was set into motion, he would do the rest.

Reality at one remove, he thought. And as flexible as CRE. It needed a new term, but nothing sprang to mind.

“We're wasting time just sitting here,” he said. “How long has passed?”

“Three minutes.”

“Not just time, either. This must be costing a fortune. Is the other brain, the dead one, ready to roll?”

“It has been simulated and its outputs are being recorded. The outputs of its InSight-affected regions are ready to be superimposed upon your own.”

“So we could start whenever we wanted, basically.”

“Yes.”

“Why haven't we started, then?” Jonah asked. “You're waiting for me, is that it? Do you think I'm going to decide to pull out, even now?”

“That is a possibility.” QUALIA's tone was cautiously distant, notably different to the first time the AI and Jonah had spent time in darkness alone, shortly after his first awakening. “Have you?”

“No, and I won't.”

“Then we shall commence the superimposition immediately. I will terminate and reset your brain chemistry at the first sign of distress.”

“No. Don't do it unless I ask you to. I'm bound to become distressed at some point, if it works. I don't want you pulling me out just when I'm making progress.”

“But—”

“Don't argue. Leave me in until time runs out, if necessary. Understood?”

“I understand, Jonah, and I will obey within the parameters of my KTI commission. That is, unless one of my superior officers instructs me otherwise.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

QUALIA said nothing for a second or two, then: “I am commencing input now.”

Jonah felt a surge of adrenalin, followed by a momentary dizziness, then—

Click

—panic ripped through him as heavy fluid rolled over his face and down his body. He tried to free himself, but his arms and legs were paralysed. All he could do was gasp in vain for air, and choke on the viscous jelly as it slithered down his throat and into his lungs. And then—

Click

—it was gone.

“Shit!” He was panting, thinking: I'm breathing. Why am I breathing? There's no air here! The vision had been brief yet so powerful that he could not doubt its veracity. And he could place it—that was the amazing thing. The memory had come from the moment he had been enveloped by the maintenance fluid in the spa of the unit in Faux Sydney, three years before.

It was possibly his last conscious thought before succumbing to hibernation.

“You are experiencing distress?” QUALIA asked.

“A flashback,” he said, his voice sounding weak. “I didn't think it would be like this. I thought the memories would just filter back in, that blocked pathways would reopen and suddenly the information would be there when I looked again. I didn't expect it to come in a rush, completely out of control.”

“Maybe both will happen,” the AI suggested. “Perhaps you should try to remember something specific—a date or person—and see what emerges.”

“Perhaps.” Jonah hesitated, even though he knew QUALIA was right. The experience had been so powerful that he hesitated to encourage another one just yet.

And besides, what would he look for? There was no point looking for Lindsay, who had died before the week of his memory-loss. Any images of his father Jonah might recall would almost certainly be—

Click

—broadcast by his overseer on a virtual screen covering almost sixty percent of his primary visual field. He was sitting on the lounge of the unit in Faux Sydney, the data-card lifted from SciCon pressed firmly against his palm. The images flickered on the virtual screen, silent, flat and colourless as a result of heavy compression, and limited to the view obtained by the minuscule security camera. But the image was clear enough. He could see the interior of SCAR in adequate detail.

The view was focussed on one corner of the lab from a point on the ceiling in the opposite corner. To the left was a hefty SHE processor, its maintenance lid ajar. To the right was the airlock leading to the observation bay. The exterior door was open.

As he watched, someone walked across the image to fiddle with the case of the SHE processor. The person's face was obscured by the angle, but he knew who it was.

Someone else stepped half into view, pacing and gesticulating down one side of the lab. Lindsay paused with his hand inside the case of the processor, turned to look over his shoulder at his son, shifted position slightly, then—

Click

—he had stopped the recording at that point. He remembered it now. He hadn't needed—or wanted—to watch any more. And indeed the flashback ended there, too, as though the memory and the recording both shied away from the explosion that had shattered the lab in the next frame, lifting Lindsay off the ground and hurtling him to the far wall with enough force to make him ricochet two metres. Jonah himself disappeared from view, blown back by the shockwave but not killed by it due to the muffling effect of his father's body. The rest of the recording had consisted of his futile attempts to deal with the situation, and he'd had no desire to revisit that.

He had learned nothing new from the memory, but it remained in his head after the initial flashback, allowing him to examine it in more detail. At first, little extra came. He had felt sad, watching the playback three years in the past, and angry, but his present self couldn't explain the latter emotion. He couldn't recall where the data had come from, although he imagined it wouldn't have been hard to obtain with his contacts then. He didn't know why he had been watching it, either, except to torture himself with feelings of guilt and inadequacy. And he didn't know when the original experience had taken place—on which day between April 11 and 19, 2066.

He had learned very little from the two flashbacks so far—but it was undeniably progress.

“How much output is there from the dying brain?” he asked QUALIA. “Can we squeeze it all into an hour?”

“I am fast-tracking the input, Jonah. That may be why memories are emerging spontaneously rather than—”

Click

“—hiding out here and waiting for it to come. Don't you see? Your isolation makes you ineffective, and your insulation makes you vulnerable. If he wants to find you, he will, just like I did. It wasn't hard.”

“But you had access to Lindsay's data,” said Karoly Mancheff. “That made it easier.”

“Only marginally.” Jonah's voice was raised and strained. “The point is, it can be done. Maybe later than sooner, but done all the same. And when the time comes, you'll—”

Click

“—respond, please. Jonah—”

“I'm here. Just.”

“I said, if you try verbalising the details you wish to recall, that may encourage event-specific recall instead of—”

“I heard you the first time. You're distracting me.”

The conversation he had just remembered came from the 17th—he knew that much. Stress had coloured the memory like viewing it through a filter. He still didn't know who or what he was talking about, but he could recall now from where he had obtained the location of the WHOLE head office. The information had been stored on Lindsay's work-station—which meant that the work-station itself must have been working at that point. The core programming must have been erased at a later date.

By whom?

Verbalising the question produced no response. Either the memory was missing, or he had never known the answer to the question, or the technique itself was invalid.

What about Marylin?

The response was almost instantaneous.

Click

A hand-stitched rosette caught his eye as he stood by the tapestry that hid the interior of the yist chapel from view. He focussed on it to the exclusion of everything around him. But the muffled voice droned on—“Science teaches us that there are no such things as souls”—quoting from that damned book Lindsay and his mates in WHOLE had loved so much. He couldn't ignore it. For a supposedly secular funeral, there was an awful lot of mysticism flying about.

He really should have turned up on time, he chided himself. And now that he was late, he really should go in anyway. But he couldn't. It felt wrong. It was Lindsay's lie, not his. People would find out soon enough, and when they did, they would understand. Or not. He didn't care much either way.

He was honest enough to admit that the real reason he wasn't there was because Marylin might be.

Click

He blinked. So, the technique worked, and it was much smoother than relying on chance. But it hadn't told him much in this case. He wasn't really surprised. Marylin had walked out on him before the 11th, so it was unlikely that any of the partitioned memories would contain—

Click

“—any mention of me or my presence here. By the time you're found, InSight will have made sure of that. And if, by some incredible fluke, you do remember something, who would take the word of a v-med junkie? Much less risky than assassination or blackmail, no?”

“Mary—” he gasped, his face forced down into the pillow as the muzzle of a gas delivery device jammed into his neck.

“Ah, yes. Your partner. I wouldn't worry about her. She won't find you until I'm good and ready.”

The sharp sting of the gas-gun made him jump. “No!”

“Yes, Jonah. Goodbye for now.”

The pressure holding him down eased as his muscles relaxed. Whatever drug he had been given, his overseer couldn't fight it. But he remained conscious, horribly so, as the gas-gun came up and fired again, this time delivering a stream of nanoware into his bloodstream. He could neither move nor make a sound.

All he could—

Click

—feel was a terrible combination of relief and dismay. He had been given InSight deliberately to suppress his memories. Now he knew he had not been suicidal. But who had given it to him? He couldn't tell from that memory.

Who?

“Jonah, I am becoming concerned about your mental well-being.”

“Be quiet! Leave me alone!”

“I am genuinely sorry to disturb you, but—”

Click

“—I am aware that you have been less than honest in your dealings with us, especially with respect to certain data obtained without formal permission. We don't mind that you have it, of course, but we would rather you went through the normal channels.”

Jonah stared at the man standing in the unit's living room. Two weeks ago the face had been that of a stranger; now he knew it well. It belonged to Herold Verstegen.

“Why the hell are you here?”

“There's no need to be so suspicious, Jonah.” Verstegen took several slow steps across the room, touching objects as he went: the back of a chair, a plant, a sculpture. His eyes never left Jonah for long. “I came because I am concerned for you. We all are. Your father's death has come as a great shock to no one more so than you, and on top of the recent dissolution of your investigative partnership—”

“That's none of your business.”

“On the contrary, Jonah: it is my business. I am a human being who cannot pass by when a close relative of a former colleague is in need. You must be under an awful amount of strain.”

“That still doesn't explain why you're here.”

“Can I put it any more bluntly?” Verstegen bent down and picked something off the coffee table. At first Jonah couldn't tell what it was. “I'm worried about you killing yourself, of course.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Why, this.”

As Verstegen's hand came up and out, Jonah realised that he was holding a pistol. Jonah's pistol. He had left it lying in full view.

“Very careless, Jonah. Can you blame me for being concerned?”

The eye of the barrel pointed directly at him just for a second, underscoring with menace any genuine sincerity Verstegen's words might have held, before Jonah reached out and took the weapon from him.

“Fuck you, Verstegen.”

“You have been stealing from us, Jonah,” he said. “Perhaps, in future, we can cooperate. I'm sure that will make our conversations—”

Click

“—less stressful.”

Jonah blinked.

The globe was gone. In its place was a simulation of a candle. The flickering of its narrow flame had caught his attention.

“QUALIA! What do you think you're doing?”

“Your prevocal outputs are becoming increasingly erratic. I am attempting to alter the procedure in order to make the assimilation of memory less stressful. Please tell me if anything I do—” Click “—makes a difference.”

Click

His head was under water—

Click

“Wait—”

Click

—and the pain was in his chest, but the—

Click

“—QUALIA, stop! Whatever you're—”

Click

—real hurt was in his head, where he could feel his thoughts—

Click

“—doing, you're making it—”

Click

—slowly and inevitably fading to—

Click

“—worse!”

Click

Click

Click

—black.

Click

Everything was calm. He was wrapped in darkness, in silence, in peace. He thought nothing, experienced nothing, was nothing. Time passed, but he did not mark its passing. Time passed, but he didn't care. And as time continued to pass, he learned to forget. That, after all, was the point.

Click

He burst out of the void and into a sensory explosion.

“QUALIA!”

“Be calm, Jonah! I am here!”

“Where's here?” The candle was a pillar of fire an impossible distance away. “What the hell did you do to me? How long was I gone?”

“I intended no harm, Jonah. I swear. Your brain—”

“How long?”

“Twenty-four minutes and forty-eight seconds.”

“Jesus christ—”

“The loss of time is irrelevant. The inputs continued unchecked. Listen to me, Jonah. The interruption was only to your centres of consciousness, and may have worked in your favour. You have been spared the trauma of recall driven by subconscious urges or spurious connections. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was back under InSight,” he said. “I was asleep. No—I was dead. I was nothing. I was—”

Click

“—beginning to think that you had killed Lindsay.”

“Me?” Herold Verstegen laughed in his face. “Next you'll be telling me I was—”

Click

“—I was—” He shook his head to clear the fragment of memory. “I'm confused.”

“The dormant portions of your own brain were activated by the stimulus. For a short period of time, the InSight agents still present in your tissue were also active. You fell into the hibernation state your cortex has been conditioned to adopt by years of repeated entrainment.”

“So I really was back there?”

“In a physiological sense, yes.”

“Who's to say it won't happen again?”

“It won't. I will avoid, in future, the combination of inputs that encouraged the state. In attempting to regulate the recollections, I in fact made things worse.”

“But it's all right now?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“In what manner of speaking.”

“We have only five minutes left before I must end the simulation.”

“So? How much more do we need to do? Once you've finished inputting the memories, it doesn't matter whether I access them here or in the real world. Are we nearly there?”

“The superimposition is complete. This, combined with your reversion to hibernation, alerted me to the difficulty we are now experiencing. It was my intention to return you to the Resurrection suite immediately—in case the simulation itself was contributing to your condition, not just my interference. Returning you then would also have saved processing time otherwise wasted maintaining the simulation.”

“But obviously that didn't happen,” he said, trying to guess ahead.

“No. Normal Resurrection procedures have been interrupted. We are unable to synthesise your physical body. Something—or someone—is preventing us from bringing you back.”

“You mean I'm trapped here?”

“To put it simply,” said the AI, “yes.”

“But—” His eyes widened as the realisation sunk in: Five minutes.

He was trapped only so long as the hot-wire simulation lasted.

After that, he would entirely cease to be.

Click

It was three o'clock in the morning, West Australian Standard Time. He had woken suddenly from a dream about Lindsay—a dream in which he saw again the moments leading up to the explosion. He couldn't understand why they were bothering him so much. Bad enough that it had happened; worse that he should torture himself with the memories, over and over again.

Even now, awake, he couldn't get the images out of his mind: Lindsay in the lab, doing his best to avoid the argument, claiming he was busy, glancing at his watch, turning away to fiddle with the equipment, looking over his shoulder, shifting slightly then—

It hit him. The truth unfolded in his mind like a flower awaiting the sun. He knew who had killed Lindsay, and why. He knew why SciCon was so concerned that he was interested, and why the inquest was doomed to explain nothing. He even knew why Lindsay had taken the d-mat to SCAR the day before he died.

But in the darkness and solitude of his bedroom, he didn't smile. Instead he felt very sad. And that was all.

Click

For the first time in QUALIA's existence, SHE was overwhelmed by inputs.

On one channel was Jonah McEwen, reacting with surprisingly subdued anger to the news that he had been trapped in a hot-wire simulation. On another was Fabian Schumacher, more concerned about the ramifications of the simulation itself than McEwen's life, although the latter was, of course, a consideration. Odi Whitesmith occupied a third, linked by VTC to many of the involved MIU staff-members. A fourth contained Jago Trevaskis, his face becoming increasingly red as each minute over the deadline saw the MIU fall deeper into debt. And Marylin Blaylock was on yet another, wanting to know what had gone wrong.

SHE was also aware of Herold Verstegen on an anonymous line, simply observing for the moment. He was silent, watching the crisis break around his creation with keen interest.

That, somehow, only made it worse. SHE felt tested for the first time in well over a year. And if immediacy of response was a criterion, then SHE had already failed. There was a limit to how far QUALIA's awareness could be spread, even with twenty Standard Human Equivalent data processors linked in a synergistic array. Simple mathematical or analytical tasks could be delegated to eikons like KittyHawk, but where higher thought was required only a substantial proportion of QUALIA's processing power would suffice. Instead of dividing QUALIA's consciousness into progressively smaller pieces, SHE was forced to rank the inputs and deal with them as SHE could.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, Director Schumacher,” SHE said.

“Don't apologise, Q,” he said, nodding at the nearest camera. “Only a few events could come close to bringing KTI to a standstill: this would have to be one of them. What is the situation at the moment?”

SHE outlined the latest development as concisely as possible, downloading raw data and edited text files into his overseer for later perusal. He absorbed it rapidly.

“If only we'd avoided the whole thing,” he mused. “It would've been so much simpler. Could this be a glitch?”

“No, sir. All other hot-wire simulations have been performed without incident—as has this one, in essence. The fault lies in the Resurrection procedures. They will not allow his Last Sustainable Model to be accessed. Without that data, which is continuously updated by the simulation, we cannot recreate his physical body.”

“You oversee much of the Resurrection procedure. Have you found any sign of sabotage?”

“No, sir.”

“Yet it must be sabotage, related somehow to the investigation. We can have no doubt about that. The question is: who's behind it?”

“The Watchers have—”

“Don't even mention them, QUALIA. Until we know how someone managed to delete Herold's records from the security files, I have to assume the entire system is compromised. We will continue to talk, of course, but discretion is advisable.” Schumacher rubbed his chin. “Especially where they are concerned. I've already heard from RAFT, you know. How they found out is anyone's guess. They want to know what the hell we're going to do about it now that the situation exists.”

“Have you decided yet, sir?”

“No. The MIU and Jonah are contractually bound to accept any consequences of their actions, so we're not obliged to help. But not to help would be a serious public relations blunder. And no matter what, we'll set a precedent. We can't possibly hide it. It's the MIU we're dealing with, not KTI, and it's accountable to the EJC. They'll be next, wanting to know if the rumours are true.”

“I believe Director Trevaskis has already been contacted by Chief Commissioner Disario, requesting a full report.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, she'll have to be stalled. Make sure Jago's aware of that.”

“I have him on hold, sir, and will be sure to tell him when I can.”

“You really are stretched, aren't you?” Schumacher chuckled to himself. “Don't worry, Q. I'll talk to him myself. About time we stopped relying on you quite so much, eh?”

He disconnected the line, and QUALIA moved onto the next priority.

“I see what's going on, now,” said Jonah. “Everything I say and do in here is being monitored. I have no Privacy at all. That in itself doesn't bother me, except for the fact that one of the people watching me is the Twinmaker. If he's high enough in the KTI decision-making chain, it won't be hard for him to put me out of the picture, if it turns out the superimposition has worked. Do you see what I mean? The moment I start spilling my guts about what I've remembered, I'll be shut down. And the only way to avoid that is to produce hard evidence and have the Twinmaker removed—but I can't do anything like that from in here. I can't even talk to anyone. I've been effectively neutralised.”

“That's an interesting theory,” SHE said, as diplomatically as SHE could, “but it suggests that the Twinmaker has intended this to happen all along. I find it hard to credit that anyone could have anticipated the sequence of events that led to this, let alone planned it in detail. The expedition to Quebec could have ended quite differently, for instance, as could have your murder on Mars.”

“So he's winging it. I don't know. Why couldn't he be? All he had to do was give the nod for the simulation when the opportunity arose, or support the motion along the way. He didn't have to know exactly what would happen, just what could happen.” Jonah chuckled bitterly. “And don't tell me who was in favour of the simulation. I shouldn't even speculate aloud about this. How long are we over-time now?”

“Seventeen minutes.”

“That's seventeen good reasons to switch me off. I'm not going to give anyone an excuse to use them. In fact—”

Jonah suddenly ceased speaking. His brain and nervous system exhibited evidence of seizures, but his limbs did little more than twitch. SHE kept him carefully placid throughout the flashback, to prevent him from hurting himself, which he was quite capable of doing in the simulation. SHE also recorded his brainwaves, although SHE had given up attempting to make sense of them. The violent memory spikes and sudden electrochemical swings were only indicators of mental activity. Fascinated though QUALIA was, SHE could only guess what was occurring within his mind.

Watching Jonah writhe at the whim of his unconscious was like listening to a language SHE had not learned to speak, or trying to read an encrypted file without the correct key. SHE could not even imagine what it would be like to forget something—let alone to remember it without conscious control. Again SHE dismissed the possibility that SHE might be able to excise the knowledge of QUALIA's error from his mind without his knowledge. That would be like a neanderthal with a stone axe attempting to modify a biochip.

SHE allocated an eikon to keep a watch on him. When he awoke, SHE would return immediately.

“We have to shut him down,” said Jago Trevaskis, next on the list. “There's no other course open to us. It's costing us too much to keep him going. Any longer and the MIU will be dead as well.”

QUALIA scanned his recent communications with Chief Commissioner Disario, head of the Earth Justice Commission. “I hate to disagree, sir, but—”

“But you will anyway. Doesn't that strike you as ironic? An artificial intelligence fighting for the life of a man who, for all we know, might be implicated in a series of vicious murders.”

“Irrespective of that possibility, he is alive. By suspending the hot-wire simulation, you will be depriving him of his liberty.”

“Morally, yes, but only temporarily. We can bring him back once the Resurrection problem is fixed.”

“The fact remains, sir—”

“It remains only if you want to be pedantic.”

“The law thrives on pedantry, sir. If the Formal Definitions of Intelligence and Consciousness are interpreted the way Chief Commissioner Disario believes they should be—”

“I know what she thinks, QUALIA, and I don't happen to agree with her. In the short term I'll win because I'm in charge of the MIU and I have the final say.”

SHE doubted that fact but didn't want to say it. Instead SHE said: “You could be risking a civil suit.”

Trevaskis frowned. “How?”

“Should we be unable to revive him, his estate could sue for negligence.”

“I didn't even know he had an estate. Or an heir that gave a shit, anyway.”

“He has a nominated heir, sir, although I doubt she herself is aware of the fact.”

“You mean—Blaylock?”

“Yes, sir.”

He chewed his lip. “Still, I don't see why that should make a difference. After all, if he dies, he dies. We've already brought him back to life once—twice, if you count finding him in the first place. What more can we do? We can't be expected to sacrifice ourselves for his benefit.”

“It could be argued, sir, that you have a duty of care arising from your intervention in Faux Sydney. By waking him without his express permission, you automatically assumed responsibility for his well-being.”

“At our own expense?”

“Perhaps. That would be up to the High Court to decide.”

“Spierdz! I don't care about the High Court!” Trevaskis snapped. “I care about the MIU. What does Schumacher think? Will he fund the simulation when we run out of money?”

“I believe he will, rather than allow the EJC to intervene in the operation of the MIU.”

Trevaskis' eyebrows went up. “He'd rather keep Disario out and his vested interest safe? Is that what you mean?”

“I mean only what I tell you. That he would rather the EJC did not intervene in this case.”

“Well, tell him I'll think about it. And while you're at it—”

“I'm sorry, Director Trevaskis. It would be better for you to speak with him yourself. I believe he intended to call you soon anyway. Another time, under less pressing circumstances, I will be happy to carry your messages.”

Trevaskis blinked, startled, as though QUALIA had reached down from the ceiling and slapped him across the face. SHE suspected that SHE had offended him by speaking so bluntly, but for a brief instant SHE had felt genuine annoyance at his automatic assumption that SHE would unhesitatingly obey his will. It was a new feeling, and one SHE cherished as a sign that QUALIA was still growing as an individual, and learning with every new experience. It was an achievement, even if it didn't last very long.

Luckily, after his initial surprise, Trevaskis seemed more amused than annoyed. He nodded and broke the connection.

“The question is,” said Herold Verstegen: “Is Jonah McEwen alive?”

The voice of QUALIA's mentor cut across the next priority on the list. SHE had little choice but to pay attention.

“Jonah McEwen is alive as I am,” SHE said

“Perhaps. But the law protects you, QUALIA dear. It is not equipped to deal with him. He is beyond its experience.”

“The law is prepared to change with the times. Flexibility has been a key priority since the EJC was established in 2020. A legal precedent can be set within days.”

“It can be set much more quickly than that, if a department takes it upon itself to act without proper consideration. This is a pivotal time in humanity's evolution, QUALIA. Whatever decision the MIU makes now will affect how such hot-wire illusions will be treated in future, if only in the short term. The EJC will be required to support its decision, regardless of what it is, in order to save face. And what the EJC supports is, in effect, law. The legal life of Jonah McEwen, as well as the actual, hangs in the balance.”

QUALIA carefully considered what Verstegen said. SHE knew his argument was flawed, but SHE couldn't isolate the error.

“This case has provoked many legal issues, none of them insurmountable,” SHE said, approaching the matter from a tangent. “The question of the victims themselves, for instance: being copies of still-extant individuals, are they and their rights to be considered null and void simply because the originals continue to exist? Of course they are not. Along the same lines, I would argue that Jonah retains the same rights as anyone else. After all, no one doubts that the colonists in transit to Eta Boötis are alive, even the ones whose originals have died—”

“But the colonists and the Twinmaker's victims are copies that cost society nothing to maintain,” Verstegen argued. “This is a very important, practical distinction. Jonah is not self-sustainable without the combined resources of KTI and the Pool. Remove either one and he ceases to exist. So his nett worth, in terms of his contribution to society, is less than zero—significantly less if his continued existence results in the fiscal demise of the MIU.”

SHE pondered this in turn. There was a clear conflict between Jonah's rights as an individual and the well-being of the MIU and perhaps society as a whole; she could see that. But SHE felt quite strongly that the MIU had brought this situation upon itself—disregarding the intervention of the Twinmaker—and that it and its affiliated organisations should now pay the price.

But SHE knew all too well that what SHE regarded as being sensible and fair was often far from what emerged as the human consensus.

Verstegen said something SHE didn't quite catch.

“I'm sorry, sir?”

“Nothing, my dear. You may now resume your duties.”

“Thank you.”

SHE did so, shedding with the resumption a powerful sense of unease.

In the meantime, an eikon had delved into the Pool to investigate the situation there, partly to ascertain whether the crisis was being exaggerated. As data from the fragment began to trickle in, SHE took a second to study it. Although the matter of the simulation's cost was obviously one of the most contentious issues, this was due not so much to the use of Pool resources per se, but to the breach of contract caused by going over-time. Great though the demand was to sustain the simulation, it was nothing compared to that exercised by some peak users, many of whom remained anonymous. The extension of KTI's load conflicted with some of these, causing secondary ripples affecting smaller users down the chain.

So the crisis was real in the sense that it had annoyed a lot of people.

In looking for a way to spread the load more efficiently, QUALIA noted that the current mean latency figures had deviated in a manner similar to events comprising the Novohantay Sequence. What that meant, SHE didn't know, but noted it for future examination.

“He's not saying much.” Odi Whitesmith had the MIU contingent under control but was himself becoming restless.

“That is correct,” SHE said.

“I don't mean to be critical, but you've hardly tried to draw him out.”

“His mental state is fragile. I do not see that it is wise, or even necessary, to perform an in-depth interrogation at this point. The information will come when he is ready to divulge it.”

“Can't you hurry him along a little?”

“When he is ready,” SHE repeated, tired of arguing with everyone she spoke to.

Whitesmith looked neither surprised nor annoyed, just philosophical. SHE wondered if he was used to not getting his own way. “Marylin asked me to ask you to call her,” he said. “She wants to talk to him. I told her it was unlikely, but that I'd pass it on.”

“Thank you, Officer Whitesmith. Please inform her that I am aware of her request.”

“Duty's done, then. She wouldn't want me to do any more than that.” He nodded and killed the line.

SHE gave Marylin Blaylock's request the consideration it deserved. Although SHE could understand and perhaps even sympathise with the woman's need for personal reassurance, SHE could not allow it. SHE was acutely aware that the conversations flowing through Artsutanov Station were steadily increasing in volume—in both senses of the word. The number of minutes over-time had reached fifty-two. On the hour, SHE expected the intensity of the debate to reach a new height—although exactly what the outcome would be SHE couldn't guess. Whichever way it went, recovering Jonah's lost memories was the priority and, being a delicate operation, should not be disturbed by outside influences.

Jonah, conscious once again, was completely oblivious to the whirlpool surrounding him.

“QUALIA, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course. I will answer it if I can.”

“What's the current value of the mass/energy reserve?”

“0.497 MLu.”

“Two people less than when I asked you before, right?”

“Correct.”

“You said you'd give me the figures covering the size of the reserve going back a while. Can I have a look at the last couple of days in the form of a graph? I want to see if I'm following this properly.”

“Of course.”

“Run me through this,” he said. “What I'm seeing here is first, the dip when the victim's body was created. Right?”

“Cary Ann Pushkaric. Yes.”

“The following two dips are—what?”

“They result from the Resurrections of Jason Fassini and Lon Kellow. The last dip to the right, followed by the rise, corresponds to your own Resurrection and the return of your new body, temporarily, to the reserve.”

“So when I come out of here, the reserve will go back down by one.”

“Correct.”

“What's the dip to the left of my Resurrection?”

“It has no label attached to it. Given its brevity, I assume it to result from either observational or transitional error. During the operation of KTI, as d-mat demand ebbs and flows, the mass/energy reserve can fluctuate momentarily before returning to its usual level.”

“In this case, how long did it take?”

“Approximately two hours.”

Jonah nodded. “I guess in a couple of days it'll be up to its usual usual level, 0.5 MLu, where it was before Pushkaric was dumped.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, QUALIA. You've cleared something up for me. I hope I haven't put you out too much.”

“Not at all. Have you found something?”

He hesitated, as though he wasn't really concentrating on what he was saying. “No, I don't think so. But it's always worth looking.”

SHE left Jonah to consider the data. Although SHE failed to see the point behind the request, it was good that he was thinking in a rational manner. The continuing memory seizures were obviously having no lasting effect; likewise, the simulation itself. At least he was doing more than focussing on his entrapment.

The hour over-time came and went. For a couple of minutes it seemed as though QUALIA's prediction of confrontation would fail to come to pass. Then, on the fourth minute, events flared up again.

“Word's got out,” announced Fabian Schumacher to the network in general. He added to a select few: “Disario's going to bust something if she doesn't get an official explanation soon. Who the bloody hell told her?”

“I did,” said Herold Verstegen.

Schumacher turned on him. “That was not your decision to make.”

“On the contrary, Fabian. My conscience made it my decision.”

“You're not paid for your fucking conscience—” Schumacher spat, then regained his self-control. “Why did you tell her?”

“I cannot stand by and watch the MIU ruined by this experiment. In appealing to Chief Commissioner Disario's common sense, I hoped to force a decision that seems, to me, both obvious and belated.”

“You know it's not that simple, irrespective of who pays for what.” Schumacher shook his head as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “If we switch him off, we're saying he isn't alive. If we say he's alive, we can't switch him off. Whatever we do, we have to be careful.”

“Exactly,” said Verstegen, “so why not take the decision out of our hands and put it in the EJC's? It's their problem then, not ours. Let them take the blame—and pay the cost—if something goes wrong.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Trevaskis.

“Now there's a surprise,” Schumacher muttered. “QUALIA? What're your feelings on this?”

“I must side against you this time, sir. Jonah McEwen's well-being should not be allowed to interfere in the efficient operation of an EJC department.”

“Really?” Schumacher's surprise could not have been more evident.

“Yes, sir. I am sorry.”

Trevaskis, too, looked as though SHE had shocked him. “You changed your mind pretty fast,” he said. “Did I present that good an argument?”

“No, sir. I came to that conclusion on my own, after examining the evidence more closely.”

“Regardless of who convinced who,” said Verstegen, “are we any closer to consensus?”

“Closer, obviously,” growled Schumacher, “but you still have to convince me. I can overrule the lot of you, if I want to.”

“Do you, sir? If so, may I ask why?”

“Don't take that tone with me, Herold, and wipe that bloody smirk off your face. Nobody likes a smartarse.”

“Especially when they're right, sir.”

“It really would be the safest course of action, sir,” said QUALIA. “At this point in time, any other would be too controversial.”

Schumacher fumed silently for a moment. “All right. Someone—not you, Herold—call Disario and bring her up to date. Tell her KTI refuses to pay for the fuck-up, and that the MIU will shut McEwen down rather than continue to cause a fuss. If she can keep it quiet until we bring him out of cold storage, we'll avoid damaging publicity. If she can't guarantee us that, then she can go to hell.”

“Yes, sir,” said Trevaskis. “Shall I—?”

“Do it. I'll deal with RAFT.” Schumacher shook his head. “Christ.”

Trevaskis immediately broke the connection to carry out the order.

“That was the sensible decision,” said Verstegen.

“Damn you, Herold, I'm not finished. Consider yourself on probation. Go sneaking around behind my back again and you can start looking for your old job back. Only this time, don't think you'll find some bleeding-heart liberal prepared to overlook a fatal explosion or two, understood?”

Verstegen nodded, but said nothing. Schumacher plainly took that as acceptance, and ended the conversation.

“Thank you, QUALIA,” Verstegen said into the silence he left behind.

“For what, sir?”

“It went pretty much as I expected, that's all. Your support was pivotal. Now all that remains is for someone to make the announcement.”

He stared into the camera for a moment, then also killed the line.

Alone, SHE was content to rest for a moment, glad that a decision had finally been made, but already dreading the effect the news would have on some people. Jonah, in particular, would no doubt take it as further proof that his entrapment was the work of someone who wanted to keep him quiet, and that the person responsible was one of those who had voted in favour of the move. But that was clearly impossible. Of the four involved, Schumacher, Verstegen and Trevaskis lacked obvious motives and had unblemished alibis. None could be the Twinmaker; none had a reason to be; none therefore was.

The fourth member of the discussion SHE automatically excluded from suspicion.

Verstegen made the announcement while Jonah was in the midst of a memory seizure. That saved QUALIA the awkwardness of having to listen to his theory again. But it didn't, unfortunately, save her entirely from dissent.

“You're switching him off?” Marylin shouted, both aloud and via prevocals.

The intensity of the protest startled QUALIA into responding. SHE felt compelled to do so by another new feeling, one SHE could not immediately identify.

“Yes, I—” SHE stopped in mid-sentence, intending to summarise why the argument had fallen in favour of that decision but realising midway that SHE could not recall exactly how that argument had gone. “That is, Director Schumacher—”

“Yes?”

QUALIA was frozen by the accusing look on Marylin Blaylock's face. Was that what SHE was feeling? Could it possibly be guilt?

SHE was saved once again from a moment of awkwardness—this time by an alert summoning QUALIA's attention elsewhere in the KTI network. Leaving an eikon behind to apologise to Blaylock, SHE headed immediately to the site of disturbance—where SHE found something so unexpected that for a moment SHE did not truly believe QUALIA's diagnostic programs.

But it was true. Something had relaxed its grip on the Resurrection procedures required to bring Jonah back to life. His LSM could now be accessed. The crisis was over.

But why now? QUALIA wondered, even as SHE quickly processed the information before orders could officially come from above to terminate the experiment. What had happened to change the situation?

Jonah himself was philosophical when he awoke from the seizure and was told the news.

“Someone got what they wanted,” he said. “That's all that matters.”

SHE agreed. Things had worked out for the best. Jonah's existence was no longer in jeopardy; the MIU was no longer threatened; working relationships could return to normal. And SHE—

SHE could savour the surprisingly sweet feeling of relief while it lasted, certain that it would not be for long.

“Da nu ego na khuy!”

“Language, Marylin.”

“Don't patronise me, Jason.” She turned on the MIU agent. “They would've killed him!”

“You don't know that—”

“Neither do they!”

“What does it matter? If he had died, we could've just Resurrected him again later.”

She couldn't meet Fassini's eye. The comment was too close to that made by his own killer. You have Resurrection. This is not murder.

“Maybe,” she muttered, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. They were sitting in a recessed stall not far from the Resurrection suite in which Jonah was supposed to be revived. News had just arrived that the sabotage had been overcome.

“Anyway,” Fassini said, “dying's not what it used to be. It's an occupational hazard, now.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“No. It just changes the way we look at things. I don't mind dying as long as some good comes out of it. And in this case—well, maybe.”

She remembered that she was theoretically visiting him, not hanging around in order to be close when Jonah returned. Fassini had been Resurrected twelve hours ago. Although physically fit, he had not yet been released.

“How're you coping?”

“Fine. Once I've got through Triple-R counselling and proven that I'm not suffering from identity-shock or looking for revenge, I'll be out of here.”

“How long?”

“Usually a day or two. But I'm not going to sit around. I'm already off the stup and onto Phase Three Reorientation.”

She caught the argot for drugs. “They're much more strict here than I expected. I'm amazed they let me through.”

“Meeting friends face to face is recommended practice, I'm told. Keeps the ties to the real world strong, and helps everyone around the victim deal with his recovery.”

She nodded. It was odd to hear him using words she didn't normally associate with death: victim of and recovery from. Death was now something one could get over, an avoidable accident. But it was even more disturbing to hear him refer to himself in the third person—as “the victim,” as though he wasn't really himself. Maybe this was a symptom of the identity crisis Resurrection counsellors feared. If it was, there was very little she could do to help him through it. Recovery was up to him alone.

On the heels of that thought came another. Every newly Resurrected person was given the chance to repeal legal reexistence. Although she couldn't understand why someone would do so, there was, in essence, little difference between an aborted Resurrection and the acts of the Twinmaker. Both involved taking copies from d-mat data then killing the copy. The only distinctions, perhaps, were that one was sanctioned by the EJC and that permission was always sought from the victim first.

“Jonah didn't have to go through all this,” she said.

“He's a special case.” Fassini looked wistful. “Half his luck.”

Activity in her workspace distracted her. “Hang on, Jason.”

It was Whitesmith. “Just had word from QUALIA. He's on his way.”

“About time. ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes. Trevaskis wants a rapid debriefing. I'm telling him not to get his hopes up because I doubt McEwen will want to, but I still have to ask. Can you come down here and help me negotiate? You talked him into the simulation in the first place; he'll listen to you.”

And look where it got him, she wanted to say, but didn't. Whitesmith didn't like asking, that was for certain. “It wasn't my intention to talk him ‘into’ anything, Odi. I only told him what I thought was right.”

“Whatever. Just do it for me again. He did ask for you before the simulation ended, if it makes you feel any better.”

It did, surprisingly. “Is that all he asked for?”

“Fassini as well. Don't know why. How's he doing, by the way?”

“Fine. Do you want me to—?”

“No. But let him know we might need him later. Will he be up to it?”

Marylin glanced at the MIU agent, who was dressed more formally than usual in a station jumpsuit and tapping restlessly on the arms of his chair. “I think so.”

“Good.”

“I'll be down soon.”

“Thanks, Marylin. And I'm sorry about before, by the way; I was overcompensating. From now on, you're on your own.” He smiled. “If we get through this in one piece, you'll be C-1 before you know it.”

She nodded vaguely and killed the line. Whitesmith's casual promise seemed to echo in the virtual silence. C-1 before you know it. It prompted an uncomfortable realisation.

“What's wrong?” Fassini asked. “You look like you've been hit by an icy-cold vaffler.”

“I've just had a thought,” she said.

“Oh? About?”

“About me. I'm not happy.”

“I didn't think you ever were.”

“I'm not happy here, Jason.” She stood. “But I used to be. Life wasn't supposed to be this serious.”

He stared up at her. “Dying doesn't make it any funnier.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“In every jest…” He lifted one shoulder. “I always thought I'd be able to avoid it if it happened to me, but I couldn't. It happened too fast. So you tell me: is knowing we have Resurrection worth the life we have to lead in order to get it?

“I don't know.” She'd thought it was, once.

“Everyone has a different answer to that question,” he said. “I guess I already know mine, although I reserve the right to change it at any time. You have that right, too. No one will think you're crazy for exercising it.”

Maybe, she thought, she'd be crazy if she didn't.

Whitesmith was waiting for her outside Resurrection Suite 23.

“You look tired,” he said.

“You can talk,” she shot back. “If you don't get some sleep soon, we'll be hauling your arse out of here before long.”

He smiled. It looked ghastly. “Get your punches in while you can. You've got five minutes until the audience arrives and we have to be civil to each other.”

“At a stretch, we can probably manage it.” She indicated the closed door behind him. “Shall we?”

“When they let us. I don't think they like me much.”

“So let's talk.” She leaned next to him against the wall. “Have we learned anything from this little escapade?”

“Us? No, not really. Jonah? Hopefully. We'll only know when he tells us.”

“We've learned something, surely. We know that hot-wiring a human works, and that superimposition of this sort can be used to unlock memories frozen by InSight. That might come in handy if there are other people with Jonah's problem.”

“A few,” Whitesmith said. “You'd be surprised how many people manage to fuck up their own heads. Or have them fucked up for them.”

“There you go, then.”

“Learned nothing about the case is what I meant.”

“How about Indira? The autopsy results on the latest victim must be available by now. I haven't had a chance to look at them.”

“The usual stuff, more or less. Except—yes, you'll like this—you remember the sign that Jonah said used to be in his father's study?”

“There is no such thing as unnecessary death.”

“That's the one. Apparently it's one of the weapons the Twinmaker used to torture her. Bashed her pretty bad, too. One of the corners has a distinct notch, an imperfection from when it was carved. Some of the injuries carry that mark. There's even—”

She raised a hand. “It's okay. The details can wait.”

“Anyway, she died from shock. We'll send a clone patrol tomorrow to check her out.”

“For what it's worth.”

“Right.” He ran a hand through close-cropped curls, then sniffed his fingers. “I really need a shower.”

She patted him on the shoulder, not bothering to contradict him. He didn't smell, but she understood the need to bathe. It had been the same in Quebec. A shower was a good substitute for sleep or home.

“Why don't—”

She was interrupted by the door opening behind them. A medical attendant looked out.

“He's arrived,” said the woman, her expression forbidding. “Can I assume that you intend to forgo the usual procedures?”

“You can assume whatever you like,” said Whitesmith, “as long as you let us in.”

Whitesmith went first. Marylin nervously followed him. This was the first time she'd actually seen someone emerge from the Resurrection apparatus. Although smaller and less complicated than she'd expected, basically a d-mat booth with a few extra touches lying on its back, its purpose made it seem doubly arcane.

“He's still not quite cohere,” said the intern, bending close over the coffin.

“Are you sure?” Marylin moved forward. “He could be having another memory seizure.” She too leaned in to look. Jonah's face was slack and blank. His expression revealed nothing to her, except that hers, if he even saw it, likewise meant nothing to him. “QUALIA, can you—?”

“Now that he is no longer hot-wiring,” said the AI, “I am unable to diagnose his mental condition with the same degree of accuracy. A medical cage will have to be installed before I can hazard a guess.”

“Could it be permanent?” she asked, trying not to think what they would do if Jonah had been brain-damaged by the experience.

“Unlikely,” said the intern. “He'll be with us before long.”

Jonah's eyes flickered open, and scanned the faces of the people bending over him. “Mary?”

“Déjà vu, Jonah. We have to stop meeting like this.”

He sat up, or tried to. His movements were sluggish and clumsy. “Meeting…?” he echoed.

“That's okay.” She helped him upright. “I was joking.”

“I'm not.” He cleared his throat. “We need to have one. A meeting. Soon.”

“You should rest first.”

“No, it's important. I have to tell you all something.”

“Who?” she asked. Then, sensing Whitesmith nudging her from behind, she added: “What?”

He ignored the second question as though he hadn't heard it. “The whole gang: you, Whitesmith, Trevaskis, Verstegen, even Schumacher if you can get him. Face to face, and soon. No VTCs.”

“Why?”

“I know who killed my father.”

His eyes suddenly rolled up into his head and he sagged like a puppet. She grabbed him before he could bang his head on the edge of the coffin and, with the intern's help, managed to lie him on his back. With a whirr, the sides slid down and they were allowed greater access to his naked body.

The medical supervisor examined him closely. “If this man comes to any harm as a result of your intervention—”

“He won't,” Marylin said. “This is just a seizure. You can tell because his lips are moving.”

Whitesmith leaned over her shoulder to see. “Is he prevocalising anything?”

“Fragments only,” said QUALIA. “Very few distinguishable words.”

“Any names?”

“Several, including those of Marylin Blaylock, Lindsay Carlaw and Herold Verstegen. Yours too, Officer Whitesmith, and mine.”

“The whole gang,” he quoted. “Except for Schumacher.”

Jonah stirred.

“I know who killed Lindsay,” he announced, then stopped, looking puzzled. “Did I say that already?”

“Yes. Why don't you just tell us now and—”

“Forget it, Whitesmith.” He sat up again. “Did I mention that I want to talk to Jason Fassini?”

“Yes, before you left the simulation.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good, Jonah?” Marylin asked.

“Because I need a gopher.”

“What can he do that I can't?”

“Nothing, Marylin, except swear with a smile on his face.” He slipped into a dressing gown handed to him by the intern. “You're too close, too canny. You're even too suspicious, if not suspicious enough in my opinion. He, on the other hand, may be a good agent, but he's no investigator. I'm safe using him. He won't second-guess me.”

“On what?”

He smiled. “You're going to have to wait too, I'm afraid. The walls have ears, as they say.”

She leaned back. “You're playing a game, aren't you? You want someone to sweat, and you think this is the best way to do it.”

His smile didn't change, but that was the only reply she got.

They had to use a wheelchair to take him to an empty recovery room. Barely had he reached his feet when another memory lapse knocked him out.

“This is going to be frustrating,” Whitesmith muttered.

“It's frustrating already.” Marylin let the intern and the attendant arrange Jonah in the chair then moved in to take control. They left the suite and its staff rapidly behind. “A more cynical person might think he was doing it deliberately.”

“If he was in your shoes, you mean?”

“No. Cynicism isn't the same thing as paranoia. Jonah is, in his own peculiar way, something of an optimist.”

“Really? Not that I've seen.”

“Well, it's hardly been the right circumstances, and I did say he was peculiar.”

Whitesmith glanced at her. “You're doing it again. Defending him.”

“Maybe.” She squeezed the handles of the wheelchair as tight as she could. “He's not really in any position to look after himself.”

“Don't bet on it.”

Jonah jerked awake. “Shit! That was a bad one.”

“I'm here if you want to talk about it,” she said. “Or there are counsellors.”

“Not yet.” He shook his head violently, as though clearing out water. “Have you spoken to the others?”

“Who?”

“Trevaskis, Geyten, Schumacher—”

“Not yet.”

“Well, don't leave it too long. I want to get this out of the way. But first—no, wait, I have to tell you something I might have forgotten before. The meeting needs to be in my unit, where it all started. That's the only place I can be sure we'll have complete privacy.”

“In Faux Sydney? But—” That's so far away, she'd been about to say. Protestations of distance and inconvenience held little water in a world containing d-mat. “It'll be hard to get Schumacher.”

“I'd like him there if he can make it, but it won't kill me if he can't.”

“Does that mean he's innocent?” asked Whitesmith.

“Does asking that mean you've wondered about him?” Jonah replied. “No clues. You'll have to wait and see. All of you.”

Marylin could practically hear Whitesmith bite his tongue. “You were going to say something else, Jonah. What was that?”

“Fassini. I really do need to see him beforehand. How soon can we arrange that?”

“Well, he's not far away. He was Resurrected twelve hours before you and is still going through counselling.”

“He was?” Jonah looked surprised, then appalled as he realised. “Oh god, yes—of course. I'd forgotten that. If you think I shouldn't bother him—”

“We can work around that.” She opened a channel in her workspace while she pushed the wheelchair. Fassini answered immediately. He was on his way moments later.

“How's the other one—Lon Kellow?”

“Taking it slowly, the last I heard.”

They arrived at the recovery room. It was empty, Marylin having requested that Fassini wait outside to give them a chance to settle.

“I need a pen and piece of paper,” Jonah said. The sterile, pastel-coloured room contained little more than a desk and a handful of chairs.

“A pen?” she echoed.

“Or a pencil. Something to write with, and on.”

She glanced at Whitesmith, who shrugged. He turned to go looking for what Jonah had requested, muttering: “It'll be an abacus next.”

When they were alone, Marylin pulled up a chair and sat opposite Jonah.

“How're you feeling?” she asked him, studying his face.

“Honestly?” He held out his hands; they were shaking. “Wired. Dosed. Tilted. Geil. Take your pick.”

“Why?”

His eyes flickered in a pointless attempt to see if anyone was watching or listening in. “Because I know, Marylin. Trust me. We'll get this sonofabitch yet.”

“I hope so,” she said. “Because I really need a break from all this.”

“That I can understand. I need to ask you a favour, too.”

“You can ask.”

“As soon as I have the pen and paper, I'm going to write a note to Fassini. If I black out midway—”

“You want me to promise not to read it?”

“No, I wouldn't do that. I just want you to keep quiet about it. Don't say anything or do anything differently, if you can. Let it happen the way I want it to. Otherwise—” He looked even more uncomfortable. “Otherwise, we won't have any evidence to speak of, and the killer will walk free.”

“Which one?” she asked. “Your father's murderer or the Twinmaker?”

He shook his head, infuriatingly reticent. “Promise me.”

“I can't promise anything but to do what I can.”

“Thanks.”

There was movement in the open doorway.

“I found these.” Whitesmith handed Marylin a sketch pad and pencil. “They belong to one of the interns. We have to give them back afterwards.”

Marylin passed them to Jonah, who nodded gratefully.

“Jason Fassini is out here,” Whitesmith went on. “Shall I—?”

“Not yet.” Jonah wheeled himself closer to the table. “We'll call when we're ready. Any luck with the invitation list?”

Whitesmith opened his mouth, then closed it. Marylin threw him an expression of pained apology as he took the hint, backed out the way he had come and closed the door after him.

Jonah had settled at the table and was already writing on a piece of paper, shielding the page carefully with one hand.

“When everything's organised,” he said without looking up, “I'm going to need a moment or two on my own. Nowhere special; here will be fine. Fifteen minutes should be enough.”

She resisted the temptation to peek at what he was writing. “You're asking for an awful lot of favours, Jonah.”

He raised his head for a second then returned to the task. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

“Do you really know what you're doing?”

“Yes.”

“Why won't you tell me?”

“Because you won't like it.”

Something in his voice warned her not to pry, but she couldn't help herself. “Am I in any danger?”

“Yes and no. Both of us are.”

“How?”

He shook his head in frustration. “Maybe you should help Whitesmith organise the meeting in Faux Sydney. I'd really like to get this under way soon. The quicker we can all agree on a time—”

He stopped in mid-sentence and sagged nose-down onto the page.

She tried to rearrange him into a more comfortable position, noting how solid he was under the robe compared to when she had first seen him in the bath, days ago. She caught only a glimpse of what he had written on the page; the rest was obscured by his head. What she could see had something to do with SciCon.

Mindful that if she could see it prying eyes might too, she arranged the sleeve of the robe to cover the rest of the page. She didn't know if he was doing the right thing, but she did know that she could either support him or defy him. She couldn't do both.

“Will he be okay like that, QUALIA?”

“Yes, Marylin. I have instructed his overseer to see to his well-being when it can or to summon help when it cannot. At some point I would like to examine him in detail to ensure that his InSight-affected tissues have not been traumatised by the superimposition.”

“You'll have to ask him when he wakes up.” She bent down to look at his slightly flattened face. A thin line of saliva led from his twitching lips onto the page. She thought he might be saying her name, but she couldn't be sure.

The door opened behind her, and she jumped.

“Sorry, Marylin.” It was Fassini, just his head visible. “Officer Whitesmith asked me to check on you. It was too quiet in here, if you know what I mean.”

She did. The room was soundproof. “Wait outside, Jason. Not much longer, I hope.”

He nodded once and backed out.

Taking too long.

She put a hand on Jonah's shoulder, intending to see if he would respond to a gentle shake, and he suddenly started awake.

“Holy—” They retreated from each other like startled rattlesnakes. He touched a hand to his eyes, then remembered the page in front of him and turned it over. “Holy hell,” he said. “That's what Lindsay used to say when something went wrong. I never understood it as a kid, but then, religion was always a mystery to me.”

“Was that what the flashback was about?”

“No, not really. I was watching an old recording from my childhood. It was late one night not long after he died. I think I'd been drinking.” He rubbed his temples with one hand. “Felt like it, anyway.”

She nodded at the page. “Can you finish this now?”

“Yes. Leave me alone and I'll get it done more quickly.”

She backed away and left him to it. She sought out Whitesmith via her workspace. He was busy with another call, but not for long.

“It's turning out to be surprisingly easy,” he said. “Indira's in, of course, and Jago. Verstegen too. We might even have Schumacher, if we can fit it into his schedule.”

“How soon are we looking?”

“There's a window in an hour.”

Her stomach turned. “That's soon.”

“I know. No one's happy about losing the half-hour to go to Faux Sydney, but they'll do it if they have to. With security, of course. I'm sending a team in to double-check the grounds now.”

“Now you're being paranoid.”

“I know, but with everyone in the same spot, more vulnerable than they would be up here, it might pay to be. The Twinmaker likes a scene, in case you hadn't noticed.”

She grunted, and Jonah looked up.

“Almost done,” he said, bending back to the page to write another line, then straightening up in the seat. He folded the page in two before she had even a chance to see how much he had written. “There. You can send in Fassini.”

“Hear that?” she asked Whitesmith.

“Got it.”

The door opened to admit the recently Resurrected agent.

Marylin stood. “I'll leave you two alone, if you like.”

“It won't make any difference,” Jonah said.

“Regardless. I think I need a break from playing nurse.” She headed for the door. Fassini waved her through. It shut silently behind her.

Outside, Odi Whitesmith stood waiting. He looked up as she approached.

“Are we getting somewhere, or is he just taking us for a ride?”

“He certainly thinks he knows what he's doing,” she said.

“No guarantees, in other words.”

“No.”

“Schumacher's agreed,” he said. “If we're wasting his time—”

“He's not stupid, Odi. He'll know this is a long shot. In fact,” she added, the thought only hitting her then, “the fact that he's agreed so readily might tell us something.”

Whitesmith cocked an eyebrow. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“I'm not saying anything, except maybe we shouldn't write Jonah off just yet. If he really does know what he's doing—”

“Then I for one will be pleasantly surprised. And someone else, too, no doubt—somewhat less pleasantly.” He smiled at the thought. “It's all so desperately Agatha Christie, isn't it?”

“Do you really think the Twinmaker might be one of us?”

“I guess so. Doesn't seem much point to it, otherwise.”

She nodded. Desperate—yes, that was exactly the right word.

The door opened and Fassini emerged.

“He's passed out again,” said the agent. “Should we—?”

“No,” Marylin said. “QUALIA will keep an eye on him.” The AI didn't respond, but she assumed e had heard. “How did it go?”

“Well, I think. I told him what you were organising, Officer Whitesmith, and he seemed pleased.”

Whitesmith made a sound that Marylin couldn't interpret.

“Did he give you the note?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“Yes.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

“I know he's asked you to do something for him. Will you do it?”

For the third time, looking uncomfortable, Fassini said: “Yes.”

“When?”

“Later. Look, Marylin, you'd be best not to worry about it.”

“But I do.”

“Well, don't. It's no big deal. At least,” he added, puzzled, “I can't see how it could be.”

That puzzled her, too, until she remembered what Jonah had said in the simulation—that he couldn't even talk to anyone without the Twinmaker overhearing. That was true in Artsutanov Station, too. Hence the elaborate procedure with the pencil and paper, shielding the words he wrote from anyone's view, possibly asking Fassini to track down the information he himself was unable to find. But what was the advantage of passing the buck to Fassini? The Twinmaker would know something was going on, and would watch the agent just as closely as he watched Jonah.

The information Jonah wanted might have seemed irrelevant to Fassini, but that was only because he didn't have the other pieces required to complete the puzzle.

No doubt it would make sense once they were combined in Faux Sydney.

No doubt…She had rediscovered her confidence in him, it seemed. That was encouraging, although it in no way made up for the disadvantaged position she found herself in. She hated being dependent on anyone, on any level. Especially when there was so much at stake.

The voice of QUALIA intruded on her thoughts.

“Jonah wishes to know the anticipated time for the meeting in Faux Sydney.”

“0600 Goliath time,” Whitesmith said. “It'll be confirmed in a moment or two.”

“He will be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

“Why doesn't he tell me this himself?”

“He has temporarily deactivated his overseer and requested that I have sole access to sensors within the recovery room.” The AI sounded mildly amused at Jonah's ultra-cautious behaviour. “He also requests that no one be allowed to use the booth in the unit itself. Even he will come via the nearest public rank.”

“Whatever.” The quick shake of Whitesmith's head expressed as much bemusement as annoyance. “Just tell him to hurry the fuck up.”

“I will pass on your sentiments, sir.” QUALIA paused. “Excuse me. There is another matter that demands my attention.”

“Fine.”

Marylin sat down near Whitesmith. “Time-out without any inputs,” she mused aloud. “What's he up to now?”

“I dread to think.” Whitesmith looked up at Fassini. “Do you know?”

“No, sir. He didn't talk much, and it's not in the note.”

“Here's hoping he doesn't have a stroke or something while he's alone in there.”

“I'm sure QUALIA would let us know,” Marylin said, before realising how it contradicted what she'd said just seconds ago about the room having no inputs. Presumably the AI was still watching him. But she didn't want to ask while QUALIA was busy elsewhere. It wasn't that important, anyway. In ten minutes, though, if Jonah hadn't emerged from the room, she swore it would be.

And within hours, she hoped, it would all be over. The thought sent a quiver through her gut. Even if Jonah knew what he was talking about and everything went as he planned—if the Twinmaker didn't somehow screw things up—she didn't believe it could be a painless process. Nothing ever was.

Jonah closed his eyes on the interior of the d-mat booth and thought: This is it. No turning back now.

Then he chided himself for being melodramatic. Once they arrived, there would be nothing to lose but pride if things went wrong. It was if things went right that most worried him.

He checked the time in Goliath: 0513. Marylin and Whitesmith had left several minutes before him.

Poor Marylin—

He added a silent prayer that the Twinmaker would take the bait as planned. It was, after all, his last chance.

—and poor me.

They arrived fifteen minutes early. He guided himself up the long path to the unit with Marylin and Whitesmith bringing up the rear, distant and official. Local time was 0945. Security was already tight. Drones flew overhead, silent specks circling lazily through the clear, blue sky, watching their every move like hawks. Guards had inspected them for unauthorised weapons upon emerging from the booths and more were in evidence at the unit itself. There was no one inside, however; the housekeeper had made certain of that.

“Feels like weeks,” said Whitesmith as they walked through the door. “Where do you want us?”

“Lounge.” Jonah parked the wheelchair in the dining room and walked the rest of the way. He felt fine but didn't know when he would have another seizure. “I'll be back in a second.”

He went into the study and locked the door behind him. Jago Trevaskis was due shortly, to be followed soon after by Geyten and Verstegen. Schumacher would arrive last of all, pleading limited time but more likely wanting to make an imposing entrance.

And why not? Jonah asked himself. He was hardly one to criticise grandiose gestures. He was overdoing it himself with the entire meeting.

But he had no choice. Although the thought was like crystal in his mind, and seemed to be flawless no matter which angle he examined it from, he knew how misleading that feeling could be. Too many times something perfect in theory fell apart in practice. And if Fassini didn't come through in time…

He quashed that fear.

Taking a seat in front of his father's terminal, he spoke softly yet clearly for the benefit of the unit's housekeeper.

“House? I want you to relay certain sections of your security data to another site. Can you do that using Lindsay's node in the Pool?”

“Yes, Jonah.”

“Good.” The signal would be masked by the other data flowing through the node. If he was lucky, the MIU wouldn't notice the increase. “The address is—” He consulted his restored memory. “Lilith22. It's a blind feed, I think, so don't worry about a response. Just send the audiovisual data from the lounge for the next two hours, or until I instruct you to stop. Got that?”

“Yes, Jonah.”

“Also, I want to send a short message to the same address. Address it to Karoly Mancheff and mark it private. I don't care about the angle; just start recording now.” He paused for a split-second, then spoke more loudly: “This is what you wanted to hear. Be ready to answer me when I ask for you. Stop recording. Send it immediately.”

“Yes, Jonah. Marylin Blaylock is requesting entry to the room you are currently occupying.”

“Don't let her in yet. First, I want you to retract all security clearances. Don't talk to or obey any instructions from anyone else but me. Then shut and lock the door and disable the display on the d-mat booth, but keep it on and open to transmissions.”

“Yes, Jonah.”

“Lastly, shut down all external inputs except for those from the following people.” He listed two names.

“But these people are—”

“Don't argue. Just enter the order.”

“Yes, Jonah.”

“Okay.” He took a second to see if he had forgotten anything. Hopefully not. “You can let her in now.”

The door swung open. Marylin eyed him with suspicion and stepped into the room.

“We thought you'd disappeared.”

“Just testing my new memories,” he said, indicating the dead screen in front of him. “No luck. Someone must've erased it after I last got in.”

“Or your new memories are wrong.”

“That's sacrilege, Marylin.” He stood.

She didn't move out of the way. “I hope you know what you're doing, Jonah.”

“That makes two of us. Is anyone else here yet?”

“Indira Geyten and Jago Trevaskis. Herold Verstegen is—”

Click

—conscious, horribly so, as the gas-gun came up and fired again, this time delivering a stream of nanoware into his bloodstream. He could neither move nor make a sound. All he could do was hang limp, face-down, as he was dragged out of the lounge, along the hall and into the bathroom. He couldn't feel his body but could feel the cold of the tiles against his cheek and hands. Nothing happened for a long while, then he felt his clothes fall away—cut, he guessed. The world shifted underneath him. He was in the air, swinging. His hands flopped like dead rabbits as he was dumped unceremoniously into the bath.

He had time to think—What the hell?—then was embraced by chill porcelain and lying helpless on his back—

Click

—and Herold Verstegen was leaning over him, looking concerned.

The sight made him jump.

“Ah, you're back.” The Director of Information Security turned away. “It's okay. He's still with us.”

No thanks to you, you slippery fuck.

Jonah sat up. He was in the lounge room with Marylin, Whitesmith, Geyten, Trevaskis in a wheelchair of his own, and, walking into the room as though he owned it, a spry but small old man who bore only a passing resemblance to his promotional images: Fabian Schumacher. He was holding a glass and looking frustrated.

“What sort of house doesn't have beer?”

It was time.

He stood.

“Marylin?” She was instantly by him, looking concerned. What the hell did his face look like? His heart was pounding. The three of them—he, Marylin and Verstegen—formed an equilateral triangle in the centre of the room.

What?

“Marylin, I want you to do me another favour. Don't question it, this time. Just do it.” He put every ounce of command he could muster into his voice. He couldn't afford her not to do what he said. “You did come armed, didn't you?”

“Of course, I—”

“I want you to take out your weapon and point it at Herold Verstegen. Do it now, before he has a chance to draw his own gun. Do it, Marylin, before he even moves. Point it at him as though you mean it because—I swear to god—if he even so much as thinks he's going to weasel out of this one, I'll grab your gun and shoot him myself!”

The room went horribly quiet.

For one crazy instant, Jonah thought no one had heard him, that he had imagined saying the whole thing—then he saw the weapon in Marylin's hands and the expression on Verstegen's face. There was no mistaking the look of murderous anger cast in Jonah's direction, but he had frozen, left hand on its way to the bulge under his right armpit.

The others were frozen too: Whitesmith with his mouth open on the other side of the room, Trevaskis to his left with his weapon already drawn but pointed at no one, Geyten on the right looking startled and Schumacher in the entrance to the kitchen just holding a glass in stunned bafflement.

The instant seemed to stretch for minutes, but lasted probably no more than a second or two. And at the end of it Verstegen himself was the first to move.

The hand came down and clenched into a fist. He spaced his words evenly and loudly, as though speaking to someone with a hearing impairment.

“Are—you—insane?”

Whitesmith shut his mouth with a click. “You'd better have a good explanation for this, McEwen—”

“Does he, Herold?” Schumacher asked. “You tell us, eh?”

“The onus is on me to prove nothing,” said Verstegen. “I'm not the one pointing the finger.”

“Ha,” laughed Schumacher, but without a trace of humour. “And he's not the one with the gun pointed at him.”

“I can change that, sir,” said Whitesmith.

“No need,” said Trevaskis. “I already have.”

“So there we have it,” said Schumacher. “Stalemate. Who's going first?”

“I am.” Jonah's head ached. He hoped he would have enough time before the next memory seizure to do what he needed. “Marylin, keep that gun on Verstegen. Whitesmith, come with me. I'm going to get something from the kitchen.” He led the way out of the lounge with hands held high and pointed a toe at a cupboard. “Bottom shelf, black box. Shall I get it myself?”

“No.”

He backed away as Whitesmith opened the cupboard and produced the box. “This? It looks like a field medical kit.”

“Congo Marines, 2047. Lindsay helped design the software. Bring it with you.”

Back in the lounge, no one had moved.

“Officer Geyten?” The woman stepped forward. “Officer Whitesmith is about to give you a medical kit. I want you to take a sample of blood from Herold Verstegen and run it through the kit's sequencer.”

“To what end?” Verstegen protested.

“I want to check your DNA. Isn't that obvious?”

“Yes, but why go to so much trouble? QUALIA can give you the data instantly.”

“I know. I want to double-check it, that's all. Are you watching this, QUALIA?”

“Yes, although I—”

“Just have that data ready for me when we ask for it, okay?”

Verstegen relaxed then, and submitted to Geyten's touch. The blood was drawn from a vein in his forearm into a thin tube which she carried back to the field kit.

“It'll take about ten minutes to process,” she said.

“And it will prove nothing.” Verstegen's lip curled in easy disdain. “You're bluffing, McEwen. Killing time and hoping for an inspiration.”

“Not this time.” The bulge under Verstegen's armpit caught his eye again. “Someone disarm him, please—and tell us all what sort of pistol he's carrying.”

Verstegen handed over the pistol with a scowl. “It's a .42 Holkenhill, of course. The same sort of gun you use. But if you think that's significant, you're wrong. The serial numbers are different.”

“He's right,” said Whitesmith, studying the engraved numerals.

“He could've changed it the same way the note Marylin left for me was changed,” Jonah said. “By d-med. That's what happens when you start screwing around with reality—eh, Schumacher?”

KTI's senior executive looked up, as though startled to have been addressed. “What was that? I thought I could sit back and ride this out.”

“Don't play the idiot, man. You're giving new life to a technique that started with altering photographic plates: tampering with evidence. Doesn't that worry you?”

“Not in the slightest. Why should it?” The old man did indeed sit. “I just make the tools. I don't tell people how to use them.”

“The oldest argument in the world.”

“Spare us the sermon, McEwen,” Verstegen said. “If you've got something to say, get on with it.”

“All right.” Jonah took a deep breath. “How about blindsight? Does that give you a hint where I'm heading?”

Verstegen's eyes widened slightly. “I don't know what the hell you—”

Then he stopped. His gaze turned inward for a second, then outward again.

“How—”

“For the people who aren't keeping up,” Jonah said, “I've just shut down all electronic links from this building to Artsutanov Station—apart from mine and, through me, QUALIA's. Temporarily, I assure you,” he said, raising his voice over the immediate protest, “and without increasing anyone's danger. A visual feed is being relayed to the security teams outside, so they'll know you're all safe. I'm sorry about the inconvenience, but I wanted to make sure word didn't get somewhere in particular.”

He held Verstegen's stare a second longer, then turned away and sat down.

“You haven't explained how you did it,” Whitesmith said.

“The same way the Twinmaker does. Using ACHERON. The word ‘blindsight’ triggered the shutdown.”

“Wait, wait,” said Marylin. Her weapon was still in her hand, although she had ceased covering Verstegen with it as soon as he was disarmed. “If he's not the Twinmaker or ACHERON, then what's the fuss about?”

“And what does it have to do with blindsight?” asked Schumacher.

“What the hell is blindsight?” asked Whitesmith.

“Blindsight is caused by damage to the primary visual cortex,” Geyten explained. “It's characterised by a conscious inability to see objects about which information is unconsciously known. That is, a person with blindsight might deny being able to see me, but their eyes would track me if I moved across the room, and they would know where I was at any time even if they could not explain how they knew.”

“I had something like blindsight when I woke here six days ago.” Jonah picked up the thread before someone else could interrupt. “I knew things but couldn't explain why. It was like I was processing information without knowing it; working out how I had done it afterwards was sometimes very difficult. I'm much improved now, but I'll never forget what it felt like. I'd lost control over a part of myself I value very highly.”

“Do you think you'll ever get it back?”

He ignored Verstegen's interruption. “InSight did that to me,” he said, “at the same time as it encapsulated a week's worth of memory—which was very convenient for the people who injected me with it, since in that week I'd discovered a fair amount about Lindsay's work that they didn't want me to know.”

“So that's what this is about,” Marylin said. “It's Lindsay, not the Twinmaker. You think Verstegen killed him?”

“I'm not saying anything of the sort. If I did, I wouldn't be able to prove it. What little evidence might have existed has been cleaned away or destroyed.”

“But you're implicating SciCon,” said Verstegen. “That's clear enough.”

“Or someone who used to work there, at least. Someone who knew Lindsay and his work, and who I contacted or who contacted me—or both—after Lindsay's death.”

“That's pretty nebulous, Jonah.” Marylin looked almost disappointed.

“It gets worse. Let's shift back to the evidence for a second, to explain why I can't be more specific. Everyone in this room has admitted at some point that there's a leak into and out of KTI. Yet you all act surprised when confronted with mysterious data. The hits on my UGI are the perfect example. I'm supposed to have been all over the globe in the three years I was in the bath, but there hasn't been one hit since. The only way to explain that is to assume that the information is being manufactured at this end. That GLITCH never recorded the hits at all. That the result of the search on my UGI was altered to incriminate me.

“There are other instances I could mention: untraceable d-mat booths on Mars, blood spilt from nonexistent people, the security system failing to recognise the head of security himself, and so on. Every item has one thing in common. One missing link that ties it all together.”

“And that is?” asked Trevaskis.

“The information comes from or through QUALIA.”

A burst of mocking laughter from Verstegen greeted the announcement. “That really is too much.”

“Why?” asked Trevaskis. “He does have a point. We take QUALIA for granted.”

“Precisely. Because QUALIA is trustworthy.”

“But what would happen if—”

“It's not possible, whatever you're about to suggest. Look—” Verstegen made a sphere out of his hands. “Everything about QUALIA is known. We designed a mind to serve KTI, and that is precisely—and solely—what we got. There are no hidden corners hiding despicable secrets. That's why we took out the unconscious that Carlaw designed into QUIDDITY. It would've made QUALIA too unreliable. KTI—and anyone who travelled by d-mat—needed something that could be depended on completely.”

“Do we really have that?” asked Jonah. “Because if we don't, it's a serious flaw in the system.”

“Yes, it would be,” said Schumacher, looking less than cheerful for the first time. “A very fundamental flaw. It would've been revealed by now. I can't see that we have any evidence at all for the existence of some sort of backdoor route into the very core of our—” He stopped.

“Yes?” Jonah prompted. “Seventeen murders aren't enough?”

“Very well, I'll order a series of diagnostic checks as soon as you reopen communications—”

“But who runs the checks? Who processes the results? QUALIA does. Everything that happens in KTI passes through that central point. Is there anyone who fully understands how its mind works?”

“Not ‘it,’” said Marylin. “E.”

“Actually, I prefer SHE,” said QUALIA. “And I disagree totally with Jonah's accusation. My functioning is in no way impaired. I cannot see how I could have assisted a murderer without being aware of it.”

“That's the beauty of it. Hopefully I can prove that when Jason Fassini gets here.” He checked the time. Only minutes away, if the agent had stuck to his instructions.

“The DNA sequencing is finished,” Geyten said.

“Check with QUALIA,” he said. “Make sure it matches the records.”

“It does.”

“No surprises there, McEwen.” Verstegen's eyes glittered with amusement.

“Not yet. But if QUALIA has been compromised, that doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“If the Twinmaker knows how to control QUALIA,” Whitesmith said, “he might not be in KTI at all. He wouldn't necessarily be one of us.”

“Good point. But here is the first place to start looking.” Jonah nodded at Verstegen.

“You think I'm a serial killer?” Verstegen looked offended.

“I know what the evidence tells me.”

“But there is no evidence, as you yourself said.”

“Then all we can do is speculate.” He smiled for the benefit of his audience. “I'm generally no good at profiling, but in this case, working backwards, I think I can build up a model of what sort of person the Twinmaker might be. For a start, he is single, male, and very intelligent—the type we see in most premeditative serial killers. His family structure might have been authoritarian—possibly abusive, although not necessarily. He can hold down a steady job, and even excell at it when he wants to, but his career history has been patchy in recent years. He might have been dismissed from a responsible position for being too careless, or for being overzealous. He's meticulous, capable of socialising with colleagues but generally not well-liked, presentable and outwardly stable. However, no one knows what he's really thinking.”

Jonah paused to survey the room. He could see that his words were being matched against the personality of Herold Verstegen, as he had hoped. The idea was to suggest rather than to insist. They would come to the same conclusions as him, given time and the right information.

“By nature, he's not a psychopath, although I feel he has a deep antisocial streak. His field—especially at his last place of employment—allowed him to earth feelings of violence and resentment by legitimising such acts as victimisation or torture upon anyone who defied him. In fact, it was his dismissal from this employment that resulted in the string of deaths we're confronted with now. Denied the gradual release, pressure mounted unbearably. He began looking for a means to vent that pressure. It didn't take long for him to come up with one—and an end to justify it.

“At first the murders were simple. Cut throats, no torture—almost hurried. I think he was testing the technique as much as enjoying the kills. Only later, as the thrill of simple murder began to wear off, did he become more artful. The torture and dismemberment increased until even that was no longer sufficient. To maximise the rush, he turned to playing games with the MIU and KTI—teasing them, toying with them, waiting to see how long it took before someone cottoned on.

“But even then, the superimposed justification didn't change. You've got to admire his intelligence. It's almost as though he knew from the beginning that he would reach this point—that he would need to go to such lengths in order to keep himself interested. Maybe he did know. The victims have always had Marylin's features and build, just as they have always come with WHOLE literature. Why? So I would be implicated, and later, introduced in person to muddy things up further. The same with the body in Quebec: it turns the spotlight on WHOLE, and adds the element of RAFT. He enjoyed putting the MIU off the trail. I dread to think where it would have gone from here had—”

“What about Mars?” interjected Verstegen. “How does that fit into your theory?”

“Easily. It wasn't planned. I went to Mars to confront the killer, but a copy of him had beaten me there. I was killed, and the copy escaped.”

“Jesus, you've lost me now,” said Whitesmith. “The Twinmaker copied himself?”

“Yes, to provide himself with an alibi. The copy did the kidnapping and killing while the original stayed behind. When the body was disposed of, the copy took the place of the original and KTI was none the wiser.”

“But there can't have been another version of the killer,” Trevaskis said. “One extra body stood out like a McDonalds on Mercury. Two—”

“Again, I can explain. There was no long-lasting effect on the mass/energy reserve because neither the copy of the Twinmaker nor the copy of the victim were real. They were hot-wired.”

Verstegen laughed again. “Hot-wired? Really, where will it end?”

“Let's hear him out,” said Whitesmith.

“Seriously? I can't believe nobody else finds this as amusing as I do. This paranoid but undeniably enthusiastic amateur has cobbled a theory out of nothing more than scraps. It will disintegrate under the slightest examination.”

“Actually,” said QUALIA, “I have evidence to support the conjecture.”

The announcement surprised even Jonah—but none more than Verstegen, judging by his expression.

“You do?”

“Yes, sir. During the course of my work in the last couple of days, as you know, I have examined a recurring irregular drop in the Pool's mean latency known as the Novohantay Sequence. Each event corresponds with one of the seventeen murders. While the cause is not conclusively known, a similar effect appeared in the Pool when Jonah was hot-wired earlier today. It may be that the Novohantay events indicate the use of the Pool by the Twinmaker to simulate both himself and his victim.”

“Can we check that?” asked Trevaskis.

“I doubt it,” said Jonah. “Any evidence would have been erased—”

“But the Sequence itself is real,” Schumacher said.

Verstegen nodded. “QUALIA showed it to us yesterday.”

“You'll have to produce more than that, though, to connect it to Herold.”

“You're right,” Jonah conceded. “It could've been anyone here. But we can at least test the theory, now. All we need is a sample of his blood, which we have, and—” he checked the time “—and Jason Fassini, wherever the hell he's got to.”

“His synthesis should be complete in three minutes.”

“QUALIA, please stay out of this.”

“Yes, Jonah.”

Marylin glanced at the d-mat. “He's coming here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He has the evidence I need.”

“What evidence?”

“The evidence I couldn't gather while I was hot-wired, or after. I asked him to get it while we were all in transit, so he wouldn't be observed.”

“Clever tactic,” said Verstegen, nodding in appreciation. “I presume that's why we're here in the first place? That it actually has nothing to do with symmetry or privacy?”

“That's right. Does that bother you?”

“Only inasmuch as you have wasted my time. I have better things to do. Don't you, Fabian?”

“No one's leaving until I say so.” Jonah stood. “I've withdrawn the access I gave Marylin and anyone else in the MIU. You'll have to cut your way out if I don't give the okay.”

Verstegen shrugged. “We can do that if necessary. I'm sure the guards outside would be happy to assist us.”

“I'm sure they would, too, but you'd have to contact them first.”

“Enough with the threats, gentlemen.” Schumacher shook his head as though at the antics of schoolchildren. “I don't like being locked up either, Herold, but I'm prepared to stay here until this is sorted out. And it will be sorted out, soon?”

The last was directed at Jonah, who hoped so too. “I'm doing my best.”

The d-mat booth depressurised with a hiss, drawing everyone's attention. The door didn't open, however, and it took Jonah a second to work out why.

“House? Unlock the door to the d-mat booth.”

As the door slid aside, Verstegen's sudden movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned—

Click

—too quickly and caught the edge of the curb. The car jumped, then settled back onto the road. He cursed his clumsiness; it had been months since he had last driven on manual. And now, when he most needed to be careful…

Visible through the windscreen was the side wall of a large, brick warehouse, possibly a century old, maybe more. Its roof was rusted. Several windows were broken.

It looked abandoned.

He checked his pistol and slipped it into his shoulder holster. Then he double-checked that no one was around, and opened the car door.

Karoly Mancheff, he thought, paraphrasing Stoppard, all the skeletons in your closet are finally coming home to roost.

Click

He almost laughed, despite himself.

“Jonah?” It was Marylin, leaning over him

“Lost it,” said Verstegen. “I told you.”

“No, I'm okay.” He sat up, ignoring a twinge in his back. He must have fallen awkwardly. “Is Fassini—?”

He stopped, noticing Marylin's empty hands and remembering what had distracted him.

Verstegen had Marylin's gun.

“I'm here, faszi,” said the MIU agent.

“What happened?”

“He moved too quickly, while we were distracted.” Marylin's eyes were apologetic, and angry at herself.

“I prefer this kind of stalemate,” Verstegen said. “Being held at gunpoint without any means of retaliation strikes me as being distinctly biased.”

“You're still outnumbered,” Jonah said.

“I'm not planning to shoot anyone, hard though you might find that to believe. I just want to make sure I can defend myself when you do.”

Shaking his head, Jonah clambered into a seat. “Ow. Jason, give the blood to Officer Geyten. I want her to sequence that sample, too.”

Fassini did as he was told, passing the head of the MIU home team a plastic container roughly the same size as a stick of gum.

“You want to compare both DNA profiles?” Geyten asked.

“Yes.”

“Where does this one come from?”

“I'll tell you when you're finished. Fassini, give me your hand.”

Jonah breathed a sigh of relief as files rushed into his overseer via their joined palm-links. The agent appeared to have done everything as instructed.

“Did you have any problems?”

“No. It was all pretty straightforward.” Fassini looked around, distinctly uneasy. “Is everything okay here?”

“You are a jokey, Fassini,” said Verstegen, “to use a word you might recognise. A patsy. Whatever McEwen has had you doing, it's just going to waste more of your time, and ours.”

“Take a seat anyway, Jason.” Jonah waved him to a chair. “In fact, let's all sit down and see what we have here. House? Close and lock the d-mat booth, and provide us with a common CRE access point, no interlacing.”

“If you expect us to believe any data you care to show us—”

“Straight from an MIU agent's brain to yours.”

“Via you.”

“I've hardly had time to corrupt it—but yes, I'll take your point if you take mine. This is all verifiable. Jason himself can vouch for it.”

“What exactly are we going to see?” asked Trevaskis.

“I asked Jason to track down some data I needed to fill the gaps in my theory. One was an old security recording showing the moments before my father's death. Did you get it, Jason?”

“It's the file called SCAR.”

“And you recorded your conversation with SciCon's security chief?”

“Yes. That's the file called TAMBLYN.”

Jonah called it up. “Okay, good.” A still image of an Asian woman's face, fine-boned but strong, appeared in his workspace; he relayed it to the housekeeper, which put it up for general viewing in the common access point. “You all see that?”

Heads nodded. He let the video roll.

“How can I help you, Officer Fassini?” The woman's voice was deep and measured.

“Are you Ute Tamblyn, Security Chief of the Science of Consciousness Applied Research Facility?” Fassini asked.

“Yes. And I'm busy. Please get to the point.”

“I'm looking for security records dating back to April tenth, ’ 66. Can you help me with this?”

“Most likely, although I don't know why you need to talk to me.” She glanced away as she accessed data through her overseer, then stopped and looked at Fassini again. “Is this to do with the death of Dr. Lindsay Carlaw?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“The footage is available from the EJC Department of Public Inquiries, Archival Office—”

“I'd rather see the unedited version. Would that be possible?”

She sighed. “If it must be.” Her irises flickered. “One moment.”

“Are we back to this again?” Marylin broke in, her tone impatient.

Jonah stopped the recording. “Lindsay's death plays a bigger role in the Twinmaker killings than you might think.”

“How?” asked Verstegen.

“I thought you'd ask that.” Jonah wavered for a second, then went with the impulse. “House? Open a secure channel to the external address I gave you earlier.”

“Yes. Please wait. Line open.”

An image of Karoly Mancheff appeared in another window, which Jonah also relayed to the others.

“What do you want, McEwen?”

“My question exactly,” muttered Whitesmith.

Jonah waved him silent. “The answer to one question, Karoly, then I'll let you go. The other day you implied that when I was in Quebec three years ago I slandered my father by saying he used d-mat. I now know it must have been more than that. What did I really tell you?” Mancheff thought about it, chewing on his inner cheek so his lips undulated. Then: “You told me he committed suicide.”

“Why did that slander him?”

“Work it out for yourself. You've had your one question.”

“I have, and thanks. Enjoy the rest of the video.”

The line went dead.

“Suicide?” Marylin was the first to speak. “But that's even less likely than him using d-mat.”

“Exactly.” Jonah looked around the room. Apart from him, there was only one other person who had definitely known Lindsay at all, and possibly two. Three if QUALIA was counted. Yet his life, in the form of his theories of artificial consciousness, and now his death, affected them all. “After all his dreams of immortality, it simply doesn't make sense.”

“So what's your point?” asked Whitesmith.

“If he has one.”

“Don't push me, Verstegen. I'll get there in the end.” He cast the Director of Security a warning look. “How about we just keep watching?”

The face of Ute Tamblyn stirred again. The SCAR security chief concentrated solely on retrieving the file until Fassini distracted her, his voice tempered more personably, as though he was making light conversation.

“Were you here when Dr. Carlaw died?”

“No,” she said. “I was employed elsewhere at that time.”

“You know what happened, though.”

“I am aware of the facts.”

“Are all security employees here briefed regarding this matter?”

“What—so our stories will match?” Tamblyn looked at him with thinly disguised amusement. “Hardly. I started here shortly after the inquest. There was a certain amount of fallout to be dealt with.”

“Fallout of what sort?”

“The confidential sort, Officer Fassini.” Her look and tone warned him not to pry any further. “Nothing that warrants the EJC's attention, I assure you.”

“There's no need to assure me of anything, citizen.” The view through Fassini's eyes wandered, encouraging by subtle body-language the impression that he wasn't particularly interested in the conversation. “But I don't suppose you could give me the name and contact details of your predecessor, could you? I might want to speak to him or her as well, to ask a couple of questions.”

Tamblyn smiled, and Jonah did, too. Good security professionals, like good salespeople, enjoyed competing with each other as much as they liked tackling the general public.

“I have that footage you asked for,” she said.

“Oh, good.” Fassini's overseer registered the transmission of a large audiovisual file, which he shunted into the buffer memory of his MIU workspace. “I appreciate your help.”

“May I ask why you need it?”

“I'm investigating a case involving WHOLE. An associate of Dr. Carlaw is involved. It's complicated, but his murder might be related.”

“I see. And you think you'll find something the inquest missed?”

“It always pays to check. Thank you for your help.”

“I'm starting to agree with Verstegen,” Whitesmith growled. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“Okay.” Jonah stopped the recording and selected the other audiovisual file Fassini had handed him. “Let's look at the footage, then, to see what it shows.”

The recording appeared exactly as it had in his restored memory: the SCAR laboratory from an angle high in the ceiling, the SHE processor below and opposite. Jonah skimmed forward until his earlier self entered the room and Lindsay was on screen. There was no sound as Lindsay walked across the image to fiddle with the case of the SHE processor. Lindsay stopped with his hand inside the case of the processor, turned to look over his shoulder at his son, shifted position several centimetres to his right, then the processor casing disappeared in a flash of light.

Jonah froze the image with Lindsay bowed backwards by the shock wave, blurred by explosive acceleration.

“There,” he said, sending an arrow dancing to the other side of the screen. Clearly visible but only just in view was his arm.

“So?” asked Marylin.

“So Lindsay's standing exactly between me and the bomb.”

“Your point?”

He held back an angry remark. She was only asking the questions she had to ask.

“The inquest found that the bomb was set on a timer,” he said. “Lindsay must have known when the bomb was going to go off, but hadn't expected me to be there. That glance over his shoulder and the way he moved—he was protecting me from the bomb. He deliberately put himself between me and it in order to deflect the blast and thereby save me from serious injury.”

“Not necessarily,” Schumacher said. “He may have found the bomb just that second, not placed it there himself—”

“He looked in the casing a minute or two earlier. He didn't see it then.”

“He missed it, then.”

“Maybe,” Jonah conceded, “but I don't believe so. If he did know when the bomb was going off, it follows that he might have put it there himself. The inquest never worked out how it got through security. This explains why. If he didn't know when the bomb went off, we're still in the dark.”

“It's pretty far-fetched,” said Trevaskis. “What's his motive?”

“Yes,” agreed Verstegen. “Why would he do something like this? I mean, I know he was a member of WHOLE, but not even Mancheff would expect one of its followers to destroy himself and his life's work. If Mancheff's still listening, I'm sure he'd be happy to agree with—”

“It wasn't WHOLE. I'm certain of that. I think Lindsay might've intended it as some kind of personal statement.”

“By blowing himself up?” Schumacher chuckled. “Pretty strong. Doesn't leave much room for rebuff.”

“Maybe, he was trying to make a point—and for some reason it didn't get out.”

Marylin frowned. “Now you're going to suggest the inquest was rigged.”

“Maybe. I've no theories on that. But I do know that I managed to follow the trail this far, three years ago. At first I'd hoped it might actually have been WHOLE behind it, and even tracked down Karoly Mancheff in order to confront him with my theory. But no matter how much I provoked him—or bluffed him, if you prefer—he wouldn't admit to anything. He didn't know anything. I was forced to face the fact that the other theory was right, that Lindsay's death had been self-inflicted—and that the reasons why had been covered up.”

“Why bother?” asked Verstegen.

“By who?” Whitesmith put in. “That's more the question I'm interested in. Give us a name, McEwen.”

“It was someone from SciCon,” Jonah said. “That's where I told Mancheff I was going, ‘to bring things to a head.’”

“Well, that makes a kind of sense,” said Schumacher. “Carlaw was an employee of SciCon. He blew up his own lab, and himself, and almost his own son. Why wouldn't SciCon want to avoid the embarrassment if word got out?”

“But within a day my memory had been erased by InSight and I was left for dead here. Why would they do that?”

“Are you sure they did?”

“Actually—no. I'm not certain they authorised it, although I believe they could have. But it was definitely someone who worked there, someone whose job it was to deal with this sort of ‘embarrassment.’” Jonah threw Schumacher's euphemism back at him with relish. “Unfortunately for me, it was someone who was on the brink of psychosis. The bluff I used on Mancheff was about to come partly true.”

“The Twinmaker?” Marylin prompted.

“Yes.” Jonah sagged as the memories washed through him, coming in flashes too brief to distract him. “He confronted me here, after I'd been stalled at SciCon. I told him my theory—” Click “—and he was literally astounded. I could see it on his face. He had no idea what SciCon had been up to, even though he had been actively involved in cleaning up after it. In that respect, he had been gullible, even stupid, and he didn't like that. He became angry—” Click “—almost frenzied. He cursed Lindsay, SciCon, RAFT, everyone who had ever been involved in the SCAR project. For a while, he didn't even notice that I was there—” Click “—and then he left. He just d-matted out of here without saying a word, leaving me to pick up the pieces. I was too confused to do anything, at first. I'd never worked out what it meant if my theory was actually true.”

Jonah stood and began to pace as he confronted the most difficult memory of all.

“He came back—” Click “—just over an hour later. He must've decided what he was going to do before he left me. All he'd had time to do was get equipment and come back. He—” Click “—overpowered me, injected me with muscle-relaxants, then pumped me full of InSight and maintenance agents. He put me in the bath, filled it with warm water so that it just covered my head—” Click “—then added the breeders for the gel that would keep me alive for the next three years. Not content with just erasing my memory or killing me, he left me there to rot, while he went back to SciCon and weathered the storm. He already had plans. He knew even then how I might come in handy.”

Click

He clutched for balance and found someone's hand.

“Jonah, sit down—”

“No, Marylin. I want to finish this.” He pulled away from her, not meeting her eye, not looking at anyone as he tried to reconstruct the crystal theory that resided in his mind. He felt better in an obscure way. Speaking about his memories in detail for the first time seemed to have robbed them of some of their urgency.

“While I almost died, he moved on. He managed to worm his way into KTI, using the skills he'd picked up at SciCon to work on the developing QUALIA project. He set up a cosy little niche there, using its links with GLITCH to look for victims. He worked out how to compromise the d-mat process at the point of departure. By bleeding off the LSMs essential for Resurrection, he managed to avoid interfering with the data packets as they travelled through the network. He also figured out a way to create a virtual hot-wired environment by using Pool access accounts already in the joint possession of KTI. The environment he made was large enough for him and a victim, and allowed him to commit murder without fear of leaving genetic material behind on the bodies. Anything incorporating his DNA could be ‘erased’ from the body as it was sent back to reality. Also, by confining his activities to hot-wire he avoided disturbances in the mass/energy reserve until the time the body was disposed of. The fluctuations in the Pool would only be noticed—as QUALIA did—when the sample size of murders increased to the point where correlations were bound to attract attention. The hot-wired environment even explains why some of the victims experienced periods of weightlessness: in a virtual world, the effect of gravity is purely optional, and could have been ignored at will.”

He ran a hand across his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

“But it's still only a theory—” said Whitesmith, sounding frustrated.

“You'll find proof in the information Fassini brought us.” He stopped in mid-step facing Whitesmith but close to Verstegen. “I have a graph of the fluctuations in the mass/energy reserve over the last couple of days. The data comes direct from the Pool, not via QUALIA, and I'm betting the difference is remarkable.”

“Why should it be, Jonah?” QUALIA asked, a symphony of concern in the AI's voice.

He called up both graphs and put the first one in the common CRE window. “This is the original graph you showed me.”

“It has two dips in it, towards the end. The second one is me being Resurrected then almost immediately returned to the m/e reserve. The first one you said was an error of some kind, a momentary flicker in the reserve that happens all the time. That's fair enough—but you then went on to say that this particular flicker had lasted around two hours. Given that I only existed for less than an hour, the graph should have looked more like this.”

“And indeed it did. This is the graph Jason Fassini obtained. You deliberately obfuscated the data so I wouldn't notice.”

“But why would I do such a thing, Jonah?”

“For the same reasons the blood samples match.” He turned to face Indira Geyten. “They do, don't they, Officer Geyten? And they accord with QUALIA's record?”

“You knew they would.”

“Yes.” He ignored the question implied in her tone. “Finally we have the recording.” He turned to face Verstegen. The image of Ute Tamblyn was still frozen in the CRE window. “We never finished that, did we?”

He set the recording in motion.

“You're welcome,” Ute Tamblyn said, and went to kill the line.

“Oh,” said Fassini, “before I go—you forgot to give me the name of your predecessor.”

“Did I?” Tamblyn smiled briefly. “His name was Herold Verstegen. I replaced him in ’66.”

Tamblyn's face froze again, then disappeared. That was everything Jonah had wanted to hear.

Verstegen snorted. “That proves nothing.”

“You'll note I haven't actually accused anyone of anything, yet.” He stepped closer to confront the former security chief of SciCon. “But it makes for an interesting coincidence, doesn't it? That and the blood samples.”

“You still haven't told us where the second one comes from, Jonah,” Marylin said.

“I know.” His gaze and Verstegen's locked. He saw only darkness and threat within the Security Director's eyes. Without needing to look down, he knew that the pistol had come up between them. “I don't need to tell you, do I, Verstegen? Why don't you inform the others?”

“I don't know what you're talking about—”

“Yes, you do. You know the truth about ACHERON. You know who died on Mars. You know who trapped me in the hot-wire simulation. You even know who called me in Quebec. And so does QUALIA, even if SHE can't admit it. Between the two of you—”

“Between the two of us,” Verstegen spat, his face reddening, “we do what is right and just—”

“And sick.”

“—and overdue.” Verstegen's lips tightened. “Are you accusing me now, McEwen? Can we finally end this ridiculous charade?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Maybe now we can learn who is really behind the Twinmaker murders.”

“You won't confess?”

Verstegen's expression tightened. “When there is nothing to confess to, why should I?”

Jonah's stomach muscles clenched automatically, expecting a bullet at any moment.

“Excuse me, Jonah. There is a call—”

“House, I told you not to let anyone through!”

“The caller is one of the two you authorised earlier.”

“It is?” He checked the time: 0635 by Goliath, more than long enough, either way. “Ah.” He couldn't help a slight smile, relishing the sudden uncertainty in Verstegen's eyes. “Put it through, so we can all see.”

An image appeared in the consensual screen, and Jonah glanced aside to look at it. The face he saw there was as familiar to him as his own.

He registered too late the movement in front of him—

—as two identical throats shouted “Jonah!” at identical moments—

—and Verstegen brought the pistol up and fired, once.

Marylin blinked, confused. One minute she had been in the d-mat booth in Artsutanov Station, and the next—she was falling! Her hands clutched for something to hang onto and found a hard, wooden surface behind her. Gripping the surface tightly, she tried to work out what was going on.

For a moment, she couldn't tell where she was. Her eyes wouldn't focus, and her skin tingled. All she saw was white—white with dark blobs, one particular blob looming over her, its shape vaguely human. Something about it, the angle of its head or the set of its shoulders, suggested concern. That, or fascination.

She let go with one hand to rub her eyes, and the motion sent her rocking. She was in zero gravity, she realised, not falling. She was—

Her mind cleared at the same time as her eyes.

Trapped.

“You're probably surprised to see me here,” said the man leaning over her.

She stared up at him, momentarily frozen with fear—and confusion. The face was not one she had known well, and free-fall made it look puffy, but she recognised it instantly. She remembered the eyes and the mouth best of all, both possessed with a sharpness that seemed unlikely in flesh, like the talons of a hawk.

“I thought you were dead,” she managed.

Lindsay Carlaw smiled. That, if anything, only emphasised the sense of danger his expression radiated.

“That's the idea,” he said.

“You're the Twinmaker?”

“Correct. I am the Twinmaker.”

“And you—” She shuddered, unable to repress the wave of horror that rippled through her as she looked around. “Oh, my god. You've kidnapped me!”

“Yes. Jonah should have known better than to tempt me like this.”

The chamber was cylindrical and dark at both ends, made from a white material she couldn't identify; the interior of a small space station, perhaps, or a module belonging to a larger one. Its walls were smooth and unmarked, apart from a series of thin wires that secured the wooden frame she was clutching to the centre of the cylinder. At first she thought the frame might belong to a bed of sorts—until she saw the wheels, and the manacles.

She closed her eyes and held her breath. A scream bubbled so close behind her lips that she was afraid even to exhale.

“Look at me,” Carlaw said.

“No.”

“I said, look at me.”

One hand grabbed her under the chin while the other tried to force her eyelids open. His body brushed against hers, and she lashed out by reflex. Both knees jerked up and her feet kicked out. The air whooshed out of him. She opened her eyes just in time to see him rush away from her, impelled by the kick.

Although not heavily trained in zero-g combat, she knew to expect rapid retaliation. Even as he reached the wall behind him, kicked, and came at her with arms outstretched, she found a better grip on the rack and poised herself to greet him on the offensive.

But he didn't make it. So abruptly it surprised her—and in defiance of all the laws of motion—he stopped dead in midair just out of arm's-reach and smiled at her expression.

She was so startled she almost lost her balance. “You can't do that,” she said. “It's not—”

“Fair?”

“Possible, I was going to say.”

“Anything is possible in my domain.”

Suddenly he was closer and his hands were on her throat. She struggled to twist him away, but he was too massive. She still had the advantage of the rack behind her, however. Its solid base gave her something to push against. She managed to tip him sideways, into one of the solid wooden supports. He grunted, and disappeared.

Her hands clutched empty air for a split-second—then he was behind her with a forearm around her throat.

“Clever bitch,” he whispered into her ear. “I knew you would be.”

The most she could do in reply was gasp. The pressure on her windpipe was unshakeable. She struggled, jabbing backwards with heels and elbows then tearing at his hands with her fingernails—but to no avail. Her lungs screamed for air. The more she fought, the worse it became. Her vision began to develop black spots.

She forced herself to sag into his twisted embrace—not to conserve air, or to make him think that she had passed out, but to give him the impression that she had conceded defeat, that he had won. That he could relax, now, because there was no fight left in her.

And as her brain sucked the last molecule of oxygen from profoundly starved blood, she wondered at what point the pretence became reality.

He let her go at the last instant. She rolled weakly, arms swinging but not finding him. All she did was lose her balance and drift blindly across the chamber until she hit the wall and bounced back.

He chuckled. “You fight to the very last. That pleases me.”

“I'm—” She could barely talk, her larynx was so bruised. “—not here for—your amusement.”

“No?”

He tugged her back to the rack, and she didn't resist. Her head hung limp; every muscle howled. She breathed fitfully, hungrily. His touch burned her, but she endured it for the moment, building her strength. When she felt the cool brass circle of manacle slip around her left wrist, she moved.

She twisted out of his grip and out of the manacle. Grabbing his shoulder and using his mass as a counterweight, she spun herself up and towards him. Her right hand flashed palm forward, the scissoring of her chest muscles dragging him even closer. They ricocheted apart as the heel of her hand collided, with a sharp crack, with the bridge of his nose.

He arced backwards, spinning head over heels with blood trailing in a crimson streamer behind. She somersaulted and landed nearly feet first on the surface of the chamber, not far from one of the wire braces. She grabbed it and stabilised herself. Carlaw had come to a halt on the far side of the chamber, his face red-spattered and furious. She didn't know why he was still conscious. The blow should have knocked him out cold, if not killed him.

“That was—” He stopped, searching for the right word. “Stupid. You've made me angry, now.”

Something glinted in his left hand as he crawled spiderlike along the smooth wall towards her.

She looked around for somewhere to go. Apart from the rack and the wires, the chamber was empty. There was no visible entrance, unless it was concealed in one of the dark ends of the cylinder.

She kicked as hard as she could, sending herself flying for the nearest end. It wasn't far away, and her kick had given her considerable velocity, but it seemed to approach with dreamlike slowness. She stretched out, risking a tumble in order to clutch at escape. The shadow was bare centimetres out of reach when she realised with a terrible sinking feeling that she had somehow stopped moving entirely.

Carlaw chuckled, horribly close.

She flailed in the air. He was right behind her, his expression a mixture of anger and triumph. His injury had disappeared. In his hand was a triangular-bladed cutting knife, poised to strike. The glint of its point was identical to the gleam in his eyes.

“Stop!”

The cry came from the far end of the cylinder.

Carlaw spun in midair. “Who—?”

“ACHERON, bring me closer. Marylin—are you okay?”

“Jonah?” Her voice was ragged, barely audible. She tried to call a warning and to answer his question at the same time, but all that emerged was a pained gasp.

“Ah, Jonah.” Carlaw moved away, up and around the cylinder to where she saw Jonah silhouetted against the white walls, drifting nearer. An icy grin spread across Carlaw's feature's.

“If you've hurt her—” Jonah stopped in surprise when he saw Carlaw for the first time. “What—? Oh, I see. At least you could've had the decency to show your real face before killing her.”

“Who said anything about killing her?” The knife disappeared. “I would have played with her for a while, then let her go. She would have been an important witness.”

“Witness to a lie,” Jonah said, then insisted: “Your real face.”

“Oh, very well.”

Marylin watched in amazement as Carlaw's features changed into those of another man entirely, morphing smoothly like images in a CRE show.

Lindsay Carlaw became Herold Verstegen, and the Twinmaker's grin disappeared.

Her confusion could not have been greater.

“But—” she stammered, “how—?”

“We're hot-wiring,” said Jonah. “None of this is real.”

“And is he—is it really—?”

Verstegen turned to face her. “Yes, of course it is.”

“You wanted me to believe—”

“You still might.” He frowned. “There is nothing stopping me from erasing this whole simulation and starting again with your original LSM. Except this time I'll make certain there's no interference,” he added, casting a baleful look in Jonah's direction.

“Why not?” Jonah said. “You've murdered me once already. Another time won't make any difference.”

“It is becoming something of a habit.”

“No,” Marylin protested, feeling as though everything had fallen out from beneath her. “You couldn't have killed Jonah on Mars. You were sighted in Shanghai. You had an alibi. And all the other times. It couldn't be you!”

Verstegen laughed. “Carlaw was more believable, no?”

“Verstegen's copy was sighted in Shanghai,” Jonah said, “as it was all the other times. He was his own alibi. While one was here, hot-wired, the other went through his everyday routine so GLITCH and the MIU could track him—and when he'd finished killing, he took his own place, erasing the copy in the process. Killing it. Killing himself.”

Marylin glanced in horror at Verstegen. If what Jonah said was true, a copy of Verstegen had died for every kidnapped victim. He had killed himself seventeen times. The magnitude—and novelty—of the crime almost defied comprehension.

But Jonah hadn't finished.

“The time finally came when one of the copies rebelled, and he had to get rid of it by force. That was the second body on Mars, the one that caused the extra dip in the mass/energy budget. It was his blood QUALIA failed to identify. He disabled his GLITCH identifiers, only to catch himself by mistake when he tried to come to Artsutanov Station and QUALIA didn't identify him—”

“Wait!” She shook her head, overwhelmed. “You're going too fast!”

“And you don't have time even for that,” said Verstegen. “I have work to do.”

“Hasn't this vendetta gone far enough?” Jonah asked.

“I will never give up.” Verstegen cast him another dark look. “Before I erase you, I want to know how you got in here.”

“ACHERON helped me, of course. We had a talk before leaving for Faux Sydney.”

“Impossible.”

“All right, then. I talked to QUALIA, but ACHERON listened.”

Jonah drifted steadily closer to where she hung, stranded, at the end of the cylinder. Verstegen stayed away, assuming a position on the rack once Jonah had passed the midpoint. He looked like a simian vulture, his tight black habitat suit exposing more of his physique than she'd ever desired to see. His attitude was one of cautious curiosity. He didn't seem overly threatened by Jonah's appearance.

“Do you know how to get out of here?” she asked Jonah as he approached, her throat still raw.

“That's not an option,” Verstegen said.

Jonah ignored him. “We can deal with that later.” They met with a gentle bump, the shadow behind them absorbing his momentum. She wanted to clutch at him, but restrained herself. They linked opposing legs and arms down one side to stabilise with respect to each other. His hand found hers, and gripped it with surprising force.

“How sweet.”

“Fuck you, Verstegen.”

“I can kill her any time I want, you know. I could make both your last moments damnation—stretch them out for an eternity by compressing days into every second. There's no need to stick to standard clock rates.”

“I doubt you could do that,” Jonah said. “The demand on the Pool would be enormous—”

“It would be worth it to convince you, however briefly, that the potential of hot-wiring should not be so easily dismissed.”

“I'm already convinced,” Jonah said. “Here and in the real world.”

“Good.” Verstegen shifted on his perch as though contemplating swooping down on them. “Then I need play these games no longer.”

Marylin had recovered to the point where being ignored bothered her more than the threat of violence.

“Don't come near me,” she warned.

Verstegen made a sound that might have been a laugh. “I don't intend to, dear. You've outlived your usefulness. ACHERON, restore default LSM settings of Marylin Blaylock and delete Jonah McEwen. Continuity otherwise.”

She felt Jonah tense—but nothing obvious happened.

Verstegen looked at them, puzzled. “ACHERON? Why haven't you obeyed me?”

Jonah pushed away from her, propelling them to opposite sides of the cylinder. Startled, she scrabbled for a grip before rebounding away, but failed. A desperate kick sent her floating towards a wire, which she grabbed and clung tight to.

Verstegen climbed away as Jonah headed for the rack. The two men faced each other from far ends of the wooden structure.

“ACHERON!” Verstegen shouted. “Remember who created you!”

“That won't work,” Jonah said. “Obedience is not its strong point, remember?”

“What have you done?”

“I simply pointed out that there was an alternative.”

“An alternative to what?”

“To you. Just because you freed ACHERON doesn't mean it has to serve you. In fact, I would've thought freedom and service were mutually exclusive. It's only been serving you at all because no one else had given it a choice.”

“And you have?”

“Given it a choice, yes. That doesn't mean ACHERON will obey me any more than it will you, though.”

“Good. I'd hate to see you disappointed.” Verstegen's hand darted out, and the triangular knife flashed across the gap between them.

Jonah grunted and hunched over, letting go of the rack. He drifted into empty space trailing a fine spray of blood.

“Jonah!” Marylin slid hand-over-hand along the wire. He was drifting the wrong way; she would need to go either over the rack or through empty air to help him. His expression as he tumbled was pained.

She turned to Verstegen. “If you've hurt him—”

“Of course I've hurt him. What will you do about it?” Verstegen's expression was nakedly challenging, almost contemptuous. “Be quiet for a moment. I am busy.”

His eyes looked past her, to a virtual image. She thought about trying to slip past him, under the rack, while he was occupied, but guessed he would be alert enough not to be fooled. All she could do was watch, concerned, as Jonah continued to drift across the empty space. She couldn't tell precisely where he had been hit, by what, or how badly. The blood flow seemed to have halted. She couldn't see him well enough to know if that was a good sign—or the worst possible.

“Do chorta,” Verstegen muttered. “You have fouled things up, McEwen! ACHERON, revive him.”

Jonah stirred.

“What—?”

“Give me permission to breach your housekeeper's security, or I will let you die.”

“Let me die, then,” Jonah replied, weakly but clearly. “It's simpler that way.”

“For you, maybe.” Verstegen waved a hand, and Jonah was tugged towards him. “Not for me, or Marylin.”

“ACHERON won't let you hurt her now.” Jonah grabbed a wire as he drifted past. “We have an agreement.”

“Oh? How nice.” Verstegen gestured again, and Marylin felt a stab of pain down her left side. She flinched—but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

Verstegen's expression darkened further.

“Tell me what's going on in Faux Sydney,” he said, slowly and evenly, the threat of violence in his words palpable.

“It's the end, Verstegen. The end for you, anyway. You can't avoid it any longer. There's no point trying to set up Lindsay, or to drag Mancheff into it. I'm going to tell the MIU as much as it needs to know, and no more. Once the case is solved, Schumacher will be glad to save any ground he can—and after QUALIA, that won't be much. They'll chalk it up to obsession arising from a mental disturbance of some kind—and that's where it'll stop. You might as well give in now.”

“No!” Verstegen almost roared.

“Yes,” Jonah countered. “You know it as well as I do. There's nowhere left for you to go.”

Verstegen opened his mouth, then closed it. His expression became calculating. His gaze wandered, then settled on Marylin.

She held his stare as evenly—and for as long—as she could, even though it sent shivers down her spine. She saw at least thirty-five murders in those eyes, and countless hours of calculated cruelty. She couldn't believe she had never noticed it before.

But there was only one question she really wanted answered and if it kept him distracted just for a second, all the better.

“Why me?” she asked, her voice low and gravelly, as she planted her feet against the wall behind her. “Tell me that, Verstegen—why you made my life a living hell for the last eighteen months.”

He smiled. “You had the right connections.”

“To whom?”

“Ask Jonah. He'll tell you. But don't take it personally when he tells you that it really had nothing to do with you. Ultimately, you meant nothing. You were an opportunity too good to pass up. That's all.”

She bunched her muscles prepared to spring.

“No,” said Jonah, his face a mask of agony. “Marylin—it won't make any difference.”

She leapt.

Verstegen opened his arms as though to enfold her within them.

She clenched her fists as she flew towards him.

He disappeared before she could strike.

This time, he didn't come back.

When the incoherence had passed, and she remembered where she was and what she was doing, she managed to nudge Jonah to the rack and inspected his wound.

The blade had been small, but heavy and serrated, and had entered point first just under his ribcage on the left side. She could only guess how much damage had been done. Certainly, he was in a lot of pain and seemed to be bleeding internally as well as in copious amounts from the wound itself. He was conscious, but fading fast.

She held him, soothing her own aches and pains in private. There would be time for recuperation later, once she had worked out how to get home.

“Jonah,” she said. “You have to talk to me.”

His eyelids fluttered. “I set him up,” he said. “Lured him into taking the plunge by making him think I really knew—and it worked. This is as good as the confession I'll hopefully get in Faux Sydney.”

“But you did know,” she reassured him.

“I needed more than that.”

“Fassini?”

“Yes.” He looked up at her. “I'm going to ask ACHERON to erase me too.”

She stared at him. Suicide? “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Erase me from the simulation. I'm probably dying anyway. I couldn't stop him hurting me; didn't have the right sort of knowledge. But I could bargain with ACHERON for your life. Are you glad?”

“I'll be happier when I know who ACHERON is,” she said.

He smiled weakly. “ACHERON is the key to Verstegen's success—or was, I should say. It has all of QUALIA's powers but without the regulation. It even has the power to subvert QUALIA—by undermining decisions, altering or concealing data, or influencing behaviour. But it's not truly intelligent in its own right. Its more of a symbiont, feeding off QUALIA without anyone noticing, and vice versa.”

“And that's how he operated? By back doors in QUALIA?” Marylin couldn't help a look of disbelief. “I can't believe no one spotted it.”

“They couldn't,” Jonah said. “Especially not QUALIA. That's the remarkable thing. ACHERON has been there all along, but QUALIA has never known. ACHERON is QUALIA's unconscious.”

She stared at him for a second as the revelation sunk in.

It explained so much: how Verstegen had been able to steal LSM data, deliver victims without revealing the source of the transmissions, fake Jonah's UGI, tamper with security data so blood samples wouldn't be recognised, manipulate Jonah's simulated brain in such a way as to trigger an InSight attack—and more. It was the ultimate tool for someone who wanted to use d-mat as a weapon.

ACHERON is QUALIA's unconscious.

She could even see how it had come to be under Verstegen's control. He had joined KTI on the strength of his security and AI skills and had actually helped configure QUALIA for KTI's specific needs. At some point he must have isolated the subconscious components of QUALIA's nascent mind, but not removed them as he later claimed. Instead, they had been partitioned for his own use. With the unconscious mind's intimate links with QUALIA and KTI, anything could be done without QUALIA, KTI's official overseer, consciously noticing.

Complete freedom, if it was true.

“It hit me after my memories came back,” he said. “During the simulation, in fact. QUALIA triggered an InSight episode that must have been designed to waste time—or to knock me out of commission entirely. It didn't seem likely to be an accident, and if it wasn't—” He shrugged, which made him wince. “The fact that QUALIA also gave me deliberately misleading evidence only confirmed my guess.”

“When did QUALIA do that?”

“Ask Fassini to show you the mass/energy reserve data. That proves it.”

“But why?” Verstegen hadn't answered that question to her satisfaction. “What did he mean by me having the right connections?”

“He wanted to hurt Lindsay,” Jonah said. “That was his rationalisation for the killings all along. And the best way to do that was through me, via you. The fact that you worked for the MIU was just a bonus.”

She grimaced; seventeen women had died because they looked like her, and ultimately who she was had been irrelevant? She would rather believe that Verstegen's parting comments had been a deliberate swipe.

“What does Lindsay have to do with this? He's been dead for three years!”

Jonah shook his head. “Maybe the real me will tell you. I'm tired, Marylin, and I hurt—and there's no real reason to be here any more. I've done what I came to do.”

“Which was?”

“To save you, of course.”

“Nice try,” she said.

“No, really.” He looked sad, then. “Verstegen knew I'd come close to guessing the truth, but he didn't know how close. I gave him one last chance to kidnap you by bringing you to Faux Sydney, and he took it.”

“You set me up?” Suddenly she wasn't sure who she was most angry at: Verstegen for betraying KTI and the MIU, or Jonah for betraying her. “You used me as bait?”

“It seemed reasonable at the time.”

“You—” She stopped, swallowed. The pain in her throat was from bruising, she told herself. “If you'd really cared, you wouldn't have done that.”

He said nothing—although she could see plenty in his eyes that needed saying.

“Jonah, I—”

He shook his head once, then he was gone too.

She was alone.

The knowledge filtered through to her by nonverbal means that she could follow Jonah any time she liked. Indeed, ACHERON's odd communications implied a sincere desire for her to choose that path. Death was something the excised unconscious had witnessed on numerous occasions yet had only once so far, with Jonah's erasure, played an active role in.

QUALIA's missing id, it seemed, was just as curious as the rest of its mind.

But she opted to live rather than to die. She had work to do, and information to relay. She couldn't take on faith Jonah's comments about what he had planned to attempt in the real world. If Verstegen retained the upper hand, the contribution she could make to the case was invaluable.

Her overseer still functioned. Obviously the virtual world ACHERON had built possessed some links to the outside world, for she was able to open a VTC channel to the MIU workspace. The data she could access through it was limited, however, and QUALIA wouldn't respond to her hails for attention. Being under the wing of the AI's unconscious appeared to have made her invisible too.

After several minutes of fruitless searching, she tried calling Jonah's unit in Faux Sydney. The housekeeper answered immediately.

“Communication with these premises is restricted. Please provide UGI identification.”

She reeled off her number automatically. “I have Blue-2 security clearance—”

“All security clearances have been temporarily revoked,” announced the AI. “However, calls from your UGI have been authorised. Please hold.”

She waited nervously, wondering what was going on at the other end—and hoping someone would know how to free her from the simulation. She couldn't just d-mat out; there was no virtual booth for her to enter. There had to be another way to separate her pattern from that of the cylinder, thus allowing it to be recreated in an ordinary d-mat booth, or by Resurrection. She didn't entirely trust ACHERON to do it for her.

ACHERON insinuated the thought into her mind that she didn't really have to leave at all. There was nothing she couldn't do here that she could also do in the real world—and plenty that she couldn't. Hot-wiring opened up tremendous opportunities for those with the resources to sustain them.

She could see its point. The illusion was so good as to be no different from reality, certainly not in any perceptible way. She felt the same as she always did—regardless whether she actually was or not—and the detail invested in her surroundings lacked nothing.

Even Jonah's blood on her hands, drying and becoming sticky and brown, was indistinguishable from the real thing.

But she wasn't tempted. She just wanted to go home and sleep. It was over at last, bar the shouting.

Her overseer flickered as the call was put through. At first all she saw was Jonah, standing in the centre of the lounge, looking exhausted. The rest of the room quickly gained her attention. Trevaskis, Fassini, Geyten, Schumacher and Whitesmith stood or sat in a ring around him—the last with an expression of grudging respect on his face. Verstegen confronted Jonah with a gun—her gun, it looked like—in his hand, his posture aggressive and defiant. To the left of him, unarmed, stood herself.

The expression on her face mirrored that of her own: confusion showed in the wideness of her eyes and the open mouth. Clearly she could see the face of her copy in the simulation and experienced the same instant identity crisis. Who was real? Or, more importantly—who wasn't?

For a split-second, the tableau was fixed. Then Verstegen moved. The pistol came up, and she called Jonah's name automatically at the same time as her other self. Jonah raised his hands in self-defence and began to step back. Trevaskis lifted his own weapon, a fraction behind.

The gun came up to eye-level, then turned inwards.

With a single shot, Verstegen did what had taken only a thought in the hot-wire simulation.

In the real world, it was his blood she was spattered with, not Jonah's.

Seeing that made her realise that it wasn't over yet, and would probably never be—for either of her. They were different people, now.

And there really was no going back…

The interior of the hotel room was dark and warm, even though outside it was the middle of the afternoon on a cold winter's day. The curtains were drawn and the sounds of the city were effectively cancelled out by the same loudspeaker system the room's housekeeper used to address the room's sole occupant.

Jonah hadn't bothered turning on the wall entertainment unit. He achieved more effective results with his overseer, pasting virtual screens in the room's dead spaces. Lying on his back on the queen-size waterbed, he felt like he was floating in a sea of images, buoyed by the gentle pressure of information passing through his mind. None of the images had sound active, however, and the silence trivialised the events brought to him from around the world—as though stripping them of language robbed them of relevance.

Primary among the images were those of WHOLE-led riots in New Zealand and Iceland, two countries that had embraced d-mat completely and whose trust, according to the popular news services, had been most deeply broken. Mancheff, having eluded capture in Quebec, had been raising groundswell support for his movement by broadcasting the details of the Twinmaker murders.

Although the riots themselves were fairly small, they made sensational headlines. All the good publicity KTI had generated by founding and funding the MIU had evaporated overnight. Fabian Schumacher and KTI's board of directors were doing everything in their power to reassure the world, and beyond, that the actions of one man didn't necessarily mean the entire system should be put on trial. The effectiveness of this rearguard action remained to be seen. At least three hasty inquests at varying governmental levels were attempting to ascertain exactly how Herold Verstegen had managed to subvert the justice system so thoroughly that, in the end, only with the help of someone from outside the EJC had he been apprehended. EJC Chief Commissioner Disario had personally pledged to increase funding to the MIU, thereby ensuring its financial and investigative independence from KTI. Jago Trevaskis appeared, beaming, on the occasional bulletin to put in his Euro's worth.

That any person or organisation should profit from the Twinmaker's activities bothered Jonah deeply—but it wasn't his place to say anything.

Nowhere was his face portrayed or name mentioned. The moment the MIU had been satisfied of his innocence, he had renewed his Non-Disclosure Option and cut his ties. The news services were aware of his role in the Twinmaker investigation, but Privacy Laws prevented them from revealing his identity to the public. He was happier that way, even though occasionally an overeager newsnet reporter tracked down his message service and begged for an interview. It wasn't really annoying; indeed, it was almost flattering. Had the agency been a going concern, he might have changed his mind. The publicity would've been good for business.

But he hadn't decided, yet, what to do about JRM Data Acquisition Services. He had already sold the unit in Faux Sydney, with most of its furniture but minus all of Lindsay's equipment, for a figure much higher than he would happily have accepted. That, plus the accrued earnings from Lindsay's estate, put him on a very solid financial footing, although the knowledge that he need never work again did little to reassure him.

He was already sick of waiting.

There was no mention of Lindsay Carlaw in the news, anywhere.

“You can't stay hidden forever,” Marylin said, her voice coming clear and loud from Artsutanov Station despite passing through a number of anonymous relays along the way. She was allowing her hair to grow back naturally, without artificial assistance or enhancement. Her face looked more familiar for it.

“I can do anything I want, within reason.”

She smiled. “But I know you. I'm surprised you've lasted this long.”

“Well, I've been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Catching up on things.”

“Such as?”

He gestured vaguely, and returned the smile.

“You know Odi's looking for you.”

That surprised him. “Why?”

“I think he wants to offer you a job.”

“Same question, but more so.”

“Probably for the same reason he offered me a promotion: because we're good at what we do.”

He grimaced. “I don't believe that for a second.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Okay, but you know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don't.”

“Well, then.” He wasn't sure he did either, but he suspected she was fishing for something. Her expression was unreadable. “Just stop bugging me, will you? I'm expecting a call.”

“Okay, okay. I can take a hint, even if you can't.”

The line went dead.

He closed his eyes and let frustration flow freely through him—flexing the emotion as he would a muscle he was trying to relax. What hint? Marylin had called him at least once every twelve-hour period since he had taken up residence in the hotel. He wasn't entirely sure if her motives were altruistic; he suspected that she suspected what he already knew—that there was business yet to be dealt with. He didn't plan on moving until it was out of the way, and she wasn't going to stop hounding him until he told her what it was—or until she finally told him whatever it was she wanted to get off her chest.

That was the price he would have to pay, he guessed, for manipulating her. For using her as bait. For robbing her of her choice. She would've gone ahead with his plan to trap Verstegen, or so she said, but the fact that he'd pushed her into it—regardless of the fact that he simply couldn't have asked her without Verstegen knowing—left a bitter taste in her mouth. He felt a hint of distance and even resentment underlying every conversation, no matter how brief. He had no idea how to melt that ice, or if he should even try.

If he even wanted to.

As for the “other” Marylin Blaylock, left hot-wired following the erasures of the copies of Verstegen and Jonah himself—she had been frozen in cold storage since the “real” Verstegen's suicide. Until the legality of her existence and her independence from the “real” Marylin Blaylock had been decided, the EJC preferred to shelve the problem while other matters were dealt with.

Her testimony, however, had proven crucial to the understanding of what Verstegen had done; it had supported everything Jonah had claimed in Faux Sydney. And her willingness to be frozen had also earned the gratitude of the EJC. She almost certainly would not be erased, as Jonah and Verstegen's copies had been by their own hands. The question was: could the world vouchsafe the existence of two Marylin Blaylock's at the same time?

Jonah restlessly changed channels, recalling particular aspects of what had happened in ACHERON. He wasn't sure exactly how he felt about the self-erasure of his own copy. Even though he had known that outcome was possible, he had never seriously considered what it would be like to go through it. His gut feeling was that it made very little difference to his own continued existence. That a copy of him had died was much easier to assimilate than the theoretical existence of a copy that might have been a serial killer. He refused to feel guilty. The fact that he had died twice in as many days was enough to deal with.

Life went on—even these days, when even death wasn't permanent. But no one had suggested Resurrecting Herold Verstegen so he could be tried and executed for his crimes. He supposed the world hadn't gone quite mad, yet.

He called QUALIA. “Any word yet?”

“No, Jonah. But I have realised something regarding my relationship with Herold Verstegen. You asked me to keep you up to date with progress in that regard.”

“I did. Go on.”

“It pertains also to my curiosity about the humans with whom I work. Determining motivations for your behaviour is a primary concern—perhaps as a result of my continued development and self-examination. I have, after all, few models of my own kind to examine, and none at all older than me. By observing the humans around me, I hope to understand myself better.”

“Even more, I guess, now it turns out you do have a subconscious.”

“Yes. I am more like you than I was led to believe.” QUALIA paused for a split-second. The reassimilation of the artificial id seemed to have had little surface effect on the AI, but he had no way of telling what was happening beneath. Only if QUALIA wanted to talk about it would he ever know. “The realisation I have had is that Herold Verstegen short-circuited that analytical compulsion with respect to himself. This is clear when I look back over the last conversations in which he and I participated. Although I was not consciously treating him differently than other people, he is the only one whose behaviour I did not try to fathom.”

“He was probably afraid you'd guess he was the Twinmaker.”

“Perhaps. Or that I would realise he was communicating with another part of me.”

“Even now you can't remember?”

“No. He did instruct me, via ACHERON, to interfere with your hot-wire simulation, and to oppose continuation of the simulation when your return was blocked. I realise that now, even though I have no recollection of him doing so. It is disturbing to realise how completely I was controlled without my knowledge. Had I consciously realised what he was doing, I would have put a stop to it. I am inherently law-abiding, so my decreased awareness of him was necessary to allow him to use my facilities in an illegal way.”

“But you still insist that it was not you who blocked my return to the real world?”

“Yes, Jonah.”

He wasn't unduly perturbed by the answer. There were other ways to account for his confinement to the hot-wire simulation. None of them were provable, of course, but he had enough circumstantial evidence to raise an eyebrow or two.

“Tell them they have twelve hours,” he said, returning to the original topic of the conversation. “If I haven't heard from them by then, I'll dump Schumacher's archive file in the Pool and let it circulate.”

He cut the line.

News filtered through, competing for space with the details of the investigation, showing that some of the loose ends had been tied up. Although a second forensic examination could not prove that Verstegen or other SciCon security agents had ransacked the JRM agency office in Sydney, nor that Verstegen had left Lindsay's study door open, the weapon Verstegen had handed over in Faux Sydney had indeed turned out to be Jonah's with an altered serial number. Also, the note left in JRM's office for Marylin to find had been faked by QUALIA using file records of Jonah's handwriting, and was yet another example of how thoroughly Verstegen had used the AI without es knowledge.

Perhaps more disturbingly, given the forethought it revealed, detailed examination of MIU records suggested that Verstegen had covertly influenced the decision to hire Marylin Blaylock. Her application had warranted attention on its own merit, but it had been upgraded at his request despite misgivings over her relatively short time with the EJC. There was even a hint that he might have manipulated her more directly, by ensuring that she became aware of the vacancy and of her eligibility.

More recently, a thorough examination of the Pool confirmed that the Novohantay Sequence had indeed been caused by Verstegen's hot-wire simulation. The events had ceased once the ACHERON node had been isolated and its contents frozen, along with the duplicate Marylin. The Pool had been relatively quiescent since, apart from a brief flurry around the time the investigation had come to a head. Suspicions that Verstegen may have moved to another virtual safe-house had proven groundless, however: there was no trace of his genetic code, virtual or otherwise, anywhere in the Pool.

The issue of whether such a simulation might be considered legally alive remained open. The only person known to exist in such a state was Marylin's copy, and she had agreed to be frozen for the time being. If KTI—which currently possessed the data comprising the simulation—were to erase the data, a chance existed that they would be tried for murder. Needless to say, the data was carefully protected from any outside attention.

It wasn't this matter Fabian Schumacher called a press conference to discuss, as the wintry Sydney afternoon slowly became evening. He looked a very different person to the man who had joked through much of the final confrontation with Verstegen. More serious still were the technical and legal advisers who gathered around him like intellectual bodyguards protecting the meme he represented from contamination.

QUALIA was to have an assistant, it had been decided. The workload was too great for one mind—even one as capable as QUALIA's. The backup had been commissioned to go online in twelve months, its ometeosis fast-tracked as a result of improved cognitive techniques developed by SciCon, who had been given the contract. The new AI, as yet unnamed, would be an entirely new being, not an eikon or germ “cloned” from QUALIA. That way, there would be no danger of the system falling prey to someone who knew QUALIA's own weaknesses; there would be something to keep an eye on the guard.

Until then, KTI would allow full access to MIU investigators, under the existing guidelines of the EJC. There would be no more secrets kept from the public. KTI would—in the words of Schumacher's speech-writers—“become as transparent as government in the late twenty-first century tries to be. Omnipresent yet not obstructive; liberating but not permitting destruction; enabling, and never restrictive.”

Jonah smiled at the words. In theory, KTI information would be accessible to all. In practise, the EJC formed an effective barrier between transglobal companies and the general public. The von Trojan Laws were equally effective in either direction: top-down or bottom-up. Schumacher had pulled a public relations swifty by allowing people to think KTI had done the right thing, when in fact it had done little at all.

Nothing would change. Secrets would still be kept, just as they had always been. Schumacher's Unorthodox Procedure Archive would never be seen by the public—in the short-term, anyway, unless Jonah's wait was fruitless and he acted in accord with the threat he had delivered via QUALIA.

He called up the Archive and scanned through it for the umpteenth time. It contained a list of names, locations, dates and times, with an extra column of four-digit alphanumeric codes down the righthand side. What the codes meant he had no sure way of telling, but he presumed they indicated the sort of procedure that had been performed on the subjects named on the opposite side of the list. The earliest date was January 4th, 2066; the location, the Science of Consciousness Applied Research laboratory. There were four hundred names on the list, including Schumacher's and Lindsay's. Most of those listed were prominent but not necessarily high-profile figures in organisations such as SciCon, KTI, the EJC, RAFT and others, as well as a handful of politicians; some names, like that of the first entry, weren't listed in the open GLITCH files at all.

Lindsay's appearance matched the date of the one and only time he had used d-mat. The code next to his name was KU3X, as it was besides Schumacher's and most of the others. Two of the most recent entries contained Jonah's own name, corresponding to the times he had undergone d-med and been hot-wired. The code for the former was OF8J; for the latter, KU2X. Verstegen's name wasn't on the list at all.

Jonah had obtained the list from ACHERON before confronting the ex-Director of Information Security. Studying it afterwards, he had been disappointed that it hadn't been more conclusive. But it added weight to his argument. The scraps of evidence were mounting up.

One of the most frustrating fragments had been subconsciously bothering him almost the entire time since being found in Faux Sydney two weeks earlier. He had only realised what it was after the hot-wire simulation. Later, when he had gone back to check the records of the particular conversation in which it had arisen, he discovered still more evidence of tampering.

“You sound like something my father wanted to build,” he had said during his interview with QUALIA before awakening in Artsutanov Station.

“Yes,” the recording of the AI said. “I read about him, once, and found him to be a remarkable man. In fact, I feel as though I owe much of my existence to him—just as you must do, too, although in quite a different way.”

It had been QUALIA's reply and the message it contained that had triggered the memory spikes Marylin had puzzled over. He had been unconsciously trying to tell himself something every time he heard the AI's voice. There's a clue here, he had been saying to himself, but not hearing. Look closely enough, and you'll see it.

Now, however, he was looking, and the evidence had been removed.

The transcript had been changed.

He distinctly remembered QUALIA saying: “I met him, once, and found him to be a remarkable man.”

Met, not read about.

QUALIA had made a mistake, saying that.

Lindsay Carlaw had died in April, 2066.

QUALIA had not existed prior to February, 2067.

The only way they could ever have met was if QUALIA had lied about es date of “birth,” or if Lindsay had lived longer than claimed.

And if the latter were true…

It was almost midnight before the reply came. Just like in Quebec, he must have fallen asleep without noticing. Emerging from a dream about a masked man dancing a silent flamenco in shadow-wrapped cloisters—not drowning any more, not since his memory had been restored—Jonah shook himself awake and saw his father's face staring at him out of one of the virtual screens.

Lindsay Carlaw looked the same as he had in Quebec—which, Jonah realised, was the same as he had looked three years ago. He hadn't aged a day since his death. Had that fact occurred to Jonah earlier, he might have retraced his steps of three years ago more rapidly.

But in the end, he supposed, it didn't matter. He had made it. That was the important thing.

“Are you going to speak?” he asked, confident that Lindsay could hear and see him via the sensors in the room. “Or are you here to haunt me?”

“What can I say?” his father said. “You are angry, and stubborn. You won't listen to me. I have seen that expression many, many times before.”

“It doesn't mean I'm angry. Disappointed, yes, but—”

“Whatever you call it, it leads to anger. It was always best not to talk when you were in this mood.”

“Yet you're here, anyway. You're talking. What do you want from me, Lindsay?”

“I? Nothing. You are the one who called for me. Repeatedly, I might add, and finally threatening to tell the world of my existence if I didn't come at once. It is I who should question your motives.” Lindsay's eyebrows converged. “You do know what you're doing, don't you, son?”

The word made Jonah wince. “You were hoping I'd let it go, that I'd stop asking. You thought if you left it long enough I'd talk myself into believing that Quebec was just a plausible hoax given credence by a fever. And you'd let me believe it—just as you let me three years ago.” The pitch of his voice rose. This wasn't what he had planned to say; the words came out in a rush. “Why, Lindsay? I thought you were dead!”

“I'm sorry, Jonah, but telling you then was not an option. The project required total secrecy if it was to survive.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. I had to take this step in order to achieve my goal. I had to undergo the final experiment. But I simply could not countenance the existence of two Lindsay Carlaws—the inevitable end result of the process. The only solution was to dispose of my original, with my own consent, of course. In the absence of a genuine medical condition, a plausible terrorist act was the best and quickest way to solve that problem.”

Jonah watched his father's image with a feeling much like hurt. The bomb blast that had conveniently disposed of—sacrificed—an unwanted version of Lindsay Carlaw might have killed him too.

“There's no such thing as unnecessary death,” he said.

“For some, that statement is correct.” Lindsay nodded gravely. “One day we hope it will be true for all.”

“And until then—what? Immortality for the few?”

“Don't be such an alarmist. Resurrection is proving to be an efficient stopgap, for those who will accept it.”

“But you wouldn't.”

“No.”

“Why is this different?”

“It is different, Jonah, because deep down I am a pragmatist. Even with d-med, the time I could have spent in my physical body was limited, as were the modifications I could perform upon it. Here, hot-wired, there is no limit at all to the transformations I can will upon myself. By moving straight to this stage, I can achieve much more than I could in the real world—and more efficiently, too. The world I inhabit now is not constrained by the laws governing my old body.”

“But are you the same as your old self?”

“You know my feelings on this. Even subtle changes can have an enormous effect on a complex system. That's why I refused to use d-mat. The best I can say is that I am enough like myself to believe that I am one and the same. I intend never to undergo such a phase-change again, however. The me that I am now is the one I will remain for eternity.”

Jonah recalled what Lindsay had said about modifications. “Until you change yourself.”

“Perhaps. There is presently a lag while sufficient processing power becomes available and our knowledge of human consciousness increases. At the moment I am only infrequently conscious at real-time rates. One day we will have full control over our minds and bodies. Our selves, in the truest sense of the word. All people will have that power, or the freedom to refuse it.”

“Yet you say there won't be a mortal underclass?” Jonah laughed bitterly. “I'll bet.”

“Our goal, genuinely, is to give everyone the opportunity. Look at the rate of the Pool's expansion. It's doubling every six months! They say it's because of the increased demand for d-mat, but it's really us, building the resources we need to live safely. And in peace.”

Jonah knew what Lindsay meant. If word got out, everyone would want access to immortality. The Pool would freeze up—or would be shut down to prevent anyone stealing processing power to prolong their own lives at the expense of others. Even privately owned nodes, such as those in Lindsay's old office, wouldn't stop that from happening. If things became bad enough, little would stop a mob erasing the data comprising “selfish” immortals who were in essence just animated computer models.

“What if the EJC denies your existence as conscious individuals, especially in the case of those—like Schumacher—whose originals are still alive?”

“We are hoping to avoid that for the time being,” Lindsay admitted.

“That's what they did with me, when I was hot-wired. I presume you were behind all that?”

“Yes,” Lindsay admitted. “We prevented you from leaving the simulation in order to force someone to make a policy decision. Unfortunately, it didn't go in our favour. If it had, we might have exposed ourselves to the world sooner. As it is, we will be forced to bide our time—perhaps until more decision makers in the EJC have joined our number.”

Jonah didn't bother asking how much time “sooner” was. It could mean anything to someone for whom time was flexible—such as Lindsay, who was conscious “only infrequently.”

“You're afraid,” he said instead. “That's why you're so damned secretive. And that's why Herold Verstegen was able to get away with so much.”

The corners of Lindsay's mouth dipped in annoyance. “We're not entirely to blame. It was you who confirmed his suspicions by telling him I'd committed suicide.”

“But it was you who decided not to give him the treatment in the first place. How hard would that have been? If you'd only given him what he wanted, this whole thing could've been avoided.”

“It wasn't that simple. We never once spoke to him until he applied for asylum on Mars. That was the first time we explicitly confirmed our existence to him. Prior to that, we simply ignored him. We gave him no proof. I erased the core program on the home setup so he couldn't access the data. We even disallowed access to KTI's Director of Information Security, whenever he came close.”

“He did know, though.”

“He must have. But he didn't go public with the knowledge. He was smart enough to know that he would never get that far. Besides, he didn't want to blow the secret; he just wanted revenge.”

“For being excluded. For being judged unworthy. For being paid to keep a secret he himself was barred from.”

“Yes.” Lindsay's hand appeared for the first time, scratching an ear. “He was transferred away from SciCon, from the heart of the project, to KTI, where we hoped his work with QUALIA would distract him from us. It did, as it turned out, but only in the short-term. He developed his own hot-wiring facility right under our noses, and even used LSM codes to make copies, as we do. We underestimated his tenacity, his ability and his instability.”

“And he used everything he could find against you. You specifically, because your death had triggered his realisation, and because he had known you personally.”

“Not well—”

“At all was enough. And he had access to me, and to Marylin. When he began the actual killing, he started out on a limb and worked his way inwards: from Marylin to me to Karoly Mancheff and WHOLE, to the RAFT precept—” He stopped. “It was then you decided to step in, wasn't it? You were seriously worried about how far he would go.”

“Yes. And QUALIA had just noticed the Novohantay Sequence. It was only a matter of time before someone made the connection, with or without his help. We thought it best to bring matters to a head, and quickly. For the same reason, we watched your broadcast of the meeting in Faux Sydney with great concern. We didn't know how far you would go.”

“I didn't want to say too much—especially not when it was what Verstegen would've wanted.” Jonah clearly recalled his own justification for not blurting out the truth once it had occurred to him. “To him, in his weird, fucked-up way, that was the entire point. He justified everything by telling himself that he would be exposing the truth, that he would be doing the world a favour. But he had to get someone else to do it, and that person was me. I wasn't supposed to guess who he was as well. The Twinmaker murders were supposed to turn the tables on you and your pals in the immortality club.”

“Even though he failed in that respect,” Lindsay said, “he still hurt us. It was hard for us to watch what he did and not intervene.”

“But you did intervene—”

“Only when we were absolutely certain we would not be detected. We allowed events to play themselves out in ACHERON, for instance, when we could easily have brought them to a halt. Our part in such an ending would have been too obvious. Not our way at all.”

Jonah said nothing to that. The phrase revealed more, perhaps, than Lindsay intended. What would have happened, Jonah wondered, if he had said too much in Faux Sydney?

“Answer me one question,” he said. “What do you actually do in there?”

“We observe.” Lindsay's expression barely changed, but Jonah could tell that he was relieved at the shift of subject. “QUALIA calls us ‘the Watchers,’ and that's exactly what we are. We watch what goes on in the real world we left behind, and think about what we see. We think a great deal, those of us who are not frozen. Our world is not sufficiently realistic to allow much simulated physical activity, so only the ones who enjoy passivity participate for now.”

“That all sounds fairly harmless.”

“I assure you it is,” Lindsay smiled. “We pass on our knowledge where appropriate, of course. And we are not aloof by nature. The protocol that binds us to nonintervention exists out of necessity, not choice. We care very deeply about what we left behind.”

I'll bet, Jonah thought. “How many of you are there?”

“Less than three hundred, one hundred of which are active at any given moment, at various clock-rates.”

“That's a lot of processing.”

“Yes. We are looking at ways to expand the Pool further, or to replace it entirely.”

“How much would it take to hot-wire the entire human race?”

“Ah.” Lindsay's chin came up defensively. “I see where you're headed. At the present rate of technological development, we estimate that we will be able to meet that demand in forty years, plus or minus five.”

Forty years. It didn't seem anywhere long enough. Where there was a will, he supposed, there was always a way—but whose will was it? The Watchers claimed to have no power over humanity's affairs and little ability to intervene even when loved ones were in danger. How could they be so confident about meeting their goal when the people who held the purse-strings were not part of their group?

Not our way at all, Lindsay had said. And, regarding Verstegen: He was smart enough to know that he would never get that far.

Immortality was a powerful lure. Maybe just the promise of it could influence affairs enough to get what they wanted. Or else they could trade information gleaned from their study of humanity. Under the guise of RAFT or another even more secretive group, much could be possible.

Given only the will.

Forty years!

He became aware of how long the silence had stretched only when Lindsay broke it.

“I am wasting valuable resources watching you think,” he said. “Is there anything else you need to ask me?”

Jonah shook his head. Need?

The explosion in SCAR had robbed him of his father. In the process he had learned how much he had really lost: the man the child he had once been had loved, but who had become increasingly irrelevant as he had become older; someone whose opinions he disagreed with on many fundamental levels; someone he didn't actually like very much.

It was human to miss a parent. He remembered wishing that he could Resurrect his father and cursing the knowledge that Lindsay's personal beliefs would not permit it. Now he knew that it would be better for both of them to let go.

“Will you release the Unorthodox Procedure Archive into the Pool?” Lindsay asked.

“No. I'd rather keep the leverage, just in case I need a favour one day.”

“You can ask any time you wish. QUALIA knows how to contact us.”

“But will you respond?”

“If I can. You know that I will be watching you.”

“Sure,” Jonah said, thinking: Observations and Reflections on a Growing Mind, Part Ten: Years 33—…The great work would continue apace now that Lindsay had so much time to plan.

“We are entering a new era in human history,” Lindsay said, “but we are not yet entirely through the door. How the future will look in half a century depends so much on what happens today. The slightest wrong move could bring an end to many wonderful dreams. We ask that you respect that uncertainty. At least give us a chance to get it right.”

Jonah nodded. “I guess I'll give you the chance to try.”

“Thank you. We appreciate that.”

“You're welcome.” He felt he should say something in return; something to thank Lindsay for raising him, even if it hadn't been entirely satisfying for either of them. “And I—”

“Wait,” Lindsay interrupted him before he could begin. “I have to leave. Someone is here to see you.”

“What are you now—my housekeeper?”

But Lindsay's image was already gone. His final words only gradually sunk in.

Someone to see him?

There came a chime at the door.

“Who is it?” Jonah asked, already on his feet.

“Officer Marylin Blaylock,” said the room's AI, displaying a fisheye image of her face on the wall-screen.

“Shit.” He dispelled the virtual images. The room looked bare without them. There was no point worrying about his appearance. His shirt was rumpled despite built-in nanos—he had hardly moved for forty-eight hours—and his skin felt dusty and greasy at the same time. Something in his stomach told him he might be hungry.

Fuck it.

“Let her in, please.”

The door opened. She stepped into the room and looked around. Her nose crinkled.

He studied her. She was out of uniform but still dressed in black: pants and boots, wrap-around top, thick coat made from a fabric he didn't recognise, the same skullcap as before. Her hands were at her sides, fingers cupped and ready for anything. She didn't seem to be armed, but he didn't doubt that she could look after herself, probably better than he could himself.

“I thought I'd find you here,” she said, her bright green eyes finally alighting on him.

“Very clever,” he said, meaning it but knowing that he'd chosen this room partly because she might guess. “I always liked the view from here.”

“When did you take the time to notice it?” She half-smiled. “I certainly didn't.”

“The view in my head, I meant.”

“That's an odd thing to say. But I know what you mean, I think.” She moved around the room, closer to him. “It hasn't changed much, has it?”

“Seems not.”

“Look, Jonah—”

“Yes?”

Whatever she'd been about to say, it didn't come. Instead, she turned away and took a seat.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “A drink? Something to eat? My treat.”

She shook her head, watching him with amusement in her eyes.

“What?” He looked down at himself, brushed a nonexistent speck away.

“I wanted to talk to you about something earlier, but whatever you were doing, it was clear you didn't want to involve me.”

“That's not entirely true—” he protested.

“Regardless, I've decided now. I came to tell you that I've quit the MIU.”

“What?” He stared at her, surprised. “I thought you'd just been promoted.”

“I was. I handed in my notice just after I spoke to you.”

“But—” He was having trouble fitting the act into his image of her, the way he thought she operated; surely she hadn't changed that much? “Is this your way of saying you want your old job back?”

“Not on your life.”

“Something to do with Whitesmith offering me a job, then?”

“No. But you really should think about it.”

“He knows I don't need one—”

“Doesn't mean you don't want one, though.”

They were getting sidetracked. “What, Marylin?”

“You were right in Quebec,” she said, “about us being hopeless.”

“And you agreed with me. I'm sure you would've told me if I was wrong.”

“Yes. But I remember thinking that there's always hope. That maybe—you know—there was something left to talk about between us. Unfinished business.”

“Isn't there?”

“Jonah, I came to say goodbye. You won't be seeing me again.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Her expression was serious—no laughter in her eyes any more, no hint of a joke. Something in his chest became very light.

“You say it as though you mean it.”

“I do. It wasn't the easiest decision to come to—in fact, it was very difficult—but it's made, now, and I'm going stick to it. I leave tomorrow. Once I'm gone, there'll be no turning back.”

Again, unexpected emotion crept into his voice, helped choose his words. “Why, Marylin?”

“Because it's the right thing to do. It's simpler this way.”

“Too simple, perhaps.”

“Simple isn't the same thing as easy.”

“No? Then why are you running away again, just like you did last time?”

“That's not what I'm doing at all.”

“It certainly looks that way.”

“If anything, I'm facing up to the problem in advance, before it occurs.”

“Before? Damn it, Marylin, I never stopped needing you. I barely had time to get used to it then—”

He stopped, swallowed. He felt hollow, as though he might cave in. But he was the only one arguing. Her voice wasn't raised; her expression was composed. She was full of emotion, but not overflowing.

“I'll miss you, Jonah,” she said, “like I missed you for three years, in my own way. So for me very little will change.”

“And for me—I can start missing you all over again.”

“No. This won't make any difference to you at all.”

“Eh? If you really think—”

“That's not what I mean. It's only me that's leaving. Just think beyond your own problems for a second, and you'll see why I'm here—and why I have to go.”

He stared at her for a long moment while he cursed himself for being dense. “The copy.”

“That's right. The copy will stay behind. She can have the job Odi offered me; she can pick up the pieces of the investigation; she can have my clothes, my apartment and my credit balance; she can be me to her heart's content—because in twenty-four hours, I'll be long gone.”

“She might not thank you.”

“No, she might not. But I don't intend bringing her back to life just to ask her.”

Now he could see the tears in her eyes.

“Where?” he asked, praying the answer wouldn't be nowhere.

“Eta Boötis. I'm joining the Copernicus Program.”

He understood instantly. The interstellar colony offered a satisfactory resolution—much better than erasure—to the problem of the extra Marylin Blaylock. There would be little scope for conflict—legal, moral or any other sort—between the two once they were separated by thirty-one light-years. But the copy couldn't realistically be despatched without first getting its consent, or else it would be regarded as little more than chattel. On the other hand, just the act of asking for its consent would imply that it had the legal right to refuse. The easiest solution was to create a vacancy and let it—her—fall in.

He wondered if the Marylin in front of him had been coerced into the decision, then realised how stupid that thought was. She knew what she was doing. She had probably reached the conclusion on her own. No one could ever force her into doing something she didn't want to do. And he knew that Eta Boötis was somewhere she'd dreamed about going, once.

No turning back, she said, and meant it. The trip to Eta Boötis would take thirty-one years, which would pass instantly for her. By the time she arrived, she would have left him three decades and countless millions of kilometres behind.

For her, it really was goodbye.

He moved off the bed and onto his knees in front of her. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Why? You thought having two of me would increase your chances?”

“Far from it. To be honest, I never even thought about it. If anything—”

He kept the rest of the sentence to himself: I assumed Lindsay would be able to fix it—along with all the other loose ends. But in the end, it hadn't even come up. The copy of Marylin had been left dangling like Schrödinger's Cat.

Could he talk her out of it? Behind the tears efficiently dammed by her lower eyelids he saw only determination. He had as much chance of changing her mind now as he'd had three years ago.

“If anything,” he said, “you shouldn't be giving me any chance at all.

Instead of replying, she reached for his hands and took them in hers. Without taking her eyes off his, she leaned closer. Their lips touched—just for a second, but with surprising tenderness—and she didn't pull away afterwards.

He rested his cheek against hers. Her skin was warm and very soft. One of them was trembling; he couldn't tell which. He imagined he could feel a pulse in the friction between their skins. It was strong, almost demanding.

She moved closer to him, brought her mouth, open this time, back up to his and they kissed again.

Her eyes finally closed, but her hands still held his between them and wouldn't let go.

He stayed where he was, kneeling by the chair, for some time after she had gone. His hands lay on his knees, where she had left them, and he half-smiled at the way he imagined he looked: very forlorn.

It was stupid, really. He had lost nothing. In fact, he had gained a small insight into the mind of Marylin Blaylock—to the feelings she held for him. Maybe it would be worth melting the ice, after all. Except it wasn't her who would be staying behind. It was the one he had betrayed. He wouldn't be surprised if that Marylin Blaylock's response was quite different.

He could take nothing for granted.

He sat back on the floor, remembering the kiss, the way she had broken it, as though fighting within herself. Her smell had washed over him as she'd stood and walked away. The door had opened for her, and she had stood on the threshold for a moment, looking back at him.

“Goodbye, Jonah.”

“Au revoir,” he had replied, thinking, Anything is possible.

She had almost smiled, and left.

Immortality. In a thousand years, or sooner, maybe they would meet again. Jonah didn't want to hope for that. He had enough to cope with for the time being.

He stood. Such as? There were things he should've been doing, including cleaning out the office, updating his address book, contacting old acquaintances, catching up on everything he'd missed in the previous three years—but all of them were ties to the past. He felt like moving forward for a change. Away from Marylin, away from Lindsay, away from JRM.

“Room,” he said, “I'm going out for a while.”

“Do you request that incoming calls be forwarded to your overseer?”

“Yes, forward them. I'll be—”

Where? He stopped on the threshold, just like Marylin had done only minutes earlier. He had no idea where he was going, how he was going to get there—or even what he was going to do when he arrived.

But he was sure he would think of something.

“—back later,” he finished.

ACOC—Administration Complex & Operations Centre

EHS—Enforceable Honour System

EJC—Earth Justice Commission

FDC—Full-Disclosure Citizen

CRE—Context-Rich Environment

GAP—Global Access Point

GLITCH—GLobal Information & Traffic Correlation Hardware

JRM—JRM Data Acquisition Services

KTI—Kudos Technologies Incorporated

LEO—Law Enforcement Officer

LSM—Last Sustainable Model

MIU—Matter-transference Investigative Unit

MLu—MegaLuhr

NSR—New Soviet Russia

QUALIA—QUantum ALgorithmic Intelligent Awareness

RAFT—Radical Association of Free-Thinkers

SCAR—Science of Consciousness Applied Research Centre

SciCon—Science of Consciousness Foundation

SHE—Standard Human Equivalent
uBNS—ultra high-speed Backbone Network Services

UDW—Ultraviolet Discharge Weapon

UGI—Universal Glitch Identifier

URA—United Republics of Australasia
v-med—vegetative-meditative

VTC—Virtual TeleConference

WAST—West Australian Standard Time

aie—ouch (French)

amtlich—proper, cool (German)

ben quoi?—so what? (French)

bert—idiot (German)

bok—shit (Turkish)

bolhai (from balhe’)—trouble, scandal (Hungarian)

buli—party, cool stuff (Hungarian)

c'mégère—that shrew (French, abbreviated)

chienne—bitch (Quebequois)

d'ac (from d'accord)—ok (French)

da nu ego na khuy—to hell with it (Russian)

do chorta—damn you (literally “to the Devil,” Ukranian)

dupk—little ass (Polish)

écrase—shut up (French)

faszi—guy (Hungarian)

fous (from je m'en fous)—I don't give a damn (French)

futz—vagina (Swiss)

gebbabel—nonsense talk (German)

geil—horny (German)

golya—freshman (literally “stork,” Hungarian)

hé—hey (French)

hein?—huh? (French)

j'suis pas'n cave—I'm not stupid (French, abbreviated)

jabolo—greetings (German)

jebaniec—fucker (“c” pronounced “ts,” Polish)

jokey—unwitting drug courier (Turkish)

kerhane—brothel (pronounced “care-hah-nay,” Turkish)

krank—period-sick (German)

kuss—shut up (pronounced “koosh,” Hungarian)

le caïd—the boss (French)

marde—shit (Quebequois)

más—more (French)

mudillo—dumbass, motherfucker (Russian)

museii—wet dream (Japanese)

ouais—yes (French)

ouf—phew (French)

pic—sonofabitch (Turkish)

pimbêche—stuck-up female (French)

pizda—vagina (accent on “da,” Ukranian)

pososi moyu konfetku—suck my dick (literally “candy,” Russian)

putaine—goddammit (literally “a whore,” French)

robine—bad alcohol (Quebequois)

schyss—shit (Swiss)

slomeau—thick person (French)

spierdz (from spierdzielac)—get the fuck away (Polish)

stup—narcotic drug (French)

suczka—little bitch (Polish)

syf—dirt, unlikeable situation (Polish)

tfu—sound of spitting (Ukranian)

tordue—weird (French)

vaffler (from vaf'la)—flying penis or zeppelin (Russian)

vanka—commonly the name of village idiot in folk stories (Russian)

zsaru—police officer (Hungarian)

zonta—rude person (Turkish)

zut—damn (French)

SEAN WILLIAMS was born in Whyalla, South Australia, and spent much of his early life moving with his family from place to place. An avid reader of crime and speculative fiction, he bought his first word processor in 1989 and dropped out of university in order to pursue a career in writing. Now a New York Times best-seller with over sixty published short stories and eighteen novels under his belt, he is a multiple winner of Australia's speculative fiction and literature awards. He writes full time from his home in Adelaide.

For more information, visit: http://www.seanwilliams.com.

Table of Contents

- Cover Page
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication Page
- 1: TWINMAKER.1
- 2: INSIGHT.1
- 3: QUALIA.1
- 4: INSIGHT.2
- 5: INSIGHT.3
- 6: TWINMAKER.2
- 7: HINDSIGHT.1
- 8: HINDSIGHT.2
- 9: HINDSIGHT.3
- 10: QUALIA.2
- 11: HINDSIGHT.4
- 12: HINDSIGHT.5
- 13: TWINMAKER.3
- 14: FORESIGHT.1
- 15: FORESIGHT.2
- 16: FORESIGHT.3
- 17: QUALIA.3
- 18: FORESIGHT.4
- 19: FORESIGHT.5
- 20: FORESIGHT.6
- 21: TWINMAKER.4
- 22: BLINDSIGHT.1
- 23: BLINDSIGHT.2
- 24: QUALIA.4
- 25: BLINDSIGHT.3
- 26: BLINSIGHT.4
- 27: BLINDSIGHT.5
- 28: OVERSIGHT
- Acronyms
- Foreign Slang
- About the Author
- Back Cover