Chapter Twenty-Three

 

"No." Leyton was adamant, his face fierce, the anger and hurt for once plain to see in his usually granite countenance.

Mya wasn't fooled, though. She knew that he was in denial, refusing to face up to the truth she'd just hit him with. She had no idea why it had all come tumbling out, why she suddenly found it so easy to tell him about Louis and what she'd discovered about his death, when it had been impossible to do so before. Perhaps her relationship with Pavel gave her the strength, or maybe it was simply the passage of time. Either way, when he'd stared at her and at the gun she held and asked, 'Why, Mya?' she felt compelled to explain. Once the words started to flow they became a torrent, and with their release something inside her eased, a knot of tension she hadn't even realised was there. She made no effort to hide the tears that trickled from the corners of her eyes.

"There's no reason you should have known." She snivelled, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, decorum forgotten.

"Of course I'd have known," he said. "If I ever killed one of ours, I always made a point of knowing. I don't take what we do for granted, Mya, I never have, and I know for a fact that I didn't kill Louis."

"You did, Jim. You did."

"Mya, it never happened."

"Liar!" She screamed the word, shocked at her own loss of control. She steadied the gun and determined to keep a tighter rein on her emotions.

"You know me better than that. This recording you saw must have been doctored. To make you hate me, to break us apart. You know the official line on operatives getting involved with each other."

"Don't listen to him, Mya," Benson cut in. "He's just saying whatever it takes to save his own skin. Focus on what's real, on what matters."

"Of course the recording was hard to get to," Leyton continued, speaking calmly, ignoring Benson. "They knew you'd smell a rat if they made it too easy for you, but they also knew that you'd find a way, that where Louis was concerned you'd never give up until you discovered what had happened. Your psych profile would have told them that much."

"Shut up!" she yelled, hand pressed against her head, to push her tight dark hair backwards along her skull. It was all too much; everything was a jumble of hurt and pressure. Her head ached with it.

He took a step towards her.

"Don't, Jim." She raised the gun a fraction.

"It was a set up," he said, not coming any closer, "intended to break us apart."

Could he be telling the truth? Pavel hadn't said anything more, wisely giving her space, doubtless confident she'd believe him, but did she? Mya knew better than anyone just how cunning and manipulative Pavel could be. He hadn't been put in charge of the eyegee unit by accident. Had he been playing her all along? No, what they had was real. It might not be as deep or as bells-and-fucking-whistles wonderful as what she once thought she had with Jim, but that was in the past. Pavel was her here and now, and they both knew where they stood and what they wanted.

"Don't let him confuse you, Mya," Pavel said.

He was right. They'd come here for a reason: to stop this interference in the smooth acceptance of the Byrzaens by humanity as a whole. An inevitability that would see Pavel rise to the very pinnacle of government, with her at his side. She couldn't let anything sway her, not now.

So why was she crying? Why did she feel so wretched as she focused the muzzle of the gun on Leyton's forehead? She tried not to look at his eyes, but couldn't help herself. There was no fear there, no pleading; just the same implacable acceptance of whatever life might bring that she'd always found in them.

"I'm so sorry, Jim, really" she said through the tears, and pulled the trigger.

 

Kethi ramped up her metabolism, taking it from one extreme to the other far quicker than she'd ever dared try before. How much time had passed? For her, a single heartbeat, but for the universe in general...? She had no idea. That was the problem with slowing her metabolism to this extent - enough to fool anyone into believing she was dead - there was no gauge for measuring the normal flow of seconds and minutes, any of which were likely to be vital at present. She could only hope her judgement was more or less right, that she hadn't left it so long that whatever drama was set to unfold had already run its course in her absence.

She shut down blood flow around her wound and dampened the pain receptors in the vicinity. The bullet hadn't hit anything vital, and doing this, the pain became tolerable. Grabbing her gun from the floor, Kethi ran, quick-timing all the way. As she approached Catherine Chzyski's office, she slowed, rejoining the normal world. A single guard outside the open door sent her ducking back around a corner, and she heard voices. Mya's screaming, and Jim's quiet, reasoning, sounding completely unfazed. She wasn't too late. If not for the guard she would have sobbed with relief. Instead she concentrated on listening. There seemed to be a pause in conversation, which struck her as ominous. As Mya started to form an apology, instinct told Kethi it was now or never.

She ramped up to her highest tempo and sprinted, brushing past the guard; it must have felt like a battering ram. She was in the room, focused on Mya, not daring to risk a shot, not with such a small target. Instead she ran straight at the other woman, slamming into her and pushing the gun hand away. She felt the impact jar through her, but knew that the blow would be worse for her target. Her bones were bound to shatter. The gun went off but the bullet flew harmlessly into the wall. Kethi didn't hesitate, swivelling to shoot the next most immediate threat - the eyegee - followed by the two ULAW troopers. Headshots, all three, straight in the face. They would have died even as their brains were processing the need to react. Benson wasn't armoured. Kethi shot him in the shoulder. Only then did she slow, breathing hard but not yet craving food or feeling desperately weary, thanks to the adrenaline still coursing through her body. She knew both reactions would come after she'd drawn so much from her systems in such a concerted burst, but not right now.

Catherine Chzyski stared at her in open astonishment, which she reckoned was quite an achievement. Jim moved in on the injured Benson, dragging the man's arms behind his back, which brought a stifled cry of pain.

"Now," he growled, his mouth close to Benson's ear, "you're going to call off the rest of your men, or I will kill you, slowly, you piece of shit!" He prodded the injured shoulder, which produced a further gasp.

At Kethi's feet, Mya stirred. The small woman looked frail and crumpled, reminding Kethi of when she'd first seen her, the gaunt figure they'd rescued from Sheol station such a short time ago. The fingers of the hand that had been holding the gun were twisted at improbable angles, like in a child's drawing, and her crumpled chest rose and fell raggedly, as if breathing was hard and not bringing enough oxygen to fulfil her body's needs. Blood ran from her mouth. Kethi didn't need to be a doctor to know that this woman's body was badly broken inside.

"Jim..." The voice was barely louder than a whisper. It induced a fit of harsh, blood-burbling coughs. Her head never rose from the floor. "I really, really am sorry..."

Leyton wasn't listening. Kethi alone was there to hear Mya's final words. Her chest stopped heaving, the eyes remained frozen open. Only the blood continued to flow, pooling around her head to form a devil's halo.

 

In the hours following the ULAW forces' withdrawal, as the shock of what had happened began to sink in, Malcolm visited Benson in his cell - a small room without windows, commandeered for the purpose and hastily cleared of the equipment it usually stored.

Malcolm arrived without fanfare or warning, but if he'd expected the government man to be nonplussed by his sudden appearance he was disappointed. Benson might almost have been expecting him, for all the reaction he showed.

"Well, well, the great Malcolm Kaufman," the prisoner said. "The inventor of the Kaufman drive, not to mention, of course, The Sun Seeker, here to visit me in my humble little cell. I'm honoured."

"Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Benson?"

If there were any justice in the world this man would be dead, his memory disgraced, but the universe paid no heed. While the corpses of many more worthy men and women grew cold, Pavel Benson received expert medical treatment and lived on, albeit for the moment in somewhat reduced circumstances.

"Whatever you say. I am, as you can see, entirely at your service," he said.

Malcolm felt tempted to dispute that, to voice his conviction that Benson had never really been at anyone's service but his own, not even ULAW's. Instead he concentrated on what had brought him here. "First off, let me stress that this meeting is off the record. I've ensured that no recording is being made and that no one need ever be aware that I've visited you."

"Oh?"

Gods, this man was calm. No hint of contrition over his actions or fear for his own safety, just an air of resignation tinged with a heavy hint of cynicism. "After we've had this little chat, I'm going to persuade Catherine Chzyski to let you go."

Not even this news brought a discernable reaction. Benson was good, no question about that.

"Seems to me that she's going to have little choice in the matter, in any case," he said. "If she doesn't free me, ULAW will level this building and everyone in it."

"Nice try, but that's a load of crap and we both know it. If this was an official ULAW action they'd have slapped us down hard by now, made demands KI couldn't ignore, and reclaimed you. They haven't. In fact, we've yet to hear a peep from any official channels. This is you, acting in your own interest, which makes your position a lot weaker, don't you think?"

"Semantics. I'm a ULAW official who brought the forces at his disposal to bear..."

"Without official sanction," Malcolm interrupted. "I thought we'd agreed to cut the bullshit."

Benson's smile was a thin one. "Very well, let's assume for the moment that you're right, that the action in question doesn't have the full weight of the government behind it... yet. Why would Catherine Chzyski or anyone else feel inclined to let me go?"

"Because you represent the only chance of getting ULAW off our backs."

Benson chuckled. "Really, is that what you think I am?"

"Indeed I do. You see, you're going to persuade the government to leave everyone involved in this alone. No assassinations, no recriminations, no persecution of any sort."

For the first time Malcolm saw a glimmer of reaction in Benson's grey-blue eyes. He could imagine the thought processes. Malcolm Kaufman isn't an idiot. He must have something up his virtual sleeve, but what?

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because if you don't, I'm going to personally bring your world crashing down around your ears. Not just you; ULAW, the Byrzaens... all of you."

Now he had him. Malcolm could see the curiosity. "And exactly how are you going to manage that?"

Malcolm smiled.

He had been astonished to receive the message. It arrived anonymously and he felt certain that any attempt to trace the source would prove devilishly hard, but there was no need to. He knew who this was from: Lara Chenin. News of her death had been one more blow in a day of so many. Then this had arrived, a message from beyond the grave. She must have sent it not long before the attack, setting delivery on some form of time delay for reasons of her own. The message was terse, containing just one word. Four fateful letters: 'Done.' Not much as final words went. However, attached was a parcel of data code. He didn't open it immediately, didn't interfere with the parcel in any shape or form, not until he was sure of his own security. He knew what this was, what it had to be.

Lara had perfected the virus.

Malcolm absorbed that fact slowly, allowing its import to permeate his consciousness by steady osmosis. Here was the trump card that might just get them all out of this mess, but it needed to be played carefully.

The moment to do so had now arrived.

"I've done a little research into you, Pavel Benson," he said, "and I discovered something very interesting: you have an eidetic memory. Not computer enhanced or reliant on technology in any way; genuine photographic recall. That's an incredibly rare gift, in this day and age, and I can only imagine how useful it's been to you over the years. Well, now it's going to prove useful to me."

A line of coding appeared in the air between them.

"Memorise this, Mr Benson, and, for everyone's sake, make sure you get it right."

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you once you've memorised it."

Benson scanned the coding sequence for a couple of seconds, as if to make sure he had it, then he nodded.

The line of code vanished.

"What I've just shown you is the first fragment of an incredibly intricate piece of code, a virus. It was written by a lady called Lara Chinen, a rather brilliant young woman whom you've just caused to be murdered - an incidental death during this little 'action' of yours. As for what the virus does... It's a doomsday weapon, if you will. It's designed to destroy a whole universe, a place we refer to as the realm of veils, though you doubtless have your own name for it.

"If this virus were ever released, it would completely disrupt the fabric of that brane, restructuring it in such a way that it would become incompatible with the physics of our universe, impossible to access or to utilise for you, for us, for the Byrzaens. Am I painting a clear enough picture?"

Benson nodded. All of a sudden the slimy weasel didn't look quite so composed.

"What you're going to do for me," Malcolm continued, "is this. You're going to return to ULAW and show both them and the Byrzaens that snatch of coding. It's only a small scrap of the whole, but it should be enough for your experts to confirm that I'm not bluffing, that this virus is real.

"Now let me tell you what I did before coming here. I cloned myself. Not once, not twice, but a score of times. Already those clones are in the realm of veils. Each of them is loaded with this virus, and they're just the start. I'm going to keep cloning myself. You gave me the idea for this, by the way. I suppose I should thank you for it. If you hadn't sent the assassin virus after my son sheathed within an avatar, I might never have thought of this. Forgive me if I'm not too grateful, though, won't you?

"As for my clones, pretty soon they'll find their way into every Virtuality on every human world that has access to the realm of veils, which, I'm guessing, is pretty much all of them. You can send in your agents and your assassins and your viruses, but you'll never get all of me, and should I catch a hint of anything like that going on, I'll release the doomsday virus immediately."

Benson was visibly shaken. "You're bluffing."

"No, I promise you I'm not. And it's very important that you appreciate how tempted I am to trigger the damn thing right now. You killed my son!"

Benson licked his lips and then said, slowly, "Have you any idea what this would do?"

"Some. It would crash the network of communications you've established secretly via Virtuality. It would negate the Byrzaens' stardrive..."

"It would do a hell of a lot more than that. Their whole technology is based on siphoning energy from that brane."

Benson was more shaken than Malcolm had anticipated. He must have been to let something like that slip.

"All the more reason for them to co-operate, then. Let me make myself clear. If anything happens to me, to Catherine Chzyski, to Jim Leyton or any of the habitat folk involved in recent events, the virus will be released. Never forget, you've murdered my son. Twice. Do you really think I give a damn about the fate of the Byrzaens or any of your precious schemes and intrigues? Push me on this at your peril. Am I being clear enough, Mr Benson?"

The other nodded. "Perfectly."

"Good." A question occurred to him, one which he was unlikely to ever find an answer to elsewhere. "Can I ask you something?"

"I'm not exactly in a position to refuse you."

"First contact. How did it really happen?"

Benson sighed. "No harm in telling you, I suppose. I wasn't there and officially this is still need-to-know only..."

"Unofficially?"

"Unofficially, and uncorroborated, it happened courtesy of a crystal."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm told it was an attempt to discover a new energy source. ULAW scientists directed AIs to build a particularly complex crystalline structure in Virtuality. Once completed, it proved to be identical in every detail to a crystal the Byrzaens had already built and were using to process energy from the other brane."

"Resonance!" Malcolm said.

"Something like that."

"Structures that identical are the same... the same object existing simultaneously in two different places. Quantum physics allows that this would open the door to communication between both locations, and maybe more. That's incredible."

"Isn't it just?"

"What I don't understand is why this constant draining of energy from another brane hasn't destabilised it. Presumably the brane is vast and the amount being taken infinitesimally small in the scheme of things but even so... And that begs another question: where does all the energy come from in the first place?"

Benson shrugged. "I'm no scientist, so not my field." Nor, evidently, his interest. "Now, when exactly did you say you were going to get me out of here?"

 

Malcolm's next call was not one he was looking forward to, even though it was to his oldest friend. He knew she wasn't going to like the idea. He was right.

"Are you serious? That man is responsible for so many deaths, Malcolm," Catherine pointed out, "most likely Philip's included, and you just expect me to let him go?"

"What else were you planning on doing to him? He's a ULAW official. How do you think they'll react to his summary execution?"

"Who said anything about execution? You know better than to underestimate me, Malcolm. A renegade faction within the government mounts an illegal raid on Kaufman Industries head office, killing KI personnel in the process. Do you really think anyone at ULAW is going to kick up a fuss if some of those responsible, including the primary organiser, get killed during our perfectly legitimate attempts to defend ourselves? I'm about to lodge a strongly worded complaint about the whole incident. I'll be amazed if ULAW want to take on KI over this, no matter how many bodies turn up. In fact, I'm going to be pushing for financial compensation and a public apology."

Knowing her, she'd probably get them, too.

"Catherine," he said, "I would never underestimate you. It wasn't the corporation's welfare I was concerned about. Trust me, releasing Benson will ensure not only yours and my safety but that of everyone involved."

She snorted. "Which still sounds like you're underestimating me." Catherine pursed her already thin lips and glared at him. "You're asking a lot, Malcolm. I'm not going to enquire what sort of a deal you've struck with that arsehole. I can guess the leverage you employed. Just tell me this much: is it real?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "God bless Lara. What a tragic loss."

Malcolm could only agree. He refrained from reminding her that the tragedy didn't end with Lara. There was no point. Catherine knew that only too well.

At length, she said, "There's not another soul in the universe, corporeal or virtual, I'd trust to this extent. You do know that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"On the other hand, what's the point in employing a genius if you don't listen to their advice? Very well, I'll do as you ask. Benson can go free - after he suffers a few choice words from me - and I'll even smooth out the matter of his release with Leyton and the habitat folk."

"Thank you."

"You'd better be right about this."

"I am," he replied, and hoped his conviction was justified.

"One more thing. Your concern for my welfare is all very touching, but I've lived a long life in an environment that's as cutthroat as they come. I'm a tough old bird, Malcolm, not that easy to get rid of. Don't you forget it."

He smiled. "How could I ever do that?"

 

Things had changed. The Rebellion had long gone, having disappeared back to the habitat's final refuge, an outpost known as Far Flung. Leyton had no idea where this was, nor did he wish to know. He and Kethi had new identities and were part of a network of habitat personnel scattered across the ULAW worlds.

They stayed in touch through Virtuality, utilising the realm of veils even as their enemies did. Both sides must have been aware of the other's presence, but they ignored it, adhering to the fragile peace of stalemate.

He and Kethi saw a fair bit of Malcolm Kaufman, or at least versions of him. There were more clones of Malcolm than Leyton cared to think about, and that bothered him for some reason. He didn't really know Malcolm Kaufman, and to have so many versions of this acknowledged genius in virtual form struck him as unnatural and vaguely dangerous, though not for any reason he could justify.

As yet, the Byrzaen influence on human society had been as minimal and benign as promised, though Leyton didn't trust that and still felt this smacked of invasion through the back door. For now, the habitat watched and waited - something they were well versed in. Leyton, on the other hand, wasn't, and he chafed to be doing something more proactive. He knew that Catherine Chzyski had some hold over Benson, but she refused to specify what it was, and his ignorance on the subject was a further frustration. Leyton's biggest fear was that, while they might have the upper hand for now, the faction within ULAW that Benson represented wouldn't be taking their reversal on Home lying down. If the habitat and their allies remained passive for too long, Benson would find some way of outmanoeuvring them.

In her new identity, Kethi had helped establish and was vigorously promoting a pressure group demanding greater transparency in all dealings with the Byrzaens. Their lobbying had caught the media's attention and it was producing results, all of which Leyton applauded; he just wished they could do more. Anything that might keep ULAW and the Byrzaens off-balance he would have jumped at.

Kethi's ongoing analysis of events suggested that the 'accidents' and murder of key individuals had stopped, which was something, at least; although Leyton wished they could be certain this wasn't due to the assassination programme having been completed rather than anything else. That was the problem. There were so many unknowns; too many for his peace of mind.

He was on his way to a meeting with Malcolm, a new version only recently cloned, who would have the latest intel on ULAW activities, which Kethi was anxiously waiting on. The clone might even have something productive for Leyton to do. Unlikely, but he could always hope.

 

Malcolm had been keeping himself busy. He was increasingly called upon in his role as 'consultant' for Kaufman Industries. He was enjoying his involvement in his old firm enormously, having been starved of such diversions during Philip's time as CEO. In the meantime, cloned versions of him had spread to every corner of human space, just as he'd warned Benson they would. Odd, but he still thought of himself - the Malcolm Kaufman that remained on Home - as the real Malcolm, and suspected that every other version felt the same about themselves. Was his point of view any more valid than that of the others? This line of thought held the potential for an introspective spiral of philosophical pointlessness, so he determined not to go there.

The snippet of coding he'd revealed to Benson was next to nothing. It had to be. He didn't want ULAW or the Byrzaens perfecting a countermeasure before the virus was ever deployed, but at the same time he'd needed them to take him seriously. A delicate balance, but one he felt he'd got right. Malcolm was nothing like the coding expert Lara Chenin had been, but nor was he a novice. Now a Sword of Damocles hung suspended over both civilisations. A situation that couldn't last forever perhaps, but it would hold everything in check for a good while, hopefully long enough for the two races to learn to work together, and for Malcolm that was enough.

Ever since he transcended, he had been fascinated by his own emotional responses. In his former corporeal self, the levels and balance of specific chemicals were key in determining his mood. In his subsequent uploaded state, these had been replaced by the triggering of analogous coding. Superficially, his emotions felt the same as they always had, but the more he studied the issue the more convinced he became that this wasn't strictly true. His feelings were a great deal simpler and clearer than they had been in the physical world. It was something he intended to examine in more detail at some point. The real question, of course, was whether or not this less complex emotional palette was desirable. Did it make him any less human, or was it a welcome improvement - did it facilitate less confused and therefore more efficient responses?

Excitement was always an intriguing one. He'd rarely experienced that particular emotional state since adopting a virtual form. He'd been intrigued and perhaps a little excited by the advent of the Byrzaens and the opportunity to study an entirely new form of science, to discover an alien culture. He'd enjoyed no end the time spent recently with Kyle as they stripped down one of The Rebellion's off-line drive units. They did so in order to study the technology involved in converting the radically different energies of the veils into something that could propel objects between the stars. But not even these had excited him in quite the way that he remembered.

Yet now, as he waited on the arrival of the latest ship from New Paris, he was closer to that tingling, can't-wait, cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof fidgetiness that he could recall from his corporeal days than he'd been in a long while. Malcolm kept telling himself that he needn't feel guilty. He hadn't actually lied to his son. His only sin had been one of omission - he'd failed to correct an assumption. It was perfectly logical for Philip to have supposed that Malcolm had left a clone of himself on New Paris, but he hadn't. Not of himself.

"Hello, Malcolm," the latest arrival from New Paris greeted him.

"Hello, son," he replied. "Welcome home."

 

Being fresh from New Paris, Philip had none of his predecessor's knowledge or experience, though he'd picked up a few things along the way. Malcolm had to teach him a lot of stuff all over again, which brought with it a poignant sense of déjà-vu, as he repeated many of the same lessons and shared similar moments. Not that he begrudged a single second. After all, time was hardly an issue, and it wasn't so long ago that his son wouldn't have allowed him to get close at all. Besides, the repeat performance enabled Malcolm to exercise more discretion and be selective about what was taught and what was omitted.

He studiously brought Philip up to speed on most things, but not quite everything. He firmly believed that a father had a duty to protect his son. The least he could do was spare Philip the burden of the doomsday virus. Malcolm suddenly realised that this Philip would only have known Lara Chenin as part of team that worked on his precious 'project,' and wouldn't have met Tanya at all. The flirtatious bodyguard hadn't reappeared since Philip's 'death' and presumably wouldn't again, her services no longer required. Both had been impressive and formidable women in their own way.

As far as Malcolm could see, there was no reason Philip should ever be aware of the question that haunted his father's thoughts more often than not: to use or not to use. No, the responsibility of deciding the fate of two civilisations would remain Malcolm's alone. After all, the universe only needed one god.