Architects of Emortality (22 page)

Specialized in funeral wreaths—a silly affectation, I always thought. Haven’t heard of him in years, though—I thought he’d retired on the proceeds. I daresay you know him much better than I do. You were birds of a feather, I always thought. It was your Celosia, wasn’t it? What makes you think that Rappaccini had anything to do with it?” Charlotte didn’t need to make a mental note of the fact that Czastka considered Wilde and Rappaccini to be birds of a feather.

“How’s your ecosphere coming along, Walter?” asked Oscar softly. Charlotte frowned at the change of subject Czastka didn’t answer the question. “What do you want, Oscar?” he asked rudely.

“I’m busy. If you want to slander Rappaccini to the UN police, go ahead, but don’t involve me. I told them all I know—about the plant, about everything. I just want to be left alone. If this is going to carry on, I’m going to disconnect permanently. If anyone wants to talk to me, they can get the boat from Kauai.” Charlotte wondered when Czastka had last been rejuvenated. He looked as if his second rejuvenation had somehow failed to take—as if he were degenerating rapidly. He looked as if he couldn’t possibly have long to live, and he looked as if he knew it.

“I’m sorry, Walter,” said Oscar soothingly, “but I do need to talk to you. We have a problem here, and it affects us both. It affects us generally, and specifically. Genetic art may have come a long way since the protests at the Great Exhibition, but there’s still a lot of latent animosity to the kind of work we do, and the Green Zealots won’t need much encouragement to put us back on their hate list. Neither of us wants to go back to the days when we had to argue about our licenses, and had petty officials demanding to look over our shoulders while we worked. When the police release the full details of this case there’s going to be a lot of adverse publicity, and it’s going to hurt us.

That’s the general issue. More specifically, there’s a great deal of confusion about who planned these murders and why. I’m in a car with Sergeant Charlotte Holmes of the UN police and a man named Michael Lowenthal, who represents certain commercial interests. We all have our various theories about the affair, and I think you’re entitled to be copied in on them. To be brutally frank, I think Rappaccini is behind the murders, Charlotte thinks I’m behind them, and Michael thinks you’re the guilty party—so it really is in your interest to help us sort things out.” “Me!” said Czastka. If his outrage wasn’t genuine, it was the best imitation Charlotte had ever seen. She only wished that Michael Lowenthal could see it “Why on earth would I want to kill Gabriel King or Michi Urashima?” “And Paul Kwiatek,” Wilde added. “Maybe Magnus Teidemann too. Nobody knows, Walter—but if this goes on, you might soon be the only survivor of that select band of famous men who graduated from Wollongong University in the early 2320s.” Czastka’s face had a curious ocherous pallor as he stared at his interlocutor.

Charlotte noted that Czastka’s eyes had narrowed, but she couldn’t tell whether he was alarmed, suspicious, or merely impatient.

“I don’t remember anything about those days,” Czastka said stubbornly. “Nobody does. It was too long ago. I hardly knew Kwiatek. I never knew any of them, really—not even King. I’ve had some dealings with his companies, just as I’ve had some dealings with Rappaccini Inc., but I haven’t set eyes on King for fifty years, and I haven’t seen Rappaccini since the Great Exhibition. I’ve seen Urashima’s work and I heard about the wireheading scandals, but that’s all.

Leave me alone, Oscar, and tell the police to leave me alone too. You know perfectly well that I couldn’t kill anyone—and I don’t know anything about Rappaccini that you don’t already know.” “What about his daughter?” said Wilde quickly.

If he intended to catch the other man by surprise it didn’t work. Czastka’s stare was stony and speculative, with more than a hint of melancholy. “What daughter?” he said. “I never met a daughter. Not that I remember. It was all a long time ago. I can’t remember anything at all. Leave me alone, Oscar, please.” So saying, the old man cut the connection.

Charlotte could see that Oscar Wilde was both puzzled and disappointed by the other man’s reaction.

“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?” she said, unable to resist the temptation to take him down a peg. “Did you really think he’d rather talk to you than to us? He doesn’t even like you. You should have left him to Hal—you’ve upset him now, maybe so badly that he won’t even take Hal’s calls, and you didn’t learn anything at all.” “Perhaps not,” Oscar agreed. “I certainly didn’t expect him to freeze up like that. On the other hand…” He trailed off, evidently uncertain as to what kind of balancing factor he ought to add.

“Have you changed your mind about the possibility of Czastka having set up the Biasiolo/Rappaccini identity?” Charlotte asked Michael Lowenthal.

“I don’t know,” said Lowenthal guardedly. “But I do wish you hadn’t told him about my suspicions, Dr. Wilde, however absurd you may think them.” “I’m sorry,” Wilde said, still taken aback by the nature of Czastka’s response to his call. “But if he were our stylish murderer, why would he react so churlishly to my inquiries? Surely he’d have made better preparation than that.” “Would he?” Lowenthal parried.

Hal’s face reappeared on Charlotte’s screen. “I just got notification of your little conversation, Dr. Wilde,” he said. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at? I tried to ring Czastka, and I got that bloody sloth again, telling me that he’s unavailable, even though I know he’s sitting right there at his antique desk!” “I couldn’t stop him!” Charlotte complained.

“It wasn’t Charlotte’s fault,” Wilde obligingly added—although she could see that the intervention didn’t improve Hal’s mood at all.

“Well,” Hal said, “you’d better pray that this won’t cost us time and effort.

You might care to know that the money trail is getting clearer by the minute.

Some of Rappaccini’s pseudonymous bank accounts have been used over the years to purchase massive quantities of materials that were delivered for collection to the island of Kauai—that’s in Hawaii.” “So the man behind Rappaccini must live on Kauai,” Charlotte deduced, trying to remember the context in which she had heard the place name mentioned not ten minutes before. She could tell from the way that Michael Lowenthal had reacted to the name that he remembered—and as soon as she had mentally reviewed that observation, she remembered too. It was too late to say anything; Hal was already speaking again.

“Not necessarily,” he was saying. “The supplies were collected by boat. There are fifty or sixty islets west and south of Kauai, some natural but most artificial. Over half of them are leased to Creationists for experiments in the construction of artificial ecosystems. Oscar Wilde’s private island is half an ocean away in Micronesia.” “But Walter Czastka’s isn’t,” said Michael Lowenthal with evident satisfaction.

“That’s right,” said Hal. “All the supplies that Czastka purchases in his own name are forwarded from Kauai, by the same boat that forwarded the equipment purchased by the pseudonymous accounts we’ve just connected to Rappaccini Inc.

Perhaps, Mr. Lowenthal, your wild hypothesis isn’t as wild as it first seemed.”

Michi Urashima was having trouble with time again. He had lost all sense of it and couldn’t remember what day it was, or what year, or how many times he had grown young and then old again. None of that would have been of much significance had he not had the vague impression that there was something he ought to be doing, some important project that needed attention. He could not remember whether or not he was still forbidden to leave his house, or whether or not there was anywhere else he might want to be.

When he asked what year it was, the silken voice of his household sloth dutifully informed him that it was 2495, but Michi could not remember whether 2495 was the present or the past, so he could not tell whether or not he had suffered an existential slippage. There was no point in asking the sloth whether or not he had lost his mind, because the sloth was too stupid to know.

Although he had lost touch with himself, Michi still had command of vast treasures of factual information. He knew, for instance, that sloths were called sloths because the Tupi word for the three-toed sloth was ai, and AI had stood for artificial idiot or artificial imbecile ever since the concept of artificial intelligence had been subdivided. A sloth could not possibly judge whether or not he had lost his mind; for that he would have needed a silver. Silvers were called silver because the chemical symbol for silver was Ag, which stood for artificial genius. There was no popular shorthand for “artificial individual of average intelligence” because the obvious acronym sounded like a strangled scream. Because AP had been claimed by artificial photosynthesis—LAP for liquid, SAP for solid—there was no such thing as a mere artificial person, and an acronymic rendering of artificial mind would have been too confusing by half.

Actually, Michi thought, the attempt to possess an artificial mind of his very own had indeed led him into dire confusion.

“I am,” he said, and giggled. “I am an AM, or am not an AM, or am caught like a half-living cat between the two. Perhaps I was an AM, and am no longer, or was not but now am, or would be if only I could think straight, like an AM. Perhaps, on the other hand, I am no longer an AM, and am no longer, but am merely an it, held together by IT.” He sat in his armchair and breathed deeply: in, out; in, out; in, out. Slowly but surely, his sense of self came together again, and his sense of temporal location returned. His IT was probably stretched to the limit, but he was not yet an it. Precarious though his grip on reality was, the Miller effect still had not obliterated him from the community of human minds.

Morgan Miller must have been a kindred spirit, he thought. The first man ever to beat the Hayflick limit and discover a viable technology of longevity, and his reward for taking such infinite pains over the project had been two bullets in the back. Unfortunately—as Miller had understood, although his assassins had not—the method had worked far too well. It was so utterly irresistible in renewing the body that it wiped out the mind. Even internal nanotech did that eventually, but at least it gave a man time to breathe, time to play, time to work, time to be… and time, in the end, to lose himself.

“I am,” he said again. “I am Michi still, at least for a little while. Do I have any appointments today?” “Yes,” said the sloth. Before Michi could rephrase the question, he remembered.

Yes, indeed—today, he had an appointment.

“Oh yes,” he said aloud. “I am, I am, I definitely am.” He reached up his hand to caress his skull, running his fingertips over the numerous sockets which sat above the main sites of his implanted electrodes. He wondered whether he ought to put on a wig, or a hooded suitskin. Did she wear a wig, or a hooded suit-skin? Could that luscious hair really be rooted in her skull? Maybe, maybe not. He would find out. But in the meantime—to obscure or not to obscure? He decided not. She was fascinated by what he was, what he had been; why try to hide it? A martyr should wear his stigmata proudly, unafraid to display them.

They were, alas, mere relics of the past, but they were the remnants of a glorious endeavor.

Michi still wondered, sometimes, whether he ought to make one more attempt to break through to the unknown. If he were to flush out all his IT and douse the sockets so as to flood the underlying electrodes with neurostimulators, the neurons further beneath would resume the business of forging new connections, further extending the synaptic tangles which already bound the contacts to every part of his brain. The removal of his IT would condemn him to death, of course, but he was dying anyway. Suppose he could trade a few months of not knowing what day it was for just one moment of enlightenment, one flash of inspiration, one revelatory proof that everything he had tried to achieve was possible, was within the grasp of contemporary humankind, if only people were willing to try, to take the risk.

Just suppose… It would be his triumph, and his alone. Official sources of finance had bailed out on him a hundred years ago, and he had been forbidden to call for further volunteers. The funds channeled from the Pharaohs of Capitalism by way of Gabriel King and his fellow buccaneers had dried up fifty years ago. The private backers had held out a little longer, but the law had built walls around him to keep their funds out. Like Kwiatek, he had been left high and dry—but Kwiatek had at least avoided the indignity of a show trial and subsequent house arrest.

If Kwiatek eventually ended up in susan, it wouldn’t be the law that had put him there; he would go of his own accord, unbranded and uncondemned.

“I was the only one prepared to go all the way,” Michi said aloud. “If they hadn’t abandoned me, I might even have got to where I wanted to be. Do you hear me?” “Yes,” said the sloth, as pedantically terse as ever.

“How long is it before my visitor’s due?” Michi demanded, determined to make the stupid machine do a little work to justify its keep.

“Thirty seconds,” replied the conscientious machine. Doubtless, in some abstract and ideal sense, it was absolutely right—but even as it spoke, the door chime sounded.