Death Match (39 page)

“What am I supposed to say?”

“You could admit the truth.”

“The truth.” Silver almost spat the words. “The truth is you’ve insulted and humiliated me with this pseudo-psychological tale-spinning. So let’s put an end to this travesty. I’ve humored you long enough. You’re guilty of murder: have the guts to face up to it.”

“So you could
live
with yourself? You could sentence an innocent man to death?”

“You’re
not
innocent, Dr. Lash. Why not accept the truth? Everybody else has.”

Lash turned to Tara. “Is that true? What flavor of truth do you believe in this evening?”

“Flavor,” Silver said disdainfully. “You’re a serial murderer.”

“Tara?” Lash persisted.

Tara took a deep breath, turned to Silver. “You asked me something earlier. You asked, ‘Can you really imagine
me
killing those women?’ ”

For a moment, Silver looked puzzled. “Yes, I asked you that. Why?”

“Why did you single out the women? What about the men?”

“I—” Silver abruptly went silent.

“You hadn’t heard Christopher’s theory that the women
alone
were overdosed, given a medication that would guarantee suicidal-homicidal behavior. So why did you single out the women?”

“It was just a figure of speech.”

Tara did not reply.

“Ms. Stapleton,” Silver said in a harder tone. “In a few minutes, Lash will be subdued and restrained by my men. He will no longer pose a threat. Don’t make this any more complicated on anyone else—including yourself—than it need be.”

Still, Tara was silent.

“Silver’s right,” Lash said. He could hear the bitterness in his own voice. “He doesn’t have to admit anything. He can just keep his mouth shut. Nobody’s going to believe me now. There’s nothing more I can do.”

Tara made no indication she had heard. Her eyes remained veiled, far away.

And then, quite suddenly, they widened.

“No,” she said, turning to him. “There’s one more thing.”

FIFTY-FOUR

T
he room went still. For a moment, all Lash heard was the whispered susurrus of cooling fans.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

In response, Tara took him aside. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly over her shoulder. Lash followed her gaze to the contoured chair encased behind Plexiglas at the far end of the room.

“Liza?” he asked in a very low voice.

“If you’re right about this, Silver would have accessed the system from here. Maybe there’s some kind of trail you could follow. Even if there isn’t,
she
would know.”

“She?”

“Liza would have a record of Silver’s access. He would have made inquiries into a variety of our subsystems: communications, medical, data gathering. A large number of external entities would have been touched to create the false workup on you. There’d be Lindsay Thorpe’s pharmaceutical records. There’d be all kinds of things. You could ask her directly.”

“
I
could ask her?”

“Why not? She’s a computer, she’s programmed to respond to commands.”

“That’s not what I mean. I haven’t any idea how to communicate with her.”

“You’ve seen Silver do it. You told me so, over that drink at Sebastian’s. That’s more than anyone else can say.” She stepped back, looked at him quizzically.
You’re the one with everything at stake here
, the look said.
If you’re telling the truth, wouldn’t you do anything to prove it?

“What are you two talking about?” Silver asked. He had been guardedly watching the exchange.

Lash looked at the chair and the leads that snaked away from it. It was the last desperate gamble of a desperate man. But Tara was right. He had nothing to lose.

He strode across the room, opened the Plexiglas panel, and quickly slid into the sculpted chair.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Silver’s voice was suddenly loud in the cramped room.

Lash did not answer. He looked around, trying to recall just what he’d seen Silver do before. He pulled down the small screen that hung from a telescoping arm, affixed the lavalier microphone to his torn collar.

“You can’t do that!” Silver said. He stood up slowly, as if stunned by Lash’s brazenness.

“Who’s going to stop me? You?” Lash lifted the EEG leads, began fastening them to his temples. He thought back to what Silver had said about Liza: her highly developed intelligence models, her three-dimensional neural network. That he could hope to interact with her, let alone find the information he needed, seemed the height of folly. Yet he could not let Silver see his doubt.

Leads attached, he reached down to the console and snapped the EEG into life. The screen before him cleared; several columns of numbers scrolled rapidly up and out of sight. He glanced at the small keypad and stylus set into one of the arms. He remembered Silver had used the keypad prior to communicating directly with Liza. “Getting her attention,” he’d said. Somehow or other, he’d have to get her attention, too. He reached for the keypad.

“Get out of that chair,” Silver warned. He was pacing now, as if in a quandary over what to do.

“Don’t worry. I won’t break her.”

“You haven’t a clue what you’re doing. This won’t get you anywhere. It’s a waste of time.”

Beneath the indignation, Lash sensed nervousness in Silver’s tone. He noted the man’s pacing with interest. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Nobody else has ever spoken directly with Liza.”

“Don’t you remember what you told me last time I was here? You said others could communicate with her, too, given proper concentration and training.”

“The operative words there are
proper concentration and training
, Lash.”

“I’m a quick study.”

This was said with a confidence Lash did not feel. He looked from the keypad to the screen, then back again.
Get her attention
.

What do computers respond to?
Commands. Statements in programs.

He placed his hand on the keypad, typed:

the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog

There was no response. The screen remained blank.

“Dr. Lash,” Silver said. “Get out of the chair.”

I’ll try a question instead
. Lash typed:

why is a raven like a writing desk?

Again, no response. Lash gritted his teeth.
Silver’s right. This is just a waste of time
. Any minute Mauchly would break into the penthouse. And that would be that.

He glanced past the Plexiglas wall. Silver had stopped pacing and was stepping toward him now, an angry look on his face.

Suddenly, a storm of data ran up the small monitor. And then he heard a voice. It was the voice he remembered: low, feminine, coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” it said.

“Yes,” Lash spoke into the microphone.

“I do not understand the nature of your interrogatory.”

“It’s a riddle.”

“My parsing of ‘itza’ is unsuccessful.”

“It is a riddle,” Lash said, reminding himself to speak slowly and clearly. “A quote from a famous book.”

Silver had stopped, and was listening intently.

“You are not Richard,” the feminine voice said. This was spoken with an utter lack of inflection, leaving Lash unsure whether it was a statement or a question.

“No,” he replied.

“Your image and voice soundprint are known. You are Christopher Lash.”

“Yes.”

The computer said nothing further. Lash felt his pulse begin to race, and he fought to master himself. What could he say? He remembered a question Silver had asked, decided to try repeating it.

“Liza,” he said into the microphone. “What is your current state?”

“Ninety-nine point two two four percent operational. Current processes are at twenty-two point six percent of multithreaded capacity. Banked machine cycle surplus at one hundred percent. Thank you for asking.”

“
Stop it
,” Silver said in a fierce whisper.

“I have visual acquisition of Richard,” Liza said. “I have aural acquisition of Richard. Yet it is not Richard speaking with me. Curious.”

Curious
. Silver had told him he’d made curiosity one of Liza’s fundamental characteristics. Just maybe he could put that curiosity to good use.

“I, Christopher Lash, am speaking with you,” he said.

“Christopher,” the voice repeated, with the merest ripple of digital artifacting.

Once again, Lash was struck by the way Liza said his name, almost as if tasting it. After years of speaking only to Silver, speaking to another human being would be revelation indeed.

“Why do you, and not Richard, speak with me?” Liza asked.

Lash hesitated. He had to phrase his responses in such a way as to keep Liza interested; it seemed increasingly likely this was the only way to make sure communication would continue. “Because the situation at Eden has become nonstandard.”

“Explain.”

“The best way to explain is by asking you a series of questions. Is that permissible?”

“Permissibility is unknown. This is foreign to my experience. I have run no scenarios that address it. I am currently evaluating.”

“How long will the evaluation take?”

“Five million, two hundred forty-five thousand machine cycles, plus or minus ten percent, assuming successful implementation of a ‘best-fit’ selection tree.”

This told Lash nothing. “May I ask the questions while the evaluation is ongoing?”

“My parsing of ‘ongoing’ is unsuccessful. Preposition and verb are out of context.”

“May I ask the questions during your evaluation process?”

“Christopher.”

This was not the answer Lash expected. He chose to take it as a green light.

“Liza, has Richard used this interface to access records relating to me in the last forty-eight hours?”

Abruptly, Silver lunged at the Plexiglas. Lash straight-armed the door, refusing to give him access.

“Liza,” he repeated, pressing the door closed. “Has Richard Silver used this interface to access records relating to me?”

There was no response.

Is she considering the question?
Lash asked himself.
Or is she refusing to answer?

“Liza?” he said again. “Did you understand my question?”

Suddenly he remembered something: the weariness with which Silver had removed the EEG sensors when he rose from this seat.
Sessions with Liza can be a little draining
, he’d said.
It requires a great deal of concentration. Think of biofeedback. The frequency and amplitude of beta and theta waves can speak a lot more distinctly than words
.

Perhaps, in this unique situation, curiosity alone was not sufficient for Liza. It was her first time communicating directly with anyone other than Silver. Clarity and simplicity of message would be of critical importance.

It requires a great deal of concentration. Think of biofeedback.

Lash did not know what methods Silver used to achieve his concentration. All he could fall back on were the relaxation techniques he himself taught patients for dealing with their anxiety. The self-hypnosis, the state of heightened attention, just might be enough. If he could slow himself down,
calm
himself down, free his mind of the extra baggage . . .

He began just as he would if he’d been in his office, speaking one on one with a patient.
Envision yourself in a relaxing scene. The most relaxing scene you can imagine. Picture yourself sitting on a beach. It’s a sunny day
.

Once again, Silver threw himself against the door. Lash’s elbow bent slightly under the pressure, then stiffened again. He tried to forget Silver, Mauchly, his own desperate situation, everything.

He shut his eyes.
Take a deep breath. Hold it. Now let it out, slowly. Take another. You should feel limp, relaxed
.

Liza remained silent.

Slowly, external sound and sensation went away. Lash kept his thoughts focused on the beach, on the creamy sound of the surf.

Feel your head relax. Feel it roll gently to one side. Now feel the muscles of your neck relax. Feel your chest grow less tight, your breathing come easier.

“Christopher.” It was the disembodied voice of Liza.

“Yes.”
Feel your arms relax, first the right, then the left. Let them go limp
.

“Please repeat your last statement.”

Feel your legs relax, first the right, then the left
. “Has Richard Silver used this interface to access records relating to me?”

“Yes, Christopher.”

“Were those records external or internal?”

No response.

Take a slow, deep breath
. “Were the records Richard accessed within your dataspace, or were they outside Eden Incorporated?”

“Both.”

Focus on the beach
. “Did Richard Silver modify or change these records in any way?”

There was no reply.

“Liza, did Richard Silver modify any of—”

“No.”

No? Was Liza telling him Silver had not modified his records, after all? Or was she refusing to answer? But that was . . .

Abruptly, his hard-won concentration crumpled. Lash took a deep breath, glanced beyond the Plexiglas partition. Silver had taken several steps back now, and was standing beside Tara. They were looking at him, worried expressions on their faces.

“Christopher,” Silver was saying. “Please step out for a minute. I need to speak with you.”

There was no further response from Liza. There was a new look in Silver’s eyes: a haunted look.

Silver reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number. “Edwin?” he said. “Edwin, it’s Richard.” Then he held the cell phone away from his ear so both Tara and Lash could hear the response.

“Yes, Dr. Silver,” came Mauchly’s tinny voice.

“Where are you currently?”

“We’ve just penetrated the interstructural barrier.”

“Hold your position. Don’t proceed any farther until you get instructions from me.”