The Resurrected Man (53 page)

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.