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“And the palimpsests? If I’m going to die, then at least let me know what it was you were doing.”
He leaned closer to me, grabbed my jacket and pulled me closer. “Krantz was weak and disloyal. He can’t help you. Do you know what a Whistleblower is?”
“Someone who feels that he won’t compromise his ethical responsibility as regards corporate malfeasance?”
“No, that’s what we at Goliath call ‘a loathsome snitch.’ A Whistleblower is a small device no bigger than a grain of rice implanted in the medulla oblongata, the part of the brain that deals with involuntary functions, like breathing and cardiac control.”
“I know what the medulla does.”
He raised an eyebrow. I was being too calm, so I quickly engineered a nervous tremor in my leg and set my heart rate up from 90 to 120. If I could have sweated, I would have done that, too. But it was subtle enough to allay suspicions.
“This device,” he continued, “detects the brain-wave forms associated with ethical thought, guilt, nervousness and vocalization—and, when they are all running together, assumes the recipient is about to blab and explodes, destroying the medulla and extinguishing life functions. And all it ever looks like is an aneurysm. Everyone above Laddernumber one million gets one. I have one. Even Day Players of Goliath personnel get one. Krantz knows a lot, but not even his Day Player can tell you. Neat, eh?”
“Goliath never fails to surprise me. What did Krantz want to tell me? And how does that relate to Zvlkx?”
“It’s part of our long-term corporate policy for domination. And the best part of it is that you put us up to it. I’d not imagined how HR-6984 might link with your discussion about—” But he stopped, laughed and got up from the sofa. “You’re good,” he said, “real good. The heart-rate thing had me totally fooled.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, attempting to retrieve the situation.
But Jack was having none of it. He knew I was a Synthetic. I sat up straighter and placed my stick to one side.
Jack laughed and waved a finger at me. “I can’t believe I almost fell for the ‘reveal the secret plan before you kill me’ gambit. But you tell me,” he added, “since we have a few moments to compare notes on wearing a Day Player: Does the increased libido with zero chance of fulfillment get you frustrated?”
“You have to put it to the back of your mind. How’s the overheating issue treating you?”
“I generally try to remove layers of clothes before there’s a problem.”
“Good tip,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Have you come across the faulty-knee issue yet?” he asked.
“Get a bad one and they don’t last the full twenty-four.” I told him I’d not been in a body long enough to have seen a problem, and he nodded sagely. I asked him how he knew I wasn’t her—simply as a matter of curiosity.
“The real you is almost addicted to Dizuperadol. Your skin and breath should reek of it. Enough talk. See you in the next life.”
He pulled the trigger, and it clicked uselessly.
“I dropped out the clip when I figured what you were,” I said, “and I never keep one up the spout. Not since I shot off Bowden’s little toe by accident. Safety first.”
I reached for the .25 Beretta on my ankle only to find that it wasn’t there. He had taken that, too, but more skillfully. He was definitely a Mark VIII. I looked up and saw my small automatic po
inting straight at me.
“As I was saying,” said Jack Schitt with a smile, pulling back the slide to chamber a round, “see you in the next life.”
They’re right. You never do hear the sound of the shot that kills you.
23.
Wednesday: Adelphi
Inhabiting a Day Player was like riding a Segway. They both come easily but can occasionally catch you unawares once you feel so comfortable with them that you forget they are there. A well-fitting Day Player is a great joy to use, but I heard later that inhabiting a body not designed for your own use was like driving a car with all the controls reversed.
Thursday Next, Private Diaries
My guess had been correct: She’d put me in a storage cupboard. I was surrounded by cleaning products, buckets, brooms, a chair and table for tea breaks and an industrial floor cleaner. I had been wrapped in a blanket this time and laid on a camping mat, so at least I was warm. For the record, waking up from a Cognition Retransfer is pretty much instantaneous, but the memories I’d formed while I’d been a Day Player took a minute or two to establish themselves.
I pulled myself to my feet using the floor cleaner and noticed that my Day Player had kindly pinned a pay-as-you-go cell phone to my shirt, where I couldn’t possibly miss it. There was also a key to the storeroom taped to the palm of my right hand. I rubbed my tattoo, just in case, but I didn’t really need to—the ache in my leg told me I was well and truly home.
