This Alien Shore (68 page)

Masada knelt by the body for a long time, studying it in detail. He was no forensics specialist, nor was he an expert in reading human expression. But he was going to have to go through the mort log in detail, and everything he could observe about the body now might help him interpret that later.

The wide open eyes seemed to stare at him. Eyes of a tortured man, gone to peace at last. How did Kent fit into all this? What about the report that Phoenix had given him, that Lucifer might have been tested first in this node? Was he connected to that somehow?

“What do you think?” Gaza asked.

“He died a tortured death.” Masada looked around at the art surrounding him, strange canvases worked in shades of gray. Twisted and tortured shapes that seemed to shift form as you watched them. One piece had a violent splash of red across it, and he couldn't help but wonder what had gone through the man's mind as he had applied it. Unable to see the color, judge its tint, or even comprehend its nature, he had nonetheless added it to his storehouse of personal visions. Why? “After a tortured life. What killed him?”

“Coronary arrest, preceded by wellseeker malfunction. I'm still working on deciphering the mort log, but right now it looks like the safeguards on his Syndrome shut down.”

“Is it possible he did that himself?”

“The mort log says he did, in fact. But the system should have come back online at the first sign of trouble. It didn't.” He nodded toward the holo. “There was enough adrenaline in his bloodstream to have triggered the safeguards ten times over.”

Masada looked up at him sharply. “That's a very familiar pattern.”

“You mean Lucifer.”

“Yes.”

“I scanned for it. No sign of it in the outpilot programs. I'm having the wellseeker programs scanned now for any signs of a virus. If one turns up, even if it's not Lucifer ...”

“Then the same people who launched Lucifer may have killed Kent.”

“Exactly.”

“For information, you think?”

“No. Not this time. This time I think we're looking at simple murder.”

“How can you know that?”

“Timing, Dr. Masada.” Gaza's expression was grim. “Think about it. We just discovered Lucifer's source and a possible conspiracy with the Terran isolationists. As we were meant to, no doubt. Whoever launched that message from the Front's station probably thought it would all end there. But it didn't. The gambit was discovered, and the search continues. So now the key evidence has been destroyed, the record in Kent's own brain. As I predicted it would be.

“That said, I can see one of two possible reasons for this murder. Let's begin by assuming that Kent leaked a fragment of outpilot's code to a Terran conspirator, an action motivated by festering bitterness over his own condition. He never thought he'd get caught. But then you came to the outworlds and told us there had to be a leak among our ranks, which you began to search for. The investigation seemed to be hitting closer and closer to home, and might eventually have uncovered his treachery. Kent had no feelings of loyalty for Earth; quite the opposite. It had simply served his purpose at the time. Now, in order to save himself, he launched a message from the Terran Front to alert us to the Earth connection and give us someone to blame. That drew our attention away from him. If he' d succeeded in making the Front look guilty, the whole search would have ended there.

“That's what I postulate about the overall situation. From there I see two possibilities. Either Earth learned it had been betrayed and simply had its revenge.” He indicated the faux body. “Or Lucifer's creator realized we were getting too close to the truth, and decided to cover his tracks. Better to kill Kent now than run the risk of his talking too much later.”

“You're assuming Kent's guilt.”

“I think that's pretty clear. Of course, we have the mort log now, and whatever else could be salvaged from his brainware. We can study them at our leisure and search for proof. But I have no doubt about what we're going to find.”

A figure appeared in the doorway. “Director.” It was Chezare Arbela, Kent's personal secretary. “That scan you wanted is finished. Also the mort log has been recorded for you. I've set up a vid link for you in the Guildmaster's office.”

“Good. Thank you.” Gaza smoothed his clothing with careful gestures, first the right side, then the left. Perfectly even. “Come on, let's take a look at this now and see if we can't find some substantiation for my theories.” He waited until Masada took one last look at the body, then led him toward the office. “I hear you have company, by the way.”

It took him a few seconds to realize who Gaza meant. “A moddie from Paradise Station and his girlfriend. He has friends in the node who may have valuable data for us. Arbela arranged transportation for him. In the meantime, she's waiting in Kent's gallery, where guards will see that she stays out of the way. Nothing to worry about.”

“What kind of valuable data?”

Masada hesitated. He hated to present data in bits and pieces like this, would much rather wait until Phoenix returned and then give a full report. But the question was too direct to be refused. “He and his friends have apparently been tracking Lucifer for some time ... though they didn't know what it was, of course. He said that fragments of the virus have been found in this node, as far back as four or five years ago. Which may imply that its designer is located here, or at least was at that time. Or had contacts here who would run the thing for him when it needed to be tested.”

Gaza looked at him sharply. “If Kent was guilty, might he not have done that?”

Masada shook his head. “Kent lacked the skill. He might be a traitor to the Guild, but he wasn't a programmer. And whoever handled these fragments would have had to know what they were doing. No, there's someone else involved here, and this hacker may be able to prove that. And possibly even turn up some clues as to who it was.”

For a moment there was silence. Gaza gestured toward a doorway; Kent's office. “You're determined to find them all, aren't you? Every single person ever connected to that virus.”

“Isn't that my job?”

The office was dark, and despite its dimensions felt somewhat claustrophobic. Dark bookcases and darker furniture underscored the mood of the man who had lived here. It was an interior room with neither window nor viewscreen. No view of space to taunt Ian Kent. No hints of the ainniq to torture him.

Arbela was waiting for them. He indicated a monitor that had been set up on the desk. “The scan found something,” he said. “I've had it isolated for you. And here's the mort log.” He held out a chip. Masada reached for it, but Gaza was ahead of him and claimed it first. The professor was somewhat startled by the move; prior to this, Gaza had preferred to let him handle data collection.

The tension must be getting to him,
he mused.

They pulled up chairs in front of the monitor and Gaza took control of the display. Slowly he scrolled through the lengthy code, occasionally stopping when Masada asked to take a longer look at something.

It was a virus.

“Shades of Lucifer,” Masada mused aloud.

“What do you mean?”

“It's the same style. I'd put money on it being the same programmer.”

Gaza looked at him sharply. “How sure can you be of that?”

“Programming style is like a fingerprint. Sometimes the mark may be unclear, but it's always there. Little quirks of code that are unique to each programmer. Go on to the next section.” He waited while the monitor display complied with his instructions. “I studied Lucifer every day for six months, Director. I know it like I know my own work. And my own particular strength is in abstract visualization; a gift of my kaja. Trust me, this virus is from the same designer. And ... there.” The code froze on the screen. “That's it.” He read for a moment, then cursed softly under his breath. “That's your killer, Director. It went straight for his safeguard programs and disabled them. The first time the Syndrome became active in Kent the whole system shut down. He might have had enough medication in his arm to control the Syndrome safely, but if his wellseeker didn't tell the delivery mechanism it was needed, nothing would have made it to his bloodstream.”

“So it was murder.”

Masada said nothing.

“My theories seem rather sound, then,” Gaza mused.

“They do.”

“Well.” He sat back in his chair and tapped a restless hand on the table. His expression was grim. “At least we don't have to worry about a leak in the Guild anymore. That question's been answered.” He reached out and straightened the monitor screen so that its edge was parallel to that of the table. “We should return and report this to the Prima. I'm sure she'll want to hear it.”

“You go ahead. I still have the boy to hear from.”

“Does it matter so much now? We have our leak, we know the virus' source.”

“Maybe. I'd rather be sure. There are still a few unanswered questions, you know. I'd rather see that there's no doubt left anywhere before I present my findings to the Prima.”

Gaza stared at him. “You are persistent, aren't you?”

Masada smiled faintly. “Of course, Director. You knew that when you hired me.”

“No, Dr. Masada. No, I underestimated you.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. His posture might have seemed relaxed, but his gaze was still intense. “That's not a mistake I'll make again, I promise you.”

T
hey had left Jamisia in a vast room filled with pictures and told her to wait there until the guards returned. Apparently the Guildmaster had been an artist in his spare time, for nearly all the paintings were his. Or so the guards told her before they left her alone there.

She shuddered to think of what kind of man might have painted those pictures. They weren't merely abstract images, nothing so mundane as that; they were surreal landscapes, vividly unnerving, and they hinted at an inner landscape more warped than any reality. They repelled her, but they also fascinated her, and she found it impossible to turn away from them. One in particular drew her attention, a jarring collection of jagged shapes that seemed to move as she stared at them. Were they pictures of something in particular, or just the random outpourings of a tormented brain?

She felt something cold and dark stir in the back of her mind and wondered if it was one of the Others. But none of them had ever felt like that, even back when she feared them the most. This was a markedly ominous sensation, and the more she tried to tell the unwelcome presence to go back to where it came from, the more insistent it became. What was happening? Why weren't any of the Others helping her with this?

Nervously she tried to step back from the painting, thinking that somehow the bizarre art was connected to all this. But she couldn't. Her feet wouldn't move. It was a sickening sensation, not merely that her feet were frozen in place, more as if ... as if they weren't really hers anymore. Her entire body felt disconnected, the flesh a mere shell that her soul was using, not
hers
in any real sense, not subject to her control. She was aware of the Others now as if at a distance. Their voices fluttered around her head like insects, but they no longer seemed to be a part of her. She tried to talk to them, but the words wouldn't come.

What was happening to her?

Maybe it was the body, she thought. Maybe the Others wanted it for themselves. Maybe that was what this was all about. Suddenly it all came together in her head, a truly terrifying conclusion. This was what they'd been waiting for all these months. That's why they'd befriended her and helped her all this time. They wanted her to
trust
them. They wanted her to grow accustomed to their presence, and to letting others control the body, so that when the time came to finally make their play, she wouldn't see it coming.

She could see it all now, everything they'd done, all part of a larger plan. That's why they'd never made contact with her on the habitat, all those years. They'd hoped to just do away with her and take her place before anybody noticed. But of course that wasn't possible in the outworlds, where they all had to help her survive in order to keep this flesh alive. They didn't care about her welfare, only the safety of the body they coveted; she saw that now with perfect clarity. If not for her fleeing Earth, she might never have known the truth....

How did you fight enemies who lived in your own head? She remembered how Verina had taught her to sink down into the darkness within, shutting out all input from the body's senses. Now, now she understood what that was all about! They were
training
her. Teaching her to submit. So that when at last she was locked away in that place, where no light ever shone and no thought ever stirred, she wouldn't be able to break free. She could scream all she wanted in that place, and no one from the outside world would ever hear her.