“I found the official police report on Maynard’s death,” his friend answered.
Karl reacted with a simple nod, his enthusiasm still trying to escape the bonds of sleep. Maynard, however, buzzed with so much interest that the psychologist felt like his head was home to a hive of wasps.
“What’s it say?”
“Suicide,” Thompson said. “He jumped from his twentieth-floor suite on November 17, 2037, and was discovered in the alley the next morning.”
Karl’s brow furrowed in a bit of confused surprise. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting. He retreated into his thoughts as if to ask Maynard for his feedback, but the I.I. was silent. He waited a little as he took his first sip of the coffee Thompson brought him.
After the silence had grown awkward, Thompson raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. Karl slipped into his own thoughts, which were still devoid of noise while the I.I. contemplated the news.
Maynard?
“It’s a lie,” the I.I. piped up. “I didn’t kill myself.”
Karl passed on the comment to his old friend, whose face revealed no internal emotion on the matter.
“Well, at least according to this report, he did,” Thompson said matter-of-factly.
“Is that the only report?” Maynard asked.
Karl continued to play telephone between the two men as they spoke, still trying to figure out where he fit into the equation.
“It’s the only one with any detail,” Thompson explained. “I found a few obituaries and a dozen clippings announcing his death, but not a single one offers a cause of death. It’s all, ‘The Batiste family is saddened to announce that Maynard Batiste, one of the original inventors of the cerebral computer, has passed away at the age of 48.’ Then it’s just a lot of, ‘survived by’s,’ and, ‘comments from professional peers,’ and, ‘yadda yadda yadda.’ ”
There was a pause.
“I did not kill myself,” Maynard reaffirmed.
“He doesn’t seem convinced,” Karl told his friend.
“I don’t know what actually happened,” Thompson started, “but I’d remind him of the blank-memory period surrounding death. One cannot remember the exact event of their death any better than they can remember their birth. It’s like falling asleep: we can’t pinpoint the exact moment we fall unconscious. That memory just isn’t saved. It’s like that when we die.”
The I.I. seemed a bit indignant at the comment.
“I’d remind him that I’ve been dead nearly longer than he’s been alive, and I’m no idiot,” Maynard said. “I don’t have to remember the precise moment of death in order for me to smell the bullshit surrounding mine. I know me. I know what I can and cannot do. I did not kill myself.”
Karl found it exhausting to relay messages between his flesh-and-bones compatriot and the voice in his head. He shuddered at each insult and each sarcastic comment as though they were directed at him. He had to remind himself not to take it personally.
“Then how did he die?” Thompson asked. He folded his arms in front of him and waited for an answer like a debate participant.
“I was murdered!” Maynard insisted.
“He keeps saying that, but where’s the proof?” Thompson said, shrugging. “Is this all just conjecture? He’s got to give us something better than, ‘I just know,’ ”
“Well, that’s all I have right now,” the I.I. replied. “I had enemies, both personal and professional. To me, it seems much more likely that someone had a vendetta against me and acted on it rather than that I attempted to fly from my balcony.”
There was silence while the humans contemplated. Thompson pursed his lips together and inflated his cheeks with an air of exhausted exasperation.
“And he says his murderer could be the same guy who set you up?” Thompson asked.
Karl nodded.
“That’s what he believes, anyway.”
“Then I’ll look into it, if I can,” the hacktivist said. “Could be a good place to start on your traitor hunt.”
Then Thompson turned back to his terminal.
Undercover
The hacker had determined that it would be impossible to access the lab’s data remotely. He had tried a number of times, but none of the databases he was able to worm his way into had anything besides references to other databases he couldn’t locate. At first, he’d thought it was simply a decoy to dissuade further sleuthing. However, he became convinced that the information was valid.
“So what does that mean for us?” Karl had asked. A lot of what his friend told him went over his head, but he still nodded as he listened.
“It means that there’s no way we can get the entrance logs without being on the lab’s private intranet,” Thompson explained. “I’m not even a hundred percent certain that the logs exist, but I do know that if they do, we can’t get at them from here.”
Karl sighed a long breath of frustration and smeared his palms on his scalp. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to investigate the traitor on his own, but he’d never anticipated how hard it would be.
“So that’s it?” he said. “There’s nothing we can do?”
“I didn’t say that,” Thompson replied. “But there could be a lot of risk involved.”
Karl was eager for an explanation and prodded his friend for one.
“Well, the best way to get access to the lab’s network is to be in the lab, of course,” Thompson started.
“But we can’t go there,” Karl said. “The police have it cordoned off. Even if none of them recognize me as the fugitive Karl Terrace, they still won’t let anyone near the place. Especially a civilian.”
“Exactly,” Thompson continued. “But what if you weren’t a civilian?”
Karl furrowed his brow, but kept his tongue still. His old friend was able to read the silent question.
“I may not be able to access the lab’s database,” Thompson said, “but I can totally dig into the police database. How much easier would it be to get onto the scene if you were a cop?”
“Much easier.” Karl was starting to see what his comrade was getting at.
“We
