The Resurrected Man Read online

  Published 2005 by PYR™, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  The Resurrected Man. Copyright © 1998 by Sean Williams. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover illustration © John Picacio

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  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed version as follows:

  Williams, Sean, 1967–

  The resurrected man / Sean Williams.

  p. cm.

  Originally published: Sydney, Australia : HarperCollins, 1998.

  ISBN 1–59102–311–4 (alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–59102–311–1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978–1–59102–797–3 (ebook)

  1. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 2. Human cloning—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR9619.3.W5667R475 2005

  823'.914—dc22

  2004030013

  Printed in Canada on acid-free paper

  My heartfelt thanks go to those people who directly, indirectly, or even inadvertently helped with this novel. These include the staff at HarperCollins, Stuart Barr, Louise Bassett, Sean Braidwood, Jeremy G. Byrne, Adele Chynoweth, Bill Congreve, Fiona Daniels, Jack Dann, Bill Gee, Laura Harris, Edwina Harvey, Nick Linke (happy now?), Martin J. Livings, Peter McNamara, Jo Miller, Ryan Meyer, Jessica Sopp-Williams, Lucy Sussex, Shaun Tan, Louise Thurtell, George Turner, Janeen Webb (for the title), Christyna & Heather Williams, and (well, okay) Rachel Yeaman.

  In particular, I would like to thank Simon Brown, Shane Dix, Russell B. Farr (for the other title), K. J. McKenzie, and Jonathan Strahan for support beyond all reasonable expectations.

  The background of this novel is loosely based on that of the short stories “A View Before Dying,” “On the Road to Tarsus,” and “New Flames for an Old Love,” previously published by Eidolon Publications and MirrorDanse Books.

  “Some people may think it is just common sense (or just good scientific thinking) to supposeyou are nothing but a particular living, physical organism—a moving mound of atoms—but in fact this idea exhibits a lack of scientific imagination, not hard-headed sophistication. One doesn't have to believe in ghosts to believe in selves that have an identity that transcends any particular living body….

  “Is that infernal machine {TeleClone Mark IV} a teleporter— a mode of transportation—or, as the brand name suggests, a sort of murdering twinmaker?”

  Douglas R. Hofstadter & Daniel C. Dennet,

  THE MIND's I: Fantasies & Reflections on Self & Soul,

  Basic Books Inc. (USA), 1981;

  “Introduction” by Daniel C. Dennet only.

  “Confronted with a broken vase, we have two choices: we can either throw it away or fix it. If we try to fix it, we know even before starting that there is no way to restore the vase to its former condition, regardless how skilful our repairs might be. The mended cracks will only be concealed, not erased. The latter, according to the laws of thermodynamics, is impossible.

  “Why should it be different with d-mat? No nation or body of nations can give KTI a mandate sufficient to change the laws of physics. How, therefore, can we believe that the human mind, once broken, can ever be unbroken?”

  K. R. Mancheff & A. L. Carlaw, Soul Pollution,

  Row R Press (Quebec), 2042.

  Magnus: I put it to you! Are you the real Inspector Hound?

  Moon: You know damn well I'm not! What's it all about? I didn't kill anyone!

  Magnus: I thought as much.

  Tom Stoppard, The Real Inspector Hound, 1968

  She was perfect, the best yet.

  Her hair was golden-blonde with white streaks; probably not natural, although her eyebrows matched. Her skin was fair with no piercings or visible tattoos; her weight was in proportion to her height, which was slightly over average; her irises were green and, in accordance with the latest fashion, ringed with gold. When she bent to pick up a smart card she'd dropped, he saw freckles dusting the gentle valley between her breasts.

  He had been watching her for two hours from the safety of his VR feed, patched into the Global Information & Traffic Correlation Hardware network via the backdoor he had installed for his own private use. Having spotted her by chance while browsing through a European branch of the GLITCH network, he had kept careful track of her since by jumping from camera to camera whenever she threatened to move out of range. His persistence had proven worthwhile: the more he studied her, the more certain he was of her suitability.

  She had obviously come to Wien to shop for the day, probably from one of the more affluent nations like New Soviet Russia, Modernized China or the United Republics of Australasia, whose economies had had less ground to make up after the Slow War. She had already purchased several items of jewellery and two new outfits, all tailored on the spot rather than form-fit by nanos, even though nanos were cheaper. She had arranged for one of the garments to be delivered to her home the next day. A bodysuit swung in a recycled plastic bag alongside her legs. Maybe she planned to wear it later that night.

  He imagined her undressing and slipping into the outfit, the smooth silk of the bodysuit gliding over naked skin, caressing taut stomach and thighs, tightening over firm but pleasantly rounded buttocks and breasts, followed by the active wrap, a rapidly changing rainbow of fluorescent blues, violets and greens that draped from one shoulder to the opposite knee. She had chosen well, he admitted to himself. The wrap would distract the eye from, but not truly conceal, the body beneath. A connoiseur would know what lay in store after a patient, or perhaps merely persistent, seduction.

  He knew such a garment would be easy to remove, gripped in a clenched fist and ripped aside with a single, sudden pull.

  Instead of pursuing the fantasy, however, he reassessed her current attire. Jeans would never go out of fashion, it seemed, despite being so damned inflexible. Her feet would be sweating in the canvas sneakers. The warm weather allowed a halter top, tie-dyed in purple and yellow—no bra. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but loosely; a few strands hung free of the elastic, reflecting the natural highlights of the sun.

  He smiled. She was fashionably shallow, then, caught in the current trend (known by fools who cared as “Century Retro”) that harked back to the late 1960s. He didn't disapprove of such affectations, even though he was wary of the glamour they occasionally cast. Another time, he had been surprised by a woman who had seemed just as shallow as the one he was watching now. She had been volatile, and had retaliated unexpectedly. He had been left feeling unsatisfied and guilty—emotions he did not normally associate with his work while at work.

  It had only happened the once. He had been even more careful since then to avoid such frustration.

  The girl sidestepped a cloud of blurs that danced by an entrance to a covered mall, seemingly unperturbed by their asexual abandon. Once again, he admired the way her hair caught the light and congratulated himself on his skill at finding her. No program, no matter how sophisticated, could have captured that hue. The pattern matchers he sometimes employed could only compare features against his list of requirements, record the number of correlations and present him with a
list of likely women. Where was the soul in that? Where was the art?

  It was more personal this way, more like hunting, and therefore more rewarding at the end of the day…. When he found what he was looking for, that is, regardless of whether he acted upon the opportunity or not. Which he had not finally decided in this particular case. Yet.

  But he would soon. He wanted only one more sign—proof that this was the woman he wanted.

  He didn't have to wait long. Konigsplatz, as well as being a fashionable shopping district, was home to a disproportionate number of proselytes and would-be philosophers—including irreligious yists, radically progressive RAFTers, and LongLife wannabes—but most prominent among the arm-wavers and ranters competing for a slice of the passing market was, as always, WHOLE.

  It went perfectly. She tried to avoid them as most people did—most people, that is, who opted for Full-Disclosure over high taxes ostensibly because they had nothing to hide but in fact because they were greedy like everyone else. But she was too striking to escape WHOLE's clutches so easily. One of its enviro-spiritual activists pursued her, thrust a pamphlet into her hand, then backed quickly away to avoid claims of harassment.

  She glanced down at the pamphlet, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and threw it into the nearest bin.

  He caught a glimpse of the pamphlet before the recycling unit at the bottom of the bin sucked it away. The message it proclaimed was brief, simple and, for a change, accurate. It and her reaction to it helped him decide, at that moment, to make her his next.

  “The D In D-mat,” said the pamphlet she had dismissed so readily, “Is For Death.”

  Yes, he thought. Yes.

  She really was the perfect victim.

  A dull but persistent murmur woke Jonah McEwen from the deepest sleep he would ever experience.

  The first conscious thought he had was of how uncomfortable he felt. His body ached along its entire length, from a dull throb in his head to cramps in his feet. When he tried to move, his limbs encountered resistance, as though he was swimming in honey. The same happened when he went to raise his head.

  That was when he realised he wasn't breathing.

  He lurched forward, arms and legs flailing to find purchase. His hands struck the inside of what might have been a tank, but his fingers slid uselessly aside when he tried to get a grip on it. He had no strength, no sense of balance. He felt like a baby in a bathtub—

  Something clicked in his head at that image. He rolled over and found the bottom of what did indeed feel like a bath; the surface was smooth, slippery and ribbed. He kicked downward, arched his back and—fighting the pain and the weakness that pulled him back down—pushed up as hard as he could.

  With a sucking noise, his head broke the surface. Noise and cold struck him immediately. The muffled sound that had woken him became the shouting of people nearby; the air stung his face like a slap. He opened his mouth to breathe and found that it was full of fluid, as were his throat and lungs. Choking, he fell forward and struck his head on the edge of the bath.

  He blacked out for a moment, just long enough to slip back under. When his head cleared, he tried to reach the surface again. But the sensation of weakness had doubled; all the strength had been leeched out of his muscles. Within seconds he was so exhausted he could hardly move his legs at all.

  This time, however, there were others to help him. Hands slid under his armpits and hauled him to a sitting position. Again his head broke the surface. He shook it, coughed, and expectorated what felt like litres of fluid from his lungs.

  When the spasm had passed, he brought his legs up and rested his arms on his knees, keeping his head above the surface of the fluid. A careful pair of hands stayed under his armpits, keeping him upright. Every muscle in his body was quivering with fatigue, as though he had been running a marathon. His eyes were gummed shut, and he didn't have the strength to clear them.

  Breathing in shallow, painful gasps, he concentrated on the voices as they slowly began to make sense:

  “What the hell is that stuff?”

  “Looks like some sort of protein gel, sir.”

  “I want a chemist in here to check it out, make sure it's safe before anyone else sticks their hand in. And get a medic, while you're at it. I don't want him dying on us.”

  I'm not dying, Jonah wanted to say. But his mouth wouldn't work properly and he wasn't sure if he knew what he was talking about. Maybe I am dying.

  “How's that ID coming along?” the first voice went on.

  “He could be either Lindsay Carlaw or Jonah McEwen, according to the isobloc records.”

  “The Jonah McEwen?”

  “Seems that way, but—”

  “Christ. This is getting weirder by the second.”

  “But the housekeeper isn't talking to us yet, sir, so we'll have to wait for Marylin to confirm it.”

  “How long?”

  “She's with the John Doe in the booth. Maybe five minutes until she's finished.”

  “Well, tell her to get over here now. The other one isn't going anywhere in a hurry.”

  “No need,” said a third voice, a woman. “I'm here. What's the problem?”

  “Take a look at this. Ring a bell?”

  Pause. “Shit.” From the tone of her voice it was clear she didn't swear often.

  “Exactly. We found him a few minutes ago, trying to sit up.”

  “Is he…?”

  “Just give me a name, Marylin. I don't want to lead you.”

  “Jonah McEwen.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Positive. See the scar on his chest? I'd recognise it anywhere.” The woman's voice hitched slightly. “And this is his unit. He inherited it from his father.”

  “Lindsay Carlaw?”

  “That was his name, yes.”

  Jonah shivered uncontrollably. One hand brushed his chest and he did indeed feel a rough patch of scar tissue where his right nipple should have been. He couldn't remember how it had got there, and how the woman who had pointed it out could have known him so intimately. Her voice cut him deeply, although he wasn't sure why.

  “Thanks, Officer Blaylock,” said the first voice in a slightly softer tone. “Log the ID with Gillian and find out where that medic's got to.”

  “But—”

  “Just do it. McEwen doesn't look too good. I've never lost a suspect before, and I don't want to start now.”

  Suspect?

  Again something seemed to fall into place, deep inside his mind, with an almost audible click.

  “W-wait.” Jonah raised his head. “Wait. Don't—”

  The hands tightened under his armpits, restraining him.

  “What the hell?”

  “Sounds like he's trying to talk,” said the woman.

  “Anybody catch it?”

  “I—” Something loomed over him, visible only as a shadow through his eyelids. “No, wait—”

  Metal clattered in the background.

  “Will you keep it down out there?”

  “Be careful, Marylin—”

  “Let me handle this, Odi,” the shadow said. “Jonah? Jonah, can you hear me?”

  He rolled his head back on a neck made of rubber, and felt his spine give way beneath him. A hand cupped his chin while the pair under his armpits tightened their grip, stopped him from sliding. For a moment, he thought he was going to faint.

  “Jon?”

  “I—” With an effort, he forced one eye open. The light that struck it was painfully bright. He blinked, felt tears stream down his cheek.

  “Can you see me, Jon?”

  “Can't—” His throat burned as if it was full of ground glass. “Can't remember.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  He squinted up at the person bending over him. All he saw was a blur.

  “Closer,” he managed.

  She leaned forward until her face was barely a hand's length from his. As she did so, her features sprang into sharp focus: full lips, a generous n
ose and light green eyes that stared back at him with startling intensity. Her face revolved around that stare as though it was the vanguard—and dissecting tool—of the mind behind it.

  One thing was wrong, though. He was sure about that, somehow—

  Click

  “You recognise me, don't you, Jon?”

  “Yes.” His other eye came unstuck with a slight pop. He blinked twice, and it cleared. “You're Mary.”

  She half-smiled. “Yes, I am.”

  “You've changed—something.”

  The smile disappeared. “Can you tell me what you're doing in here?”

  “In where?” He looked around him. Apart from her face, the room was blurry. The colours were familiar, though, and she had mentioned the unit had once belonged to his father. It was his unit, now. What had happened to his father?

  There were three more people in the room: one behind him, supporting him, the other two squatting near the woman he knew as Mary. They were out of focus, too.

  He swallowed. “This is my bathroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “I must be in the spa.”

  “Yes, Jon.”

  “What happened? Did I fall asleep?” His hands slapped at the gel encasing his body; it was a translucent purple and gave off a bitter, chemical smell. “What is this stuff?”

  “We're hoping you can tell us that,” said one of the others in the room, the one with the gruff voice.

  “I don't know,” he said. Frustration made him feel dizzy. “I can't remember.”

  “You're going to have to do better than that, McEwen.”

  “Don't, Odi. He's obviously disoriented. At least give him a chance to recover before you interrogate him.”

  As he listened to the woman defend him, memory stirred in his hindbrain.

  Good cop, bad cop: he had known the routine well, once. It felt like a long time ago.

  Click

  “Mary,” he asked, clutching at the detail like a man reaching for a life-raft, “when did you change your hair?”

  She turned back to him. “Six months ago.”

  “That doesn't make sense.”