The Woman Who Died a Lot

“Here’s how it goes: ‘Police were today called to the offices of the newly appointed chief librarian, killed by a deranged Goliath representative who blamed her for his wife’s death. The Goliath rep then turned the gun on himself.’ What do you think?”

“I’d certainly agree with the ‘deranged’ bit.”

“Luckily, it’s not important what you think. I would have hoped for a less ignominious end for us both—no, wait, for you. I get to wake up in a hotel suite. Your end will be permanent.”

I pretended to give out a long, dispirited breath. He still hadn’t figured I was a Synthetic. As soon as he shot me, I’d wake up too—but probably somewhere less comfortable, and certainly without room service.

“Well”— I sighed—“this had to happen sooner or later. I’m amazed I survived so long, to be honest. What about Protocol 451?”

“I lied about that, too. It was rescinded a week ago.”

“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 pointing 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