Peter Hamilton - Manhattan in Reverse

The Lockett family representative who was accompanying her gave me a tired grimace. Apparently Christine Jayne Lockett had refused point blank to use an airpod, insisting she travelled by groundcar. It had taken them eight hours to drive to the institute from northern England.

‘Oh yes you have.’

My voice was so cold she recoiled.

‘You and Carter Osborne Kenyon are the only people left on my suspect list,’ I said. ‘And now I’m finally going to discover the truth.’

‘But Carter was with me for the whole evening.’

I directed a mirthless smile at her. ‘Yes.’

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. Her mouth widened in astonishment. ‘Holy Mary, you think we did it together, don’t you? You think we killed that poor, poor boy.’

‘The rest of the alibis all check out. You two provided each other’s alibi. It’s the only weak link left.’

‘You utter shit!’ She sat down heavily in my visitor’s chair, staring at me with malice and disbelief. ‘So you wait all this time until you’re some super-duper big shot, and exploit your position to pressure my family into handing me over to you, all so you can erase a blemish on your record.’ Her gaze switched to her family representative. ‘Gutless coward!’ she snarled at him. ‘The Locketts aren’t this feeble that we have to kiss Raleigh arse when they tell us. You’re supposed to protect me from this kind of victimisation. I’ve got strong links to the elder council, you know. Give me a bloody telephone, I’m going to hang you bastards out to dry.’

‘Your family council agreed to my interviewing you,’ I said.

‘Then I’m taking this to the Roman Congress itself. I have rights! You can’t throw me in prison because you’ve failed to pin this on anyone else. Why didn’t you bring Carter here, eh? I’ll bet the Kenyons wouldn’t stand for being shoved around by the likes of you.’

‘Firstly, Carter is on the Aquaries , they’re out exploring stars twenty light-years away, and won’t be back for another year. Secondly, you’re not under arrest, you’re here to be interviewed. Thirdly, if what I suspect is true, Carter will be arrested the moment he docks at New Vespasian.’

‘Interview me? Mary, how dumb is this? I did not murder Justin. Which part of that don’t you understand? Because that’s all I’m saying.’

‘It’s not that simple any more, not these days.’

My FAI floated over to her, and expanded to display a sheet of text. She waved dismissively at it. ‘I don’t use them. What does it say?’

‘It’s a ruling from the Neuromedical Protocol Commission, clearing a new design of biononic for human application. This particular module takes direct sensory integration a stage further, by stimulating selected synapses to invoke a deep access response.’

‘We all stopped speaking Latin at the end of the First Era.’

‘All right, Christine, it’s really very simple. We can read your memories. I’m going to send you down to our laboratory, wire you up to a great big machine, and watch exactly what happened that night on a high-resolution, home-theatre-sized colour screen. And there’s not a thing you can do to stop me. Any further questions?’

‘Bloody hell! Why, Edward? What do you believe was our motive?’

‘I have no idea, although this procedure will enable me to trace it through associative location. All I’ve got left to go on now is opportunity. You and Carter had that.’

Her stubborn scowl vanished. She sat there completely blank-faced for a couple of seconds, then gave me a level smile. ‘If you believe it, then go right ahead.’

On a conscious level I kept telling myself she was bluffing, that it was one last brave gesture of defiance. Unfortunately, my subconscious was not so certain.

The family’s forensic department had come up in the world over the last century. No longer skulking in the basement of Hewish Manor, it now occupied half of the third floor. Laboratories were crypts of white-gloss surfaces, populated by AI pillars with transparent sensor domes on top. Technicians and robots moved around between the units, examining and discussing the results. The clinic room which we had been allocated had a single bed in the middle, with four black boxy cabinets around it.

Rebecca greeted us politely and ushered Christine to the bed. Strictly speaking, Rebecca was a clinical neurologist these days rather than a forensic doctor, but given how new the application was she’d agreed to run the procedure for me.

As with all biononic systems, there’s never anything to actually see. Rebecca adjusted a dispenser mechanism against the nape of Christine’s neck, and introduced the swarm of modules. The governing AI guided their trajectory through the brain tissue, controlling and regulating the intricate web they wove within her synaptic clefts. It took over an hour to interpret and format the information they were receiving, and map out the activation pathways within her cerebrum.

I watched the primary stages with a growing sense of trepidation. Justin’s murder was one of the oldest active legal files the Raleighs had. The weight of so many years was pressing down on this moment, seeking resolution. If we couldn’t solve this now, with all our fantastic technological abilities at my disposal, then I had failed him, one of our own.

Rebecca eventually ordered me to sit down. She didn’t actually say ‘be patient’ but her look was enough.

An FAI expanded in the air across one end of the clinic room, forming into a translucent sheet flecked with a moiré storm of interference. Colour specks flowed together. It showed a hazy image of an antiquated restaurant viewed at eye level. On the couch Christine moaned softly, her eyes closed, as the memory replayed itself inside her skull, a window into history.

‘We’re there,’ Rebecca said. She issued a stream of instructions to the AI.

That March night in eighteen thirty-two played out in front of me, flickering and jerking like a home movie recorded on an antique strip of film. Christine sat at a table with her friends in the middle of the Orange Grove. Young, beautiful, and full of zest, their smiles and laughter making me ache for my own youth. They told each other stories and jokes, complained about tutors, gossiped about students and university staff, argued family politics. After the waiter brought their main course they went into a giggling huddle to decide if they should complain about the vegetables. More wine was ordered. They became louder.

It was snowing when they collected their coats and left. Tiny flecks of ice adding to the mush of the pavement. They stood as a group outside the restaurant, saying their goodbyes, Christine kissing everybody. Then with Carter’s arm around her shoulder, the pair of them made their way through Oxford’s freezing streets to the block where she had her artist’s garret.

There was the baby-sitter to pay and show out. Then the two of them were alone. They stumbled into her studio, and kissed for a long time, surrounded by Christine’s outré paintings. There wasn’t much to see of that time, just smears of Carter’s face in badly blurred close-up. Then she went over to an old chest of drawers, and pulled a stash of cocaine out from an old jewellery box. Carter was already undressing when she turned back to him.

They snorted the drugs, and fondled and groped at each other in an ineffectual manner for what seemed an age. The phone’s whistling put an end to it. Christine staggered over to answer it, then handed it to Carter. She watched with a bleary focus as his face showed first annoyance then puzzlement and finally shock. He slammed the handset down and scooped up his clothes. A clock on the studio wall said twenty-six minutes to twelve.