“Four o’clock.” The limo pulled up beside Diaz and a smartly dressed sergeant jumped out to open the rear door. “Exactly”—Diaz consulted his watch—“two hours twenty minutes from now.”
“That’ll be fine,” Sommer nodded, ducking his head and climbing into the limo.
“Your communications said you wouldn’t require more than the one suite,” Diaz continued, ushering Everly in beside Sommer and pointing Alverez to the seat facing them, “but we have nevertheless reserved three more suites for you, in the event that you changed your mind.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sommer told him. “We brought only a handful of other people with us, and they’ll be staying aboard the plane. It’s quite comfortable,” he added as Diaz seemed about to protest. “A sort of scaled-down version of Air Force One.”
Diaz shrugged and got in beside Alverez. “As you wish, Doctor. The offer will remain open, though, for the duration of your stay.” He leaned forward. “To the hotel.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver nodded.
“I have to confess,” Sommer commented as they started across the tarmac toward a distant security fence, “that I was a little surprised to learn that the Soulminder facility here was under the Interior Ministry’s jurisdiction. In most countries we work directly with the Health Ministry.”
“Ah, but in most countries the Soulminder is reserved for the rich and powerful,” Diaz countered. “In Chile, it’s open to all, so who better to operate it but Interior?”
It was a vague logic, one that several weeks of thought on Sommer’s part had failed to really penetrate. “I see,” he said. “I wonder, General, if you’d tell me just what exactly your vision is for Soulminder in this country.”
Diaz frowned. “You were sent our full proposal.”
“Proposals are written by bureaucrats. I want to hear it in your own words.”
The general’s face cleared. “Ah. I see.” Turning his head, he gazed out the window, and for a moment he was silent. “As I mentioned before, Dr. Sommer,” he said at last, his voice low, “in most countries—including the United States—your Soulminder safety net is available solely to those who can afford to pay the price. The very rich, the very powerful, and their friends.”
“And the middle class,” Everly murmured.
“Many countries have no middle class,” Diaz said, showing a brief spark of annoyance at Everly’s interruption. “And even in those that do, there are still many others who are too poor to afford the Soulminder’s protection.”
Sommer nodded, an echo of old frustration sending wisps of acid pain through his stomach. It was a problem that had haunted the edges of his thoughts for nine long years, ever since the very beginning of Soulminder’s commercial existence. If the Chileans had finally solved that problem …
“Regardless,” Diaz continued, “in Chile we saw that happen—saw the inequity, saw the unfairness—and resolved that it would not happen here. And so, when you granted us our first Soulminder facility, we set out to find a way all could share in it.”
He turned back to Sommer, a new fire in his gaze. “That, Dr. Sommer, is our vision,” he said quietly, earnestly. “A nation with every single man, woman, and child protected against unnecessary and premature death. A nation whose people are allowed to live out their full lives … and, perhaps, even beyond.”
An unpleasant shiver ran up Sommer’s back. To live even beyond. “Soulminder is a medical tool,” he reminded Diaz firmly. “If it allows people to live out their natural lives, that’s all we can expect from it.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Diaz said easily. “I was referring merely to the vast research you and others are putting into medical advances. Advances we can hope will push back by a few years the death which is, of course, inevitable.”
“Of course,” Sommer echoed. But the words were polite and meaningless, and both men knew it. Like Jessica Sands, Diaz was looking to Soulminder’s future … and what he saw there was the dream of immortality.
A dream that already possessed Sands. Sommer could only hope it didn’t do the same to Diaz. The future, he knew from bitter experience, could all too easily swallow up the present.
The hotel suite wasn’t the most luxurious that Sommer had ever been in, but it was easily in the top ten. Extending over the hotel’s top two floors, the levels connected by a wide spiral staircase, the place looked like it had been designed to sleep an entire presidential entourage. The three of them, Sommer thought more than once, were going to feel just a little bit lost.
Their luggage arrived from the plane while they were still looking around the suite, a promptness that pointed to an extremely perfunctory customs inspection. Leaving Everly and Alverez to unpack, Sommer took a quick nap, setting his alarm to leave him enough time to shower and shave before the news conference. His timing was right on the money, and he’d just finished choosing his tie when the front desk called to say that General Diaz had arrived.
The news conference itself was a virtual replay of hundreds of similar ones Sommer had endured over the past nine years. Though there were a handful of questions about the technical aspects of traps and Mullner traces and a few about his own personal involvement with it all, the bulk of the questioning centered on the social implications of Soulminder for the people of Chile. Most of the questions he’d heard many times before, in a variety of different contexts, and he could probably have answered them in his sleep. Others were new, and actually required a certain amount of thought before he could respond.
And there were others—the more pointed political questions in particular—which were conspicuous mainly by their absence.
The news conference lasted until nearly five o’clock, after which it was back to the hotel for a quick change into black tie and a drive to the presidential palace for the formal welcoming dinner. What with the meal itself, the required round of glowing speeches, and the post-dinner mingling and conversations, it was after midnight before they finally made it back to the hotel.
“Well, that was fun,” Alverez commented, heading over to the suite’s wet bar as Sommer shrugged off his jacket and shoes and flopped down onto an ornate but nevertheless comfortable couch. “You always get wined and dined this well, Dr. Sommer?”
“Not always,” Sommer said, working at freeing his windpipe from the strictures of his tie. “It usually depends on how badly the hosts in question want something from me.”
“In which case the generals must want that second unit pretty badly,” Everly commented, pulling a portable bug-detector from his suitcase and beginning a leisurely stroll around the room. “You’ll notice that among all the glitter and glitz they keep finding ways to remind you of how democratic and egalitarian they’re being these days.”
“You’re a born cynic, Everly,” Alverez called, carefully measuring out a small nightcap.
“Cynics aren’t born, they’re trained,” Everly countered.
Sommer eyed his security chief thoughtfully. “Back at the airport, Frank, General Diaz seemed to recognize your name. Does he know you?”
Everly shrugged. “Probably only by reputation. I spent a couple of years here in 2001, during the Escobar administration. The government and I had some differences.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Alverez commented, wandering back to the center of the room with his drink. “Weren’t you still with the CIA back then?”
“Actually, the CIA was generally supportive of the regime,” Everly said. “I just had a bad habit of thinking for myself, which didn’t exactly endear me with anyone. Actually—”
He broke off as the cell phone Sommer had set on the end table beside him trilled gently.
“Uh-oh—they heard you,” Alverez said, not sounding entirely facetious.
Sommer glanced at the ID and thumbed it on. “Hello, Jessica.”
“About time,” Jessica Sands’s familiar voice
came. “I’ve been calling every twenty minutes since ten o’clock. You forgot to turn on your cell after dinner again, didn’t you?”
“Guilty as charged,” Sommer said, feeling a sense of relief. He hadn’t really expected it to be the Chilean police. But still … “You can leave messages on this thing, you know.”
“And you know I hate doing that,” Sands said. “How’d the evening go?”
“About as expected,” Sommer told her. “You really ought to join in these things sometime.”
“No, thanks. Anyway, you’re the one they all want to meet.”
Sommer rolled his eyes. But she was right. For most of the world, Dr. Adrian Sommer was still the image and heart of Soulminder. “Lucky me,” he murmured. “I hope you didn’t call just to make sure we were getting to bed on time.”
“Actually, I called to give you some news that may have not filtered down there yet. The Supreme Court verdict on Arizona v. White finally came in this afternoon. The law was upheld, six to three.”
Sommer took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Well. Not exactly unanimous, but I suppose it’s better than a five-four split.”
“It’s a shade better than losing entirely, too,” Sands countered. “Especially given that there are at least sixteen more states with Professional Witness statutes of their own in the pipeline who’ve been waiting to see how Arizona’s stood up.”
“No stopping them now, I suppose.”
He could sense Sands shrug. “The people want this, Adrian. I don’t know if you heard about it, but an NBC poll taken last week showed up to eighty-five percent positive in some parts of the country.”
“At least until the first case of fraud is proven,” Sommer reminded her sourly. “At which point the egg is likely to hit the fan at an extremely high rate of speed.”
“Luckily, that won’t be our responsibility,” Sands said. “It’s the legal establishment who’ll be in charge of screening their Pro-Witnesses for honesty, stability, and sanity.”
Sommer snorted a sudden laugh. “What?” Sands demanded suspiciously. “Come on, Adrian, let’s have it.”
Sommer sighed. “Sanity. A person volunteers to let us kill him and put his soul into storage, so that a bodiless murder victim can be transferred out of Soulminder into his body and testify at the person’s own murder trial. What part of that comes under the heading of sanity?”
“That’s not fair, and you know it,” Sands growled. “Just because it makes you cringe doesn’t mean everyone who joins a Pro-Witness program is a ghoul.”
“I still think there’s trouble ahead,” Sommer said. “But thanks for calling in the update. Sorry we were so late.”
“No problem—I was cleaning up some paperwork, anyway. I’ll go ahead and send copies of both the majority and minority opinions to the plane—you might want something to read on the flight home.”
“The way I feel right now, I’ll probably be sleeping most of the flight home.”
“Hint heard and understood,” Sands said dryly. “Go toddle off to bed. Let me know how it goes tomorrow.”
“I will. Good-night, Jessica.”
Sommer keyed off the phone and looked back up at the others. “Arizona v. White came in?” Everly ventured.
Sommer nodded. “Six to three in the People’s favor.”
Everly grunted. “Not exactly unexpected. Anything unusual in the opinions?”
“You can read them yourself later—she’s going to send them to the plane,” Sommer said. “If you get impatient, they can probably download it to you before we get back.”
“I’ll think about it,” Everly said.
Alverez drained the last of his glass and set it down on the coffee table. “And on that note, I think I’ll turn in.”
“Probably a good idea all around,” Sommer said, pulling himself vertical with an effort. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Alverez said. “Good-night, sir.” With a nod to Everly, he disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
“I remember when I could be that enthusiastic after midnight,” Sommer commented to Everly.
“Quiet pride works as well as enthusiasm,” the other said. “It’s easier to maintain, too.”
“Good point.” Sommer gestured. “You might as well turn in, too. If anyone planted any bugs while we were out, they’re not going to learn anything tonight.”
“Yeah.” Everly paused. “You didn’t seem all that pleased that the Pro-Witness program’s gotten the green light.”
Sommer shrugged. “The whole idea of a person making a career of loaning out his body still bothers me. I’ll get used to it eventually.”
“Not all that different from surrogate mothers, really, if you want to be strictly technical about it.” Everly rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “You know, sir, it occurs to me … I don’t know if the numbers have been made public yet, but during the time that the Arizona program’s been going there’s been a significant drop in violent crime rates. Especially against people wearing Soulminder ID bracelets.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sommer grimaced. “Knowing that even murder won’t cover your tracks probably makes the average armed robber stop to think a little.”
“As well as the average rapist, the average home breaker, and the average kidnapper,” Everly nodded. “The numbers are down in all those categories. But now”—he waved a hand, the gesture encompassing the city around them—“we have the Chilean government proposing to put everyone in Santiago on file with Soulminder in the next five years. If the Arizona pattern holds, we could get something here worth taking a close look at.”
Sommer pursed his lips. No premature deaths, a steady increase in lifespan, and now a drastic reduction in violent crime. Paradise restored to Earth, courtesy of Soulminder and the Chilean government. It sounded too good to be true.
Far too good to be true.
“Agreed,” he said grimly. “Let’s just make sure it’s a very close look.”
There were, by prior arrangement, two cars waiting for them when they came down the next morning. One, with Alverez inside, headed off to the Interior Ministry, where he’d been assured by General Diaz that he would have carte blanche to examine any records relating even remotely to Soulminder’s fiscal operations. Sommer and Everly, riding in the second car, headed the opposite direction, arriving ten minutes later at the modern building housing Soulminder itself.
General Diaz was waiting in the medical section anteroom as they entered. “Ah—Dr. Sommer, Señor Everly,” he greeted them. “I trust you both slept well?”
“Very well indeed, General,” Sommer assured him. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
Diaz shrugged, smiling almost shyly. “And let someone else show off my Soulminder facility to you? Pride is, I’m afraid, one of my many weaknesses. Come—we can start with the tracing rooms.”
Sommer had visited dozens of Soulminder facilities throughout the world, and was always fascinated at the myriad of ways variations could be played on what was, essentially, a common theme. The tracing rooms, where clients underwent the recording of their Mullner soul-traces, were here little more than narrow booths, an efficiency of space that had enabled the Chileans to squeeze eighteen tracing stations into a space that would normally have been occupied by ten. “As I recall, General,” Sommer commented, looking down the rows of doors, “your proposal included the expansion of this facility to first thirty and then fifty Mullner tracers. Where on earth do you intend to put them?”
Diaz gestured toward the window at the end of the hallway. “We would need to expand, of course. Our plan would be to purchase the building across the street and move all the tracing facilities there, leaving the transfer operations and Core in this building.”
Sommer nodded, wondering if the reference to purchasing had been solely for his benef
it. There were certain elements of the regime, he’d heard, who believed that private property was merely state property that the government hadn’t yet found a use for. He made a mental note to have the local Soulminder staff confirm that a fair price was paid when the purchase went through.
Or rather, if it went through. Shaking thoughts of local politics from his mind, he paused outside one of the tracing booths, peering through the window and getting his mind back on the subject at hand.
The tracing procedure had been greatly improved since the first crude Mullner device he and Sands had first started recording soul-traces with, but there were some limits that further research had failed to budge. Even as he watched, the operator finished the final adjustments to the client’s headband and touched the recording switch—
And the client’s eyes closed, his face stiffening in a look of sheer terror.
“Bad dreams,” Diaz murmured at Sommer’s side. “They affect perhaps half of those who undergo the procedure.”
“I know,” Sommer nodded, stomach tightening. His own first-hand experience with the tracer hadn’t been very pleasant, either. He watched as the man’s face smoothed out and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Two minutes later, it was all over. The operator touched another button and began unstrapping the headband. By the time he’d finished, two orderly-types with a wheelchair had arrived, brushing past Sommer with muttered apologies to enter the booth and manhandle the client out of the recording chair and into the wheelchair. “Recovery room?” Sommer asked.
“This way,” Diaz pointed. “If you’d like, we can simply follow this client there.”
“That would—”
“Hold it,” Everly cut him off, the other’s eyes drifting with concentration. “Listen.”
Sommer held his breath … and then he heard it, too: the thin wail of an ambulance.
Getting louder.
He looked at Diaz, but the other had already guessed the question. “Yes,” he nodded, “it sounds like someone on his way here. Come—we’ll find out which transfer room has been prepared to receive him.”