Death Match

  “Flavor,” Silver said disdainfully. “You’re a serial murderer.”

  “Tara?” Lash persisted.

  Tara took a deep breath, turned to Silver. “You asked me something earlier. You asked, ‘Can you really imagine me killing those women?’ ”

  For a moment, Silver looked puzzled. “Yes, I asked you that. Why?”

  “Why did you single out the women? What about the men?”

  “I—” Silver abruptly went silent.

  “You hadn’t heard Christopher’s theory that the women alone were overdosed, given a medication that would guarantee suicidal-homicidal behavior. So why did you single out the women?”

  “It was just a figure of speech.”

  Tara did not reply.

  “Ms. Stapleton,” Silver said in a harder tone. “In a few minutes, Lash will be subdued and restrained by my men. He will no longer pose a threat. Don’t make this any more complicated on anyone else—including yourself—than it need be.”

  Still, Tara was silent.

  “Silver’s right,” Lash said. He could hear the bitterness in his own voice. “He doesn’t have to admit anything. He can just keep his mouth shut. Nobody’s going to believe me now. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  Tara made no indication she had heard. Her eyes remained veiled, far away.

  And then, quite suddenly, they widened.

  “No,” she said, turning to him. “There’s one more thing.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  T he room went still. For a moment, all Lash heard was the whispered susurrus of cooling fans.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  In response, Tara took him aside. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly over her shoulder. Lash followed her gaze to the contoured chair encased behind Plexiglas at the far end of the room.

  “Liza?” he asked in a very low voice.

  “If you’re right about this, Silver would have accessed the system from here. Maybe there’s some kind of trail you could follow. Even if there isn’t, she would know.”

  “She?”

  “Liza would have a record of Silver’s access. He would have made inquiries into a variety of our subsystems: communications, medical, data gathering. A large number of external entities would have been touched to create the false workup on you. There’d be Lindsay Thorpe’s pharmaceutical records. There’d be all kinds of things. You could ask her directly.”

  “I could ask her?”

  “Why not? She’s a computer, she’s programmed to respond to commands.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I haven’t any idea how to communicate with her.”

  “You’ve seen Silver do it. You told me so, over that drink at Sebastian’s. That’s more than anyone else can say.” She stepped back, looked at him quizzically. You’re the one with everything at stake here, the look said. If you’re telling the truth, wouldn’t you do anything to prove it?

  “What are you two talking about?” Silver asked. He had been guardedly watching the exchange.

  Lash looked at the chair and the leads that snaked away from it. It was the last desperate gamble of a desperate man. But Tara was right. He had nothing to lose.

  He strode across the room, opened the Plexiglas panel, and quickly slid into the sculpted chair.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Silver’s voice was suddenly loud in the cramped room.

  Lash did not answer. He looked around, trying to recall just what he’d seen Silver do before. He pulled down the small screen that hung from a telescoping arm, affixed the lavalier microphone to his torn collar.

  “You can’t do that!” Silver said. He stood up slowly, as if stunned by Lash’s brazenness.

  “Who’s going to stop me? You?” Lash lifted the EEG leads, began fastening them to his temples. He thought back to what Silver had said about Liza: her highly developed intelligence models, her three-dimensional neural network. That he could hope to interact with her, let alone find the information he needed, seemed the height of folly. Yet he could not let Silver see his doubt.

  Leads attached, he reached down to the console and snapped the EEG into life. The screen before him cleared; several columns of numbers scrolled rapidly up and out of sight. He glanced at the small keypad and stylus set into one of the arms. He remembered Silver had used the keypad prior to communicating directly with Liza. “Getting her attention,” he’d said. Somehow or other, he’d have to get her attention, too. He reached for the keypad.

  “Get out of that chair,” Silver warned. He was pacing now, as if in a quandary over what to do.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t break her.”

  “You haven’t a clue what you’re doing. This won’t get you anywhere. It’s a waste of time.”

  Beneath the indignation, Lash sensed nervousness in Silver’s tone. He noted the man’s pacing with interest. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “Nobody else has ever spoken directly with Liza.”

  “Don’t you remember what you told me last time I was here? You said others could communicate with her, too, given proper concentration and training.”

  “The operative words there are proper concentration and training, Lash.”

  “I’m a quick study.”

  This was said with a confidence Lash did not feel. He looked from the keypad to the screen, then back again. Get her attention.

  What do computers respond to? Commands. Statements in programs.

  He placed his hand on the keypad, typed:

  the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog

  There was no response. The screen remained blank.

  “Dr. Lash,” Silver said. “Get out of the chair.”

  I’ll try a question instead. Lash typed:

  why is a raven like a writing desk?

  Again, no response. Lash gritted his teeth. Silver’s right. This is just a waste of time. Any minute Mauchly would break into the penthouse. And that would be that.

  He glanced past the Plexiglas wall. Silver had stopped pacing and was stepping toward him now, an angry look on his face.

  Suddenly, a storm of data ran up the small monitor. And then he heard a voice. It was the voice he remembered: low, feminine, coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” it said.

  “Yes,” Lash spoke into the microphone.

  “I do not understand the nature of your interrogatory.”

  “It’s a riddle.”

  “My parsing of ‘itza’ is unsuccessful.”

  “It is a riddle,” Lash said, reminding himself to speak slowly and clearly. “A quote from a famous book.”

  Silver had stopped, and was listening intently.

  “You are not Richard,” the feminine voice said. This was spoken with an utter lack of inflection, leaving Lash unsure whether it was a statement or a question.

  “No,” he replied.

  “Your image and voice soundprint are known. You are Christopher Lash.”

  “Yes.”

  The computer said nothing further. Lash felt his pulse begin to race, and he fought to master himself. What could he say? He remembered a question Silver had asked, decided to try repeating it.

  “Liza,” he said into the microphone. “What is your current state?”

  “Ninety-nine point two two four percent operational. Current processes are at twenty-two point six percent of multithreaded capacity. Banked machine cycle surplus at one hundred percent. Thank you for asking.”

  “Stop it,” Silver said in a fierce whisper.

  “I have visual acquisition of Richard,” Liza said. “I have aural acquisition of Richard. Yet it is not Richard speaking with me. Curious.”

  Curious. Silver had told him he’d made curiosity one of Liza’s fundamental characteristics. Just maybe he could put that curiosity to good use.

  “I, Christopher Lash, am speaking with you,” he said.

  “Christopher,” the voice repeated, with the merest r
ipple of digital artifacting.

  Once again, Lash was struck by the way Liza said his name, almost as if tasting it. After years of speaking only to Silver, speaking to another human being would be revelation indeed.

  “Why do you, and not Richard, speak with me?” Liza asked.

  Lash hesitated. He had to phrase his responses in such a way as to keep Liza interested; it seemed increasingly likely this was the only way to make sure communication would continue. “Because the situation at Eden has become nonstandard.”

  “Explain.”

  “The best way to explain is by asking you a series of questions. Is that permissible?”

  “Permissibility is unknown. This is foreign to my experience. I have run no scenarios that address it. I am currently evaluating.”

  “How long will the evaluation take?”

  “Five million, two hundred forty-five thousand machine cycles, plus or minus ten percent, assuming successful implementation of a ‘best-fit’ selection tree.”

  This told Lash nothing. “May I ask the questions while the evaluation is ongoing?”

  “My parsing of ‘ongoing’ is unsuccessful. Preposition and verb are out of context.”

  “May I ask the questions during your evaluation process?”

  “Christopher.”

  This was not the answer Lash expected. He chose to take it as a green light.

  “Liza, has Richard used this interface to access records relating to me in the last forty-eight hours?”

  Abruptly, Silver lunged at the Plexiglas. Lash straight-armed the door, refusing to give him access.

  “Liza,” he repeated, pressing the door closed. “Has Richard Silver used this interface to access records relating to me?”

  There was no response.

  Is she considering the question? Lash asked himself. Or is she refusing to answer?

  “Liza?” he said again. “Did you understand my question?”

  Suddenly he remembered something: the weariness with which Silver had removed the EEG sensors when he rose from this seat. Sessions with Liza can be a little draining, he’d said. It requires a great deal of concentration. Think of biofeedback. The frequency and amplitude of beta and theta waves can speak a lot more distinctly than words.

  Perhaps, in this unique situation, curiosity alone was not sufficient for Liza. It was her first time communicating directly with anyone other than Silver. Clarity and simplicity of message would be of critical importance.

  It requires a great deal of concentration. Think of biofeedback.

  Lash did not know what methods Silver used to achieve his concentration. All he could fall back on were the relaxation techniques he himself taught patients for dealing with their anxiety. The self-hypnosis, the state of heightened attention, just might be enough. If he could slow himself down, calm himself down, free his mind of the extra baggage . . .

  He began just as he would if he’d been in his office, speaking one on one with a patient. Envision yourself in a relaxing scene. The most relaxing scene you can imagine. Picture yourself sitting on a beach. It’s a sunny day.

  Once again, Silver threw himself against the door. Lash’s elbow bent slightly under the pressure, then stiffened again. He tried to forget Silver, Mauchly, his own desperate situation, everything.

  He shut his eyes. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Now let it out, slowly. Take another. You should feel limp, relaxed.

  Liza remained silent.

  Slowly, external sound and sensation went away. Lash kept his thoughts focused on the beach, on the creamy sound of the surf.

  Feel your head relax. Feel it roll gently to one side. Now feel the muscles of your neck relax. Feel your chest grow less tight, your breathing come easier.

  “Christopher.” It was the disembodied voice of Liza.

  “Yes.” Feel your arms relax, first the right, then the left. Let them go limp.

  “Please repeat your last statement.”

  Feel your legs relax, first the right, then the left. “Has Richard Silver used this interface to access records relating to me?”

  “Yes, Christopher.”

  “Were those records external or internal?”

  No response.

  Take a slow, deep breath. “Were the records Richard accessed within your dataspace, or were they outside Eden Incorporated?”

  “Both.”

  Focus on the beach. “Did Richard Silver modify or change these records in any way?”

  There was no reply.

  “Liza, did Richard Silver modify any of—”

  “No.”

  No? Was Liza telling him Silver had not modified his records, after all? Or was she refusing to answer? But that was . . .

  Abruptly, his hard-won concentration crumpled. Lash took a deep breath, glanced beyond the Plexiglas partition. Silver had taken several steps back now, and was standing beside Tara. They were looking at him, worried expressions on their faces.

  “Christopher,” Silver was saying. “Please step out for a minute. I need to speak with you.”

  There was no further response from Liza. There was a new look in Silver’s eyes: a haunted look.

  Silver reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number. “Edwin?” he said. “Edwin, it’s Richard.” Then he held the cell phone away from his ear so both Tara and Lash could hear the response.

  “Yes, Dr. Silver,” came Mauchly’s tinny voice.

  “Where are you currently?”

  “We’ve just penetrated the interstructural barrier.”

  “Hold your position. Don’t proceed any farther until you get instructions from me.”

  “Could you repeat that, Dr. Silver?”

  “I said, hold your position. Do not attempt to enter the penthouse.” This time, Silver kept the phone to his ear. “Everything’s fine. Yes, Edwin, just fine. I’ll get back to you soon.”

  But Silver did not look fine as he replaced the phone in his pocket. “Christopher. It’s vital that we talk, and talk now.”

  Lash hesitated just one more moment. Then he swung his legs off the chair, plucked the leads from his forehead, and exited the chamber.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Mauchly looked down at his cell phone a moment, as if doubting it was working properly. Then he returned it to his lips. “Could you repeat that, Dr. Silver?”

  “I said, hold your position. Do not attempt to enter the penthouse.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes, Edwin, just fine. I’ll get back to you soon.” And with a chirrup, the phone went silent.

  Mauchly gave it another long stare.

  Even through the distortion, there’d been no doubt the voice was Silver’s. There was an unusual undercurrent to it Mauchly did not recall hearing before, and he wondered if Lash was threatening him, if he was being held hostage in his own penthouse. Yet the voice hadn’t sounded frightened. If Mauchly detected anything, he detected great weariness.

  “That was Silver?” Sheldrake shouted from below.

  “Yes.”

  “And his orders?”

  “Not to enter the penthouse. Hold our position.”

  “You kidding?”

  “No.”

  There was a brief silence. “Well, if we’re to hold our position, could we hold it somewhere more comfortable? I’m feeling like a circus gymnast here.”

  Mauchly glanced down. It seemed a reasonable request.

  For the last fifteen minutes, they had been waiting at the top of a long metal ladder that climbed the inside wall of Eden’s inner tower, just below the roof. Waiting while a security tech—a sleepy-eyed, tousle-headed youth named Dorfman—tried to outsmart the access mechanism of the barrier to Silver’s penthouse. It had been a long fifteen minutes, made longer by the hard metal rungs of the ladder and the constant noise of the huge power plant arrayed across the cavernous space below them: the generators and transformers
that supplied electricity to the hungry tower. Despite the full resources of the security staff, Dorfman had had a difficult time.

  Perhaps Stapleton could have made a quicker job of it. Had she wanted to . . .

  But Mauchly would not allow himself to ponder the problem of Tara Stapleton any further. Instead, he made a mental note to reevaluate penthouse security at the earliest possible opportunity.

  Clearly, he’d allowed Silver’s passion for privacy to be carried beyond reasonable extremes. The last fifteen minutes had been proof of that. It was an indulgence, a dangerous indulgence. The battering ram had failed—as expected—but high-tech methods had also proven alarmingly slow. What if Silver should fall suddenly ill and be unable to help himself? If the elevator were to malfunction, precious minutes would be lost reaching him. Silver was simply too valuable an asset of the company to be put at risk, and Mauchly himself would tell him so. Silver was a reasonable man; he would understand.

  Now, Mauchly looked up the ladder. It disappeared into a hatch in the roof of the inner tower and ascended into the terminal baffle: the open space between the inner tower and the floor of Silver’s penthouse. Looking up still farther, Mauchly could see Dorfman, standing just within the newly opened security hatchway leading into the penthouse. He was looking quizzically down at Mauchly, one hand gripping a ladder rung, the other holding a logic analyzer. Continuity testers, electronic sensors, and other gear hung on cords from his belt.

  “Proceed,” Mauchly called up.

  Dorfman raised a hand to one ear.

  “Proceed! Wait just inside for us.”

  Dorfman nodded, then turned to grasp the narrow ladder with both hands. Another moment and he had climbed out of sight, disappearing into the blackness of the penthouse.

  Mauchly glanced down at Sheldrake, motioned for him and his men to follow. It had been a hard-fought battle, gaining access to the penthouse: if they were going to wait, they might as well wait inside.

  He began climbing the rest of the way up the ladder. Four steps took him to the porthole in the tower’s roof; another four steps brought him up into the baffle. He had never been in this space before, and despite himself he stopped to look around.