Singularity

  She was his.

  To do with as he pleased.

  He bent closer and studied her face, then closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, smelling her clean, shampooed hair, still sweet and aromatic even after spending the last three hours nestled against her pillow.

  Lavender.

  Exquisite.

  He stood.

  From what he’d heard, things in the Philippines regarding Emilio Benigno had gone pretty much as planned, although Tomás Agcaoili had not been as clean about it all as he’d hoped.

  Well, he would deal with that tomorrow afternoon when Tomás got back to Vegas and handed over the USB drive.

  He walked to the living room and pulled out his cell phone.

  It was still before office hours, but he put the call through to the person who was coordinating the project. All of their communication so far had been through encrypted files or electronically masked phone conversations, so Derek still didn’t even know if it was a woman or a man, let alone the person’s identity.

  Derek was good at what he did, so he was impressed that so far he’d been unable to figure out the name of the person. Not even Mr. Takahashi, the CEO of Plyotech, had any idea who was pulling the strings and working in the background to mastermind the project.

  But Derek wanted to find out.

  After all, as they say, knowledge is power. While that might not always be true, knowledge was at least leverage. And when you have enough leverage, you can tilt even the most difficult situations to your advantage.

  So, he was doing his own private research to find out who this person was, but for the time being he simply needed to find out if everything was still on track for Sunday night.

  The person orchestrating the deal answered after one ring, and as always, Derek was the first to speak. “Emilio is dead.”

  “I saw the news. And the Filipino police?”

  “Don’t worry, they won’t be looking any further into his death.”

  A pause. “Are we all set for Sunday?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing. From my end, yes. I have a young woman here who’s going to take care of everything.”

  “She can be trusted?”

  “She can be trusted.”

  “And the engineer from Groom Lake?”

  “Turnisen.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll get what we need from him.”

  “You’ll take care of that part yourself?”

  “Absolutely.”

  And then a surprise. “I’d like you to meet with my associate in Phoenix tomorrow.”

  “I’ll need to be back by five. I have a meeting scheduled with Tomás.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I’ve already taken the initiative of booking you a ticket. You leave at 9:51 in the morning and will return on the 2:20 flight.”

  “And what will we be covering at the meeting?”

  “The delivery of the merchandise. It’s not something I wish to discuss over the phone.”

  That was certainly understandable. Considering what was at stake.

  “Keep me informed if the schedule changes,” Derek said.

  “I will.”

  After the call, Derek took his morning regimen of forty vitamins and supplements, then brewed some coffee, mixed in the gray powder that he took every day, and worked out for an hour—core, mainly, since research showed that that was the most important muscle group for longevity.

  He was taking all the steps he knew to treat his condition: reprogramming his body’s biochemistry through supplements, diet, and gene therapy, exercising vigorously, eating only natural foods, pursuing the latest advancements in robotics, biogenetic engineering, and nanotechnology.

  Because Derek, the avenging hero Colonel Derek Byrne, knew his time on this earth was limited.

  He was dying.

  Unless he had something to say about it.

  Whether you believe we evolved from lower primates or were shaped uniquely by the hand of God himself, this much was undeniable: from the very beginning, ever since we first emerged on this planet, we, as a species, have been searching for the fountain of youth, for the secrets to living forever.

  All across the globe, in every culture ever studied, Homo sapiens have sought eternal life.

  In China alone there are at least a thousand different names for the elixir of life. Tales of the search for this “pool of nectar” or “dancing water” fill volumes of world history—from Gilgamesh’s search for the answer to eternal life, to the legendary quest of Qin Shi Huangdi, the first emperor of China, to do the same, to the search for that elusive fountain of youth.

  And where we fail to find physical immortality, religions spring up to offer us the next best thing—spiritual immortality, reincarnation, heaven, Nirvana, a paradise with seventy virgins at our beck and call. And on and on and on.

  But now, in the twenty-first century, for the first time ever, our species was on the verge of conquering the grave.

  Technology offered what biology never could: a chance to cheat death once and for all.

  Derek returned to the bedroom, walked past Calista, who was still fast asleep, and entered the bathroom to take a shower.

  He was an agnostic. He didn’t believe in God, but he did believe in the possibility of God.

  Yes, there were times when he even believed in the likelihood of God.

  Because you had to give up an awful lot to be an atheist.

  The idea of justice, for one thing, because some people really do spend their lives sexually abusing little girls in their basements and get away with it, and if there’s no afterlife, they would just die like everyone else and be no better or worse off. In fact, looking at the world as it is, there’s no legitimate reason to believe in justice. Why would you even delude yourself to think that it exists when there’s no evidence of it at all in the natural world and, if there’s no God, no one to institute it in the afterlife?

  And you have to give up on the idea that your life has meaning—or at least any purpose beyond reproducing and hoping that eventually your genes will be good for the betterment of the race or the planet. And if they would not be, you’d have an obligation not to reproduce at all.

  After all, there is no purpose inherent in naturalistic evolution. No goal. No intention. No design.

  Without eternity, without God, hope is simply a sedative. It doesn’t even rate as a helpful illusion because it isn’t really helpful for anything other than numbing you, distracting you from the truth that, since the universe is winding down and dying, nothing you do ultimately matters, and your life, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing, contributes nothing, and will soon be forgotten and your name erased from the evanescent chronicles of time and space.

  But, on the other hand, life would be so much easier, so much more carefree, if God wasn’t there, if there was no higher moral authority to answer to. No ultimate accountability.

  For Derek, that was perhaps the greatest attraction to being an atheist—the inevitable conclusion that morality is utilitarian, determined only by the biological imperatives of reproduction and survival.

  What an enticing worldview.

  Because, as philosophers have pointed out over the ages, if God doesn’t exist then all is permissible.

  Yes, very enticing.

  Derek finished his shower, toweled off, and walked down the hall to his home office, where he kept the bionic arm to practice with when he wasn’t at Plyotech.

  Taking it with him, he returned to the bedroom and set it beside the bed.

  He’d let Calista work last night and she hadn’t gotten back to his condo until nearly four o’clock. But even then, she’d joined him for drinks. While preparing them, he’d slipped a couple pills into her margarita, and based on her body size and the amount of drugs and alcohol she’d consumed, Derek was confident she would be out until ten or eleven.

  Which gave him plenty of time.

  He had no idea how she would respond if
she knew that he so often drugged her and then had his way with her like this in the mornings, but she did not know and he was not planning to ever reveal it to her.

  “I love you, my little courtesan.” His spoke the words softly and tenderly as he pulled the remaining sheet away.

  She lay asleep before him. Drugged. Helpless. In only a nightshirt and panties.

  He gently brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek, glided his hand along her thigh, and then pulled a chair up beside the bed. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her when all of this was over. It just wouldn’t be right using the thread and needle on her, marring such a flawless and magnificent body.

  So beautiful.

  So young.

  So alive.

  And all his.

  He positioned her on her back, placed the robotic arm beside her, and sat in the chair to watch.

  Then, using his thoughts, he uncurled the hand, leaned it out over her, and laid it gently on her shoulder.

  And moved on from there.

  Up in the Air

  The four members of the Philippine National Police, or PNP, don’t roll in until dawn. They do a cursory search of the trails surrounding the village, but there’s no sign of Tomás, and they make it clear that they’re not interested in tromping around the jungle any longer than necessary looking for him.

  When I show them the thumb drive, they stare at me somewhat dumbfounded that I would think it has anything to do with Emilio’s death.

  They just shake their heads when they hear, through our translator, about the escape Emilio was trying to do, calling it a dangerous publicity stunt gone bad. Considering the circumstances, I’m amazed when they label his death accidental.

  From past conversations with Emilio, I know that corruption is rampant in the PNP. Bribes aren’t uncommon at all—in fact, they’re expected—and I can’t help but wonder if these officers might have been paid by Tomás or a cohort of his to turn their backs on Emilio’s death.

  My stage shows over the years have done quite well, and finances aren’t a big concern for me. However, even after making it known that I have substantial resources at my disposal, I still get nowhere with the police, which tells me it isn’t simply financial gain that’s motivating them.

  I can’t think of too many things that are bigger motivators than greed, but I can think of one—fear.

  What do they want?

  What are they afraid of?

  When all of that proves to be a dead end, I finally give up, realizing that our best bet will be talking with the US ambassador in Manila. Emilio might have been born here in the Philippines, but most of his life was spent in the States, and I’m hoping that Ambassador Whitehead will be able to pressure the government to have the authorities look into his death.

  I’m not familiar with the specific religious beliefs of the people in this village, but I’m guessing that, like most of the indigenous people in the region, they practice a mixture of spiritist religions combined with strands of Roman Catholicism.

  Whatever their religion is, it’s clear that everyone here is deeply shaken by Emilio’s death. They demand that we bury him quickly to avoid more calamities or curses. Based on what Emilio told me earlier about where he wanted to be buried if the escape proved fatal, we decide to hold a funeral right there at the graveyard, now, this morning.

  Xavier and I say a few words, then Charlene, who isn’t afraid of expressing her faith, gets up. She reads from 1 Thessalonians 4:13–14: “But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.”

  She speaks for a few moments about hope and how much it matters and how vital it is that we place ours in the right person—she says “person” rather than “place,” which strikes me as a bit of an odd way to phrase things. The villagers and police officers listen quietly to her translator.

  Finally, she recites the 23rd Psalm from memory, and a line about walking through the valley of the shadow of death strikes me. I guess I’d always thought the Bible said the “valley of death,” but it’s just the “shadow of death” instead. And if a shadow is covering the valley, it means there’s a brighter light shining somewhere beyond the horizon.

  That thought at least brings me a little comfort.

  Then we lower Emilio into the grave again and, for the second time, cover his coffin with the damp jungle soil.

  But unlike last night, this time I know there’s no chance that I’ll be seeing him rising from the ground alive.

  To get to Manila we need to drive more than two hours through the jungle to Kabugao, then grab a charter plane. Xavier made prior arrangements, and it’s waiting and ready for us when we get there.

  The consulate is downtown in an older part of Manila. Battling traffic is a nightmare, and it’s nearly six o’clock by the time we finally arrive. If we were in America, they might have already been closed for the weekend, but they’re on Filipino time and Ambassador Whitehead is still in his office. However, he’s packing up his things and obviously on his way out.

  Xavier gets on the phone to work at trying to get us an earlier flight home while Charlene and I speak with the ambassador. I tell him about the USB drive, and although he seems doubtful that it’ll lead to anything, he at last offers, “We could have someone dust it for prints.”

  Even though Xavier and I have already handled the drive, likely obscuring any other prints, I accept the offer. They take samples of our prints and lift Emilio’s from his luggage, which we have with us because we weren’t about to just leave it there in the village.

  “We don’t have the resources to run these here,” the ambassador explains. “And it’s a Friday night, so we’re not going to be able to process them until Monday.”

  “Monday?” I shake my head. “That’s—”

  “We’re not at the FBI Lab,” he says curtly. “We’re not set up for something like this. It’s not what we do. We process visa applications, we’re not a law enforcement agency.”

  He’s being just as helpful as the PNP.

  “You must have the ability to run this through some sort of fingerprint scanner.”

  “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t sound especially sorry, and his attitude perplexes me.

  I decide it’ll be better to get the drive back to the states for Fionna to work on. Maybe the FBI or the Las Vegas PD will be able to run the prints.

  With that settled, he makes me all sorts of promises, hands me a stack of papers to fill out, and then excuses himself for an important dinner appointment with some sort of cultural tourism group that’s evidently trying to work more closely with Americans.

  “Just fax those back to me or scan them in and email them to my office.” He smiles in an artificial, political way that drives home once again how cavalierly he’s taking this. “Honestly, I have to go, and there’s nothing more you can do here. Go home. I’ll do all I can to get to the bottom of your friend’s death.”

  He checks the time, announces that he really must be leaving, and then reaches out to shake my hand, but I make no move either to leave or to take his hand.

  “You’re not going to do anything to find out who killed him, are you?”

  “I just told you that I am.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  A stiff moment closes in around us.

  At last he lowers his arm, and the look on his face is all the answer I need—even though he reassures me again, in well-practiced diplomatic tones, that he will do whatever it takes, I’m doubting that he’ll do anything more than make a few obligatory phone calls.

  Charlene is as exasperated as I am. “What if it were a friend of yours who was murdered?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. I’ll see what I can do working with the police, encouraging them to look into this, but since he’s not an American citizen, I’m not sure what
role I have in all this. I wouldn’t want to make you any promises I can’t keep.”

  “No.” I don’t take my gaze off his face. “You wouldn’t.”

  His expression flattens. For a moment I have the sense that he’s going to reply, but he holds back. He looks away, ushers his assistant into the room, excuses himself, and, without another word, leaves for his meeting.

  Apparently, Emilio was too American to be investigated by the Filipinos and too Filipino to be investigated by the Americans.

  Well, even if they are not going to do anything to get to the bottom of his death, I am.

  On the way to the airport we connect with Fionna via another video chat and find out she hasn’t located any record of Tomás leaving the country, but that’s not entirely a surprise. He could have easily disappeared back into the population here or perhaps even left the country under an assumed name.

  “I’ve been analyzing the files on Emilio’s computer and his phone.” She sighs, sounding both exhausted and exasperated. “Let me put this in an acorn for you . . .”

  It takes me a moment before I catch on to what she’s trying to say.

  A nutshell. Yes.

  She’s going to put it in a nutshell.

  Although Fionna is off-the-charts brilliant, when it comes to figures of speech she doesn’t always hit the nail quite on the head—or nail things right through the brain, as she once put it.

  She goes on, “All I’m finding are dead ends. I contacted the Vegas police, but they told me this is out of their jurisdiction—big surprise there. Anyway, I was searching for data strings that might be related to the name of the snake wrangler, RixoTray, and so on, but I’m not getting anywhere. I’m having to rewrite the search algorithms as I go along here. I need that USB drive. When will you get to town?”

  Xavier answers for me. “With layovers and flight times it’s going to be about twenty hours from now, so I guess we’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Actually, tonight.”