“We must regard this new plague not as a catastrophe but as a challenge,” Helier stated, in ringing tones. “It is not, as the Gaian Mystics would have us believe, the vengeance of Mother Earth upon her rapists and polluters, and no matter how fast and how far it spreads it cannot and will not destroy the species. Its advent requires a monumental effort from us, but we are capable of making that effort. We have, at least in embryo, technologies which are capable of rendering us immune to aging, and we are rapidly developing technologies which will allow us to achieve in the laboratory what fewer and fewer women are capable of doing outside it: conceive and bear children. Within twenty or thirty years we will have what our ancestors never achieved: democratic control over human fertility, based in a New Reproductive System. We have been forced to this pass by evil circumstances, but let us not undervalue it; it is a crucial step forward in the evolution of the species, without which the gifts of longevity and perpetual youth might have proved a double-edged sword. ...”
The speech faded out. It was easy enough for Damon to figure out why the clip had been inserted. Recontextualized by the accusations which the anonymous judge had brought against Arnett, it implied that Conrad Helier had thought the great plague a good thing: an opportunity rather than a curse; a significant step on the road to salvation.
Damon had no alternative but to ask himself the questions demanded by the mysterous Operator. Had Conrad Helier been capable of designing the agents of the plague as well as the instruments which had blunted its effects? If capable, might he have been of a mind to do it? The answer to the first question, he was certain in his own mind, washes. He was not nearly as certain that the answer to the second question was no—but he had never known his biological father; all he had ever known was the oppressive force of his father’s plans for him, his father’s hopes for him. He had rebelled against those, but his rebellion couldn’t possibly commit him to believing this—and he did know the other people named by the judge. Karol was distant and diffident, Eveline haughty and high-handed, but Silas and Mary had been... everything he required of them. Surely it was unimaginable that they could have done what they now stood accused of doing?
The image cut back to the courtroom, but the moment Damon heard Silas Arnett speak he knew that time had elapsed. A section had been cut from the tape.
“What do you want from me?” Arnett hissed, in a voice full of pain and exhaustion. “What the fuck do you want?”
It was not the virtual judge who replied this time, although there was no reason to think that the second synthesized voice issued from a different source. “I want to know whose idea it was to launch the great plague,” said the figure to Arnett’s right. “I want to know where I can find incontrovertible evidence of the extent of the conspiracy. I want to know the names of everyone who was involved. I want to know where Conrad Helier is now, and what name he’s using.”
“Conrad’s dead. I saw him die!” Arnett’s voice was almost hysterical, but he seemed to making Herculean efforts to control himself.
“No you didn’t,” said the accusing voice, without the slightest hint of doubt. “Someone switched the DNA-samples so as to fake the identification. Was that you, Dr. Arnett?”
There was no immediate reply. The tape was interrupted again; there was no attempt to conceal the cut. Damon could imagine the sound of Arnett’s screams easily enough; only the day before he had listened to poor Lenny Garon recording a tape which it would probably be his privilege to edit and doctor and convert into a peculiar kind of art...
“It was my idea,” Silas Arnett said, in a hollow, grating voice. “Mine. I did it. The others never knew. I used them, but they never knew.”
“They all knew,” said the inquisitor firmly.
“No they didn’t,” Arnett insisted. “They trusted me, absolutely. They never knew. They still don’t—the ones who are still alive, that is. I did it on my own. I designed the plague and set it free, so that Conrad could do what he had to do. He never knew that it wasn’t natural. He died not knowing. He really did die not knowing.”
“That’s very noble of you,” said the other, in a voice dripping with irony. “But it’s not true, is it?”
“Yes,” said Arnett.
This time, the editor didn’t bother to cut out the sound of screaming. Damon shivered, even though he knew that he and everyone else who had managed to download the tape before Interpol deleted it was being manipulated for effect. This was melodrama, not news—but how many people, in today’s world, could tell the difference? How many people would be able to say: It’s just some VR pomotape. It doesn’t mean a thing.
Suddenly, Diana Caisson’s reaction to the discovery that Damon was using her template as a base for the sex tape he had been commissioned to make didn’t seem quite so unreasonable.
The interrogator spoke again. “The truth, Dr. Arnett, is that at least five persons held a secret conference in May 2072, when Conrad Helier laid out his plan for the so-called salvation of the world. The first experiments with the perfected viruses were carried out in the winter of 2075-76, using rats, mice and human tissue-cultures. When one of his collaborators—was it you, Dr. Arnett?—asked Conrad Helier whether he had the right to play god his reply was ‘The position’s vacant. If we don’t, who will?’ That’s the truth, Dr. Arnett, isn’t it? Isn’t that exactly what he said?”
Arnett’s reply to that was unexpected. “Who are you?” he asked, his pain seemingly mingled with suspicion. “I know you, don’t I? If I saw your real face, I’d recognize it, wouldn’t I?”
The answer was equally surprising. “Of course you would,” the other said, with transparently false gentleness. “And I know you, Silas Arnett. I know more about you than you can possibly imagine. That’s why you can’t hide what you know.”
At this point, without any warning, the picture cut out. It was replaced by a text display which said:
CONRAD HELIER IS AN ENEMY OF MANKIND FIND AND IDENTIFY CONRAD HELIER MORE PROOFS WILL FOLLOW
Damon stared numbly at the words, which glowed as if they had been written in fire.
When Damon called Madoc Tamlin Diana answered; mercifully, it was only a voice link, so neither of them had to look the other in the eye.
“It’s Damon,” he said, brusquely. “I need to get a message to Madoc. Tell him I really need that package we discussed. He has to get on to it right away. I’ve authorised him to draw twice as much cash. I’ll fly back tonight or tomorrow, and I really need to know whatever he can dig up as soon as humanly possible. Have you got all that?”
“Of course I’ve got it,” she snapped back. “Do you think I’m stupid or something?”
Damon had to suppress an impulse to react in kind. Instead, he said: “Sorry, Di—I’m a bit wound up. Just ask Madoc to do what he can, and tell him he has extra resources if he needs them, OK?”
By the time he signed off Karol Kachellek had put the other phone receiver down. Damon didn’t know who he had been talking to. “I’m sorry Damon,” Kachellek said, bluntly. “You were right—this is far worse than I thought. It couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
“What’s it all about, Karol?” Damon asked, quietly. “You do know, don’t you?”
“I wish I did. You musn’t worry, Damon. It will all be sorted out. I don’t know who’s doing this, or why, but...” As the the blond man trailed off, Damon stared at him intently, wondering whether the red flush about his brow and neck was significant of anger, anxiety, embarrassment or some combination of all three.