“Dan, I’m Marsha,” the woman said. “Welcome to New Haven. I’ll show you to…”
The press parted, and Marsha escorted me across a garishly painted hallway and down a corridor.
Marsha was saying, “Sanjay was against the resurrection process, Dan. We were surprised when he decided to be implanted, a couple of weeks ago.” She paused outside a door, pushed it open and stood back. I stepped over the threshold and stopped in my tracks.
Sanjay lay on a mattress in the corner of the room. He had opened the vein of his left arm all the way from the wrist to the crook of his elbow. Blood had spurted up the far wall, across the window, and soaked into the mattress around the body.
“Billy found him about thirty minutes ago,” Marsha was explaining. “We knew Sanjay was depressed, but we never thought…”
I took in the scene, and knew immediately that there was something not quite right about the corpse. By now the nanomechs released by the implant should have been effecting repairs on the wound. The body should have the relaxed appearance of someone asleep, not the stone-cold aspect of a corpse.
I hurried over, knelt, and placed my fingertips to the implant beneath the skin of the young man’s left temple.
The implant should have emitted a definite vibration, similar to the contented purring of a cat. I felt nothing.
I glanced over my shoulder; Marsha and half a dozen others were watching him from the door. “If I could be left alone for a minute or two…” I said.
They retreated, closing the door behind them.
I pulled out my mobile and got through to Masters at the Station.
“Dan here,” I said. “I’m with the subject. You’re not going to believe this—he’s implanted, but he’s dead.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Perhaps… I don’t know. I’ve never heard of a malfunction before. But there’s always a first time.”
“No way,” Masters said. “They can’t go wrong.”
“Well, it looks as though this one has.” I paused. “What the hell should I do?”
“The team should be with you any minute. I’ve called the police in. They’ll take over once they arrive.”
I cut the connection, moved to the window, and stared out, touching my own implant. I avoided another glance at the corpse, but I knew I would see the man’s agonised expression for a long time to come. He had been implanted, and had taken his own life, fully expecting to be resurrected…
Five minutes later I watched another Range Rover draw up beside mine, followed by a police car. Four Station officials, led by Richard Lincoln, hurried across the snow-covered drive and up the steps, two constables in their wake.
A minute later Richard appeared at the door, along with the officials and the police officers.
“What the hell’s going on, Dan?” Richard said.
“I wish I knew.” I indicated the corpse and went through my findings. The other officials recorded my statement and took video footage of the room.
Richard questioned Marsha and a few of the others, while the police called for forensic back-up.
I followed Richard outside and climbed into the Rover. Lucy was still asleep.
Richard tramped through the snow and I wound down the window. “We’ll take the body back to the Station when the police have finished,” he said, “try to find out what happened with the implant.”
I looked beyond him, to the posse of communards on the steps of the Grange, silent and watchful.
“Has anyone told them?”
Richard shook his head. “I’ll come back and explain the situation when we’ve found out exactly what happened. See you later, Dan.”
I fired the engine and headed up the track. The Fleece beckoned. I considered a rich pint of Taylor’s Landlord and a hot meal, and tried to forget about what I’d seen back at the Grange.
The Fleece was one of those horse brass and beams establishments that had resisted the tide of modernisation sweeping the country. Norman, the landlord, had the twin assets of a good publican: friendliness and the ability to keep a good pint. The food wasn’t bad, either.
It was seven o’clock by the time we settled ourselves in the main bar, a little too early for the regular Tuesday night crowd. I ordered myself a pint of Landlord and steak and kidney pie with roast potatoes, and for Lucy a fresh orange juice and veggie burger with salad.
The food arrived. Lucy was far from her lively self tonight; she was tired and hardly talked, answered my questions with monosyllabic replies and pushed her food around the plate with a distinct lack of interest.
I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards me. “Home and an early night for you, m’girl.”
“Can I watch TV for a bit before I go to bed? Please.”
“Okay, seeing as there’s no school in the morning.”
I was about to suggest we leave when Khalid pushed through the door, a swirl of snow entering with him, and signalled across to me. He mimed downing a pint and pointed at my empty glass. I relented and gave him the thumbs up.
No doubt Lucy would tell Marianne that I’d kept her at the pub way past her bedtime, and I wouldn’t hear the last of it the next time I picked her up. Marianne thought alcohol the tipple of the devil, and all who drank it damned.
Khalid ferried two pints from the bar and sat down across the table from me.
“Hi, sleepy-head,” he said to Lucy. Her eyelids were fighting a losing battle against sleep.
“Just the man,” Khalid said to me. “I hoped you’d be here.”
“It’s Tuesday night,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“The implanted suicide you visited today,” he said.
I considered him over my pint. “Masters contacted you?”
Khalid nodded. “They brought the body into the hospital and I inspected the implant.”
I voiced what I’d been dreading since discovering the dead man. “It malfunctioned?” I asked, hard though that was to believe.
“Malfunctioned?” Khalid shook his head and accounted for the top two inches of his pint. He sighed with satisfaction. “I’d say that was well nigh impossible.”
“So…?”
“This is only the second case I’ve come across, but I’ve heard rumours that they’re more widespread than we first believed.”
He took another mouthful.
“What,” I said, unable to stop myself smiling, “is more widespread?”
“This is between you and me, okay? Don’t tell Masters I said anything. Your people at the Station have yet to come out with an official statement.” He saw that I was about to jump in with the obvious question, and raised a hand. “Okay, okay…” He leaned forward, a little melodramatically—only Old Wilf was at the bar, and he was stone deaf. “Some cowboys have started pirating fake implants.”
I lowered my pint and stared at him. “Why on earth…?” I began.
“It was only a matter of time,” Khalid said. “Think about it. There are thousands of people out there who refuse for whatever reasons to be implanted…” his eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly, towards Lucy. “They’re… what… one in a few hundred thousand? A minority, anyway. And like any minority, they occasionally suffer victimisation. Wouldn’t it be easier, they reckon, if they could have something that looks like, but wasn’t, an implant? They’d blend in, become one of the crowd. They would no longer stand out.”
“It makes a kind of sense,” I said. “And so some enterprising back-street surgeon has started offering the service?”
“Doesn’t have to be a surgeon. Anyone with a little medical knowledge can perform the operation. A quick slit, insert something the same shape as an implant, and seal the wound with synthi-flesh. Thirty minutes later you’re back out on the street.”
I thought through the implications. “But if these people don’t inform friends, loved ones?”