“So I’m not actually paranoid in this case,” Lowen said.
“No, you are actually paranoid,” Prescott said, setting down his PDA. “You’re just paranoid with good reason.”
“The story he told me is still nuts,” Lowen said.
“That it definitely is,” Prescott said. “The only real problem with it is that it’s not completely impossible. Carvalho killed Liu with blood-borne nanobots specifically designed to asphyxiate him. It’s not entirely crazy to believe that someone could design ’bots to work on the brain in the way your friend suggested. The Colonial Union’s BrainPals trigger parts of their owners’ brains. None of this is particularly new in its details. It’s how it’s being used that’s new. Hypothetically.”
Lowen shivered. “You know what, don’t use that word with me at the moment, please.”
“Okay,” Prescott said, a little warily. “The real problem we have with all of this is that we don’t have any way to verify it. The Colonial Union let Carvalho float out into space. We have a good story, but good stories aren’t enough.”
“You believe it,” Lowen said.
“I believe it’s possible,” Prescott said. “I believe it’s possible enough that I’m going to recommend to your father that we design a protocol for nanobiotic infestations and their eradication if and when we find them. The nice thing about this story is that even if it’s completely crazy, if we get a process out of it, then this particular avenue of sabotage gets closed. If it doesn’t exist, then it gets closed before it can become a problem.”
“Three cheers for paranoia,” Lowen said.
“What would really help, of course, is if we could find this friend of yours,” Prescott said. “Conspiracy theories involving remote controls in the brain are more believable when you have people who can accurately describe them.”
“I don’t think you’re going to manage that one,” Lowen said.
“Never say never,” Prescott said. The door opened and Tony came through, bearing coffee. “Your coffee,” he said. “Also, the FBI is requesting visual.”
“Right,” Prescott said, set his coffee down and picked up the PDA again, pausing briefly to also loop on an earpiece. “This is Prescott,” he said, looking into the PDA.
Lowen watched him listen to the PDA, glance over to her and then glance back at the PDA. “Got it,” he said, after a minute. “I’m going to mute you for a second.” He pressed the screen and looked over at Lowen. “They think they found your friend,” he said. “At least, based on the screen shot they got from the security camera. They want you to take a look and confirm.”
“All right,” Lowen said, and reached for the PDA.
“Uh,” Prescott said. “He’s kind of a mess.”
“You mean he’s dead,” Lowen said.
“Yes,” Prescott said. “You don’t sound surprised.”
“Give it to me,” Lowen said.
Prescott handed it over, along with the earpiece. “This is Danielle Lowen,” she said, after she slipped on the earpiece and unmuted the PDA. “Show me.”
The image on the screen wheeled for a minute and then resolved to a body lying in an otherwise nondescript alley. The head of the body was covered in blood; as the PDA got closer, Lowen could see the deep crease above the right temple. Someone had cracked the head wide open.
For all that, the face was still blandly handsome, with the residue of a small, tight smile.
“That’s him,” Lowen said. “Of course it’s him.”