“Cause of death,” Cheng Shiao said gently, looking down at a wellstone pad, “probable suicide. He left a note. An entire log, actually, detailing his activities for the past seven years. Assuming it’s accurate, this would appear to be our man.”
Vivian regained her maturity and summoned Wenders Rodenbeck right there to De Towaji’s Bane for questioning. Did he know anything about this ship or its business? Did he wish any harm to the Queendom, or bear a grudge against any of its officials or luminaries?
Rodenbeck, bleary eyed, hanging there in zero atmosphere in a spacesuit he’d never been trained to use, could only stammer his replies: No, no, not at all. Never!
The Queendom recognized no right to remain silent under questioning; every response was compulsory, and subject to analysis by the finest lie detectors, stress analyzers, and personality emulators of the Royal Constabulary. If he was innocent of the crime being investigated, all records of this conversation would be purged from the interrogators’ minds, leaving them to speculate about any other infelicities or malfeasances he might have revealed under questioning. And any distress he suffered would be measured with exacting precision, and a proper compensation calculated and dispensed. But in the meantime, the twin priorities of public safety and swift justice held sway, and his brain was theirs to pick.
Bruno had never imagined himself in such a position before; it troubled and embarrassed him, dirtied him in some ill-defined way. Perhaps the experience would be erased, though; Rodenbeck did appear both innocent and distressed. “I’m an artist,” he protested repeatedly. “I love the Queendom—I’ve gone to considerable pains to protect it against its own excesses. And always within the framework of the law! Well, nearly always…”
“Ah,” Vivian said then, with a knowing look. “Yes. Indeed.”
Bruno figured that would have been an unnerving thing under any circumstances, to be addressed that way by a Commandant-Inspector of the Royal Constabulary. Hearing it from an eleven-year-old girl, though, seemed to tip Rodenbeck into hysteria. “Hey, I watch the news!” he shouted. “I’m not stupid. I know why I’m here! You think this Ring Collapsiter thing has anything to do with me? Do you really?”
“You have spoken out against it on lots of occasions,” Vivian pointed out. “And against its creators.”
“Of course! Its creators are guilty of the grossest irresponsibility and negligence, as demonstrated by their current difficulties. I protest the use of collapsium because it’s dangerous, because it poses a huge safety risk. I’m on the side of the angels, here, little girl. Why would I, why would I possibly do anything to enlarge that risk?”
Vivian, examining readings of some sort on her little well-stone pad, frowned at that. “Have you done anything to enhance the threat?”
“No.”
“Have you harmed anyone?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
“No!”
She sighed then, and clunked her hand against the dome of her helmet in a manner all too familiar to Bruno—she’d been trying to touch her face. “Come look at a body with me, sir. You may find the experience disturbing.”
“Why? Whose body is it?”
“Yours.”
They strode the length of the ship, slipping past SWAT robots and royal bodyguards until they’d reached the strange acceleration couch. It had been fitted with a crinkly black plastic cover, but at Vivian’s nod the attendant Shiao unhooked its fasteners and peeled it away, revealing the body beneath.
Rodenbeck recoiled. “Eew. Is that real? Is that supposed to be we?‘”
“It is you, sir,” Vivian said. “Bioassay confirms it’s an accurate copy whose pattern began divergence from yours approximately seven years ago. It shows several fax markers in that first year, each with body modifications associated, and nothing at all after that. Reconstruction shows it’s been physically grafted to that chair for sixty-two months, nine days. Unfortunately, the brain suffered extensive damage in the surge that killed it, so its memories are not available to us. Do you have any idea what this… individual… might have been up to?”
Rodenbeck started to say something, but fainted instead.
Vivian sighed, and said to Shiao, “Get him out of here; take him home. He doesn’t know anything.”
Shiao straightened. “Right away, Commandant-Inspector. I agree with your analysis.”
“Relax, Lieutenant. Please.”
“Yes’m. Absolutely.”
When Shiao had gone, Tamra whirled around and pointed an angry finger at the body. “This creature did well to kill itself—I’d see it jailed for a million years! Yet Rodenbeck, who is the creature, is innocent? Explain this to me, Vivian. Why did you let him go?”
“Because he’s innocent,” Vivian said simply, attempting a shrug inside her suit. “We see this sometimes: compartmen-talization of intent. We all have copies running around, true? Sometimes, one of them will diverge, and decide it’s not part of the canonical individual anymore. Could be a traumatic experience, could be almost anything, really. All of a sudden, you have this person with Wenders Rodenbeck’s history and knowledge, but not his actual sense of identity. Maybe he’s smug, he figures he knows something that’s fundamentally changed him. So he changes his body, changes his name, stays out of fax machines—which would not only log his existence, but might eventually report his movements back to the real Rodenbeck and charge him transit fees for every step!
“So this copy lives in the shadows for a while, without the social pressures or accountability he’s accustomed to, and whatever funny ideas he has in his head start to seem reasonable. Rodenbeck isn’t a criminal, but this—all right, this creature—isn’t Rodenbeck anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”
“And this happens often?” Tamra demanded, her tone indicating just how well she liked this sort of thing going on under her nose behind her back.
“Not often,” Vivian said. “But sometimes. I remember maybe, like, three cases of this since human-capable faxes first became available. I’m not really sure; you’d have to ask Shiao for the details.”
Bruno, finally moved to speak, said, “I don’t think I like the implications, here. Living alone causes genocidal mania? Do you think I’m at risk, mademoiselle? I’d resent that notion very much!”
Vivian eyed him clinically for several seconds. “Well, I would say you’re at a higher risk for it than someone with equivalent intellect, but who’s better socialized. Don’t take that as an insult; genocidal mania is remarkably rare, even among hardened sociopaths, and you haven’t shown any of the marker behaviors.”
“Well. Humph. If I do lose my mind, perhaps you’ll be the first to know about it. This whole experience has been unsavory, and we’ve nothing to show for it, no villain to punish.”
“And the collapsiter is still falling,” Tamra pointed out angrily. “You do need to address that at some point, you know.”
Bruno gasped. “Goodness, I’d almost forgotten! It came to me, while the ships were docking; what if the ring were spun?” He turned to Marlon, who was drifting in dour silence at the other end of the ship, by the airlock. In an atmosphere he’d have been too distant for anything but a shouted conversation, but over suit radios it hardly mattered. “Marlon, the grapple stations all point straight down at the ring, yes? As much as possible given the damage, I mean. But imagine skewing them, pointing them a few degrees off to one side. That would create a torque which would spin the ring in place.”