Death Match

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

She walked once again toward the computer. Lash followed.

“Show me how it’s done,” he said.

“First, you have to access the avatar database.” She entered a transaction code at the menu screen and an explosion of nine-digit numbers appeared. “These are all the avatars.”

“All?”

“All clients to date. Almost two million.” She typed some additional commands. “Okay. I’ve created an SQL query you can run against this dataset. Type in the avatar’s identity code, and it will bring up all the others that were in the tank at the time of its match.”

“Show me, please.”

She lifted the piece of paper. “Here’s that sheet we printed out Friday, showing the dates the Thorpes and Wilners first submitted their applications.”

“Lewis Thorpe’s identity code is 000451823. You enter that into the query field.”

She typed it in and the screen refreshed again.

“Here are all the avatars in the Tank when Lewis was matched to Lindsay, indexed by their identity codes.” She scrolled quickly down to the bottom of the list:

000481032

000481883

000481907

000482035

000482110

000482722

000483814

000483992

000484398

000485006

QUERY COMPLETED AT 11:05:42:82 10/04/04

DISCRETE UNIT COUNT: 52,812

>?

Tara pointed at the bottom line. “In that time-slice, there were almost twenty-three thousand Avatars in the tank.”

“But it’s just a bunch of numbers.”

“This function key lets you toggle between names and identity codes.” Tara pressed a key and the numbers were replaced by names:

Fallon, Eugene

White, Jerome

Wanderely, Helen

Garcia, Constanze

Lu, Wen

Gelbman, Mark

Yoshida, Aiko

Horst, Marcus

Green-Carson, Margo

Banieri, Antonio

Shit, Lash thought. It’s still sorted by identity code, not last name. He considered asking Tara for an alphabetical sort, but decided against it: he wasn’t ready to explain. He began paging back through the names, one screen after another.

“What are you looking for?” Tara asked, gazing curiously over his shoulder.

“Just looking. Listen, would you do one more thing?”

“Just one more thing. Just one more thing. I wish I got paid by the errand.”

“I think we made a mistake, looking just at the records of supercouples.”

“Why?”

“Look at what we found out about Lindsay Thorpe and her surprise medical exam. Who knows what else we might find if we cross-check against a random sample of regular couples?”

“Makes sense.” Tara hesitated. “I’ll go requisition the records.”

“Hurry back.”

He watched her go. Although he was genuinely curious about the comparison he’d suggested, right now he was most interested in examining the screen without another pair of eyes beside him. He began once again scrolling up the names.

It took longer than he thought to go through them all, and it was almost eleven-thirty by the time he reached the top of the list. He slumped back, disappointed. But then again it would have been too easy: finding the name he was hoping for, just like that. Maybe it was a crazy idea. He cringed at the idea of plodding through another huge set of names. Still, he’d come this far: he might as well try the Wilners. Just in case.

He hit the function key Tara had pointed out. Instantly, the screen refreshed, showing the avatars in numerical order.

START OF QUERY

==========

000000000

000448401

000448916

000448954

000449010

000449029

000449174

000449204

000449248

000449286

He straightened. What was that first code, 000000000, doing there?

He toggled the function key, but there was no corresponding name for the identity code: the field was blank.

He shrugged, reached for the paper Tara had left on the desk, and typed John Wilner’s code—000491003—in the query field.

When the screen refreshed, 000000000 was again at the top of the list. And once again, there was no name associated with the number.

Lash scratched his head. What was it? A start-of-array marker?

One more test. Rising from the chair and coming quickly around the desk, he rooted through the paper strewn across the table until he found a sheet with Kevin Co

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

The door opened and Tara stepped in, carrying a stack of reports. “I plucked out a dozen names at random,” she said. “I thought the evaluations would be enough to—”

Lash cut her off. “Come over here. Please.”

She dropped the folders on the table and approached the monitor.

Lash looked at her, no longer trying to conceal his rising excitement. “I want you to pull up one more list. Show me who’s in the Tank, now.”

She frowned. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“Tara, please. Just do this.”

She stared at him, hard, another moment. Then she bent over the keyboard and typed in a new query.

The screen cleared, and Lash looked at it eagerly. He nodded to himself, as if confirming some private suspicion.

Then, suddenly, he snapped off the power. The screen went dark.

“What the hell?” Tara said.

Without answering, Lash grabbed the phone, snugged it beneath his chin, dialed a long-distance number.

“Captain Tsosie’s desk, please,” he said. There was a brief wait. “Joe? It’s Chris Lash. Joe, is the Thorpe house still technically under police investigation? Thank God. Listen, I want you to send a field agent over there right away. You still have my cell number? Give it to the agent, have them call me the moment they’re on the premises. Yes, it’s that important. Thanks.”

He replaced the phone, looked at Tara. “There’s something I have to do. I can’t explain right now. I’ll be back soon.”

He grabbed his coat, made for the door. Then he turned back. Tara remained at the desk, staring after him, a strange expression on her face.

“Follow up with that doctor,” he said. “Dr. Moffett. Understand?”

Tara nodded. And Lash turned, tugged open the door, and was gone.

THIRTY-SEVEN

In the still gallery far above Madison Avenue, a laser printer came to life: first with the purr of a fan, then the green blink of a light. Its motor chugged briefly and a single sheet slid into the tray.

Richard Silver, who was seated at a small satinwood table in the middle of the vast room, looked up at the sound. A terrycloth towel was draped over his shoulders. He’d been working for nearly twenty hours straight, sketching out the pseudo-code of an immense new program: a program refining interaction with Liza to a point where an EEG hookup would no longer be necessary. Lash had been right: it was time.

Besides, it kept his mind from distressing events — events that, more than anything, he did not want to dwell on.

He glanced in the direction of the printer, like a sleeper roused from a trance. Hardcore computer coding is a state of mind: it can take a lot of time to get “in the zone.” Silver was now deep in the zone and would normally be reluctant to relinquish it. But the paper waiting in the printer’s tray meant only one thing: Liza had completed her task, and completed it early.

He rose, glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes after eleven. He walked toward the printer, hesitatingly removed the sheet.

Then he froze.

For a long moment he stood motionless, staring at it. The sunlit gallery was absolutely silent. At last, Silver lowered the paper. His hand shook as he did so.