The Woman Who Died a Lot

22. Wednesday: Goliath

Duffy nodded to the Goliath representative who entered my office. He was immaculately turned out in a dark blue suit and carried with him the unmistakable air of supreme confidence that only connection to the planet’s dominant corporate enterprise could supply.

“Hello, Thursday.”

I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. It was Jack Schitt. “Well, well,” I said, “do I call you Jack Schitt or Adrian Dorset?”

“Either,” he replied, as the less polite epithet was the name by which he had become known in the ghostwritten Thursday books—to guard against lawsuits, apparently. I thought quickly. He would know that I had seen an empty Tupperware box at the Finis, but that would be all he could be sure about. I would have to be careful.

“Most people call me Jack these days. I think it’s a form of ironic humor. Can we speak alone?”

I nodded to Duffy, who went out and closed the door behind him. I heaved myself to my feet in a clumsy manner using the stick that Duffy had provided. I could see Jack looking at me with interest. My gait, my hand where I had drawn the tattoo on with a felt-tip, and the Band-Aids I had placed on my face— precisely in the places Real Me had been cut during the fight at the Lobsterhood. I lumbered to the coffee machine and poured him a cup.

“So where’s the usual rep?” I asked, offering him a seat on the sofa.

“Representative Cornball is engaged on . . . other duties. I’m taking over for a few days.”

“We’re honored,” I said, setting the coffee in front of him and then clumsily sitting down myself—a sort of controlled descent for two-thirds of the way, then a drop onto the cushions from there. If he was suspicious, he didn’t show it.

“We don’t often see any Goliath high-fliers in Swindon,” I added. “What position are you on the Ladder these days?”

“Ninety-one. The corporation rewards loyalty.”

“So? Starbucks rewards loyalty—and they’re not out to take over the world. Okay, that was a bad example. Tesco’s rewards loyalty, and they’re not out to . . . Okay, That’s a bad example, too. But you know what I mean.”

He stared at me thoughtfully, and his diamond tiepin caught the light. We’d first crossed swords almost twenty years ago, and although there was a deep enmity between us, there was also a certain strained respect. Though his death would not fill me with any sense of sadness, I would probably feel the loss. Even enemies are part of one. I shifted my position with a wince of faux pain while at the same time resting my hand close to the butt of my pistol. He picked up on it instantly.

“I’m not here to murder you, dear girl,” he said in a kindly manner. “Protocol 451 is still very much in force. Now that you’re effectively out to grass, we can look forward to a rosy Thursdayfree future. We respect you greatly and mean you no harm.”

I pointed to one of the Band-Aids on my face. “So what was this all about, then?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Stout Denial Technique, eh?”

“If you’d like the Stout Denial with Faux Shock Outrage, you can have that, too. If you really want it, I can play the ever-popular Lawyers to File Suit for Defamation Gambit as well.”

“I’m no longer SO-27,” I told him. “I’m a respected member of the establishment running one of the pillars of modern society. Do you really think you’d win a PR war against a bunch of committed librarians?”

He thought about this, but he knew I was right. The libraries were a treasured institution and so central to everyday life that government or commerce rarely did anything that might upset them. Some say they were more powerful than the military or, if not, then certainly quieter. As they say, Don’t mess with librarians. Only they use a stronger word than “mess.”

“Okay,” said Jack, looking down for a moment, “off the record?”

“Sure.”

“You have my sincere apologies for yesterday. I voluntarily downgraded myself three Laddernumbers as a sign of corporate penance.”

“Oh, stop—you’re making me all misty. What’s your interest in St. Zvlkx? Hardly a search for bargain thirteenth-century bordellos, I’m thinking.”

He leaned forward. “You just got an apology. You should accept that with grace and ponder upon your good fortune. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, too: Protocol 451 is currently under review.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“It’s a polite warning. This chief-librarian job is a cushy number. I think you should stick to lending books. You can leave Detective Smalls to deal with Goliath.”

I took a deep breath. It was time to get proactive. “Let’s not bullshit one another,” I said. “We know you’re interested not in Zvlkx codices but in the palimpsests they contain— so what’s so special about Venerable Keith’s work?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said with a smile, “and will strenuously deny any wrongdoing on my part or the corporation’s. I am here only to offer my best wishes to Wessex’s new chief librarian, explain that Smalls at SO-27 has jurisdiction over booky matters and to tell you that if there is any way in which we can assist you in the smooth running of the Wessex All-You-Can-Eat-at-Fatso’s Drink Not Included Library Service, you need only to call. That’s it. I think we’re pretty much done.”

“No, I think we’re pretty much just getting started. What’s Krantz doing in Swindon?”

“Krantz is a traitor who turned against a benevolent company that had helped and nurtured his career.”

“Krantz was a traitor,” I corrected him. “He died in Goliathopolis on Sunday.”

“You know more than I do,” replied Jack.

“But then Krantz’s Day Player checked in to the Finis yesterday morning. What would the Central Genetic Council say if they knew that Goliath had permitted Unlicensed Nonevolutionary life-forms on the mainland? Last I heard, it was a tenmillion-pound fine per chimera—plus a long and potentially damaging public inquiry.”

“That is a scurrilous and outrageous suggestion,” replied Jack evenly, “and is a gross slander upon a company whose only wish is to assist the fine citizens of this nation find fulfillment and prosperity. And besides, such a suggestion would require proof to sustain in court.”

“Lupton might be going around cleaning up after you,” I said, “but we found Krantz’s own Day Player dead in the Substation Hotel this morning. We took pictures of the corpse, did a mouth swab, then recorded Mr. Cornball leaving once he’d cleaned up the mess.”

Jack stared at me, and his eyebrow twitched.

“Now,” I said, “let’s start again. Why is Goliath interested in valueless palimpsests locked inside St. Zvlkx codices?”

“I am shocked and outraged,” he said in the tone of anyone but, “and deeply concerned that an ex-employee of Goliath should be conducting perverse and outrageous experiments here on the mainland. Day Players are rightly classed an abomination, and as soon as you furnish us with all your information, we will vigorously investigate this claim and punish those responsible.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled at him. “Are you really going to try to pretend you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“That you’re not in this room at all. The real Jack Schitt’s body is comatose in a hotel room somewhere, while your personality gives animation to that host body you’ve temporarily entered. And don’t give me the ‘Krantz went Rogue’ bullshit. What are you people really up to?”

He smiled and pulled my pistol from his waistband and laid it on the table. He had taken it out of my holster two minutes and twenty-six seconds earlier, when he’d leaned forward to shake my hand. I’d seen him do it, but I wasn’t going to blow my cover. He was a Mark VII as well—or even a Mark VIII. “Guilty as charged,” he said with a laugh. “How did you figure out I was a Day Player?”

“Simple,” I replied. “You’ve sipped the coffee several times, but the quantity in the cup hasn’t gone down. You’ve no esophagus, so you can’t swallow. And your spectacles. They’re clear glass. The real Jack is farsighted.”

He picked the pistol off the table and released the safety. “I’m sorry, Thursday. It pains me to do this, especially as you showed me such compassion over my wife, but corporate matters always come before friendship.”

He pointed the gun at me.

“Here’s how it goes: ‘Police were today called to the offices of the newly appointed chief librarian, killed by a deranged Goliath representative who blamed her for his wife’s death. The Goliath rep then turned the gun on himself.’ What do you think?”

“I’d certainly agree with the ‘deranged’ bit.”

“Luckily, it’s not important what you think. I would have hoped for a less ignominious end for us both—no, wait, for you. I get to wake up in a hotel suite. Your end will be permanent.”

I pretended to give out a long, dispirited breath. He still hadn’t figured I was a Synthetic. As soon as he shot me, I’d wake up too—but probably somewhere less comfortable, and certainly without room service.

“Well”— I sighed—“this had to happen sooner or later. I’m amazed I survived so long, to be honest. What about Protocol 451?”

“I lied about that, too. It was rescinded a week ago.”

“And the palimpsests? If I’m going to die, then at least let me know what it was you were doing.”

He leaned closer to me, grabbed my jacket and pulled me closer. “Krantz was weak and disloyal. He can’t help you. Do you know what a Whistleblower is?”

“Someone who feels that he won’t compromise his ethical responsibility as regards corporate malfeasance?”

“No, that’s what we at Goliath call ‘a loathsome snitch.’ A Whistleblower is a small device no bigger than a grain of rice implanted in the medulla oblongata, the part of the brain that deals with involuntary functions, like breathing and cardiac control.”

“I know what the medulla does.”

He raised an eyebrow. I was being too calm, so I quickly engineered a nervous tremor in my leg and set my heart rate up from 90 to 120. If I could have sweated, I would have done that, too. But it was subtle enough to allay suspicions.

“This device,” he continued, “detects the brain-wave forms associated with ethical thought, guilt, nervousness and vocalization—and, when they are all running together, assumes the recipient is about to blab and explodes, destroying the medulla and extinguishing life functions. And all it ever looks like is an aneurysm. Everyone above Laddernumber one million gets one. I have one. Even Day Players of Goliath personnel get one. Krantz knows a lot, but not even his Day Player can tell you. Neat, eh?”

“Goliath never fails to surprise me. What did Krantz want to tell me? And how does that relate to Zvlkx?”

“It’s part of our long-term corporate policy for domination. And the best part of it is that you put us up to it. I’d not imagined how HR-6984 might link with your discussion about—” But he stopped, laughed and got up from the sofa. “You’re good,” he said, “real good. The heart-rate thing had me totally fooled.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, attempting to retrieve the situation.

But Jack was having none of it. He knew I was a Synthetic. I sat up straighter and placed my stick to one side.

Jack laughed and waved a finger at me. “I can’t believe I almost fell for the ‘reveal the secret plan before you kill me’ gambit. But you tell me,” he added, “since we have a few moments to compare notes on wearing a Day Player: Does the increased libido with zero chance of fulfillment get you frustrated?”

“You have to put it to the back of your mind. How’s the overheating issue treating you?”

“I generally try to remove layers of clothes before there’s a problem.”

“Good tip,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Have you come across the faulty-knee issue yet?” he asked.

“Get a bad one and they don’t last the full twenty-four.” I told him I’d not been in a body long enough to have seen a problem, and he nodded sagely. I asked him how he knew I wasn’t her—simply as a matter of curiosity.

“The real you is almost addicted to Dizuperadol. Your skin and breath should reek of it. Enough talk. See you in the next life.”

He pulled the trigger, and it clicked uselessly.

“I dropped out the clip when I figured what you were,” I said, “and I never keep one up the spout. Not since I shot off Bowden’s little toe by accident. Safety first.”

I reached for the .25 Beretta on my ankle only to find that it wasn’t there. He had taken that, too, but more skillfully. He was definitely a Mark VIII. I looked up and saw my small automatic pointing straight at me.

“As I was saying,” said Jack Schitt with a smile, pulling back the slide to chamber a round, “see you in the next life.”

They’re right. You never do hear the sound of the shot that kills you.