After Death(29)

Grantworth’s smile is as thin as a line scored by a knife in a block of white Cheddar. “It’s connected to your assignment. One of Woodbine’s associates who was present when the robbery went down is a man named Rudy Santana. Six years ago, he spent three days in a courtroom, as a spectator, giving moral support to the defendant who was an associate of his.”

“Everyone has associates these days. More like he was giving the defendant the red eye to be sure he didn’t rat out his homeys.”

Grantworth shrugs. “Anyhow, Santana says the man who took the half million was a witness in that case six years ago, a security expert who was testifying for the prosecution. He couldn’t remember the name. We’ve gone through court records and discovered it was Michael Mace. That was before he sold his company, before Shelby Shrewsberry hired him at Beautification Research.”

After rolling some wine around his mouth, Calaphas says, “This attorney have any security video of Mace?”

“No. He’s a ghost, as at the lab in the valley. But Santana has a photo from the time of the trial. He’s printed it out for you. And Woodbine has something else he wants to discuss with you, something he’s not keen to share with just everyone, not even with me.”

“You know what happened at that lab. Happened to Mace?”

“We have a pretty good idea.”

Calaphas figures “pretty good idea” means that the highly educated dimwits at the executive level have it half figured out at best. He says, “Tech wizards have been enthusiastically predicting it for maybe thirty years, but they didn’t think it through far enough—what it would be like, what power and abilities would come with it. Now, thanks to archaea, it’s happening.”

Archaea, a microbial life-form once thought to be bacteria, is capable of horizontal gene transfer, carrying genetic material from one individual into another, from one species to another. In nature, this is a random process, perhaps serving evolution, but perhaps of little effect. At Beautification Research, scientists had undertaken experiments to determine if archaea could be adapted to transport intricate nanomachines into human cells with the hope of combining the knowledge and skills of the human brain with the greater data-storage capacity, processing speed, and fluid knowledge-sharing of computers. The billionaire tech cultists believe this is inevitable and will lead to a vastly improved human race millions of times more intelligent. They call this revolution the “Singularity.” They dare to believe they’ll live long enough for technology to advance to the point where they can transcend their biological limitations and become immortal cyborgs. It’s fallen to Calaphas to clean up after the scientists whom the tech royalty and the government funded.

He says, “As an elite class, they want to be the first to benefit from the Singularity. A society of godlike overlords.”

“That is an ungenerous assessment of their motives,” Grantworth protests. “They see themselves as benefactors of all humanity.”

Calaphas smiles. “How humble of them.” He pauses to enjoy more wine. “When the transforming event occurred, it was the result of an accident. Fifty-four killed, only one . . . elevated. Michael Mace is the Singularity, the entirety of it. You realize that?”

Grantworth appears profoundly uncomfortable. “Some speculation has begun to that effect.”

“The irony,” Calaphas says, “is that we don’t know what makes him so special. Why him and not the other fifty-four? A breakthrough has occurred, but we don’t know why—and it can’t be replicated.”

“It can be replicated,” Grantworth disagrees. “If we can find Mace and study him.”

The cabernet has a superb bouquet, which Calaphas enjoys as he stares at the deputy director over the rim of the wineglass.

At last, intimidated by that stare, Grantworth says, “What?”

“Apprehending this man is about as likely as finding and arresting Bigfoot.”

“If you don’t feel you’re up to the task—”

Calaphas puts his wine down and interrupts, succinctly describing what he believes are just a few of the extraordinary abilities that the lab accident has conferred on Michael Mace.

By the time that Calaphas finishes speaking and picks up his wineglass, Julian Grantworth has not just paled; he has gone gray. “No one man should ever have such power.”

Calaphas raises his glass as though in a toast. “Ah, a sudden enlightenment. Better late than never.”

Pushing his chair back from the table, Grantworth says, “I must confer with the director immediately.”

“You go confer. Form a committee of experts. They can devise a strategy. That’s always effective.”

Grantworth hates his underling almost as much as he fears him. Getting to his feet, he looks as if he is marshalling the nerve to upbraid Calaphas for his insolence or even remove him from the case—but he isn’t able to summon enough courage to act. His expanding chest deflates, even as the swollen artery in his left temple pulses more rapidly, more visibly. He issues only a statement that is in fact a question: “You’re staying on the case.”

“After I’ve had dinner.”

“Woodbine and Santana at nine o’clock.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. One thing.”

“What?”