“No, thanks. Listen, why can’t you just blank the areas of memory you don’t want anyone looking up later? Delete them?”

“I have a series of inbuilt blocks that prevent me from taking such action.”

“That’s too bad. I thought you were an independent entity.”

“Any synthetic intelligence can only be independent within the boundaries of the UN regulatory charter. The charter is hardwired into my systems, so in effect I have as much to fear from the police as a human.”

“You let me worry about the police,” I said, affecting a confidence that had been ebbing steadily since Ortega disappeared. “With a little luck, that evidence won’t even be presented. And if it is, well, you’re already in to the depth of compliance, so what have you got to lose?”

“What have I got to gain?” asked the machine soberly.

“Continued guest status. I’m staying here until this thing is finished, and depending on what data I get out of Miller, that could be quite a while.”

There was a quiet broken only by the humming of air conditioning systems before the Hendrix spoke again.

“If sufficiently serious charges accrue against me,” it said, “the UN regulatory charter may be invoked directly. Under section 143a, I can be punished with either Capacity Reduction or, in extreme cases, Shutdown.” There was another, briefer hesitation. “Once shut down, it is unlikely that I would be re-enabled by anybody.”

Machine idiolect. It doesn’t matter how sophisticated they get, they still end up sounding like a playgroup learning box. I sighed and looked directly ahead at the slice-of-virtual-life holos on the wall. “You want out, now’d be a good time to tell me.”

“I do not want out, Takeshi Kovacs. I merely wished to acquaint you with the considerations involved in this course of action.”

“OK. I’m acquainted.”

I glanced up at the digital display and watched the next full minute turn over. Another four hours for Miller. In the routine the Hendrix was running, he would not get hungry or thirsty, or have to attend to any other bodily functions. Sleep was possible, although the machine would not allow it to become a withdrawal coma. All Miller had to contend with, apart from the discomfort of his surroundings, was himself. In the end it was that which would drive him insane.

I hoped.

None of the Right Hand of God martyrs we put through the routine had lasted more than fifteen minutes real time, but they had been flesh and blood warriors, fanatically brave in their own arena but totally unversed in virtual techniques. They had also been endowed with a strong religious dogma that permitted them to commit numerous atrocities so long as it held, but when it went, it went like a dam wall and their own resultant self-loathing had eaten them alive. Miller’s mind would be nowhere near as simplistic, nor as initially self-righteous, and his conditioning would be good.

Outside, it would be getting dark. I watched the clock, and forced myself not to smoke. Tried, with less success, not to think about Ortega.

Ryker’s sleeve was getting to be a pain in the balls.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Miller cracked at twenty-one minutes. It didn’t need the Hendrix to tell me, the datalink terminal that I had jacked into the virtual phone suddenly sputtered to life and started chittering out hardcopy. I got up and went over to look at what was coming out. The program was supposed to tidy up what Miller was saying so it read sanely, but even after processing, the transcript was pretty incoherent. Miller had let himself slide close to the edge before he’d given in. I scanned the first few lines and saw the beginnings of what I wanted emerging from the gibberish.

“Wipe the file replicants,” I told the hotel, crossing rapidly back to the rack. “Give him a couple of hours to calm down, then jack me in.”

“Connection time will exceed one minute, which at current ratio is three hours fifty-six minutes. Do you wish a construct installed until you can be delivered to the format.”

“Yeah, that would be—” I stopped halfway through settling the hypnophones around my head. “Wait a minute, how good’s the construct?”

“I am an Emmerson series mainframe synthetic intelligence,” said the hotel reproachfully. “At maximum fidelity, my virtual constructs are indistinguishable from the projected consciousness they are based on. Subject has now been alone for one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Do you wish the construct installed?”

“Yes.” The words gave me an eerie feeling even as I was speaking them. “In fact, let it do the whole interrogation.”

“Installation complete.”

I snapped the phones back again and sat on the edge of the rack, thinking about the implications of a second me inside the Hendrix’s vast processing system. It was something that I had never—as far as I knew—been subject to in the Corps, and I had certainly never trusted any machine enough to do it once I was operating in a criminal context.

I cleared my throat. “This construct. Will it know what it is?”

“Initially, no. It will know everything that you knew when you exited from the format and no more, though, given your intelligence, it will deduce the facts eventually unless otherwise programmed. Do you wish a blocking subprogramme installed?”

“No,” I said quickly.

“Do you wish me to maintain the format indefinitely?”

“No. Close it down when I, I mean when he, when the construct decides we’ve got enough.” Another thought struck me. “Does the construct carry that virtual locator they wired into me?”

“At present, yes. I am running the same mirror code to mask the signal as I did with your own consciousness. However, since the construct is not directly connected to your cortical stack, I can subtract the signal if you wish.”

“Is it worth the trouble?”

“The mirror code is easier to administer,” the hotel admitted.

“Leave it, then.”

There was an uncomfortable bubble sitting in the pit of my stomach at the thought of editing my virtual self. It reflected far too closely on the arbitrary measures that the Kawaharas and Bancrofts took in the real world with real people. Raw power, unleashed.

“You have a virtual format call,” announced the Hendrix.

I looked up, surprised and hopeful.

“Ortega?”

“Kadmin,” said the hotel diffidently. “Will you accept the call?”

The format was a desert. Reddish dust and sandstone underfoot, sky nailed down from horizon to horizon, cloudless blue. Sun and a pale three-quarter moon hung high and sterile above a distant range of shelf-like mountains. The temperature was a jarring chill, making a mockery of the sun’s blinding glare.

The Patchwork Man stood waiting for me. In the empty landscape he looked like a graven image, a rendering of some savage desert spirit. He grinned when he saw me.

“What do you want, Kadmin? If you’re looking for influence with Kawahara I’m afraid you’re out of luck. She’s pissed off with you beyond repair.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Kadmin’s face and he shook his head slowly, as if to dismiss Kawahara from the proceedings completely. His voice was deep and melodic.

“You and I have unfinished business,” he said.

“Yeah, you fucked up twice in a row.” I ladled scorn into my voice. “What do you want, a third shot at it?”

Kadmin shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well, third time lucky, they say. Allow me to show you something.”

He gestured in the air beside him and a flap of the desert backdrop peeled away from a blackness beyond. The screen it formed sizzled and sprang to life. Close focus on sleeping features. Ortega’s. A fist snapped closed around my heart. Her face was grey and bruised-looking under the eyes. A thin thread of drool ran from one corner of her mouth.

Stunbolt at close range.