The Genehunter

1. The Wrong Tom JacksSimms stood in a circular white room, surrounded by the frozen heads of forty-two dead from the twentieth century. He recorded every detail of the scene via his brain plug-in. Strictly speaking he had no business being here in the LA Bethesda Eternity Clinic and you never knew when information would come in useful. He didn't have the clinic's full client list, but each head sat encased within a two-meter silver cylinder, each bearing a small name plaque his plug-in could resolve. He stored each name away, the one he recognized and the forty-one he didn't. “This way. The patient is over here.” The ratty, unkempt clinician he'd bribed crossed the room, glancing backwards at Simms to make sure he was following. Simms smiled at all of it. At the attendant, so proud of his ridiculous little world, at their insistence on the word patient, at the whole insane set-up. Did these people actually think this was eternal life? That they could conveniently bypass society's slide into hell? Be woken up in a golden future with all their cancers healed? Elsewhere in the clinic there were full bodies preserved. The ones who could afford the deluxe package. These poor unfortunates had gone for the cheaper option. Simms almost felt sorry for them. He wondered what sacrifices each had made for even this. He put it out of his mind. What did it matter? Wasn't any business of his. People with money paid and facilities like this met the demand. No harm in any of it. Perhaps it wasn't so different to what he did. “This is him.” Simms stopped at the cylinder the attendant identified. It looked good. Tom Jacks, born 1954, suspended 2015. Yeah, right. Simms knew very little about him. A famous name, sure, but this Tom Jacks was a nobody. His searches had turned up nothing interesting at all. He was just a unique pattern of base-pairs that someone, somewhere was willing to pay for. Weird, sure, but he asked no questions. Collectors collected and he provided. He'd triple-checked they wanted this man and not his famous namesake. Most likely some relative researching the family-tree. Or it could be other things, but that was none of his business. Get the DNA, get paid, that was all that mattered. The job made him uneasy, though. Damn thing was, he couldn't see why. It was straightforward enough. Maybe too straightforward. Things didn't go like this. It had only taken him a day and no one had threatened him, let alone tried to kill him. Here was the DNA, conveniently packaged up in a frozen brain. Somehow, he was sure, he was being played. He just couldn't see how. He looked at the cylinder. The head was sealed inside, awaiting the dawn of the age of miracles. A dusting of frost coated the silver exterior. Was that right? Wasn't it supposed to be insulated? “And you can extract a sample?” he said to the attendant. “You're sure it's clean, no decay?” “Of course. There's an access point for biopsies. I'm sure you've heard the stories. How we don't really preserve anyone, just take their money to maintain empty chambers.” The attendant shook his head at the things people believed. Simms said nothing. He wanted to get the job done and leave. Despite the cold and the sealed units, the place smelled of chemicals and decay. He was willing to bet the attendant came in here and talked to the damn heads when there was no one else around. Simms took out the sterile needle he'd bought with him and handed it to the attendant. “Here. I will test the sequence against his known phenotype. Anything less than 99% and the deal's off. Understand?” Usually this was the time they started to bargain, see problems, remember expenses. The attendant merely assented with a nod of his head. Either he was a fool or he was playing a part. Simms watched as the man flipped open a small hatch in the side of the cylinder and inserted the needle into the dead brain within. A small screen lit up on the surface of the cylinder so they could see the needle's progress. When he had the sample, Simms inserted it into the sequencer he carried. The device sampled the DNA, flashed through a simulated development cycle to full maturity, ran comparisons against the known historical details of this Tom Jacks. Within a minute, the results were communicated to Simms' brain. His job would be a lot damn easier if everyone just got a number tattooed onto them at birth. He looked at the attendant, waiting by the cylinder, breathing through his nose like this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. Or like he might bolt at any moment. He could be a useful contact. This job was junk, sure, but you never knew what the next one would be. A cryogenic clinic attendant amenable to bribery might be a very useful person to know. Especially since Simms now had recorded proof he had been bribed. “The sample is good. Here's your forty K.” Simms transferred the agreed sum, encrypted and untraceable. He saw the moment the money reached the attendant: the smile that brightened on the man's face was like the summer sun rising. Doubling your annual pay can do that. Which only troubled Simms all the more. The guy was an amateur. Someone was playing both of them. He'd been careful. He was always careful. When he crossed the line he made sure he left no evidence. Always gave clients the full speech about the uses to which recovered DNA could be put, word-for-word from the law. So far as the authorities knew, he accessed only public records. The bribe to this attendant was an infringement, sure, but no one would be able to prove a connection. He'd run through everything several times but could see no loopholes. It nagged at him. He hated that. “I'd like to leave now,” he said. The attendant nodded as he sealed up the cylinder. They left Tom to his long wait and walked out, past room after room of frozen remains. Simms wished he could grab the names on all the units, but the doors were sealed. The attendant, whose name he still didn't know, was taking enough risk letting Simms do what he'd done. They could always come up with some line about visiting a relative if challenged, but if the clinic owners found out what their employee had done, it would be all over for him. For a set-up like this, public perception was everything. They stopped at security doors while the attendant let the machinery sample his DNA. What was that all about? Controlling who came in made perfect sense, but controlling who left? Did they think the dead were going to rise up and try to escape? They'd seen too many old movies. The security doors hinged open and they were back in the warmer air of the clinic's lobby, all polished marble and subtle music. Vases of flowers. Real flowers. A group of relatives sat in silence on the leather chairs, their expressions blank, no one talking. He thought about them all: the thousands and thousands of dead people in there, the thousands and thousands of estates paying fees in perpetuity. It was a beautiful thing. Maybe he should start one up himself. A few big contracts and he'd have enough money. Then he could sit back and enjoy life, let others do the work. He was willing to bet the myths about these places were true, often as not. Make it look good, professional like a real hospital, and people would pay. You didn't need to actually freeze the remains. Who would know? Turning the pleasant fantasy over in his mind, he walked to the clinic's jump node. Normally he avoided them. The public jump infrastructure was shot to s**t. But with a job came expenses and with expenses came the wonder of private networks. He instructed the system to take him back to London. He dialled in a few random jumps around the world en route, too, to throw anyone who might be following him. Private networks were more reliable, sure, but he didn't trust them to be any more secure. He knew something had gone wrong the moment he stepped out of the destination node. This was definitely not London Euston. Too clean, for one thing. Too quiet. He stood in a bare, square room; bright white walls, no doors or windows. The only way in or out was via the jump node he'd stepped from. He scanned it, as he habitually did, hoping to probe the network logs for anyone following him. The plug-ins required for this were highly illegal, but he happened to have a set hidden away in his skull. He got the node's address but nothing more. The gateway was deactivated. He checked his clock. Ten seconds had elapsed since he'd left the clinic. While you were in the jump network you technically didn't exist, had no consciousness of the passage of time. But, wherever he was, at least he had materialised. Everyone knew the stories about people trapped inside the jump networks, stuck for so long no one dared extract them to tell them. It was immortality of sorts, he supposed. Beat having your head cut off and frozen. “Ah, Simms. There you are.” A disembodied voice from a metal grill in the opposite wall. He recognized it immediately. Things began to slot into place. So this was it? The whole job had been a GMA sting? Checking up licences? “Agent Ballard of the Genetic Monitoring Agency,” said Simms. “Hit another puzzle you can't solve? Having trouble telling the time, maybe?” Ballard laughed his deep, rolling laugh. Was he nearby or somewhere remote? It didn't matter. It was typical of Ballard to lurk in the shadows. Simms really couldn't blame him. They'd met physically once or twice. If his face was as disfigured as Ballard's, if his features dripped like melted plastic, he'd stay hidden too. Acid thrown in his face, it was said, years back. Some thug resisting arrest. Ballard could have got it fixed long ago. Word was he liked his shocking appearance just fine. Found it useful when it came to playing the scary GMA agent. “Simms, Simms. I'd really be more polite if I were you. I've pulled you out of the jump network to count how many laws you've broken today. Make my day any worse and I'll have to start looking real close.” The GMAn sounded delighted at the prospect. “Investigate away. You won't find anything, but perhaps it'll make you feel like you're doing something useful with your life.” As he talked, Simms glanced around the room, trying to figure out an escape plan. He came up with precisely nothing. He had good plug-ins, unregistered military-grade tech that might be able to reactivate the jump mechanism. But they would take time to work and the GMA would have counter-measures. Plus, the less Ballard knew about his brain-boosters, the better. “So,” said Ballard. “According to the logs, you've been commissioned to track down the DNA of a Tom Jacks. Purpose: addition to an unnamed collector's molecule library. All completely above-board and legal.” “That's correct. And well done on the reading. Some of those words are tricky.” “I'm puzzled, though,” Ballard continued. “You specialise in musicians. Rock gods and dance divas from history. This man was a no one. Times hard are they?” “I have to work to make a living. You should try it some time.” “Surely you're not intending to pass this Tom Jacks off as the Tom Jacks to some unfortunate citizen?” “Obviously not. That would be illegal.” “Oh, but wait, what's this?” Ballard continued. “I see you're on your way home from the Bethesda Eternity Clinic, last resting place of Tom Jacks - the wrong Tom Jacks - currently cryogenically preserved and awaiting a cure for pancreatic cancer. Now that is odd, because the estate of this Mr. Jacks has granted no access to his remains.” “Which is why my trip was futile,” said Simms. “Shame, but that's how it goes.” “So you didn't, say, illegally acquire this poor, dead man's DNA?” “That's right. I didn't illegally acquire this poor, dead man's DNA.” “And the large sum of money you just sent from one of your accounts?” Simms smiled, sure Ballard could at least see him. “A down payment on a slot at the clinic for myself. And thanks for being so concerned about my well-being.” Ballard snorted with laughter. “And if I let the techs loose on your brain and all those exotic plug-ins of yours, you're saying they won't find the DNA of Mr. Jacks encrypted away somewhere?”