Resonance (11 page)

But now he got closer he could see there
was
something on the bench. He couldn't quite make it out, something flat. He walked faster. There were two things—a folded newspaper and a notice.

Wet paint, the notice read. He looked at the newspaper; was there a message inside? He bent down to pick it up.

"Don't look around. It's me."

Graham froze, his hand outstretched over the bench. Where was she this time? He could have sworn the voice came from behind the bench but that was impossible—no one was there.

"Pick up the 'wet paint' sign and sit down."

Graham obeyed, sweeping the park with his eyes as he did so. The only people nearby were three people on the path—a middle-aged couple and a young girl with a Walkman. He stared at the girl. She didn't look like Annalise.

"Pick up the paper and pretend to read, it'll mask your lips when you talk."

The girl's lips never moved. And the voice seemed to be coming up from the ground.

The young girl passed by to his right, the older couple to his left. Graham picked up the newspaper and carefully unfolded it, looking for some kind of microphone or loudspeaker. Nothing fell out.

"In case you're wondering—there's a baby monitor under the seat. Neat, huh? It's got a range of 150 feet. I'm sunning myself out here on the grass, talking into my very large hat."

"Can you hear me?" Graham pitched his voice just above a whisper.

"Hang on, I'll adjust the volume . . . try again."

"Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear. Sorry about last night but I had to fly. Kevin's found something important. Something to do with October 16, 1966."

"That's my birthday."

"October the sixteenth?"

He nodded.

"Are you still there?" she asked.

Graham remembered the baby monitor and felt stupid.

"Yes, I was born on October the sixteenth, 1966."

He was even more confused. What had his date of birth to do with anything?

"You think that might be the date when all this was created?" said Annalise. "And you're the key 'cause you were the first to be plugged in?"

Graham shrugged, "Did they have VR in the sixties?"

"Roswell was '47 and—" She broke off. "Best be quiet for a minute. There's a man walking towards you. Doesn't look like a tourist."

Graham turned a page of his newspaper and glanced to his right. The man looked like a businessman—smart suit, tie, shoes that shone. Graham slipped back behind the newspaper and waited.

"He's gone," said Annalise. "Didn't look like a spy but can't be too careful. Who can tell what the bad guys look like in a virtual world."

"Do you think everyone we see is trapped somewhere inside a VR chamber?"

"Doubt it. Maybe a few dozen per program. You, me, Kevin, Gary, a few others we haven't met yet."

"But why? And how?" He had so many questions—each fighting to be aired first. He shook his head, blinked and tried to order his thoughts. What baffled him the most? What didn't baffle him? It all seemed so improbable. Virtual worlds, keys, resonance waves, two hundred Annalises . . .

"Why are there two hundred of you?" he asked. "If Annalise Mercado's such an unusual name, how come there's two hundred of you strapped inside a VR chamber?"

"Good question. Way I see it, we're two hundred different people all playing the part of Annalise Mercado. And for some reason we can't access our real memories. I might not even be female. But when I'm in here—I'm Annalise One Eight Seven. It's the only thing that makes sense. Some of us have identical pasts—up to a point. We all have the same parents but Annalise Nineteen and me—we have the same aunts, uncles and cousins too. We lived in the same house, went to the same schools, had the same friends, the same experiences. Right up to the age of fourteen and then—
wham
—our lives diverged. I think that's when we were plugged into the system—Nineteen and me—we were given identical memories up to the age of fourteen and then let loose in the world."

"To what end?"

"No idea. I'm not even sure Kevin knows. But it has to be some kind of experiment. Maybe the CIA are using VR worlds for interrogation purposes. Maybe they're testing two hundred simulators to find the best way to break someone down."

"We're spies?"

"Or test subjects. Trust me, governments don't care about using their citizens when they're short of guinea pigs."

Was that why his home was bugged? Had he been a guinea pig all his life, people observing his every move?

"Or it might be aliens," continued Annalise, "setting up a VR lab so they can study us, tweak our environment and watch how we react to different situations. Gotta make more sense than those ridiculous medical probes."

"So, I might not be Graham Smith?"

"Exactly. That's your persona in here. But you're also the key—someone important—who they've imprisoned in here."

"For thirty-three years?"

"Not necessarily. Just 'cause your character's been here for thirty-three years doesn't mean you have. And even if you have, who's to say how much time has elapsed in the real world? One year in here might be the same as a minute out there."

He paused. Was that possible? Then he had another idea.

"Are there two hundred Graham Smiths as well?"

"I think so. We've met about ten. Every time an Annalise has looked for a Graham they've found one."

"So the key could be one of the other Grahams?"

There was a pause. "I hadn't thought of that. Maybe you should talk to the other Grahams? Compare notes. I can send a message now, if you want."

"I'm not sure that would work."

"Why not?"

"When we first met, you asked me if I knew about the Annalises."

"Yeah."

"But you never asked me how."

"Didn't need to, you were the key, that's the kind of thing you'd know."

"But I'm not the key. I knew about the Annalises because I'd met them. Annalise One has long black hair, I met her Sunday. And last week I was saved by an Annalise with bright orange hair who lives in a cardboard box."

"You met Annalise Seven!"

"She didn't say. And I've met an Annalise from Boston . . ."

"You actually saw them and talked to them?"

"Yes, Annalise One came to my house on Sunday and helped clear the bugs."

"That was you!"

"That was me."

"So you think there's just the one of you and you flip between programs?"

"I don't know."

"I'll find out. Won't be long."

Graham waited, wondering what Annalise was doing, wondering if it would be so bad if he casually glanced behind to find out.

He didn't. He turned another page of the newspaper instead, his stomach rumbling as he did so. Maybe he should take the opportunity to have his sandwich? He checked his watch. He'd give her five minutes and then he'd eat.

Two minutes later Annalise returned.

"Just got through to four of the girls. The others are elsewhere. But there's at least five Graham Smiths sitting in Green Park at the moment. And you're the only one reading a newspaper."

Graham didn't have time to reply.

"There's a woman coming towards you on your left. She's looking right at you."

He glanced furtively to the left, lowering the newspaper a touch and quickly pulling it back up. She
was
looking at him. A young woman, mid twenties, short hair.

He waited, his hands tightening around the newspaper. She sat down at the far end of the seat, rummaged in one of her two voluminous bags, brought out a book and started to read.

Graham observed her as he pretended to read. She showed no signs of leaving any time soon, nor signs of any interest in Graham. She just sat there, her head bowed over her book.

Graham folded the newspaper, placed it back on the bench and took out his sandwich.

No doubt he'd find another wet paint sign in St. James's Park tomorrow.

He was unsettled for the rest of the lunch hour. The idea of there being other Graham Smiths hit him more than he'd expected.

He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

And the possibility that he wasn't Graham Smith but someone else entirely was even worse. Admittedly his life wasn't great. As a child he'd have given anything to be someone else. But not now. Now, he was used to being who he was. He'd adapted. And he wasn't sure he could do that again. Especially given the choice of new identities—an abductee at the heart of an alien experiment or a guinea pig in a brainwashing project.

Annalise must have got it wrong. And there were other explanations. His old theory for one: the unstable world shedding threads of existence. That's where the other Annalises were living—on unravelled strands of reality that had been discarded and were slowly fading away. His was the only true reality, all the others were transient, ephemeral memories of what used to be and could never be again.

The planet was alive, an imperfect unstable sphere that evolved by shedding its outer layers. Layers of reality detaching every now and then, part of the natural evolution of the planet. Wafers of existence shed like dead skin and replaced from beneath. Something similar but never identical. The planet slowly evolving, sloughing off its outer layers.

And some of those outer layers could still harbor life—for a time. While they drifted aimlessly, slowly decomposing, unaware of their impending disintegration.

And, somehow, Annalise had learned to bridge those strands of existence. She could talk to her other selves and those other selves could talk back, tell her something of their lives, of what they did and saw on their slowly degrading threads. Where his other selves, the shadow Graham Smiths, sat and ate and slowly unravelled into nothingness.

By the time he returned to work, he'd pushed all thoughts of virtual worlds deep into the recesses of his mind. The world was real—imperfect and unstable, but real.

Later that afternoon, Graham was waiting by the coffee machine on the second floor lobby. He wasn't sure why, but the coffee always tasted better from the second floor machine. Brenda said it was because they cleaned it more often, though he couldn't see why that would be so. Why would anyone clean one machine more often than the others?

Stephen Leyland was ahead of him in the queue, talking quietly to someone Graham couldn't quite place. Brian, was it? Roger? The name escaped him but it was someone from the fifth floor.

"How long's he been missing this time?" asked the unknown man.

Graham tensed. Had someone else noticed that people were going missing?

"Four weeks," mumbled Stephen, so softly that Graham had to strain to make it out.

"How's Janie taking it?" continued the man, extracting his fifth cup from the machine and placing it precariously on a small tray.

"Bad."

Janie? Wasn't that Stephen's wife?

"Haven't the police got any leads?"

Stephen shook his head and turned away from the conversation while another plastic cup clattered into position, the machine whirred and a dark brown liquid streamed out.

Had someone in Stephen's family gone missing? Someone close?

"They say he'll probably get in touch when he needs money. And that the best we can do is check the answer-phone every day and wait."

"They told you that?"

Stephen nodded. "It's no way to live, is it?"

"Can't you hire a private detective to go round the shelters?"

"The police say they've done that already. All the shelters have Jason's picture."

Now Graham understood. Jason was Stephen's son. Fourteen, fifteen? Something like that. Stephen had a picture on his desk. Always had, ever since Graham had known him.

The lift bell rang. Graham watched the doors slide back. No one got out. And no one was waiting in the lobby either. Graham looked harder, expecting someone to suddenly remember it was their floor and rush forward from the back of the lift. No one moved.

A tall, gaunt man stared back at Graham. Graham looked away. Seconds passed, the man continued to stare. Shouldn't the lift doors have closed by now? Stephen's friend loaded the last drink onto his tray, made his farewells and headed off towards the back corridor. Still the lift doors remained open. Were they stuck? Was the man holding them open on purpose?

Graham edged along the lobby wall, following Stephen towards the head of the queue. He glanced back towards the lift. The doors were closing at last.

David Fotheringale, Her Majesty's Minister of Trade, strode into Conference Room C. He'd been looking forward to meeting Adam Sylvestrus for two reasons. One, anything to deepen the working relationship with ParaDim was good for the country. And, two, it wasn't that bad for David Fotheringale either. If he could keep in with Sylvestrus, maybe there'd be a directorship—something lucrative to step into when his political career started to wane.

Formalities exchanged, the two deputations sat. Three men on each side of the table. Fotheringale watched how Sylvestrus let his two American associates do most of the talking and how often they glanced towards him—as though seeking approval. And when Sylvestrus spoke—in that still recognizably English accent—people listened.

He was a very impressive figure—Sylvestrus—tall, gaunt, eyes that missed nothing. And he had a reputation to match. He had turned ParaDim from a little-known research project into the world's fastest growing company. A company with the true Midas touch. Everything they undertook succeeded. So many patents, so many discoveries. It was staggering.

And incredibly profitable too. Every major country had vied for the Census project, they knew the money that would be generated from the spin-offs and the benefits of being in bed with ParaDim. It had been one of Fotheringale's proudest moments—the day Sylvestrus announced that Census was coming to Britain.

As the meeting progressed, he wondered if this might be another of those days. The first results from the Census project were coming through. Several exciting medical discoveries had been made.

"In fact, Minister," said the younger of the two ParaDim aides, "one of your employees was flagged in our latest medical sweep. Very interesting family history. Potential breakthrough."