Resonance (40 page)

"Could you help me get the washing in?" he said, not looking at her as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Sure."

They stripped the washing line together. Occasionally their hands touched as they reached up to unpeg an item. Each time, Graham withdrew further away. What could a girl like Annalise ever see in someone like him? A grown man who made a beeline for his underpants. Boring, white, unfashionably old underpants that he had to take off the line first, had to wrap up in a shirt before throwing them in the basket in case Annalise saw them. Or worse . . . had the misfortune to touch them.

Shortly after that, he decided that an afternoon in Putney wasn't such a bad idea after all. He couldn't face being alone with Annalise. She'd already invited herself for lunch and showed every intention of staying all day.

They found Gary in the black sphere room, staring into space and looking like he hadn't slept. He acknowledged the two of them briefly, forced a smile, then faded from the conversation.

Howard was only slightly more communicative. They were near to a breakthrough, he was sure. So close it was frustrating. Several times during the night they thought they'd cracked it but—he shrugged, nodding his head as it tracked from shoulder to shoulder—they hadn't.

Tamisha was having more luck, he said. She was working through the Etxamendi with the linguists and they were refining the translation every hour. If only they could make more headway with the math. So much of it was unfathomable—the terminology, the symbols, the structure. Maybe they weren't equations, maybe it was another language altogether.

"What about the Spanish woman's work?" asked Annalise. "I thought you said it was a stepping stone."

He grimaced and shook his head. "Not as much as I'd hoped. There are similarities but . . ." He shrugged again.

They found Shikha on the third floor, scanning resonance logs.

"I don't read them all," Shikha said, pointing at the list of logs on screen. "I scan for phrases like 'amazing discovery,' and 'breakthrough.' It's preferable to wading through a million files every day."

"Have there been any amazing discoveries?" asked Annalise.

Shikha shook her head and flicked a strand of hair away from her face. "Only the Etxamendi file. Most of the other worlds haven't seen it yet. The few that have are as baffled as us."

"Isn't there any way you can ask the Etxamendi for clarification?" asked Annalise.

"We've asked but so far they haven't answered. The only readable file on their world is the one we found yesterday. You're the only two-way communication we have between the worlds."

The two women talked and Graham traced patterns in their hair with his eyes. He was fascinated with the length of Shikha's hair, its blackness, the way it tumbled over her shoulders and back. And the precision of Annalise's hair, the way each strand stayed in place, the shine, the way it followed the contours of her face.

Gary's name came up in conversation and Graham switched from Annalise's hair to her face. Was she looking happier at the mention of Gary's name? Had her heart skipped a beat?

He looked away, feeling embarrassed and stupid. What was the matter with him? Feelings surged within him, coming and going like tides. He was up, down, happy, sad, hopeful and crestfallen. All within minutes of each other. The world was falling apart and all he cared about was whether Annalise liked him. And which Annalise? There were so many of them. Two hundred telepaths and thousands, maybe millions of others. Was he attracted to all of them? Were they all the same? Was the only difference between them one of hair color and experience?

He looked at Annalise Six and wondered who it was he saw. Annalise Six or Annalise in her sixth manifestation? How much of a person's character was determined by experience? How much by genetics? Or did none of that matter? Were love and attraction entirely random, a product of time and space?

A line of thought which came to an abrupt end.

Annalise's face had just blanked out.

"Annalise!"
The name shrieked inside her brain. Her head jerked back in shock.

"Don't say a thing. I haven't got time," the voice continued. "This is Annalise 141." The voice sounded out of breath; it jerked as though she was running. "We've been closed down. Kevin and the team have been taken. There are men all over the office, carrying stuff away. I'm going for Graham. He should be at home. I'll talk later." 

"Are you okay?" Shikha asked Annalise. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Annalise swayed unsteadily and blinked. "They've closed down another RP. Annalise 141 is looking for Graham."

She sat down. "Have you run the closure program today?"

Shikha shrugged. "Howard normally . . ."

"I'll do it," said Annalise.

She ran the program. The number had risen to 383. She ran the hospital check for Graham Smiths—382. Just the one discrepancy—thanks to Annalise Fifteen.

"Annalise!" Another voice in her head. This time it was Annalise One. "Spread the word," she said. "We're going underground. All the Sylvestrus worlds. It's too risky not to. Kevin says he can work off-line. They're going to keep moving, use dial-up lines to access ParaDim, download what they need and post their progress. He's advising everyone else to do the same. Someone's gonna stay behind in London with me and Graham. We're gonna keep the link to the other two hundred worlds open." 

Graham listened and felt progressively guilt-ridden. People were running for their lives and all he could think about was Annalise. He had to become more focused. He had to start contributing. He had to regain control.

Gary and Howard arrived soon after Annalise called them. They both looked drawn. Now, they had more pressure—the Sylvestrus teams were scattering, the baton had been passed.

It was up to them.

"I still can't see a motive for Sylvestrus," said Gary, shaking his head.

Graham wondered what it would take to convince the man. "You don't need a motive if you're mad," he said.

"You can't run a successful high-profile business and be crazy," said Gary, pushing his hands through his unkempt hair. "Someone would notice."

"People see what they want to see," said Graham. "No one's going to complain about Sylvestrus while ParaDim's doing well."

"Graham's right," said Annalise. "I've seen the Chaos files. Sylvestrus is seen as this mythic figure with the golden touch. Everything he tries, succeeds. People don't realize he's picking winners from races that finished years ago. They think he's a genius. Maybe it goes to his head?"

"And selling weapons of mass destruction to the general public has got to be madness," said Graham.

"ParaDim never sells weapons of mass destruction to the public," snapped Gary. "They make the technology available. They share knowledge. They," he paused, looking caught between two minds. "It's difficult to defend, I know, and with hindsight it was wrong but . . . the ethos of ParaDim is all about sharing—making knowledge available, advancing through cooperation."

"They made powerful weapons cheap and easy to get hold of," said Annalise softly.

"Governments could have banned the weapons," said Gary, his voice rising. "They didn't have to let their civilians own them. ParaDim was doing nothing different than any other weapons manufacturer."

"Except do it better," said Annalise.

Gary looked spent. He waved a dismissive arm in Annalise's direction and the effort seemed to take all his strength. "Anyway," he said, stretching and rotating his neck, "it won't happen here. Kenny Zamorra has banned all research on New Tech weapons."

"And I'm banning you," said Shikha, taking Gary by the arm. "You too, Howard. The pair of you can barely stand up. You need sleep and you need it now."

Annalise Fifteen was still in police custody. It was early Saturday morning and the argument over her release raged unabated.

"My client has cooperated with you fully," said Jerry Saddler, her lawyer. "Furthermore, she's provided you with information leading to the arrest of seven individuals and the solution of five murders. She can hardly be considered a danger to the public."

"She threw a firebomb into someone's car! She admits it," said the sergeant.

"She regrets any injury caused to Mr. Sylvestrus, which was entirely accidental, and resulted from her efforts to protect the life of her friend."

"The man has second-degree burns to his face and hands."

"Which he received in the course of committing an offense."

"She's a flight risk."

"My client will willingly surrender her passport."

"And the gun?"

"Naturally."

Annalise had belatedly accepted her lawyer's advice and let him do the talking. She had other things on her mind. What had happened at the flat? Were Graham and Jenny safe?

A phone call from Jenny answered that question. They'd survived a fretful night. A man had knocked on the flat door about two a.m. claiming to be a neighbor locked out of his flat. Jenny hadn't said a word. She'd stood ten feet away from the door, shaking like a leaf while holding Annalise's gun trained on the front door.

Graham had slept through everything.

Annalise was released at 9:15 in the morning. She took the police to her B and B in Harrow where she collected her clothes and handed over her passport. The room didn't look like it had been searched.

They went to the flat next. Annalise called out to Jenny before knocking on the door.

"Thank God," came the muffled cry from inside. Annalise heard the chain slip back before the door opened and the smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted into the corridor.

"Has anyone got a cigarette?" said Jenny, looking desperate. "I ran out two hours ago."

The police left as soon as they'd recovered the gun.

"Why don't you want the police to interview Graham Smith?" asked Jerry Saddler, settling into an armchair and using his briefcase to slide two empty packs of cigarettes and a very full ashtray along the coffee table. "He's your key witness."

Annalise wasn't sure what to say. She looked at Jenny. Jenny raised both eyebrows. She wanted to know too.

"Graham's . . ." Annalise paused, searching for something plausible. "He . . . he wouldn't make a good witness. He doesn't like to speak. Sometimes he doesn't speak for days."

She looked at the closed bedroom door and wondered if he was listening.

"He'll have to talk to the police sometime," said Jerry.

"Then you'll have to make sure it's not anytime soon. He's had a hard time. Harder than anyone can imagine."

Annalise was torn about what to do next. ParaDim knew where she was. If she stayed, she was in danger. If she ran, she'd be followed. Either way, she was going to be looking over her shoulder and starting at every noise.

"The police would have to be informed of any change of address," said Jerry.

Which meant that ParaDim would know within the hour. They'd monitor every phone at the police station, they'd scan all London traffic for the words "Annalise" and "Mercado."

"We'll turn this flat into a fortress," said Jenny. "We'll bring in round-the-clock surveillance—a car outside, someone in the flat, video surveillance of the hall and windows. I'll stay as well, if you want?"

By early afternoon, the flat was full of people. Men running cables, unpacking boxes, drilling into walls.

Annalise stood by Graham's door watching, checking every face, looking for anyone acting suspicious. This was the ideal time for ParaDim to smuggle someone into the flat, however reputable Jenny said the security firm was.

She checked on Graham. He was halfway through his first jigsaw. His bed was pushed well away from the window to make room for the mountain landscape taking shape on the carpet.

She asked if he wanted anything—a drink, a book, something to eat. He shook his head without looking up.

She wondered what was going on inside his head. Was he really blocking everything out? Did he have any conception of the danger around him, the attempts on his life?

Did he wonder why two men had fixed a camera outside his window?

She shook her head and closed the door behind her. Perhaps it was better he didn't know. Innocence was a warm blanket to snuggle under.

The flat started to empty around seven. Annalise was introduced to Mark, a twenty-something wall of muscle who was going to stay with her until morning. He grunted something which passed for a greeting and settled in behind a bank of monitors that had grown behind the breakfast bar.

Annalise said goodbye to Jenny and the last of the day shift and watched them file along the corridor in the left-hand monitor. There were four screens: hallway east, hallway west and two covering the windows—one looking down onto the street, one looking up to the roof. The flat was on the fourth floor and no one could approach without being seen.

Jenny called a few minutes after ten. She'd just got off the phone with Dave. He'd reviewed the CCTV footage and agreed it could support Annalise's account of what had happened. He'd again asked to talk to Graham and Jenny had stalled as best she could.

"Would it help if I arranged a session with a counsellor?" she asked. "Maybe if Graham could talk to a professional?"

Annalise said she'd talk to Graham about it and hung up.

Annalise awoke with a start. It was the middle of the night and something was wrong.

Very wrong.

A bell was ringing. Loud and incessant.

She threw off the covers and stumbled to her feet. Everything was black and was that a fire alarm? She opened the bedroom door and ran to the living room.

"What's happening?" she shouted to Mark.

"Fire alarm," he said, the first hint of emotion creeping into his voice.

Annalise's eyes flicked from monitor to monitor. No sign of smoke, no sign of people. Was there really a fire?

She ran back to her bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans, a coat, shoes. Then ran to Graham's room, opened the door and peered in. Everything was quiet. She flicked the light switch. Graham stirred, his eyes blinking towards her.