Witness X: ‘Silence of the Lambs meets Blade Runner’ Stephen Baxter Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Credits

  About the Author

  Copyright

  There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.

  Aldous Huxley

  Prologue

  I used to think of sleep as though it was swimming in a pool.

  Some nights I slept deeper than others.

  Now, after seeing you beneath the water, eyes open – but blind –

  I wonder if death is the same, different layers, different depths.

  I can’t change the past.

  I can only reach out so you know how much I miss you

  Whilst we are absent,

  one from another.

  Chapter One

  THURSDAY 1 FEBRUARY 2035

  5.45 p.m.

  The low, booming growl of mortar fire filled Kyra’s head, quickly followed by the rapid crack of gunshots. She was still sightless, but all around her she could hear bawled orders and yelps of pain. Over everything was a blanket of suffocating heat.

  She jolted backwards as the visual burst into life and she saw figures in desert camouflage uniform, carrying weapons as they ran for cover, like a horrifying clip from a war movie. In front of her eyes – no, she had to remind herself it wasn’t her eyes, but his eyes – a crumbling wall exploded into rubble. Everything became a blur of yellows, brown and khakis beneath sunlight so harsh it hurt to look.

  Was this Afghanistan? Basra? Helmand, maybe? It took her back to when she was a child, playing with Emma on the carpet while her dad watched the news on the screen.

  The scene suddenly switched, the desert sun setting low, a melting golden ball sinking into the horizon, the sky daubed with dazzling orange and lilac. Kyra dropped her gaze to see desert fatigues, well-worn army boots and a rifle clutched in her hands. Some instinct told her it was a 59 Minimi, even though she’d never held a gun in her life. She inspected the smattering of fair hairs catching the light, the muscles that tensed beneath the freckled skin. These weren’t her hands, her arms.

  They were Brownrigg’s.

  Night fell – hot, dusty, black. Not city black, like she was used to, where the light pollution sent out a constant glow. This darkness was an inky cloud smothering her, pitch pouring into her eyes, her ears, her mouth, so that it was difficult to breathe. Had she lost transference? But her eyes slowly adjusted and she gazed around.

  Up ahead, she saw the tiny glimmering lights of oil lamps in the small square cut-out windows of mud-built, flat-roofed houses. Clusters of shrubs and grasses rose behind them and beyond those, sand and rock that she imagined stretched as far as the horizon. She made a few more observations through Brownrigg’s eyes, registering and logging details, as his body swivelled round until her gaze came to rest on two soldiers, one male, one female. Brownrigg held his fist up and they stopped still.

  There was no sound. Kyra tapped her VR headset. Then there was a crackling in her ear and a voice came over a radio.

  ‘Execute.’

  Brownrigg jabbed a single finger and led the others towards the houses. She could feel the grit of tiny stones beneath his boots as he crept forwards. There were three wooden doors in the small complex. Kyra watched as he directed the two soldiers to the outer ones, and he stood in front of the central one. A three-finger countdown and they disappeared into the buildings. Brownrigg entered blind, his gun pointing ahead. She could feel his heart rate rising. There was no night vision device, the only light a small torch attached to the barrel of the gun, casting a tiny beam of brightness around as he searched the property.

  ‘Clear!’ came the male soldier’s voice.

  ‘Clear!’ echoed the woman.

  A movement ahead caused Kyra to catch her breath. Brownrigg crept closer to examine a bundle of rags on the ground. She could feel the tension in his shoulders as he held his rifle close to his chest. The scraps of cloth at his feet appeared to squirm. She felt his body as he stepped back into stance, his finger twitching at the trigger.

  A small, fragile hand appeared slowly from beneath the rags, then the fevered face of a young boy. Brownrigg immediately relaxed his body and blew out a lungful of air. He swung his rifle round on its strap, so that it rested against his shoulder blades, and knelt down.

  ‘You okay, mate? Feeling poorly?’ The boy looked blankly at him. Brownrigg reached out to feel his forehead. The child moaned and tried to move away.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get you some help.’ He sat back on his haunches and went to reach for his radio. As he did so, the boy’s other hand shot out from beneath the material. He was holding a curved, rusted blade. He lashed out awkwardly at Brownrigg but it was enough to do damage.

  A poker-hot sensation traced a jagged line across Kyra’s throat followed by a burst of adrenaline and panic coursing through her body – through Brownrigg’s body – as he jerked backwards. The child jumped up, shedding the tattered cloth, face jubilant.

  Outside the house, a man shouted unrecognisable words and the boy stood up straight, alert. The crack of a rifle cut the voice dead.

  The child hesitated, blade still in his hand, then spat viciously in Brownrigg’s face as he lay grappling at his throat, the blood seeping wet and hot through his fingers.

  Then the boy ran out of the door.

  Brownrigg flailed and writhed on the ground in blind panic. He kicked out, knocking a small table that clattered to the ground, the sound of glass breaking.

  Kyra gulped in air, feeling his primal fear.

  She heard his colleagues shout to one another.

  A single gunshot.

  Then the silence of the desert.

  Finally, what seemed like minutes later, the two soldiers appeared and leaned over him.

  ‘We got both of them, sir,’ one of them said. ‘Hold on. Stay with me now!’ His companion shouted coordinates into the radio, begging for urgent medical help.

  Then everything seemed to melt into the blackness.

  Kyra leaped up from the recliner she was lying on, and ripped off her headset, but her eyes were still blind in the blacked-out lab. She moved around frantically, until someo
ne grabbed her tightly by the arms.

  ‘Get off me!’ she yelled and started kicking out.

  There was a man’s cry of pain, followed by a voice, loud in the darkness, ‘Cosmo, lights fifty per cent.’

  Immediately, the room brightened.

  Disoriented for a moment, Kyra stood still. Her lab partner was holding her steady. ‘You’re fine, Kyra! You’re in the lab. It’s me, Jimmy.’

  She looked around, saw the familiar machinery, the black granite worktops, her mug sitting nearby, and began to settle. This wasn’t the first memory transference procedure they had done, but she didn’t usually react like this.

  ‘God, Jim, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve done worse.’ He smiled, then let go of her, arms still outstretched for a moment, before he bent to rub his shin.

  ‘I was scared.’

  ‘I know.’ He guided her back to the recliner with a gentle hand on her shoulder as she struggled to get her breath back into a calm rhythm.

  ‘Just take it easy,’ he soothed. ‘It’s okay, Kyra. You’re okay.’

  She sat down and swiped at her throat, feeling sweat and mistaking it for blood. She held trembling hands up in front of her face. Her own hands. She turned them over slowly.

  Clean.

  Her heart rate began to slow, but her breathing was still strained.

  She tapped her fingers against her chest. Jimmy understood instantly and pulled his inhaler from the pocket of his white lab coat. Grabbing it from him, she pumped the canister and sucked at it desperately.

  Moments later, Kyra could feel her airways starting to open up. Her breathing became steadier, deeper. The sweat began to cool on her body, and she reached up to feel her neck again. Jimmy watched her, concerned and confused.

  He patted her back briefly. ‘Not going to puke this time?’

  She shook her head grimly. ‘Made sure I didn’t eat beforehand.’

  ‘You’re getting good at this,’ he smiled. ‘Try to get some water down.’

  He reached for a glass on the nearby work surface and passed it to her.

  She drank thirstily, grateful to have him nearby.

  Jimmy checked her pulse with an electrical monitor and examined her eyes with a transilluminator. Kyra glared angrily towards Carter, her business partner and owner of the CarterTech lab.

  ‘Look forward,’ commanded Jimmy. ‘Pupil reaction normal,’ he said and took the empty glass from her, replacing it on the worktop.

  ‘The army, Carter? The bloody MOD? After what we’d talked about?’ she said angrily.

  Carter put one finger to his lips and with his other hand pointed to CASNDRA, the large, white, doughnut-shaped machine on the other side of the lab. The bright white metal of the apparatus contrasted with the dark grey walls and black work surfaces. Lying on a white bed with his head at the centre of the aperture was Lieutenant General Brownrigg from the MOD.

  Carter shrugged. ‘Business is business.’

  ‘I’m bringing him out now,’ said Jimmy.

  Kyra lay back for a moment. Even the ceiling was dark in the lab, painted black to hide the wires and the air vents. She supposed Carter thought it was stylish. She gave Jimmy a weary thumbs-up.

  ‘CASNDRA, retract bed,’ Jimmy said as he carried a glass of water over. There was a gentle whooshing sound as the bed moved forward, bringing Brownrigg out of the machine. He sat up slowly and took the glass.

  He seemed much older than a usual serving soldier and Kyra concluded that the memory of his that she had seen had been from early in his career. He didn’t speak at first but watched her with his steady fixed stare as he drank his water.

  ‘Do you feel alright?’ asked Jimmy.

  Brownrigg nodded, finished his water and handed his glass back to Jimmy who said, ‘The pico-stimulators and nano-receptors will pass out of your bloodstream in the next few hours. You won’t feel a thing. But it’s just as well to drink plenty of fluid.’

  ‘They’re the things that I couldn’t see that you injected me with?’ Brownrigg said. He must have seen Jimmy’s face fall and said with a wry smile, ‘Don’t worry, son. I’ve been injected with all sorts in my career. Didn’t know what most of it was.’

  His voice was deep and smooth. He was in good shape for an older man, no paunch, his shoulder and chest muscles visible beneath his crisp pale blue shirt. He swung his legs neatly round to the side of the bed, but Jimmy raised a hand. ‘Give it a minute or two so I can check you over.’

  Carter leaned against the grey wall, half hidden in the shadows. He wore a midnight-blue pinstripe suit, with a handkerchief that matched his pale aqua tie. All tailor-made – not available in the shops. Many of the Chinese businessmen wore them as a symbol of the rapid rise in wealth of their country over the last decade and suits were beginning to make a comeback in London. It was another of Carter’s pretensions, Kyra reflected, like the white coats he insisted she and Jimmy wore as it made them look like ‘professional medics’. Even though they were technically equal partners in the company his suit made the statement that he was clearly the boss, never mind the fact that his name was above the door.

  Interestingly, Carter never let her delve into his memories.

  Too intimate, he said.

  Something to hide? she wondered.

  Carter had been nervous before the transference and, if she was honest, so had she been. He’d been cagey about the client but Carter had reassured her that afterwards they would make a decision together about how to proceed. Sometimes she was grateful to him for offering her the opportunity to develop her technology, other times she wished she’d picked her money more carefully. All those promises about the tech going to the right people … he hadn’t meant any of it.

  He was headstrong, but then again, so was she.

  ‘So then?’ Carter said expectantly, nodding at Kyra.

  Brownrigg locked eyes with her and she felt a connection with him. How could she not after having been in his memories?

  ‘There was fighting, soldiers. The desert, maybe Afghanistan,’ she said. ‘There were three little houses. I thought they were abandoned, but then there was … a boy … just a child …’

  Brownrigg watched her, unperturbed.

  What had happened out there – had it affected him at all?

  ‘It was a …’ She searched for the word. ‘An ambush. The boy … cut you.’ She reached up to her neck again. ‘He slashed your throat.’

  No reaction.

  She said the next words very quietly. ‘Your colleagues shot him.’

  How could an experience so awful, the killing of a young boy, whatever the circumstance, not show in his expression like a veil of grief and regret?

  Carter’s eyes flicked between the two of them.

  Brownrigg reached to open his shirt collar and reveal a long red, ragged scar.

  ‘An accurate account, Doctor Sullivan,’ he said, his voice steady.

  Carter’s face lit up.

  Relief, she assumed.

  Kyra rubbed her brow, still feeling disoriented. Her eyes wandered onto the black granite worktop. She studied the tiny glinting silver flecks in the darkness to ground herself, wanting something solid, familiar. Her eyes moved along to her mug. Hand over the coffee and no one gets hurt – a present from Jimmy. Then she looked up to one of the glass walls of the lab, her own reflection visible against the dark backdrop of the corridor beyond.

  She saw herself clearly, her short, choppy dark bob, her long legs bent up in front of her, her shoulders that were a little too wide. She locked eyes with Brownrigg again, feeling a guilt that didn’t belong to her.

  ‘Did they … did he die? The boy?’ she asked, afraid of the answer.

  Brownrigg didn’t reply. Instead, he broke her gaze and stood up.

  Carter jumped in. ‘As you can see, Lieutenant General,’ he said, ‘Doctor Sullivan has developed quite extraordinary technology in CASNDRA.’ His face was earnest, trying too hard. God, she resented him.

 
; Brownrigg smoothed his clothes. There was something almost coy about him now. She wondered if he felt vulnerable after the transference. A scientific version of the morning-after walk of shame.

  ‘You most certainly have,’ he said to Kyra, still not looking at her. ‘CASNDRA – like the Greek oracle?’ He smiled, but she wasn’t sure if his tone was mocking. ‘Remind me, what does CASNDRA stand for again?’ he asked.

  ‘Computer Assisted Scientific Neurological Detail Recall Aid.’

  ‘So now you’ve sampled the goods, so to speak,’ Carter interrupted, ushering Brownrigg towards the door, ‘Let’s talk terms.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking,’ Kyra said. Carter scowled but kept moving.

  He wasn’t even going to include her in this part of the process. Irritation bloomed in her chest and she stood unsteadily, moved over to them and grabbed at Brownrigg’s shirtsleeve.

  ‘May I ask …’ The two men paused and faced her. ‘… how will you use my technology?’ The muscle in Brownrigg’s arm was rock-solid under her fingers. He glanced down and she released her grip.

  Carter glared at her.

  Brownrigg, however, appeared unperturbed and gave a thin smile. ‘Tackling terrorism.’

  ‘How?’ She wasn’t going to let this drop.

  He hesitated, then continued in a firm voice. ‘Interrogation. We believe it could be … useful in getting information about terrorist cell members, even after an attack.’ He waved a hand through the air. ‘Their contacts and addresses, locating where the cells meet or where the weapons are coming in, that sort of thing. If we can catch a live one, then there’s no reason we can’t get some intel that would prevent an atrocity.’

  ‘Interesting.’ She cocked her head to one side, pretending to consider. ‘But I think the human rights lobby will have something to say about invading people’s brains against their will.’

  Carter’s face darkened.

  Brownrigg smiled, clearly amused by the sudden tension in the room. He took a few steps towards her.

  ‘Doctor Sullivan, terrorism will only get worse as the gap between the rich and the poor continues to polarise. I am sure the British public will be eternally grateful for your technology and the lives it can save.’