"Greg Egan - Tap (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

file:///G|/rah/Greg%20Egan/Egan,%20Greg%20-%20Tap.txt

Tap, by Greg Egan
"I want you to find out who killed my mother, Ms O'Connor. Will you do that?"
Helen Sharp's voice was unsteady with anger; she seemed almost as psyched up as if she'd come here
to confront the killer, face-to-face. Under the circumstances, though, the very act of insisting
that there was a killer was like shouting a defiant accusation from the rooftops -- which must
have taken some courage, even if she had no idea whom she was accusing.
I said carefully, "The coroner returned an open finding. I'm not a lawyer, but I imagine Third
Hemisphere would still settle out of court for a significant -- "
"Third Hemisphere have no case to answer! And sure, maybe they'd pay up anyway -- just to avoid
the publicity. But as it happens, I'm not interested in legalized blackmail." Her eyes flashed
angrily; she made no effort to conceal her outrage. No doubt her lawyers had already given her
exactly the same advice; it didn't look like the idea would ever grow on her. She was thirty-two --
only five years younger than me -- but she radiated so much stubborn idealism that I found it hard
not to think of her as belonging to another generation entirely.
I raised one hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Fine. It's your decision. But I suggest you don't
sign anything that limits your options -- and don't make any public declarations of absolution.
After six months paying my expenses, you might change your mind. Or I might even turn up something
that will change it for you. Stranger things have happened." Though nothing much stranger than a
next-of-kin declining to screw a multinational for all it was worth.
Sharp said impatiently, "The TAP implant was not responsible. There's no evidence to suggest that
it was."
"No, and there's no evidence to suggest foul play, either."
"That's why I'm hiring you. To find it."
I glanced irritably at the north-facing window; the allegedly smart pane was ablaze with sunlight,
rendering most of the office almost as hot as the sweltering streets of Kings Cross below.
Grace Sharp had been dead for a month. I'd been following the case informally, like everyone else
in Sydney, out of sheer morbid curiosity. On the evening of January 12, she'd been at work in her
study, apparently alone. The immediate cause of death had been a myocardial infarction, but the
autopsy had also shown signs of a powerful adrenaline surge. That could have resulted from the
pain and stress of a heart attack already in progress -- or it could have come first, triggered by
an unknown external shock.
Or, the Total Affect Protocol chip in her brain might have flooded her body with adrenaline for no
good reason at all.
Sharp had been sixty-seven -- in reasonable health for her age, but old enough to blur the
boundaries of the possible. Forensic pathologists had struggled at the inquest to allocate
probabilities to the three alternatives, but there'd been no clear front-runner. Which was no
doubt distressing for the relatives -- and no doubt left them vulnerable to the fantasy that there
had to be a simple answer out there somewhere, just waiting to be found.
Helen Sharp said, "The media consensus is that my mother was composing a poem just before she died
-- and she thought a word in TAP so 'powerful' that it killed her on the spot." Her tone was
venomous. "Do they seriously imagine that ninety thousand sane people would put something in their
brains which was capable of doing that? Or that the manufacturers would sell a device which would
leave them open to billions of dollars worth of compensation claims? Or that the government
licensing authorities -- "
I said, "Licensed pharmaceuticals have killed plenty of people. Implants are even harder to test.
And 'fail-safe' software written to the most rigorous military specifications has crashed aircraft
-- "
She seized on the analogy triumphantly. "And how do you know that? Because the aircraft's black