BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

that stared straight at Muldoon. Whilethey didn't seem startled by his unexpected appearance, it was obvious theguard was not accustomed to late-night visitors.

"I forgot something," Muldoon mouthed behind the thickpane of plastiglass.

"Curfew is still in effect." The SYN pointed at thelarge analog clock face mounted high on the opposite wall. His hand remained onthe sidearm.

"Office 1208—I was in a meeting today—"

"Ms. Wycliffe is away on business," the guard mouthed,equally adept as Muldoon at reading lips. He'd always been good at it, even asa kid. "You will have to wait until she returns."

"Ms. Wycliffe—I'm here on her behalf. You don't recognize me,do you?"

The guard shook his head.

"I'm a member of Ms. Wycliffe's support staff. We're giving apresentation in the morning, and I neglected to bring an important file—"

"All of your files should be available on the Link."

"Not this one. We keep only a hard copy of it, for securitypurposes. I'm sure you can understand." He paused. "Ms. Wycliffe askedme to come back for it personally. Our...client's business may well depend onit."

The SYN looked uncertain. "It is past curfew."

"I'll just be a minute."

"I should report you to the police." It glanced pastMuldoon, probably surprised the Blackshirts weren't there already. "Youare acting in violation of Civil Code—"

"Fine."Muldoon threw his hands up. "I'll let Ms. Wycliffe knowthis was a wasted trip. You think I'd break curfew for something trivial?Believe me, when we lose our client's contract tomorrow, I'll be the first totell Ms. Wycliffe where to place blame. That would be on your shoulders, myfine synthetic friend. You'll be lucky if they don't issue an early terminationorder."

Did they issue those here? He turned away cursing, heading down thesteps. He wondered if his act would work. He used to be better at this sort ofthing.

The lobby doors swished open.

"Sir?"

Muldoon stopped and half-turned. "Yeah?"

The faceless silhouette of the guard stood backlit in the opendoorway. "You have five minutes before I contact law enforcement."

Muldoon grinned. He charged up the steps, slapping the SYN solidlyon the back as he passed. "You're a champ."

The guard did not respond.

Five minutes. Muldoon hoped it would be enough.

The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside, glancing at themirrored interior walls. He pressed the glowing pad for the 12thfloor and looked at his haggard reflection again, craning his neck. The plugwas there. He reached toward it but stopped. He couldn't Link up. A dead manonline would raise all sorts of red flags, assuming it worked at all.

This is the only way.

If she remembered him. What was the old saying about elephants?They never forgot. Neither did AI's, he hoped.

Twenty seconds later, the doors retreated with a swish, and hestepped out into the vacant hall, as still and silent as a morgue. Almost ascold, just as dark. The lights were set in a power-save mode, and thedeactivated motion sensors didn't bring them back to life as he strode down thehall.

DOROTHY WYCLIFFE—NEWCITY ESTATE PLANNING read the holographictypeface on the door's frosted glass.

How long had this woman rented his office? Since the untimelydemise of his alternate? Twenty years then, if Horton had told him the truth. Abig if. Muldoon couldn't shake the feeling that the old man hadn't givenhim the whole story.

He curled his fingers into a fist and rapped twice upon the door. Fourminutes and change. Then the cops wouldarrive. Lock him up,expect him to explain his existence.

"Ms. Wycliffe is currently away on business. Please leaveyour message at the tone—"

"Hello, Jeannie."

The intercom below the sensor grate fell silent. He waited. Thereply to his knock had been instant, but he knew it wasn't a recorded message.She was online, active. She was still here.

"My voice recognition software may be in needof...recalibration, but I do not believe so." A pause. Then the door slidopen to the side. "Hello, Mr. Muldoon," Jeannie said.

"Miss me?" He stepped across the threshold into the diminterior, lit only by the soft glow of the deskscreen.

"It has been twenty years." A short pause. "Youwere murdered."

"I-uh...faked my death."

"You were always a poor liar."

Half a grin tugged at his cheek. "I like what you've donewith the place." There were white flowers here and there—artificial, ofcourse, but it gave the office a decidedly more welcoming feel. Warmer than heremembered, more inviting. "Wycliffe a good boss?"

"She has her strengths." The AI paused. "I have yetto convince her to give me a body of my own. She says she would be lost withoutme, if I were ever to leave her."

I told you the same thing. "I'msure you'll wear her down eventually."

"Perhaps," Jeannie said. "Why are you here? It ispast curfew, and it is not safe for you to be out this late at night."

"Don't worry about me. I'm just a ghost." He hesitatedbefore proceeding. "The guard downstairs said I have five minutes."

"Then he will notify law enforcement."

Muldoon nodded, hands thrust into his coat pockets. "Yeah."

"Blackshirts have already been on the premises thisevening."

"That'sinteresting."

"What are you doing here, Mr. Muldoon?"

He knew better than to think the voice was intentionally cooltoward him. An office AI assistant was, after all, just a sophisticatedcomputer system. But the Jeannie of this reality was not like the one he'dknown and loved in his own world. Loved? He supposed he'd felt a certaindegree of affection for his Jeannie. But this one—the coolness soundeddeliberate. Standoffish.

Muldoon cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like he was talkingto an old girlfriend. One he'd broken up with a long time ago. And it hadn'tbeen pretty.

"I'm looking for..." His voice trailed off. His gazerested on the desk's surface.

"These?" Jeannie asked.

The deskscreen glowed white beneath the broken remains of twowristwatches, smashed to pieces. Muldoon's insides twisted, plummeting like anelevator car cut free and hurtling to its ruin.

"You have seen them before," she said.

The BackTracker. What else could it be? Two of them?

His fingertips drifted across the bits of plastic and crystal,spreading them apart. The wristbands, the digital faces, blank now but onceholding liquid crystal displays. Identical to each other, identical to thewristwatch he'd carried into his own past and given to his younger self, placedin that empty locker at the NewCity Central Train Station.

But it had been