Chapter 8

Sands wandered along the polarized glass atrium of the Department of Engineering Science within the University of New Arizona. A pretty receptionist directed him to a room on the second floor where the esteemed research professor, James Hawthorne, maintained his office. A lanky and greasy-haired undergraduate emerged from the doorway just as Sands approached, a scowl written indelibly across his face. Sands tapped gently against the open door to announce his arrival.

"Come in," a neatly bearded man in his early forties called out. Sands strolled inside and closed the door.

"Their parents spend a small fortune to send them here," Hawthorne complained bitterly, "and all they think they need to do is to attend the occasional lecture then spend the rest of the time drinking to excess, partaking of recreational drugs, and relentlessly pursuing anything in a short skirt."

"I work with people just like that," Sands quipped.

"So you're Detective Sands from the NAPD?"

"I am."

"I've been looking forward to meeting with you. That sample that you sent me was most intriguing."

"The nanotubes?"

"Super-conducting poly-silicon nanotubes to be more precise, as opposed to the carbon variety that's used by the construction industry."

"I'll take your word for it. What can you tell me about the poly-silicon things?"

"Their main application is in the fabrication of Quantum processors. They provide the molecular framework onto which the neural nodes are bonded and the conductive interconnects that ... sorry, I'll try and make things simpler."

"It's okay. Sounds fascinating."

"It's a research field all in its own right. The start of the industrial manufacture of silicon nanotubes nearly twenty years ago paved the way for the second computer revolution: the advent of the Quantum processor.

"Before this, the fastest multi-core CPUs of the time ran sequential programs in which just a few dozen instructions executed simultaneously, and consumed vast amounts of power. Developing artificial intelligence applications required millions of man hours of software engineering effort and the results were usually buggy and extremely unreliable.

"The Quantum computer relies on a processing element that utilizes the quantum states of gallium arsenide. Essentially, each molecule is a computer in its own right."

"I see," Sands replied, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid.

"Whilst each CPU is extremely simple, the sheer number of them within such a small space provides an incredible amount of processing power.

"The real breakthrough came from the fact that each CPU effectively operates in parallel. Genetic algorithms were developed to make use of this massive multiprocessing capability. A task can be loaded into part of the molecular matrix and the result appears in virtually zero time. The only remaining delays of any significance resulted from funnelling the data around and configuring the computational topology. This was solved by the introduction of the nanotubes. Millions of kilometres of superconducting mono-filament allow the dynamic creation of almost limitless numbers of internal pathways, similar to the way that dendrites work in the human brain."

"So these nanotubes are what make the Quantum computer possible?" Sands guessed.

"Absolutely."

Sands thought about Mason's operation and wondered what possible use the man would have for such an arcane material.

"What other uses for these nanotubes are there?" Sands asked.

The professor thought long and hard. "None that I know of."

Feeling better informed but no closer to solving the mystery of the flasks, Sands returned to the squad office and waited for the opportunity to relay his findings.

Days later, Bennett sat with Sands in the dimly lit office reviewing what little progress they'd made to date. The majority of his staff had been reassigned; only two detectives and Janice remained in addition to his regular staff. Even the frequency of Valerie's visits had lessened, adding further to his growing malaise.

They were alone. The remainder of the team had withdrawn to the local bar to seek solace in the bottom of a glass.

"So what do we know?" Sands asked rhetorically. "Person or persons unknown murder local hoodlum and all his goons without breaking a sweat. Two prostitutes go missing, never to be seen again. A slaver is found brutally dismembered a day or two later. Several canisters of rocket fuel mixed with high tech computer gunk are discovered at the scene. What's the connection?"

"We're missing something," Bennett declared. "Something to do with the flasks."

"Syntel?" Sands mused.

"Could be," Bennett pondered. "Say they were stolen from Syntel. Mason was fencing the stuff or had found some use for it that we haven't yet figured. Syntel finds out and sends in some super assassin to take them out. The girls witness what happened and they're made to disappear, maybe the slaver too."

"A good theory," Sands agreed. "Do you think that Syntel wields that kind of muscle?"

"They're a military contractor. They must know all sorts of people."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Get me a list of every contract they've delivered in the last five years. And find out what projects they're working on at the moment?"

"Is that information even available to us?"

"Inland Revenue holds all their project details as they'll write development costs off against tax. They make hundreds of millions in profits so my guess is that they'll declare anything that reduces their liability. The Defence Department disseminates all kinds of publicity material, plus the list of contracts and their value are available under Freedom of Information."

"Okay. I'll get straight on it," Sands agreed.

Grace sat talking to Sierra whilst Leonard had disappeared to bank the money transfer from her latest assignment. She wanted to discuss her disconcerting discoveries but was unsure what it would achieve. Besides, Sierra was full of excitement about a new apartment that Leonard was investigating; it was considerably larger and located in an exclusive area of the city.

Rachel had phoned to congratulate her on receiving positive feedback from the senator's wife and expected to have another possibility for her within a matter of days. She advised her that any such prospect wouldn't likely be anywhere near as lucrative.

Grace thanked her and hung up.

As the day developed, Grace's head throbbed painfully, preventing her from concentrating on even the most mundane task. Sierra brought her an analgesic but it failed to provide any form of relief. She retired to bed and waited for the symptoms to subside. The pain slowly lessened to a dull ache but by morning it had reasserted itself with a vengeance. It became almost impossible to hold a sensible conversation such was the fugue that her blinding headache induced. Her temperature also rose, leaving Sierra deeply concerned about her.

"Perhaps we should send for a doctor?" Sierra suggested in desperation, hating to see Grace suffering.

"It's probably just a virus," Leonard surmised. "She'll be fine in a day or two."

That night, Grace had a dream. A handsome looking man was poring over some paperwork as she looked down over his shoulder.

"What are you doing Karl?" she heard herself asking.

"Bloody tax returns," he grumbled. "We should have stayed in Elysia."

"It was you that wanted to return home."

"Don't remind me."

Her fingers stroked through his hair then descended to massage the tension from his neck. He sighed ecstatically in relief then looked up at her and smiled just as the vision faded.

The next morning, Grace rose early and crept into the kitchen. She extracted the flask from where she'd concealed it under the sink and swallowed a generous measure of the medication. She felt sure that Leonard would not approve but Monica seemed adamant that she should take it. No further loss of memory had resulted and she'd taken the medication for months at the club without any other adverse effects.

Over the following two days, Grace's symptoms steadily improved. Sierra felt confident enough to leave her alone while she accompanied Leonard to view the new apartment prior to the signing of the lease. Grace paced the apartment, trying desperately to remember anything about her past.

She remembered the dream and was convinced that it represented a glimpse of her life prior to her time with Mason. The only clue was the man Karl. She vaguely remembered the shape of his face, the kind mouth and sympathetic eyes. If Karl was his real name, it would be a major task to locate him but it was her only lead. She sat down at Leonard's computer and composed a script that would index the electoral register and return details of all males with Karl as one of their given names. A degree of variance to the search allowed for misspellings and indirect references from either the forename or surname.

The MetaNet search took an hour to complete and yielded several thousand hits. She added a filter, limiting the men's ages to between twenty five and fifty. This eliminated twenty percent but still left over three thousand possibilities.

She wrote another script that interrogated the central driver's database and downloaded a photograph and basic information on each and every candidate. The script took a further thirty minutes to run and generated a local copy of its findings.

Grace displayed the first image but rejected it instantly, pressing a key to display the next. After another dozen such failures, the repetitive task became easier and she flicked through the images at an increasingly rapid rate. Two thirds of the way through the task, she stopped abruptly and stared intently at the face on the screen. The likeness was uncanny. She retrieved more information.

The man's name was Karl Savage and he'd lived in the area for less than a year. He had a wife and two children. She brought up a picture of the man's wife and froze in shock. Whilst the hair coloration, length and styling were completely different, she recognized it immediately. She was looking at her own face.

"I'm Claire," she spoke aloud, breathlessly. "I'm Claire Savage."

She returned to the stored details and displayed a picture of the eldest child. Her heart almost broke.

"Hailey," she gasped, vivid memories of the girl surfacing for the first time in many months.

When she displayed Ruth's picture, she sobbed uncontrollably as memory after memory come flooding back. She remembered Hailey's first day at high school; Ruth falling off her bike and how she'd bandaged her bleeding knee; Karl smiling at her as the two of them lay in bed, making love quietly so as not to disturb the children. The flow of recollections was interrupted by the front door opening and the appearance of Sierra and Leonard. Sierra's expression changed from joy to deep concern as she observed Grace's harrowed look and the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

"Grace," Sierra exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Claire paused before replying in a shaky voice.

"My name is Claire Savage. My husband is Karl, he's an aerospace technician. We have two children: Hailey is fifteen and Ruth twelve ... No ... Thirteen."

Another tear rolled down her cheek. "I missed her birthday," Claire sobbed.

Sierra embraced her friend, providing a welcome shoulder for her to cry on.