Scale, p.27
Scale, page 27
Noor left for work, and Sam returned to his study. He had half a million words of court transcripts still to analyze, from a failed murder prosecution. The victim’s family were not disputing the verdict, but they were desperate to know who the real killer might be.
He read the transcripts on his computer, but made notes and sketches by hand as he went. He’d tried out some new software that supposedly reconstructed scenes and events from witness testimony and checked the results for discrepancies, but it didn’t really work as advertised; it seemed to lack the implicit knowledge of the world needed to fill in the gaps that were present in ordinary human speech, even in such a formal setting.
He was about to break for lunch when his phone rang. The call was from District One, but the number wasn’t in his contacts. “Lucid Investigations,” he said. “Sam Mujrif speaking.”
“Rescaling in progress,” an annoying synthetic voice informed him, as if he was too stupid to grasp what was happening otherwise.
The caller’s words finally emerged. “My name’s Cara Leon. I saw the news about your colleague, Ms. Anselm, and I wanted to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Sam replied; Loretta’s family were the proper recipient of these sentiments, but maybe Cara had contacted them as well. He paused, not knowing what else to say, and the rescaler took that as a cue to proceed.
“I regret that I never thanked her personally,” Cara said, “so I thought it was time I remedied that with you. My sister was never entirely clear on everything that you and Ms. Anselm did, but I do know that you succeeded in freeing me much sooner than it would have happened otherwise.”
“I’m glad we could help,” Sam said. “It must have been terrifying down there.”
“It wasn’t much fun,” Cara admitted dryly. “But as well as thanking you, I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to come clean about the whole thing.”
“Okay.” That was unexpected. “Can I ask to whom?”
Cara said, “I was approached a while ago by a historian who interviewed some of the people who worked in the river base, so she already had part of the story from them. I refused to speak to her at the time, but now I want to set the record straight.”
“I see.”
“I’ve talked to a lawyer, and though it’s possible I could still be charged with extortion, he believes it’s unlikely I’d face prison. And you have my permission to talk about the case publicly yourself now, if you wish.”
“All right.” Sam wasn’t sure he welcomed this development, but he didn’t want to get dragged into a long discussion about it. He hunted for a way to change the subject without turning to something completely irrelevant. “Do you mind if I ask about your fiancé?”
“Malcolm has recovered completely,” Cara replied. “The drugs that cured him came from another pharmaceuticals company, on the other side of the world. From Scale Five researchers, with no connection to Generation Eight; I suppose there’s something ironic about that. Anyway, he’s fine, and we’re getting married next month.”
“Congratulations.”
Cara said, “I’ve taken enough of your time. Thanks again for what you did for me.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam said.
“Goodbye, Mr. Mujrif.”
Sam had grown ravenous during the call; he went to the kitchen and made some sandwiches. Back in his study, he struggled to stay focused. If the historians kept digging, everything he’d done would come out eventually. He wasn’t ashamed of any of his decisions, but it would make his life and his family’s more complicated if it all became common knowledge.
He gave up on the transcripts and started searching online for information on the other matter gnawing at him. There were rumors of experiments in Choria, where there was no legislation explicitly outlawing the practice, but nothing had been reported by a reputable news source, let alone published in a scientific journal. Still, he couldn’t let it go; he followed up on every claim he could find, however outlandish. The rabbits in the river base had been a proof of principle; he did not believe the people who found the idea appealing would ever give up on it.
Sam heard the front door opening; Idris was home from school. Sam tried again to immerse himself in the transcripts, and he made some progress with the timeline for the last movements of the deceased. But as soon as he took a break he lost his thread completely, and the competing voices rushed in to fill the hiatus.
He went for a walk to try to calm himself. It was a clear night, but the city’s lights washed out most of the stars. He could still see a few of the neighboring districts’ towers protruding above D4’s new buildings, but it wouldn’t be long before the local skyscrapers hid everything else.
As he approached the river, the moon emerged from behind some lepton-tycoon’s lavish penthouse, and then Mars followed it, coincidentally close in the sky. Sam stood looking up at the pair, then he turned around and walked home.
He knocked on Idris’s door.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in for a second?”
“Sure.”
Idris was at his desk; Sam sat on the bed.
“If you’re going to do this,” Sam said, “I hope you understand exactly what you’ll be up against.”
Idris scowled. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I know that. But do you really not care?”
Idris said, “It’s not a bad thing that the smaller scales go first. How can they not be more impatient, when their lives are burning up so fast? But it’s good for everyone that they have that safety valve. If the most restless people in Scale Seven can go and blaze a few trails in space, that makes them less resentful that we haven’t just handed them the Earth to do what they like with.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Sam asked. “That in the field you’ve chosen, they’ll just keep moving farther and farther ahead of you?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Idris replied.
“And if Scale Seven want all of Mars for themselves?” Sam pressed him. “We didn’t hand them the Earth, but who’s going to stop them there?”
Idris was amused. “Living on Mars isn’t as easy as people think. Not for anyone. But I’d rather be part of the fourth wave of visitors than never go at all.”
Sam bowed his head. “I just want you to be happy. At peace with your own body, your own life, your own family.”
Idris said, “I know that. I will be.” He got up from the desk and sat beside Sam. “I’m sorry about your friend who died. Loretta.”
“Yeah.”
“I know what she did for us,” Idris said. “And I appreciate it, even if it won’t fix everything forever. But no one can do that. Things will always go wrong again, and someone else will have to deal with it. That’s what I think the future will be like. And I can live with that.”
Greg Egan, Scale
