The Resurrected Man by Sean Williams Page A

her arms that Marylin had noted during her inspection of the body had, however, turned out to be nothing more sinister than marks left behind by tattoo-erasers.
    A key part of the pathologist's examination had been the removal of inert markers in the body's spine. These markers, installed by KTI the first time a person used d-mat and updated on every subsequent passage, recorded the time and termini of each d-mat jump plus a partial UGI of the individual. This information, combined with genetic code plucked from her dead cells, had enabled the MIU's forensic laboratory to identify the victim.
    She had been kidnapped on June 12, while in transit from a private booth in Johannesburg. Why she had been in South Africa, who she had been visiting and where she presently was, remained unknown. Her file listed a Significant Other in Johannesburg—maybefamily or an ex-partner—but there was no way to be sure who it was without her input. Not even the EJC could violate her basic rights without giving a good reason and KTI was keen to avoid having to go through such a process. The MIU data-miners had already exhausted their available options by finding out this much about her, reducing them to old-fashioned guesswork.
    â€œThe match is good,” Fassini said, his tone strictly professional and face no longer smiling.
    â€œVery,” she agreed. She, too, found it hard to forget that this woman, apart from the hair, looked exactly like her. “How far away are we?”
    â€œI'll take that to mean ‘How long are we going to be cooped up in here?’ Not long, I promise.”
    â€œThat isn't why I asked.” Although it was annoying that regulations forbade them from d-matting directly to their destination, the pause in proceedings was giving her time to think. “To be honest, driving has become something of a novelty for me, lately. It's nice to really travel again.”
    â€œThe pleasure is all mine.” He tipped an imaginary chauffeur's cap and put his feet up on the seat opposite them. “She lives in a high-density block on the site of the old Bush Intercontinental Airport. Nothing fancy, but as tight as a worm's arse. Security obviously bothers her more than Privacy.”
    â€œThat's ironic. The one we're dealing with is much more dangerous than a Bert or a Mudilo.”
    â€œActually, the biggest problem in this neck of the woods are the Vankas.”
    She didn't recognise the term, but the assonance was blatant. “After the obvious?”
    â€œNo. It's the name usually given to the village idiot in Russian folk tales. They adopted it principally for that meaning, although the pun does give it extra credence.” He leaned his head on one hand and looked at her sideways. “You're out of touch, Marylin. It's dangerous.”
    â€œNot really. I doubt I'll ever work the streets again.”
    â€œDoesn't matter. You have to go out there sometime , whether you're working or not. That's why I follow the CREs and learn the argot. If a Zonta bails me up in a dark alley, I want to be sure we speak the same language.”
    She didn't respond. It wouldn't be fair to criticise his version of reality, grungily naive though she thought it, when hers was no less subjective. Yes, she was isolated from the desperate demographic levels of society, the gangs and dope-pushers and tech-mongers that named themselves after village idiots and masturbators, but she was hunting much more refined prey these days. She had earned the right to do so. Eighteen months with Jonah had been more than enough, and she had no desire to return to that world.
    Outside the window of the car, urban scenery glided by with hypnotic smoothness. Trees whipped past on a regular basis, genetically modified to thrive in a CO-rich atmosphere; green islands were gradually taking the place of lanes that, even as recently as ten years ago, had been full of cars. In the middle distance, the city centre showed many signs