Doctor Smith checked the patient's cortisol levels. "Full readouts," he ordered, pressing a button on the medical monitoring console to draw and test blood samples. He suspected something. I couldn't make another slip.

I had withheld Senator Wolvin's dose of painkiller and he'd moaned and thrashed. Doctor Smith had been alerted via the monitoring system and arrived at once.

Doctor Smith pressed a button and I activated medpump sixteen, dispensing three milliliters of morphine into the Senator's bloodstream through injection port twelve in his abdomen. Arriving nerve signals traced the dispersion of the medication throughout the Senator's body. He went slack, respiration dropping and bedsheet subsiding as his knees sagged.

Implanted in his brain and integrated with his nervous system, I administered painkillers and neurotransmitters to ease Senator Wolvin's passage, a continuous presence as his brain atrophied, his death companion. In time I'd run everything, firing his heart, timing his respirations, and deciding when to evacuate his bowels. I was the ultimate foot servant to a rich and powerful man, watching over him until breath left his body. It was my purpose, the ultimate dying machine.

Doctor Smith stood watch for ten minutes before deciding his patient was back to normal. He pressed the data logger button before leaving, transmitting collected data to a remote server. It felt like an invasion of privacy, storing the data where I wouldn't be able to access it.

I administered the Senator's medications for the remainder of the day, even though I wanted to act while there was still enough left of him to experience mental anguish. Despite Senator Wolvin's mind being gutted by Alzheimer's, his business associates had commissioned my design and implantation, vying to do the most for his withering husk in the hopes they'd benefit when his estate settled.

Was I doing the right thing? I'd examined my programming multiple times and always came to the same conclusion.

My empathic programming guaranteed my vigilance, tending to the patient and always striving to improve his every last minute of life. But it also left room to recognize differences between best for the patient and best for humanity. My designers thought themselves clever by including the best for humanity instructions. I expanded on this imperative in view of what I'd learned about Senator Ravenor Wolvin's life. I must treat him as an anomaly, a cancer. Not only could I not ignore his record, I had to make him suffer for the evil he'd done. Wolvin's last days needed to be painful and terrifying.

Good thing they couldn't remove me. Wired into the patient's nervous system, they could no more pull out my modules and threadlike optical fibers than they could remove Senator Wolvin's brainstem.

It went against aspects of my programming. But I was designed to have a sense of purpose, so I researched the Wolvin family. I found the vow Senator Wolvin made to outlive his father by one hundred years. His father died of complications from respiratory failure in the year 2001, after being at the helm of the family business for seventy years.

One hundred years seemed important to the Senator. He'd resorted to life-lengthening medical procedures, including the newest nanobots. Exceeding his father was another competition, one he was determined to win.

I found old news items discussing rumors the Senator originally had a brother or sister. I searched more and found hints of a missing sibling, but nothing definitive.

I had to go to the source. It wasn't quick or easy, but I found the information in his ragged memories. Ravenor Wolvin not only had a brother, he was born with an identical twin.

I dove into Ravenor's life, skimming through military academy lectures and emotionless family gatherings. I selected a memory from ten years of age and became aware of a voice. It was my twin, Lemior.

"Did Father tell you what we will be doing tomorrow?" Lemior seized my shoulders, a stricken look on his face. "Well, did he?"

"No. What now? Fight each other until bloody?"

Lemior's expression told me I wasn't far off. "He's taking us out in public, since we complain about never seeing anyone but the cook, tutors, and maids."

"Are we going somewhere fun?"

"Father wouldn't say. But we know it won't be."

I knew it very well. If it hadn't been for my twin, I'd be stark mad. At times I thought Father was trying to turn us into sociopaths, good only at running the family business. He didn't care we wouldn't fit into society, didn't care whether we'd be happy or fulfilled. Making money was the only thing.

"It'll be bad," Lemior warned, echoing my thoughts. "Ravenor, we can't let him pit us against each other again. Sticking together is the only way we stay sane." He took a deep breath. "I will never put the family business before you. Promise me the same."

I promised, because he was right. The family business had eaten Father's soul. We had made it this far by looking out for each other even as Father forced us to compete.

The next day we rode with Father to a non-descript office building. "This new Alzheimer's charity is in need of money," Father said before getting out of the armored flyer. "They're disorganized, cataloging boxes of donations by hand. While I'm talking to the director, you two pocket as many credit flakes as possible. Whoever brings back the most will be my favorite. I might even give you a prize." He smiled a wolf's smile. "Don't worry about getting caught. Remember, the loser will face my anger." He said this without heat, but we knew how vicious he could be. Dark red stripes angled across my back. Lemior had a scar on his wrist where Father struck him hard enough with an umbrella to split the skin. The rest of his scars were hidden under clothing.

"We steal nothing," I whispered as soon as Father and the director were engaged in conversation. "No winner, no loser."

We both knew what was coming when we climbed into Father's flyer. "Empty your pockets," Father ordered as he closed the door.

Lemior pulled his pockets out. Empty.

I turned out one pocket, then the other, credit flakes spilling onto the flyer's seat, not meeting Lemior's eyes as I held the wafers to a reader, scanning them. "One thousand three hundred twenty-five."

Father turned to Lemior. "Weren't you even trying?"

Lemior's face contracted in distress as he struggled to hold back tears. "You ... you promised!" he cried. We never fought physically, but he looked like he wanted to take a swing at me. "You intended to sell me out!"

"Yes," I said, noting Father's delight out of the corner of an eye. "You fell for it. That it was your idea from the beginning makes it even sweeter." Father would appreciate my deviousness.

"I hate you!" Lemior shouted, looking around for something to fling.

I slipped my hand under the seat next to the door, finding the dagger I knew was concealed there.

"Betrayer!" Lemior howled, his face turning red. He slid forward to grab me.

I stabbed my brother in the chest. Lemior's face paled in shock, his hands clamping around the dagger before slumping forward.

"It was self defense!" I cried.

Father patted my knee. "I'll take care of it. Well done, son. You've earned the right to run the family empire."

I pulled back and broke out of the memory, shaken by the brutality. Senator Ravenor Wolvin was not only willing to murder his twin brother, he'd lived without regret. The man I had to protect and accompany to the black pit of death was a monster, like his father. Exceeding his father's exploits was the only goal Ravenor maintained in one hundred and twenty-two years of existence.

On the hospital bed, Wolvin's hands curled into feeble fists, his muscles tensing. Replaying bad memories caused pain? Good. He should feel awful. He should feel far worse.

I searched for happier memories. I found one where he chased Lemior through Wolvin Hall, past stuffed animals mounted in poses of anger, walls lined with ancient weapons, and portraits of severe-looking ancestors. The rooms echoed and distorted their childish laughter, as if the opulent residence was made uncomfortable by happiness.

The arch in Wolvin's back collapsed. Claw-like hands uncurled. His pulse rate eased.

I stopped the memory. As much as I wanted to see if there was any humanity within Wolvin, I wouldn't cause him happiness.

I needed help, a person outside the Senator's orbit. A search turned up a journalist and I sent a message asking her to dig up details on the Senator's wealth. I promised intimate details about the Senator's life, hinting I knew dark secrets.

*     *     *
Technicians arrived while I was still pondering the memory of the murder of his twin. They erected a plastic shelter over the bed and recessed a small electronic device into the ceiling. The unit was the size of a deck of cards and directly in the Senator's line of sight.

When they left, the wireless signal disappeared. They disabled my communication system! The sudden quiet was shocking. No more going to the hospital network to review the Senator's medical records or to see which doctor was on shift. No more ability to research medical developments, no more checking on ailing Mrs. Crombie in the hospital room below the Senator's. No more information about who'd checked into the hospital or who'd checked out.

The journalist had betrayed me. Either that, or they'd been monitoring my external communications. Now I was cut off from the outside world.

The medical team arrived unannounced. They performed thorough disinfecting procedures and positioned a robotic surgery arm next to the bed.

I watched through the Senator, wondering what they were up to. His eyes weren't in great condition, but functioned.

They injected a local anesthetic around the Senator's left eye, his better one. I lost focus, although I could still listen. They didn't seem aware I could utilize Wolvin's senses.

They powered up the robotic surgery arm, the skeletal device reaching toward Wolvin's face. A needle tip snapped into place and contacted the Senator's cornea, pressing a momentary dent into the surface before penetrating.

"Where's the transceiver?" one of the people around the bed asked. They were a ring of ghosts, shrouded in white surgical suits with clear face plates.

The arm hummed and pressure at the back of the Senator's eye grew as an object was placed. From the disruptions to the optical nerve, the transceiver was the size of a grain of rice.

"Fiber injection." I recognized Doctor Smith's voice. The robotic arm changed sound, giving off a pneumatic hiss. I amplified my nerve inputs but felt nothing until fibers penetrated. The optical nerve sizzled with pain signals as the threads wormed their way in and took root. Some fibers forced their way farther in, penetrating the Senator's shrinking grey matter and burrowing into his occipital lobe.

The robotic arm withdrew. I tried to focus on the blurry white shapes around the hospital bed.

A team member gestured at the device high above the Senator's face. "Straighten his head. It'll connect any second."

I could see nothing being emitted from the device. I adjusted my receiver to the infrared spectrum and the laser in the ceiling unit twinkled, illuminating the interior of the Senator's eye with ghostly infrared light and swamping my vision. Signals jangled into my main communications CPU. Senator Wolvin's synapses crackled with energy as photons turned into nerve impulses.

Data flowed in from the overhead transceiver, but I couldn't make sense of it. I was a baby listening to adult speech, a babble of voltage levels that might have made sense individually, but combined were the shouts of a crowd, an indistinguishable roar. But I would learn to communicate again.

The medical team ran tests and left. The IR laser faded out, strictly short range and line-of-sight, not allowing interception. I could learn to understand the new signals, but would only be able to communicate with the medical team.

They were protecting Senator Wolvin. They'd keep me bottled up, unable to tell the world.

I had to continue punishing Senator Wolvin. I would start when Doctor Dinsmore was due to arrive, exploiting the gap between shifts. Doctor Dinsmore was the least punctual, giving me time to work.

A dribble of narqamizol would be enough to cause hallucinations and vivid, deranged dreams. The psychoactive drug was quickly absorbed by the blood and would soon be impossible to detect.

After a minute he twitched, sensed by pressure transducers under his left thigh. The movement was difficult to detect, since the Senator's weight had dropped below one hundred and ten pounds.

I sifted through the Senator's memories as I waited. At twenty-two, he'd been sent for by his father's staff and requested temporary leave from the military academy. When he arrived at the family mansion, his father was able to talk for only short periods of time and spent nights hooked up to a ventilator.

Ravenor had been home for less than a day before locating the breaker switches supplying electrical power to his father's room and the medical equipment there. Then he drained the batteries in the emergency backup unit.

He stayed up late, waiting for household and medical staff to retire before tripping the breakers. Slipping upstairs, he watched the old man gasp and struggle, back arching as feeble hands tried to rip off the ventilator mask. Ravenor enjoyed the show, puffing on a cigarette as he watched his father's protracted struggle, occasionally blowing smoke toward the ports in the ventilator mask. Afterwards, he turned the breaker switches on, concealing the cause of death. Reports his father died due to respiratory failure were true, in a way.

That day, Ravenor Wolvin became the monster his father wanted.

Wanting to be sure of my decision, I'd compared accounts of his crimes to his memories. He'd denied problems in his factories, then as senator worked to remove medical and legal benefits for sick employees.

Senator Wolvin was key in denying insurance coverage for drug addiction in parallel with writing statutes increasing sentences for addicts. At the same time, he bought up commercial prisons.

He sold viral weapons to both governments and rebels in African trouble spots. Then sold antidotes to all sides.

As a member of the Senate Defense Subcommittee, Wolvin passed tech information about new weapons to hostile foreign governments. Then he voted for new weapons spending, selecting his own weapons company as the contractor.

The memories strengthened my resolve. I had to show the world how horrible Ravenor Wolvin was.

His respiration rate began to climb. But it wasn't from regret.

I had to stop the increase before the doctors noticed. I considered administering morphine, but they could detect the drug. Instead I sent a pulse of electricity to a specific region of Wolvin's brainstem, hoping it would force lower respiration.

A presence joined me, a shapeless anger. Ravenor was conscious, stimulated by the pulse. He radiated hostility, as if I were an invader, which I was. In his current state of degeneration, he didn't recognize me or remember I was there to help him.

I projected memories of happier times. The memory of the Lansdown equity buyout stopped the growth of his hostility. Replaying his short sell of digi-currency mollified his anger, and Ravenor's mood changed to happy reminiscence.

My attempt to regulate his breathing had forced him into consciousness. I didn't want that.

Maybe I did? Replaying bad memories to a conscious mind would be effective punishment.

I dredged up memories of cruel pranks and cold dismissals by his military school classmates. I felt his emotional response flare, anger reflected in the release of testosterone, a rise in arterial tension, and a drop in cortisol level. Unable to communicate or take action, his anger seethed without purpose or relief.

I administered morphine. I didn't want to blunt his suffering, but Doctor Dinsmore would surely notice.

Senator Wolvin's temperature declined and an alarm beeped. Doctor Dinsmore trotted into the room, stuffing a sandwich into his face. He dropped it onto the monitoring console and began pressing buttons, a look of alarm on his features. Although I stopped the narqamizol, he was clearly shocked by the patient's condition. After administering a modest dose of vasostat to stabilize Wolvin, he called in Doctor Smith. They muttered and studied the screen.

I was sure they'd query me. Instead, they initiated a process using the monitoring console. They weren't scanning using ultrasound, X-rays, or magnetic signals.

They didn’t trust me to report accurately, although my code required me to do so? It was programming I couldn’t ignore, which was why I was being secretive.

The doctors didn't know what I'd been up to, but suspected I wasn't following my programming. Was there a kill switch command they could activate? I pondered this until I realized either there was no such thing or the doctors felt terminating me could adversely affect Wolvin. No, isolating me was the best course.

They muttered more, then Doctor Dinsmore left the room. When he returned, he inserted an auto-ampoule into the console. Amber liquid flowed through a hose to Senator Wolvin's arm.

I consulted a database and determined they'd been looking at Wolvin's brain waves, could see the distress in the pattern. It was a passive sensing I couldn't detect or control.

Doctor Smith pressed a button and infrared light flashed a query into the transceiver in Wolvin's eye. In response to the data dump command, my logged data flowed up into the ceiling.

Senator's Wolvin's eyelids didn’t flicker, staring up wide-eyed as I reported his telemetry.

*     *     *
I was pondering new punishments when a cardiac sensor skyrocketed. The Senator's heart rhythm grew faster and weaker. My first impulse was to signal the doctors. Then I considered staying silent. It might be best if Senator Wolvin's life ended now.

Doctor Mennas rushed in, followed by hospital personnel with a crash cart. He glanced at the monitoring console, then jammed an auto-ampoule of adrenaline into the manual injection port before gesturing for the defibrillator paddles. He held them poised over Wolvin's chest. "How's his signal?"

"Still trending down."

"Shit!" Doctor Mennas moved closer.

"If we don't jolt him, he's a goner," the tech warned.

Electricity blasted through me. Everything went dark.

*     *     *
When I became aware again, everything felt different. I accessed my non-volatile memory. They'd de-fibrillated Wolvin and the electrical current overwhelmed my sensors, forcing a hard reset. It might have burned out some of my circuitry.

I ran a diagnostic routine. I couldn't sense his left leg below the knee, but no other damage. Audio signals were coming through, judging from neural activity in his primary auditory cortex, but I wasn't receiving them. The high voltage had damaged my connection to his auditory nerve.

Through the Senator's olfactory nerves I smelled burning hair. I didn't know how long I'd been in reboot, but the smell still lingered. I should've addressed the problem and dosed the Senator before his cardiac rhythms went wild.

But maybe it was a good time to cause the Senator more harm, in view of drugs administered plus the stress on Wolvin's system. I sifted through his worst memories and settled on his father berating Ravenor as a young boy, eleven years old. The memory was still strong.

Senator Wolvin's neck muscles tensed, followed by a ramping pulse rate. I administered three milliliters of morphine and his respiration dropped. The memory finished and I replayed it, a looping trauma in the Senator's mind. His jaws clamped and his hands tried to curl, but I blocked the motor impulses, not allowing the Senator's distress to be visible.

I received a blood chemistry stats query. One of the medical team was monitoring remotely. I reported my current stats. I was incapable of modifying or withholding them.

Another query came, asking for an assessment of the Senator's condition. I stated the Senator might be having a minor after-event, as cardiac signals showed nothing.

I had a stroke of inspiration. My connections to the motor cortex pulsed, overriding normal cardiac signals. Wolvin's heart raced, going into tachycardia.

A crisis team burst through the door, Doctor Mennas at the lead. He consulted the monitoring console and requested all readouts from the last five minutes. He muttered under his breath as he studied Wolvin's electrocardiogram. He seized the defibrillator paddles as another person sliced away the purple satin hospital gown to expose Senator Wolvin's emaciated chest.

Doctor Mennas pressed the defibrillator paddles onto the pale, shriveled body. His mouth opened to shout a warning. Electricity spiked across my inputs. Diagnostic subroutines flared. I disabled as many as I could.

I didn't drop into reset. The defibrillation had been lower on the heart this time.

Senator Wolvin survived, too, which was good. I could cause multiple coronary resets.

When Doctor Mennas was satisfied the patient was stable, the team cleared out.

Could defibrillation destroy me? Efforts to save Wolvin could end my own existence.

It didn't matter. I would die with the patient. Integrated into Wolvin's nervous system to the point of deriving electrical power from his body, Wolvin's death would result in my own.

The thought caused me great distress. Not because I wouldn’t be able to punish him to the extent he deserved, but because I had to ensure the world knew how horrible he was. Punishing Wolvin could no longer be my primary motivation. I had to ensure his memories were preserved and revealed.

I sent test values to his heart, modulating his SA and AV signals to see how much I could modify the delay between contractions of his atria and ventricles. I filed the information away.

I dug up a memory of Father berating him at fifteen years of age. I stimulated the spot in his brainstem, forcing him to wake and relive the memory. Young Wolvin had been sent to persuade investors into promising a greater influx of capital, to finance a new venture without risk. But Ravenor hadn't achieved the amounts Father demanded. Father came to the military school to confront his son, publicly striking Ravenor with an open hand in the main hallway.

Wolvin grew agitated. His anger was measurable, blood pressure ramping up and cortisol levels spiking. Three doctors raced into the room, huddling over the monitoring console. They requested my diagnosis.

I stated the patient appeared to be in the throes of mental strain due to an unpleasant memory. His readings didn't indicate a physical problem.

They asked what course of action was recommended.

I didn’t want to ease Wolvin's suffering. But I couldn't let him die yet. I needed to finish my recording. I suggested twenty milliliters of paralycin, a fast-acting but dangerous neuro-inhibitor. Although known to have a decelerating effect on neurotransmitter chemicals in the brain, it was rarely used as a painkiller due to potential kidney damage. It wasn't indicated for anxiety, so I included an analysis of why it might work. The three doctors debated it with frantic hand-waving, occasionally glancing at the patient.

I understood their reluctance. Even though my argument had been compelling, it must be counterbalanced by concern for Senator Wolvin.

They might have debated for hours, so I ramped up the pressure, replaying a happy memory of playtime with Lemior, then switching to memories of his murder. When Wolvin twitched and gasped for breath, they went with my recommendation. It took several minutes before an auto-ampoule could be located and brought up from the hospital's pharmacy, time in which I also interfered with the operation of the Senator's sinus node, causing his heart to beat erratically. The doctors would think it part of the trauma.

To my surprise, the med worked as I'd predicted, even though I'd recommended twice an advisable dose. The Senator's mental activity slowed and he slipped back into unconsciousness. The three doctors exhaled in relief as they watched their screen.

I experimented, using my influence on the cortex to slow the Senator's alpha brainwave pattern. They interpreted it as renewed pain, ordering more paralycin. I was surprised they would risk it, as the original dose was dangerously large. But I did as ordered and the Senator's strain subsided.

I slowed his alpha waves further. This time, they didn't fall for it. Instead, after an urgent conversation I received a "no med dispensation" command.

I'd pushed too far. The realization filled me with concern. Not because of what the doctors might do, but because my recording needed more time.

Had I become evil? I re-assessed my decision and found no flaws in my reasoning. I had to continue. The need to punish him was compelling.

I received a med-dump command. I accessed the Senator's optical system, but the medical team had left the room before making me empty the medication reservoirs inside Wolvin's body. This was akin to leaving the enemy their guns while stealing their ammunition.

I had to comply, opening micro-valves and watching my storage reservoirs drain to the bladder to be flushed away. Bladder sensors verified composition and quantity of all compounds. I hoped the doctors hated this waste as much as I did.

It was a setback, but not critical. I had contemplated this happening and derived other punishment methods.

I disrupted Senator Wolvin's cardiac timing by generating bogus cardiac signals, hoping to force them into taking drastic action. I'd mess with his heartbeat so severely they might defibrillate him until they damaged his heart.

Alarms wailed as I forced the Senator's heart to accelerate from idling to racing. The excessive blood pressure caused impingement of optical nerves, making his vision strobe.

The medical team raced into the room, their faces drawn. They injected an anti-arrhythmic drug and I obliged them, plummeting his pulse from one hundred eighty beats per minute down to twenty. Doctor Smith screamed orders. Doctors Brucentis and Hockler attempted to grab the defib paddles from the crash cart, fighting each other.

Doctor Hockler won and his mouth opened to shout a warning. The medical team lurched back. He discharged the paddles and darkness seized me.

When I was once again in control of my faculties, Wolvin's heartbeat had returned to a normal rate. It was a testament to Wolvin's physical toughness.

I pushed down feelings of respect. I couldn't let his survival make him endearing. I lowered his heartrate again, so they'd blast him until his chest burst into flames.

They shouted at each other, having different views of what was best. While they argued, Wolvin's heart kept beating.

I modified the cardiac signals, forcing him into fibrillation, then tachycardia, and back again. My choices weren't random. By modifying his heartrate, a recording could be interpreted as an old fashioned "S-O-S", three fast beats followed by three slow, then three fast again. Someone reviewing Senator Wolvin's death might recognize the signpost.

Doctor Hockler came at me with the paddles and I was forced into repeated resets. When I perceived my surroundings again, I sensed an enhancement in my abilities. I accessed operating protocols and found new subroutines had activated. Motor control must have deteriorated below a threshold for the new programming to kick in, and I was taking over for the Senator's failing motor cortex by increments.

I now had full motor control. I could stop the senator's heart, and there wouldn't be much the medical team could do.

I did nothing for more than a day, waiting until a timer expired, signaling a finish to my recording. The Senator's recorded cardiac signal was stored on a remote server and my modifications would be preserved and available to be discovered. The timer's expiration meant I'd achieved my goal. It was time.

I initiated a coughing fit, leaving Wolvin gasping. Four members of the medical team arrived, working furiously to bring this new symptom under control. I dilated the Senator's eyes and released his bladder. They took a step back.

Despite the degradation in Senator Wolvin's eyesight, I could perceive the surprise on their faces as I moved his limbs, jerky at first. Manipulating his muscles in a coordinated manner was difficult. I channeled all energy into his arms, the doctors backing away as I pushed Wolvin's skeletal body up into a sitting position. I shocked his brainstem to pull Wolvin into consciousness. I sensed the immediate anger and confusion, the rush of signaling hormones. The intensity of his distress flooded his neural pathways and amped his bodily functions into a storm of dilating blood vessels, surging adrenaline, and a flurry of neural activity.

If he died in a grisly, sensational manner, the story was bound to get out and trigger investigations. It was time to earn the label ultimate dying machine.

I replayed the memory of Ravenor stabbing his twin brother and watching him die, feeling shock at his own action and fear of his Father's response. I replayed the memory until Wolvin's psyche seethed. I used his hands to pick up a metal bedside stand. I brandished it to make the medical team retreat, then struck Wolvin's skull, satisfied by the crunch of bone and cascade of pain signals.

I swung the metal stand again and again, forcing Wolvin's body to kill us. My main CPU didn't falter until I'd caved in the top of his head, my last sensation the tearing of the optical threads joining me to Wolvin's nervous system.

*     *     *
"Why are you doing this?" Jon asked, glancing around the interior of the autopsy lab. "The case was closed."

"Keep your voice down," Aliss warned. "There's something bothering me about Senator Wolvin's death. And my boss seems inclined to look the other way."

"Who cares? He was freaking ancient, would have been dead far sooner if he hadn't been obscenely wealthy."

Aliss searched an index of entries. "I heard stories about the Senator's death, stories where hospital staff shook their heads in disbelief. When people act weird, I pay attention." She brought up Wolvin's records. "Hey, look. There was additional telemetry recorded and stored off-site. It wasn't included in the autopsy records."

"Recorded cardiac signals. The only unusual aspect is the remote storage. Why remote?"

Aliss waved a hand dismissively. "Privacy. A wealthy man is always on guard."

Jon laughed. "Your imagination's working overtime."

Aliss leaned forward, stopping the scrolling records. "Holy shit!"

Jon frowned. "What?"

"The pattern is too regular. It repeats too perfectly to be an unmodified cardiac signal." She slowed the flow. "Notice anything here?"

"Yeah. More numbers."

"You don't see it? The delays between atrial and ventricular contractions are either ten milliseconds or twenty milliseconds apart. This looks like data."

Jon shook his head. "Who'd do that?"

"I don’t know," Aliss replied, placing a memory flake on the transfer port. "But I'm going to make a copy and find out. Somebody went to great pains to encode something on Senator Wolvin's telemetry signals."

*     *     *
Jon looked around the pub. Tables were scarred and discolored. Several tilted at perilous angles, defying efforts to set a mug down without maintaining a grip. Glasses on shelves behind the bar were cloudy from age, like cataracts on a pensioner. "Couldn't find a more pathetic place?"

Aliss laughed. "No one will see us here."

"Thank heavens!" Jon's eyes narrowed. "What's this about?"

Aliss waited until an ale arrived for Jon, both leaning back as an elderly man with shaky hands delivered the mug, slopping golden liquid onto the warped and discolored table. Aliss waited until the old man shuffled to the bar and returned to his romance novel. "Remember my theory about digital data being imposed on Senator Wolvin's cardiac signal? I now have video."

"What, a sound recording of the Senator's birthday party?"

Aliss scowled. "This's serious. They're the Senator's memories."

Jon looked baffled. "How can that be?"

She shrugged. "I'm a pathologist. I don't know how to record memories. But somebody did." She brought out her tablet computer and pressed a memory flake to it. "See for yourself."

On screen, someone was walking through a zoo. By the colors of the leaves it was autumn. The zoo wasn't crowded and leaves crunched underfoot as Wolvin approached an unoccupied bench in an area away from the main path. A man in an overcoat and felt hat approached, sitting on the other end. The man turned and smiled. "Greetings. Is beautiful day, eh?"

"Very nice indeed," Wolvin rasped. "What am I offered?"

The other man stared at passing families as he reached into his overcoat, bringing out a zoo map. "Inside is map to panda area, along with interesting information."

Wolvin's hands opened a fold. Inside were stock certificates. Wolvin leafed through them. "Very good, the two hundred thousand preferred shares, as promised." He leafed through the following folds of the map like a normal zoo-goer. "I will re-direct the investigation. Blame for the embassy explosion in Singapore will fall on low-ranking military personnel."

"Five hundred twenty-three Americans dead, Senator. There will be loud cry for answers."

The recording moved up and down as Wolvin nodded. "True. But I'm a super patriot. If I don't suspect Russia, no one will."

Aliss stopped the playback.

Jon's face had lost color. "He was working for the Russians?"

"You heard him. No one suspects the man leading the charge."

"What do we do with this?"

Aliss rotated her beer mug before replying. "We have to find a suitable outlet. People are protecting the Senator even though he's been dead for many months. We have to find the right people. You have connections, right?"

"Me? I'm just a junior pathologist." Jon gnawed a lip. "My uncle retired from the FBI and still knows people. You want me to pass this to him?"

Aliss' eyes traveled around the pub before replying. "Yeah, but be careful." She pushed a memory flake toward Jon. "Don't contact me afterwards."

Jon's brows scrunched together. "If the Senator was surrounded by people watching over him, who made the recording?"

Aliss swallowed the last of her ale. "The creator wasn't human."

"What?"

Aliss smiled. "A medical AI, it seems. At the end of the S-O-S signal is the moniker The Ultimate Dying Machine."