Architects of Emortality Read Online Free Page B

the world. In his time, he must have met—as well as made—millions.

    Among those millions, it seemed, was one who had found motive enough to kill him, and to kill him in a manner so bizarre as to be utterly without precedent.

    Murder was nowadays the rarest of crimes, and such murders which did happen usually occurred when some private tsunami of rage or spite smashed through the barriers erected by years of primary-school biofeedback training. Planned murders were virtually unheard-of in these not-yet-decivilized times. Charlotte was very conscious of the fact that such a crime required the maximum of respect and effort from all concerned, even people whose lowly station in life involved visiting crime scenes and threatening building supervisors.

    The Decivilization movement, she thought, must have been a great boon to King’s business. He must have been very grateful indeed to the city-hating prophets, although the more extreme among them would have detested Gabriel King as thoroughly as they detested all old-fashioned entrepreneurs—especially those who were fabulously wealthy double rejuvenates. King could easily have made enemies even among the people whose crusade he was furthering, and among the business rivals who had competed with him for the contracts—but those who hated him most fervently of all must surely be the New Yorkers whose city he was even now subjecting to unnaturally rapid decay. If she could only figure out which one of them had sent the young woman and armed her with her remarkable murder weapon, she would be famous—at least for a day.

    Unfortunately, Hal was the one to whom the forensic evidence would be sent, and he was the one who would pull the relevant DNA match from the records. The best Charlotte could hope for was to be part of the team sent to make the arrest.

    Charlotte heard the hum of the motor as the elevator became active again, and she glanced back at the screen above the door; it dutifully revealed that the left-hand car was bound for thirty-nine.

    Charlotte frowned. It had to be Rex Carnevon—the whole floor had been temporarily quarantined until the forensic team had made a more accurate assessment of the biohazard.

    She moved to meet the elevator car, psyching herself up for another confrontation, but when the door opened, it was not the supervisor’s elliptical form that emerged but that of a tall young man with perfect blond hair and luminous blue eyes. His suitskin was sober in hue but very delicately fashioned, taking full advantage of the sculpted curves of his elegant frame. Now that cosmetic engineering was available to everyone, it had become exceedingly difficult for its artisans to produce striking individual effects, but this man struck her instantly as a person of exceptional beauty and bearing.

    “Sergeant Holmes?” he inquired.

    The warmth and politeness of his tone cut right through her intention to say “Who the hell are you?” in a petulant fashion, and all she could contrive was a rather weak “Yes.” “My name is Lowenthal,” he said. “Michael Lowenthal.” “You shouldn’t be here, Mr. Lowenthal,” she said, having recovered her breath and something of her sense of purpose. “This area is under quarantine.” “I know,” he said, taking a swipecard from an invisible pocket without disturbing the line of his suitskin. He held the card out to her, and while she took it in order to slot it into her beltphone he added: “I’m a special investigator.” The display on her phone read: FULLY AUTHORIZED. OFFER FULL COOPERATION.

    Charlotte, slightly numb with shock, turned around in order to plug her machine into the wall socket again. She summoned Hal’s image to the screen beside Gabriel King’s door.

    “What’s this, Hal?” she said.

    “Exactly what it says,” her superior replied rather brusquely. “The instruction came down from above, presumably from the very top. We’re to copy Mr. Lowenthal in on the progress of our