Balot’s state was now such that all she had to do was bring something to mind, open up her heart, and it was done. Whatever image she sought. This would then pass through the artificial Lightite skin that covered her whole body, transforming into electronic signals, snarcing through the swirls of information with great vigor.
–There’s a copy…definitely…a trace…
A large bubble—a long sigh—escaped from the artificial respiratory organ that was appended to her mouth. She continued with half-open eyes.
–Eighteen years’ worth of his memories have all been transformed into recorded data…
She looked up at the light above her with her eyes half-asleep. Her eyes then closed further.
–It’s all coming together.
When he heard Balot’s words, Tweedledum gave a short shrill chirp of surprise.
–Amazing stuff, babe…
And then, at that instant, all the information was sorted; the irrelevancies and the dead-ends discarded, only the cold, hard facts remained.
–I’ve managed to analyze a specialist computer program used by Shell to transfer his memories onto writable media. There are traces of evidence suggesting that the program has been implemented. What happens is that all his memories relating to his five senses are selected and isolated, leaving the parts of his memory relating to his imagination and his desires intact. So, when it’s all turned into recorded data, the gestalt of his brain’s memory form is destroyed and he loses all his physical memories.
The information was now pouring out automatically, as if Balot was no longer speaking of her own accord.
–There’s a particular type of storage file he needs to use in order to save all eighteen years’ worth of audiovisual memories… It’s a particularly complicated storage file that requires a very specific type of metalwork to make. That’s how we determine our route—traces of that metalworking.
–Aha! So there’s your magic bottle that holds eighteen years’ worth of brains, huh? Tweedledum said to Balot, who was now virtually sleep-walking, or sleep-floating.
–And where is that bottle, right?
–Every time he does his money-laundering, he skims a bit off the top. He falsifies his own expenses. I think I’ve worked out a pattern. Using this I can work out roughly what his fortune is—both his official one and his black market one. Every time a girl dies, more money swirls around…
Balot felt a chill in her heart as she transmitted this, as though she had swallowed a cold knife. Her pulse was steady, and yet she felt a sharp pounding in her heart.
–Why me?
As she asked the question, the information that was swirling all around her seemed to change course.
–That’s it…
Balot stared at the silent swirls of light that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, trying to put aside the feeling of sheer hatred, the overwhelming desire to kill that had sprouted up inside her and was now rising to the fore. Trying to calm herself, she exhaled slowly.
–The answers are all in Shell’s memories.
This was Balot’s conclusion.
–For a memory transplant…you need lots of money and the right facilities. The flow of money, evidence of computer programs being used, Shell’s actions, special facilities for memory transplants, payments to certain people, the girls used at the time…
