Retiree

By John Douglas Powers

The characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the authors.

Copyright © 2013 Pangenre, LLC

All Rights Reserved

Cover illustration by Luca Oleastri of Innovari Art.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Glossary

Chapter 1

Brett sat uncomfortably inside his unmarked police sedan. He
was trying to rest without passing fully into slumber, and although he had been
successful at the latter, the former was elusive. The southern California sun
was competing with the air conditioning, and the heat was winning.

Suddenly, the car’s comm panel lit up, and a loud ping
echoed throughout the vehicle. Brett snapped awake, or as awake as he could
manage after having last night’s insufficient sleep made even less sufficient
by his boss, Alana’s, three-AM phone call. “Answer!” he managed to blurt.

Alana’s voice issued from the car’s comm panel, “Crabtree, I
need you for backup. How soon can you get here?”

“Get where?”

“Hold on.”

An image flickered into focus on the comm panel’s monitor.
The camera bounced around, focusing on Alana. She was wearing her trademark
beige overcoat, black trousers, and white work shirt. Tucked inside her
overcoat, her bulky service pistol appeared outsized compared to her frame. She
spoke directly to the camera, “Are you getting the feed from my drone?”

Brett looked at his comm device, an old-fashioned hand-held
model. The screen displayed an overhead map of the area where he was parked,
but nothing was showing up on the tracker. “I see your feed, but I’m still not
getting your tracking signal. What happened to you yesterday morning?”

Alana shook her head. “No time. I’m in hot pursuit of an
unregistered cyborg. Cambot! Activate your secure transponder, police band.”

Brett looked at his comm screen again, and a small indicator
flashed into being a few kilometers farther down the highway. “I got it!”

“Home in on it! But stay back a hundred meters unless I call
you in. I think the suspect has a bomb.” Alana took off running, and the
airborne camera drone turned to follow her as she leapt over a pile of debris
and ran down an abandoned alleyway.

Brett fastened his seat belt and said, “Car, drive to DCI
Graves’ location, fastest route!”

The police car’s electric motor hummed as it sped off,
pressing Brett back in his seat. It was clearly straining to go as fast as it
could. Brett grabbed the panic handle with both hands as the car maneuvered
around decades-old debris that had never been cleared from the roadway.

Focusing his attention on Alana’s video feed and ignoring
the gut-wrenching maneuvers his car was performing, Brett tried to figure out
what was happening.

Alana was apparently racing through the broken doors and
crumbling walls of an abandoned building on foot to catch up with a teenage
male. Both the teenager and Alana were displaying superhuman speed and agility
as they quickly dodged, turned corners, and leapt over debris.

The chase moved outside as the teenager ran out through an
upper-story doorway and leapt across the gap between buildings. He landed on a
rickety fire escape, which broke free from the brickwork and collapsed, but the
young man hung on, riding it down as it fell to the alley floor. Alana stopped
in the doorway and her camera drone focused on her.

Brett’s car turned sharply off the main road and sped down a
perpendicular secondary road past crumbling buildings that still bore the scars
of the nuclear attack that depopulated the northern half of Los Angeles forty
years ago. The urban decay had not stopped in the decades since.

Alana quickly surveyed the area for a quick, but safe way
down. She asked, loudly enough for her camera drone to capture the audio,
“Where are you now, Crabtree?”

Brett asked his machine, “Car! ETA to Alana’s location?”

The car passed a dilapidated billboard, its faded question
from decades past was still discernible, ‘Are You Saved?’

Alana saw a drainage pipe hanging from the side of the
building. It was within jumping distance. She set herself and then leapt
towards the pipe. When she grabbed on, the pipe broke away from a rusted weld
point above her. Alana held on tightly as the broken pipe swung downward,
bending in the middle, and catching on a ledge about halfway to the ground.

As Brett’s voice issued from the camera drone’s speaker, it
echoed both from the alley walls and from the feedback as it returned to the
drone’s microphone, “Car says I’m thirty seconds away!”

Alana grabbed a lower section of the pipe. Displaying
strength greatly exceeding her size, she shinnied down and landed on the
ground.

Brett continued, “Boss? You okay? Please respond.”

Alana looked at her hands. A large section of skin had been
torn away during her climb, exposing the bare metal and plastic of her
cybernetic palms. “Nothing a can of paint can’t fix.”

Alana looked towards the street-ward end of the alley. She
saw a weathered sign hanging from the corner. She ran in the other direction,
continuing her pursuit.

Brett’s police car passed an unmarked sedan parked next to
the curb. He radioed, “Found your car, Boss!”

Alana replied, “Look for a sign that’s about to fall off its
hinges at the corner of an alley between these buildings.”

Brett scanned the street for the sign, and spotted it
rapidly approaching. “Car! Stop!”

The police car slammed on its brakes, skidding on the layer
of dirt and debris that covered the road and pushing Brett forward against his
safety belts. He unbuckled the belts, flung open the car door, and climbed out.
He walked toward the alleyway entrance, taking time to slip a small headset and
microphone into place. He caught Alana mid-sentence, “—then go left, then right
again!”

“Sorry, boss, please repeat. I missed the beginning.”

Alana repeated her instructions for Brett, “Left! Right!
Left! Right!”

Brett tuned his phone in to the signal, answering as the
video feed appeared on the screen, “Got it. I’m on the way.”

Alana continued onward, running through a maze of alleyways.
She stopped at a three-way junction and listened intently. A series of rapid,
yet faint, footfalls were picked up by the drone. She quickly looked left, and
then ran in that direction. She stopped outside one of the decrepit doorframes
that threatened to collapse, taking the entire wall down with it. Peering
through the opening, she spied her suspect. He was sitting down, with his back
against the wall. One knee was raised, and his left leg was extended. His left
foreleg appeared damaged, possibly in the fall it took from the fire escape.

Alana used a hand signal to instruct her camera drone to
hover in place. She drew her oversized pistol. She flipped the safety off and
carefully stepped inside the building. She crept towards the suspect, looking
down the barrel of her weapon as she approached him. Alana aimed her pistol
right at the suspect’s chest. She then quickly glanced to ensure that she could
still see her camera drone.

The robot teenager looked directly at Alana. With a blank
expression, it quickly raised its hand, which was holding a grenade.

Brett was about to turn the last corner into the dead-end
alleyway when a massive explosion sent a blast of dust and debris down the
alley. He staggered backward and fell against a pile of rubble. Large portions
of the wall beside him collapsed, filling the area with dust.

Brett called out on his radio, “Code Zebra! Code Zebra!”

A police dispatch computer answered seconds later. Its
synthetic, feminine voice was far too calm for the situation, “Affirmative,
Detective Crabtree. The priority channel is open. What do you require?”

Brett was choking from dust. He barely managed to reply,
coughing as he spoke, “I need a full search and rescue team at my GPS, stat!
There was an explosion, and the building collapsed. Inspector Graves may have
been buried by it.”

“Affirmative. I am dispatching a life-flight. Do you require
additional backup?”

“No—yes.” Brett held his eyelids shut against the stinging
dirt, “Yes.”

Chapter 2

Alana lay naked atop the operating table. Her previously
damaged palms were now pristine. Her eyes were shut. She looked just like she
did when her first body image was scanned thirty-five years ago at the age of
thirty-five. A diagnostic device in the shape of a band encircled her head, and
a small wire led from that to a nearby computer.

Alana suddenly sat up in bed. Her eyelids snapped open, and
her simulated breathing reflex, designed to help cyborgs appear more human than
their robot cousins, kicked-in.

Doctor Phelps stood by Alana’s side. His nametag also
displayed his title, ‘Chief Cybersurgeon.’ His lab coat sported a patch with a
Zumpco Corporation logo. He said, “Good morning. Please tell me who you are.”

Alana looked up at Doctor Phelps without turning her head.
She remembered him. He was present the last time she needed a body replacement,
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Alana Graves. Am I saved?”

Trying at least to appear cheerful, Phelps asked, “Would you
like the good news first?”

Alana frowned, “I’ve been resurrected, haven’t I.”

Phelps simply said, “Yes.”

Alana twiddled the toes in her left foot, “My toes are
working again. This is a new body. Was it a soft-kill or a hard-kill?”

Phelps frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the terms ‘soft
and hard kill.’ He answered, “It was a full replacement, including a brand new
brain.”

“Shit. How long since I was saved?”

The doctor said, “Ten weeks.”

“Shit. How long since I died?”

“I don’t know that. You’ll have to ask your boss. It’s been
two weeks since we got the request. It takes a while to get approval for
state-subsidized resurrections.”

The thought of losing ten weeks of her life wasn’t making
Alana happy. The last time she was resurrected, she only lost three weeks, and
it still took her that same amount of time just to catch up on everything that
had happened during that break. She asked, “Is this the same chassis?”

Phelps stepped behind Alana and lifted the circlet from her
head. An alarm buzzed, prompting the doctor to flip the power switch to the off
position. “The body is the same, but it does have some new accessories.”

“How much did—”

“Your employer paid for the upgrades, probably because
they’re work-related.”

“What’s different?”

“You’ve got a digestive system now. You can eat—and taste.
There’s a chemical analyzer built into it, so you’re also a mobile chemical lab
now. The owner’s manual should be in your new Vira.”

Alana turned her head to look at the doctor. The faint
squeaking that had been bothering her every time she turned her head for the
past year was gone. “Do I need to reset all of my Vira preferences?”

Phelps looked sympathetic, “Unfortunately, yes. Your last
body was destroyed. Nothing survived.”

“How did that happen?”

“You’ll have to ask your boss. All I know is that it was a
complete write-off, including your brain compartment. Right now, I need you to
stand up.”

Alana complied. When her bare feet connected with the tile,
she said, “The floor is cold.”

“That’s a good sign.”

Doctor Phelps guided Alana through a series of maneuvers to
test her coordination and motor control. At one point, Alana asked, “Is your
hair grayer than it was the last time I saw you?”

Phelps smiled, “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s been three
years.”

Alana scrutinized the doctor’s features. His hand was
wrinkled. She asked, “You haven’t retired yet?”

Phelps said, “No. I’m still alive.”

Alana examined her right hand, noting how youthful her
synthetic skin looked. She was startled as an electric charge suddenly arced
between her thumb and her middle finger. “That’s new too.”

Phelps was unfazed, as if he was expecting it, “It’s a built
in stun-gun. The retired street cops have been calling it the joy buzzer. It
should also be in your owner’s manual. You might want to turn it off until you
need it, and of course, be careful where you stick your hand.”

Alana took a few moments to survey the room. Daylight shone
through the window, which overlooked a packed, two-level parking deck. A cabinet
filled with diagnostic tools and minor spare parts was set against the back
wall. Even though it was obviously intended to look like a normal hospital
room, probably to make retirees feel connected to their lost humanity, it was
obviously a mechanic’s workshop. In fact, it was common for people to refer to
such facilities as ‘shopitals.’

A framed Zumpco poster hung on the wall, advertising a
resurrection insurance program, ‘Could You Afford Early Retirement?’ A second
poster warned, “You Can’t Be Resurrected if You Aren’t Saved.” A third one
instructed potential and current retirees to, ‘Save Early! Save Often!”
Particularly catching Alana’s eye was a notepad the doctor had placed on a side
table, presumably with her medical records in it.

Alana grabbed one of her synthetic breasts with her left
hand and squeezed it a couple of times. “Shame none of those parts work. They
do on the deluxe model, don’t they? The one that’s not covered under the
replacement contract?”

The doctor pointed to an armoire near the door, clearly
uncomfortable with the direction Alana was taking the conversation, “One of
your men brought you a change of clothes. I’ll leave you alone. You can leave
when you’re ready.”

“Unless something happened while I was dead, it’s been about
thirty-five years for me. I haven’t decided whether I miss it or not.” Alana
pointed at the doctor’s hand, having noticed his wedding ring. “Do
you—still—you know?”

Doctor Phelps looked at Alana as if he was second-guessing
his decision to release his patient.

“Just ignore me, Doc. Being half-alive changes the way you
think.”

The doctor headed in the most direct route possible towards
the door, going so far as to pull it closed behind him. In his haste, he left
his notepad behind.

Alana rushed to the door, locking it. She then picked up
Doctor Phelps’ notepad. Brushing her hair aside, she extended the pad’s small
cable and plugged it into the data port hidden at the nape of her neck. The
data stored on the notepad took only seconds to copy, but it would likely take
hours to review, assuming there was anything useful buried within it. It would
have to wait.

A few minutes later, the double doors separating the patient
rooms from the reception area flew open and Alana strode out, dressed in a
perfectly tailored police uniform, adorned with medals and insignia identifying
her as a high-ranking officer. She let the door swing closed on its own.

A number of cybernetic patients with conditions ranging from
missing limbs to torn skin to unsynchronized eyes sat in the reception area,
along with a handful of hospital staff, none of whom looked pleased with
Alana’s noisy entrance.

Brett sat among the patients. He had been trying to guess
which of the assembled people were retirees and which were still alive like
him. The contrasts were not as plain as he thought they would be. Some were
obviously cyborgs, made clear by their damaged parts, but their movements and
behavior were so lifelike that only the maintenance robots, with their
deliberately unrealistic skin, were easily discernible.

Alana flew past Brett so quickly that he had to leap to his
feet and trot to catch up with her. She grabbed a dark-red apple from a small
refreshment table with her left hand as she passed, deftly tossed it to her
right hand, and took a bite. She took about three more steps before stopping. A
small window in the lower left corner of her view scrolled off an analysis of
the chemical composition of the fruit, but nowhere in that list did it mention
that it was simply delicious. The tactile feedback was not as she had
remembered it to be. She could tell that there was something in her mouth, and
she could taste the combination of tartness and sweetness, but she could not
feel each bit make contact with her gums, tongue, and cheeks. Nonetheless, she
took another bite, this time a huge one, encompassing a quarter of the apple,
including the core. She could hear the crunching of the ripened, yet firm
flesh. She swallowed everything when she heard a man’s voice call out, “Chief
Inspector!”

Alana wheeled around, “I presume that I’m the only one who
matches that job description in this random sampling of the population?”

“Well... You’re the only one who responded, Ma’am.”

Alana eyeballed the man. She did not recognize him, but she
was missing a lot of time from her immediate past, “So, who are you?”

Brett offered to shake hands. Alana paused before accepting
the gesture, unsure whether or not she could control the built-in electrical
weapon. She extended her left hand in response.

Brett changed hands and completed the gesture, “I’m your
detective assistant, Ma’am.”

“Detective Rhys is my second, and you’re not him. Unless
you’ve finally retired and taken a different body, which would violate the
Second Cyber Commandment, in which case I’ll have to arrest you.”

Brett said, “No, Ma’am, I’m Detective Crabtree. Detective
Rhys was killed in the line of duty.”

Alana looked away, focusing on nothing in particular, her
expression suddenly washed clean.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

She said, “You’re supposed to ask me to sit down before you
tell me things like that. Did Rhys retire?”

“No, Ma’am. It’d be best if Chief Bennett briefed you on
that. I understand that there are some complexities surrounding the event.”

“Being a cyborg makes this a lot easier, Crabtree. I can’t
cry, even if I wanted to.”

“I am truly sorry, Ma’am. And you used to call me Brett
before—this is awkward to talk about, even the second time around.”

“Second time?”

“I’d been working with you for a few weeks before you were
blown up, and we discussed everything previously.”

Alana straightened her posture, which she could tell had
slumped upon hearing the news of Rhys’ demise, “Then I should not have to
reiterate that Detective Rhys was a very good cop and a very good man. I hope
you’re up to his standards. Are you also a full bio? Like he was?”

Brett nodded, “I can’t afford to retire yet, Ma’am, even if
I wanted to, which I’m still on the fence about. I’ve even been lucky enough to
keep all my own appendages so far.”

“Put retirement off as long as you can, Detective Crabtree.
Except for menstruation, there’s a lot I miss about being a biological.”

“Er... Yes, Ma’am.”

Alana’s thoughts were already beginning to race, “Did you
say I was blown up? That’s the second time that’s happened to me. Maybe there’s
more about it in the doctor’s notes. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Chief Bennett requested that I bring you straight to his
office once you were resurrected.”

Alana turned and strode through the automatic door, with
Brett hurrying behind her, “Fine, but we’re stopping on the way in for a big,
fat cheeseburger.”

“Ma’am?”

“I want to know all about Detective Rhys’ death, but I
haven’t eaten in over thirty years, and that’s been higher on my list than
rough sex. I can only do one of those, so I plan on overdoing it to
compensate.”

Alana spun around and started walking towards the parking
lot, “Crabtree, where’s our police car?” She took another huge bite of fruit.

Brett slowed down. DCI Graves had what he would politely
describe as an unusual personality, but he had never heard her speak quite like
this before. Of course, she had just been resurrected with a brand-new
brain. He had been cautioned that her personality might not be identical to her
previous incarnation. There was also the possibility that something could be
wonky.

Chapter 3

Alana and Brett sat across the desk from Chief Bennett. His
graying hair seemed to turn even lighter as the debriefing progressed. He
glared at Alana, “You were completely off the grid before your death. No GPS
logs. No communication logs. No work log. Explain.”

Alana said, “I can’t. For the last two weeks, I’ve been
dead. I lost all my memories of the eight weeks prior to that when I was
resurrected.”

“Has Detective Crabtree briefed you on what happened?”

Brett answered, “I gave DCI Graves a précis.”

Bennett shifted his glare onto the detective, “I asked DCI
Graves.”

Alana raised her hand in protest, “Detective Crabtree just
gave you the same answer I would have. I came more-or-less straight from the
shopital, so I haven’t had time to catch up on recent history. I am given to
understand that I was blown up.”

The section chief continued, more gruffly than a herd of
chain-smoking billy goats, “I have a conundrum. Except for your initial
briefing, I don’t know what point you were at in your case when you died.”

Alana noticed a ketchup stain on her sleeve. Lowering her
arm, she furtively wiped it off on her trouser leg. Her first lunch in over
three decades should have been like riding a bike, but her supping skills had
atrophied to the point where Brett had been forced to fetch a stack of spare
napkins, and that still was insufficient. She said, “Then you have me at an
additional disadvantage because I don’t even know what I was working on. The
last thing I remember is going into the hospital to get saved.”

Bennett turned to Brett, “Apparently, your new detective
assistant does not know what you were doing either. Why is that,
Crabtree?”

Brett struggled with the truth momentarily, but it quickly
overpowered him, “DCI Graves declined to include me in her investigation. I was
mostly doing research and running errands.”

The next question was patently rhetorical, “What kind of
errands, Crabtree?”

Brett looked at Alana and hesitated. He was walking the line
between his boss and his boss’ boss, knowing that whichever way he turned might
cause a rapid descent in both relationships.

Bennett prodded, “Coffee?”

“DCI Graves is a full cyborg, sir.”

“WD-40?”

Brett could somehow feel Alana glaring at him without
looking in her direction, “It was mostly research, sir. Along with some dry
cleaning. I got the impression that I did not have her full confidence. In
fact, I rarely saw the Inspector—”

Alana interrupted, “Chief Inspector.”

“Sorry, Ma’am. Chief Inspector.”

Alana said, “Chief Bennett, can we discuss this in private?”

Bennett looked at Brett, who nodded, stood, left the office,
and closed the door behind him. Now alone with Alana, Chief Bennett continued,
“So, what do I do with you?”

“Chief, you’ve known me for over ten years. You know that I
document everything. If I didn’t, then either I had a good reason, or the
records were modified. What about the video record from my last body’s memory?”

“If there was one, it was destroyed in the explosion. You
were apparently hit with a military plasma grenade at point-blank range. All
I’ve got is a short chase video from a cambot that shows you being vaporized.”

Alana sat silently as she pondered her next words. In the
end, she could not think of anything to add. She would have to take the time to
review what information she could accumulate before she could form new
questions. She broke the silence to broach what was, to her, a more important
subject, “What happened to Rhys?”

Bennett grimaced, “Rhys’ status is complicated.”

“Detective Crabtree used almost that exact word when I asked
him about it. Rhys was my assistant for the last four years, and I’ve known him
since he joined the force. He was also my friend. What happened to him?”

“He was killed by a Security Division protection team.”

Alana was stunned, “What...?”

“The video logs show that he was ignoring orders to stand
down in a weapons-free situation after attempting to assassinate a Republic
Councilperson. He was shot down by a security robot. His record was
sequestered, pending review and possible felony prosecution.”

Alana shook her head, “No. That’s just not possible.”

“Possible or not, he’s in Limbo right now. He’s dead, and we
can’t resurrect him because he’s been charged with a felony.”

“Where was I when this happened?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t leave any notes.” Bennett leaned
forward, “I lost one of my best detectives, and his boss was acting very
strangely and not keeping records or filing reports on time, like she knows
she’s supposed to do—almost as if she was deliberately leaving things out of
it.”

There was no hesitation in Alana’s reply as she knew what
she was going to demand when she walked into the meeting, “The obvious course
of action is to allow me to investigate my death, and perhaps in the process, I
might find a trail that leads me back to what I was investigating in the first
place. That might allow me to clear Rhys and get him resurrected. What was
I investigating?”

“I’ve already assigned DCI MacGruder to the original case.
It’s a classified file. You had clearance, but he’s now the official
investigator, so you’ll have to check with him for details.”

Alana frowned, “You know that Maggie hates me, right?”

Bennett smirked, “Consider it an opportunity to work on your
people skills.”

“What are my resources?”

“I’ll give you Detective Crabtree and one unmarked car.
Forensics has already been over the blast site. You can get the report from
them. Dismissed, DCI Graves. Oh, and be careful.”

“Thank you, Ch—”

“Resurrections are breaking our budget as of late.”

Brett was waiting nervously outside the Chief’s office when
Alana emerged, “What happ—”

Alana strode past Brett, headed directly towards the
evidence rooms, “I want to review both mine and Detective Rhys’ murders. Now.”

Securing an unused conference room, Alana viewed the only
record of her death, the cambot video she transmitted to Brett. After the
plasma grenade that hard-killed Alana detonated, the surrounding building
collapsed, and the drone was caught in the avalanche. She said, “Some things
aren’t adding up here. Crabtree, you said that the only transponder you picked
up was from my camera drone, correct?”

Brett answered, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“I should have interrogated the man I was chasing. I mean, I
got close enough to do that. It would have been nothing to tell my Vira to ping
his transponder so I could track him—should have also told me who he was.”

Brett shook his head, “There’s nothing like that in the
records that survived.”

Alana asked, “When exactly did my transponder stop
working?”

Brett checked his notepad, “The last known signal was at
10:07 in the morning of the previous day. That would have been April 6th.
For reference, today is April 20th.”

Alana mused, “Fourteen days... Took them long enough to
resurrect me. Where was I when the signal stopped?”

Brett touched the global positioning system coordinates in
the report and a satellite map of the location appeared. Brett raised his
eyebrow. “You were in your house.”

“What? Give me that!” Alana snatched the notepad and zoomed
in. It was her house. “Hmm. Living room by the looks of it.”

Silence descended upon the room and lingered for at least a
minute until Alana finally said, “Vira, if my tracking transponder fails, what
happens?”

The monotone female voice of her virtual assistant spoke as
if directly into her ears, “A fault is reported to the owner, and a local log
file is created for use by Zumpco maintenance personnel.”

“Is that log file transmitted anywhere?”

“Not unless you take your body in for maintenance at an
approved vendor. Your privacy is of the utmost importance to Zumpco.”

For once, Alana wished it wasn’t. “Vira, end. Crabtree,
rerun that video again, from the beginning.”

Throughout the second viewing, Alana kept pausing,
rewinding, and stopping, as though she were looking for something wrong. When
she reached the end of the recording, she found something, “Pause!” she yelled
seconds before the explosion.

“What is it, Chief Inspector?” Brett asked.

“Watch this. It’s subtle.” She picked up the remote control
and manually advanced the video, one frame at a time. When the grenade went
off, blinding even the cambot’s video camera, Alana stopped and rolled back to
the previous moment. “See that?”

Brett wasn’t on the same wavelength as Alana, “Umm... no.”

Alana zoomed in on her face, “Right there. Plain as
day. I turned my head away from the suspect and looked at the camera. That’s
when he set off the bomb. I had my pistol drawn on the subject, and I looked at
the camera. Why did I do that?”

Brett squinted, “Maybe you heard the cambot and it
distracted you?”

Alana shook her head, “At this point in the video, I knew
the cambot was there.”

“Maybe there was something else there? Outside the cambot’s
field of view?”

“If there was something or someone else there, there would
be some kind of audio signature on the recording, wouldn’t there? According to
the analysis report, there weren’t any audio anomalies. The cambot’s microphone
should have been sensitive enough to hear anything nearby.”

Brett guessed, “Maybe you were looking to see if I was there
yet?”

Alana was fixated on the video monitor, “Perhaps. In any
event, take a bathroom break before we look at the Rhys video.”

Brett stood, “Do you need—never mind.”

Brett exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Why it even crossed his mind to ask his boss if she also needed a break was
beyond him. Cyborgs still needed to sleep to rest their organic brains as well
as to recharge their batteries, but other than that, they were able to work
longer hours than normal people were. If the task they were performing was
mindless, they could just program themselves to repeat it, connect to a nearby
electrical socket, and take a nap while the robotic part of their being kept
plugging away.

Minutes passed, giving Alana time to think. What was
puzzling her more than anything else was why she didn’t just shoot the man she
had been chasing. When he fled, that gave her enough cause to open fire. Even
when she caught up with him, she could have discharged her weapon as a
precaution since it would have been loaded with stun bullets. She caught herself
making the assumption that her weapon was loaded. She looked at that part of
the video again. She did not even attempt to pull the trigger, so it wasn’t a
misfire.

Brett reentered the room, “I loaded the Rhys video into the
system. It should be on the menu now.”

Alana asked, “Did they find my weapon after the explosion?”

“Yes. The lighter parts were vaporized and the metal parts
were fused. Why?”

“I was just breaking my habit of assuming. You know the old
joke about that? Ass out of you and me?”

Brett said, dryly, “I would be hard pressed to say when I
first heard it, but I would assume that I was still learning phonics at
the time.”

As Alana listened to Brett’s pompous, roundabout manner of
answering her question, she was reminded of how Rhys also tended to be
pedantic, even in normal conversation. She had always been forced to think
about what her old friend was saying in any situation. She answered, “Pull up a
seat and walk me through the evidence against Detective Rhys.”

The video only showed a short excerpt, about thirty seconds
long. Detective Rhys was mingling with Councilwoman Chambers’ staff, when
suddenly, Chambers voice rang out from off-camera, “Who is that man? He’s not
on staff! Security!”

Rhys suddenly pulled out a concealed handgun and drew a bead
in Councilwoman Chambers’ direction. Another Security Division robot dove in
front of her, catching the bullet, which exploded, disabling the robot and
spraying fragments.

The robot filming the scene drew
a submachine gun and shot Detective Rhys with a quick, controlled burst of
flechettes. Rhys fell to the floor. The video ended.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all the Security Division would release. It was
enough to charge Rhys.”

Alana said, “That is just not possible. Has this video been
analyzed?”

Brett said, “I’m afraid so. I had Wen Jing down in
cyber-forensics do a pixel-level scan of every frame, and she reported that it
was genuine, live action video. No doctoring.”

“Wen Jing? Are you talking about Wendy?”

Brett nodded, and Alana continued, “Do you have any reason
to suspect that she could have made an error, or deliberately falsified the
report?”

“Well... No, Ma’am. I mean, why would she do that?”

Alana said as she closed her eyes and lowered her head,
resting her forehead against her forefingers, “At least you’re asking, the
right question. Why? The biggest whys I have now are why was Rhys there, why
would he shoot at a councilperson, and why did he have explosive bullets for
his sidearm?”

Brett answered, “You asked those same questions before you
were killed.”

“Did I? Good. Another question that comes to mind is
‘Where?’ Where was this video taken?”

“It was inside a Zumpco assembly plant. I’m not sure where
it is, but I think it’s nearby.”

“Did we ever visit the plant?”

“No, Ma’am.”

Alana frowned as she leapt to her feet, “We’re going down to
forensics.”

By the time the detectives emerged from the conference room,
it was already approaching dinnertime. Brett asked to stop at the station
cafeteria, and Alana offered to join him, expressing that after her messy
lunchtime experience, she needed additional practice before she would be ready
for upscale dining.

Alana hadn’t even been inside this part of the station since
she had retired, but things had noticeably changed, “There used to be a hot bar
over there,” she gestured to a wall lined with vending machines.

Brett said, removing his cold ham-and-cheese-on-rye from its
ridiculously difficult factory packaging, “That was before my time. It’s been
like this ever since I started with the force.”

Alana used a napkin to wipe a bit of vegetable soup from her
chin, and then took the opportunity to test her new assistant, “What
conclusions would you draw from that, Crabtree?”

“That you’re a workaholic? Ma’am.” Brett took a bite and
frowned. The mediocre cheeseburger he had for lunch was far superior.

“Touché. Seriously, though. Why do you think they changed
it?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was because half of the force
is now retired, and cyborgs don’t eat. Present company excepted.”

“That’s a good theory, but your answer is incorrect.”

Brett stopped short of his next bite, “What would be the
correct answer, Ma’am?”

“The correct answer—although ‘answer’ is the wrong
term—would be to question the cafeteria supervisor and get the facts before
drawing the conclusion.”

“In fairness, Ma’am, I am a detective. I wasn’t
resurrected yesterday.”

“My point is that you need to stay extra-sharp and don’t
assume anything about this case. It’s just wrong. In fact, you should
probably question anything and everything I did up to the point where I was
killed.”

“Why should I do that, Ma’am?”

Alana pushed the remaining half of her soup bowl away from
her, “Intuition.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’m allowed to intuit. I’m the boss.”

The shift was about to change as Alana and Brett entered the
forensics lab. The lab was filled with electronic devices large and small, some
intact, some in pieces, some in between, some in the shape of human body parts.

Brett paused at the entrance, looking around, while Alana
walked straight towards Srinivas, the lab’s director, who was in the process of
removing his lab coat with the clear intention of leaving for the evening. “Got
a minute, Srinu?”

The bronze-skinned Indian slapped his hands together, “Ah,
Inspector Graves, back from the dead to haunt me again? What’s the last-minute
emergency du jour?”

Alana used to enjoy listening to Srinivas’ complaints about
her causing him to work overtime, but her concerns over Rhys were at the
forefront of her mind, “The log files from before my death must have been
tampered. I need to know everything you know.”

A long conversation ensued with Alana asking question after
question after follow-up question and getting not a single answer that she
liked.

Brett was walking around the lab, talking briefly to other
technicians. Alana watched him obliquely. He wasn’t talking to any one of them
long enough to inquire thoroughly about any of the matters at hand, and the
friendliness of his exchanges convinced her that he was merely socializing.

When the petite Asian woman Alana knew as Wendy walked in
from the adjacent changing room, slipping her lab coat over her white blouse
and black skirt, Brett cut short his conversation with the male technician with
whom he was speaking and practically pranced over to her. Noting that Brett had
called her Wen Jing earlier, Alana further noted that she had never heard
anyone else call Wendy by that name. The implications were obvious. She
momentarily considered turning her enhanced cybernetic hearing towards their
conversation, but she did not want to lose focus on what Srinivas was telling
her.

Alana refocused her attention on her own conversation,
“Seriously?”

Srinivas said, “I do not lie. Neither does evidence. I found
no ghosts on those devices or in those log files.”

“You are one-hundred and ten percent certain? Nothing was
ever entered.”

Srinivas shrugged, “A hundred percent would be enough, and
I’m that certain.”

Alana did not want to accept that she simply stopped adding
entries to her official logs, “Could I have used removable media storage?”

“There would have been a device connection and disconnection
record in the computer logs. And there wasn’t.

Alana’s cybernetic body was not designed to sigh, “Give me a
copy of my case logs. Maybe the point where I left off will give me a point to
begin again.”

“I transferred that data to Inspector MacGruder. He owns it
now. You will have to get it from him. Knowing how much he likes you, it will
no doubt be costly.”

Alana was never one to let pleasantries get in the way of a
good, direct question, even before she retired. She always found herself having
to go out of her way to be polite, almost always as a second thought. It was
just who she was. It was just who her life and subsequent retirement made her.

“Brett!” Alana yelled, drawing the attention of everyone in
the cyberforensics lab.

Brett stopped talking to Wendy and hustled to Alana’s side.

Srinivas walked away and straight out the door, getting on
with his biological life.

Alana led Brett out the same way they entered. Once a
distance away, Alana asked, “Are you romantically involved with Wendy?”

Brett squeaked, “Uh, no.”

“Don’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgment. Did
you learn anything new?”

“Nothing new. She confirmed that she scanned everything like
she said. She also promised to help if I need anything else.”

It was clear to Alana, if not to Brett, that Brett and Wendy
were about to become involved if they weren’t already. A barely detectable pang
of jealously crept into Alana’s subconscious mind. Was it because she didn’t
want anyone interfering with and possibly distracting her assistant? Or was it
because they were on the cusp of having something that Alana could not?

“Brett?”

“You’re calling me Brett again, Ma’am?”

“It’s easier to say than Detective Crabtree.”

Brett asked, sheepishly, “Shall I call you—”

“I’m still Inspector. Or Chief Inspector. Ma’am also works.”

“What do you need me to do, Inspector?”

“Drop me off at my house on your way home. Then get some
rest. We’ll be busy for a while.”

Chapter 4

Brett was quiet during the drive from the police station to
Alana’s home several kilometers away. He had been to the house before, either
acting as chauffeur for Alana or as a courier for physical objects that were
not available on the Internet. But he had never been invited inside. Tonight
was no exception. Alana told Brett that she wanted him to pick her up at nine
o’clock in the morning, and then bid him good evening as she climbed out of the
police car just as the last embers of twilight were surrendering to the advance
of night. The first street lamp came to life, followed quickly by another, and
then another.

Alana watched the police car accelerate away. Its noisemaker
whirred softly, warning a trio of young children who were playing on the
sidewalk of its presence. It turned right at the far end of the street, and
disappeared from sight. The children stopped running and grew silent when they
saw Alana. She smiled and waved. One of them, the only girl, waved back, and
she and her friends resumed their game of dashing between the cars parked along
the narrow, suburban street. Alana had never met any of the children, or their
parents, other than while passing on her way in or out of her home. She once
overheard the skinnier of the two boys call her the, ‘Crazy Robot Lady.’

Alana never took the initiative to meet the neighbors. Over
the years, they had changed many times. The only one she had known as anything
more than an acquaintance was a middle-aged widow named Alice, to whom she had
lived next door for twenty-four years. Alice had lost her husband to the
Reformation War, but Alana never mentioned the part she played in it, even
though Alice seemed sanguine when she talked about it. Alice had brought Alana
a homemade pound cake as a welcoming gift, but Alana could not help her eat it as
she had been retired for nearly ten years by that point. Alana only found out
that Alice had passed away when a ‘For Sale’ sign appeared on Alice’s front
lawn.

Alana had the presence of mind to check her mail, but the
mailbox was predictably empty. She had not received any physical mail in years.
She closed the box lid, walked up the short ramp to her front door, and pressed
her palm against the security scanner. The door slid open, and she stepped
inside.

Alana’s cybernetic low-light vision automatically switched
on, enabling her to find the light switch without difficulty. She stepped from
the small foyer into her living room. A bucket-sized cleaning robot rolled by,
dusting, sweeping, and vacuuming as it went. If anything had happened here, the
vacbot undoubtedly would have disturbed the evidence.

Alana propped her hands on her hips and mused aloud as she
glanced around her living room, “Okay. What’s different? Vira, start recording,
high resolution video, normal audio.”

Alana began slowly walking around the abode, narrating as
she went, “I’m checking my house in case I left anything that might help get me
back on track.”

Alana’s first stop was her small home office. The side wall
of the office was covered in an electronic white board material where space
permitted. The board was powered down, displaying nothing. The window faced the
street, the view being framed between twin birch trees.

Alana said, “Vira, close my office window,” and on command,
the windows suddenly polarized, turning off-white, presenting an opaque face to
the outside.

After examining the room, she concluded, “The house looks
too tidy for the vacbot. Someone else may have been here. The unthinkable
alternative is that I got uncharacteristically motivated for domestic duties,
which in and of itself would be very suspicious.”

Alana walked over to the whiteboard and tapped it twice. The
whiteboard glowed slightly, just enough to differentiate its boundaries from
the wall. However, the board was completely blank.

“Vira, is my whiteboard working correctly?”

The little voice in her head replied in the affirmative.

“Restore the latest whiteboard backup.”

“I’m sorry, Alana, but there are no backup files to
restore.”

Alana’s brow furrowed as she barked, “What?”

“There are no backup files to restore.”

Alana circled the perimeter of the office twice before she
finally commanded, “Display the last eleven weeks from the activity log on the
whiteboard.”

A text list of user operations scrolled down one panel of
the whiteboard. Alana focused on the final entry, ‘[04.06.2090:2331] Operation:
File Purge [03.01.2060-] User: Alana Graves (Administrator).’

Alana sat down in her office chair, perplexed, “Tabula
rasa.”

Alana stared at the wall for several minutes before finally
asking, “Vira, are there any messages of any kind in the system?”

Her Vira replied, “There are six new voice mail messages.”

“Play the first message.”

“Message one received Friday, April 7, 2090, at 8:20 AM.”

An unfamiliar, synthetically precise female voice spoke,
“This message is for Alana Graves. This is a courtesy call from Zumpco
reminding you that you are scheduled to be saved on Wednesday, April 12, 2090.
Please contact us to confirm your appointment. Thank you.”

The next three messages were from Brett, all asking where
she was and asking her to return his call.

The fifth was a terse message from Chief Bennett instructing
her to contact someone within an hour or else he would issue a missing person
report for her and order a search. From the timestamp, it would have been just
before she was killed on April 8.

Her Vira continued, “Message six received Thursday, April
13, 2090, at 10:17 AM.”

The next voice was very familiar, as Alana had last heard it
less than twelve hours ago, “Inspector Graves, this is Doctor Phelps from
Zumpco. I’m calling to remind you that you were scheduled to be saved yesterday
and you seem to have missed your appointment. Please contact the hospital to
reschedule.”

“End of messages.”

“Vira, are there any other messages saved in the system?”

“There are no additional messages in the archive.”

“Vira, when was the last time that I checked my messages?”

“You last checked your messages on Thursday, April 6th, 2090
at eleven-eleven PM.”

“Vira, have any voice messages been deleted from the
archive?”

“All messages were purged on Thursday, April 6th, 2090 at
eleven-twenty PM.”

Alana stood and walked back to her whiteboard, “Nine minutes
after I logged in to the system. I must have had some messages to go through.
Vira, display the calling records for the last ten weeks on my whiteboard.”

“I’m afraid that those records are restr—”

“Police override.”

A list of calls scrolled across the whiteboard. Alana
examined them all. Most were placed from or to work. Several went to Brett
Crabtree. But one message came from a number that was since deleted, with the
official reason for its closure given as its phone of origin being reported as
stolen. Alana saw that there were several calls placed from her to Rhys’ home,
the last being placed on March 10, 2090—the day before Rhys was killed.

Alana added searching Rhys’ home to her task list.

The message from Doctor Phelps reminded Alana that she had
downloaded the contents of his notepad while she was in the hospital. She
decided to upload them to her home computer system for analysis. Before starting,
she ordered her Vira to cease recording her activity.

Opening the doctor’s files was clearly a violation of every
tenet of good police work. Alana would never condone their access by anyone
under her command, but in these circumstances, she was willing to bypass both
protocol and some privacy laws. It took her less than a minute to locate her
own files, and she perused them carefully, extracting the relevant data from
the larger set and deleting those not related to her.

There was only one thing out of the ordinary. On a list of
optional upgrades installed in her new body, there was something the doctor did
not mention. Just below the request from Chief Bennett that Alana be equipped
with a stun gun and taste analysis system, there was another request for
something called SDT. The SDT entry did not list who authorized the payment,
only that it was installed and that a payment, equal to the cost of the stun
gun, was made to Zumpco when her new body was assembled.

“Vira, what does the abbreviation, SDT, all capital letters,
stand for?”

“There are several possible definitions of SDT. Did you
mean, STD, a more common search term?”

“No, I meant SDT. List the possible definitions on the
whiteboard.”

The list began with San Diego Trolley and worked through several
psychological theories and techniques, Sigma Delta Tau, Signal Detection
Theory, Software Development Tool, Specially Designated Terrorist, Subpoena
Duces Tecum, and finally, Sun-Dried Tomato. None of the listed abbreviations
seemed to apply.

“Is there any part in my chassis called an SDT, or anything
that could use that as an abbreviation?”

The Vira replied, “No parts matching that description were
found.”

Alana said as she slid her finger down the left edge of the
whiteboard, powering it down, “Add SDT research to my task list.”

Alana finally turned to the fact that before her previous
incarnation was destroyed, her tracker stopped functioning, and that she was
inside her house when it happened. It was part of her sometimes dangerous job
that her transponder be usable at all times so that if she needed to call for
help, her location could be established almost immediately. She linked her Vira
into the house data network and started grilling the computers about every
theory she could imagine. From power surges to short-circuits, she covered
nearly the entire electronic layout, but nothing supported a theory that it
could have been an external malfunction.

Alana walked to her bedroom and lifted the mattress from
over her induction recharging system. She inspected the wiring, the plugs, and
the control system, but nothing was out of order.

One final thought crossed Alana’s mind, “Vira, what is the
failure rate of cyborg transponders?”

Her Vira replied, “The expected reliability for the standard
model transponder currently exceeds the operational life of the chassis. Only
seventeen replacements have been logged in the Zumpco maintenance database in
over thirty million installations. Always choose genuine Zumpco parts.”

Alana’s rather broad-faced cynical side wanted to attribute
that statistic to many cyborgs not wanting to repair their transponders, but
she knew better. The transponders not only enabled the authorities to identify
cyborgs, they also allowed instantaneous commercial transactions, secure identification,
and presumably secure wireless communications and data access. Convenience
versus traceability had been a dynamic social struggle ever since the invention
of the cellular phone almost a century ago, and it was one of the issues that
the revolution failed to address.

Alana hefted the mattress back on the bed, where it landed
with a flop. Alana’s body then landed atop it with an equally audible flop. She
heard the characteristic beep-beep-beep in her head that let her know she was
recharging her batteries.

Alana spent the next few minutes staring at her bedroom
ceiling, thinking of all the things she had to do. She had to catch up on what
happened in the last ten weeks, as well as to check her memory to ensure that
nothing went wrong in the data transfer when she was resurrected. Then there
was the issue of her former assistant, Detective Rhys being in Limbo. She’d not
only have to solve her own murder, she’d also have to clear him of what had to
be false charges.

Chapter 5

The police car pulled into Alana’s short driveway at
nine-oh-five in the morning. Brett exited, adjusting his collar as he strode up
the ramp to the door. He rang the bell, and could hear the chime beyond the
doorway. A faint buzz followed, and the door slid open on its own.

Unnoticed by Brett, a black motorcycle parked at the far end
of the street pulled out into the road. Its rider, dressed in black leather and
topped with an opaquely tinted helmet, slowly passed by the front of Alana’s
house.

Brett stepped inside, somewhat pensively, as he had not yet
been extended this courtesy. Every previous visit since he was assigned to the
Inspector on March 21st, around ten in total, involved either Alana meeting him
at the door or in the driveway. He could not help but wonder just how much his
boss’ personality changed when she was resurrected. Before he could ponder the
question further, the door slid shut behind him. From deeper inside the house,
he could hear Inspector Graves call out, “You’re late!”

Brett followed the sound of the voice, treading lightly in
unfamiliar territory. He eventually found Alana in what looked to be a dining
room, sitting at an oval, wooden table and flipping through a scrapbook filled
with hard copies of still images with hand-written notes beside them. “Computerized
traffic control doesn’t stop blowout-induced accidents.”

“Five minutes won’t kill me. I’m semi-immortal.”

Brett asked, “Might one ask what the Inspector is doing?”

“I’m checking my memory imprint for completeness.”

“Is it complete?”

Alana said, “So far, I’ve only seen a few things I don’t
remember. I don’t think anything’s corrupted, but it’s never a perfect
transfer. I was starting to forget things even before I was saved. For a
seventy-year-old woman, my memory is still pretty good in comparison to
long-term bios.”

“You mean old people.”

Alana glanced at Brett, “Good catch. What’s a loss of memory
compared to a loss of humanity? Can I get you something to drink?”

“Coffee?”

“I’m afraid it’s either Earl Grey or water. I haven’t kept a
stocked pantry for a few decades.”

“And yet, you have tea?”

“Rhys likes it, so I keep a small jar. Want some?”

Brett nodded. He’d have preferred something with a higher
concentration of caffeine in its constitution, but he despised the taste of tap
water, so he was more than willing to accept the second-hand tea.

Alana set her scrapbook down on the table and walked into
the kitchen. Brett could hear her fumbling around, making far more noise than
he had expected. The tea she was making clearly wasn’t instant.

Brett looked at the open pages of the scrapbook, and saw an
Inspector Graves he did not know existed. There were four images showing her in
a green military dress uniform, fairly well decorated from the looks of it,
although Brett had no service experience to inform him as to the significance
of the medals. Alana was posing with other military people, some clearly from
other services, all prim and proper with what he took to be official smiles.
Notations beside the photographs dated them thirty-eight years in the past.

Alana walked back into the dining room carrying a porcelain
tray with a similarly constructed teacup and a small teapot. Brett only glanced
at her for a moment, returning his gaze to the scrapbook.

Alana asked, “Did I share this with you before, or did you
just learn something new?”

“I learned what you obviously wanted me to know, but nothing
else. I didn’t flip the pages. You were in the Army? Was that before you
retired?”

“It was well before that—before the revolution, even. I was
a judge advocate.”

“You haven’t aged at all.”

Alana half-smiled, “My residual vanity compels me to thank
you.”

“How did you end up as a detective instead of a lawyer after
your discharge?”

“I was on the rebel side in the conflict. I had to resign
when the peace was reached. Everyone who turned against the oligarchs was
discharged. Honorably, of course. I got hired by the Southwest Force thanks to
the Veteran’s Reconciliation Act.”

“You didn’t tell me this before you were resurrected. Why do
it now?”

“I wanted you to know who you were working with. The revolt
caused a lot of bad blood. The line between hero and traitor can be razor thin.
Is it a problem for you?”

Brett shook his head, “No. I wasn’t born until after the war
was over, and no one in my family was directly involved. What do you think
about your involvement? Did you get what you wanted?”

Alana placed the tea set on the table, “There was a grand
compromise during the peace talks, but it all happened really quickly. I think
the Simi bomb scared both sides into coming to the bargaining table. We got
some of what I was hoping for, but not everything. Here, drink up and I’ll give
you a short tour before we get back on the case.”

The whirlwind tour of the largely disused two-story house
left Brett with many questions for the Inspector, “What is this, about three
hundred square meters?”

Alana swept her arm to emphasize the vastness of her living
room, “Three-hundred and thirty.”

“Why did a cyborg buy a house this big? What do you do with
it all?”

“At the time, I thought I wanted the extra space to wander
around. As things have turned out, I barely use that space, but I keep it
because it’s still a good investment. My last will and testament states that if
I die poor or without insurance, and can’t otherwise afford it from my savings,
it will be sold and used to finance my next resurrection. At the current
valuation, it would cover a deluxe model with all the bells and whistles.”

Brett only nodded his head. Alana was making it sound as if
she was talking about upgrading a car. He kept any further thoughts on the
subject to himself, but another subject came to mind, “The house looks almost
pristine. Do you ever have company?”

“No. In fact, you’re only the third visitor to step inside.”

“Is that typical for retirees? Do they all give up their
social lives?”

“I can only speak for myself. In my case, I stay busy with
work. Most cyborgs do. We have to keep our resurrection insurance paid, or put
enough credits back for maintenance. Life after death is even more expensive
than life.”

Alana picked up her tea tray as they passed through the
dining room en route to the kitchen, which was austere, with largely empty
cupboards, shelves, and countertops. An unopened bag of potato chips sat on the
countertop next to an espresso machine and a tin of Earl Grey tea leaves.

“You use the espresso machine to make tea?”

“Detective Rhys taught me that trick. It works really well,
and he says that it makes good tea. How was yours?”

Brett shrugged, “I’m not enough of a tea connoisseur to
really know the difference, but I thought it was good. Is that bag of chips
also for Detective Rhys? Did he spend a lot of time here?”

Before answering, Alana opened the dishwasher to insert
Brett’s teacup, but when she looked at the top rack, she stopped. She
scrutinized the appliance and its contents. There were two teacups and one
tumbler inside, and the wash cycle had been completed. To Alana’s best
recollection, Rhys only ever drank tea, or water if he was snacking on chips,
the only meal whose availability he could count on in Alana’s house. Who was
using the tumbler? And why did Alana run the dishwasher when it was barely
full, with another six cups sitting unused in the overhead cabinet?

“What’s wrong?” Brett asked.

“Are you sure that you haven’t been here before?”

“Inside? No. I’m still a virgin in that regard. Ma’am.”

Alana had no way of knowing what significance the contents
of the dishwasher may or may not have had, but she leapt to the conclusion that
someone visited her home, drank some water, and ran the dishwasher to scrub the
evidence of their presence.

Alana said, “I think it’s time we tracked down Inspector
MacGruder. Let’s go.”

A minute later, the house had been secured and Brett and
Alana were in their police car. It backed out of the driveway and headed towards
the police station.

Along the way, Alana asked, “Brett, tell me again about all
the police work I had you do since you were assigned to me. Leave out all the
errands.”

“There wasn’t much, really. You had me do a lot of research
on the circumstances concerning Detective Rhys’ death, but you already know
everything I learned.”

“Did I say anything about the case I was working on?

“All I know is that it concerned a possible domestic terror
threat, and that you kept me at arm’s length during the investigation. The only
time you pulled me into it was on the morning you were killed.”

“Would you say I was behaving strangely?”

Brett said, flatly, “With respect, Ma’am, you always behave
strangely.”

“I’ve been told that before. What do I do that’s strange?
Give me an example.”

“Well, for starters, when you talk to people, you hardly
ever make eye contact. Even now. You’ve been staring in the passenger-side
rear-view mirror the whole time you’ve been talking to me.”

Alana said, “That’s because I think we’re being shadowed by
what I’m presuming is a man on a motorcycle.”

At that moment, their police car turned off the main road
and into the station parking deck. Alana said, “Vira, start recording
high-resolution video.”

Alana caught a quick glimpse of the motorcycle in the mirror
as it passed by. Everything about it was black—the tires, the frame, the
rider’s clothing and helmet. Alana asked, “Vira, stop recording. Analyze the
recording I just made, access the vehicle department’s database, and try to
identify the motorcycle that appears in the image.”

The police car found a numbered, reserved space in the
parking deck adjacent to the police station and rolled to a stop. It shut
itself down and released the various passenger safety devices, with the whirr
of the automatic seat belts being followed by the click of the automatic door
locks. When Alana opened her car door, her Vira replied, “The motorcycle is a
2088 Zumpco model Z130, marketed under the name, ‘Ninja.’ There was not enough
information to identify the specific vehicle.”

Brett shut his car door, and noticed that Alana had paused,
as she often did when listening to her virtual assistant. When Alana began
walking towards the station entrance, Brett asked, “Did you learn anything?”

“It was an unidentified Ninja.”

Brett smirked, “At the risk of sounding flippant, aren’t all
ninjas unidentified?”

Alana kept walking, “That’s one way that you’re very
different from Rhys. You have the same style of speaking, but your sense of
humor is both brutishly and Britishly dry.”

Brett trotted to catch up. He continued, “Are you sure that
it was following us?”

“No,” said Alana as they approached the automatic doors. She
could hear his footfalls on the concrete behind her, and his pace maintained
almost exactly the same cadence as Rhys’. In that moment, it struck her that
perhaps that is why her former incarnation pushed Brett away. His mannerisms
were very much like her former partner’s.

Chapter 6

“Brett!” bellowed Alana.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Take an early lunch!”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Brett replied, and two seconds later he pulled
Inspector MacGruder’s office door closed behind him.

Detective Inspector “Maggie” MacGruder sat with his feet
propped up on his desk, his legs crossed at the ankle. An extremely worn
splotch of chewing gum was still stuck to one of his soles, probably years
after it had been stepped on. He was leaning back casually in his brown,
leather office chair.

Alana almost dared him to reply, “Tell me that again?”

MacGruder was unfazed, “I’m going to close the case.”

“Why?”

“You were investigating a reported terrorist plot. In the
end, you found the terrorist. He just happened to blow you up rather than be
taken prisoner.”

“Maggie, there are too many loose ends.”

“The loose ends are also dead ends. I can’t keep chasing
them unless I get more evidence to work with.”

“Detective Rhys being killed wasn’t enough to go on? Have
you checked into how he might have been connected yet?”

MacGruder placed his hands behind his head, “Rhys might very
well have been the terrorist. From what I saw, he tried to assassinate that
Chambers woman, and that’s exactly what you were working on. That angle’s been
taken over by Security Division. I can’t touch it, and neither you nor Rhys
left behind a usable evidence trail. If it’s a cold case, it’s your own damn
fault.”

Alana leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms,
“You’re still pissed off about that cyborg chop-shop I busted out from under
you, aren’t you?”

MacGruder looked up at the ceiling as he replied, “It did
cost me a promotion. I spent six months working on it and then you come along
and stole all the credit.”

“I didn’t poach your case, Maggie. I only busted it because
the perpetrators were stupid enough to kidnap me. I was in pieces when the
search team finally homed in on my transponder.”

MacGruder chuckled, “That almost made it worth
enduring the humiliation. Until you got the promotion to Chief Inspector over
it.”

“I was in line for that for a decade, Maggie. They only gave
it to me because they were afraid I was going to sue for cyber-discrimination.
That case just gave Bennett political cover to approve it without getting
himself in trouble.”

MacGruder reclined even further in his chair, “You always
were Bennett’s pet.”

“I’m going to let that slide this time, Maggie.”

MacGruder continued, as smug as Alana had ever seen him, “I
really do love it when I make you angry.”

Alana stood up straight. As she turned the doorknob, she
said, “I may be retired, but I’m still Irish. Be careful what you wish for.”

The slamming of the door brought silence upon the otherwise
busy corridor, but when the other police personnel saw that it was Alana, they
resumed their previous activity as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

As Alana had hoped, Brett had not taken a lunch break, and
was instead waiting outside the office. Just as she started to address him, the
station intercom came alive, “Detective Brett Crabtree please report to
Briefing Room A.”

Brett looked up, a Pavlovian response to the disembodied
voice, which seemed to come from above, “I probably need to go there,
Inspector.”

Alana acquiesced, “We can talk on the way. What time can you
be around in the morning?”

Brett looked concerned as he began heading towards the
meeting rooms, “Tomorrow is Saturday, Inspector. I have some preexisting
engagements.”

Alana was unmoved and clearly still annoyed by her fruitless
meeting with Inspector MacGruder, “I’ll approve the overtime.”

Brett merely said, “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll cancel my plans,” but
he was clearly unhappy about it, more from disappointment than from anger or
frustration.

Alana briefed Brett on her conversation with Inspector
MacGruder, concluding in the end that the entire endeavor had been fruitless.
MacGruder had not learned anything that Alana did not already know. In fact,
she had gotten the distinct impression that he took the opportunity to use the
case as a working vacation.

Brett and Alana finally reached the briefing room, opened
the door, and entered. The lights were off, but before Alana’s night vision
could switch on, the room lit up and a rousing chorus of a dozen voices yelled,
“Surprise!”

At first, Alana was startled. On one of the tables were a
cake, bottled drinks, and other party favors. Her first thought was that she
was being given a fond welcome back from the dead. But then, she heard Chief
Bennett say, “Happy birthday, Brett!”

Alana looked at Brett, who had turned beet-red with
embarrassment. If she were still alive, she knew that she would have looked the
same for opposite reasons. Amid a round of cheers, whistles, and claps, she
squeaked, “Your birthday?”

Brett looked back and smiled, “Thirty-five tomorrow.”

Before Alana could say anything else, Wen Jing from
cyber-forensics walked over, grabbed Brett by the hand, and dragged him over to
the cake, handed him a bread knife, and clapped. Brett counted the people
assembled and then cut the cake into enough slices for everyone with a handful
left over for those who may have been late or unable to attend the gathering.

Alana stood frozen near the door for minutes while Wen Jing
passed slices of cake around to everyone else but her.

Eventually, Chief Bennett approached Alana, bringing her a
slice of the cake and a fork, “It’s not an oversight. They don’t know you can
eat now.”

Alana half-heartedly received the gift, “I’ve really changed
over the years, haven’t I.” It was clearly a statement and not a question.

“If I’ve brought you back on the job too soon, tell me. I’ll
approve counseling if you want it.”

“I’m fine in that regard, Chief. I already have a list of
questions about my case so long it might take weeks to follow up on everything.
Like, for example, why did we get a counter-terrorism case assigned to our
department? That’s Security Division’s jurisdiction. Where did that case come
from, Chief?”

Bennett’s expression soured, “It rolled downhill from my
boss at Central. No explanation, just the lead that someone might try to
assassinate Councilwoman Chambers while she was visiting Los Angeles. And then
Rhys tried to do just that.”

“Do you think that someone might have set us up from the start?”

“Have you considered the possibility that Rhys might have
been the terrorist Central warned me about all along?”

“Did they ask for me by name for the investigation?”

“No.”

“Then I have now considered that possibility for about two
seconds longer than the theory deserved. The only thing that would make sense
in that scenario is that Central and you were in collusion and deliberately
assigned me to the case knowing that it would bring Rhys closer to the target.
The concatenation of circumstances required for that operation to be successful
is too variable and unlikely to be anything short of ridiculous. Unless you
want to confess here and now.”

Alana took a bite of the cake, and her analyzer reported to
her its constituents. It was sugar-free and reduced-fat red velvet, with a
laundry list of additives, clearly made from a cake mix and store-bought
frosting. Most importantly, it tasted good. She wiped the leftover white
frosting from her fingers with a napkin after failing to lick them clean, which
proved awkward because her tongue was optimized for reproducing human speech as
well as being dry.

Handing Alana an extra napkin and gesturing to let her know
that she had left some additional traces of the cake where she could not see
them, Bennett asked, “Did Maggie tell you he was closing your former case?”

Alana wiped her chin clean, “Yes. I found out just before we
got called here.”

“If you can bring me any actionable evidence, I’ll let you
reopen it.”

“Chief?”

“It’s just a hunch, but I’d actually be surprised if it
wasn’t connected to both yours and Rhys’ deaths, but I’ll need proof to justify
reopening it if anyone from Central inquires. If you come across any, let me
know. But steer clear of Security Division’s turf regarding Rhys. I don’t want
to lose you as well.”

“Understood.”

“Especially after just paying for your full resurrection,”
Bennett rejoined the party, took a slice of cake on a paper plate, shook
Brett’s hand, and then left the briefing room, presumably heading back to his
office.

Alana finished her slice alone amongst her coworkers.

After the party died down and everyone else returned to
work, leaving Wen Jing to clean up, Brett returned to Alana’s side, “What do
you want to do now, Inspector?”

Alana watched Wen Jing do a domestic dance around the
serving table, placing uneaten cake slices on individual plates and covering
them with cellophane wrap, picking up used plates and utensils and selectively
trashing them or dropping them into a recycle bin as appropriate, “Doesn’t
Wendy work the night shift?”

“Uh, yes, Ma’am. As far as I know.”

Alana said, “I want you to take the rest of the weekend off,
but I’ll drop you off and keep the car.”

Brett seemed genuinely surprised, “Ma’am?”

“There’s nothing going on this weekend that I can’t handle
myself.”

“Well... Thanks. Since I’m not working this weekend, my
family is having a get-together tomorrow afternoon, from lunchtime to about
five. You’re invited, of course.”

It was Alana’s turn to be surprised, “I—I don’t know where
you live.”

“The car does. And you will too if you drop me off on your
way home.”

“All right,” Alana said with an uncharacteristic feebleness,
her gaze still fixed on the young lady who, transparently, had a serious crush
on Brett. Her thoughts began racing again. Did she want to befriend another
assistant, only to risk losing him in the line of duty as well? And could she
even trust Brett?

Chapter 7

Alana instructed her Vira to wake her up at eight in the
morning, which it did with a loud, repetitive pinging. As she lay on her bed,
staring at the ceiling for a few minutes and trying to decide whether she was
going to go to Brett’s birthday gathering or try to keep pursuing her cases,
she quickly ran through a list of possible tasks she could undertake in pursuit
of her goals. She could not think of anything other than visiting Rhys’ house
and looking for evidence, and Chief Bennett had explicitly forbidden her from
doing that. So, party time it would be.

After rising, with body fully recharged and brain
well-rested, Alana put her uniform in her laundry basket and took a hot shower.
Even though she did not sweat, her mechanical body still collected dirt and
grime. Hot showers were one of her favorite things before retirement, but it
wasn’t satisfying in the same way it was when she was alive. She could tell
that the water was coming out of the showerhead at a hundred and ten degrees,
and she could feel that it was warm, but it wasn’t like feeling it wash over
her live body. Shampooing her genuine imitation hair was the closest
experience, except that when she rubbed her fingers against her scalp, she
could feel the pressure, but not the therapeutic aspects of the massage. On the
positive side, the shampoo did not cause her cyber-optic eyes to burn.

Alana towel-dried her hair and set it in medium-length,
heavily textured and asymmetrically crunched curls. She usually just allowed it
to fall straight along the sides with long bangs in an unfettered bob-do, but
she decided to work on it a little today. As it air-dried, she teased and
lifted the roots on top to increase the volume, using a curler on the ends
around her neck. When she was finished, she checked her work in the mirror. It
wasn’t too bad given that she was out of practice, but she succeeded in
creating a look that was loose and natural looking. She was afraid that she
might overdo the ‘do, but she also felt so incredibly guilty about how she had
ignored Brett’s need for a personal life the previous day that she wanted to at
least try to make up for it by appearing at his birthday party well-groomed.
Brett said he’d be thirty-five today, and that was Alana’s age when she was
forcibly retired by a terrorist car bomb, and that further impelled her towards
additional primping.

Alana then headed to her closet, and she ended up staring at
the contents for a long time as she tried to decide what to wear. There were
two business suits, three business casual ensemble outfits, five copies of her
police uniform, and her old Army dress uniform was still zipped up in a garment
bag.

There was only one non-business outfit for her to wear, and
its slit skirt and plunging neckline would clearly be inappropriate for a
family gathering. She had bought the overly sexy red evening dress for another
party, when Rhys took her out on Sunset Boulevard to celebrate her promotion
from Inspector to Chief Inspector. The dress was unfit even for that occasion,
as it was fifty degrees outside that evening and she did not have an overcoat
to go with it, which spoiled the illusion she wanted to give that she wasn’t a
cyborg. When a young man they passed on the street snidely called out to Rhys,
“Nice doll, Gepetto!” Alana made quite a scene, threatening to insert her pump
into the man’s ass while she was still wearing it. A nearby traffic control
robot had to intervene.

“Vira, have my financial accounts been synchronized to my
new body yet?”

“Yes, Alana. Would you like to know your balances?”

“Just my checking account.”

“You currently have sixty-two thousand and seven credits in
your checking account.”

“What time is it?”

“The current time is ten-oh-seven o’clock AM.”

Alana grabbed one of her spare business casual outfits off
the rack, a white blouse with loose blue necktie and black slacks, and dressed
completely enough to go outside without being cited for public indecency, “That
gives me about an hour to go shopping.”

Alana hadn’t been clothes shopping since she had bought the
dress that almost got her arrested for assault. Two days ago, she had eaten for
the first time since she had retired. Yesterday, she felt guilty for the first
time in recent memory. She was still sorting out how she felt about her old
friend and assistant Rhys’ death. She expected that she would be angrier, but
she wasn’t. For now, she was repressing her memories of the four years they had
worked together, focusing on how to get him out of Limbo so he could at least
be resurrected, like her. Like her. Would his emotions also be dulled by life
inside a mechanical shell?

Later, dressed in a newly purchased fashion of a dark gray
sports coat over a royal blue blouse and black knee-high skirt with medium
heels, Alana turned up fashionably late at one o’clock in the afternoon. She
was able to tuck her bulky shoulder holster under the coat without it showing
overtly, though it did make her left breast look slightly larger than her
right. Her car piloted itself to the front of Brett’s house, but the nearest
street-parking spaces and the driveway were all taken. She ended up parking
beside the road at the far end of the street.

In daylight, the neighborhood looked very different than it
did under night vision. Palm trees lined the street, which ran up and over the
crest of a hillock. The Crabtree residence was atop the hillock, with the road
sloping gently downward in both directions. It was one-floor, and had a faux-adobe
facade, as did every other home along the street. A large, tinted bay window
behind a row of trimmed shrubberies and framed by two late-blooming cherry
trees faced the street. The driveway ran along the left side of the home, and a
flagstone path led from the drive to the wooden front door.

As Alana walked up the graying tarmac driveway, she could
hear voices of both adults and children of both genders issuing from behind the
house. Instead of going to the front door, she instead circled around to the
back. The backyard was of modest size, as was almost all housing in the area
built in Alana’s lifetime. A chain-link fence ran around the perimeter of the
square area, connecting with the back corners of the house. A swinging gate was
pulled to and latched. Alana approached the gate and could see six people
beyond. She only recognized Brett, who was wearing an apron and holding court
over a gas grill, passing judgment on what appeared to be wieners.

An older woman, probably in her sixties, saw Alana and
waved. She walked over to Brett and pointed to Alana. Brett quickly removed the
current round of franks from the grill, placing them on a plate and handing
them to the woman, who took them to a nearby folding picnic table. Brett wiped
his hands on his apron and walked over to Alana, opening the gate and motioning
for her to enter. Brett began, “Hi, Inspector. Thanks for coming! You’re just
in time for lunch.”

Brett started pointing out the assembled folk, “That’s my
mom, Helen and dad, Ralph. That’s my sister, Sally. Over there is her daughter,
my niece, Bernice.” Alana noticed that Sally did not have a wedding ring, but
it was the twenty-first century after all, and that was not unusual. The fact
that she had a child who resembled her mother these days was of greater rarity.

Brett pointed at a late-middle-aged couple lounging on a
bench upwind of the grill, “That’s Kevin and Carol, the neighbors from across
the street. They moved in when I was still a kid, so they’ve known my parents
for about thirty years. Everybody, this is Inspector Graves, my boss.”

A round of waves, handshakes, and other greetings were
exchanged between Alana and the assembled friends and family while Brett
dropped another round of hot dogs on the grill.

Alana noticed that the neighbors were pointing and sharing a
snicker, apparently at her expense. She looked around, trying to spot what it
was she was not seeing. Brett stepped away from the grill and grabbed a knife
from the table. He walked towards Alana. Alana instinctively took a step back
before silently chiding herself for being stupid.

Brett said, “Hold still, Inspector.” He reached behind her
and did something with the knife. He then handed Alana a price tag she had
forgotten to remove from her new blouse.

Alana admitted, “That’s somewhat embarrassing.”

Brett smiled, “Nah! I’m honored that you’d buy a new outfit
just for this little gathering. I know exactly how busy you’ve been the
last couple of days. And you look nice for a boss-lady. New hairdo?”

“Yes. Too disheveled-looking?”

“Nah! Suits you. I need to get back to the grill. Grab
something to eat if you want.”

“Hot dogs? Those haven’t been banned by the Geneva
Conventions yet?”

Brett shrugged, “Well, they’re all synthetic protein and
stuff. Not real meat. They’re pretty good though.” He pointed to a table loaded
with condiments ranging from three kinds of mustard, sliced or chopped
vegetables, dill and sweet relish as well as pickle slices, hot sauce, ketchup,
and chili. “Load one up and try it!”

When she was still alive, Alana had avoided sausages of all
kinds as if they were land mines. They were one thing that she could not bring
herself to eat, despite assurances by all kinds of authorities that they were
safe for human consumption and wholly lacking in rat parts. But now, being
wholly mechanical from the neck down, she reasoned that not even wieners could
damage her cast-aluminum interior. She wrapped the hot dog she created in a
napkin, wary of repeating the same mistakes she made with the cheeseburger the
previous day, and stepped away from the crowd to dine.

Alana deliberately ignored the chemical analysis report that
popped up to the left of her field of vision. It was almost certainly toxic to
humans, but she didn’t want to know because the first bite was delicious. So was
the second bite, which she let linger in her mouth longer than the first,
savoring it before swallowing.

Alana heard a double-ping sound. She turned away from the
party, “Vira, what is it?”

“Your waste reservoir is at eighty-percent capacity. You
should purge it soon.”

She looked at the remaining third of her hot dog and,
reasoning that there should be enough room for it, she finished it off. She
then found Brett juggling between using a pair of tongs to turn hot dogs on the
grill and tossing a small, multicolored plastic ball back and forth with his
niece, “Do you have a lavatory?”

Brett laughed aloud, “‘What goes down must come out,’ right?
Go inside, second door on your left.”

Alana opened the back door and stepped inside, pulling it
closed behind her to keep the air conditioning in. It was a fairly mild day for
April in southern California, but it was still apparently warm enough to
trigger the house climate control. She found a small lavatory, with a basin and
toilet. She turned on the light and pulled the door closed behind her.

“Vira, how does that purge feature work?”

Her Vira replied in its increasingly annoying sales-pitch,
“The reservoir purge feature works exactly like normal, human waste disposal,
only you get full control over when and where the purge takes place. Merely
assume an advantageous position over an appropriate waste receptacle, such as a
toilet, bidet, or large bucket and then issue the command, ‘Purge reservoir
now.’ It’s that simple!”

It wasn’t that simple of course, as the purge was faster
than she expected. Alana had to spend some extra time cleaning herself and the
lavatory before emerging to rejoin the gathering. There was a ventilator fan to
turn on and a spray bottle of air freshener that Alana applied liberally, both
to the room and, in a fit of pique, to her posterior.

As Alana exited the house, the young girl, who couldn’t have
been older than five or six years of age, darted past Alana while she was still
in the doorway.

Sally, Brett’s sister, yelled after the girl, “Bernice!”

She met Alana halfway between the door and the grill, “I’m
sorry about that, Inspector. Is there anything else I can call you?”

“Inspector is fine.”

“Right. Like I said, Bernice can be a little hyperactive at
times—”

“It’s all right. I was probably just like her when I was her
age.”

Alana noticed that Sally was keeping her distance, and she
looked distressed. Could it have been that she did not take sufficient care
when cleaning up? She didn’t smell anything—

From inside the house, a scream rang out, clearly from
little Bernice.

“Excuse me!” Sally dashed inside.

Several painfully long minutes later, Sally reemerged,
holding Bernice by the hand. Bernice had her thumb and forefinger clamped over
her nose. The little girl said, hyperbolically, “Do not go in there!”
probably aping something she had seen an adult do either in person or over some
entertainment medium.

Sally reached down and popped Bernice lightly on her behind,
“Behave, girl.”

Alana hadn’t noticed that anything was wrong after her abuse
of the air freshener. She said softly, “Vira, is there something I can do about
odors from my waste reservoir?”

“Certainly! ‘Evensong’ brand, a pro-biotic, vinegar rinse
from Zumpco is available at all fine cybernetic supply retailers! Just drink a
cup after each purge, let it sit for an hour, and then purge back to springtime
freshness!”

“You make it sound like an oral douche.”

Her Vira offered no additional comment.

Sally released Bernice back into the wilds of the backyard,
where she resumed running around chasing her ball. She then walked over to
Brett and whispered something to him.

After transferring what was to be his last round of hot dogs
from grill to plate, Brett walked over to Alana, “Hey, boss—”

“I should probably just go. I’m embarrassing you.”

“Bullshit, boss. But I want you to come with me for a
minute.” He took Alana by the hand and pulled her back inside the house.

Alana was contrite, “I think I made a mess when I went to
the bathroom. I’m sorry.”

Brett answered, “Oh, you did no such thing. Bernice crapped
her underwear. She got too busy playing and wouldn’t go until it was too late.
This is about something else.”

Brett led Alana past the smaller lavatory, through the maze
of corridors inside the house, eventually leading her to what looked to be his
bedroom.

Alana quipped, “I had the impression that you were
interested in Wendy from work.”

Brett quickly released Alana’s hand, “Oh! No! It’s not that!
You’re my boss! And a—I’ll be right back.”

Brett opened an adjoining door and flipped on the light. It
was another bathroom. Alana could see part of a shower stall as she heard Brett
knocking a few things over around the corner as he searched for something.

Alana took the opportunity to inspect her assistant’s living
quarters. He apparently maintained two clothesbaskets, an in-basket and an
out-basket, from which he inserted and removed clothes as required. Modern,
wrinkle-free synthetic fabrics doubtless assisted him. From the sparse
bedclothes, she could see that Brett did not make a habit of making his bed,
relying on a light comforter when needed and sleeping atop the covering sheets.
From the thickness and arrangement of his pillows, he was a side sleeper, using
one pillow for his head and the other to prop up his torso. Was he hugging the
second pillow in his sleep? One wall section held a series of framed
certificates ranging chronologically from top left to bottom right. There was
his high school diploma, a BA degree in criminology, and several police
commendations. He was apparently a swimmer of some ability when he was younger.
Everything appeared ordinary for his position. Nothing set off any alarms,
which for Alana, was enough to set off alarm bells. She was thinking that Brett
might be too normal to be real.

Before she could scrutinize anything else, Brett emerged
from the bathroom with a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a bottle of
mouthwash. He offered them to Alana, “Sally was right when she noticed that
your breath was a bit off. I’m guessing that cyborg mouths need cleaning just
like human mouths when you eat stuff.” He nodded towards the door, “You can use
my bathroom.”

Alana closed her eyes and zeroed-out her expression. Being
slightly more human than she had been since she died was proving to be a
colossal pain in the synthetic ass.

By two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun had raised the
temperature to over twenty-five degrees, and the sated, and in some cases,
bloated, party moved indoors.

Brett’s family did not keep the typical wall-sized video
monitor that most other families had used to adorn their living spaces for over
a century-and-a-half. Little Bernice asked, “Where’s the TV?!?” Helen picked up
a notepad and offered it to Bernice, “Honey, do you know how to use a book
reader?”

Bernice crossed her arms and pouted as if her face was made
of self-rising dough. Helen took her by the hand and led her into the nether
reaches of the house, “Come with me, honey, and I’ll teach you how we did it
when I was growing up.”

Alana was curious as well. She looked at Brett’s father,
Ralph. Ralph waved his hand, dismissively, “TV rots your brain. Always has.
Always will.”

Kevin and Carol, the neighbors, silently exchanged grins,
which Alana took as an admission that they probably owned a full-blown 3-D home
theater. Carol took the opportunity to ask, “Inspector, Brett said that you
were a full cyborg. What’s it like?”

Kevin lost his grin, “Now, Carol, that’s personal—”

Alana answered, recycling an old joke she had told on
countless occasions, “There are plusses and minuses. On the plus side, I never
have to shave my legs anymore to look good. On the minus side, it doesn’t
matter if I shave my legs or not because I can’t have sex.”

Ralph chortled, “Now that’s personal!”

Alana continued, her voice less forceful, as if nostalgic,
“I don’t even get the urge anymore.”

Carol persisted in the face of Alana’s sarcasm, “I mean,
what’s it like to be a person inside the machine? Does it really feel like
you’re still the same you that you were before you became...you?”

A silence descended as Alana pondered the question before
answering, “You don’t get the same feedback from your body as when you’re
alive—well, biologically alive. Things like how your stomach twists in knots
when you get mad, or how your heart freezes when it gets broken. You don’t feel
it viscerally. It’s changed me in some ways. People sometimes tell me that I’m
cold.”

Brett looked around the room, pursing his lips, his body
language broadcasting his full agreement.

Alana said, “But if you go thirty-five years as a living
person without changing, you’re probably a robot to begin with.”

“Kevin and I have been talking about whether to put back
more money for retirement. We get saved once a year now, but we can only afford
our first body and resurrections.”

Alana walked over to the bay window and gazed out at the
street as she rubbed her chin, “It’s expensive. You can expect to keep a
full-time job just to pay for insurance, maintenance, and replacement parts. If
you don’t have a professional career to fall back on, you can expect to work
overtime. For a lot of people, retirement is like forced labor.”

A second silence descended, finally broken by Carol, “You
don’t make it sound as good as the Zumpco commercials do.”

“In the quarantine zone in Simi Valley there are small
communities of cyborgs who get damaged too badly to keep working and end up
homeless. They huddle together in the old ruins for protection. They sometimes
get preyed upon by scavengers who chop them up for parts to resell on the black
market.”

Carol gasped, “Oh, God—”

Alana had more peace to speak, “The revolution made it
possible for everyone to get access to retirement, regardless of their
socio-economic status, but it didn’t do enough to make it affordable or
reliable.”

As Alana stood before the window, she saw a motorcycle turn
onto the far end of the street. It stopped next to Alana’s parked police car
and the rider looked her car over.

Kevin said, “That tells us more than we knew before.
Thanks.”

Alana fixed on the cycle and rider as it moved slowly up the
street. It came into clearer view and Alana recognized it as the same vehicle
that she thought had shadowed her and Brett the previous morning. The rider
seemed to be wearing the same black clothing. Alana magnified the image for a
closer look. The man was wearing tight-fitting clothing and a zippered and
probably faux-leather jacket. She could see no labels, tags, or logos adorning
either the man or his bike, almost as if someone had taken pains to remove
them.

Transparently changing the subject, Kevin asked Ralph, “How
is the knee doing?”

Ralph said, “It’s still stiff, but—”

Alana interrupted, “Excuse me,” and dashed to the front
door. She fumbled with the locks, getting them undone just in time to step
outside and find herself staring eye-to-tinted visor with the motorcycle’s rider
as he passed in front of the house. It was undeniable. He was looking right at
Alana. He turned his head to face the road and continued onward, but did not
accelerate or take any other actions to betray him.

Brett started after Alana, “Boss?”

“It’s that motorcycle ninja who was following us the other
day. I’m going after him.” Alana quickly traversed the flagstone path and
walked down the driveway.

Alana had parked her car in the opposite end of the street,
so if she was going to catch the cyclist, she knew she would have to make the
attempt on foot. From when she dropped Brett off the previous evening, Alana
knew that the cycle would be forced to make a left turn onto a one-way street,
assuming the rider didn’t decide to break the law and go any direction he
pleased. She gambled that, although he knew that Alana had noticed him, he
didn’t want to attract additional attention.

Alana slipped off her heels and started running barefoot,
cutting through backyards at Olympic speed, jumping fences and obstacles and
frightening dogs. Whatever she was stepping on was probably damaging her skin,
but even though she could feel that she was in contact with the ground, as well
as the relative temperature of the short, fescue grass, she thankfully could
not feel any pain when she stepped on anything less accommodating. When she
reached the intersecting road, the cycle was still waiting for traffic to clear
before making its turn.

Alana activated her targeting reticule and locked it onto
the bike. “Vira! Interrogate that motorcycle. What’s its license and
registration?”

“There is no response from the vehicle.”

“Police override! Shut down its motor!”

Vira replied, “There is no response from the vehicle.”

The motorcycle pulled out quickly and began racing down the
street. Alana had only a second to react. She jumped out from her roadside
cover, dashed across the sidewalk, and launched herself feet-first at the
onrushing motorcycle. Her right foot connected solidly with the back wheel as
it passed. Alana heard her ankle snap from the impact, but she knocked the
cyclist off-balance. He laid his motorcycle down on the pavement with the
screech of metal-on-tarmac.

Tires squealed and car horns blared as onrushing vehicles
slammed on their brakes and conducted evasive maneuvers to avoid a collision
with the prostrate pedestrian and the unseated biker.

Alana leapt to her feet, but found herself hobbled by her
shattered foot, which was now dangling by wires alone. “Halt! Police!” she
yelled.

The cyclist stood, calmly trying to right and remount his
bike, but Alana tackled him, knocking his cycle over and pinning him on top of
it. She quickly clamped him with a full nelson. He struggled to break free, and
from his strength, Alana guessed that he was a mechanical. With her hands
locked below his helmet at the nape of his neck, Alana pushed his helmet up
over his head and all the way off, where it rolled away, revealing the
unrealistic face of an android robot.

Alana struggled to keep her grip, “Vira, interrogate this
robot’s transponder. Who is he?”

“There is no response from the individual.”

The robot continued to struggle, almost breaking free. If
she had still been a bio, it might have ripped her arms off, but she was able
to keep him subdued. With her right hand still clamped over his nape, she said,
“Vira! Release the safety on my stun device.”

“Safety released.”

After a second of trying to figure out how to get it to
work, her hand sent a powerful arc of electricity coursing through the robot’s
body, but the target kept struggling, apparently unaffected.”

“Shielded...” Alana mumbled. This was no ordinary, civilian
robot.

Frustrated, Alana set herself on her knees and prepared to
change her position. She remained sitting on the small of the robot’s back,
pinning it down, but she traded her full nelson for a half. She pulled her
pistol, sat up, and fired it directly into the robot’s spinal column. A shower
of sparks danced all around the robot, its motorcycle, and Alana’s legs. She
could feel her legs buckle as the stun shell’s electrical discharge conducted
through them, and she fell forward onto the now motionless robot.

With her upper body still functional, Alana reached behind
her head and whipped out her data cable, quickly plugging it into the robot’s
identically placed data port. “All right, ninja. Dump your memory core!”

Suddenly, all Alana could do was watch as she saw a flash
and arc of electricity, and her body fell limply on top of the robot’s. She had
lost all motor control. She was even having trouble thinking. Her hearing and vision
suddenly shut down, leaving her muddled thoughts in total darkness.

Chapter 8

Alana was wide-awake in total sensory deprivation for what
seemed like hours. Nothing was working, not even her Vira. It was one of the
worst experiences Alana could remember having had. She was alone in an
impenetrably dark void with only her thoughts as company. At one point, she
found herself imagining that she heard Rhys asking her where he was. She came
close to panic, but the sensation subsided as she came to terms with her
helplessness.

Alana’s lights finally came on again. Her eyes opened to a
view of a surgical lamp. She could tell that she was lying on her back. The
first things she heard were the pinging of some machine in the background and
the familiar voice of Doctor Phelps, “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

Alana tried to sit up, but she found herself belted down to
the table.

Phelps asked, “Please tell me who you are.”

“I’m Slinky the fucking wonder ferret. Let me up.”

“Close enough,” the doctor said as he unbuckled the
restraints.

“Why did you tie me down? Something kinky?”

After their last encounter, the doctor clearly had no
intention of encouraging Alana’s saucy side, “No, Inspector Graves. We have to
do that as a precaution. Although lighter than human limbs, cyborg chassis can
be quite strong, and if a servo was to trigger reflexively, it could hurt
someone.”

“I should have guessed when my clothes were still on.”

Alana sat up and examined her foot. It seemed fully
repaired. She moved it around and wiggled her toes. Then she looked at her
brand new clothes, which were torn in several places, effectively ruined. “Damn
it. You know how hard it is to find clothes you like when your fashion sense is
over thirty years out of date?”

Phelps shrugged, “Actually, I’ve never really had that
problem. When you feel ready, I want to walk you down to the gym and have you
test your new foot on the treadmill. It’s after-market, so we had to calibrate
it here. We need to be sure it’s tuned properly.”

Still unsure of how she had been disabled, Alana asked,
“What hit me out there?”

“According to the first responder, you apparently stunned
yourself with your own pistol. That’s all your report said. I wasn’t there.
Another policeman checked you in and said he’d wait for you in the lobby. Maybe
he knows more?”

“Was there any damage to my data interface or internal
circuitry?”

“Not according to the diagnostics. Let’s get the motor
function tests done. If there’s anything wrong, it might show up there.”

A short elevator ride to the small gym facility saw Alana
first walking, then jogging, and finally sprinting on a treadmill. Phelps
slowed and then stopped the machine, allowing Alana to step off safely. He
unplugged a wire that ran from the machine to Alana’s data port. “Everything
looks good. Are you feeling okay after all that? Any dizziness or
disorientation? Trouble recalling facts? Anything?”

“No, Doctor. But there was something else I needed to ask
you.”

“Go ahead.”

Alana watched the doctor carefully as she asked, “What’s an
SDT?”

Phelps looked puzzled, “Do you mean an STD?”

“No, I mean S. D. T.”

The doctor shrugged again, “I should think that I would be
surprised if a retiree was to inquire about sexually transmitted diseases, but
it has happened before. That patient was having some psychological issues and
had convinced herself that she was still alive. As for SDTs, all I can think of
is ‘Sun-Dried Tomato?’”

“I meant SDT in relation to cyborg parts.”

The doctor shook his head, “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Of course,” the doctor said, stone-faced. He was either
ignorant or a very good liar. Alana could imagine him telling a terminal
patient on the verge of death that the operation was a success without a single
change in his expression. “Why do you ask?”

“Something I read somewhere about a new feature in some
newer models of cyborgs. It’s not important. Just wondering if I had one,
whatever it is.”

A spark of understanding suddenly and briefly shone in the
doctor’s eye. Whether it was because of Alana’s question or because he just
realized that she had previously hacked his notepad was unknowable. Alana broke
off the conversation and left the gym, stopping at the reception desk to
confirm her discharge and that the bill would be covered by her police
insurance. She headed towards the exit and Brett was waiting for her, still
dressed in the same clothes he had on at his party.

“I guess I ruined your birthday party?”

If Brett was upset, he didn’t let it show in his expression,
but he had definitely been friendlier when Alana first arrived at his home than
he was being now, “My parents are still taking me out for a late dinner,
assuming you can get me back home before everything closes. Would you like to
come along?”

Alana raised her palm, “I’ve imposed enough on you for one
weekend.”

Brett didn’t argue, “No problem then. I followed you over in
the car, so you can just drop me off on your way.”

“When you found me, could you tell what happened to me?”

“No. You passed-out on top of a robot with a cable running
from the back of your neck into the back of its neck. I was afraid that you
might have died again until the medic said your brain was still working.”

“Did it look like I’d been shot in the back?”

“Not that I could tell.” Brett circled behind Alana and
examined her jacket, “No obvious trace of a stun bullet impact that I can
tell.”

Alana brushed aside a few stray strands of her now
disheveled hair that had fallen across her face, “It may have had some kind of
defense mechanism that fired when I tried to access its memory. What happened
to the robot?”

“It was hauled away in a different ambulance.”

Hoping against hope, Alana asked, “Did you put a trace on
it?”

“I didn’t really get a chance. I was more worried about
you.”

Alana suddenly became annoyed, thinking that Rhys would not
have missed that point, “Which ambulance company was it?”

“In the confusion, I didn’t notice. A couple of uniformed
police robots came on the scene to clean up and direct traffic. They should
have filed a report, so there should be something in the database about it.”

Alana looked down at the floor, thinking that she needed to
give Brett some more mentoring while failing to notice that her feet were
unshod, “Let’s just go then. Where’s my sidearm?”

“I put it in the glove box.”

As they walked out the exit in a scene almost identical to
their first meeting, save their casual clothing, Brett asked, “Were you
unconscious during all that?”

Alana sounded cross, “No. I was aware the whole time. I was
just blind and deaf.”

She didn’t say another word for their entire trip back to
Brett’s home. Upon his exiting the car, she only said, “See you on Monday,” in
response to his departing salutation.

Alana let the car drive her back to the police station. By
the time she arrived, it was already dark outside. The police precinct on the
first floor was humming with activity as the locals let loose their inhibitions
on a Saturday night, but when she reached the upstairs floors, it was deathly
quiet. The floor with her office was mostly empty, with half the lights off and
the robotic janitorial crew making its rounds, vacuuming, polishing, and
emptying wastebaskets. She found her office door, and noticed that the occupant
display on the wall read ‘DCI Alana Graves/Det. Brett Crabtree.’ Rhys’ name was
already purged.

She slid open the door and turned on the lights, sliding the
door closed again behind her. There were no windows in her office, a fact that
she had never really paid attention to until now. Even her old Pentagon office
back before the revolution had an outside window, despite the view being an
un-scenic panorama of the nearby highway. It also struck her that she could not
remember Rhys ever complaining about the lack of daylight either.

Twin lockers stood against the back wall, one for her, and
one for her assistant. Her desk had been straightened up from its usual
anarchic arrangement. Rhys’ desk was uncharacteristically immaculate, and after
seeing Brett’s bedroom, she had to wonder if a third party had been using it in
their stead. She examined Brett’s desk, looking for anything that Rhys might
have left behind, but she could find nothing that had belonged to him. Security
Division must have packed everything away to use in building their case against
him.

Alana turned her attention to her desk, but other than some
routine logistical requests, she did not find anything that would clue her in
as to what she was doing during her missing eight weeks. She sat down, propping
her legs up on her desktop in the same manner that Inspector MacGruder had done
the previous day. It occurred to her that he might have deliberately been
baring his soles as an insult. It also occurred to her that she had left her
shoes on the sidewalk outside of Brett’s house and that she was barefoot. With
the lack of detailed feeling in her mechanical feet, she didn’t notice.

She stood again and opened her locker. Inside, she found a
spare uniform, including matching shoes, which she exchanged for her damaged
jacket, blouse, and skirt. She hesitated before simply tossing her torn
garments in the waste bin, as she was momentarily struck by a sense of guilt
over discarding them when it might be possible to repair them. So she closed
her eyes before dropping them in.

Alana then conducted a detailed search of her office, looking
for anything that might help her understand what had happened to her, but she
could find nothing. That left only two realistic options for her. Either
someone else had cleaned up the traces, or she had done so herself. Based on
the data purge she performed at her home, she grudgingly admitted that whatever
happened, she must have been at least partially behind it. It was bad enough
that she did not feel she could completely trust Brett, but now was adding
herself to her list of possible suspects.

That must have been why Brett said that he did not have
Alana’s full confidence when Bennett was debriefing her on her first day back
from oblivion. According to her reconstructed timeline, Rhys died under
suspicion of being a terrorist, and then Brett was assigned to her. Someone
could have suspected that she was involved and assigned him to monitor her. But
then, what was the issue with the robotic motorcycle ninja who had been
shadowing her? Indeed, why did Brett fail to identify the robot at the scene?
Was it a mere oversight, or was it deliberate? Alana decided to open Brett’s
locker and see what she could learn about her new assistant. A police dress
uniform hung inside, still in a dry-cleaning bag. On the top shelf was a very
old book of the hardcover, printed variety. Curious, she read the title off the
spine. To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. Based on her very limited
time with Brett, she had expected to find something by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“Vira, the next time I meet Detective Crabtree, remind me to ask him about his
taste in literature.”

Alana again sat at her desk and activated the computer
interface, which she used to navigate the police database. She was looking for
information regarding her incident from earlier in the day. She found the report
filed electronically by the police robots that arrived on the scene, but there
wasn’t anything useful in it. The summary merely stated that there was a
collision between a pedestrian, Alana, and an unidentified motorist. There was
nothing specific about the robot, its motorcycle, or the emergency vehicle that
cleared them from the scene. There was a separate record of Alana discharging
her pistol, which had automatically been placed in the administrative review
queue. She would doubtless hear about it from Bennett soon, and would have to
justify the shot.

“Damn, Alana,” she cursed. At the time, it did not occur to
her to make a video recording of the incident. She would have to go on her own
memory if she wanted to know any details, and she could not recall anything
that would help her identify her pursuer, other than its being resistant to a
low-powered stun attack. Based on that, it must have been a police or military
robot of some kind. She quickly searched the database for any records of police
robots being disabled earlier in the day, and although there were two positive
results, both were clearly from different incidents in different parts of the
sprawling metropolis.

The other thing she concluded was that the robot had been
following her, and when it appeared at Brett’s, it had probably not been from a
close-range tailing operation. It most likely homed in on her somehow, and that
could be a problem given that she didn’t yet know why she was being shadowed.

“Vira, call Chief Bennett’s personal phone.”

“Dialing.”

About thirty seconds later, Alana could hear her boss
answer, groggily, “Hello?”

“Chief, this is DCI Graves—”

Bennett sighed, “What is it?”

“Chief, I have a favor to ask.”

“Can it wait until Monday?”

“It might be important. I’ve been followed around for a
couple of days by an unmarked robot that’s got heavy duty shielding, and I
think it might have been using my transponder to track me. I want permission to
have my tracker temporarily deactivated.”

There was no hesitation in Bennett’s reply, “Denied.
Anything else?”

“Chief?”

“The last time you went off the grid, without
permission I may add, you didn’t turn up again until the morning you got
killed.”

“What if the same people who killed me two weeks ago are
getting ready to do it again?”

Alana could hear Bennett huff over his comm, “Ask me again
on Monday. I’ll think about it in the meantime. But for now, the answer is a
big, fat, honking ‘No.’ Just be extra careful for a day-and-a-half. Now, good
night.”

The chief cut off the call from his end.

Alana checked the time, and it was just after nine-o’clock
at night. Was the Chief really so old that he was going to bed that early?

Alana was not tired and definitely not inclined to retire
yet. She pondered the situation for a while, and decided to interrogate some of
her coworkers for more information. Remembering that Wen Jing was on the night
shift, she headed to the cyberforensics department. Wen Jing was on duty alone
in the lab, apparently taking inventory or some similar, mundane task that was
ideal for a slow Saturday night.

Wen Jing did not notice Alana entering the room, and she
jumped, startled, “Oh! Hello, Inspector. I figured you’d be out with Brett at
his birthday dinner. What can I do for you?”

“Wendy, I have a couple of technical questions for you. Is
this a good time?”

Wen Jing smiled enthusiastically, “Sure! What is it?”

“To your knowledge, in the last two months, have I or anyone
else in the department said anything about having a police transponder
deactivated?”

Wen Jing bit her lip as she thought about it, “No. Brett did
say something about how you went missing and that your transponder wasn’t
working. Is that what you wanted to know about?”

Alana ignored Wen Jing’s question, “What do you have to do
to deactivate a transponder?”

“Well, first, I have to get a signed order from a superior
officer—”

“I mean how do you actually do it? Is it something you can
do remotely?”

“Oh, definitely not. I would have to plug in a hard wire and
do it through your firmware. I’d need to get your security code from the
manufacturer as well. There’s a final fail-safe too. Your Vira would ask you to
confirm a change like that, so if you were unconscious, or asleep, it couldn’t
be done.”

“Is this something that could be done outside of a shop if
someone else had my code and I was otherwise willing?”

“No—well, probably not. Your security code changes randomly
about once an hour. Someone would need to have a fresh code directly from
Zumpco, and to get a code, you need a security clearance.”

“Do you have that level of clearance?”

Wen Jing nodded, “Yes.”

“How many people in the station could do it?”

Wen Jing answered, “Five in my department are qualified. Of
course, anyone with access to the equipment and with a valid code could do it
with rudimentary training. Do you think someone in my department—”

“No, I didn’t mean to imply anything. I was just being
thorough.”

“Well, if someone did use the equipment for that, there
would be a log file. I can check if you’re worried about it. Only takes a
couple minutes.”

Alana did not expect to get any useful information from the
exercise, but she nodded anyway. She saw this as an opportunity to learn more
about this girl and to evaluate her character. She or one of her coworkers
could ultimately decide Rhys’ fate, and she wanted to know that they were
competent as well as dedicated enough to help exonerate him.

Wen Jing went over to a primary terminal screen on the wall
and made a verbal inquiry with the computer system about the logs she had
mentioned, but there were no incidents that could have been attributed to her
earlier transponder failure. “I’m sorry, Inspector. That wasn’t much help, was
it?”

“On the contrary, Wendy. You just told me that whatever
happened to my transponder, it didn’t involve official police resources. That’s
one more fact than I had before you showed me this. It also shows me that
you’re thorough, and that I can trust you to go the extra kilometer.”

Wen Jing blushed, “Thank you, Inspector.”

Alana pondered the information briefly, long enough to
prompt Wen Jing to ask, “Did I answer your questions?”

“So far, but there are two other things I want to mention.
First, Brett told me that you’d help him review the evidence against Detective
Rhys.”

Wen Jing smiled, “Yes, Ma’am, I did, but we already went
over it very closely. I doubt I’ll find anything new, but I’m willing to try.”

“There has to be something wrong with that video. We just
haven’t spotted it yet.”

“What was the other thing, Ma’am?”

“What is an SDT? In relation to cyborg parts.”

Wen Jing pressed her index finger against the point of her
chin and looked down in such a way that her eyes appeared to cross. “I don’t
know, Ma’am. I can do some research into it though if you want.”

“Yes, that would be good. Let me know if you find anything
not related to tomatoes,” Alana said, turning towards the exit. She paused
halfway through the door, almost forgetting her manners, and said, “Thanks,
Wendy.”

“Tell Brett I said hello,” Wen Jing waved as Alana slid the
door shut behind her.

Chapter 9

Alana awoke to the sound of her Vira alarm pinging in her
ears. Whatever dream-drama had been playing out in her subconscious was lost
instantaneously.

She quickly sat up in bed. The fitted sheet was the only
clothing that separated her bare, faux skin from the mattress, which was only
two inches thick so as not to interfere with her charger. But it was no matter,
as she could have slept standing up and not known the difference. Recharging
her batteries was the only reason she needed the bed; that and the
psychological connection to her lost humanity.

Alana sat still for a while, thinking that if she were still
alive, she would be yawning and hitting the snooze button on an alarm clock
instead of relying on the virtual assistant in her half-mechanical,
half-biological head. But then she would have to rush off to the toilet and be
bothered with a host of mundane duties ranging from trimming her fingernails to
brushing her teeth to plucking her eyebrows and applying cosmetics.

Despite its many shortcomings, cybernetic existence was much
simpler than trying to maintain a biological body, especially after age thirty.
Alana never woke up with pain in her neck, hips, or back from sleeping at an
awkward angle. She only had to change the sheets about once a month, presuming
she remembered to occasionally shower off the dust and seasonal pollen.

As she sat, Alana also thought that she never yawned
anymore, and despite medical evidence that suggested yawning was not a
particularly healthy activity, she wished she could do it one more time, just to
remember the sensation of the inevitable deep breath and involuntary stretching
that accompanied the autonomic spasm.

She was also beginning to think that she should not have
eaten that apple on the day she was last resurrected.

Alana eventually rose, showered, and donned one of her
casual work outfits before opening her office window to let in the morning
sunlight. As the rays of light streamed into the house, she saw the same young
girl who was playing along the street the previous evening casually strolling
up and down the sidewalk, alternately skipping and stopping to kick at the gaps
in the concrete with the toes of her dress shoes. The girl was wearing a yellow
sundress, and was better groomed than she had been the last time Alana had seen
her. Of course, Alana thought. It’s Sunday morning. Her parents must be going
to church. The twenty-second century was less than a decade away, humanity had
finally unlocked practical fusion power, returned to the moon, planted a
research colony inside the Martian moon Phobos, reversed anthropomorphic
climate change, and invented a way to guarantee the possibility of perpetual
conscious existence, yet still they clung to their ancient superstitions.

It then occurred to Alana that the girl might know something
helpful. Pausing only long enough to put on a pair of shoes, Alana dashed out
the front door and hurried towards the girl, “Excuse me! Little girl!”

At first, the young lady was startled, but she quickly
regained her composure, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes I am! Can I ask you a question?”

The girl looked around, confused, “Sure. I guess.”

“Were you living here about two or three weeks ago?”

Alana’s interrogative style wasn’t registering with the girl
as friendly. She took a step back, as if expecting to be accused of something,
“Uh, yes.”

Her years as a military lawyer and decades as a police
officer had trained her in how to intimidate hostile witnesses and suspects,
not the chat with the neighbor’s kids. Alana noticed that she was being
overbearing with the child, and tried to soften her tone. She assured the girl,
“Nothing’s wrong—what’s your name?”

The girl was at first reluctant, “My daddy told me not to
talk to strangers, and not to tell them my name because they might steal my
identity.”

Alana realized that she left her police ID inside the house,
but tried to play up the role of public servant to the child, “It’s all right,
I’m a police officer. I just wanted to ask you a couple questions about my
house—”

“My daddy said that you were a robot.”

Alana stopped as she thought of ways to reply in a way that
a young girl would understand without having to go into a long and tedious
lesson. The only way around it was through it, “No, honey, I’m not a robot. I’m
what’s called a cyborg. I’m a real person with a mechanical body.”

“Can you jump real far?”

“Uh—”

The girl dropped her previous caution, clapping her hands
together and saying, giddily, “Show me!”

Alana fought back the urge to reply that she could toss the
girl farther than she could jump, but forced a big smile and settled for, “I’m
sorry, honey, but I’m too busy this morning to show you any tricks. I just need
to know if you or any of your friends saw anybody you haven’t seen before come
in or out of my house about two or three weeks ago. Or if there were any new
cars you hadn’t seen before.”

Alana’s faux-friendly expression prompted the girl to place
her hand over her mouth as she giggled.

“My name is Alana, and I’m a police detective. I live right
here. What’s your name?”

“Rebecca. But everybody just calls me Becky.”

“Okay, Becky. Like I asked, do you remember seeing any
strange people or cars coming or going from here about two or three weeks ago?”

“Well, I’ve seen you a few times. You’re strange.”

Out of the mouths of babes. “How about other people?”

“There’s that man who used to come by, but I haven’t seen
him for a couple of weeks.”

“How old was he? Did he look like he was about my age?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of car did he drive?”

Becky pointed to Alana’s police car and said, “That one!”

She was talking about either Rhys or Crabtree.

“Did any other cars come here that you remember?

The girl pointed both of her toes inward while looking down
at the ground. She put the tip of her index finger in her mouth and bit down on
it lightly, but still firmly enough to create the need for braces in her near
future.

Alana prodded, “Take your time. Do you remember seeing any
other cars—”

Becky’s face lit up. Clearly, she remembered something,
“Ooh! Yes! I remember something.”

“Tell me about—”

“But you’ve got to show me something fun first. Like jump a
long way or break a tree in half or something.”

Alana lost her smile, wondering if breaking a little brat in
half would suffice. She wasn’t about to perform circus tricks for—but then she
had an idea. “Okay, Becky, watch this.”

Alana extended her right hand, rolled up her sleeve, and
trying not to make a spectacle for the entire block, fired off a charge from
her stun device. When Becky saw the arc of electricity jump between Alana’s
thumb and forefinger, she first recoiled in surprise, but then smiled and
clapped, “Ooh! That’s scary!”

This was certainly the strangest interrogation Alana had
ever conducted, “Now tell me what you saw.”

Becky said, “I saw a truck. I saw a big, black truck.”

Alana smiled genuinely for a change, “Good, Becky. Very
good. Now, did the truck have any writing or pictures on it?”

Becky slowly shook her head.

“Okay, did you see anyone get in or out of it?”

Becky suddenly remembered a detail, “The old man!”

“Tell me about the old man. What did he look like?”

“He looked old.”

“How old?”

“Like my granddaddy. Kind of.”

“What does your granddaddy look like?”

“Wrinkly. He’s got gray hair, but not much.”

She could have been describing any one of at least half-a
billion men. Alana decided to change her tack, “What did the old man in the
black truck do?”

“He went in your house.”

“Did you see him come out?”

“No. My mommy called me back inside for breakfast.”

“So, it was early in the morning?”

Becky nodded.

“Do you remember what day it was? Was it a Sunday like today,
or—”

“No. It was in the week. I was off school for spring.”

“Do you remember if it was on a Thursday morning?”

Becky shook her head, “I don’t remember.”

Alana bid Becky to stay put for a couple minutes while she
ran back inside and returned with one of her business cards. After extracting
that little bit of information from Becky, Alana felt that she needed to have
‘orthodontist’ added to the card when time permitted, but she got something for
her troubles.

She told Becky to have her parents call Alana if they knew
anything more about the old man in the black truck, or if Becky remembered
anything else. Two doors down, a young couple dressed in their Sunday best
exited their home and waved to Becky, who excused herself and skipped down the
street to meet them.

Alana waved to them in passing, not remaining to see if her
gesture was returned, instead returning to the confines of her house. Someone
other than her, Rhys, or Brett, an older man, had visited Alana’s home about
the time that she was killed. It might even account for the used tumbler in the
dishwasher. Alana last checked her messages near the end of April 6, a
Thursday. Earlier in that day, the morning, she was in her house when her
transponder stopped working. If Becky has breakfast at normal hours, it would
place the ‘old man’ there before that event, if it was on the same day. Her
next dilemma was what to do about it, and on that subject, she was undecided.
The pieces did not yet form a lucid picture.

Alana entered her living room and activated her television
set, tuning into the usual Sunday-morning roundtable shows as she tried
connecting the new pieces in her mind. The ten weeks Alana was missing from her
memory did not appear to change the tenor or substance of national politics.
There were still debates about whether or not changing to a parliamentary
system with tribunal judiciary had been a good thing. It had certainly changed
the legal system, and the abolition of the old federal-state system in favor of
a unified central government with regional administration was also a mixed
blessing. Alana struggled to remain focused on the debate, thinking that no one
had won. Of course, what they were discussing was the aftermath of the
revolution in which she actively participated—the same one that presumably
placed her on the hit-list of a vengeful demolitions expert thirty-five years
ago.

Alana thought about Becky, and despite being annoyed by the
child's requests to be entertained in exchange for information, she remembered
how she had hoped to have a family after the fighting was over. That dream was
a reality away, and her mechanical existence did not allow for anything short
of adoption. Even then, laws governing marriage and childcare for cyborgs were
still discriminatory, and despite the critical roles that Alana and her fellow
retirees filled in society, they had yet to inherit many of the privileges.
Alana patted the armrest of her couch, and gazed around the room, “At least we
can own property now.”

The second news segment started with a controversy regarding
the automation of the armed forces infantry, which was currently in the
legislature. The panel included a participant whose name Alana recognized. It
was a General Nicholas Barber, who was still an Army captain when Alana knew
him. He sat on the military tribunal that reviewed Alana’s sedition charge, and
he was one of the two officers who voted to acquit her of high crimes because
she had acted honorably, despite serving as a mid-level unit leader for the
rebels.

In the news segment, Barber was arguing against the use of
robots in the military, claiming that they were not smart enough to replace
human and cyborg troops. None other than Councilwoman Chambers, the same
politician that Detective Rhys allegedly attempted to assassinate, gave the
counter-argument.

Alana’s gaze locked onto the screen.

Chambers began on the offensive, “I respectfully disagree
with General Barber. I recently toured the newest Joebot production facility in
California—”

The moderator interrupted, “For the benefit of our audience,
what is a, ‘Joebot?’”

Chambers half-rolled her eyes, as if everyone should know
what a Joebot was, but Alana did not know, and given her background, she
reasoned that neither would the majority of the audience. The Councilwoman
continued, emphatically, “As everyone knows, ‘Joebot’ is the common
nickname for android combat robots. I believe it is derived from some brand of
old, toy action figures, but that’s not important. What matters is that the
latest in the series, the Joebot Mk VII, will have a fully integrated AI
system—

It was General Barber’s turn to interrupt, “What the
audience may not know is that the Mk VII program, which is also known as
J-7, is on hold pending an investigation into how their AI system works—”

Chambers leapt right back into the rhetorical fray, “The point
is that what was once liabilities, poor battlefield performance and
vulnerability to command and control failure, have been eliminated in the J-7.
I have already committed to fully fund the program once the investigation is
completed and it is determined that the objections are groundless.”

Before General Barber could respond, the moderator quickly
asked, “What, exactly, are the objections to the J-7 project?”

Barber looked straight at the camera and replied, “The
processing units are organic, and are based on the same technology as
cybernetic retiree brains. They are, for all intents and purposes, alive—”

Chambers smacked her palm on the table, “They are not the
same brains. They are engineered for minimal function, and as such, they are no
smarter than dogs—”

At that moment, the audio for the program automatically
muted, and Alana’s Vira said, “Inspector Graves, you have a call from a mister
Brett Crabtree. Would you like—”

“Yes, put it my television monitor.”

The Sunday brunch of muted political mimes changed to the
pajama-topped bust of Detective Crabtree. Alana raised her eyebrow, “Good
morning, Brett. I’m presuming that for you, ‘casual Fridays’ are the beginning
of a trend that continues throughout the weekend.”

Brett placed a cold pack to the side of his head, “Don’t try
to make me think so early in the morning. I just called to see if you were
okay. You did get taken to the shopital yesterday.”

Alana said, “As far as I can tell, I’m all right. You, on
the other hand, look unwell.”

“Overdid the vino last night. Which is the second reason I
called. Do you need any help today?”

Alana nodded, “Yes. Once you feel up to it, try to find out
what that Zumpco factory where Detective Rhys was killed is making. Try referencing
something called J-7, or maybe Joebot Mk VII. I don’t know yet if it’s
important, but I found out that the Councilwoman Rhys supposedly attacked is a
supporter.”

Brett sighed, “J-7. Got it. I’ll try to have something for
you in the morning. Anything else?”

“Otherwise, I should be okay. I’m still deciding on what to
do this afternoon. I think I may go up into Simi and visit the spot where I was
blown up.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you to be careful, boss. It’s
still kind of wild in the valley. Lots of criminals moved in when the area was
condemned.”

“I know all about it. I got chopped up there a few years
ago. I’ll have my sidearm with me. If I don’t pick you up by noon tomorrow,
assume the worst.”

The call ended with the usual pleasantries, and just before
the video stopped, Alana saw Brett fall over onto his bed. It occurred to her
that it was thoughtful of her subordinate to check up on her, despite his
hangover, reminding her again of how thoughtless she had become over the years.

When the video feed switched back to the television signal,
the news segment had already moved on to another show. Because of the
inevitability that the program would be available later on the Internet, Alana
was confident that she could refer back to it in the future if needed, but she
had already learned more about the Zumpco factory than she already knew. It was
manufacturing, or about to manufacture, some kind of new combat android, and
Detective Rhys was inside that factory when he was shot dead by a combat
android belonging to the Security Division.

Chapter 10

By the time Alana’s car had looped around I-405 and route
118 to Topanga Canyon Boulevard, it was already afternoon. As she headed south,
passing through an automated quarantine checkpoint, she could see the sandstone
spire of Stoney Point jutting upward to her left. When she was in high school
in Glendale, California, she had ascended the rock and rappelled back down on
multiple occasions. Today, the barren rock was likewise barren of people. In
the wake of the dirty nuke that contaminated the whole Simi Valley, it fell
within the quarantine zone. Thirty-five years later, the residual radioactivity
was still high enough to pose a long-term health risk to biologicals.

The only positive thing that could be said about the nuclear
terrorist attack was that it ended the Reformation War. The government and the
political arm of the rebels sat down at the negotiating table, and a compromise
was worked out. The United States of America ceased to exist, and was replaced
by the New American Republic. Universal access to cybernetic resurrection
technology, the catalyst for the popular revolt, was granted to residents of
the new nation, and no longer reserved exclusively for the super-rich. But the
patent holder, Zumpco, administered it.

It was generally expected that the area would be reopened on
the fifty-year anniversary of the detonation, but until then, access was
restricted. However, the perimeter was so large that it was impractical for the
quarantine to be enforced. After the first decade, transients, criminals, and
persons who would otherwise be homeless reclaimed the Simi Valley. Even the
risk of radiation poisoning near ground zero or long-term complications like
cancer did not stop those who were desperate for shelter or a base of
operations from infiltrating into the ruins.

After the first decade, the number of radiation-related
illnesses in the area began to spike, and even the homeless began taking the
warnings about the safety of the area seriously. The living, human population
fell off as those who had been exposed began dying of cancer, leukemia, and
other complications from exposure and news of those maladies deterred new
immigrants. But in their place, a new kind of homeless person began filling out
the ranks. Retirees who were able to get a cybernetic body but who were unable
to afford repair contracts or replacements, and who could no longer get jobs,
began to drift into the area. Solar panels provided enough power to keep their
aging batteries recharged, and a black market in used parts helped keep many of
them functional, despite occasional, chimeric reconstructions that would make
Doctor Frankenstein’s monster look fetching. Detective Rhys once quipped that
Hollywood had simply expanded its love of reconstructive surgery northward.

Life inside the valley was very dangerous. The
infrastructure was not maintained, the only supplies came from outside, and the
only reliable source of water was from the infrequent Southern California
rainfalls. That had not changed with the shift in demographics from the living
to the resurrected. Refugee retirees frequently became victims of competing
black marketeers, with some of the attacks inevitably being perpetrated by the
same criminals who previously sold them a needed replacement part. Often, the
price of black market replacement parts was participation in criminal schemes.

Alana knew the area well. Her first assignment as Detective
Inspector was on the cyber-chopping beat, which often led her straight into the
valley. She was meeting with an informer when she and the desperate cyborg she
was interviewing were captured and chopped into pieces for resale by a
completely different criminal gang from the one under investigation. It was the
same incident that “Maggie” MacGruder brought up when Alana had spoken with him
two days before.

A short time later, Alana’s car rolled to a stop outside the
block of twentieth-century buildings where she had been hard-killed two weeks
ago. She grabbed a hand-held scanner from the car’s trunk before stepping into
the ruined corridors.

The blast damage from the suspect’s plasma grenade was more
severe than Alana had expected, but it was obvious that the shock wave had
caused several adjoining walls to fall like dominos, collapsing half the block.

The heat-agitated afternoon wind whipped through the gaps in
the remaining walls, occasionally lifting clouds of dust into the air. A dust
devil passed harmlessly by Alana as she turned the final corner and ascended
the pile of debris that surrounded the center of the explosion. Bricks, mortar,
glass shards, and sections of pipe made from very old PVC or somewhat newer
polyxytate were piled around a crater where the forensics team had excavated
the blast site. Anything useful that had not been scavenged before the walls
fell was pilfered afterwards, as copper and similar building materials still
held value for the destitute and desperate.

Alana stepped carefully as she entered the shallow crater.
Although she had almost certainly met her insurance deductibles, she would be
over her yearly limit quickly at the rate she was going, and the police
department was unlikely to cover minor damage such as she might get from
climbing atop piles of loose bricks. Two years before, she had exceeded her
limit when she leapt from a height that was out of the scope of her warranty.
She was lucky in that the damage was minor. She was merely unable to move her
toes until she got the full replacement only a few days ago. She noticed it
most when she ran. She was unable to push off with her right foot as
efficiently as with her left, and it had slowed her down noticeably.

The ground at the base of the crater was first melted and
then fused into a solid sheet of brown glass. It was shattered now, from the
weight of the entire building falling upon it. Alana had been caught within
that blast, and part of her former body was probably mixed in with the shards.

Alana mused aloud, “So, who were you, and where in the world
did you get a plasma grenade?”

There were still munitions from the revolution floating
around, either lost and forgotten or squirreled away for the next war, but none
of those were plasma technology. That wasn’t invented until about ten years
after the cease-fire took effect. So it probably came from the military, from a
source connected to them, or from the international black market. There was no
ignoring the proverbial elephant in the demolished room. Alana had been
investigating a plot to kill a Councilperson, the same Chambers woman who was
on the national news this very morning, and that person had extremely close
ties to a major defense contractor, Zumpco.

They didn’t necessarily have to be connected, of course. But
there was one way to quickly check them out, “Vira, does Zumpco make plasma
grenades for the army?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector. Zumpco is one of several contractors
who proudly supply both components and assembled devices for the Army. Our
troops deserve the best, and—”

“Shut up, Vira. You get more annoying with every firmware
update.”

“I’m sor—”

“I said, ‘Shut up.’ The next time you advertise to me when I
ask you a question, I’ll uninstall you and switch over to Rinix.”

As was true more often than not, regardless of the case she
was working on, Alana ended up piling on even more unanswered questions.

Picking through the debris did not provide Alana with any
clues, but one thing stood out. Besides sounds created by the summer winds, the
location was deathly quiet. Alana was seriously beginning to question whether
the entire event was staged. But why? Was it connected to Rhys’ death? Did
Zumpco kill him and then come after her to stop her investigation? No. It
couldn’t be that. Alana was supposedly protecting a pro-Zumpco
politician.

Alana gazed upward at the open sky. The absence of man-made
pollutants did not prevent the same natural processes that turned exhaust into
smog from turning the air a hazy shade of gray. In her youth, she could
remember coming out in the morning and being able to see the mountains that
rimmed the valley, but by noon, the smog was dense enough that they became
invisible.

Alana climbed back out of the pit. She flipped open the
screen on her portable scanner and started using it to examine the area. She
first used the infrared sensor, which showed a much more detailed thermographic
image than her cybernetic eyes could register. She was able to pick up a number
of small signatures, probably a combination of vermin and birds, but nothing
larger.

She then switched to the electrical activity sensor and
started scanning the alleyways outside of the collapsed building. As she
approached an adjacent, two-story building that had survived the blast with
only minor scars from flying shrapnel, her scanner lit up. The upper level had
faint signs of a functioning power network. Alana guessed that it was a rooftop
solar panel installation. “One way to find out for sure,” she mumbled as she
walked around to the front.

The building was a former music shop, from back when
musicians used instruments more than computers to perform. The plate-glass
windows were smashed to pieces, and the door was missing entirely, probably
scavenged for the metal. The inventory was long gone, with only the store
fixtures, some signs, and a wall full of concert posters remaining. A calendar
pinned to the wall was open to June, 2051. “Vira, when was the dirty nuke
detonated in Los Angeles?”

“Friday, June 9th, 2051, at 12:00 PM PDT.”

Alana made her way to the stockroom at the back of the store
via a wooden interconnecting door whose lock had been broken by a pry bar. She
closed the door behind her, and her night vision automatically kicked in.

The security door at the back of the building was still
intact, but from a telltale sweeping impression in the dust and several
footprints, it had clearly been used recently. The soles were probably some
kind of athletic shoe.

“Vira, what size shoes would leave those footprints?”

“Several sizes would be compatible, most probably ladies
size seven narrow in the US and Canadian standard.”

Alana found a staircase that led up to the second floor. She
carefully ascended, watching closely for trip wires or other improvised alarms
or booby traps, but she found none. At the top of the stairs, there was another
closed door. The locks on it had also been jimmied. Alana swapped her scanner
for her sidearm and opened the door.

The room was devoid of persons, but it was clearly home to
someone, and that someone was clearly not a biological. There was a functioning
video monitor, but it was switched off. An induction recharging bed was pushed
against one wall. A number of wires carried power from a coupling to the
assorted appliances.

The backside of the door though which Alana had entered
contained several improvised deadbolts, all of which were open. The lady of the
house was apparently out. There were no windows, but there was another door,
which was locked in place by more improvised deadbolts. Whoever lived here was
trying to hide.

Alana undid the locks on the other door and stepped through.
She found some additional storage space, all cleaned out save for some assorted
junk. Most importantly, she found windows that overlooked the collapsed
buildings. The mystery cyborg resident may have also been a witness.

Alana crept around the floor, checking out her theory. She
could see her police car parked in the street below. And she could now hear
quick footsteps on the stairs. She turned and ran back into the hideaway just
in time to see a disheveled woman slam the stairwell door behind her and
desperately slap the bolts shut. She did not notice Alana until the inspector
closed the other door.

The woman spun around. Half of her cybernetic head was
exposed to the elements, and the features that remained were deteriorating from
wear. She looked at Alana wide-eyed, her synthetic expression unable to hide
her terror. She implored, “Please, don’t. You can have everything else.”

Alana holstered her sidearm and produced her badge, “I’m a
police officer, miss. I’m not going to hurt you—”

The woman pointed at the door, “Choppers. They saw me.
They’ll get you too!”

“Choppers?” Alana knew that word all too well, having once
been their victim, “How many are there?”

“They’ll get you too!”

“Stay calm. How many choppers?”

“Three? Four? Not sure. I ran, but too late.”

Alana glanced away momentarily as she redrew her sidearm and
checked the magazine. She calmly said, “Vira, contact emergency dispatch.”

Inside her ears, Alana could hear the computerized voice,
“How may I assist you, Inspector Graves?”

“I have a situation here. Up to four hostiles are closing on
my position. I need backup, stat.”

“I have a tactical drone on standby. It can reach you in
five minutes. Will that be sufficient?”

“Perfect. Send it. Upload my GPS to the drone. Add my
transponder to its target exclusion list.”

The frightened cyborg was pushing against the door, despite
the fact that no one was yet knocking. Alana asked her, “Who are you?”

The woman looked at Alana blankly, still fearful, unable to
answer. “Vira, interrogate this cyborg’s transponder.”

“There is no response from this subject.”

“Shit. Dispatch, add the visual image of the cyborg I’m
looking at right now to the tactical drone’s target exclusion list. Otherwise,
hostile zone rules of engagement apply, on my authority.”

The dispatcher said, “Affirmative, Inspector Graves. The
drone’s ETA at your position is now approximately four minutes and thirty
seconds.”

The woman suddenly glanced at the door and started shaking,
“I hear them coming!”

Alana opened the door behind her and confirmed that the
floor was still clear of enemies. She motioned for the other cyborg to go
through. At first, the woman did not move. Alana whispered, “Trust me,” but it
was the first loud bang on the door that motivated the woman to dash through.
Alana followed, stepping through the doorway and using it for cover.

There was another loud bang, and the door shuddered. From
the force, Alana guessed it was another cyborg, maybe even a heavy-duty
chassis. She readied her pistol.

The next bash against the door shattered the locks, and it
flew open. Momentum carried through a male figure, who immediately fell to the
floor in a shower of electrical arcs and sparks as Alana planted a stun shell
squarely into its chest.

An arm swept around the doorframe and several loud cracks
rang out. Alana rolled out of the way as a hail of flechettes pierced the wall,
narrowly missing her. Whomever she was up against, they had a real gun.

The woman Alana was trying to protect had ducked behind an
empty desk. Alana motioned for her to get down, and she did, curling up beneath
the furniture.

Alana yelled, “This is the police—”

Another dart punched through the wall, aimed in Alana’s
general direction, but missing by a wide margin. Four minutes might be too long
to wait for her backup.

In the absence of any good ideas of her own, Alana looked
around the room for inspiration. But other than the shattered windows that
ringed the level, and which might be useful for jumping down to the ground,
nothing seemed particularly handy. She reasoned that simply putting distance
between her and the gunman might just be the best course of action. She fired a
shot through the open doorway as she dashed over to where her potential witness
had hidden. More flechettes replied, but they were aimed at where Alana had
been instead of where she was going.

Grabbing the ragged cyborg by the arm, Alana nodded in the
direction she wanted to go. Although frightened to the point of panic, the
woman was able to move with Alana as they ducked into another room, ever closer
to the windows. Footsteps were following behind her, treading lightly, as if
cautiously. Alana tried to describe with hand motions what she was planning,
but the cyborg did not seem to understand. With no time to go into detail, and
no desire to give away their location by speaking, Alana holstered her firearm,
scooped the woman up in her arms, and jumped out of the pane-less window.

The leap of faith did not end with a divine landing. The
extra weight Alana was carrying overstressed her leg, and her ankle shattered
again, for the second time in as many days. Alana tumbled, unable to avoid
dropping the woman on the sidewalk, but she was able to soften the impact.

Then there was the good news and the bad news.

The good news was that her police car was only about ten
meters away, easily reachable if they could stay ahead of their pursuer.

The bad news was that two men had jacked the vehicle up and
were in the process of removing one of the wheels.

The surprise was mutual, and even more surprising was the
moment of recognition that followed.

The man had begun to raise his tire iron threateningly, but
when he saw Alana, he dropped it to his feet, where it landed with a loud
clang. “You!” he cried.

Alana grabbed her pistol and pointed it at the nearest man,
“You!” The man’s face was burned into Alana’s memory. It was the same man who ran
the cyber chop shop that tried to turn her into spare parts several years
before. He had clearly become a recidivist. His name had vanished from her
memory, either from time, from getting lost in the forest of other criminals
she had dealt with in the meantime, or from having her brain rebuilt again.

The other man appeared to be caught in the neutral zone
separating the concepts of fight and flight. He released his grip on the police
car’s wheel, and it bounced off the ground before falling over on top of his
partner’s tire iron.

Alana stood as best as she could and hobbled over to the
storefront. She wanted to remain hidden from the gunman she presumed would
eventually figure out where she had gone. “Look,” she said, “you’ve got two
options. One is take your friends and get the hell out of here. The other is
that in about a minute, a SWAT drone is going to fly by and turn you all into
rare hamburger, or, if you’re already retired, into a pile of Swiss aluminum.”

The tire carrier immediately bolted for the cover of the
alleyways, running as if he was still a biological.

The remaining chopper yelled as loudly as he could, “Jake!
Take Sammy and get the fuck out of dodge! Now! Don’t ask, just run!”

Alana motioned for her cybernetic damsel to come to her. The
woman got onto her hands and knees and crawled, possibly having taken some
damage in the landing.

The ringleader chuckled, shrugging off his fear, undoubtedly
feeling special that Alana hadn’t already shot him. He could not have known
that the only reason Alana did not is that she did not want to risk any of his
allies turning around to help him. He shouted, “Be seein’ ya, police bitch!”
and then trotted off after his companion.

From the back of the store, Alana could hear a set of heavy
footsteps, possibly one person carrying another, followed by the slam of a
metal door. It looked as if she had successfully frightened them off. But she
remained alert until the hum of the tactical drone’s ducted fans was audible.

Alana called the drone on her radio. She instructed it to
land and remain on standby while she put the tire back on her car. The task was
made more difficult by her inability to stand properly. As she worked under the
protective sensor gaze of the combat drone, Alana began interrogating the woman
she had barely rescued.

“What’s your name?”

The cyborg turned her best cheek towards Alana, seemingly
ashamed of her appearance, “Sandy. I’m Sandy Mathers.”

Alana asked, “What were you doing outside just then?”

“I was looking for Roscoe.”

“Roscoe?”

“My pet cat. He’s been missing for a while. I can’t find
him. Gray tabby. He’s probably hungry.”

Alana changed the subject, “Were you here several days ago,
back when the bomb went off?”

The woman stared at Alana, declining to answer.

“Once I get the tire back on, I’m driving both of us to the
hospital, and we’ll get you fixed up a bit.”

The woman remained silent, almost as if there was still a
Fifth Amendment to hide behind.

Alana asked again, “Seriously, I need to know. About the
time the bomb went off over there, did you see anything or anyone?”

The woman said something to faint for Alana to hear clearly.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I couldn’t hear that.”

The cyborg turned and stared directly at Alana, her
half-human, half-robot face almost accusing her, “I saw everything.”

Chapter 11

It had taken an extraordinary amount of coaxing to get Sandy
to accompany Alana on her way to the hospital. The woman seemed damaged in mind
as well as in body. She was only replying to half the questions Alana posed,
and she didn’t volunteer any information. She clearly wasn’t being evasive. It
was instead as if she was half in this world and half in another that was
beyond Alana’s view.

By the time the car pulled up to the Zumpco shopital
entrance, all she had been able to extract was that Sandy had seen Alana on the
day of the explosion.

Alana expected to encounter difficulties getting Sandy
admitted for repair, and her expectations were exceeded before she bypassed the
check-in desk. The clerk refused to admit her without either insurance or
prepayment.

Alana immediately called Chief Bennett, “What is it now,
Graves? And can it wait until tomorrow?”

“Second, no. First, I need you to approve a reimbursement to
me for medical treatment of a witness.”

The Chief asked, “Witness to what?”

“The bomb that blew me up, I think.”

There was a short pause before the Chief continued, “Damn.
What’s the tab?”

“I’m not sure yet, but looking at her, it’s probably going
to end up being a full chassis replacement.”

A long silence followed. Alana could almost hear Chief
Bennett pacing around his house. He eventually answered, “You can use your
police authority to ensure that she gets emergency treatment as a potential
witness.”

“Thank you, chief. She says she saw everything, but I
haven’t had time to properly interview her.”

“I also want to talk to you about discharging your firearm
again and about your requisitioning a SWAT drone. Yes, I do get instant
messages about things like that. Good day, Inspector.”

“Chief—”

“I said, ‘Good day!’”

Click.

After a brief discussion with the admissions clerk, Sandy
was placed in the queue for treatment, but Alana was called in first, having
the luxury of riding in a wheelchair to her examination room.

Doctor Phelps walked in, reading from his notepad as he
spoke, “That was...quick.”

“I did it deliberately so I could see you again, honey,”
Alana joked, puckering her lips.

The doctor concentrated on his notepad, refusing to
acknowledge Alana’s teasing, “In a small way, I’m glad to see you returning
over and over. I’ve always wanted to go on one of those ‘Dark Side’ cruises on
the party yacht around the moon and back, and at this rate, I’ll be able to
afford it before I retire.”

“Is my leg still under warranty?”

“That depends on how you broke it.”

“Manufacturing defect?”

Doctor Phelps made a show of slipping his notepad into his
lab coat pocket this time, “When the insurance company interrogates your Vira,
is the video record going to support that testimony?”

Alana pursed her lips momentarily, and then replied, “How
about line-of-duty?”

“Then it will be up to your boss, just like yesterday. He
approved it then, but from his tone, I suspect that you might be on your last
leg, so to speak.”

As the doctor examined her damaged leg, Alana said, “There
was another patient admitted at the same time I came in. She’s an important
witness, but she was in very bad shape.”

“Lay down,” Phelps instructed, and Alana complied. “I think
I know the one you mean. Doctor Hoddeson’s going to inherit her. My sympathies
extend to both of them.”

“I’m going to want to interview her after I’m through here.
I need to make sure that she’s not discharged until then.”

“I can’t guarantee—”

“That’s an official directive as a detective chief
inspector. I need the message passed along to the hospital staff. This is related
to a murder investigation. I don’t want to see any no-insurance discharge
shenanigans to save a credit.”

Phelps looked particularly annoyed. He stopped examining
Alana’s broken leg and turned towards the door, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.
Don’t run off.”

After staring at the polyxytate tiles of the suspended
ceiling for a minute, Alana decided to make use of the mechano-medical
interlude she had caused, “Vira, are there any records on someone named Sandy
Mathers?”

“There are over three-hundred results. Do you wish to filter
them?”

“Yes. Retired female, NAR citizen.”

Her Vira replied, “There are no results for that name.”

“How about ‘Sandra Mathers’ with the same filter?”

“One match found.”

“Display the results on my desktop.”

Alana took advantage of the white ceiling to use as a
backdrop for her virtual display. A window with a dossier opened. Alana used
her hands to navigate the pages. The attached photograph, taken from an
official ID, matched the half of the cyborg’s face that had not been torn away.
She scanned the information.

Sandra Alicia Mathers was working as a civil engineer for a
company called Ross Construction when she was killed in a construction accident
at the age of twenty-eight. She had basic resurrection insurance and retired
young. She went back to her job six months after she was resurrected, but a
mere month later, she disappeared, and had been listed as a missing person for
almost three years. Either her transponder wasn’t working, or she found a way
to disable it, which would explain why it didn’t respond when Alana
interrogated it back in the music store. It was also possible that no one
bothered looking for her and it ultimately failed on its own. She had no
immediate family, but there was no explanation as to why in her dossier. But
how did someone with a marketable skill like engineering end up in the Simi
quarantine zone?

Alana blurted, “Ross Construction. Roscoe the cat?”

Before she could further ponder issues related to her
witness, Doctor Phelps reentered the room. He said, “I personally updated Ms.
Mathers’ hospital records as you—requested.”

“I demanded it, doc. You don’t have to play footsies with
me, unless it strikes your fancy.”

Phelps picked up a hand scanner and ran it slowly up and
down the length of Alana’s broken leg, “Do you act like this with your
coworkers?”

“Of course not. That would be blatant, hostile-workplace
sexual harassment.”

“Then why do you do it with me?”

“Part of my job is being able to quickly tell what a witness
or a suspect is thinking. You react subtly in situations that would, frankly,
make living men drool. I can tell that it makes you uncomfortable, but I don’t
know why just yet. What I really want to know is whether it’s because you are
committed to your wife, whether you’re impotent, or whether you’re just a
prude.”

Alana’s phrasing left the doctor unfazed. He placed his
scanner back on the table and answered, “I’ll tell you what. You get one guess.
If you get it right, I’ll tell you. If not, you cut the pseudo-flirting crap.”

“Deal. Are you impotent?”

The doctor smirked, “No. Thanks for playing. Now, roll
over.”

Alana barked, “Woof, woof,” as she turned over onto her
belly.

The doctor started twisting Alana’s foot, which emitted a
series of cracking and scraping noises, “I’ll have to remove the lower leg and
replace the ankle joint completely. The good news is that’s all that’s broken.
Should take about an hour, plus another hour to repair the skin, and another
round of tests on the treadmill. Plan for three hours total and feel lucky if
you get out sooner.”

“Have at it.”

The doctor lost no time in bringing over a tray of
mechanical tools and beginning the operation.

Alana’s leg came off much quicker than she would have
expected, making her question the soundness of her suspension design. “So, if
you’re not impotent, I’m going to have to go with you being a devoted husband.”

“Conversation’s over, you lost.”

“I’m just musing aloud now. You just happen to be
unavoidably present. I’m thinking that you’re just loyal because if you were a
prude, it might stem from some kind of religious convictions, and if it did,
then there might be a bit of a metaphysical dichotomy between your faith and
your career.”

Phelps dropped Alana’s dismembered leg in a polyxytate
basket with a thud. “Inspector Graves, I know you were in the Army during the
Reformation War. That was in your medical records. It means that whichever side
you were on, you probably had to do something with which you disagreed. Did you
obey orders, or did you just do your job?”

“So, you’re a prude?”

“You lost, remember. I’m not saying. But I’m asking you the
same question, all rhetorically, of course. Just something for you to think
about while I go do my job.”

Alana heard the doctor walk away. He opened the door, “I’ll
see you again in about an hour. Ring the bell if you need anything from the
nurse.”

Alana sat up. The doctor had simply rolled up her pants leg
to access her knee joint. The fake skin had been sliced all around, exposing
the servos. She ran her hand across the lifelike polymer covering. She
murmured, “That’s one more thing I don’t miss about being a biological. No more
epilating.”

A few hours later, Alana found herself standing on her own,
two legs again, this time in the office of Doctor Hoddeson, a cyber-surgeon
whose short black curls topped a face that was probably at least thirty years
Phelps’ junior.

She objected to the first answer she was given, “Why can’t I
see Mathers now?”

Hoddeson said, “I had to remove her brain case and put it
into intensive care.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I won’t know until I get it stabilized. It was severely
dehydrated, and the blood test showed a dangerously high concentration of
toxins. We’re going to have to keep it on life support for a while before we’ll
be able to test its integrity.”

Alana corrected the doctor as Sandy had corrected her about
her Roscoe the cat, “Her. Keep, ‘her,’ on life support.”

The doctor was contrite, “Of course. ‘Her.’ Apologies.”

“How did she get that way?”

Hoddeson said, “According to her records, she hasn’t been
serviced in over two years. All cyborgs need regular service at least twice a
year to replace their nutrient tank, filters, and check their internal fluid
levels. They’re a lot like a car in that respect, really.”

Alana asked, “Is that why she seemed a little—”

“Nuts?” Hoddeson nodded, “Yep. It might even be permanent
brain damage.”

“How long until I can interview her?”

“I come on duty after lunch. Check back with me tomorrow
afternoon, two o’clock or later. I’ll know more after she’s been properly
flushed.”

“Are you a doctor or a plumber?”

“A doctor, obviously. I’m working on Sunday.”

Alana was unexpectedly provoked into a smile by the doctor’s
quip, “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

Chapter 12

Chief Bennett snarled, “I thought I told you to be careful!
What the hell were you doing up in Simi in the first place? And on a Sunday?”

“Detective Crabtree has deduced, with probable accuracy,
that I am a workaholic, sir.”

Bennett huffed as he sat down in his black leather office
chair. There was an audible rush of air as the padding surrendered to his
onslaught. “Where are you in the investigation?”

Alana said, “When I was in Simi, I found a possible witness
to my murder. She’s in the shopital now, and I’m going to call later this
afternoon to check on her status. I hope to interview her as soon as she’s been
cleared.”

Bennett asked, “What else?”

“I’m assembling pieces, trying to lock down how and when my
transponder failed. As far as I’ve been able to tell, I was in my home at the
time, and one of the neighborhood children said that she saw an unidentified
male enter my house that morning. There was some minor evidence that I’d had a
visitor. For now, I’m assuming it was that man.”

Bennett asked again, “What else?”

“Someone’s using at least one untagged robot to tail me. I
caught it, but knocked myself out when I tried to jack into its memory core. I
think it was a booby trap.”

“That’s why you wanted to turn off your transponder, right?”

Alana nodded, “Yes, sir. I’d still like permission to do
that.”

“All right, granted for now. I’ll authorize an order after
we’re done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re unusually respectful today. Has something changed?”

“I’m—” Alana bit her lip.

The chief propped his elbows on his desktop and his chin on
his closed fists in anticipation.

“I’m torn between two theories. One is that I was murdered
while following up on the same investigation that caused Rhys to die. The other
is that...,” Alana’s sentence trailed off into silence.

“Is what?”

“I want to interview my witness before I say anything. It’s
an odd theory, and I want some more concrete evidence first. Did I say anything
to you during that time that was really unusual?”

“Unusual? For you or for the average person?”

“Either one.”

“Nothing that stands out. You were extremely upset about
Rhys’ death, especially after they put him in limbo and Security Division
locked the case. In fact, I’ve never seen you get that emotional before. I’m
surprised that you don’t seem as upset now.”

“When you get saved, your memories don’t record what you
were feeling at the time. In some ways, a full resurrection is like getting
closure. The images, sounds, and even some of the thoughts are there, but the
emotions are...dulled.”

“Was there anything between you and Detective Rhys?”

Alana shook her head, “No. No sir. It wouldn’t be possible.
He was full-biological, and I’m full-cyborg. He was just my partner. But we
were close—good friends.”

“Inspector Graves, just remember to stay away from the
anything Security Division has quarantined in regards to Rhys. If you get any
concrete evidence that your death was related to Rhys’, you come straight to
me.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but if you were behind
it, that’s exactly what I’d expect you to say.”

“If I was behind it, I wouldn’t be this obvious. If there’s
nothing else...?”

Alana walked to the office door, took the handle, and
answered, “Just one thing. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but I smell a
conspiracy.”

Bennett crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair,
“Evidence, Inspector. Evidence.”

Alana nodded and left the Chief’s office. She returned
directly to her own, pulling the door closed behind her.

Brett was using his desktop to do some kind of research. He
paused to ask, “How did it go, Ma’am?”

“I’m going to get my transponder turned off. Do you trust
Wendy?”

Brett seemed surprised at even the suggestion that the young
woman might not be trustworthy, “Wen Jing? Absolutely. Why?”

“I’m going to wait until her shift comes on and then get her
to do the operation. Since she has your confidence.”

Brett asked, “Does that mean I finally have yours, Ma’am?”

Alana nodded, “Yes.”

“Well, thank you. And about time. Why the change?”

Alana finally admitted to herself that the reason she had
kept Brett at a distance was because of his similarities to Rhys, but that was
not the kind of information she wanted to tell her subordinate. She said, “I
have to trust somebody, and it might as well be you. Tell me something. Why To
Kill a Mockingbird?”

Brett said with a modicum of surprise, “You’ve been in my
locker?”

Alana stated, “Obviously. What’s with that old, print-book
in an era of e-books?”

“That? It was a gift from one of my criminal law professors.
I’ve never actually read it. I keep carrying it around, thinking that we’re
going to have a slow day, but that hasn’t happened yet, and it’s been years.”

“Is there a story behind it?”

Brett waffled, “Sort of. Not a particularly exciting one
though. You ever heard of California v OJ Simpson?”

Alana nodded, “Of course. It’s a textbook example of how not
to prosecute a defendant.”

“One day, I got into an argument with a classmate when we
were studying that case. It got heated, but the professor let us go on for
several minutes, cutting into his class time. We were fighting about the
changes to search and seizure rights when the NAR Constitution replaced the US
Constitution, and how that if they had been in place back when that case was
argued, Simpson might have been convicted, despite the obvious misconduct on
the part of the detectives.”

“What was your position?”

Brett said, “I don’t really remember. I think that I was
taking the side of the reformers. The pro-conviction side. At the end of the
semester, the professor, Harris, if I remember correctly, asked me to stay
after class, and then he gave me the book. I’ve just never gotten around to reading
it.”

“Did he say why he gave it to you?”

“He told me I should read it because of my opinions on that
old case.”

“If you ever do read it, tell me why you think he gave it to
you.”

Brett shrugged, “I’ll get to it in my copious, free time.
Right now, I’m busy trying to trace that robot you stunned on Saturday. But no
luck so far. I’m sorry I dropped the ball on that.”

“It would have been useful, but it supports my conspiracy
theory.”

Brett guffawed reflexively, “Seriously? What is it?”

“My conspiracy theory is that there is a conspiracy.”

“Does it involve lunch?”

Alana asked, “What time is it?”

Brett looked at his desktop clock and answered,
“Eleven-seventeen.”

“Let’s go out. Instead of calling the shopital, I’ll just
drop in and check on my witness while we’re out.”

Chapter 13

Brett said, “I’ve never seen a naked cyborg before. I
expected something more...skeletal.”

Sandy’s replacement body, sans head, lay atop a flat table
that was tilted at a forty-five degree angle, displaying the entire chassis for
the viewers beyond the operating room window. Its arms were extended and locked
into place by restraints. It looked as if it had been crucified. There was a
large round hatch behind the table, rimmed with alternating black-and-yellow
warning stripes.

Alana said, “The framework is different in androids and
gynoids—

Brett interrupted, “Gynoid?”

“Female android. The outer shell is flexible, like skin.
It’s a thin wrap with tiny air-bubbles, kind of like foam polyxytate. They’ll
use spray applicators to put the epidermis on it. That’s what’s behind that
hatch. When they’re ready, they’ll shove her inside and she’ll come out looking
like Sandra Mathers.”

Brett’s curiosity had been piqued, “How do they do body
hair?”

“Except for the top of the head, they don’t. Everything else
is bald. The armpits are the least realistic.”

Brett pointed at the crotch, “I see that there’s nothing
down there at all. Same with males, I’m guessing?”

“You can get those parts if you’re willing to fork out some
real money. They work, but they don’t provide sensory feedback. They mostly
sell them to the vain or to people who are either kinky or into
cyber-pornography. That’s how you can almost always tell a cyborg in the buff
from a human. Most don’t have anything at all. For those who do, android
penises are still a work in progress. They’re just...not right yet. With gynoid
vaginas, you may have to look closer to tell that they’re just toys.”

Brett was clearly uncomfortable with asking the next
question, “Umm, may I ask—”

Alana said, “No. I don’t. But my current model does have a
sphincter for purging my waste reservoir.”

Doctor Hoddeson entered from a side room pushing a cart with
a cybernetic head on it. The brain case was already inside, as evidenced by the
fiber-optic couplings that extended outward from the neck. With the assistance
of a nurse, he carefully connected the brain’s wires to the body and slowly
locked the head in place. As he finished, he noticed Alana and Brett.

When his work was completed, he connected several wires,
presumably to support diagnostic monitors, to the chassis. A display on the
wall behind the table lit up, showing a schematic of Sandy’s body. It looked
very much like a human body scan, but the bone structure was different,
robotic, and the nerves, veins, and arteries were fiber-optic cables or fluid
tubes. The doctor made some adjustments to the controls, the results of which
were imperceptible to the untrained observers outside. Several minutes later,
he emerged from the room.

“What’s the news, doctor?”

Hoddeson looked annoyed, “I told you to call first.”

“We were in the neighborhood. Can I talk to her yet?”

“No. This is just a test of her replacement body. There are
going to be some legal and economic issues to resolve before I can resurrect
her.”

“Explain?”

“I was right. She had substantial brain damage from poor
maintenance. I tried to run a save routine, but the process failed. There was
too much damage.”

Brett asked, “So, what are we looking at here?”

Hoddeson answered, “It’s the body with a surrogate, test
brain inside. It’s not her current iteration. It’s a tab—”

Alana finished his sentence, “Tabula rasa.”

“Exactly. It’s not conscious.”

“What about her current brain? Can I interview that?”

The doctor sighed, “I got her stabilized, but I can
guarantee you that nothing you get from her will be admissible in court. For
all intents and purposes, she’s legally insane.”

“Is she coherent?”

“More than she was when you brought her in. But here is your
problem: the brain we are treating now cannot be used to save her for a reload.
We’re going to have to do a cold resurrection from her original retirement
scan.”

Brett, being not an expert in cyber-technology, asked, “Why
is that a problem.”

“Your police directive is not going to cover the cost of a
full resurrection because the new brain is not going to have the information
you want.”

Alana closed her eyes, trying to think.

Brett asked, “What does that mean?”

Hoddeson did not look happy about the situation, but he
answered, “When we discharge her, we’re going to have to do it just as she came
in.”

Alana opened her eyes and pointed through the window, “Then
why the hell did you go to all this trouble if you were just going to kick her
out in the cold?”

“I was hoping that we could save her, so I decided to go
ahead and prep a new chassis. I can still give her a new brain, and reset her
to where she was when she first died three years ago, but I can’t do it unless
you can come up with the cash. Your department won’t cover it, for reasons I
just mentioned, and she does not have any insurance. She also has no surviving
relatives. It’s sad—”

Alana glanced at the doctor sideways, her voice able to hide
a wave of anger that her expression could not, “Sad?”

The doctor stopped talking, as if he knew that his words
were inadequate.

Alana turned her gaze forward again, looking through the
glass, “I still need to interview the witness, even if her testimony won’t be
admissible. When can I do that?”

Hoddeson said, “Let me go check on her. I’ll be back
shortly. If she’s in good shape, I can probably clear it.”

Alana simply nodded.

As promised, Hoddeson approved the interview, conditional
upon Alana electronically signing some paperwork assuming responsibility, which
she did.

Alana and Brett were led into a medical bay unlike any that
either had seen before. Rows of disconnected brain cases lined the walls, their
trailing cables and hoses hooked up to some kind of box-shaped life-support
units. Hoddeson stopped at one whose digital display identified it as Sandra
Mathers. After pulling two chairs up for Alana and Brett, he manipulated the
screen, apparently turning on the voice interface, and asked, “Can you hear me,
Ms. Mathers?”

A small, red light on the front of the box blinked, and a
voice issued from a nearby speaker. Alana recognized it as Sandy’s. “Doctor?
When can I go home? Is that you, there, Inspector? Did you ever find Roscoe?”

Alana lied, “I’m still looking for him, Sandy. I wanted to
talk to you. It might help me find him.”

Brett, who was not privy to all
the details of Alana’s encounter with Sandy, eyed the Inspector quizzically.

Doctor Hoddeson, seeing that Alana had control of the
conversation, walked to the entrance and stood by, ready to help if needed, but
only if needed.

Sandy said, “I keep trying to look around for him, but I can
only see the same thing all the time. I can’t move.”

Alana pressed, “Back in the music shop, in LA, you told me
that you saw what happened about the time of the explosion. Do you remember
that?”

Sandy shrieked, “The choppers! Are they back?”

“No, Sandy. They’re gone. I need you to concentrate, and to
remember. Remember the big explosion next to your home. What did you see?”

“I didn’t see the explosion.”

Brett rested his forehead in his hands, wondering whether
this entire endeavor was a fool’s errand.

Sandy said, “But I heard it! It shook my whole room like an
earthquake.”

Alana continued, “What did you see before that?”

“Well, you. I saw you, Inspector.”

Brett perked up.

Alana asked, “What did I look like?”

“You had a raincoat. I remember that, because it never rains
here much.”

“What was I doing? It’s very important—”

“You and that man were carrying a big bag down the alley.
You got out of that black van and walked below my windows.”

“What did the man look like, Sandy?”

“He was gray, like Roscoe. No, I mean not as dark. He looked
old. I ran and hid after that. I thought you might be choppers.”

Brett asked, “Hello, Sandy. My name is Brett, and I’m a
friend of the inspector’s. Tell me about the bag. How big was it, and what
color.

“It was as big as you.”

“How about the color? What did it look like?”

Sandy said, “White, with a black stripe.”

Alana noticed Brett’s line of inquiry, and believing that
she understood where he was going, she asked, “Which way did the stripe run?
Was it from end-to-end or around the center?”

“End-to-end, I think.”

Alana and Brett looked at each other and simultaneously
blurted out, “Body bag?”

Sandy asked, “When can I go home? I need to find Roscoe. I
know he’s hungry, and he misses me.”

“Soon, Sandy. Soon.”

Alana stood, motioning for Brett to follow. They met
Hoddeson at the door.

“Is Sandy’s visual data recorder intact?”

Hoddeson checked his notepad, “Her short-term memory storage
is working, but that is only good for about a day. Her long-term memory unit
failed. So, no.”

“Shit.” Alana asked, “How long can you keep her here,
doctor?”

“I can keep her brain for forty-eight hours before her case
will be automatically reviewed. Depending on the timing, it might get extended
an extra night if the administrators don’t notice. After that, I’ll probably
have to put her back in her old body and discharge her.”

“What shape is her old body in?”

“I was able to do routine maintenance and replace some minor
parts for free, but she needs major work, plus a re-skinning. She really needs
a new chassis. That’s outside the scope of the police work order.”

“If you are forced to discharge her, call me directly and
immediately at this number,” Alana handed the doctor an old-fashioned, printed
business card. “If you get my Vira, tell her to wake my ass up, it’s
important.”

Hoddeson nodded as Alana and Brett turned to leave.

Alana stopped in her tracks and spun around, “Oh! Doctor. Do
you happen to know what an SDT is, in terms of cybernetic parts?”

Hoddeson shook his head, “Not off the top of my head.”

“Thanks, Doctor—”

Alana stopped when Brett tapped her on the shoulder, “What
did you need to know about SDTs, Ma’am?”

Chapter 14

The tension within the car’s cabin was palpable. Alana sat
with her arms crossed, her eyes closed. After a long silence, she asked, “Why
didn’t you tell me you used to work with Security Division?”

“I did tell you, Ma’am. Well, I told you before
you were killed. I didn’t think to tell you again. Besides, you could have just
looked up my dossier. It’s in there. You went through my locker after all.”

Alana remained stone-faced, “I apologize for that. The last
time I looked in it, Rhys was still using it. I was wondering if there was
anything of his left behind.”

“As far as I know, SD took all of his things away.”

“What did you do in SD?”

Brett sighed, “I mostly brought coffee.”

“What was your title?”

“Junior analyst. I was in the intelligence department.
Evaluating potential threats. In my case, it was always the threat of adding
too much sweetener to the chief’s pot.”

“Why did you quit? That had to be a demotion. Giving up a
career in the intelligence services?”

Brett said, “I didn’t like the hours.”

Alana wasn’t buying his answer, “Bullshit. Nobody walks away
from a career like that over the schedule.”

Brett took a deep breath and exhaled, “Okay, I didn’t like
the hours, the boss, spending time getting coffee for people too lazy to pour
their own, spending my time looking into people’s bedrooms without a warrant,
or having people like me looking into mine.”

Alana raised her eyebrow, “You got to look into people’s
bedrooms?”

“I was speaking figuratively. But the threshold of evidence
required to spy on people was too low, and a lot of people routinely abused
their power. I didn’t care much for that.”

“I see.”

Alana redirected the car short of the police station,
turning into a local donut shop. At first, Brett expressed a desire to remain
in the car, saying that it was too early for dinner, such as it was. When Alana
suggested that Brett take the opportunity to get a nice snack as a thank you
gift to Wen Jing for her making his birthday cake, he changed his mind and
followed the Inspector inside. When they left, Brett held a small bag and Alana
held a large box.

Upon returning to her office, Alana made a point of writing
a formal report, detailing her activities since she was resurrected. She did
not want to risk losing her memories should similar events occur unexpectedly.

She instructed Brett to search for a competent and
demonstrably successful lawyer who specializes in cyber law. She gave him a
short list of contacts she knew, sometimes from being vigorously cross-examined
by them, with the fierceness of their badgering affecting their order in the
list.

By six o’clock, both had finished their tasks.

Brett uploaded his results to Alana’s desktop, “There you
go, Ma’am. Can you share the reason for it?”

“Yes. I’m trying to do my witness a favor. She filled in a
few holes in my murder investigation. I owe her. Besides, I think she might be
the victim of negligence. In my experience, there’s no one better than a good
civil lawyer to resolve such things.”

“What do you want me to do now, Inspector?”

“Walk down to forensics and see if Wendy is on duty yet. If
she is, set me up an appointment to get my transponder broken.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Brett said as he nearly bolted towards the
door.

“Brett!” Alana yelled before the detective was out in the
corridor.

“Ma’am?”

Alana pointed to the donut bag on Brett’s desk. Brett
sheepishly stepped back and retrieved the sack before dashing off.

Alana kicked back in her chair and smiled. She didn’t feel
jealous of them anymore for some reason. Perhaps it was because she finally
recognized that she was having those feelings, and was able to suppress them?
Perhaps it was because she was thinking that Doctor Hoddeson’s natural curls
were cute in a boyish sort of way?

“Vira, is ‘cyber-cougaring’ a word?”

“There is no such word in the standard dictionary. It is
listed in the unofficial urban slang dictionary. Do you wish to know the
definition?”

“No thanks. Is there a word that is the reverse of
mechanophilia? A term for when machines get romantic about people?”

“There is a psychological term called PAT, pathetic
affection transference, which describes a situation where cybernetic persons
become attached to biologicals. Would you like to know more?”

“No. The name says it all.”

Alana drew out her interface cable and plugged it into her
desk. She took the file Brett had sent her of lawyer contact information and
copied it into her address book. She examined the file and chose the topmost
name. Alicia Ferguson-Campenhausen, Esq. Esquire, indeed. Lawyers were so
damned pompous.

Alana was only able to reach the lawyer’s answering service,
which took down a précis of the case and promised to have Ms. Campenhausen’s
staff return her call within one business day.

Alana proceeded down her short list, getting to the fourth
name before she finally reached an actual lawyer. This made Alana hopeful,
since the others were probably going to be too busy to handle a likely pro-bono
case.

“This is Robert Smith, Attorney at Law. How can I help you
today?”

“That’s the spirit!”

Smith sounded confused, “Excuse me?”

Alana went on to explain Sandy’s situation, and made an
appointment to meet with Smith over the lunch break at his office tomorrow.
When asked why that hour, Smith confided that while he was a cyborg, his
assistant was biological, and that she would be at lunch, leaving his office
otherwise open for a free consultation. He also sounded genuinely enthusiastic
when he said that he was looking forward to it.

Shortly after Alana hung up her phone and entered the
appointment on her calendar, Brett returned, smiling, “Wen Jing says to come on
down any time.”

And so, down they went.

The procedure was exactly as Wen Jing had described it when
Alana saw her Saturday night. Alana told her Vira that she accepted the
transponder deactivation. And it was done.

Wen Jing retrieved a hand-held scanner and ran it over
Alana’s body. “No signal. It looks like it worked. If you ever need to turn it
back on, just tell your Vira to do so, and it will automatically sync up with
the Zumpco servers and reactivate. Only takes a few seconds.”

“Are you absolutely positive that there are no transponder
signals?”

“Wen Jing checked again, declaring, “None!”

Brett asked, “Wen Jing, when is a good night for us to get
together to review the Rhys evidence?”

The technician smiled broadly. Alana watched her body
language, noticing that she placed her hands behind her back, and moved her
right leg slightly backward, just before she began subtly turning her entire
body left and right. Whatever it was that the pair had going, it was mutual,
and Alana was guessing that it was as of yet unrealized. Wen Jing said,
“Thursday is my night off, but you have to bring dinner. No pizza.”

Alana almost laughed at the obvious manipulation, but her
expression held firm.

Brett nodded, “Done!” without even bothering to shoot Alana
one of those ‘can I expense it?’ glances she would normally expect in
quid-pro-quo situations.

After leaving the lab, Alana asked Brett, “Would what we
just did also disable an SDT, if Security Division Tracer is what SDT really
stood for in my work order?”

“I doubt it. They’re independent systems.”

“Why didn’t it show up on Wendy’s magic detector wand?”

“It operates on a reserved frequency. Don’t ask for more,
that’s all I really know about it. Technical services was the branch of SD that
handled the nuts and bolts. If anyone in my group ever tracked someone in real
time, all we ever saw was a blip on the GPS map.”

“Would it be easy for someone with a HUD, like a robot or a
cyborg, to track someone with it on the QT?”

“Like a robot on a motorcycle? Easily. But it does have a
limited range. It has to avoid giving itself away. About a click, tops,
probably less than that.”

Alana rubbed her chin, an old habit she never shook, even in
death and occasional rebirth, “Which explains why the tracker got close enough
for me to spot him. That means they could use a drone instead, and I’d probably
never see it. Why not do that?”

Brett slowed down, focusing his gaze on the floor, watching
for obstacles while he focused his mind elsewhere, “I’m guessing it’s a range
issue. They would need to keep multiple drones in rotation. If they’re only
interested in where you are, and don’t need to have a live video feed, then a
tail on a motorbike might do the job.”

“Do you have any theories beyond the obvious as to why SD
would be tracking me?”

“It has to be related to Detective Rhys’ case. Maybe they
think you will lead them to someone else?”

“If so, they’re wasting their time. But that gives us more
impetus to clear Rhys. Once he’s absolved, they’ll have no reason to keep up
their surveillance.”

“Not that SD needs grounds, Inspector. They really aren’t
like regular police at all. Like I said, it’s one of the reasons I left. But I
want you to be prepared for the possibility that Rhys really is guilty, and
that maybe he used you to get close to his target.”

“I will never be prepared for the impossible, Brett.”

“Yes, Ma’am. What’s on tap for tomorrow?”

“I have a lunch appointment. Otherwise, I’ll play it by ear.
It might be a good day for you to become saved.”

“I’m still on the fence about that, Ma’am. And it’s not in
my budget currently.”

“I’ll talk to Bennett in the morning. Saves aren’t that expensive.
Maybe I can get him to float you one, just in case.”

“I’d rather not think about that, Ma’am.”

Alana stopped mid-corridor, “Tell you what. You take
tomorrow off since you ended up working on your birthday. While you’re having
fun, be thinking about whether you still have any contacts within SD who could
help get to the bottom of this.”

“That’s a tall order, Ma’am. Assuming I could find someone,
they’d be risking trouble over it.”

“I’m just putting it on the table. In the meantime, let’s
get you home so you can sleep on it.”

Having disabled her transponder, she would not be able to
make direct phone calls, so on the way home, Alana stopped by a robotic sales
kiosk and purchased a portable telephone. She plugged it into her interface
cable and configured it.

Chapter 15

The next morning, it took surprisingly little debate to
convince Chief Bennett to approve getting Brett saved. The chore would likely
be convincing Brett to be saved.

The even greater chore would likely be identifying the
gray-haired man that both Becky and Sandy had described.

Alana sat at her desk, running queries about black vans
owned by persons aged fifty and older who were living in the greater Los
Angeles area, and she received twenty-four possible matches. By the time she
compiled the data and moved a copy of it to her internal system, it was time
for her to head for her appointment with the lawyer, Robert Smith.

Smith had a modest office on the second tier of an open-air
strip mall. Based on the location, Alana was questioning whether Smith was
successful, or whether Brett had made an error in placing him on the short
list.

As Alana opened the door, a bell pealed, but there was no
one in the foyer. There was a reception desk, but it was unattended. She
decided to examine the office while waiting to see if the staff was merely in
the back. There was a large electronic whiteboard covering one section of the
wall. It was displaying a host of pages, some of which were copies of
government regulations concerning workplace rules and protection for employees.
Others talked about workplace safety, not from the typical trial-lawyer
perspective of a plaintiff, but from a true safety angle. Alana was getting the
impression that she might be dealing with another crusader.

After about a minute, a man turned a corner that led to the
nether regions of the office. He quickly introduced himself, “Good afternoon,
Ma’am. I’m Bob Smith. What can I help you with today?”

“I’m Chief Inspector Graves. We spoke briefly last night,
and I’m here for a consultation.”

Smith snapped his fingers, “Ah, yes! The homeless cyborg
case. Come to my office and we’ll discuss it.”

Alana followed Smith back around the corner from which he
had emerged. The back of the suite was smaller than Alana had expected, with
the lawyer’s office, a restroom, and a utility closet being the only other
spaces. Smith led the way into the modest office as there would not have been
room for him to squeeze by had he let Alana go first. He maneuvered around his
desk and took a seat in a gray-fabric office chair.

Alana spoke first, “It’s all very...cozy here.”

“Being a cyborg, I don’t really need much room, so I save
cash on the rent. That allows me to spend more time on everyone’s cases.”

“My assistant said that you had a very good win-loss record.”

Smith smiled, “Ma’am, I am proud to say that I have a
perfect win record. I have never lost a case.”

“That’s unusual, even in the tribunal system. Why is that?”

“A Chinese general named Sun Tzu wrote that victorious
generals win first, and then go to war. I never say yes to a case that I don’t
think I can win. Now, tell me about this cyborg-in-distress.”

Alana proceeded to relay the full story of Sandy Mathers.
Smith slouched in his chair, but remained focused on every word Alana spoke.
When she had finished, Smith said, “The only clear avenue I can see is to
pursue a possible case against the manufacturer. I’d need to interview the
client before I can say yes. I’ll also have to talk to her former employer to
see exactly what happened to her when she left her job. Can those both be
arranged?”

“I’ve only got about a twenty-four to thirty-six hour window
to keep her from being discharged back into the streets. I can take you to
Sandy in the shopital today, but I haven’t even tried to contact her employer
yet.”

“My afternoon is free. I’ll just need to leave a message for
my assistant.”

“I thought lawyers were always swamped with work. You don’t
strike me as typical.”

Bob clasped his hands behind his head, “As a cyborg, I don’t
need much to survive, and I love my work, but I also know when to quit. I made
my money in the first twenty years of practice. Now that I’m financially
secure, I don’t have to do this just for maintenance. I live very modestly, so
my expenses are low. What I do now is help my fellow retirees who are down on
their luck. You said that you were retired, didn’t you?”

Alana nodded.

“Then you know how badly we’re discriminated against and
abused in the workplace.”

“It had not escaped my notice over the years. Not everyone
can love their careers enough to work at them as much as I do mine.”

Smith manipulated a control on his desktop and spoke,
“Marian, I’m going to be out all afternoon. Ping me if it’s urgent, otherwise
tell them that I’ll be available tomorrow.”

The lawyer led Alana out onto the sidewalk, “Inspector, will
you be driving, or shall I?”

“I have a car.”

As the car navigated itself from the shopping center to the
shopital, Smith proved to be very inquisitive, which Alana found annoying
because she was trying to sort through the results of her earlier
black-van/white-man queries.

“Inspector, what got you involved in this woman’s case?”

“She’s a witness. That’s all I can say right now.”

The car pulled up to the entrance, and Alana and Bob stepped
out, allowing the car to drive off to park itself in the nearby deck.

As Alana and Smith waited for a guide to take them to the
cyber-brain ward, Alana continued her examination of the records. She was
planning to show the images to Sandy to see if she could recognize any of them.

While in the process of answering one of Smith’s random
queries, Alana froze mid-sentence. She recognized one of the gray-haired men in
the search results, but it was less by appearance than it was by name. She
double-checked the name and age, and the personal history. There was no error.
It was Colonel Aaron Stone, retired from the United States Army following the
Reformation War, and one of the men under whom Alana had served during that
war—on the rebel side. He was now working as a priest in Los Angeles.

Smith said, “You’re quiet, all-of-a-sudden-like. Is
something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll need to talk to Sandy first, in
private.”

After a few minutes of silence, a robot orderly finally
arrived to escort the pair to the lab. Alana told Smith to wait outside until
she motioned for him to enter, and he agreed with apparent reluctance.

Alana found a nurse who was able to activate Sandy’s
interface, and they had a short conversation. Alana borrowed a notepad and
uploaded the dossier pictures of all her potential subjects. She used it to
show Sandy a virtual lineup.

On the first pass, Sandy eliminated all but four of the men
from consideration. On the second pass, she singled-out Aaron Stone, saying, “I
know that man!”

“That’s good, Sandy—” Alana began, but then changed tack,
“Wait. You said you ‘knew’ him. What did you mean by that?”

“He was the nice man who fixed me so that the choppers
couldn’t find me.”

“Was he the same man you saw carrying the bag with me the
day the bomb went off?”

“I—I’m not sure. He might be. I only saw him from the top
down.”

So much for clarifying the waters. But it was, finally, a
solid lead, and enough for Alana to approach Aaron as a potential witness.

“How did that man fix you?”

“I don’t remember. He told me to turn around, and when I
woke up, he told me that they wouldn’t be able to find me.”

“I see,” Alana let slip. Could Aaron have disabled her
transponder somehow? If not, then Alana had no idea of what Sandy could
possibly mean. It meant even more questions for Colonel Stone, if she could
find him.

Alana motioned for Smith to enter. He strode in confidently
and pulled up a chair. He began, “Good afternoon, Ms. Mathers. My name is Bob
Smith, and I’m an attorney who specializes in cyber-law. I wanted to talk to
you about what happened to you after you retired.”

Sandy squeaked, “Retired?”

And things went downhill from there. At first, Smith tried
to get Sandy to accept Smith’s council and allow him to represent her, but
Sandy did not seem to understand. In fact, from the way she talked, she was
under the impression that she was still an intact human being. Some of her
statements were clearly irrational, and she remained fixated upon the fate of
her pet cat, Roscoe.

After half-an-hour of questioning, Smith took Alana aside
and said, “She’s not competent. I think she may even be suffering from paranoid
delusions. Under these circumstances, I’m not going to be able to represent
her. However...”

“However what?”

“She is currently under police protection as a potential
witness, correct?”

“Yes. For another day or so.”

“If the police department were to act as a client, and
assume responsibility, I could work for them on her behalf.”

“Let me call my boss...”

One short, sharp, shocking, phone conversation with her boss
on the subject later, Alana told Bob, “He says no. Too many legal issues for an
incompetent witness. Apparently, we’re the police, not a charity.”

“There is one more option. Someone else could act as the
client.”

“How?”

“By assuming temporary responsibility for Sandy’s care.”

Alana rested her fist on her hip, “Are you suggesting that I
adopt her?”

“It’s not really adoption. But you would have to provide for
her basic needs while the case goes forward.”

“For how long?”

“That depends on whether the corporation rolls over or
whether we have to go to trial. They will usually capitulate if there is a
credible case against them, but in this situation, we’re talking about a full
replacement, so that’s a couple hundred thousand credits out of their pocket.
They might fight it.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Provide shelter and basic necessities.”

“You mean adopt her?”

Smith shrugged, “Well, you could see it that way.”

Alana did not want to take on any burdens that would require
her attention. She never adopted pets, and even while living, she was waffling
on the idea of children or even an extended relationship. If what Smith was
telling her was accurate, she’d end up with a houseguest of indefinite
residency. “Imagine that I just sighed heavily,” She said, unable to do so
physically, “What do I need to do?”

“Just authorize it. I’ll send you the form. You can either
make a hardcopy and sign it in front of a notary, or use your transponder to
e-sign.”

“It’ll have to be the latter. Can we do it back at your
office?”

“Easily. I’ll call my assistant and have the papers ready
when we arrive.”

“It’s all temporary, right? If we lose the case, I can sever
the relationship?”

Smith said, “Yes. You’ll be a temporary legal guardian. The
court will need to approve it, of course, but given the circumstances, I don’t
see any problems. Now, all that being said, I still need to talk to her last
employer before I can make this final. If I don’t have a winnable case, it’s a
no-go.”

“Understood.”

On the ride back to Smith’s office, the attorney called Ross
Construction. He was placed on hold while the company located the responsible
individual.

Smith griped, “Staffing Administrator. They used to call
that Human Resources. Until us cyborgs came along. Now it’s another term to
dehumanize us.”

Alana noted, “In fairness, it also dehumanizes biological
humans.”

“I guess you’re right about that.”

Smith raised his hand as he was connected with the staffing
administrator. Their conversation was brief, but substantive, from what Alana
could hear of it.

Bob summarized his findings, “Sandy’s supervisor had placed
notes in her file to the effect that she was behaving strangely from day one of
her return to work, and that one day, she simply failed to show up. Retroactive
audits of her work turned up several errors in her calculations. That forced
them to audit her previous work, and it was error-free before she died. So
there is a possible case there based on defective workmanship. She probably had
a brain malfunction right out of the box, and Zumpco’s quality control didn’t
catch it. Given her old situation and her current one, she’s got huge potential
damages. The case isn’t iron-clad, but I bet they’ll settle for a full
resurrection for Ms. Mathers and a chunk of change to help her get her life
back on track.”

“Does that mean you’ll take her case?”

“It means I’ll take your case, Inspector. Let’s get
that guardianship paperwork submitted, shall we?”

After her business with Bob Smith was completed, Alana
headed home. She then set about the task of locating Aaron Stone. It was not as
hard as she had anticipated. There were numerous articles about the “Priest of
Ventura.”

Stone had taken up residence in the St. Mary Magdalen Roman
Catholic Church in Camarillo, California, in the northwest corner of Los
Angeles. It was just outside the Simi Valley Quarantine zone, mostly by virtue
of being upwind of the bomb that poisoned the rest of the area.

It would be a long trip from her location in East Los
Angeles, so Alana was going to have to wait until she had a full day to do it.
Perhaps tomorrow, Wednesday.

Chapter 16

“Hello? Inspector Graves?” Bob Smith asked, “I can barely
hear you. It sounds like you are in the shower.”

Alana turned the water off, her hair still foamy with
shampoo, “Is this better?”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called this early, but I got a
wakeup call myself from the shopital. I wasn’t able to get a stop order
approved, so they are going to be discharging Ms. Mathers into your care.”

“What?”

“I hate to admit it, but Zumpco outsmarted me. They were
able to discharge her because you were now her legal guardian.”

“This is not making me happy, Mister Smith.”

“The alternative would have been for them to just throw her
out in the street, so you’re still protecting and serving and all that. Will
you be able to pick her up?”

Alana closed her eyes, tilting her head so that the soapy
water streaming down her face avoided her mouth, “When is she going to be
ready?”

“The computer I spoke with said she is ready now.”

“Don’t take this personally, but I’m going to shoot you.”

Bob laughed loudly, “That’s exactly what my wife said, right
before she shot me. That’s how I retired!” His chortling sounded strangely
artificial, and Alana could not judge whether it was because of his cybernetic
voice box or because he wasn’t being sincere. Cyborgs just didn’t do laughter
well. The hardware did not support it.

Alana said, “I’ll send you a message when I get her home
safe.”

“Thanks, Inspector. Sorry about the miscalculation.”

“It’s all right. ‘Bye... So much for driving up to
Camarillo,” Alana flipped the shower back on and rinsed the rest of the
artificial hair cleaner from her fine, artificial strands.

After she slipped into a business-casual outfit, Alana
called Brett. When he answered, his breathing was labored, “Hello? Brett? Are
you okay? You sound like you’re having sex—”

“No—Ma’am. Just—jogging. What’s up?”

“I’m going to be late getting around to your house this
morning. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Okay. Anything—else?”

“Yes. While you’re waiting, do an Internet search for an
adult, male gray tabby cat for sale in the area. Rescue kitties are okay.”

Alana could tell that Brett stopped running from the pitch
of his voice, “A cat, Ma’am?”

“A gray, male tabby.”

“Are you on the verge of becoming one of those crazy cat
ladies—”

“No, Detective Crabtree. I’m serious. I’ll call you later in
the morning.”

Alana encountered no further impediments or detours on her
way to retrieve Sandy from the shopital. A signature on an electronic notepad
was all that was required to have her witness sent down to the lobby. When she
appeared, it was still within the confines of her worn, damaged body.

Sandy drew stares from other patients and visitors who were
likely wondering why she was being sent out in such shape, and Alana felt
similarly. Although it had almost required a separate revolution decades ago,
biological Americans had finally secured universal access to health care, but
those rights had not yet been extended to cyborgs. But she also knew that the
cyborg population was the fastest-growing minority in the country, already
thirty-million strong and outpacing the biological population. Their time would
eventually come, but people like Sandy Mathers would remain one of those
disserved by society until then.

Sandy was quiet as Alana and a robot orderly helped her into
the police car. They had traveled half the distance to Alana’s house before she
spoke, asking simply, “Am I going home now?”

“You’re going to my home for a little while, Sandy. I want
you to tell me if you want or need—”

Alana noticed that Sandy was staring into the side-view
mirror, leaning her head up against the glass so that she could see her own
face. The human half of her face was frowning.

Alana let the silence remain undisturbed until the car
returned to her driveway. She helped Sandy out, and walked her up to the front
door. Mathers did not protest. She merely followed where she was led.

Sandy walked with a limp. There was no mystery as to the
cause. The visitor’s left leg was shorter than her right, clearly a mismatch,
likely repaired in the field from spare parts.

Alana led Sandy to her living room and helped her take a
seat on the sofa. She asked if there was anything she could get for her, but
Sandy just sat staring at the blank, video wall. It was as if the two were the
same.

“Would you like to watch television, Sandy?”

Her guest finally spoke, “Yes.”

Alana personally had to command the television to activate
since her transponder was still deactivated. She could not find the remote
control, so she pushed the ‘find remote’ button on the television screen’s
virtual control panel. As the video wall lit up with a news broadcast, a faint
pinging sound issued from within the sofa. Alana fished between the cushions
and found the lost device. She never used it herself, instead relying upon
either her Vira or her virtual interface to change channels. It could have been
in there for a decade or longer. She set the controller on the cushions where
Sandy could reach it, but the woman was almost catatonic.

Alana had been reluctant to take even temporary responsibility
for her witness, but she could not allow her to be tossed out onto the street,
probably to return to where she was staying. That gang of choppers knew where
she lived now, and it would be only a matter of time before they returned to
finish the job. It was probable that they had already scavenged any functioning
electronics or other parts from Sandy’s makeshift apartment.

Alana could not help but wonder if there were any memories
that Sandy would like to have kept that would be lost if Bob was successful in
getting her a new body and brain. She would be right back to where she was when
she was first reborn, a loss of around three years.

Stepping out the front door, she went to her police car and
verbally instructed it to drive to Brett’s house to pick him up. Life without a
transponder was already proving to be inconvenient.

After her car had backed out of the driveway and headed down
the road, Alana made a point of looking for anything like the robot
motorcyclist she had tangled with the previous Saturday, but she did not see
anything, even using the more sensitive settings of her cybernetic vision. But
there could still be something hiding somewhere out there, especially if Brett
was right about SDT being an acronym for Security Division Tracer.

As she stood on the stoop, taking in the relative
tranquility of the warm workday in her suburban neighborhood, she called Brett
and told him that the car was on its way to pick him up.

Brett finally arrived at Alana’s home about two hours later,
during which time, Sandy had not moved from the couch, or changed the channel.
She was acting differently than Alana had seen her act previously, even more
traumatized.

Alana greeted Brett at the door and found him carrying a
large shopping bag with the logo of a local pet superstore emblazoned across
the sides. Before Alana could say anything, Brett put his finger in front of
his mouth and gave a subtle, “Shhh. Is there a room I can use for about
half-an-hour?”

“Bad lunch?”

“No, Ma’am. I need to do some more work before this is
ready,” he pointed at the pet-shop bag.

“Use my office. You can close the door and do whatever
you’re going to do in private. It’s not bestial, is it?”

Brett cocked his head to one side and gave a silent, and not
particularly friendly, answer.

“Just do it.”

Brett turned left towards the home-office, and Alana turned
right towards the living room.

Engaging Sandy in conversation was difficult in that she
would still only reply to about half of Alana’s questions. When Alana asked
about Aaron Stone, and how he ‘fixed’ her so that choppers couldn’t find her,
she said she didn’t know, only that when she woke up, she was secure. Whatever
he did, he had to deactivate her.

Brett soon entered the living room, cradling a gray tabby
cat in his arms. Alana put the pieces together quickly. Unable to find a living
cat that met the criteria, he bought a robotic one.

Brett deposited the robocat on the sofa beside Sandy, “Ms.
Mathers, I think I might have found your pet cat.” At first, Sandy ignored it,
remaining focused on the television. Brett and Alana watched silently.

The robocat carefully nuzzled up to Sandy, acting as a
housecat would normally be expected to act. Eventually, it climbed into Sandy’s
lap and curled up into a ball, purring all the time. Sandy still ignored it.

Brett looked at Alana and shrugged.

Then Sandy petted the robocat. Then, she picked it up and
hugged it to her chest. The robocat responded by gently rubbing its head
against Sandy’s chin. Sandy shifted her grip and propelled the robocat across
the room, where it struck the wall before falling to land on all four paws. The
robocat ran away, up the stairs and out of sight, as one might expect of a real
cat in similar circumstances.

Sandy said, flatly, “It’s not Roscoe.”

Brett walked away, towards the kitchen. When Sandy returned
to silently watching television, Alana followed him.

“How much did that set me back?”

Brett sighed, “About four-hundred credits. You can transfer
the funds back to me any time you want. Are you okay with it?”

“I was hoping that it would give her something to focus on
to keep her out of trouble when I wasn’t around to keep an eye on her. But it
looks like the television is taking care of that. Based on how she had her
little living space set up, it’s probably what she spends most of her time
doing anyway.”

Brett asked, “What are we going to do in the meantime?”

“Did you have any luck with your Security Division
connections?”

“Zero. But I told you it was unlikely.”

“Like with the cat, it didn’t hurt to try. Oh, speaking of trying,
I got Bennett to approve you getting saved on the department’s account. All you
need to do is work out a time.”

Brett shook his head, “I appreciate you going out of your
way, but when I look at Sandy in there, I’m still not sure—”

Alana raised her palm, interrupting, “It’s only getting
saved. You don’t have to go through resurrection. You can still have a living
will, or just tell your parents that you don’t want to go all the way.”

“I’ll think—”

“Tomorrow would be a good day for you to get it done. The
full brain scan takes about four hours, and the first time is usually longer.
Besides, I already made you a priority appointment at 10 AM. Same shopital I’ve
been overusing.”

“Isn’t there anything else you need me to do instead?”

“Remember that you’re meeting up with Wendy tomorrow night
to go over the Rhys case evidence again. Don’t forget to arrange for dinner. As
for me, it’s nothing I can’t handle myself. I’ll be going up to Camarillo
tomorrow to follow a lead, and it will probably take most of the day.”

Brett said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Ma’am? We
still don’t know who was following you around.”

“In all honesty, Brett, the motorcyclist could have been
following you. I first noticed him when we were both in the car, and he
turned up again outside of your house.”

Brett offered a counterpoint, “But you’re the one who
may or may not have an SDT built into your body.”

“So odds are it was me, but those events do not have to be
related. SD could be tracking me and someone else could be following me on a
bike. We don’t know. What I do know is that Sandy gave me a solid lead that I
need to follow.”

“When are you going to tell me enough so that I can pick up
where you left off?”

“Sandy may have identified the gray-haired man she saw me
with as Aaron Stone. I knew Aaron from the revolution. That’s too coincidental
to be a coincidence.”

Brett said, “I don’t like it one bit, but you’re the boss.”

“That’s right, and don’t forget it. Will you need the car
tomorrow?”

“No, I can take transit.”

Alana made a wide sweep with her arm towards the exit, “Then
I turn you loose until Friday morning, at which time I expect to learn that
Detective Rhys has been exonerated.”

Brett stood his ground, “If you say so, Ma’am.”

Alana said, “You haven’t left yet. Was there something
else?”

“Just one thing. It’s only been a week since you were
resurrected, and I’ve already noticed that you are acting very differently than
you were before then.”

“In a good way or a bad way.”

“Let’s just say you’re different. Before, you were pretty
hard assed and control-freakish about everything. You’re not that way anymore.”

“Can you describe the difference succinctly?”

“You’re...,” Brett struggled for the correct word, finally
saying, “...sympathetic.”

Alana did not seem displeased. “Blame it on the apple.”

Chapter 17

Before the dirty bomb made the area unsafe for human
habitation, various forms of antibiotic-resistant venereal disease and killer
viruses, including the ubiquitous HIV and the HIV2 strains, had made the Simi
Valley unsafe for human cohabitation. Around the turn of the twenty-first
century, the suburb of Chatsworth had been the pornography industry’s Mecca.
Until several Asian countries finally surpassed the former United States in
their own ‘productivity,’ there had never been more media produced with less
clothing than had spurted forth from northern tip of Los Angeles.

The Simi bomb changed all of that, but not as drastically as
the evangelical movement of the day would have preferred. Instead of dying in a
nuclear orgasm, the survivors of the pornography industry simply moved several
miles upwind to the suburb of Camarillo.

The biggest blow to pornography media came from computer
technology, which was able to produce simulations so lifelike as to be
indistinguishable from real sex. In the wake of the final cyber bombshell, the
development and sale of affordable robotic sex machines, the Camarillo area
lost its importance. Bisected cleanly by the Ventura Freeway, it was no longer
the Western gateway to the Simi Valley, as no one intentionally visited or even
passed through the quarantine zone. There was no industry, however light,
functioning there. The population dwindled to those who could not afford to
move anywhere more desirable.

Detouring all the way around Hwy 118 took Alana over two
hours, owing to a multi-vehicle crash on Interstate 5 that required her to stop
and assist the local police in clearing. Although robotic vehicle navigation
was mandatory for civilians, and despite sophisticated sensors being installed
to monitor a vehicle’s subsystems, a tire blowout could still wreak havoc. This
time, there were only two fatalities, both from the car that malfunctioned.
Alana was the most senior officer present, so she had to file official reports
with the coroner’s office. The victims were a pair of teenagers, both under the
age of eighteen, which automatically disqualified them from being saved.

How many times Alana had been involved in such incidents she
could not remember. As was probably inevitable, Alana had become hardened by
her frequent exposure to such events, but this time, it saddened her as much as
the first, which she could still remember from thirty-four years ago. That was
before the travel automation system was in place, and human drivers, who
constantly exhibited human failings, piloted all vehicles. Then, the fatality
was a young woman, age twenty-four, who was less than a mile away from her home
when she left the roadway, struck a curb, and died when her vehicle flipped and
landed atop a guardrail girder. She was under the influence, speeding, not
wearing her safety restraints, and distracted by talking with a friend on her
wireless telephone. Because the careless nature of her death was proscribed in
her minimal level of resurrection insurance, she was not able to claim early
retirement, and she died permanently. The young woman had done everything
wrong, and Alana had heard many of her police colleagues comment that she
deserved it for being so reckless. But Alana had felt deep sympathy for both
the woman and her extended family, including her fiancé, even sending flowers
to the funeral in the name of the police department.

As her car turned into the pitted, literally holey, gray
tarmac parking lot of the St. Mary Magdalen Roman Catholic church, Alana’s mind
returned to the present. The church was modeled on a Mediterranean style with
white, stucco walls, a clay slate roof, and a bell tower. While visiting Italy
once on an Army docket, she had toured Venice, and the building reminded her
very much of the architecture there. From a distance, it would have been as
indistinguishable from the real thing as mid-Twenty-First Century cyber-porn.

An electronic sign out front read, “Are You REALLY Saved?”

It was just after eleven o’clock, and being a Thursday, the
parking lot was empty save for two vehicles. One was a tiny, bulbous two-seat
electric car whose bright-yellow paint job made it look more like a
four-wheeled half-lemon than a car. Parked beside it was an unmarked, black
cargo van.

“Vira, interrogate the transponder on the sub-compact car
I’m looking at.”

“The vehicle is registered to Mister Gabriel Stone.”

Alana walked around the car to get a clear view of the black
van, “Interrogate the transponder on the van I’m looking at.”

“The vehicle is registered to Pastor Aaron Stone.”

Alana located the front entrance to the church and
approached the door. Other than paying her respects at the funerals of fellow
police officers, she hadn’t been inside a church voluntarily since she was in
her twenties, about forty-five years ago. Then, it was an Army chapel for the
wedding of one of her legal-eagle peers. As she turned the handle and pushed
the rightmost of the unlocked door pair open, part of her almost expected
divine retribution for all the disrespectful things she had said about God over
the years.

The interior was air-conditioned, a requisite for habitation
for any enclosure in southern California from April to November. The only light
shone in from rows of stained-glass windows that lined the sides of the
building. Alana could imagine that in the mornings and afternoons, the rays of
sunlight would paint rainbows on the varnished hardwood flooring. But with the
sun currently overhead, there was no such kaleidoscopic vista.

A simple, rectangular altar draped with a white, gold-embroidered
cover was topped with a vertically standing, gold cross. It was elevated above
the floor of the sanctuary by a single step.

Alana let the door swing shut behind her, creating an echo
that rolled over the oaken pews within the open chapel. She shouted, “I’d ring
the bell, but from the looks of it, it’s a doozy.”

From a door to the back left of the altar, a young man
dressed in a cassock emerged. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with short,
sandy blonde hair. When he reached the center aisle and turned to approach
Alana, he slowed, saying, guardedly, “Hi, Inspector Graves. How can I help
you?”

Alana replied, “Chief Inspector. And who are you?”

“I’m Gabriel. Don’t you recognize me?”

“When exactly was I here last?”

“This is weird. Stay here and I’ll be right back,” Gabriel
said as he hurried whence he came.

A minute later, Gabriel reemerged from the back room with
another man in tow—a gray-haired gentleman dressed in less formal clothing,
slacks and a white, long-sleeve shirt. It was over thirty-six years since Alana
had seen Aaron Stone, but the face matched his dossier photos. Despite his age,
Aaron appeared to be in reasonably good physical condition, and he was clearly
unhappy.

Alana spoke first, “The door was unlocked.”

Aaron said, coldly, “The Lord’s arms are perpetually open to
those in need of his love and guidance. But you...”

This surprised Alana, who could still remember parting ways
with a salute, a hug, and a promise to remain in contact which neither she nor
Aaron fulfilled, “Whatever happened to, ‘Hi, Alana, how are you? I haven’t seen
you since the revolution!’”

Stone was as rigid as his name, “What do you want?”

“So it’s straight to business? All right. I need to get my
transponder deactivated. I was told that you know how to do that?”

Aaron glared at Alana, thinking about his response. After a
long pause, he said, “You’ll leave when I’m done and not come back?”

Alana attempted to cut through the bullshit herself, “What’s
going on?”

“Nothing. We’ll need to go downstairs. Follow me.”

Aaron approached the altar, and stepped up on the platform.
He grabbed the golden cross with both hands and turned it counter-clockwise.
There was some resistance, but when it was turned ninety degrees, there was an
audible click. Aaron pushed the altar to the side where it locked in place with
a click, revealing a concrete stairwell leading down.

Alana quipped, “Interesting place to put a catacomb.”

Aaron said, “It was our West Coast signal intelligence post
during the war. It just happened to be nearer to God than most.”

Aaron led the way down into the basement, with Gabriel
bringing up the rear. Alana counted fifteen steps in total from the opening to
the landing below.

Overhead lighting panels flickered to life as they exited
the stairwell. Gabriel pulled a lever on the wall next to the door, and the
altar rolled back into place, blocking out the sunlight.

The basement had concrete walls covered with light-gray,
polymerized paint, probably taken from a military stockpile. It was nominally
maintained, as if in occasional use, despite a few cobwebs and dust bunnies in
the corners.

A steel security door was set in the middle of the opposite
wall. On the wall next to the door was a combination thumbprint and access card
reader. A video camera was installed above the door, placed so as to view the
entire room, and a small, red light indicated that the camera was on.

A rack filled with decades-old computer hardware was stacked
against one wall. A small desk and chair were pushed against the wall opposite
the computer rack. Cables ran from the computer rack across the ceiling and to
a multi-terminal switch, keyboard, and monitor on the desk.

On one section of the wall, several well-measured lines were
written in familiar-looking block letters with permanent-marker under a larger
heading, “Martyrs.” Alana stepped over to the wall and used her finger to run
down the list of full names written on the wall. The final name was, “Major
Alana Graves - 2056.” It struck her as odd that she was on the list. She died
almost a year after the war was over. Was Aaron responsible for it?

Aaron said, “Gabriel, go get the tools.”

Gabriel hesitated, but Aaron commanded, “GO!”

“Okay, dad,” the young man said as he went to the security
door and pressed his thumb to the keypad. There was a faint buzzing sound, and
Gabriel first opened and then disappeared through the door.

Alana said, “Congratulations on your son, Commander. It
really has been a long time since I saw you.”

“He’s a vicar now, and he’ll probably take over for me when
I finally pass on. Tell me, how did you know I was here?”

“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. How did you
wind up here? I’d have never pictured you as a priest—”

“Pastor. The Bishop believes I’m in the right place at the
right time here.”

Alana was confused, “Didn’t you used to be agnostic?”

Aaron replied, “I still am with regards to the rituals, but
I’ve always had faith or I’d have never joined the rebels in the first place.
And I’ve since been called to a higher duty. I work upstairs full time now. The
hours are long, but I like my employer.”

“Why are you down here? I would have thought that this place
would be dismantled by now.

“I still mind the old store. The price of freedom is eternal
vigilance, or so I’ve been told.”

Alana pressed, “You can tell me what’s afoot. I’m an old
comrade-in-arms.”

Aaron dismissed her inquiry, “There is nothing going on.”

Alana restrained herself from telling Aaron that he was a
bad liar, but it was obvious to her that he was stalling. “How old are you now,
Aaron? Almost eighty?”

“Closer to seventy. But I stay in shape.”

“Most people who can afford it retire by your age.”

Aaron scowled, “I was saved in a very different way than you
were. I disagree with the practice.”

“What do you not like about quasi-immortality? After all,
you and I both fought for everybody’s right to gain access to it.”

Aaron turned away, looking at the list of martyrs on the
wall, “I fought for a lot of reasons, and that was the least of them. A retired
cyborg is just a sophisticated computer program with a kilogram of synthetic
brain attached. You’re not real. You can’t have a soul.”

“I lost my religion a long time ago, and except for the lack
of orgasms, I can’t really tell much difference between being alive and being
retired. Except that I have to work even longer hours.”

“Perhaps that’s merely because you’re programmed to think
that?”

“Well, who knows? But I wasn’t done living yet.” Alana
counted off on her fingers, “Skydive from orbit. Ski in Antarctica. Save the
universe. My bucket list is still full.”

The security door reopened and Gabriel reentered, carrying
some kind of hand-held scanner that looks like it was hand-made from old pieces
of commercial product remote controls.

Aaron said to Gabriel, “Scan her.”

Gabriel approached Alana. He pointed the scanner at her and
pressed a button. He circled Alana, panning the device up and down across her
body. When it was between her shoulders, just above the small of her back, the
device started beeping repeatedly until Gabriel turned it off.

The young man said, “She’s hot.”

That confirmed that Brett was right. Alana had a secondary
tracer implanted. Alana said, with a deliberate, saucy flirtatiousness, “Why,
thank you.”

Gabriel blushed, “Umm... I think it’s an SDT. It’s in the
same place as her regular transponder.”

Aaron commanded, “Take your shirt off and spread eagle
against the wall.”

“Why?” Alana asked.

“It’s the only way I know to disable your tracking device
without damaging your control systems. That’s what you want, right? I’m also
going to need to borrow your sidearm for this.”

Alana removed her overcoat, her shoulder holster, and then
her shirt, leaving only her brassiere standing between her torso and nature,
“I’m guessing you’re going to shoot me to short out the transponder, but my
weapon will send a signal if you discharge it.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. And no, it’s not a
problem. The signal is too weak to get through the walls down here.”

“Um, dad?” Gabriel acted as if he had never seen a
well-proportioned woman, cybernetic or not, stripped this bare in person. He
managed to blush an even deeper shade of red, bordering on purple.

Aaron chided him, “She’s a cyborg, Gabriel. Not a real
woman.”

He turned to Alana and likewise chided her, “Besides, aren’t
you supposed to be almost my age? What are you doing gallivanting around in
that body?”

“This is what I looked like when I was saved. It has the
added bonus of making male witnesses more talkative. It also helps with my
otherwise fragile self-image.”

Aaron remained cool and business-like, “Against the wall,
please.”

Alana hesitated, and Aaron asked, “Do you trust me after all
we went through during the Battle for Washington?”

Alana acquiesced to Aaron’s command, as she had done often
in the final stages of the Reformation War. She placed her palms against the
wall and braced herself for what she knew was about to hit her for the second
time since Saturday.

Aaron walked behind Alana and took her holster. He removed
the pistol, placed the barrel square between her shoulder blades, and pulled
the trigger. A flash of powerful electrical current surrounded Alana’s body,
and she fell to the floor, disabled.

Aaron said, “Scan her again, Gabriel.”

Gabriel ran his scanner over Alana’s prostrate body. It did
not beep, “She’s clean. The SDT isn’t sending anymore.”

Aaron glanced at the active security camera and told
Gabriel, “I’m pretty sure Alan’s watching on the monitor. Go get him. Things
just got more complicated.”

Chapter 18

Alana jerked awake, but found herself tied down to the
gurney. The walls of the cybernetic shop beneath the church were the same light
gray as the rest of the basement. The walls were lined with cabinets and
shelves, which were in turn filled with a mixture of electronic, mechanical,
and medical supplies. Her shirt and overcoat were draped over an empty chair.
Gabriel and Aaron were at her side. A motionless, well-worn android sat upright
in a chair at the far end of the room, clearly deactivated. It’s arms were
obviously from different models, and the tweed jacket it still wore looked like
it was made in the previous century, with patches of varying colors covering
several holes.

Aaron said, “Welcome back. Tell me who you are.”

Alana replied, “I’m pissed-off, that’s who I am. And I have
a headache. How long were we out?”

“It’s been two hours since I swapped your brain cases,”
Aaron answered, picking up a diagnostic headband and slipping it over Alana’s
skull before plugging it into a nearby computer, “Don’t move just yet.”

Aaron removed Alana’s restraints, “I’m sorry about the straps.
I didn’t want you to damage anything when you woke up. How does it feel to be
back in your own body?”

“Very strange. Was I really inside that...thing over there?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have anything better lying around the
shop. Are you having any other issues with the transplant?”

Alana pointed at the deactivated android, “Other than the
crisis of conscience? I’m not comfortable about what we might or might not do
with my clone over there.”

Aaron said, “Who just happened to be your illegal
clone under the First Cyber Commandment.”

“Yes, but she wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t broken about four
others beforehand.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, God still loves you both, even
if you’re just soulless homunculi.”

“I like your son’s compliments better.” Alana glanced at
Gabriel and asked, “Am I still hot?”

Gabriel again blushed, “Huh? Uh—”

Alana returned her gaze to the ceiling, “I was watching
everything that happened out there on the security monitor. I heard her
flirting with you.”

Suddenly, an arc of electricity jumped across Alana’s hand
as she accidentally triggered her built-in stun gun. Everyone in the room
recoiled, startled, including Alana.

Aaron cautioned, “Watch where you put that thing.”

Alana said, humbly, “I did not see that coming. Must be a
new feature.”

Aaron said to Gabriel, “Son, go back to the vestry and keep
an eye on the upstairs. Lock the outside doors while you’re there. I don’t want
to be stuck down here if anyone drops by.”

Gabriel nodded, “Yes, father,” and left the room.

Aaron said, “Would you stop teasing my son? Do you have any
concept of what it’s like to honor an oath of celibacy from the age of
sixteen?”

Alana wiggled her toes, “Frankly, no, I don’t. Hey! My feet
are working again.”

Aaron picked up Alana’s shirt and tossed it to her. Alana
sat up just in time to catch it, saying, “No lollipop?”

“No.” Aaron examined the computer readout, and, satisfied
with the results, removed Alana’s headband, “We need to discuss what happens
now. I really think we’d be better off disposing of her completely.”

After she had buttoned her blouse, Alana pointed to the
android, “You can’t be serious. That would be like killing my twin sister. Is
she in there now?”

Aaron sighed, “Yes. It should keep her alive for a good
while, but I have no idea what to do with her. This operation is messy enough
without your clone showing up unannounced. It’s thrown a huge wrench into
things.”

Alana countered, “If anything, it puts me back on the inside
where I can direct any further local inquiries the other way. I might also be
able to avoid getting charged with the felonies I have undoubtedly committed or
have yet to commit.”

Aaron said, “How did she find us so quickly? We knew you’d
be resurrected, but—”

“I told you I was good at my job, just like when I told you
about that hole in the sensor grid at the Pentagon. When are you finally going
to have faith in me?”

Aaron huffed, “Maybe when you begin having faith.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that.” Alana climbed down off the
gurney and finished getting dressed.

Alana motioned for Aaron to step aside so that she could get
access to a small basin. She picked up a hairbrush, doing a double take when
she moved in front of the mirror, “I see that she kept the same fashion sense I
did.”

“Your fashion sense hasn’t changed in forty years.”

“Okay, so I’m stuck in the fifties. Boot her up in safe
mode. I want to talk to her before I leave.”

Aaron was clearly reluctant to do so, but he reached behind
the android’s neck, pushed, and held the on button. The android’s brown eyes
flicked open and gazed around the room.

Alana said to the android, “I like what you’ve done with my
hair.”

“Well,” the android began, but stopped. “My voice is wrong.”

Aaron said, “My apologies, Major Graves, but your original
brain wanted her original body back.”

The most recently resurrected Alana, finding her
consciousness transplanted into an android body with a matching, masculine
voice, said, “I did not see this coming. Would someone mind telling me what’s
going on?”

The gynoid Alana replied, “Tell me what you think you know.”

The android Alana indulged, testing out her own theory,
“First off, I’m guessing that I—you? Wasn’t killed in that explosion? Else we
couldn’t be having this conversation. You... You had your brain case moved into
this body and you operated your own body by remote control.”

The gynoid Alana said, “Are you suggesting that I had myself
killed? What makes you think that?”

“When you confronted the teenager you were chasing on your
death video, you hesitated. You did not pull the trigger. You knew he was a
cyborg, so you would have known that your pistol would only disable him, not
kill him. So there was no reason for you to hold your fire. Meaning you did not
intend to shoot him.

Alana said, “Then why would I let him blow himself up too?”

The android Alana pondered the question momentarily, before
finally answering, “You released the camera drone to follow you around so there
would be a video record showing your death. You also arranged for Detective
Crabtree to be on the scene to corroborate your story. That’s why there were no
missing person reports, tracking signals, and why we could not identify the man
you were chasing. He wasn’t a cyborg. He was just a robot with a realistic
head.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why not...,” the android Alana suddenly had an epiphany,
“Because if you knew what is happening, what all this is about, and you were
saved again, the authorities might invoke the special anticrime interrogation
statute...”

The gynoid’s expression gave away that the android Alana was
correct on the second guess.

“...which would prompt them to load my save profile into a
testimony surrogate brain, which would tell them everything you were trying to
hide. That’s what you’re keeping secret. You made them think that your memories
were irretrievable. You knew something you didn’t want to get out. You
committed suicide to avoid getting saved.”

The original Alana was clearly impressed with her cloned
self, and she managed to pull off a new expression for her—smugness. “Damn. If
I say so myself, I’m good at this stuff.”

Her clone cut her smirk short by saying, “You deliberately
broke the Cyber Commandments to hide something. What?”

Alana said, “I’m very sorry to have to do this, but I can’t
have a clone running around.” She nodded to Aaron, who pushed the android’s off
button.

Chapter 19

Instead of relying on the vagaries of public transit, Brett
took a taxi to the Zumpco Cybernetics facility. He dressed in very
loose-fitting exercise clothing and sandals, looking as if he were headed
towards the airport for a tropical vacation.

To say that Brett was apprehensive about being saved was an
understatement worthy of the driest British wit. He was even more apprehensive
than he was about meeting Wen Jing later. Ultimately, it was curiosity about
the process of being saved and how it related to his current case that pushed
him over the top and into the shopital.

Even though his and Wen Jing’s purpose was work-related, it
was plain to Brett that there was more to it. It would be a true first date. He
had not dated anyone since he was in college. While he was at Security
Division, he had to submit anyone whom he was intending to woo for a background
check, and that was enough to discourage him from trying. It was also another
of the many straws that broke his resolve to remain with that branch of the
government.

Brett was still unsure as to what to do about dinner for Wen
Jing later in the evening. His current plan was to send out for delivery,
probably Chinese. Wen Jing was half-Chinese, so he reasoned that a typical,
Americanized Asian meal would be a good compromise.

Brett checked in at the reception desk, and after a very
short wait, he was led to a waiting room. A courteous, android medical
technician entered and gave Brett an examination that included vital sign
checks and several blood tests. After a half-hour, he was led up the elevator
to the fourth floor, and deposited in a large waiting lobby filled with people.
He sighed, knowing that there was going to be a long wait, and he was correct,
however, he was provided with a notepad and enough electronic forms to fill out
and waivers to sign to choke a medium-sized bureaucracy. It was over an hour
before his name was finally called and he was sent to another small room to
wait for his attending physician.

After another half-hour, during which time Brett initiated
several always-aborted escapes, he finally heard footsteps approach. The door
swung open, and the ubiquitous Doctor Phelps entered, carrying his ubiquitous
electronic notepad.

“Good morning, Detective Crabtree.”

A sudden wave of shyness overcame Brett. He waved, feebly,
“Hi.”

“According to the work order, you are going to be saved
today. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Phelps suddenly recognized Brett, “Were you the man who
brought Inspector Graves in last weekend? The first time, of course.”

“Yes, that was me. I’m her assistant.”

As he examined the data on his notepad, the doctor struck up
a casual conversation, “What kind of things does a detective do, detective?”

“In theory or in practice?”

“I can tell that you work for Inspector Graves all right.”

“In theory, I’m supposed to support my inspector. This
sometimes includes supervising crime scene investigations, doing research, or
interviewing witnesses. Up until recently, it has chiefly involved being a
gofer.”

“I see. Has anyone briefed you on what the procedure is
going to be like for you today?”

“Not in great detail. I know that I’m supposed to have my
brain scanned, but I have no earthly clue as to what is involved.”

“Well, first, we run some tests on you to ensure that your
brain is in proper condition to be saved. That’s what all the phlebotomies were
about. The good news is that your results were within the acceptable range.”

Brett was secretly hoping that there would be a problem that
would delay the procedure, and he let those thoughts remain covert.

“The next thing we do is put you to sleep while we run you
through a brain integrity scan.”

“Why asleep?”

“Because we need to slow down your brain function as much as
possible to allow us to get a good picture of all the nooks and crannies. Think
of it as a diagnostic to make sure that everything is working normally.”

“Then what?”

“If we do not find any problems, then we move you to another
machine, which will take a snapshot of your brain’s memory centers at the
molecular level. That is the process that is commonly called, ‘being saved.’”

“What are the odds that I’ll be rejected during the
diagnostic?”

“Let me put it this way. Your boss has passed hers every
time, and you know how eccentric she can be.”

Brett rolled his eyes, but declined to spring to Alana’s
defense on the issue of her personality. He asked, “Is doctor-patient
confidentiality in full-play?”

Phelps smiled, “Of course.”

“I was going to ask if the inspector was always the way she
is, or if she just started acting that way recently.”

“What I can tell you is that she has changed very little
since I worked on her first resurrection, thirty-five years ago.”

“You were her first?”

“Don’t go talking in innuendos like she does. But yes, she
was my very first resurrection. That’s how long I’ve been doing this, and I
hope that fills you with confidence in my level of experience with this
procedure.”

“I was never afraid of the procedure, Doctor. It’s more
metaphysical. Like in the inspector’s case. Did you know her before she was
saved?”

“That’s a question I can answer, and the answer is no.”

“So she could have been defective from the day she was
saved?”

“Well, that would explain a lot about her, but if there were
any real medical or psychological issues, we would have detected them by now.”

Brett squirmed in his chair, “Here’s where I’m worried. Are
you aware of the Sandy Mathers case?”

“Not the details. Doctor Hoddeson handled that one. What was
the problem?”

“I really shouldn’t say more about it. It just made me a
little nervous. I mean, if something went wrong from day one, every day forward
would also be wrong. Like if you made a bad copy, and then copied that copy
over and over.”

“Well, Detective, I’m not going to say that there is no
risk. But the chances of anything going wrong are less than being in a plane
crash.”

“Which means they are still greater than being struck by a
crashing plane?”

Phelps shrugged, “If you put it that way...”

The doctor made some notes on his pad during the silence
that followed. Eventually, he said, “One thing to remember is that you are not
obligated to resurrect just because you get saved. In fact, the paperwork
authorizing that is separate from what you’ve done so far today.”

“That should be discouragement enough for anyone.”

“Quasi-immortality is usually enough incentive.”

Brett looked at his wristwatch, a class of chronological
device that, in the age of implanted phones and multifunction devices that
filled the same role, was becoming anachronistic. “How long until we can start?
I have important plans for this evening.”

Phelps smiled, “Any time you are ready.”

The moment that the anesthesiologist sent Brett into the
netherworld until the moment he returned seemed, frankly, momentary. But when
the robot orderly undid the safety restraints on his hospital bed, he checked
his watch, and six hours had passed. It was now four in the afternoon, which
gave Brett three hours to go home, shower, dress-up, primp, and send out for
dinner in time to meet Wen Jing at seven for their, ‘dinner-and-a-movie.”

He arrived at the police station, manicured and sensibly
dressed, just a couple of minutes ahead of the food delivery robot and just ten
minutes before his appointment. It was then that it struck him that he had
neglected to coordinate with Wen Jing for a meeting place. Fortunately, as the
robot deposited tonight’s meal in his arms, his date walked in through the
outer security doors and passed through the body scanner.

Wen Jing had dressed casually, with black jeans and a
periwinkle-blue cotton, button-up shirt. Her jet-black hair was teased into a
shoulder-length, flip-style hairdo. She smiled, sometimes faintly, sometimes
broadly through the security check-in process. She picked up her bulging, black
leather handbag on the other side of the security checkpoint.

She spotted Brett and beamed as she waved to him, “Hi,
Brett! Thanks for meeting me at the door. I wasn’t sure where to go.”

Brett returned her smile, “Hi, yourself! Thanks for coming.
I’ve got dinner, but we’ll need a place to eat.”

She shrugged, “We can just do it in one of the meeting
rooms. That way we won’t have to pick up and move when we start working.”

Unlike their inadequate preparations to this point, Brett
and Wen Jing formulated a meticulous plan for getting from the entrance to
their destination. Brett stopped by the lunchroom to pick up some extra
supplies and utensils while Wen Jing went ahead to check out the evidence that
they would be viewing, as well as secure an empty room. Brett would, and did,
meet her at the elevator doors, and from there they quietly and efficiently
slipped into their windowless hideaway.

The bare accouterments of the room, with its gray walls,
uncomfortable chairs, and wobbly table did not seem to faze either of them as
they quickly deployed a drop cloth, paper plates, utensils, and vending-machine
drinks and sat down.

Brett offered Wen Jing a fork, but she waved him off.
Reaching into her handbag, she produced both her own set of chopsticks,
followed by a bright-red fruit with deep, green leaves and a paring knife to
slice it.

“What’s that?” Brett asked.

“Ho long guo.”

“How long ago what?”

Wen Jing laughed, “Silly man. It’s also called a dragon
fruit. It’s for dessert. It’s the least I could do since you sprung for dinner.
Which is...?”

Brett opened the take out containers, revealing rice, a mix
of appetizers, and a double serving of moo goo gai pan, clearly labeled on the
cover. “I wasn’t sure of what to get, so I went with something I’ve heard of.”

Wen Jing chuckled, “You don’t eat much Chinese food, do
you?”

“Well, sometimes, but it’s usually take out or delivery,
like this. The place I ordered from does a good job, I think. I’ve never gotten
food poisoning. Why do you think I don’t know much about it?”

“Moo goo gai pan isn’t really Chinese. It’s just something
that restaurants started making so Americans would have something they could
eat that wasn’t too exotic.”

“Oh...” Brett could feel his heart capsizing, prior to its
breaking in two and sinking.

Wen Jing waved her hands, realizing that she might be
inadvertently insulting her host, “I’m not pooh-poohing your pu pu! That
doesn’t mean it’s bad. I like Americanized Chinese food sometimes. Maybe
someday we can go down to Chinatown and I can show you some really authentic
places.”

Brett recovered somewhat when Wen Jing mentioned going out
again. He smiled and set about making small talk. However, by the way she
picked at her food, it was clear to Brett that Wen Jing was less than
overwhelmed by his dinner selection, but she kept any further critique to
herself, pretending to thoroughly enjoy it. Self-conscious, Brett eventually
asked, “Was there anything wrong with yours?”

Wen Jing immediately dropped her chopsticks onto her plate
and waved her hands frantically, “No! It was all great! Even the fried chicken
wings. I haven’t had those in years!”

Brett finally decided to drop the subject, and they made it
through dinner and dessert without any further faux pas. Brett gushed about the
dragon fruit, which elicited nothing but smiles from Wen Jing, although he
suspected that she was secretly amused by his display. Between them, they had
managed to consume almost all of the food. They both joined in on the clean-up.

Before sitting down to review the case of Detective Rhys,
Brett said, “Thanks very much for staying late to help me out with this, Wen
Jing. I know that Inspector Graves would thank you doubly if she was here.”

“I’m glad to help. I liked Detective Rhys. But, everything
I’ve seen says he’s guilty. Where is the Inspector anyway? She’s not making you
stay late to work while she’s snoozing or anything is she?”

“Actually, I’m not sure where she is right now. She was
supposed to call me around six, but I haven’t heard from her yet. But she might
have just forgotten, or gotten tied up. If I don’t hear from her by in the
morning, I’ll worry. For now, let’s start looking at everything we have again.”

At around eight o’clock, the couple began reviewing the
video of Rhys’ death. By nine o’clock, they were both convinced that there was
nothing doctored about the video. Wen Jing yawned as Brett suggested taking one
more look. She said, “Last time through for me though. I like you, but I still
have to come in first thing tomorrow morning for some silly forensics
department meeting.”

“Well, then, do we have time to review the other elements of
the case?”

Wen Jing shrugged, “Sure, I can stay a little while longer,
as long as we’re not rehashing the same thing.

“Okay. Let me think. How about the coroner’s report. Time of
death?

Wen Jing cross-referenced the coroner’s report on her
computer note pad, “Approximately ten AM.”

“Cause of death?”

Wen Jing read directly from the report, “Burst of four
millimeter flechettes to the flank. Nine to ten entry wounds on the right side,
proximity of wounds make it impossible to be exact. Seven clear exit wounds on
opposite side. Two darts embedded in his spinal column, shattering it, which
was the immediate cause of death.”

“That squares with the video. Does this video have something
like a timer on it? Something we can’t see from the picture.”

“You mean, like, meta-data? A time stamp?”

“Yes, like that.”

Wen Jing picked up the remote control and pushed a couple of
buttons. The screen displayed a time clock at the bottom. The timer read,
‘16:09:51.’

Brett asked, “Hang on. What did you say the time of death
was?”

Wen Jing double-checked the coroner’s report, “Ten AM. How
is that possible?

“Did the pathologist make a mistake?

Wen Jing manipulated the notepad’s interface furiously, and
soon concluded, “I can’t find any record of Doctor Budell making an error like
that. He’s been off a little before, but never by this much.”

Brett asked, “How many autopsies does Doctor Budell have on
record?”

Wen Jing shrugged, “Two-hundred and four. Pretty good
record.”

“Okay. See if I’m getting this right. Either Doctor Budell
is correct, or the timestamp is wrong?”

“One or the other. How about I try analyzing the light
sources in the video?”

“Sounds good. Do it!”

Wen Jing’s sails caught a second wind. She started working
with her notepad, rapidly twirling her fingers as she commanded the software.
Her manipulations were reflected on the video screen in frozen frames of the
Rhys death sequence. First, Wen Jing isolated external sunlight coming in
through the windows from the building’s artificial lighting. The shadows on the
screen altered dramatically, leaving only the umbrae cast by the outside
lighting. As she finished, she declared, “Okay, that filters out the light
panels. Let me establish the direction of the sunlight.”

A series of arrows appeared on the video, showing the
direction of the sunlight relative to the people in the video. Wen Jing slowly
reduced their number, removing reflected rays, until only one arrow remained.

“So, what time is it in the video?”

“About four PM. They can’t both be right, can they?”

“They could, if...,” Brett stood and walked closer to the
screen. “Replay it from the beginning.”

Wen Jing reran the video. When it reached the point where
Rhys is shot, Brett yelled, “Freeze frame!”

The video stopped playing with Rhys beginning to drop to the
floor.

Wen Jing asked, “Did you see something?”

“Yes. Not enough blood.”

“I don’t—” Wen Jing simultaneously stood and understood,
“Wait! Based on that, I have a theory I want to test.”

Wen Jing programmed the video playback to run at its highest
resolution and highest frame rate, one frame at a time. She rewound the file to
the moment before the gunfire started and began advancing the images
painstakingly, one frame at a time.

“One!” she blurted out, pointing to a blurry spot on the
screen.

Brett asked, “One what?” surprised by the intensity of Wen
Jing’s renewed enthusiasm.

Several frames later, she pointed to another artifact and
said, with somewhat more restraint, “Two. Two flechettes. I’m counting the
bullets.”

Brett joined in, and they both continued, “Three!”

When the count had reached six, the hail of fire stopped and
Detective Rhys dropped to the ground, dead.

Wen Jing mused, “Only six shots, but Doctor Budell found
evidence of eight to ten during the autopsy.”

Brett had a further thought, “What was he shot with?”

Wen Jing ran the video again at normal speed, focusing on
the security robot that had jumped in front of Rhys, taking the bullet
ostensibly meant for Councilwoman Chambers. She zoomed in on its weapon and
searched the archives for a match. “Beretta M178 sub machinegun. Why is that
important?”

Brett said, “Rate of fire. It’s the standard Security
Division heavy-duty sidearm. Can you look up the statistics?”

“Sure,” Wen Jing said as she called up a file with more information
than she ever wanted to know about the gun.

Brett scanned the weapon’s description until he reached an
entry that stated, ‘ROF: Selective (Semi-Automatic, 6-Round Burst,
Full-Automatic).’ He declared, “There it is! Six shots on camera, and six-round
burst setting. Rhys was probably hit with a full-auto spray, not just that
burst.”

Wen Jing gasped, “Are you thinking—”

Brett rubbed his chin, “Eight hour difference. Could either
of those facilities create a likeness of Detective Rhys and get it to the scene
of the crime within eight hours?”

Wen Jing said, “A stock chassis can be configured to match
physical specifications in about an hour. Doing the face takes about an hour.
Slapping it all together and skinning takes another two. Dressing it up in a suit
takes, what, ten minutes?”

Brett said, “If I’m doing my own necktie, it takes me
fifteen. But that’s all within the window of opportunity. Do you think—”

Wen Jing pointed at the screen, her voice again reaching a
crescendo, leaving Brett to wonder whether she sounded like that during sex,
“Yes! Yes, I do! The timestamp and the coroner’s report are both
correct! Because that isn’t Detective Rhys! The coroner is right because he
examined the body. And the timestamp and lighting in the film are right because
it was shot eight hours after Rhys was killed. That isn’t Rhys. It’s an android
double! Wouldn’t that mean they re-shot the whole scene?”

“Why not? We have the Councilwoman’s voice on camera, but
not her body. She could have recorded it and had it played back for the scene.
Or someone could have synthesized it, or even lifted it from another recording.
Didn’t this happen at a Zumpco military factory, and...” Brett snapped his
fingers, perhaps for the first time since he was in a high school production of
West Side Story, “And Alana was harping earlier about something called
the J-7 project, something about military robotics. Sound familiar to you?”

Wen Jing again turned to her notepad and began searching,
“There is a Zumpco Cybernetics hospital two-point-eight kilometers from here.”

“I know about that one. I’ve been there. It’s not the same
place. The location in the video is a factory.”

Wen Jing said, “Well, they could have made the body there
and transported it, couldn’t they?”

“True... Are there any Zumpco factories within, say, twenty
kilometers?”

Wen Jing continued, “Yes! Found one right on the edge of
town. The Zumpco Defense Industries Assembly Plant is eighteen-point-one
kilometers away from here. Was Rhys saved?”

“Yes. I’m certain of that. Chief Bennett said he was in
Limbo, and he would have to be saved to end up there.” Brett’s smile suddenly
turned upside down, “Which kind-of scares me.”

Wen Jing looked genuinely concerned, “Why?”

“I just got saved at that shopital this very morning. Which
is why I had to send for delivery instead of getting you a proper meal.”

Wen Jing suddenly threw her arms around Brett and squeezed,
“Dummy, I loved it. But if I ever see you acting like a robot, I’ll assume the
worst.”

Brett struggled to ask, “How do you say, ‘You look very
pretty,’ in Chinese?”

Wen Jing relaxed her hug, but did not remove her hands from
Brett’s waist. Her black eyes gleamed beneath the light panels, as if they were
holding onto half of a tear. Her mouth was agape, and Brett noticed for the
first time that her teeth were as bright as any picture of the sun shining over
a pristine, Antarctic landscape.

Wen Jing squeaked, “Like, ‘Ni hen piao liang?’”

Brett gently brushed a few strands of Wen Jing’s
shoulder-length, raven hair away from her face. He pulled her closer. She
didn’t resist. She closed her eyes as they kissed.

Chapter 20

When Brett returned to his office after bidding Wen Jing
what was, from his perspective, a very good evening, he was quite surprised to
find Alana sitting behind her desk. “Oh! Inspector. I didn’t expect to see you
here.”

Alana did not seem to even look at him, “Good evening,
Detective Crabtree. How are you this evening?”

“I’m... well.” Brett beamed, “I’m very well.”

“Your shirt tail is hanging out.”

“Oh,” Brett awkwardly shoved the unprofessional elements of
his wardrobe back to where protocol and his boss demanded. “I expected you to
call around dinner time. Did everything go all right up there?”

“Up where, Detective?”

“Camarillo, I think you said it was?”

“Nothing went awry.”

“Did you find that Stone fellow?”

Alana hesitated. She had spent the last hour reviewing all
of the case notes her clone had left behind, trying to understand what was
going on in her absence. Of chief concern to her was learning enough so as not
to give away that she had replaced herself, “No. He wasn’t there when I
arrived.”

“So no good news about that, then?”

“No news at all.”

Brett sat down on his desktop, facing Alana, “Well, guess
what?”

“Just tell me, Detective. I’m not inclined to introduce more
mysteries into my life than I already encounter in my career.”

Brett hesitated, being taken aback by Alana’s apparent
change in tone from when he had last seen her. He immediately suspected that
something had happened to Alana while she was out, and that it had upset her,
perhaps even angered her. Perhaps it was just frustration from having made a
long round-trip with nothing to show.

Alana continued, “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“I’m sorry, Inspector. But we think we found enough evidence
to clear Rhys of the charges against him.”

Alana froze. She had to tread carefully here, “Tell me
everything.”

“Wen Jing and I spent some time reviewing the evidence
tonight, and we found enough to conclude that it was faked.”

“What was faked?”

“The entire video. Let me explain...”

And explain he did, and Alana stared at him the entire time,
hanging on every word. She knew that it had to have been faked. Never for even
a moment had she accepted the Security Division report. Now, they had enough to
challenge its assertions, exonerate Rhys, get him out of Limbo, and allow him
to be resurrected. It was on March 10 that she had instructed Rhys to follow
Councilwoman Chambers, and on March 11, he was killed. It was now April 28. It
had taken almost fifty days to clear him.

Alana leaned back in her chair, “So, we now know for certain
that Security Division framed Rhys, but we don’t know why?”

Brett disagreed, “I wouldn’t go that far. It could have been
Zumpco, or both them and SD in collusion. Regardless, it should be enough
evidence to appeal his case.”

“I’ll take it straight to Bennett first thing tomorrow
morning. Did this Wen Jing you worked with say anything to anyone else, or file
any reports.”

“It’s Wendy, from forensics, Inspector. You’ve met her.”

Alana gave herself her first fright, “Of course. That
Wen Jing. Brain fart. Did she tell anyone else?”

“I don’t think so, Ma’am. She was doing it on her day off. I
think you should do something nice for her in exchange.”

Her reservoir of anger over the death of her friend began to
overflow, “If forensics had done their job right in the first place—”

Brett interrupted, sharply, “Ma’am!?!”

Alana quickly backtracked, “I’m sorry. You’re right. She
went out of her way to help you. I’ll do something.”

Brett asked, “Are you sure that you are all right, Ma’am?”

“I will be. You know how upset I was over Rhys’ death.”

“I thought you were just keeping it inside of you after your
resurrection. God and Chief Bennett both know how pissed off you were at the
time.”

“Pissed-off doesn’t begin to cover it, Detective.”

“What do you want me to do in the morning?”

“Meet me outside Bennett’s office at eight. I want to be
there when he walks in.”

“You should probably just pick me up again, Ma’am.”

Alana hesitated again. She had just made another error. She
had kept Brett at a safe distance when he had been assigned to her, but she
knew that he was smart enough that he could figure out something was amiss if
she was less than perfect going forward. But it was still going to take some
time for her to learn of all the little, picayune points she had not been
around to experience.

As Alana reflected, Brett continued, “It’s after midnight
now, and it’s been a long day for us both. If we’re going to be back at eight,
we should probably go home now. I might still be able to get five hours sleep.”

“You’re correct, Detective. Let’s get you home.”

By the time she dropped Brett off at his driveway, a trip
for which Alana was glad the car had already been programmed, it was already
two in the morning. It took her another half hour to bridge the distance to her
house.

Alana had not been home since the day before she had faked
her own murder, but despite her presumption that her clone had spent time
there, she was not expecting to find things much different than she had left
them. As soon as she slid open the front door, she could see light from the
television filtering through the open archway. A newscaster was introducing a
story about traffic fatalities since the adoption of the fully automated
highway control system versus what it was in the century-and-a-half before. It
struck her as unusual, as she rarely watched television, but she might have
just been in a hurry and forgotten to turn it off.

The first genuine surprise came as she slid the outside door
closed behind her. She felt something make contact with her leg, and she
instinctively kicked at it. For the second time since his arrival, Roscoe the
robot cat found himself propelled forcefully into a wall, and he reacted the
same way, bolting for the stairs to the second floor.

Alana never made a habit of keeping pets, even while growing
up. Her mother was allergic to almost any form of animal dander, which put cats
off limits. When she went to college, her dormitory forbade them. Obligated by
her ROTC scholarship, she went straight from college to the Army, and there was
no reasonable opportunity to keep a pet even if she had developed such an
inclination. After her unexpected retirement, she never felt the need for the
companionship, as the longest portions of most of her days were spent away from
home, with her consistently working twelve-hour shifts with only occasional
days off, usually for maintenance of either her house or her chassis. After
all, even though her mind could become quite fatigued from lack of rest, her
body could not, and only needed to be near a battery recharger.

She placed her overcoat on a wall-hook near the door. She
always wore it to hide her bulky stun pistol from public view, knowing that on
all but the rarest, Southern California winter nights it attracted as much
attention as the sidearm might have. She left her holster where it was, for
now.

Alana slowly approached the living room and peered around
the corner. The main lights were off, as they would have been programmed to be
at this hour. But the large video wall bathed the room in soft light, bright
enough that Alana’s night vision did not activate. Silhouetted by the shifting
light, a figure was ensconced upon her sofa. She slowly, quietly drew her
pistol.

Alana circled around the sofa, keeping her pistol trained on
her visitor. She could see that the figure was female, but she did not react.
By the time she had moved in front of the woman, Alana could see that half of
her face was missing. By the realistic texture and shape of the skin, she was
clearly a cyborg and not a robot. But who was she and why was she sitting in
Alana’s living room watching the news?

Alana said, “Hello?”

The damaged cyborg did not respond. Its eyes were open, and
the one on the right side was blinking occasionally, but it did not react in
any way to Alana’s presence.

“Television mute,” commanded Alana, and the voice of the
presenter talking about exploitation in the cybernetic workforce stopped
mid-sentence. She added, “Lights on.”

When the overhead light panels brightened the room, the
cyborg on the sofa turned her head to face Alana, but it did not say anything.
With the amount of damage, it was impossible for Alana to judge what it was
thinking. It looked down at Alana’s pistol, but its expression remained constant.

“Hello? Who are you?”

The cyborg replied, “Is it time to go home yet? I need to
feed Roscoe.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh. I’m Sandy. Thank you.”

At least her visitor was calm, whoever she was. Against her
better judgment, Alana holstered her sidearm, “Why are you in my living room?”

Sandy just stared at Alana. Alana said, “Don’t move,” and
walked out of the room, not stopping until she arrived at her office. She
checked her messages, and found two messages from someone named Robert Smith.
She played them on her whiteboard.

The first began with the image of a business-suited man
sitting behind a desk. Alana did not recognize him. The man said, “Hello,
Inspector Graves. I want to let you know that the temporary guardianship
application was approved, so you are now the proud owner of one defective
cyborg. I hope she’s not causing too much trouble for you. I’ll be in touch
later when I have a status update.”

The image faded to black with a timestamp from earlier in
the day, around three in the afternoon. She and her clone would have been in
the middle of the body swap in the church basement at the time, which explained
how it ended up going into the mailbox.

The second message began playing seconds later, “Hello,
Inspector. Bob again. Quick update. I filed a suit on behalf of you and Ms.
Mathers, but it may be a couple of days before I hear back from the court. I’ll
let you know if they approve it.”

All of which made no sense to Alana whatsoever.

“Vira, who is the Robert Smith who left messages on my phone
today?”

“Mister Robert Smith is a practicing attorney at law for the
Southwest region. The messages were sent from a telephone at his office
address, One-Three—”

“Stop, Vira.”

Her virtual assistant silenced itself mid-sentence. The
transition back into her original body was apparently going to be fraught with
opportunities to make missteps that could easily give her away. But why in the
world would her clone assume temporary guardianship of a defective cyborg in
the first place?

Alana returned to the living room to find Sandy standing,
looking out the glass doorway to the dark backyard. Sandy spoke, but from the
message, Alana knew that it was merely her Vira talking, “My battery charge is
at fifty percent.”

Based on her own battery life, which was four days without
recharge, and an emergency reserve of one day, that would mean that Sandy had
been away from an induction unit for two days. Of Alana’s three spare bedrooms,
only one was furnished, and it was not equipped for recharging. When she had
the bed delivered, it was for the occasions when Rhys would sleep over if the
pair were working late on a case. He only used it for that on two occasions, on
the second of which Alana could remember listening to him breathing for a long
time before finally forcing herself to shut down her senses.

“Sandy. Can you hear me?”

“Yes. It’s dark out, but I can’t see the fireflies.”

Bob Smith said she was a defective cyborg. Alana was rapidly
drawing the conclusion that it was mostly from the neck up. Was she really a
legal guardian for this machine-person hybrid?

Alana said, “Do you want to go to bed, Sandy?”

“Is it time, mommy?”

Alana rolled her eyes. This situation was getting worse by
the second, “Yes, it’s time, Sandy.”

Alana took Sandy by her hand and led her upstairs to the spare
room. The cat she had kicked earlier was laying on the bed, and when Sandy sat
down, it jumped down onto the floor and hid beneath the bed. Sandy lay down on
her back, and then rolled over on her right side, burying the bare side of her
face in the pillow. “Goodnight, Mommy.”

Alana said nothing, but she pulled the bedroom door closed
behind her as she left. She would have locked the door, but the building codes
prevented a bedroom lock from keeping anyone inside the room.

Alana plopped down on her own bed to the pinging of her
recharge indicator. She set her pistol and her portable phone on the nightstand
before setting her alarm for six o’clock, a mere three hours later.

Chapter 21

The pinging in her head woke Alana up. It was still dark
outside. She could tell that she was still tired. It didn’t affect her eyes as
it did when she was still alive, but her thoughts were muddled. Did she just
think, “I was still alive? I am still alive!” Continuity of
Consciousness—that was the original slogan used by Zumpco when they tried to
sell what would later become known as ‘retirement’ to the super-rich.

Alana showered and dressed for the office, donning one of
her blue pantsuits. As she was trying to replicate the hairdo that her clone
had cultivated in her absence from her original body, she heard a scream.

She ran to her nightstand and grabbed her pistol. Dashing
out of her bedroom and flinging open Sandy’s bedroom door, she could see that
the lights were on in the adjoining bathroom. Alana quickly moved around the
empty bed and stopped in the bathroom doorway.

Sandy was facing the vanity mirror over the bathroom basin.
She was covering her face with her hands. She started repeating, “No. No. No.
I’m alive. I’m alive...”

Alana walked away, heading back to her bedroom. She stowed
her pistol and then strapped the holster over her shoulder. She made one final
check to ensure that she was ready to go into the station. Why in the world did
her clone accept responsibility for that dysfunctional machine?

As she stepped out of her room, she heard a loud smash. She
walked back into Sandy’s bedroom to find her looking at the shattered mirror,
her half-machine, half-human face now split into multiple images.

“Sandy, come here.”

Sandy looked at Alana, but did not move. Alana took Sandy by
the hand, and gently tried to coax her along. Sandy followed. Alana led her
into her own bedroom and sat her down on her own bed. It should allow Sandy to
recharge her battery. However, she was not willing to let the unstable cyborg
march through her house like General Sherman.

Alana sat down beside Sandy. She reached behind her head and
opened the cover to her control panel. She pressed and held the power button.
“Sandy, Vira, the little voice in your head, is going to ask you if you want to
be shut down. Please say yes.”

Sandy was confused, “Say, ‘Yes?’”

“Yes. Say, ‘Yes.’”

“Yes.”

Sandy’s eyes closed, and her simulated breathing stopped.
Alana moved the body, laying it down on her bed. That removed one potential
disaster from the list of possible kinks in Alana’s plan. She lifted the phone
from her nightstand and slipped it into her pants pocket.

Alana rushed down to her foyer, grabbed her overcoat off the
hook, and dashed for her car. As the vehicle drove itself back to Brett’s
house, Alana mulled over her next course of action. The opportunity that Brett
and Wendy had opened up for getting Detective Rhys was foremost in her mind,
and she decided to focus on that first. Everything else, indeed, anything else,
she might do could have the effect of exposing her to possible interrogation,
and she could not allow that to happen under any circumstances.

As the car pulled into Brett’s driveway, the detective
strode out of his front door, his leather shoes slapping the concrete as he
stomped down the steps, a huge, steaming travel mug in his hand. He climbed
into the car and immediately began sipping.

Alana said, “Car, take us to the police station.”

The vehicle placed itself into reverse, pulled out of the
drive, and headed towards its destination.

Alana noticed that Brett was keeping his eyelids shut as he
imbibed his hot beverage. “Are you going to be able to present to Chief Bennett
this morning, Brett?”

Brett mumbled something that sounded like an affirmative.

After their arrival at the station, Brett dragged himself
out of his seat and wobbled towards the entrance, finishing off his drink just
before passing through the security scanner. He walked through with his eyes
closed, and as he and Alana went to their office, he alternated keeping one eye
open as he walked. He collided with a wandering traffic patrol robot at one
point and even tried to apologize to the machine.

The duo entered their office without uttering another word.
Brett clumsily rested his mug on the corner of his desk, flopped down in his
chair, leaned over the desk, and finally planted his head down in his folded
arms. He mumbled, “Wake me up when you have to.”

Alana called Chief Bennett’s office. He was in, and she
asked for the earliest window in his schedule for a meeting. Chief Bennett
simply said, “Ten o’clock,” before terminating the call.

Brett started snoring. Alana let him sleep. She stood and
exited the office. She made her way back down to the parking deck, and then
took out her phone, pushed a quick-dial button, and waited for an answer.

Aaron Stone picked up, “Status?”

“So far, so good. I have an opportunity to clear my former
assistant of charges, and I’m taking it.”

Aaron’s tone turned sour, “That might not be such a good
idea.”

“Regardless, I’m doing it. Because of you, I sent him to his
death. If he’s cleared, I can search his things to see if he got what you
needed before he died—and get him resurrected.”

“It’s been way over a month. We don’t have time to wait for
the evidence anymore.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ll call you if we need to talk. Keep yourself safe and
don’t call me again.”

Click.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Alana pushed the button again, but
there was no answer. Alana dropped the phone back into her pocket and returned
to her office.

Brett had shifted his position, leaning back in his chair
with his head back against the rest. He was no longer snoring, but he was
clearly asleep.

Alana used her visual interface to set her alarm clock for
an hour, and then she closed her eyes and tried to get some additional rest.
Even though she did not need the physical relaxation that living humans did,
her brain was still fully organic, and it needed almost as much sleep to
function well.

She awoke before Brett, who had shifted sideways in his
chair, assuming another position, still asleep. “Detective Crabtree?” she
called to him.

Brett first stirred, shifting in his chair without waking.
But then his eyes flicked open. He sat up straight, “Morning, Ma’am.”

“Are you ready to face the chief?”

Brett eyed his mug, “Is there time for a refill?”

“We’ll make time.”

Brett nodded, stood, grabbed his mug, and force-marched
towards the door.

Several minutes and a couple pit stops later, Alana found
herself knocking on Bennett’s door.

“Enter.”

The two detectives stepped inside. Bennett was alone,
sitting in his office chair. He looked less well rested than was typical for
him. The furrows above his brow could have been made by a tractor-plow. He
motioned for Alana and Brett to sit, asking, “What did you need, Inspector?”

Alana did not wait to finish taking her seat before she
began, “Crabtree believes he has found evidence that will clear Rhys.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“The video of his attack on Councilwoman Chambers was a
fake.”

“Forensics went over it at least three times. It wasn’t manipulated—”

“The video wasn’t doctored. It was staged.”

Bennett leaned forward, “Explain.”

“It was deliberately shot using a robot actor to play the
role of Rhys.”

Bennett stared at Brett, “Detective, do you confirm this?”

Brett could not keep from yawning, “Absolutely, sir. Wen
Jing was brilliant. Once we figured out the flaws in the video record,
everything fell into place.”

Bennett said, still staring at Brett, “Inspector, do you
need your detective today?”

Alana shook her head, “Not that I know of, sir.”

Jabbing his finger towards Brett, the Chief commanded, “Then
I want you to get together with Wendy and write a detailed report. Make it
bulletproof. We’re talking about a conspiracy to murder a police officer, and a
councilperson was somehow involved in it, so it could cause a scandal in the
NAR government. When I kick this back upstairs to the Superintendent, I want it
to be airtight.”

Brett offered, “Wen Jing works second shift—”

Bennett barked, “Then get her to come in early! I’ll
authorize the overtime for both of you. I’ll call her supervisor and tell him
to arrange for a replacement for as long as you need, but don’t drag it out.
I’ll review both the evidence and your report when you’re done. If I agree with
you, I’ll want to proceed ASAP.”

Alana said, “Thank you, Chief.”

Bennett growled, redirecting his pointing finger towards
Alana, “Don’t thank me until we get Rhys cleared. And don’t think for a second
that I’m doing this for you. An SD agent gunned one of my men down, and they’re
trying to cover it up, to make it look like it was his fault. I want their
sorry asses kicked into Limbo. Good work, Crabtree, and good day to both of
you.”

Bennett shooed them both towards the door, “Oh! And Graves!
Send me a preliminary report on the status of your investigation, and include
details. That’s all.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the corridor, Brett asked, “This all sounds like good
news, Ma’am. When do you think I should call Wen Jing?”

“Go back to the office. You can call her right now.”

“She might still be asleep.”

“She can sleep when she’s dead and Rhys is resurrected.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Brett sighed. Thinking of a way to give his
coworker and very recently discovered lover more time to rest, he suggested,
“Do you want to go get lunch first, Inspector?”

Alana stopped walking and turned to Brett, “Are you
kidding?”

“No, Ma’am. Forget I mentioned it. I’ll go call Wen Jing.”

Alana made another trip to the parking deck and once again
tried to contact Aaron Stone on her portable phone, once again to no avail. She
returned to her office to find Brett sitting with his feet propped up on his
desk, reading a physical book.

Alana asked, “Were you able to contact Wendy?”

“Yes. She’s going to bring lunch for us both, in what I
considered to be a nice turnaround of favors, especially since we drug her out
of bed early.”

“Chief’s orders, not mine. Although I do agree with him.”

Alana sat down and began reviewing her clone’s case notes
again so that she could put her own report together for Bennett. It did not
really come as a surprise to her to discover that she had been assigned to
investigate her own murder. It also explained both why there was an ostensibly
homeless cyborg living in her house and how that cyborg had led her alter ego
straight to Aaron. She had done a fantastically good job, with the only
unforgivable mistake being to let Aaron disable her.

Of course, when Aaron had shot Alana’s clone in the back
with her own pistol, he was intending to do exactly what he said he was going
to do, disable her embedded transponders and allow her to walk away. It was
she, the original Alana, who had intervened, deciding to swap her brain case
back into her facsimile body so that she could reclaim her own life.

Brett asked, without taking his eyes off the text, “What’s a
trot line?”

Alana replied, “Something to do with fishing, I think. I
know that it’s illegal in public lakes that allow swimming. Why don’t you just
use your computer to inquire on the Internet?”

“In a strange sort of way, I just did.”

“Not funny, Detective.”

Brett closed his book and laid it upon his desk, “Ma’am,
assuming that we can get Rhys cleared and resurrected, what happens to me?”

“Chief Bennett will probably reassign you to another DI. A
lot will depend on what Rhys decides to do. He might not want his old job
back.”

“So, pretty much a guaranteed demotion.”

“You’d still be a detective, Detective.”

“But I’d be working under a detective inspector instead of a
detective chief inspector, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe Bennett will promote you straight to DI?”

“Unlikely, Ma’am. I’m still the newest detective in this
branch.”

“There are other stations you could transfer to that might
have higher-level openings.”

“In all honesty, Ma’am, if I get demoted, I’m considering
resigning from field work.”

“Why? You seem to be doing a good job.”

“When I got saved the other day, I started thinking about
what I wanted. And I think I know what that is. And dying young and retiring
early isn’t it.”

Alana wasn’t sure what Brett meant by that statement. At
first, she took it as a barb regarding how she had inadvertently sent Rhys to
his premature death, but she held her tongue. Which was fortuitous, because she
was still the only one in the department, her clone included, who knew what
Rhys was doing when he was killed, and that might have tipped Brett off as to
something being amiss.

Rather than risk divulging anything that might boomerang
against her, Alana let the conversation die. She refocused on compiling her
report for Bennett.

As prefaced by Brett, around lunchtime, Wen Jing arrived,
bringing with her a bag of authentic Szechwan food. It was obvious to her by
the intense embrace they shared upon meeting that there was something recent
between them that had not existed before Alana had her previous body destroyed.
Rather than create a distraction for Alana, the couple decided to use the
cafeteria.

When Alana reached the end of her clone’s notes, she
deliberately stopped just before the interview with Sandy where she had
mentioned Alana, Aaron, and the body bag. She also declined to mention the
connection between Aaron and the black cargo van that turned up at her home the
morning before she blew up her body. That was the occasion when Aaron zapped
her in the back with an old-fashioned Taser stun gun to disable her
transponder, with similar results to what happened when he shot Alana that
morning in the church basement. It was a crude solution, but it worked, and it
allowed Alana to move freely while she, with Aaron’s help, arranged for her
demise. When she had finished the report, she forwarded it to Chief Bennett’s
in-box.

There was only one possible disaster that Alana could
foresee—Brett was present when she interrogated Sandy Mathers in the shopital.
Even though Alana removed any mention of the body bag she and Aaron were
carrying, it would be the kind of detail she would expect her subordinate to
remember.

She suddenly found herself stranded within her very own
version of limbo. She knew everything that led up to this point, so there were
no mysteries to solve, and any action she undertook, even engaging in casual
conversation, could end up exposing her. There was nothing she could really do
except wait. She picked the book up from Brett’s desk and read the spine. To
Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. She opened the cover and read the
handwritten dedication, “To Crabtree: Understand the nature of prejudice itself
and how it influences people. — James Harris.”

Alana had read this book in high school, and her teacher had
led a class discussion about how prejudice affected the justice system
throughout history, and how this story both compared and contrasted with the
real-life multiple trials of the ultimately convicted, white-supremacist Byron
de la Beckwith. The social backlash against cyborgs was sometimes as violent,
including hate-motivated attacks on rare occasions. On even rarer occasions,
the roles were reversed, with cyborgs either turning the tables on their
attackers, or even more rarely, initiating assaults. She returned to her desk,
book in hand.

Only three things were on her mind. Would Brett’s evidence
be enough to clear Rhys of wrongdoing and return him to Alana’s side? She
missed Rhys presence greatly, even his bone-dry wit. What would happen to her
if anyone ever found out that she not only broke several cyber commandments,
but also used her position to conduct an unauthorized investigation that
ultimately got her best, and arguably, only friend killed? And what did Aaron
Stone mean when he told her that his group, the remaining cadre from Alana’s
former rebel network of thirty-six years ago, “...didn’t have time to wait for
the evidence anymore.”

Brett and Wen Jing worked through the evening to prepare a
solid report for Chief Bennett. At midnight, they had the first draft ready.

Alana was still at the station, either resting in her
office, catching up further on recent events, or skimming through Brett’s book,
when Brett called on her. She reviewed their work, making only a few minor
suggestions before approving it. They forwarded it to Chief Bennett’s inbox.

When Alana asked Brett if he was ready to return home, Wen
Jing jumped in, eagerly suggesting that she could use her car to take Brett
home. Alana agreed with her immediately. She saw it as a good idea, reducing
her exposure to her assistant, along with the chances of her giving away her cover.

With a heavy, almost annoyed sigh, Brett reminded her that
it was already Saturday morning, “Do you want me to work tomorrow—today, Ma’am?
I mean, I doubt that the Chief is going to look at our report until first thing
Monday morning.”

Alana paused before saying, “You’re correct, Detective. Have
a nice weekend. But remain available and on-call just in case something
critical comes up.”

This seemed to make Wen Jing happier than it did Brett. In
the end, Brett took Wen Jing up on her offer of a ride, and the couple
departed.

Alana stayed behind to review their work one last time.
Would it truly acquit Rhys, or would it end up raising more questions about why
he was killed? And would those questions cause additional problems for Alana?
Regardless of any consequences, Alana concluded that getting her friend
resurrected was worth the risk.

Chapter 22

Alana found herself unable to sit still. She had already
relocated Sandy’s deactivated body to her spare bedroom, and despite a
noticeable degree of mental fatigue, having her entire bed to herself and no
mandatory appointments could not keep her ensconced there. The best she could
do was to sleep in until nine o’clock.

She spent the rest of her morning in her office, reviewing
the Rhys report and laying out a course of action. She did find one subject on
which she felt she could act. But she would first need to cross some “Ts.”

“Hello, Chief? Have you read Brett’s report yet?”

Bennett was as gruff as always when Alana called him at
home, “Yes. Wendy was sharp to catch some of those points. I’m going to be
asking how forensics missed the bullet count in the video and put in a
recommendation for her. I suggest that you do so as well.”

Alana had been at a loss for a way to repay Wendy for her
diligence, and it had not occurred to her simply to write a nice, official
letter to promote her career. She thought that was an excellent suggestion, and
made a quick note on her whiteboard as a reminder.

Bennett continued, “Now, what do you need today that is
causing my cheeseburger to get cold and my beer to get warm?”

Alana replied, “I want to check the records at the Zumpco
Cybernetics shopital to see if they were the source of the robot Rhys.”

“And what do you need from me?”

“I need you to open a case and assign it to me so I can
approach the DA for a warrant.”

Bennett harrumphed, “I read your report this morning too.
You haven’t finished solving your own murder yet.”

Alana quickly searched for an angle, and found a distinctly
disingenuous one, “I believe that the two incidents may be related. After
murdering Rhys, the perpetrators may have come after me.”

“Why would they do that, Inspector?”

Alana continued to lie through her face-hardened, polyxytate
teeth, “I don’t know. I lost those memories when I was hard-killed. But the logical
sequence to the events is too linear to be a mere coincidence. We’re talking
about SD killing Rhys, and I was killed by a plasma grenade.”

Bennett huffed, “All you’re doing is giving me even more
reasons to keep you away from Rhys. You’re too close personally. I’m also
worried that we’re going to end up going against Security Division, and that’s
a fight we might not be able to win.”

Alana was feeling intensely frustrated, an emotion she
rarely encountered after thirty-five years of being a machine from the neck
down. She finally hit upon what she thought was a good reason, “Even though we
know that Rhys was murdered, we don’t know why yet. We don’t know what it was
that he saw or did that got him shot down.”

Bennett turned things back upon Alana, “Inspector, if you
had been maintaining proper reports prior to your death, we probably would
know that. What I want to know is not only why Rhys was killed, and who was
responsible, I also want to know why you were hiding the results of your
investigation into the terrorist warning for Councilwoman Chambers.”

Alana insisted, “Chief, give me this. I admit it. I am
too close. I might have even been responsible—”

“This isn’t about your conscience, Inspector.”

Alana wanted to fling her phone across the room. Silence
suddenly blanketed the call, finally broken by Alana, who tried her best to
sound unemotional, “Please, Chief. I want Rhys back. Not just for me, but
because he’s a great cop.”

Bennett said, “If you and Rhys had something going on
between you, tell me here and now.”

Another silence descended.

“All right, Chief. I think I was in love with Detective
Rhys. To the extent that a cyborg could be. We—understood one another. It’s
hard for me to explain. Cyborgs don’t feel things the same way living people
do. But we can still get attached. In the case of Rhys... Well, ‘Platonic,’
doesn’t cover it.”

“Thank you for your candor, Inspector. But under the
circumstances, I can’t assign you to his case—”

“Chief!?!”

Bennett was firm and sharp, “Let. Me. Finish.
Inspector.”

“Apologies, sir. I’m out-of-line.”

“You’re getting emotional—losing objectivity, just like you
were before you got blown up. This is why I can’t put you on an official case.
But what I can do is open an evidentiary probe into a possible
conspiracy. The hospital won’t be the target. It will be very limited in scope,
but it will allow you to go to the DA to get a warrant to look at the
hospital’s transaction logs. That’s all it will cover.”

Alana could not hide her anxiousness to proceed, “How soon
can you have that ready for me to act?”

“Give me until three o’clock. Then check your messages until
you get a confirmation. Read it carefully, and do not overstep your boundaries.
This is very sensitive ground.”

“Understood, Chief. Thanks—”

“I repeat—do not overstep your authority in this. The only
reason I’m doing it is because I suspect that if you find anything, it won’t
trigger any flags at Security Division that might cause them to react. I don’t
want them to know we’re about to hit them until the sledgehammer of righteous
justice and retribution lands square on their foreheads. But if you do find
something, it adds another pound of hard steel to the hammer. You won’t have to
divulge why you’re investigating the records, so don’t. If you don’t find
anything, back off. Is all of that clear?”

“Crystalline, sir.”

“Then good day, Inspector.”

Bennett was true to his words. At 3:11 PM, Alana received a
message that the case into the Hospital’s possible, perhaps unwitting,
collaboration in the conspiracy to murder Detective Benjamin Rhys had been
opened.

Thirty minutes later, Alana was standing before the Deputy
District Attorney for the greater Los Angeles area.

In another half-hour, she had a formal warrant in both
written and electronic form.

At 4:31 PM, she found herself facing down the hospital’s
resistant weekend administrator. She flashed her warrant, being in no mood for
trifling, “What part of, ‘by order of the District Attorney,’ is elusive, sir?”

The administrator’s tone softened, “I’ll have to inform the
chief administrator—”

Alana got downright snippy with the functionary, “You can do
that in your spare time, which, if you do not grant me immediate access to the
records in question, may be severely limited owing to your sitting in a jail
cell for obstruction of justice.”

Alana won the debate. She was led to a secure room to
examine the hospital’s administrative logs for the day in question. The
information Alana was searching for was surprisingly easy to find, and quite
revelatory, although not in the way Alana was expecting.

At 11:35 AM on March 11 2090, the day Rhys was murdered,
there was indeed an order placed for a male cybernetic body. It did not have a
brain case implanted. The body was picked up at 3:05 PM on the same day.
However, the payment for the order was made from a general account owned by
Zumpco Cybernetics, the company in charge of both the hospital as well as the
factory where Rhys was supposedly killed. Zumpco Cybernetics also undersigned
the work order. No one signed for the body when it was picked up, the recipient
merely being listed also as Zumpco Cybernetics. It was impossible to trace it
to an individual. There was also no clear connection to Security Division.

“But,” mused Alana aloud, “There probably wouldn’t be a
clear connection, would there?”

A possibility she had not previously considered leapt in
front of her racing thoughts: Security Division may not have been responsible.
Like far too many clues in the multitude of cases she had solved over the
decades, additional evidence was not narrowing down the range of suspects, but
was instead expanding it. Brett may have been right when he suggested that
Zumpco may have been the culprit.

The Deputy Administrator had remained with Alana during the
process, standing some distance away at the entrance to the records room,
obviously fearful for his job. He asked, “Connection? Were you talking to me?”

“No, but I am now. Does the hospital often get orders for
lifelike chassis?”

The administrator said, “We do get a lot of orders from
places like Hollywood, for movie extras. There are also orders for lifelike
mannequins, things like that. We get a lot of those.”

“All legal?”

“Of course, Ma’am. We’d never do anything illegal.”

“Where is the line? Between what you think is illegal and
what you do.”

“We can’t make a mannequin for use outside of displays.
Besides, we wouldn’t do that anyway. Zumpco Robotics would be the vendor for
things like workbots—anything that was supposed to look artificial.”

Alana downloaded the relevant records, “Thank you, sir. The
department appreciates your cooperation in this matter.”

As she turned to leave, she added, “You may now inform your
superior without fear of arrest.”

Alana went to her office at the police station to update the
reports. She felt more comfortable there than she did at her home. Perhaps it
was because she had spent the last month hiding in Aaron’s church
basement-cum-cyborg repair shop, and the windowless enclosure was more
familiar. Perhaps it was because something about Sandy Mathers’ damaged cybernetic
body bothered her? Perhaps the confines of the police station made her feel
safer, especially after she read her clone’s report about being followed by a
robot? Perhaps all of the above?

Alana called Chief Bennett again to inform her of her
findings.

The Chief said, “Write an addendum to Crabtree’s report. I’m
playing golf with my boss tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll pass it along in person
then. So if you come across anything else before then, just append it as well
and I’ll review it before I kick it upstairs.”

Alana called up the virtual keyboard on her desktop and
began typing. After Alana wrote the addendum to Brett and Wen Jing’s report,
she then took time to type out a glowing letter of recommendation for Wen Jing
for service above-and-beyond in aid of an investigation. She sent it in a
message both to Bennett and to Wen Jing.

This entire line of investigation, of course, presented
Alana with a conundrum. She knew precisely why Rhys was at the Zumpco factory.
She was taking a huge risk that she might be caught. If that happened, and
Security Division was behind everything, they could force her to be saved
again, and then load her image into a surrogate interrogation brain and
question it. The surrogate brain would not resist or obfuscate. It would spill
all the proverbial beans. They could even do so without her knowledge, if they
had a warrant. And if they had a warrant to insert an SDT into her chassis,
they certainly could get one for that.

Alana suddenly had another thought. She replayed the Rhys video
again, focusing on Chambers’ Joebot guards. She compared the images to
public-domain images and schematics of Joebot designs, and she spotted yet
another discrepancy. When Chambers arrived in LA, two Mk VI Joebots accompanied
her. But the two combat robots pictured in the faked Rhys death video were
clearly different, made evident by obvious differences in the shape of their
armored shoulder plates.

Alana searched the Internet for media about Joebots. After
examining photos of each model, she readily determined that the models in the
Rhys video were the new Mk VIIs. She quickly posted another addendum to the
Brett-Wen Jing analysis report.

By the time she had finished all of the tasks she had set
for herself, it was beginning to grow late. Alana was still mentally drained
from the last few days of half-sleep. She contemplated just resting in her
office chair, but decided that she had better go home and check on the adopted
cyborg that had taken to calling her, ‘mom.’

Chapter 23

Alana felt as if her investigation was stuck in Limbo. She
had to wait for the chief to turn in the evidence to clear Rhys, and she had
traveled every path she felt she could without upsetting her own apple cart or
bringing more scrutiny down upon Aaron Stone.

Absent a clear direction, she indulged in her years-old
habit of watching the parade of Sunday news-and-analysis shows.

The earliest show, at nine o’clock, aired a special,
hour-long segment on cyber discrimination, which immediately caught Alana’s
attention. It began with an in-depth report about how cyborgs were frequently
required to work double-shifts, and in some extreme cases, triple-shifts, and
that they were not fully protected by existing labor laws. The “Unborn
Loophole” was how the presenter described it. Essentially, because a retiree
was created, and not naturally born, they were not granted full citizenship
rights. Legislation passed after the Reformation War allowed them to
participate as “Cyber Citizens,” to work, pay taxes, and even vote in
elections, but thirty-six years later, they were still considered to be “second
class citizens.”

One of the panelists arguing for greater cyber-worker
protections noted that retirees worked an average of sixty-five hours a week,
which had an unintended consequence: living workers were having their hours
cut. A key thrust of their argument was that retirees should be restricted to
forty-hour workweeks to avoid displacing biologicals. But a second panelist
countered by pointing out a contradiction, that if retirees were displacing
normal workers, how could that possibly be anti-cyborg workplace
discrimination?

The moderator had the show’s research Vira do a quick
analysis of the numbers, and it turned out that cyborgs did work longer hours,
but were also more likely to be relegated to non-professional jobs or to
receive lower salaries. That spawned a near-argument over the accuracy of the
statistics. It was clear that the format of the shows had not really changed
during Alana’s seventy-year lifetime.

The second segment talked about cyber discrimination outside
the workplace, in society as a whole. Many businesses refused to cater to
retirees, sometimes going so far as to proudly display signs sporting  messages
such as, “We do not serve machines,” or “Fake skin, fake feet, no service.”

The story mentioned also the case of an exclusive golf club
in the Southeast that refused to accept retirees as members, regardless of
their economic status. That reminded Alana of something that had been sticking
in her craw ever since she was assigned to protect Chambers. Chief Bennett told
Alana that he would be golfing with his boss later today, and his boss was the
one who, despite it being tangential to their jurisdiction, assigned the case
to Bennett’s department, which in turn landed it onto Alana’s shoulders. Alana
had never looked into that event, always taking Chief Bennett’s word that she
had been assigned because she was not currently on a case. But there was
something Alana could do to check.

Alana turned off her television and said, “Vira, call Wen
Jing... shit. No transponder.”

Alana went into her office and plugged her interface cable
directly into her home network, “Vira, check the personnel roster for the
police station where I work. Is there anyone on staff whose name includes ‘Wen
Jing?’”

“Affirmative. Alicia Wen Jing Lin, Junior Cyber Forensic
Analyst.”

“Does she have a mobile phone number listed?”

Vira answered, “Affirmative.”

“Add her contact information to my address book and call her
on her mobile phone now.”

Four rings later, Wen Jing answered, “Uh, hello?”

“Wendy, this is Inspector Graves. Do you have a moment?”

She yawned, “It’s Sunday morning.”

Alana heard Brett’s voice in the background asking, “Is
anything wrong—,” followed by Wen Jing loudly shushing him.

Alana continued, “I know it’s inconvenient, but I need you
to look into something for me.”

“Right now?”

“Doesn’t have to be this minute, but I need it by
lunchtime.”

Alana could hear Wen Jing groan, “What?”

“I need you to check a specific log file for its access
history.”

“You can do that yourself, can’t you?”

Alana replied, “I don’t think so. I don’t know what the file
would be called or where it would be stored.”

“What is it you want?”

“Somewhere in the station’s administrative records, there is
a dynamic list of all assignments that have been handed down to employees. What
I need to know is who accessed that file from March 8th to March 10th
of this year.”

Wen Jing interrupted, “Wait. Let me get something to write
on. Be right back.”

Alana could hear Wen Jing climbing out of bed, and at that
moment, she remembered that the young woman was still on the night shift. It
was unfortunate, but there was no alternative even if she had thought about
that. She needed answers before Bennett teed off with the Superintendent later
in the day.

Wen Jing returned to her phone a minute later, “All right,
tell me what you need again.”

Alana asked Wen Jing to give her a list of people outside of
their station who had viewed the personnel assignment logs during the short
window Alana was in-between cases. She mentioned the Superintendent by name.

Wen Jing asked, “Why?”

“I can’t say until after I’ve seen the results. And based on
some previous experiences, I suspect that there may be a permissions flag that
would prevent me from seeing the full log, even with my police override. So I
need someone who can look at the logs and the file’s metadata.”

“Okay. Why me and not the person on duty?”

“Frankly, I trust you. Which also leads me to ask you not to
tell anyone what you are doing—at least not just yet. That includes Detective
Crabtree.”

Wen Jing sighed, “All right. Can I call you back at this
number?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll probably have to go in to the station to do this. Are
you sure it can’t wait until tonight?”

“Unfortunately, it is very time-sensitive.”

“All right. It’ll probably be at least a couple hours.”

“Just let me know when you’ve got it.”

Alana disconnected the call, and several seconds passed
before she realized that she had forgotten to say, ‘Thank you.’ But there was
no time. Alana could see that things were beginning to move, despite an
apparent calmness on the surface.

Alana logged into her home data network. The four-foot
retractable data cable in her neck was proving to be too short to allow her to
move between her desk and her whiteboard. She needed a six-footer, or an
extension cord.

She connected with her office computer and downloaded the
case file for the Chambers investigation. She then drilled down into her notes
about Chambers’ itinerary, notably her contradictory flight bookings. She
reviewed the information she had, which included the ticket number and flight
for the trip to Rome.

“Vira, I need to contact someone at the ticketing and
reservation system for EZ Airways.”

A short time later, Alana spoke with a reservations
specialist and used her police authority to find out whether the ticket was
used. According to the airline representative, it was. Meaning that Chambers
was in two places at once. Normally, she would have dismissed the possibility
outright, as she and Rhys had done at the beginning of their investigation back
in March. But to pass through airport security, she would have been scanned and
ID’d, so she must have been on the flight to Rome.

But how did she visit LA? If someone had the ability to
clone Rhys’s body to frame him, they would also have the ability to clone
Chambers. In fact, there was no reason why her entire entourage could not have
been robots.

For the first time in decades, Alana got a headache.

Even if her wild hypothesis was correct, Alana did not have
a motive to back it up. While she was mulling over the possible reasons for the
deception, she received a return call from Wen Jing. There was one notable
anomaly in the log file that showed external access during the period about
which Alana had asked. This time, Alana remembered to say, “Thank you.”

Alana pieced together a working timeline from her notes, and
added the information Wen Jing had just provided. It was enough for her to turn
her wild hypothesis into a wild theory.

At one o’clock in the afternoon, she called Bennett, “Hello,
Chief?”

Bennett sighed, “What is it, Inspector?”

“Do you remember telling me that no one specifically
assigned me to the Chambers terror plot investigation way back in March?”

Bennett hesitated, “I remember telling you that even more
recently. Why?”

It suddenly struck Alana that she had just made a faux pas.
Her clone was resurrected after that conversation with Bennett had happened.
Hopefully, the Chief would not become suspicious, “Because there is something
in the station computer logs that jumped out at me. On the day that you got the
request, I was the only DI who wasn’t currently assigned.”

“Yes, I know, that’s what I told you. That’s why you got the
job. What’s the problem?”

“I think that the entire thing was a set-up from the start.”

Bennett snorted, “Okay, I’ve got to hear this. Proceed,
Inspector.”

“You’re laughing now, but remember the faked Rhys frame-up
before you dismiss me. Here’s my timeline.”

Alana displayed her notes on her whiteboard and proceeded,
“Councilwoman Chambers is advanced-booked on a personal vacation to Rome, Italy
that is scheduled to depart on March 11th. At 1430 hours on March 10th,
someone from SD checks to see who in our department is free for an
investigation. At 1615 hours, a flight plan is filed for Chambers’ delegation
to LA on a Zumpco corporate flight. At 1700 hours, Superintendent Ruiz calls
you directly and assigns the case to you. At 1730 hours, you call me into your
office to assign me to the anti-terror investigation.”

“So what?”

“Someone in SD had your boss assign our department to the
case knowing that I was the only available Inspector.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch to say the least. What’s your
evidence?”

“On March 10th, someone used Chambers’ ticket to
Rome at the same time that she was on her way to give an impromptu press
conference at the Zumpco factory in LA.”

“How do you know she was on the plane to Italy?”

“I—I don’t have any eyewitnesses. But I know for a fact that
her ticket was used, which means that they would have checked her ID. Ever
since the World Trade Center attack way back at the start of the century,
airlines have had to do that. She was on the plane to Rome.”

“Then who were you following in LA?”

“I think it was a robot double.”

“I don’t like hearing the words, ‘I think,’ when I’m
expecting to hear evidence.”

“I’ll need your permission to get evidence, and maybe even
some warrants.”

“What do you want?”

“First, I want permission to view Superintendent Ruiz’s
message logs for March 10th. I need to see if anyone from SD called
him after they looked at our files.”

Bennett said, “I’ll just ask him about that in person when I
see him in an hour. There’s no need to open an investigation into my own boss
over unsubstantiated suspicions.”

That was probably the best Alana was going to get on that
count. Even if Ruiz stonewalled Bennett, asking him to hang himself might be
outside of his comfort zone. But that did raise another question, “By the way,
Chief, why are you golfing with your boss today?”

“Officially, it’s unofficial. Unofficially, it will be about
next quarter’s budget. I’ll be asking for more money for retirement insurance
for my living policepersons and maintenance for you and the other retirees in
the station. Are you sure you want me to ask him something that might piss him
off?”

“Do you trust Superintendent Ruiz?”

“He’s a good cop. I’ve never known him to do anything
unethical, even when I thought he should have. I’ll say yes to that.”

Alana said, “Then I shouldn’t think it would be a problem.
If I remember correctly, he told you that he was acting on a tip when he called
you about the Chambers case. Maybe that tip just happened to come from SD, and
maybe SD just happened to tip him off because they knew I was free? Maybe he’ll
tell you what that tip was if you mention what you’ve learned about it since
yesterday.”

Bennett said, “Here’s the problem with your whole, wild
conspiracy theory: You have no motive.”

“Help me get some more facts, Chief, and I’ll find a motive.
To that end, there is one more thing I want. I want permission to question
Councilwoman Chambers under oath.”

“Denied.”

“Think about it.”

Bennett held his ground, “No. Permission denied.”

“What if Ruiz approved it?”

“It’s not his decision. A federal judge would have to make
that call.”

“Ask him to consider taking it to a judge. They might listen
to someone higher up the chain of command.”

Alana could hear Bennett exhaling. He said, “If the
opportunity arises, maybe I will. When I throw the Rhys frame-up report at his
feet, that might be enough to convince him that there’s grounds to investigate
Chambers herself. But be prepared to take, ‘No,’ for an answer.”

“That’s all I can ask for, Chief. When will I hear back from
you?”

“I’ll send you a meeting request when I get in to the office
tomorrow morning. I’ll try to make it as early as I can, but I know that I have
some other things going on. Stick at the office until you hear from me.

Chapter 24

When she had not heard from Chief Bennett by eleven o’clock,
Alana used her calendar program to check Bennett’s schedule. She wasn’t able to
see what his actual schedule was, but she was able to see what openings there
were. The earliest was two o’clock. It was going to be a long wait.

“Brett,” she said to her assistant, who was carrying a
satisfied expression, like someone who had just spent the weekend with a
brand-new girlfriend.

“Ma’am?”

“If you have any paperwork you need to do, this is a good
time.”

“I’m all caught up. Do you want me to do anything in
particular?”

Alana pondered the question long enough for another of her
lingering doubts to bubble to the surface of her consciousness. This particular
doubt might be hazardous to her very being, but she was feeling compelled to
pursue it. “Yes, Brett. I want you to start researching the records on Aaron
Stone. Do a complete search, all the way back to his birth records.”

“Isn’t that the man you went to see in Camarillo? The one
you think was helping you carry that body bag on the day you died?”

Alana froze. Crabtree had not forgotten about the proverbial
smoking gun, the body bag she had been spotted carrying the day she had herself
killed. The body inside was a realistic robot she had gotten from Aaron to
stage the chase. And Sandy Mathers, her houseguest, had seen her carrying it.
“Yes. Same Aaron.”

Brett said, “That may take a while.”

It was too late for her to rescind that request without the
risk of arousing further suspicions on the part of her assistant. She had
gotten away with all of her tiny errors so far, but how long would her luck
hold out in that regard?

In any event, she still wanted to know more about what Aaron
was up to now. It was only a tingling in her synthetic brain. Before
retirement, it would have been a feeling in her gut.

When Rhys had been killed, Alana became extremely angry. She
felt then and still believed that Rhys must have seen something while he was in
the factory that got him killed—something illegal. Alana wanted to know what
that was, but she was stymied at every turn in her investigation by ‘National
Security Privilege.’ She was never able to find any evidence of what her former
assistant had found, and all of Rhys’ property and belongings, even his car,
had been locked up in his home and placed under quarantine by SD.

But all the while, Alana had never given up on her original
case. She thought that Aaron and his apparent ex-rebel cell was up to
something, and may have been the subject of the assassination plot tip that she
and Rhys were originally investigating. His stated goal was to expose Zumpco
and its collaborators on the Council for abusing cybernetic technology, but
there was always a malignant undercurrent in his bearing. He also seemed
willing to go to extremes to further his goals.

Alana began collaborating with Aaron as a means of breaking
into his network, finding out what they were up to. She even used a camera
drone to attempt to spy on the factory, but a robot combat drone that was
guarding the grounds destroyed it. By doing so, she had overstepped her
boundaries, implicating herself in a possible criminal conspiracy, as the
debris from her cambot would have been traceable to her. The alarm bells went
off when she noticed that a few days later she was being shadowed by remotes,
first by camera drones, then by androids on motorcycles. She could not come
forward for fear of losing Aaron’s trust. She had, through a set of unexpected
circumstances, become an accidental, deep-cover agent.

It was two high-wire acts in one. Zumpco was clearly up to
something illegal and her best friend had been murdered in the process of
investigating it. Aaron was also clearly planning something. To enforce the
laws, she had to break them, including the Cyber Commandments.

She was positive that SD was waiting for her to get her next
save logged so that they could use her own memories against her. If SD did
that, they would not only blow her new cover, but they would also likely
convict her of conspiracy. So, she and Aaron formulated a plan to get her
underground and off their radar. First, Aaron Stone visited her at her home and
disabled her transponder so she could not be tracked. Then, he and Alana faked
her death to get SD off both her and Aaron’s back.

The android surrogate body Aaron had provided for her was a
Frankenstein, composed of compatible spare parts, and not ‘street-worthy.’”
Aaron took to calling her new body, “Alan.”

For several weeks, Alana spent most of her time hiding in
the basement of Aaron’s church, helping him repair homeless cyborgs. It was
complete contradiction, for Aaron was adamantly opposed to the entire process
of retirement. It did not make sense to Alana, but she was still working on her
cases against both Zumpco and Aaron.

Aaron was shrewd. He always had been, even as a rebel
commander. He played a big role in rebel operational security as well as
orchestrating many successful operations. He was using his former signal
intelligence station to monitor communications traffic, but he never directly
contacted anyone else in his network. He had another means of passing
information that Alana was unable to determine. She was hoping that eventually,
Aaron would either bring her in on his conspiracy, or just make a mistake that
would expose his plans. One thing that Alana did sense was that he was not in
charge, but was rather working under someone else’s guidance. Alana desperately
wanted to learn who that was.

But then, quite unexpectedly, Alana’s newly resurrected
clone turned up at the church and sent Aaron on a hyper-security binge. It
became immediately clear to Alana that there was nothing more to be gained from
being on the inside of the rebel network.

Alana still had a proverbial Sword of Damocles hanging over
her head in that to get where she was in both investigations, she had to break
the absolute laws governing cybernetic existence. There were no exceptions in
those laws or their enforcement that would excuse what she had done in the
pursuit of justice. If she were caught, she would be either placed in Limbo or
terminated.

She seized on the unexpected opportunity to reoccupy her
body with the hope that she could both solve her cases and avoid extinction. If
she was successful, she told herself, she would retire from the police
department and seek a different line of work to get away from mandatory saves
and other pitfalls that could endanger her in the future. She had even
considered the possibility of returning to her most recent save, just as her
clone had done, and beginning anew, but she was not willing to do so until Rhys
had been exonerated. At this point, catching Aaron was optional. If she was
discovered before that happened, the only contingency plan she had was to
confess with the hopes that anyone who learned of her secret would understand
and keep it secret.

Chapter 25

Alana finally received a meeting request from Chief Bennett
at three o’clock. She left Brett behind in their office to continue his
research into Colonel Stone.

When Alana entered Bennett’s office, she found her usually
dour chief grinning. She could understand why Brett was in a good mood, but
this was extraordinary, perhaps even unprecedented for Bennett, at least since
his promotion to Station Chief. Alana could not recall the exact moment when
she last saw him smile, but she did remember that she was playing Detective to
his Detective Inspector at the time. She said, “Is there a reason for your
moderate level of levity this morning?”

“Yes, Inspector. Yes, indeed. Not only did you get almost
everything you wanted from Superintendent Ruiz, I also beat him by two
strokes.”

“Ah. Golf.”

“It’s not too late for you to learn to play, Inspector. It
might fast-track your career.”

Alana flashed back to the news shows from Sunday morning,
“Current demographic trends would seem to contradict that theory.”

“Regardless, Ruiz accepted the evidence I gave him and
promised to take it to the district court today. I’m expecting him to call—”

The Chief’s desk began beeping. Bennett finished his
sentence, “—right about now.”

Bennett transferred Superintendent Ruiz’s call on his wall
monitor. Alana had seen him before, but had never worked with him directly
because he was promoted upward from a different station house. Like all of
Alana’s superiors, he had less seniority than she did, yet still achieved
higher office. She was thinking that the Sunday morning talking heads should
have interviewed her for their story about cyber discrimination in the
workplace.

Ruiz nodded, “Good afternoon, Chief Bennett, Inspector
Graves.”

Alana wasted no time, “Superintendent, do you remember
getting a phone call on March 10th from Security Division asking you
to investigate a terror threat against Councilwoman Chambers?”

Bennett allowed Alana to finish her sentence before barking,
“Graves! You’re out of order!”

Ruiz waved his hand dismissively, “It’s all right. I
understand your subordinate’s zeal in bringing her detective’s killers to
justice. And the answer to her question is, ‘yes.’”

Alana pressed, “Who specifically did you speak with and what
exactly did they tell you?”

Ruiz seemed slightly amused by Alana’s candor. “It was a
computerized message sent by an unidentified Vira. The call was placed from
within the SD network, but I have no way to tie it to a specific individual. I
thought it was unusual, but it looked authentic.”

Alana asked, “What did the message say.”

Ruiz pushed a button on his own desktop, “Let me just play
it for you.”

A standard, feminine Vira spoke from the Superintendent’s
end of the line, “Superintendent Ruiz. Security Division has received credible
evidence of an assassination plot against at least one National Council member,
and we are requesting the assistance of your police division in monitoring the
situation. Councilwoman Margaret Chambers will be visiting East Los Angeles
tomorrow morning, in what is your Region 4. We would like you to assign an
investigative unit to provide local security. If you agree to do this, then
reply to 101-345-375-194 as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Ruiz continued, “Since it is police policy to cooperate with
Security Division, I called Chief Bennett and assigned it to your area, Region
Four. What do you make of it, Inspector?”

Alana never took her eyes off Ruiz. She was looking for any
signs of cracks in the Superintendent’s poker face, but she did not see any.
She replied, “I’m of the opinion that someone in SD deliberately rigged things
to ensure that I was put on the case. Chambers’ trip to LA was a security
blind, a honey pot.”

Ruiz raised an eyebrow, “Why involve us in a sting
operation?”

A new theory immediately began to solidify in Alana’s mind.
If they suspected that Aaron Stone was involved in a conspiracy of some sort, which
he clearly was, they might have been using Alana as bait to draw him out. But
that seemed far-fetched, even on quick reflection. However, if they actually
suspected Alana of being involved, maybe because of her old connections to
Colonel Stone, they might have done it to flush her out. If that was the
case, then when she sent Rhys into the factory to spy, she walked straight into
their sting. But why on Earth would SD make a connection like that in the first
place? She had not seen or heard from Aaron since the armistice was signed.

Alana finally answered, “I don’t know yet,” as she activated
her virtual desktop and reviewed her working timeline. “But! They placed that
call to you before Chambers’ flight plan to LAX was filed.”

Ruiz rubbed his chin, “That might have been deliberately
delayed. For security purposes.”

Bennett added his voice to the discussion, “Have you heard
back yet about Rhys’ case? Has SD dropped the charges?”

Ruiz said, “I’m still waiting. I submitted the evidence to
the district court late yesterday, and they are very busy.”

Alana asked, “Did Chief Bennett forward my request to
interview Councilwoman Chambers under oath?”

That caused both of Ruiz eyebrows to jump, “To what end?”

“It would confirm whether she was on the plane to Rome during
the Rhys incident.”

“Inspector, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“How about her chief of staff? He, or maybe just a robot
copy of him, was with her in LA. Can I depose him?”

Ruiz stared at his desktop, but he was clearly just focusing
his vision on the nearest object while he pondered Alana’s question, “No. Not
yet. But if you uncover any evidence that justifies it, I may reconsider in the
future. Was there anything else?”

It was Alana’s turn to stare into space. She did not reply.

Chief Bennett eventually said, “Thanks for calling in,
Superintendent.”

“Glad to help. Even though I never met him, Rhys was my
employee too.”

Alana fought back the urge to thank Ruiz for his glibness in
the matter as the Superintendent pushed a button on his desk and the monitor
reverted to off-white.

Bennett said, “The Rhys case is on hold pending the court’s
reply. How is your investigation into your own murder coming along?”

Alana shook her head, “Nothing since I sent you the report.
I’ve been following up on getting Rhys acquitted.”

“Keep on it and let me know if you get any breaks, or if it
goes cold like it did on MacGruder. I’ll let you know when word comes down
about Rhys. Dismissed.”

Alana returned to her office to find Brett still researching
Aaron. “Anything unusual turn up?”

Brett was compiling a dossier on one side of his desktop and
using the other to research his subject. He used the opportunity to take a
break. “He’s an interesting character, to say the least. And the least is all
I’m able to say at this point. I started with his police dossier and merged it
with his public records. Now, I’m searching the Internet for anything related
to him.”

“Let me know.”

Alana sat down behind her desk, plugged her interface cable
in, and said, “Vira, call the public office of Councilwoman Chambers in
Washington, DC.”

Brett added his eyebrow to the list of those that Alana had
provoked into action today.

A half-hour passed before her Vira was able to connect to a
live person. Alana identified herself and asked to speak to Chambers’
chief-of-staff. The chain of staff personnel she then climbed eventually led
her to her destination, an hour later.

A woman’s voice answered, impatiently, “Yes, can I help
you?”

“Good afternoon. My name is Chief Inspector Graves, and I’m
calling in relation to a trip the Councilwoman took on March 10th of
this year. Can you answer a couple of quick questions?”

The woman was firm, “Do you have a warrant?”

“I just want to ask a couple of off-the-record questions
about her itinerary for that day. It does not involve any criminal
investigations regarding the Councilwoman.”

“All right. Ask first, I can decline to answer once I know
the question.”

“Did the Councilwoman visit Los Angeles, California on March
10th, 2090?”

“Let me check... No.”

“Did the Councilwoman visit Rome, Italy on that same day?”

“Yes. She was taking a well-deserved vacation. Is there
anything else?”

“Actually, no. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.”

Alana leaned back in her chair, contemplating the answers
she had received. Her assistant was straightforward, as if she had nothing to
hide, despite her resistance to answering open questions.

Brett did not look up from his work when he said, “That
won’t be admissible in court.”

“I know. My bosses would not let me depose her, so it was
the best I could do. It confirms a theory, so it was worth the effort.”

“What theory is that, Ma’am?”

“The ‘Theory of I was used as a pawn by Security Division.’
The only question I have now is, ‘Why?’”

Chapter 26

When Alana checked in at her office Tuesday morning, she had
a priority message from Chief Bennett. It read, simply, “My office. ASAP.”

Unlike the previous day, when Alana opened the door, the
Chief was pacing behind his desk, fuming. Guessing what was to come next did
not require a detective.

Bennett growled, “They aren’t releasing Rhys from Limbo.”

Alana tried to remain calm, but failed. The entire room
shuddered as her fists landed on the Chief’s desk, “What!?! What’s their
fucking problem?”

“They said that he is now being held on suspicion of espionage
for a terrorist organization.”

Alana closed her eyes and held her tongue. Her worst-case
scenario seemed to be turning out to be the truth. They had been set-up, and
Alana had naively sent a likewise unsuspecting Rhys into the trap.

“The only bright side is that they were forced to drop the
charge of attempted murder.”

“Is there going to be an investigation into the faked
video?”

The Chief shook his head, “I don’t know yet. That’s going to
be up to someone higher in the chain of command. SD will probably do an
internal inquiry.”

“So, the fox gets to sniff his own ass?”

Bennett said, “Not the words I would have chosen, but you
didn’t have to explain what you meant.”

“What can I do now?”

“That’s, ‘What can WE do,’ Inspector. And I’m damned well at
a loss.”

Alana got decisive, grabbing the doorknob, “I’m going to
search Rhys’ place for more evidence.”

“NO!” screamed Chief Bennett. “SD did not rescind
their quarantine!”

Alana spun back around to face the Chief so forcefully that
she pulled the doorknob out of its socket. Flustered, she crushed it in her
hand, “Goddamn it!”

Bennett lowered his own voice to a normal tone, “Calm down,
Inspector. We need to think this through rationally. I don’t want another
window repair bill. Sit!”

Alana flopped down in a chair and dropped the warped chunk
of brass on the desk. “Chief—”

Bennett shushed Alana. “I want at least a full minute of
silence while you rein in your emotions. If we’re going to fix this, we’re
going to have to use our brains.”

“Fists would be more—”

Bennett shushed Alana once again, “One minute!”

The Chief used the virtual clock on his desk to time it out.
It was without question the longest minute of Alana’s life. It just would not
end. She kept imagining herself clicking the detonator on a demolition charge
at the Zumpco factory. No, at the Council Chambers. No, at both. And at
Security Division HQ at Langley, Virginia. The timer ran out before Alana ran
out of either mental ammunition or targets.

“All right,” he finally said, “Now you can talk.”

“I think I said everything I needed to when I destroyed your
doorknob.”

A few minutes later, after the Chief had called someone to
come by and open the door for her, Alana departed the office and headed for
hers. She stormed in on Brett, catching him mid-nap with one foot propped on
his desk. When she slammed the door, his foot slipped off and dropped to the
floor astride his other. He awoke with a start.

Alana said, “I take it you finished the report on Aaron
Stone?”

Still slightly groggy, Brett answered, “Uh, yes. I mailed it
to you.”

Alana did not stop to sit. She grabbed her interface cable
and plugged it into her desktop. She found the file Brett had sent and loaded
it into her internal file storage. She ordered, “Get ready to move out.”

“I’m ready any time you are, Ma’am. Where do you want to
go?”

Alana paused, taking another moment to try to dissuade
herself from her next course of action. She failed. “I’ll tell you when we get
there.”

Brett stood, “Yes, Ma’am.”

When they had gotten in their vehicle, Alana commanded,
“Car!”

The vehicle’s computer asked politely, “Where would you like
to go today?”

“Drive East until I say otherwise.”

Brett asked, “Does this mean we’re heading to Las Vegas?”

Alana ignored Brett’s question, instead concentrating on a
virtual road map she had put on her virtual interface. She had to find
something innocuous within walking distance of her destination. She eventually
settled upon an Out-and-About Burger chain restaurant at the corner. It was
only a kilometer away, a distance Alana could cover in about ten minutes
without having to jog. She gave the address to the car.

“Destination accepted. Your estimated time of arrival is
twenty minutes.”

Brett observed as they passed, “There’s one of those burger
joints right there, Ma’am. We don’t have to go that far.”

Alana continued to ignore Brett, who just sat back and
closed his eyes, which had become fatigued from staring at his desktop all
morning while writing the report on Aaron Stone. “Then just wake me when we get
there, Ma’am.”

A short time later, Brett awoke to the sound of a car door
opening. Alana stepped out of the vehicle, saying, “Wait here in case I need
you. Get yourself some lunch. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

Brett could see that they were in the parking lot of the
restaurant. He just rolled over onto his side and tried to get a little more
sleep.

Alana crossed the street and walked down a perpendicular
side road into the residential development where Rhys lived. The sidewalk was
cracked and split, possibly not having been renovated since before the war. The
palm trees that lined the roadway were so uniform that they could have passed
for old-time utility poles, before the cables were either run underground or
converted to wireless technology. Vehicles sat in driveways, or parked along
the street, but they were few in number, with most being either hidden from the
scorching midday sun within garages or in distant parking lots, having conveyed
their owners to jobs, errands, or leisure. Thrice, Alana was challenged by
barking dogs, which were legally restrained either behind fences or on leash.
One house had a stately, robotic guard dog sitting on its front porch, its
robotic brain likely programmed to call the police if anyone violated its
owner’s personal space while they were away. It watched Alana silently as she
passed, remaining unconnected to the chain barking she had provoked from the
biological dogs in the neighborhood.

Ten minutes into her trek, she had covered half the distance
to Rhys’ house. Alana paused at the corner of a secondary road that led deeper
into the residential subdivision and nearer to her destination. She switched
her vision to zoom mode and scanned the horizon for shadowers. Of course,
surveillance technology was very good, and a camera could be hidden within the
tiniest of objects. Police stakeouts often used robotic wildlife to secret
spying eyes and ears within the local surroundings. On a clear day, like today,
with the brilliant sun bathing the roadway, high-altitude drones or even
satellites could pick out a single target, if they had a warrant, and Security
Division often did not need warrants. But she did not see any hovering camera
drones or black-clad, robot motorcycle ninjas, which were the things she was
mostly worried about. Without her transponders broadcasting her position, she
might have eluded any that were still following her.

About nine minutes later, Alana turned left into the
cul-de-sac where Rhys once lived. She had been here on many occasions, usually
when she was picking up or dropping off her detective in the line of work. But
there were many social visits as well. Less than a minute later, she was
standing at the foot of his driveway, looking past the red-tape boundary marker
that had been posted around the parched yard’s perimeter.

The house was typical for the Los Angeles area, with a Black
solar-panel roof and walls with faux-adobe outer-face insulation. The house
number was written in the same color as the walls on a faux-mahogany plaque
beside the faux-mahogany front door. The beige, single-car garage door was
down.

For weeks, Alana had fought with Chief Bennett for
permission to come here, only to be denied at every turn. Even with all the
evidence of a frame-up being presented, Rhys was still being held in Limbo.
Alana once again allowed her thoughts to reach her mouth, “One more step and
I’ll be in violation of the SD quarantine.”

She raised the tape and ducked underneath. Her front door
key still worked, SD having obviously not changed the locks.

After stepping inside the door and pulling it closed behind
her, Alana glanced up into a motion-activated surveillance camera. A small, red
light was active. While there was always a chance that no one was monitoring
the alarm, Alana could not take the risk. She had just been made by whoever
installed the device, probably Security Division, and she was going to have to
act quickly before any potential enemies could arrive.

She made her way towards Rhys’ kitchen. On the way, she
passed an electronic picture frame that was cycling still and motion images.
One that caught her eye was a younger detective Rhys and DCI Graves at a party.
He had his arm around her shoulder even then, before he had been assigned as
her assistant.

When finally in the kitchen, Alana began searching through
all of the cabinets, drawers, and other compartments. Alana then began looking
behind hanging pictures and other furnishings that adorned Rhys’ walls. When
she circled back to the electronic frame near the entrance, she found Rhys’
spare car key taped to the back of the picture frame. Alana had often chided
him about getting a keyless entry system for his car, but he insisted on having
a physical key, despite the fact that it cost extra. His excuse was that the
first car he had ever owned was hacked and used in a robbery, and that he
didn’t want that to happen again. She pocketed the key.

Alana suddenly noticed movement from deeper within the
house. “Vira, switch to my tactical vision template.”

Alana’s view of the room turned into more of a heads-up
display. She pulled her pistol, and when it was in her palm, she could see a
targeting reticule appear where the pistol was aimed. She also could see a
humanoid shape through the back window, silhouetted by the afternoon sun.

Alana quickly scanned the intruder, and even without her
transponder to interrogate it, it was obvious from the readout that it was a
military-grade artificial chassis. From the exaggerated breadth of its
shoulders, Alana guessed that it was one of the J-7 combat models.

Alana ducked down and began creeping towards the garage,
trying to stay out of sight. Her body still produced a heat signature, so the
robot would likely be able to track her even through the walls, and it was an
advantage Alana could not match. She could zoom, and had enhanced low-light
vision, but not infrared.

The window behind which the intruder stood shattered as a
spray of flechettes from a sub machinegun stitched the wall where Alana had
been standing moments before. She dove to the floor and quickly crawled the
remaining distance the garage entryway. She could hear more glass smashing from
the living room, and presumed that meant that the robot was climbing through
the window. She reached for the doorknob, but it was locked! The exterior door
was too heavy for her to just bash it in. She almost panicked as she fumbled in
her overcoat pocket for the house key. Heavy footfalls stomped through the
house, muffled by the carpet. The J-7 was walking, not running. Maybe it lost
her image in the clutter? No time to ponder. She held the key up to the door
and pushed the button, hoping that it worked on all the locks.

It did.

Alana stood and flung the door open. She dashed through,
slamming it shut behind her and pushing the lock button while simultaneously
yelling to the house’s Vira, “Garage door! Open!”

Luckily, the system was still functioning, and the garage
door began to roll upward, filling the darkened room with sun light as the
opening grew taller.

There was a thud against the door. Then a rapid succession
of blows. The robot was attempting to break through. The wall shook from its
onslaught, but the door held.

Even if she had bought herself a few extra seconds, even
losing half of one could be fatal. She dropped Rhys’ house key on the floor and
reached for the car key in her other pocket. She whipped the key out and
inserted it into the car door, removing it as quickly as she could. She opened
the door and dove inside. She slipped the key into the car’s control port and
yelled, “Car! Drive!”

The car’s Vira asked, “Where do you want to go today?”

A sudden burst of flechettes perforated a ring in the door,
throwing sawdust on her side.

Flustered, Alana blurted out the first thing that entered
her head, which was the place where she told Brett to wait, “The nearest
Out-and-About Burger restaurant!”

The car nagged, “Please fasten your safety belts.”

Alana grabbed her interface cable and jammed it into the
plug on the car’s dashboard, “Police override! Just drive, damn it! Fast!”

The car powered up and, with a whirr, it backed out of the
garage, stretching and snapping a section of the red quarantine warning tape.

A round block of solid wood from the splintered door burst
out and flopped onto the floor. A black-clad figure in an overcoat climbed
through the hole—probably the same robot Alana had seen through the window. It
aimed its sub machinegun at the car, but nothing happened. As the car put
itself into forward gear, Alana could see the robot slap another magazine into
its weapon. But it did not shoot. Instead, it merely watched as the car
retreated down the street—a very human error, and not one a robot was likely to
make.

Alana grabbed her phone and pressed the speed dialer. After
three rings, Brett answered, “Crabtree.”

“Brett! Are you still at the burger place?”

He was, in point of fact, in the dining area, finishing his
last French fry, “Uh, yes Ma’am. I got you—”

“Get in the car and go straight to the station.”

“Ma’am?”

“Just do it, Brett!”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Alana sat upright, “Car, change destination. Drive to the
District Four main police station.”

“Destination accepted.”

Alana knew that she’d stepped in it, but there was no excuse
for that robot to have opened fire on her with a deadly weapon. That, in-and-of
itself, was just as illegal, even more illegal, than her trespass. That was attempted
murder. She sat back in the seat, using a control on the dashboard to adjust
the rear-view mirrors and trunk camera to look for followers. As the car turned
onto the main road, she could not see any. She mused aloud, “I wonder if that’s
what happened to Rhys?”

She reached to unplug her cable from the car’s interface,
but she paused, “Car, let me see your travel records for the month of March,
2090.”

On Alana’s virtual interface, a spreadsheet showing
destination requests, departure times, arrival times, distances traveled, and
other information relevant to the car’s recent journeys opened. Alana quickly
scanned the data. The last entry was on March 12, and it was a command to drive
from the Zumpco Robotics factory to Rhys’ home. That must have been when they
found and quarantined his car. But there was nothing else unusual in the file.
It all seemed straightforward. The car could have been sent on its own, without
a passenger or pilot. Alana learned nothing.

However, she did notice that there was an unread message in
the car’s communication system, the presence of which was announced by a
flashing, envelope icon in the upper left corner of her virtual screen. She
used her finger to poke at the air, touching the floating icon. A virtual
window opened, displaying a single file. The name was 03112090-1014-VID. It was
a recorded video file, and the date and timestamps matched when Rhys was inside
the factory. Alana quickly touched the file icon and shunted it into her own
file system. She then disconnected her cable from the car, closing the virtual
desktop.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a motorcycle
change lanes about three cars behind her. She couldn’t tell if it was a killer
robot on her tail, or just an innocent rider. It would not be able to track her
transponder anymore, but the car had its own, and there was nothing Alana could
do about that under the circumstances. She focused on the traffic flowing
behind her, and when her car turned into the police station parking lot, the
motorcyclist was no longer in sight.

Alana leapt from the parked car and ran inside. After
getting past the security gate, she should be safe from possible attack. She
passed through the scanners without any problems. Either Security Division had
not been able to identify her to issue a system alert, or they did and were
just not acting yet. A third possibility occurred to the Inspector as she
dashed towards the elevator—one that would require a review of that new video
file she found in Rhys’ car to test.

Alana opened and closed her office door quickly, going so
far as to engage the lock. As cool, and even stoic, as she had become in
thirty-five years of being a cybernetic policeperson, even she was rattled by
the near-death encounter with the Joebot at Rhys’ house. Her anxiety came from
twin feelings of not knowing why the robot tried to kill her and knowing that
she had seriously jeopardized her tenuous position. If SD wanted to, she had
given them just cause to interrogate her.

Brett was already in the office, seated behind his desk,
“Hello again, he said. I didn’t think you’d get here so soon.”

“I hopped a ride from an old friend.”

Alana turned towards her desk and saw a fast food take-out
bag sitting on the corner. She pointed to it and asked, “What’s that?”

“Cheeseburger combo. Thought you might want one since I was
there. I’m sorry.”

Alana was both perplexed and annoyed, “What in hell would I
do with a cheeseburger?”

Brett’s expression suddenly turned deadly serious. He
quick-drew his sidearm and aimed it squarely at Alana, “Freeze! Who are you?”

“What are you talking about, Detective?”

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Inspector Graves.”

Brett slapped a control on his desktop and said, “Security!”

Alana had no idea what had tipped Brett off, but he had her
dead-to-rights. “Brett, give me a chance to explain what’s going on.”

The same, monotone, computer voice that answered dispatch
calls replied, “Affirmative, Detective Crabtree. How may I assist you?”

Brett paused. Alana very slowly clasped the strap of her shoulder
holster and lifted it from around her neck. She carefully lobbed her weapon
over her desk and into the middle of the floor. She then placed her hands on
top of her head.

The dispatch computer repeated, “How may I assist you?”

Brett said, “Sorry, wrong button,” and turned off his
intercom.

Alana said, “Thank you—”

“Talk, fast.”

Alana did talk. She did so for almost twenty minutes. By the
time she had finished, she had related as much of the true story about what was
going on as she could remember or think to include, concluding with, “And
that’s what happened.”

“You should have told me this from the very beginning. I was
starting to think you’d contracted some kind of cyber brain-rot from that
retiree you rescued up in Simi.”

“Do you understand why I didn’t?”

“Yes, but you still should have told me. We might have
gotten to the bottom of this sooner.”

“I’ll do better next time.”

Brett lowered his weapon, “Let’s see that video you got from
the car.”

Brett picked Alana’s holster up from the floor and handed it
back to her. Alana plugged her cable into her desk and transferred a copy of
the file, saying, “I’ll put it up on the wall.”

Brett asked, “Any idea what’s on it?”

“None whatsoever.”

The electronic whiteboard behind Alana’s desk activated and
a recorded video file began playing. It was the inside of a building,
presumably the Zumpco factory. The camera was moving through a maze of
machinery.

Brett said, “It’s bouncing around a lot.”

“It’s probably Rhys’ phone camera. He must have been
streaming it to his car computer while he was recording it. We’d done that
several times before. He would stream the footage to me. But while he was
shooting this, I was with Aaron Stone, and would have been out of range. He
probably just used the closest receiver. That might explain why whoever killed
him didn’t find it and erase it. They had the original on his phone, so they
didn’t look for a backup copy.”

The camera quickly ducked behind some cover, and turned to
frame Rhys’ face. He whispered, “I was able to sneak in with the press corps
and then break away just before Chambers started her speech. I’m almost to the
assembly area, like you asked. They’ve got armed Joebots patrolling the floor
here. Only a couple of living workers, and they might be cyborgs. I can’t tell for
sure. So far, everyone’s ignored me, but I think that’s because the press team
are all in the building. I’m going to try to get closer to the line.”

The camera panned back to the factory floor and started
moving again, shifting erratically as Rhys crept between the machines and
storage containers. Eventually, he found a vantage point overlooking the main
factory floor. As he panned around the assembly area, he zoomed in and out
several times, taking close up shots of particular areas. Suddenly, a horn blared
twice. Rhys said, “The last time I heard that horn was just before we got
inside. I think that means that the visitors just left. That might put me in a
pickle. I’m going to try to sneak out. If I get caught, I’ll say I got
separated—”

From off-camera, a terse, male voice bellowed, “Halt!
Identify yourself!”

Rhys trained the camera on what was clearly a Mk VII Joebot.
It was brandishing a sub machinegun and pointing it directly at the camera.

“Um, I’m with the press corps. I got lost—”

The robot said, “Wrong. You do not have proper
identification.”

Rhys turned sharply in response to the sound of heavy
footfalls from behind the camera. Suddenly, the sharp BRRRAAAAAAAP of an
automatic weapon drowned out everything else, and the camera fell to the floor,
landing lens-side down.

Brett said, dumbfounded, “They just shot him.”

Alana said, “The video is only about halfway through.”

Several minutes passed by before something happened. The
camera was lifted off the floor. It caught an image of Rhys’ body, lying face
down on the concrete floor, blood pooled all around his torso. The camera
turned to frame a human face, an older male with gray hair and a weathered
face. He was wearing a blue dress shirt with a blue-and-silver striped necktie.
He looked into the lens and said, “Oh, shit.”

The video ended.

Alana sat down hard in her chair and stared across the room,
fixing her stare on the opposite wall.

Brett said, “I’m sorry—”

“Step outside for a few minutes, Detective. I’m about to
break more furniture.”

Several minutes later, the loud banging from within the room
stopped, and Brett pensively stepped back inside. To his surprise, the damage
was less severe than it had been the day Rhys was locked in Limbo. Alana’s
office chair was in pieces, but that was the worst of it.

Alana asked, calmly but firmly, “What time does Wendy come
in to work?”

“She’s usually on from sixteen-hundred to midnight.”

Alana was unable to bring herself to check even the time.
She asked, “What time is it now?”

Brett checked his wristwatch, “Fourteen-twelve.”

“I don’t want to wait. Let’s get this down to Srinu for
analysis. I want to know what Rhys could have possibly seen that got him
killed. I also want to know who that man was at the end of the video.”

Brett said, “Whoever he was, I don’t think he was from SD.”

“Why?”

“SD agents wear white shirts, black ties, and silver dove
lapel pins. He had none of the above.”

Alana stood, “Let’s go find out for sure.”

Alana flung the door to cyberforensics open and kicked it
out of the way for good measure. “Srinu! I need you. Now.”

Srinivas held up his phone, checking the time, “Inspector,
you normally wait until five minutes before my shift ends before dropping an
emergency request—”

“Not now. This is serious,” Alana said, striding to the
nearest wall terminal and plugging in her cable. “Analyze this.”

Alana pushed the ‘play’ button on his remote and the Zumpco
factory footage started rolling. “Tell us what you see.”

Srinivas played the video through several times as Alana
tried to explain as best she could what was being displayed. He advanced to the
point where Rhys started filming the assembly line. He paused the film and
began zooming in and advancing the video in small bites, but he didn’t say
anything for about five minutes, “Inspector Graves, you said that this was a
robot production line, correct?”

“That was my understanding. I think they are making the new
mark seven Joebots there. Why do you ask?”

Srinivas selected part of the image, zoomed in, and then
enhanced the video to the limit that the resolution would allow, “See that?”

Previously a silent observer, Brett squinted, “No.”

Srinivas said, “Cyborg brain cases being installed in these
chassis. It’s a little fuzzy, but if you look here...and here...and here, you
can clearly see where the oval cases are being inserted into the head
assemblies.”

Alana asked, “Is that not normal?”

“Well, Inspector, this is a new model. But I started
out as a robotics engineer with the Army. I’ve seen every mark of Joebot from
one through six, and their robotic brains are only about a quarter of that
size.”

The trio reviewed the rest of the video, but nothing else
stood out to Srinivas until they reached the very end. Srinivas paused the
video on the image of the old, gray-haired man.

Alana said, “The next thing we wanted was to run this man
through the facial recognition database. Can you do that while we’re here?”

Srinivas shrugged, “Don’t need to. That’s Sam Finkelstein.”

Brett asked, “Who’s Sam Finkelstein?”

“When I knew him, he was chief of robotics technology for the
Army. Based on this picture, it looks like he’s gone through the revolving door
and wound up working for Zumpco.”

Alana said, “Thank you very much, Srinu.”

“I’m up for review soon. Just write me as good a letter of
recommendation as you did for Wendy, okay?”

Alana nodded, “Done and done. Brett, let’s go see the
Chief—”

Suddenly, the station intercom commanded, “DCI Graves,
please report to Conference Room Six. Repeat, DCI Graves, please report to
Conference Room Six.”

Alana continued, “By way of the conference room...”

Alana rapped on the conference room door and then opened it.
Chief Bennett was already inside, and sitting beside him at the faux-oaken
table was a man Alana did not recognize. Alana stepped inside, with Brett
following behind her. Bennett motioned to a pair of empty chairs.

Before they could sit, Brett stopped to look at the other
man and said, “SD.”

The man, in a nice black suit with a white dress shirt,
black necktie, and silver dove lapel pin answered, “You must be Crabtree. I saw
that you were connected to this case.”

Alana bellied up to the conference table, “You know each
other?”

Brett said, “Only by the uniform.”

Bennett said, “This is special agent Derringer from Security
Division. He wanted to talk to you. Since I wanted to hear what he had to say,
I figured we could all have a nice powwow.”

Alana looked at Bennett, “Chief, we found a video that Rhys
made just before he was shot. It should clear up exactly how he died.”

Bennett seemed pleasantly surprised, “Well, that’s very good
work. Where did you find it?”

Alana glanced at Agent Derringer, thinking all the while
that SD was acting surprisingly quickly in response to her breaking the Rhys
quarantine, “I suspect that may be why the SD man is here.”

Derringer said, “I can’t speak to that. I’m here to ask you
about Aaron Stone. Do you know him?”

Alana said, guardedly, but happy not to have to explain to
SD why she bypassed one of their security lines, “I knew him thirty-six years
ago. But you probably knew that before you asked.”

Derringer smirked, “Of course I did. I never ask a question
unless I already know the answer. Keeping that in mind, did you meet with Aaron
Stone on the morning of March 11th?”

“Yes.”

“What—”

Alana added, to clarify, “It was a chance meeting, but I did
talk to him.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He expressed concerns that something illegal was going on
at the Zumpco Robotics factory just outside of town. As a point-of-fact, he was
right about that.”

Derringer asked, “Did he say anything about attacking the
NAR Council?”

Alana said, “If, as you say, you never ask a question
without knowing the answer beforehand, then you know that the answer is, ‘No.’
He did not mention that.”

“Did he imply it?”

Alana tilted her head towards Bennett, “Chief, is this
conversation being recorded?”

Bennett was watching both Alana and Derringer intently. He
said, “Yes, it is.”

Alana answered Derringer’s question, rather sharply, “No, he
did not imply it. Did you arrange for Superintendent Ruiz to be tipped off
about a security blind operation on March 11th involving robot
doubles of Councilwoman Chambers and her staff?”

Derringer raised an eyebrow, “I’m asking the questions,
Inspector.”

Alana pressed him, “Did you hack into the Region Four
personnel logs on March 10th?”

Derringer looked at Chief Bennett, “Sir, I would prefer to
have the full cooperation of your staff. I’m not trying to incriminate the
Inspector or anyone else in your department.”

Alana said, raising her voice, “Were you a participant in
the cover-up of the murder of Detective Benjamin Rhys on March 11th?”

Bennett said, rather calmly, “For now, Inspector, cooperate
with the gentleman from Washington.”

Derringer stared Alana down, only to discover that cyborgs
could control their blinking better than humans. He continued, “Did Stone say
or do anything that might even suggest that he was involved in a conspiracy
against the Council?”

“Not that I can recall. He only suggested that Councilwoman
Chambers might have been corrupt and that the J-7 project might have been
breaking the law.”

Suddenly, there was another knock on the door. This took
even Chief Bennett by surprise. He looked to Brett, “Crabtree, can you answer
that?”

Annoyed at being the ever-gofer, Brett stood and walked to
the conference room door. He opened it to find a female security officer
standing with an older man in an Army uniform of some sort. Brett did not
recognize the man, but he had a temporary security badge clipped on his jacket
collar, just above a rainbow billboard of decorative ribbons. His nametag read,
“Barber.”

Brett asked, “Can I help you?”

The policewoman said, “Is Inspector Graves in here?”

Alana overheard and snapped, “Chief Inspector.”

Barber said, “I take that as a yes?”

Brett said, “I think we’re in a meeting right now?” He
looked at Bennett, shrugging his shoulders.

Agent Derringer leaned over the table and, upon seeing the
uniformed officer, he said, “Let him in. I think he may be here for the same
reason I am.”

Bennett said, “All right then, let him in.”

Barber stepped inside. Brett closed the door behind him and
returned to his seat.

Alana zoomed in on the nametag, and then examined his face.
He looked familiar to her, and she soon remembered him from her court martial
hearing thirty-six years ago, “Captain...Barber?”

“General, now. It’s been a long time.”

Alana was taken off-guard, “I’m surprised you remember me
after that long.”

“Of course I remember you, Major. It’s not every day that a
junior officer gets to sit in judgment over a superior. In fact, you haven’t
aged a day from what I remember.”

Alana said, “Early retirement. Someone with a different
sense of justice than the tribunal set a bomb in my car.”

Barber bowed his head ever so slightly, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s water under the star chamber. Out of curiosity, why
did you vote to acquit?”

Barber seemed congenial, despite a rugged exterior, “No
evidence of breaking rules of war, and frankly, you were too cute to
prosecute.”

Alana looked at Brett, “Was it you who asked why I used this
particular body image?”

Brett shook his head, “I think that would have been someone
else Ma’am. I had way too much sensitivity training to fall into that trap.”

Chief Bennett motioned to an unused chair, “Please, join the
fun, General.”

Barber sat.

Derringer said, “You’re a long way from the Pentagon, General.”

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”

Alana asked, “Why are you in the neighborhood?”

“You can thank Special Agent Derringer for that. He borrowed
two Joebots from my command for a security operation. Yesterday, I got word
that they killed a policeman—specifically,” he nodded towards Alana, “your
assistant. I want to know what really happened.”

Alana asked, “Are you referring to the March 11th
security blind operation here in LA for Councilwoman Chambers?”

The General nodded, “Yes.”

Alana continued, “It took me a while to put the pieces
together, but I can tell you this much. The two mark-six models you loaned
Agent Derringer did not commit the crime. In fact, I’ll show you the evidence
that exonerates them. Chief Bennett, you need to see this anyway. And I think
the General will want to see this footage too, for other reasons.”

Alana plugged her cable into a data jack built into the edge
of the conference tabletop and used her virtual interface to play the Zumpco
factory footage showing Rhys’ real death at the hands of a Mk VII Joebot. She
pointed out the frames where Srinivas noted that full-size brain cases were
being installed. She stopped it at the point where the camera fell to the
floor.

General Barber huffed, “Can I have a copy of that video?”

Alana said, “I think that the more copies of it that are in
circulation, the better. Now, has everyone here seen the fake video used to
frame Detective Rhys?”

A round of harrumphs and ayes echoed off the walls, with no
contradictory grunts or nays.

Agent Derringer said, “It looks like Zumpco itself was
responsible for that. But that’s not why I’m here. I still need to know what
your department knows about Aaron Stone.”

All eyes turned to the General when he suddenly blurted out,
“Colonel Aaron Stone?”

Derringer said, “Yes. I believe he was. He is a priest now,
according to our intelligence.”

Bennett spoke up, forcefully, “Before you digress any
further, I want to know why an SD special agent is grilling my chief
inspector.” He pointed at General Barber, “Then I want to know why you’re
surprised at Stone’s name being dropped.”

Barber nodded.

Derringer huffed, “All right, I’ll lay it down. We have
intelligence that suggested that Inspector Graves may be involved in a
conspiracy to assassinate several members of the NAR Council.”

Alana was incredulous, “What?”

Bennett challenged, “I’m expecting to hear a solid
explanation for your impugning my employee.”

“I can’t divulge the actual evidence as it might compromise
the means by which we acquired it—”

Bennett interrupted, “Cut the literary review and talk
straight.”

“Her name was mentioned in a terrorist transmission. So we
arranged the fake trip to LA to bait her into tipping her hand. And she did.”

Alana asked, “How did I do that?”

“By contacting Aaron Stone. He was the source of the
transmission. It specifically mentioned a Major Graves, and in a context that
suggested she might be above him in a chain of command.”

“That’s preposterous. I blundered into Aaron while I was
observing Chambers. I hadn’t seen him since the end of the war. If anything,
your security blind brought him out into the open, not me.”

Barber rejoined the conversation, “Tell me what you all know
about Colonel Stone?”

Brett spoke, perhaps out of turn, given his relative rank
among those present, “If anyone needs it, I just finished compiling a report
for the Inspector about him this morning.”

Alana threw up her arms, “Aaa! I haven’t even had time to
read it yet.”

Derringer said, “I’ll save you the effort. Stone is a
religious fanatic who has spent the last few years living as a Catholic priest
in Camarillo, California. Up until about two years ago, he was active in the
anti-retirement movement when he suddenly went silent. Stopped posting public
messages, attending rallies, and the like. He also stopped speaking of it to
his congregation, which, ironically, seems to be composed mostly of cyborgs who
have gotten religion. General Barber, why are you interested in him?”

The General cupped his hands and rested his wrists on the
edge of the table. He looked downward, suddenly devoid of even the remotest
trace of humor. “I read a report about him less than a month ago. Defense
Intelligence has been trying to trace a shipment of ordnance that was stolen
from Fort Irwin about five years ago. He came back into the picture when
someone set off a plasma charge in old Chatsworth, California. In fact, that
was the event that first brought Major—”

Alana interrupted, “Chief Inspector.”

“Chief Inspector Graves—to our attention.”

Derringer asked, “How did you connect that with Aaron
Stone?”

Barber said, “Just like Security Division, Defense
Intelligence also has some trade secrets I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

Brett could not help observing, “My God, it’s been
eighty-nine years since 9-11-2001, and the intelligence services still
don’t work together?”

Both Barber and Derringer spoke simultaneously, uttering the
exact same words as if they were synchronized robots, “Blame the politicians.”

Bennett asked, “Just how much ordnance was stolen?”

In all her distant military career, Alana had much contact
with general officers, sometimes even Navy flag officers, but she had never
seen one fidget until now. He eventually said, “A lot.”

Alana, of course, knew that Aaron had a plasma hand grenade
available, as she had used it to destroy her old body. But she never knew where
he got it. In the weeks she was living in Aaron’s basement, she didn’t see
anything like explosives stored there. In fact, except for an old Taser pistol,
which he did not even carry, he did not have any purpose-built weapons of any
kind.

Alana asked, as much to get a clear picture of her own
position in the affair as Aaron’s, “Have you been tracking Stone?”

“Defense Intel investigated him for about a year, but we
didn’t find anything to connect him to the theft. He’s still on the suspect
list, but we have no real connections.”

Bennett said, “Can you two gentlemen wait while I have a
heart-to-heart with my Chief Inspector?”

The General and the Special Agent nodded in agreement.

“We’ll be back soon. Detective Crabtree, you attend to their
every need and legal desire while we’re gone.”

Brett said, “Yes sir.”

Bennett said, with uncharacteristic grace and calm, “Graves.
My office. Now.”

The Chief led Alana down the hall and to his office. He held
the door for Alana, and then slammed it behind him after following her in. He
yelled, “Sit!”

Alana complied.

Bennett circled behind his desk and sat down as well, “So,
someone stole a military hand grenade, and you were blown up with one. That’s
not a coincidence, is it? I know you lost several weeks’ worth of memories, but
you tell me everything you do know right this minute.”

If it was possible for a being to sound frazzled, this was a
clear instance where it occurred, “Chief, if I do tell you everything, I’ll be
in trouble. You might lose me for good. Do you want me to continue?”

“There are no cameras or microphones in this room other than
the ones inside that cyber-mecho-tronic monstrosity of a body of yours. I’m not
making you any promises about what I’ll do, but if you don’t come clean, I’ll
hand you over to Internal Affairs for a full investigation.”

The plot had simply become too complicated for Alana to keep
concealing the facts from the plethora of people she had to work with every
day. She had known that something would give. Either evidence would emerge that
would incriminate her, as was imminent in the conference, or she would commit a
misstep which would give her away, as she had done with Brett. Although she
still did not understand how a cheeseburger could have been her undoing.

For the second time in the same day, Alana came clean, even
though she knew it could result in her permanent death.

When Alana had finished, Bennett asked, “That’s everything?”

“If I’ve left anything out, it is an omission of ignorance,
not of intent.”

“Next time, tell me the truth up front. Who else knows about
this?”

“The whole story? Just you and Detective Crabtree. I told
him just this afternoon when he figured out that I was different from my clone.
Aaron Stone knows everything except how I was investigating him—”

Bennett scowled, “Unauthorized. But continue.”

“Sandy Mathers saw me and Aaron in the process of faking my
death. And Aaron’s son, Gabriel, knows probably about half of what Aaron knows.
I think that’s all.”

“Does this clone of yours that’s still floating around out
there somewhere know about this?”

“She figured out that I committed suicide, and she had
tracked Aaron down, but I’m fairly certain that she wasn’t aware of anything
else that happened on or after the day Rhys was murdered. Can you promise me
something, chief?”

“Depends.”

Alana pleaded, “Regardless of what happens to me, save
Rhys.”

“I was planning on that all along. Now, I still have some
more questions for you before we go back into that hornet’s nest.”

Alana nodded, defeated, almost sanguine about what might
come afterwards. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t lived a full life, even though half
of it was inside a robotic shell. She still had feelings, even though she no
longer felt things like chills coursing through her body. She still had
original thoughts. She could still close her eyes and touch various points
around her head to triangulate mentally on where her consciousness seemed to
reside inside her crania, both the organically grown and manufactured ones.

She said, “Of course, Chief.”

“Derringer said that your name appeared in a terrorist’s
message. Can you explain that?”

“No. No, sir, I cannot. Like I said, I had not so much as
talked to Stone since before the first time I died. For all I know, he might have
just been reminiscing about the war with someone. But I can’t deny it without
seeing the evidence. I don’t know the context.”

Bennett leaned back in his chair and took several deep
breaths, coughing repeatedly in between the third and fourth. He opened his
desk drawer, grabbed a hand-held inhaler, and injected some kind of medicine up
his nostrils. After another round of coughing, be spit a wad of mucous into his
waste bin.

The aging process was something that Alana rarely pondered,
even before she died. Cybernetic existence had its drawbacks, but so did
mundane life.

Bennett managed a grin, “What kind of jack-assed name is
‘Special Agent Derringer’ anyway?”

Alana said, “It sounds like a porn name.”

No other words passed between Alana and Bennett as they returned
to the conference room. The aroma of mediocre coffee was present in the air,
and a mostly empty pot rested atop a hot plate in the center of the table.
Disposable cups, cream and sugar packets, stirrers, and used napkins littered
the table. The extra doses of caffeine only added to the tension on the
surface.

Bennett created the first ripple, “I think I’m getting a
clearer picture of what is happening here.”

Alana said, “So am I. Agent Derringer, I need you to check
with your department and see if anyone has responded to an alarm at the
residence of Detective Benjamin Rhys. The address is Eight Baker Way, Reagan
Park, California.”

Derringer fiddled with his phone, looking up the
information, “That’s your detective who was killed at the Zumpco installation,
right? I haven’t received any notifications about it. Give me a minute.”

A minute later, after Bennett and Alana had retaken their
seats and the Chief had helped himself to the last of the coffee, Derringer
declared, “There’s nothing in the system about it. In fact, we stopped
monitoring the security on that house.”

Alana locked her gaze up on Derringer, “When. When did you
stop?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Alana was unable to avoid blurting out, “Zumpco.”

Barber asked, “What about Zumpco.”

“Around noon today, I visited that location—yes, I violated
the SD quarantine on it—but that’s where I found the video record of Rhys being
killed by the J-7 robot guard.”

Derringer looked at his phone again, and manipulated the
controls. He said, “The quarantine was lifted the same time we stopped
monitoring it.”

Alana’s voice jumped a few dozen decibels, “Then why didn’t
you tell us that!”

Derringer shrugged, “Bureaucratic error.”

Alana looked at Barber, “While I was at that residence
today, I was attacked by another J-7. It didn’t try to arrest me, or even
detain me. It just started shooting. Just like what happened to Rhys in that
video. I think that Zumpco was behind both incidents. As the video showed,
they’re using biological cyborg brains in their J-7s. That’s against the law.”

Barber nodded, “I wasn’t able to discuss the details on
television, but I went head-to-head in a debate with Councilwoman Chambers
about that exact issue. Zumpco says that they are manufacturing the brains to a
different standard than normal cyborg brains, but they are using an organic
processor. It’s supposed to make them smarter than normal Joebots in battle
without them being actually alive.”

Alana concluded, “Then Aaron Stone was right. Zumpco is
violating the Cyber Commandments.”

Barber continued, “I don’t know if they are violating the
law or not. All of that discussion is going on in the JAG’s department of the
Pentagon. I was in charge of the field testing of the units, and my concerns
were exactly what I’m hearing from you and seeing in that video. The hybrid
bio-electronic brains in the J-7 aren’t working correctly. They aren’t able to
properly use their IFF interrogators.”

Bennett asked, “IFF what?”

Alana and Barber simultaneously said, “Identification,
friend or foe.”

Barber explained, “It’s supposed to keep a robot from
attacking a friendly target. In the case of your Detective Rhys, it wouldn’t
have applied, but if you were shot at by one this morning, it should have been
able to query your transponder before shooting.”

Alana made a point of failing to mention that her
transponders had been disabled when she asked, “What is supposed to happen when
a target without a transponder gets in its sights?”

The General said, “It is supposed to issue a verbal
challenge, and then only attack if the target is armed or takes hostile
actions. There is an exception for when it’s in combat, which allows it to
shoot first if the target is armed and can be identified as enemy. The exact
rules that the Joebots have to follow are in the Geneva Conventions on Robotic
Soldiers. That’s on the Internet if you want to read it. The NAR has
signed it.”

Brett asked, somewhat sheepishly, “So, who is going to open
a murder inquiry against Zumpco over Detective Rhys?”

Agent Derringer had been fairly unemotional during the
meeting, but he suddenly displayed a modicum of anger, “I don’t like being
played. I’ll take that part back with me to SD and personally recommend opening
a full inquiry based on the evidence the Inspector’s found. If they’ve tampered
with our robots to frame your cop, that would be—let me just say that heads
will roll. But, in the meantime, I still need to circle back to my original
question. Why was Inspector Graves’ name on a communiqué between Aaron Stone
and a suspected terrorist weeks before she met him at the airport the
day her Detective was killed?”

Alana threw up her hands, “I just don’t know.”

Derringer asked her, “Will you consent to a brain scan and
surrogate interrogation?”

Noting that the agent was suggesting scanning her brain in
its current state, she asked, “Can you tell me when my communication was
reportedly made? How many weeks ago was it? Less than ten or more than ten?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

Alana said, flatly and dismissively, “Then, no. If
you can’t show me the evidence that implicated me, I will not consent to a
surrogate upload.”

“Under the circumstances, we could compel it.”

Alana was certain that nothing in her most recent memory
save, the one she made about ten weeks ago, was compromising, so she answered,
“Well, you know where my save file is. So you go right ahead.”

Bennett slapped the tabletop with one palm while pointing at
Agent Derringer with the other, “Stop it right now. You are not
conducting a witch hunt or a fishing expedition against my chief
inspector.”

Alana began, “Chief—”

Bennett trained his extended finger on Alana, “And you
are still going to cooperate with Agent Derringer to the extent that it is
possible and permissible under the law. What I’m hearing from all of you here
in this room is that this Aaron Stone character is up to something, and you all
have a stake in exposing him. Am I right?”

A silent round of nodding, with some heads bobbing more
quickly than others, broke out. The Chief continued, “Then let’s decide who’s
in charge and open an investigation. Is it the Army, Security Division, or the
police?”

General Barber said, “The Army has no jurisdiction in the
prosecution of NAR citizens within the borders of our great country. I can’t do
it.”

Agent Derringer took a deep breath and exhaled, “This case
potentially involves interregional traffic, and is therefore within our
jurisdiction. The police do not have access to the same intelligence or
facilities that we do. I would suggest that Security Division assume the lead.”

The Chief said, “Right. I am temporarily transferring
Inspector Graves to Security Division for this investigation. I’ll do the
paperwork when I get back to my office.”

Alana said, “What about Crabtree?”

“Since he’s already privy to everything that’s going on, I
want him to act as liaison between SD and the police. Now, how would you all
like to proceed?”

General Barber said, “I need to confer with Agent Derringer
in private. There are some aspects of this affair to which I may be able to add
some more detail, but those details are not for civilian consumption.”

Alana said, “Like how many and what kind of explosives you
think Aaron has access to?”

The General smiled, “Maybe—maybe not.”

Chief Bennett stood, motioning to Brett and Alana, “Let’s
leave them to it.”

Derringer asked, “Is this room secure?”

Bennett said, “Yes. It’s a conference room, not an interview
room. No hidden surveillance gear. Call me when you’re ready to conspire.”

The police contingent of the assembled party departed,
closing the door behind them.

Brett asked, “What exactly do you want me to do, Chief?
Liaison?”

“Just coordinate between them and Inspector Graves.”

Brett nodded, “Fair enough. But what do you want me to do now?”

“Just wait in your office until someone calls. I’m guessing
it will be a couple of hours before anything important happens. In the
meantime, I want to talk a little more with the Inspector.”

The trio parted company, Brett returning to his office, and
the Chief and Alana walking the opposite direction, down the elevator, and out
into a small courtyard within the confines of the station. When they were
alone, Bennett asked, “Graves, was there anything to what Agent Derringer said
about you being connected with some terror network?”

“I’ve told you everything I know, Chief. His intel came from
before I met Aaron again.”

“Where is that clone now?”

“It might be in Aaron’s basement, unless he’s moved it. He
might have even gotten rid of it. I don’t know what happened from the moment I
came out of hiding.”

“We’ll need to retrieve it sooner or later.”

“I think it will be safe for a long time. Aaron had it on
full life support. If we made a move to retrieve it now, it might tip Aaron
off. Who am I kidding? Aaron was a strategic thinker. He’d figure it out.”

Bennett nodded, “Then we’ll wait on that. That’ll also give
me more time to try to think of what to do about it. Which Cyber Commandment is
that one again?”

“The First. Thou shalt not create duplicates. Something’s
just occurred to me, Chief. We are both calling my clone, ‘It.’ Not, ‘Her.’ It.
Is that how people really think of us retirees?”

“I apologize. That was...insensitive.”

“When I talked to her, she was smart. She put the pieces of
the puzzle together as I watched over her. She was just like me. Except for the
voice, anyway. She was inside a male chassis and—”

“And?”

“I just said chassis instead of body.”

The Chief’s phone began beeping. He answered with a brisk
greeting, followed by a brief acknowledgement, before quickly hanging up,
“They’re ready.”

Brett was also summoned into the ensuing conference between
Derringer, Barber, Alana, and Bennett. A pizza-based dinner was delivered for
the living, and although Brett had told her that she could eat and taste, Alana
did not see the point in partaking. After dinner, the General took his leave,
promising to do whatever was within his power to shut down the Zumpco J-7
factory and have those responsible for the cover-up of Detective Rhys’ death
held accountable. Chief Bennett also departed, leaving the case in what he
ingratiatingly called the, “capable hands,” of Agent Derringer.

With the military man and her boss gone, Derringer laid out
his plan.

Using her breaking of the already-revoked security
quarantine of Rhys’ home as a cover story, Alana was to go undercover as a
fugitive from the police. She would try to contact Aaron Stone and reconnect
with him with the goal of uncovering whatever plan he was hatching before it
reached maturity.

Several challenges immediately arose.

The first was already addressed, that of Alana’s twin transponders.
Those had already been neutralized, one by Wen Jing and the other by Aaron, and
they could no longer give her away as a spy. She would be unable to carry a
phone with her, as the very process of connecting with the network would give
away its position, and Aaron would no doubt find that suspicious if Alana was
supposedly on the run. She would also be unable to carry a sidearm since Aaron
knew about its anti-crime, signaling transponder.

The second was related to the first. How would Alana
communicate her status with anyone clandestinely? Derringer had some ideas
based on how Security Division conducted similar operations, but he did not
have access to their labs in Langley, Virginia. A call was made to the
cyberforensics lab, and Wen Jing was called into the meeting for a
consultation. She was kept distant from the details of the operation, but after
learning that Aaron had some detailed knowledge of cyborg mechanisms, she
suggested the implantation of two high-powered transmitters that could be triggered
through Alana’s Vira. They would only function for a very short time, sending a
compressed data burst, and then expend their batteries, but their signatures
would be traceable via satellite. They would be disconnected from the main
systems so that a standard diagnostic scan would not reveal their presence.
Alana would have to transfer any video or audio recordings she made to the
devices manually before transmitting, but that could be done in less than a
minute.

The third was how to contact Aaron. He wasn’t answering his
phone. A quick trace of the number found that it was not on the network
anymore, and even when it was, it was a pre-paid account in the name of the St.
Mary Magdalen Roman Catholic Church. So that would be their starting point. It
was a gamble as to whether he would even be there, but absent any better leads,
it was the best option they could see.

The fourth roadblock was erected by Alana, “There is one
condition I want met before I cooperate with you any further.”

Derringer looked annoyed at this, “What?”

“I want a guarantee that when I get back from this,
Detective Rhys will have been cleared of all charges against him and put into
the queue for resurrection.”

Derringer clearly did not like being blackmailed, even if it
was in both his own interest and in the interest of justice, however, he
agreed. Alana waited for him to send the official communiqué to his bosses at
Security Division, and an affirmative reply came about an hour later. If
nothing else was to come out of this exercise, at least Alana had lifted her
best friend and platonic mate from Limbo. Whether or not she would get to see
him again was still up in the air. Whether he would forgive her for sending him
to his death was another matter entirely.

Even though everyone else in the room was growing fatigued
from the long day, with Alana also feeing the mental stress, it was decided
that the operation should commence immediately. Arrangements were made for
Brett to stay on duty within in the station’s operations room under Agent
Derringer’s supervision. Alana was given a head start and access to Rhys’ car
for the trip back to Camarillo.

Chapter 27

It was about ten o’clock at night when Alana pulled up to
the church where she had last found Aaron. The all-points bulletin for her
arrest should have gone out about an hour previously.

Aaron’s black van was missing from the parking lot, but his
son’s compact was still there, as were about five other vehicles of various
types, none of them particularly road-worthy.

The front doors were propped open, and as Alana approached,
a small group of people, twelve in all, ranging from adult to child to cyborg,
all reasonably well dressed, began to file out of the building. Most were
speaking Spanish, and to a person, each was polite, smiling, and nodding to
Alana as they passed by.

After the last parishioner had departed, boarding cars or
just walking down the sidewalks, Gabriel Stone, dressed in full priest’s robes,
walked to the doors and began to close them. Alana approached him, and he paused
when he recognized her.

Alana said, “Evening mass?”

Gabriel nodded, glancing furtively up and down the nearby
street, “Yes, Inspector. What are you doing back here?”

“Something’s gone wrong. I need to see Aaron.”

“All right. Come on inside.”

Gabriel closed the doors behind Alana, locking them both
inside, apparently alone. The interior of the Church looked very different
under its electrical lighting than it did when the sunlight filtered through
the stained glass.

Alana asked, “Where’s your father?”

“He’s not here. I don’t know where he went. The day after
you left, he gave me a big speech about being proud of me and whatnot, and left
me in charge of things around here. Then he loaded up his van and drove off. He
told me he’d see me when he saw me. I’m very worried about him, honestly.”

Aware that Gabriel, despite appearing naive, might be lying
as a means of testing her response, Alana was measured in her language, “Did he
leave any way for you to contact him? In case of emergencies?”

“Why do you need to see him?”

“I slipped up in a couple of ways. First, I went into a
quarantine zone and got attacked by a Zumpco robot. One of those that Aaron
said was breaking the law. Then, I said something that tipped my hand. I had to
run, or be arrested. Even though I don’t know much, I know enough that the SD
people might come after your dad. I was thinking that he and I might still be
able to help each other out.”

Gabriel nodded, understandingly, “All right, follow me. You
can hide in the basement for now.”

“Thank you, Gabriel. I really mean that.”

Gabriel opened the secret door beneath the altar and allowed
Alana to descend the stairs to the old command post below, “I’ll be down as
soon as I can.”

Alana found herself locked out of all but the first room in
the basement area. She took the opportunity to scour the room, looking for any
clues that Aaron might have left behind, but the old colonel was careful. If
there was anything there to find, it was either so blatantly obvious or so
fiendishly subtle that it eluded Alana’s best inspection. All of the old
computer hardware in the room was password-locked.

About fifteen minutes later, the altar opened and Gabriel
came down the stairs, carrying his bug detector wand, “Is it all right if I
scan you again, Inspector?”

“Yes, but I’m keeping my shirt on this time.”

Gabriel ran his detector over and around Alana’s body,
concluding, “You’re clean.”

Remembering having watched her clone get flirty with the
young priest before Aaron disabled her, Alana could not resist adding, “Am I
still hot?”

Gabriel seemed to have come to terms with Alana’s saucy
side. His face did not turn beet-red as it had done previously, “Is this what
you really looked like when you died?”

“My chassis doesn’t do me justice, but it’s pretty close.
Maybe someday I’ll get to show you some images and you can draw your own
conclusions about it.”

“Can you stay down here overnight, Inspector?”

“Does it get me closer to meeting your dad?”

“I’m not promising anything, but if the NAR security
services are chasing you, I think you’d be safe. But I’ll need move your car
somewhere else. Can I have the key?”

Alana reached into her overcoat pocket and produced the key
to Rhys’ car. She handed it over, “Of course. I don’t think they know I’m in
that particular vehicle yet, but if they figure it out, they could ping its
transponder. Where are you going to move it?”

Gabriel took the key, “Somewhere secret.”

“Do I get to move around, or will I be stuck in this room?”

“You can sleep standing up, right?”

Alana nodded, “Understood. When will I hear back from you?”

“As soon as I have something I can tell you. I’ll check on
you before I open the chapel tomorrow morning regardless. Do you need
anything?”

“My battery is still over half, but I wouldn’t mind topping
it off, just in case.”

“Our induction recharger is built into the gurney. I’ll
wheel it out. Will that be good enough?”

Alana nodded again, “Yes. Thank you, Gabriel.”

Aaron’s son walked to the security door to the interior
rooms and used his handprint to unlock it, “It’s not a problem. We’re sort-of
friends, right?

Alana smiled, “Yeah, sort of. Can I ask you another
question?”

Gabriel waited for Alana to continue, and she asked, “Is my
clone still in there? In that substitute body I was using?”

Gabriel said, “Aaron took him—her—well, you, with him. You
walked out, but I don’t think you were awake at the time. I think it—you—well,
her—were on autopilot. Why?”

“I was just curious. She’s still me, in an odd way. Did your
father ever say why he doesn’t like retirees?”

“Never to me. He used to help the ones from Simi for some
reason. The discards and the rejects. Used to repair them for free, if he had
the parts. I think it was because that’s what our savior, Jesus Christ, would
have done. He might not have approved of them—of cyborgs—but the way they were
being treated made him mad. If I had to guess, I’d say he disliked the people
who invented the technology more than the people who used it. He didn’t like
the death penalty either, probably for the same reasons. He thought the people who
always demanded blood were as evil as those who just took it.”

Alana crossed her arms, “Colonel Stone was always a
complicated man.”

As he turned away, Gabriel said, “I’ll be back in a minute
with your recharging bed. After that, I’ll leave you down here where it’s safe,
and I’ll expect to see you tomorrow.”

Three days passed. Twice a day, at random intervals, Gabriel
would come downstairs to check on Alana. He declined to allow her access to the
other rooms in the basement or provide her with a password for the computer
network. She was able to wrangle that the computer hardware there was
ex-military, and so old as to no longer be compatible with the global
communications network, or even the current version of the Internet. At one
point, Alana tried to find any receptacle into which her data cable plug would
fit, but that technology was also incompatible.

After the first day, it became clear to Alana that Gabriel
was testing her. Despite his suggestions that Aaron had merely left without
telling Gabriel where he was going, he obviously knew more. But without any
better leads, Alana had to bide her time. If she appeared too eager or
insistent on finding him, it might backfire. Aaron was going to have to come to
her.

At about six o’clock on Friday evening, before Gabriel began
preparing for conducting his modest mass, he opened the hatch and summoned
Alana forth, “I’m sorry for the long wait, Inspector. You know how things are.”

“And apparently, so do you, Gabriel. You could have told me
that you were deliberately making me wait. It’s not like I didn’t figure it
out.”

“Well, you are an inspector.”

“Chief Inspector.”

Gabriel smiled, nodding, “Chief inspector.”

Alana asked, “What now?”

Gabriel motioned for her to follow, and led her through the
back offices of the church, eventually opening the outside door. At the end of
a covered walkway, Gabriel’s car sat waiting. The young vicar pointed to the
car and handed Alana a car key wrapped within a handwritten note. Unfolding the
note, she found two sets of numbers written on it. Alana examined them as
Gabriel asked, “Do you understand? Just nod if you do.”

Alana understood them perfectly. They were Global
Positioning System coordinates. One of the required courses in her college ROTC
program was land navigation, both manual with lensatic compass and GPS-enabled
device. She didn’t remember anything about how to navigate, but she knew how to
read hours, minutes, and seconds in the standard EGM2050 format. She nodded.

“Treat her gently, and Godspeed,” Gabriel said as he turned
towards the church, disappearing inside and closing the door behind him.

Alana took all the hints, and boarded Gabriel’s car. She
inserted the key in the security panel and said, “Car, drive.”

“Where would you like to go today?”

Alana read off the GPS coordinates, and the car zipped
forward. It had some pep for a compact electric, and was speeding Northwest up
the Ventura Freeway in no time, traffic control devices notwithstanding.

The car found its roundabout way onto Interstate Highway 5
going north. Alana called up the coordinates on her own Vira and found that
they were headed into the Northwest Region, in what was Oregon until the
country was reorganized after the revolution. The final stop was a parking lot
in a suburb of Portland.

Alana considered triggering one of her transmitters, but she
could not be certain that the car did not have a listening device embedded.
Even if the transmission were indecipherable, its existence would blow her
cover.

Once the car had passed through the San Francisco
megalopolitan area, it pulled into an automated recharging station. Gabriel’s
car must have had an induction charger in its roof, as the stall’s overhead
panel extended downward, halting mere centimeters from the top. The car said,
“I am making a recharging stop. The process will take approximately five
minutes. When you are ready to proceed, fasten your safety restraints, and say,
‘Car, continue.’ Thank you.”

Alana took the opportunity to exit the vehicle and walk a
short distance away. Then she recorded a detailed report about her disposition
and transmitted it into the ether. Hopefully, someone would be listening. The
battery on the transmitter would not recharge on its own, so she was down to
one emergency broadcast. But at least Brett and Agent Derringer would have a
chance to know where she was headed.

Chapter 28

It was about noon the next day when the car finally rolled
into the outskirts of Portland. It merged with the flow of traffic and
navigated itself without incident to the half-empty parking lot. It pulled into
an unoccupied space, and its Vira announced, “Destination reached.”

After being cooped up within Aaron’s basement for three
days, and then having to spend the better part of a fourth in the cramped
economy car of a celibate youngster, Alana could not help but open the door and
venture outside. She glanced around the area, trying to spot any signs of
activity.

Just then, a black sedan cruised up beside her and stopped.
The door opened.

Alana took one final look around before committing to the
unspoken invitation before her, and she spotted a long-range camera drone
hovering just above a rooftop in the distance. Whether it was Security
Division, something sent by Aaron, or an aircraft that just happened to be
there when she was looking, Alana could not judge. If it was the former, then
her message might have gotten to Derringer and SD might have picked up
Gabriel’s car. If it was Aaron, she’d need to maintain her charade.

She stooped over and boarded the sedan. It was running
either on autopilot or under remote control, possibly some combination of both.
The door swung shut. The car began moving without nagging her to buckle up her
safety harness, which led her to believe that its onboard computer had been
tampered with.

Being aware that she might still be under surveillance,
Alana just sat up straight and kept her eyes locked straight ahead.

The black car continued driving for some time, heading away
from the city. As an old-fashioned covered bridge came into view along the old
two-lane road, the black sedan pulled off onto the shoulder and the door
opened. Alana took the hint and stepped out. The door closed and the car
continued onward, crossing the bridge across what a nearby sign identified as
Johnson Creek.

Just then, a white coup drove under the bridge from the
other direction and stopped in the middle, beneath the canopy. It flashed its
headlights.

Alana quickly took another glance around, but could not see
a drone following them, which was probably more of a bad thing than a good
thing. She hustled over to the white car, whose door opened for her as well.
Soon, she was again driving to locations unknown. Whatever Aaron was up to, it
was serious enough to merit full counter-intelligence treatment.

After driving away from the city for about an hour, the car
finally turned into a long, private driveway and wound its way up a rise along
a high ridge. Through occasional gaps in the evergreen trees, Alana could see
Portland sprawling out in the distance, as well as the even more distant, yet distinctive
snowcaps of Mount Saint Helens and Mount Hood.

The driveway eventually flattened out and led to a large,
private home. Although made to look as though made from wood, its mass would
have had to be supported by other means, such as concrete or at least thick
brickwork. The right-most door of a three-car garage opened automatically as
the car approached. After the vehicle glided to a halt, the door rolled back
downward, the relative quiet of its motors and wheels indicating high-grade
construction.

The overhead light panel in the garage came on, its diffuse,
white light reflecting with near-purity off the glossy polycoat of Aaron’s
black cargo van, which was parked alongside a silver-gray luxury sedan that
Alana did not recognize. Other than the cars, the garage was empty, almost
spotless, save for some windblown debris that had made its way inside while the
doors were open. A camera was installed in the upper corner of the garage, and
Alana had no doubt that she was being surveilled.

Alana walked to the door to the interior and took the knob
in her hand. It was locked, but she heard a buzzing sound, and when she tried
again, it opened. She found herself staring down a connecting corridor that led
to another door at the end. Single doors on either side of the corridor were
closed, most likely leading to utility or storage areas, just as they did in
her home back in Los Angeles.

To trigger her last transmission to Agent Derringer now or
to wait until more information was revealed. That was the question. Before she
could decide, the door at the end of the corridor opened. The doorway framed
Aaron Stone, backlit by sunlight filtering in from elsewhere in the house. He
said, “Come in. You’re just in time. You need to see something.”

Aaron led Alana through an open kitchen filled with modern
appliances and cookware, into an adjoining living room filled with
colonial-style furniture. A large video wall was displaying an image of some
kind of outdoor gathering.

The scene looked like a press conference of some kind. A
cadre of reporters was seated in the front of a stage, while about a hundred or
so onlookers, many waving identical NAR flags, had gathered behind them.
Councilwoman Chambers was standing behind a podium, and she was flanked on
either side by four other Councilpersons, all dressed in fashionable business
attire. Just behind them stood a Mark VII Joebot. It was unarmed, but in full
battledress. Its chameleonic camouflage was locked into a desert pattern, which
Alana presumed was a deliberate choice given the NAR’s latest operations in
North Africa. Graphics surrounding the main image identified the broadcast as
being aired by the official NAR news network. The sound was muted.

Aaron picked up a remote control and pointed it at the
screen, saying, “Watch and listen.”

Chambers was in mid-sentence, “—lives of our heroic fighting
men are precious!”

There was a moderate level of cheering and vigorous flag
waving from the modest crowd. Chambers continued, “The lamestream media began a
smear campaign yesterday. It tried to paint the most promising defense program
we have ever initiated as illegal and un-American! But I’m here today to set
the record straight by bringing our case directly to the American people! Let
me introduce you to Joebot Seven!”

The combat robot walked around the assembled government
leaders and stopped below the podium. It said, in a synthetic voice that was
probably designed to sound as heroic as possible by its creators, frightening
to enemies and reassuring to friends, “Thank you, Councilwoman Chambers.
Greetings citizens! My name is Joebot Mark Seven. I am the latest in military
robotic technology. I am faster and smarter than any other combat robot on the
planet. I and my comrades are eager to begin protecting you from all enemies,
foreign and domestic!”

Another round of applause rang out on cue, as if someone
off-screen held up a sign telling the crowd to react.

Alana asked, “So what’s this all about?”

Aaron replied, “Just wait.”

Chambers lowered her tone, deliberately attempting to appear
more serious. She was clearly skilled in public speaking, and in crowd
manipulation. She looked past the press corps and at the crowd, “Let me ask you
this. If you could fix things so that no American boys ever had to die in
battle in a foreign land again, would you fix it?

A smattering of cheers and applause emerge from the crowd,
mixed with sporadic cries of, “Fix it!”

Chambers raised her voice again, “Contrary to what you may
have heard in the liberal media, these are robots! Great robots, but just that—robots.
They do not, as has been alleged, have fully functioning brains. But
their electronic hearts are all-American! They are sworn to protect the NAR
Constitution. They are superior to anything our enemies can throw at us. And I,
for one, think that our armed forces deserve the best!”

A round of inspired cheers erupted from the crowd. Flags
waved frantically. Councilwoman Chambers crossed her arms, gazing about the
scene. She grinned smugly.

Suddenly, the Joebot said, in a voice that was many decibels
higher than its previous tone, in its crowd-address mode, “Attention Citizens
of the New American Republic!”

Alana glanced at Aaron, and could see him smirking with the
same self-assuredness that Chambers had just displayed. The politicians on
stage behind the robot looked at one another, exchanging muted words and
whispers that were drowned out by the drone in front of them, which said, “With
this model of combat robot, the advocates of cybernetics have crossed a
Rubicon. Their goal was to see just how closely they could shave the line
between living beings and robots—to create an entity that was as smart as a
human, but was legally not human—an entirely new breed of slave for a new era
of dystopian tyranny. Forty years ago, the people rose up to defend their right
to pseudo-immortality. Forty years later, that right had been turned into a
curse upon those whom the technology has enslaved. This message is from the
Revolutionary Guard. This perversion of science stops now.”

Chambers turned to look off-screen and began frantically
waving her hand in front of her neck, urging the technicians responsible for
the broadcast to cut it off. But before that could happen, everything in the
image except the framing graphics momentarily solarized. The audio automatically
equalized the sound of a loud explosion. When the video image returned to
normal, the entire stage was on fire. A huge hole had appeared within the
center of the stage, and neither the politicians nor the Joebot were to be
seen. Half of the members of the press corps were crawling around on the
ground, and the other half were not moving at all. Most of the crowd were
screaming and running away, while a few either stood by, stunned, or rushed to
help the fallen.

The image quickly changed to a broadcast studio, where a
presenter frantically worked to fit himself with an earpiece, “Um, we’re being
told that the press conference with the so-called ‘cyber-gang’ of
Councilpersons, led by their most senior member, Councilwoman Sarah Chambers of
the Southwest Region, has been disrupted by a terrorist attack. Please stay
tuned for more information as it—”

Aaron turned the television off, “It begins.”

Alana asked, less than calmly, “What begins?”

Aaron said, “Divine retribution for the sin of man’s hubris.
The Commander wanted to talk to you. That’s the only reason I brought you here.
Let’s go see her.”

Alana was perplexed that Aaron did not scan, or even frisk
her for weapons. Was it that he trusted her, even in these circumstances? Or
was it simply that he didn’t care? Whatever plot Aaron was involved in, it had
clearly started.

Aaron led Alana to a different area of the house, and opened
a door that led to a staircase that ran downwards, “You have a thing for
basements lately.”

“Cyborgs first.”

The stairs were lit, and the walls were oak-paneled. There
were no visible cameras, and no security doors. A large, open room below ground
was furnished eclectically, with a number of design periods represented. The
floor was carpeted in plush crimson. A motionless body was laid face up on a
chaise lounge that was pushed against one wall. It was the male cyborg body
Aaron had constructed for Alana to use while she was disembodied, and which was
now housing her clone’s brain case.

There was an open door at the far end of the big room, and a
shifting, irregular pattern of light shone through. A male voice was audible,
“...there are reports coming in from all across the country of similar
explosions, and despite the absence of an official NAR government statement
confirming it at this hour, there can be little doubt that what we are seeing
is a vast, coordinated terrorist attack.”

As Aaron walked across the carpeting, towards the door,
Alana followed. From ahead, a different voice spoke, “We are expecting a
statement from President Smyth’s press secretary. A source close to the
president has told ABS News that there will be a declaration of a national
emergency, and a possible, temporary enactment of martial law. Such is the
scope of the unfolding crisis.”

When Aaron reached the door, he stopped outside and motioned
for Alana to enter. She did, and Aaron closed the door behind him.

The inside of the room was smaller than the living space
they had just traversed, but it was still very large, at least ten meters wide.
The walls were not paneled, but were rather gray-painted concrete. A large
video monitor dominated the room, currently split into a dozen separate video
windows, each displaying some kind of official news report. Whatever was
happening, it was big, and Alana was too late to stop it.

There were several tables and racks of electronic equipment,
and Alana was guessing that this was a communications room of some sort,
perhaps even a command center. In addition to the video wall, there were
several smaller monitors hooked into what looked to be the same kind of
obsolete hardware that was in the church basement back in Camarillo. In any
event, Alana decided that she was close enough to this ‘Commander’ to both
justify and risk triggering her second emergency signal.

A lone figure sat at a desk, a modern terminal with an
integrated user interface on its glass desktop. An office chair obscured most
of the features, but the figure had long, gray hair. Another reporter’s voice
began speaking about another bomb blast, this time on the grounds of a Zumpco
Cybernetics data archive facility. The seated figure pushed a virtual button on
its desktop, and the journalist was cut-off in mid-sentence. An indicator
appeared in the top left corner of the video wall that read, ‘Muted.’

The seated figure spoke in an elderly, feminine voice, “I’ve
wanted to talk to you at length about your life after death.”

The figure picked up a military-grade flechette pistol from
the desktop and spun around in her chair. Despite her grayed hair, wrinkled
face, and less curvaceous figure, Alana easily recognized the woman. It was
she.

Alana said, “Well, this is some grade-A irony, isn’t it?”

The older, presumably original, Alana smiled, “I was amused
when Aaron told me that you had faked your own death to protect our operation.
It was so like...me.”

“You obviously weren’t killed back in 2055. But I have no
memory of you planning on doing this.”

“I hadn’t decided to go through with it until after I was
saved.”

“Why not explain everything to me?”

The old Alana smiled slightly, “There’s no reason not to
now, I suppose. Where do you want me to begin?”

“How about where you faked your death? What led you to do
that?”

“It didn’t take me long to figure out what was going to
happen with cyborgs after I was saved. There were already news reports about
how they were being used as sweatshop labor, and several of my first cases as a
junior detective involved busting up those rings, only to have the prosecutions
thrown out because the employers weren’t actually breaking any laws. There was
no legislation protecting beings like you from abuse. It became clear to me
that the only reason the reformed government agreed to nationalize Zumpco
Cybernetics was so that the fat-cats in charge could forego buying industrial
robots when they could just enlist a desperate workforce of under-skilled
cyborgs as slave labor. And need I even mention the effect it’s had on the
ability of the living work force to find a job? The poverty rate in the NAR is
twice what it was in the United States before the revolution.”

The gynoid Alana said, “I do remember having those feelings,
and to an extent, I still do. But things have improved for retirees
since then.”

“Only for a small percentage of you. If you look at analyses
of the data, over ninety-percent of cyborgs still experience widespread abuse
and discrimination. It’s worse for you than it was for the working underclass
that we went to war to protect back in 2054. Hell, it’s worse than it was for
African slaves before Civil War One.”

Alana objected to her original’s assertion, “No it isn’t.
Nobody’s whipping us. Don’t you think you’re being hubristic? Cyborgs didn’t
ask for your help. Especially not this kind of help.”

Old Alana shrugged, “If the Reformation War taught me
nothing else, it’s that you can’t please everyone. We’ve done what we’ve done.
We were always concerned that the political arm of the revolutionary forces was
giving away too many concessions, concentrating on the cybernetics issue while
marginalizing all of the other reforms we wanted. In the end, the only things
that happened were that the government turned more fascist and plutocratic,
while the masses were appeased by giving everyone access to simulated
immortality. We were going backwards, not forwards.”

Alana reasoned that she could probably rush herself and
easily overpower the old lady, with the only danger being either a headshot or
a very lucky hit to a control center in her chassis. Aaron was also in the
other room, and he might be able to intervene. He appeared unarmed, but for all
Alana knew, the entire house was rigged to explode on command. Unsure of what,
if anything, she could or would do about it, she continued to probe, “How did
you and Aaron Stone get involved? Did you two do all of this?”

“Of course not. Aaron was still maintaining the rebel
command network. He always said it was, ‘just in case.’ As if he knew this day
would come. Oddly enough, he was right. It did.”

“How—”

“He called me one day, and asked me out on a date. He and I
dated for a while before he finally dropped his request on me.”

Alana could feel her face twisting in a wholly new manner,
“You dated him!?!”

Old Alana smirked, “Yes. He was fairly charming when he set
his mind to it. Plus, he had a whopper of a—”

“We’re digressing here. How did you get caught up in this
plot?”

“Aaron wanted someone to go underground, to act as a
coordinator, a commander, of the surviving rebel underground. And at the time,
I agreed. When I got pregnant, that was the final straw for me. In retrospect,
it was maybe not the best choice, but that’s the thing about life. One small
decision can change history.”

“Pregnant? I thought I didn’t want children?”

“I didn’t want to give birth to one. Or take care of one. In
the end, I only had to do the former. Aaron did the rest.”

Alana connected the generational dots, “What do you mean
by—are you talking about Gabriel?”

Old Alana nodded, “Gabriel is my son. We arranged for him to
be left on Aaron’s doorstep. The whole Moses thing. Aaron filed adoption
papers, and was given legal guardianship.”

The gynoid Alana glanced down at the floor. That news took
the wind out of any battle sails she might have considered raising, “I have a
son. Shit.”

Old Alana appeared confused by the change in her retiree’s
entire posture, “What’s wrong?”

“I might have accidentally given him an Oedipus complex.
Does he know you’re his mother?”

“No. We kept it from him. We couldn’t tell him. It would
have endangered the whole network.”

At this point, Alana just wanted more information. She was
almost regretting triggering her emergency transponder. She was likewise almost
regretting having discovered the truth about herself, “Okay. What happened
after Gabriel was born?”

“I kept gathering resources and keeping the network
together. We were working mostly with former rebels, and some of us were
beginning to die off from accidents or old age. We weren’t able to get many new
recruits because it would have been too easy for SD to infiltrate us. But, we
still have several hundred members around the country.”

“You stayed in this house for thirty-five years? Seriously?”

“Only about twenty-five really. I didn’t move here until
after Gabriel was born.”

Alana asked, “Didn’t you ever get out?”

“I didn’t need to. We had grocery deliveries made, and I
learned how to cook. Imagine me with an apron! The house is spacious, so I’ve
never felt hemmed-in. On the days when it wasn’t raining, I put on a hat to
keep the satellites from identifying me and gardened around the house. It’s
remote enough that we rarely got visitors, and when we did, they were easily
turned away. Any repairs were done by people in the network.”

“I sure did change. I could never see myself as either a
gardener or a housewife.”

Old Alana mused, “The changes that come with aging and
childbirth alter more than just your body’s chemistry. They make you think, and
I had time to do that without being drug into the rat race every morning. When
I was working with the Army, I had to spend hours upon hours scanning legal
books. Now, I would just tell a Vira to do it for me. In some ways, you’re
lucky that you changed jobs away from being a lawyer and became a cop. I think
you’d have been sidelined by the technology more than you appreciate.”

“So, if you didn’t do anything for two decades, what’s all
that about?” Alana asked, pointing to the video wall.

“I never said I did nothing. I was quite busy. Revolutionary
activity doesn’t plan itself. I also had a great deal of very competent help.”

“Shall I venture a guess at what’s going on, or are you
going to tell me?”

“When the government gets the full list of the targets we
hit, they’ll figure it out quickly. We just struck at the support network
behind the J-7 project, as well as other Zumpco Cybernetics targets.”

“Why do it now?”

“J-7 was our main target. If we didn’t do anything, it was
going to happen. They had already gone into limited production. Also, look at
me. I’m seventy this year. Most of us are advanced in age. If we hadn’t done it
soon, we’d have been unable.”

“Is there more terrorism to come?”

“That wasn’t terrorism. That was strategic warfare.”

“What was your goal?”

“We knew that we’d never undo what’s been done. The
resurrection technology is out of the bag. It won’t ever go back inside.
However, if all has gone according to plan, we will have set it back far enough
to both cause and enable some key changes to be made before it all starts up
again.”

That did not sound like a trivial thing to Alana, “What do
you mean by that?”

“I mean that in addition to blowing up the majority of
Zumpco’s manufacturing facilities, as well as killing the politicians on
Zumpco’s payroll like Chambers, we also hit their data archives with enhanced
EMP bombs. With any luck, we’ll have erased four out of five saved profiles.

“What! That’s mass murder!”

“We only hit the backup files in one location. There will be
backup files to restore for the vast majority, once Zumpco’s repaired their
computers. As long as no cyborg or saved person dies before they can be saved
again, the casualties will be minimal.”

“Why...”

“It was the only way we could ensure killing the main
proponents of J-7. Chambers was a cyborg. She’d have just resurrected and done
it again. We had to destroy her body, as well as her save profile and her
backup. And I think we did,” old Alana nodded toward her bank of video
displays.

Alana looked down and whispered, “Rhys...” It had been a few
days. Had her friend been resurrected in time? And was her save file secure?

“We’ve estimated that their program will be set back for at
least six months while they replace all the hardware we just destroyed. Which
reminds me,” said the older Alana as she turned towards her desk. She pushed a
sequence of buttons. Suddenly, sparks flew from several of the electronic
devices. The video monitors all went black and the overhead lights went out
long enough for Alana’s night vision to activate, but then they flickered back
to life.

“What did you just do?”

“I purged the evidence. Even though every one of us was
willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good, we’re not stupid.
If there’s no reason for us to be caught up in the inevitable inquisition that
will follow this, then we’re not volunteering. We know all about SD’s
interrogation surrogates.”

“Why did you want to meet me then? If I ever get saved
again, you’d be vulnerable, even if I resisted. They could just load my save
profile into a surrogate brain and interrogate it.”

“I just wanted to talk to you. Twin-sister to long-lost
twin-sister.”

“What about my clone in the next room. You could have talked
to her instead. She’d have told you the same things I’m telling you now.”

“She’s a copy of a copy.”

Alana added, “Of a copy of a copy. I’ve been resurrected
twice before.”

Old Alana shrugged, “You can’t always get what you want. I
wanted to talk to the earliest available version. You and I are the same
person, but we’ve lived completely different lives.”

Alana was resentful, but it struck her as odd that she was
not angry. Perhaps she had used up the bulk of her ire over Rhys? She said,
“We’re not the same person. I don’t know you. I would never do
what you just did!”

There was a knock on the door. A few seconds later, Aaron
opened it, “Commander, there’s a military-grade drone circling the building.
I’m guessing that they were able to follow your clone here somehow. What do we
do?”

Old Alana sighed. A bit of emotion showed through her cold,
calculating exterior, “Will Gabriel manage on his own?”

Aaron was sanguine, “I trained him myself. He’s a Stone in
both name and spirit.”

“Then it’s time,” the elder Alana nodded to Aaron. Aaron
stepped inside the door and closed his eyes. Alana was looking at him when his
brain decorated the wall. The shot boomed within the confines of the basement
command center.

Alana whipped back around to see her original self holding
her flechette pistol at the ready. “How could you do that? Weren’t you in love
with Aaron?”

Old Alana said, her voice quavering, “We both knew we’d have
to do this if we got caught. To protect the others. It was part of the plan. If
not, I wouldn’t have told you about it.”

She placed the pistol underneath her jaw, pointing it
upwards. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her expression was otherwise
frozen.

In that moment, Alana thought she may have understood what
her living version was feeling, and why. Was it about her son? Was that what
changed her? Even she, the cyborg, was still struggling to process the feelings
that the same mind as hers, however far removed by time and experience, had a
child. It also dawned on her that the child was in serious danger, “Wait! If
I’m interrogated ever again, they’ll find out everything that happened, and
under the circumstances, that will implicate Gabriel. They could charge him
with conspiracy to your plot. Who knows about him?”

“Just Aaron. Me.” Old Alana aimed her pistol at Alana’s
head, her hand keeping the heavy weapon steady despite her age, “And you.”

Suddenly, there was a minor blast from above ground.

“That will be the front door. I give us another thirty
seconds before they storm us. Last words?”

Alana’s mind raced. If her save file had been destroyed in
the attacks, this could be the end for her. But if she was interrogated, her
son—her son? Any action she took would likely result in Gabriel being
imprisoned. She thought of the circumstances that led her here, and of how she
had to break the law in the process. The courts might order her destruction
anyway. Then she remembered that her clone was in the adjacent room, and it
knew nothing of the conversation she had just had. If it survived, maybe—but,
oh, the memories she would lose. She regretted having never told Ben Rhys how
she truly felt about him, and hated herself for keeping a professional wall
between them. In the end, all she could think to ask was, “What did it feel
like? Giving birth?”

“It was the most painful experience in my life, up until I shot
Aaron.”

The door to the basement was bashed open, and as heavy boots
stomped their way down the stairs, Alana pulled the trigger twice.

Chapter 29

Alana’s eyes snapped open. She looked around, up and down,
but her vision was blurred, and she could not turn her head. She heard a
familiar voice say, “I think it’s on.”

An unfamiliar male voice said, “No booby traps that I can
detect. You’re clear to bring in the forensics team. I’m pulling the bomb squad
back.”

She squeaked in a distinctly masculine voice, “Brett?”

The reply came in the tone of a familiar and unwelcome
voice. The Bostonian accent gave ‘Maggie’ MacGruder away instantaneously, “So,
what do we have here?”

She heard Brett Crabtree’s voice as well, “This is probably
Inspector Graves’ brain case.”

“Brett!?! It’s me. Where have you been?”

Brett asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Alana Graves. Am I—where is
Aaron Stone?”

MacGruder said, “Before you utter even the tiniest little
word, Inspector, let me caution you that we are conducting a criminal
investigation, and anything you say here could be used against you in court.
So, as one policeman to another, I’m advising you to speak extremely
carefully.”

“I want to talk to Brett—to Crabtree. Where is he?”

Alana could see only well enough to isolate Brett as a
black-and-periwinkle-blue smudge, “I’m here, Inspector.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s a long story, Ma’am. Like Inspector MacGruder said,
please don’t say anything until we get you to the hospital and get you a
lawyer.”

“How long? How long was I...floating?”

MacGruder said, “Ms. Lin, see if it’s okay to move.”

“Wendy!?! I can’t see. It’s like I’m looking through the
eyes of Claude Monet.”

Someone leaned in front of Alana. She presumed that it was
Wen Jing. Her faint Chinese accent confirmed it, “Hmmm... Close your eyelids,
Inspector.”

Alana complied, thankful to have enough motor control to do
so. A few seconds passed, “Now, open wide.”

Alana could now see clearly. Wen Jing was leaning in front
of her. Two translucent patches were pinched between her fingertips. She said,
“Someone covered your eyes with spray-skin.”

Alana glanced around the room. She could only see Maggie
MacGruder, Brett, and Wen Jing, although she could hear others nearby. She had
been in a torturously long state of sensory deprivation, “Brett, how long was I
here?”

The Detective answered, “I’m not positive, Ma’am, but it’s
been several days since you were waylaid by Aaron Stone.”

“Days?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Days.”

She heard Wen Jing say, “I’m going to switch her off during
transport to be safe.”

Alana said, “No!” but before she could follow her
exclamation, she was back in the black, wide-awake in hell. It was worse than
the hours she had spent blacked-out when she tried to plug into the ninja
robot. She tried counting herself backwards into sleep, but she was too well
rested, and being awake for the short time had shocked her into full
consciousness. How many more hours would she have to endure this emptiness? It
was like being buried alive, but being unable to die. She tried to talk, but
she could hear no sound except the thought repeating within her own mind,
echoing infinitely. She tried to scream, and there was no echo at all. Finally,
she just started counting again. The last time, she was able to get to
three-thousand and thirty something before losing track and having to begin
anew.

MacGruder carefully circled the room, “Is there anything
obvious in here?”

Brett replied, “No, but the next room’s clean except for the
three bodies. Way too clean. I think whoever blew the front door open ahead of
us cleaned it out.”

MacGruder speculated, “SD, do you think?”

Wen Jing said, “If so, they didn’t leave any calling cards
that I can see. Inspector MacGruder, you and Detective Crabtree should leave
until the bio-forensics team does a thorough sweep. There’s no way that there
would not be some kind of DNA traces with this kind of furniture. I should go
as well, there’s no other electronics or robotics here except for Inspector
Graves’ chassis. But from glancing in that room in there, I’ll bet you a Peking
duck dinner that there was. Way too many electrical and data plugs to be a
storage closet.”

The investigative team was at the house for hours, sifting
through every room with every kind of detection device that had yet been
invented, and even some from previous centuries. As an antique grandfather
clock in the living room announced the arrival of midnight, the cars and vans
parked outside were loaded with evidence, two corpses, and two android bodies,
and a long strip of yellow police cordon tape was strung around the house.

MacGruder at last commanded, “Saddle up. It’s a long ride
back to LA.”

Chapter 30

Alana was wide-awake and half-out of her mind when power was
finally restored and she once again had sensory awareness. But something was
wrong. She still could not move her head. She glanced around, taking in what
she could see.

Before her were Maggie MacGruder and Bob Smith, the
cyber-lawyer who was supposedly working on getting Sandy Mathers repaired and
out of her care. She focused on the background, and recognized the setting. It
was one of the shopital wards from the Zumpco Cybernetics facility in Los
Angeles. How many days had passed, she could not judge.

Bob spoke first, “Good afternoon, Inspector. Can you hear
me?”

When Alana answered, at least it was in her own voice,
“Don’t ever fucking lock me up in sensory dep like that ever again! Jesus H.
Christ, it was maddening, in every possible sense of the word.”

MacGruder spoke next, “I cautioned you earlier, Inspector,
but I’m going to do it again because I like you so much. You are being held for
questioning regarding a police investigation. Charges are still pending. If you
say anything, it will be recorded and could be used against you. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, Maggie, I do. I also know how Edvard Munch felt! But
what I don’t understand is how I got here.”

MacGruder said as he stood and walked towards the exit, “I
warned her. All up to her now. I’m taking a long lunch. Call me when you two
are ready to leave.”

When the door closed, Bob said, “Inspector, I’m volunteering
to take your case pro-bono, if you will allow it.”

Alana asked, “What case?”

Bob said, “Apparently, your former self committed some
crimes in the pursuit of justice, and you are going to be brought before a
tribunal to explain yourself.”

Alana began, “I think I met—”

“Shut up!” Bob commanded in such a forceful manner that even
Alana obeyed. “This room is currently under surveillance. That’s why I want you
to accept my counsel. You can drop me from your case later if you are unhappy.”

“Brett?”

Brett said, “If I was your lawyer, I’d tell you to follow
Mister Smith’s advice.”

Alana agreed, “All right then. I accept you as my legal
counsel in this case, whatever that case is.”

Bob smiled, “See how easy that was?”

Alana wanted to glare at something so badly that it made
whatever vision hardware her brain was plugged into temporarily lose focus from
the strain.

Bob glanced upward and seemed to address the entire room,
“As the legal counsel for Inspector Alana Graves, I hereby invoke
attorney-client privilege and order that any recording devices within or
trained upon this room cease operation immediately. Anything recorded from now
until I leave the room will be inadmissible in court, and can be used by the
defense as evidence against the authorities for abuse of power.”

The first item on Smith’s agenda was to tell Alana that the
case of Sandy Mathers had been resolved, and that Zumpco had acceded to their
demands that she both be re-resurrected and compensated for damages. This,
predictably, increased Alana’s confidence in the flamboyant lawyer.

The second was to catch her up on what had transpired
without her knowledge, notably the plot wherein her previous self had faked her
death, resulting in an illegal copy of her personality being produced. Alana
said, “Meaning me.”

Bob nodded, and went on to further complicate things by
mentioning the discovery of her original, biological, self being found near
her, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of seventy years.

The entire session left Alana speechless. Bob concluded by
again cautioning her about saying anything without his being present before
leaving the room.

Chapter 31

Alana was charged by an NAR prosecutor, a middle-aged
Caucasian named Mister Beame, and her preliminary hearing before a judge was
set for two days later. Alana was already half-crazy by days in sensory
deprivation, and she was pushed half the rest of the way by having to sit in a
room without her body, with a television being her only diversion and her Vira
her only companion. She wasn’t able to manipulate her interface except with eye
movements or Vira commands, which she found doubly frustrating as she was
desperate to learn more about what had happened while she was deactivated.

Prior to the hearing time Bob Smith demanded and received
two concessions before Alana could be absorbed by the NAR criminal justice
process.

The first was that her current memory profile be saved. Even
though the Zumpco infrastructure had been largely destroyed in the nationwide
rebel attack, enough of it survived to allow for critical access for VIPs.
Given her involvement in what was already being called the worst act of
domestic terrorism since the Simi Valley dirty nuke, the court had agreed on
the condition that they be allowed to perform a surrogate interrogation on the
saved profile. Alana, on Bob’s advice, agreed, mostly because she felt that she
had not done anything wrong, even if her predecessor had.

The second was that Alana’s brain be placed within a
reconstructed shell. Her own body had been recovered intact from the house near
Portland, with only its brain case being shattered by a flechette, so all that
would be needed was a new head and facial reconstruction. Bob offered to pay
for the incidental expenses out of his own funds.

When Alana asked Bob why he was offering to cover her legal
expenses, he replied that there were two reasons. First, his share of the Sandy
Mathers settlement was substantial, and would not have been possible without
Alana offering to take temporary guardianship. His second reason was that he
felt Alana’s case was precedent-setting, and had the potential to change cyber
law fundamentally for decades to come.

Two days later, her hearing began. Alana was seated during
the proceedings. She was merely an observer, not a participant, at Bob’s strict
direction.

The charges being leveled at her were willful breaking of
several Cyber Commandments involving her illegal personality duplication,
conspiracy to commit terrorism, and accessory to criminal trespass regarding
Detective Rhys’ infiltration of the Zumpco facility.

Based on the evidence presented by Beame, which was
countered by testimony from Brett, Chief Bennett, and her own surrogate
interrogation, the charges of terrorism were thrown out. Beame was dressed down
by the judge for even attempting to bring them, as it was patently clear that
even her former self was trying to investigate the plot before it was hatched.

The remaining charges were allowed to proceed to a grand
jury, the only kind of jury that still existed since the revolution, with
trial-level juries being tossed out as unreliable both for prosecution and for
defense.

After the hearing, Bob remained confident that Alana would
be cleared simply because her current iteration knew nothing of any of the
crimes of which she was being accused.

Alana was less confident, “But, Bob, I did fake my death.
Twice.”

“On the face of it, the ‘sins of the mother’ prosecution is
going to crash and burn like the Hindenburg. What we have to establish is that
you are a unique personality from the moment you were resurrected. The
biological Alana Graves, and your first retiree personality, they were not the
same as you.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“You had made friends with Detective Crabtree, correct?”

“We...” Alana paused, thinking that in the last two weeks,
she had become quite fond of her new assistant, for many of the same reasons
she knew her previous iteration had grown attached to Detective Rhys. She
caught herself drifting into reverie, and quickly snapped back to the
immediate, “We cooperated in our time together. Why?”

Bob said, “I’m going to call him as a primary witness. Along
with Sandy Mathers.”

“How is that going to help? Mathers won’t remember anything,
will she?”

“She won’t have to. I’m going to use her as an example.”

“Then, what’s your strategy?”

Bob smiled, “I’m going to use what I’m calling the apple
defense. Let me explain...”

The grand jury only took a single day to narrow the
prosecutable charges against Alana down from two to one.

When she sent Rhys into the Zumpco factory without a
warrant, Alana violated the corporation’s civil rights, which was a matter for
a civil court to take up, and not a criminal issue. Even then, there was some
extended debate among the jurors given that Zumpco was involved in multiple
criminal investigations, not the least of which was a charge of second-degree
murder for the death of Detective Benjamin Rhys. So the charge of criminal
trespass was thrown out, much to the chagrin of a Zumpco representative in the
audience who was no doubt hoping that a prosecution against the police would
soften the case against them.

Despite being absolved, though not really cleared, of the
lesser charge, the jury approved a prosecution for violation of the First Cyber
Commandment. If she was found guilty of violating Commandment One, a felony,
she would be destroyed, and her saved personality would be placed in Limbo.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon of the following day
when the three judges, all male and none cybernetic, identified by their
nameplates as Rodriguez, Samuels, and Kato, sat down behind their curved bench,
as did everyone in attendance except the bailiff, who read from an electronic
notepad, “The court is now in session. The case is the New American Republic
versus Alana Graves. The charges are that the defendant willfully and
deliberately violated the First Cyber Commandment by falsifying her own death,
which she knew would result in the illegal creation of a clone.”

The Chief Judge, Rodriguez somehow managed to focus on both
Alana and Bob Smith as he said, “How does the defendant plead?”

Bob stood, posing stately for the cameras in the courtroom,
and with a gleam in his artificial eye, he proudly declared, “Inspector Graves
pleads, ‘Not guilty.’”

Thus began the evidentiary phase, with the prosecution
submitting physical evidence to support their claims. The prosecution was
apparently relying on evidence that proved Alana had done exactly what the
state was alleging.

The process of entering everything into the records consumed
the remainder of the day. All through the proceedings, Smith never once lost
his bearing, swaggering confidently through every physical motion as if he
could not lose. It was as if Captain Ahab was sailing into battle against the
fabled white whale while holding a jar of tartar sauce.

Just before the tribunal called for an adjournment for the
day, Bob asked for bail to be granted to the Inspector on the grounds that she
was not a flight risk. There was some debate among the bench as to whether
Alana should be kept in protective custody in case someone should try to
retaliate against her for the spate of terror attacks that her original self
had unleashed upon the public. In the end, Bob was unable to convince the
judges, but he made a grand spectacle of their intransigence for the cameras,
ultimately earning a threat of contempt before conceding defeat.

Alana was less confident than her counsel was. After she had
been led back to her cell in the adjacent jail, she asked, “What was that show
all about, Smith? Are you deliberately trying to antagonize the tribunal? We
would never get away with that kind of behavior in a military court.”

“I was probing them to see how much they cared about the
public spectacle. When I did my judicial research, I found that every last one
of them has political ambitions, and that means that their careers depend on
pleasing the public. I think this trio is concerned about the image they’ll be
presenting. The case is going to be high-profile, regardless of how it is
decided, and unlike the good old days, they won’t have a jury to scapegoat for
an unpopular decision.”

“So, how are you going to make me look popular?”

“First, I’m going to tell the story of your thirty-six years
as a policeperson. You have an impressive record of protecting the public.”

Alana asked, “Then what?”

“Then, I’ll put a parade of character witnesses on the stand
who saw you both before and after you killed yourself the second time.”

“And what will that prove?”

Bob said, “It will prove that you are unique.”

“I still don’t get it. Just on the evidence, I’m guilty.”

“Stop thinking negatively. I have a surprise, and I think
decisive, witness leading off the festivities. Buck up and I’ll see you in the
morning.”

The next day, both Bob Smith and the prosecutor, Mister
Beame, arrived early. They sat across the aisle from one another, each silently
perusing their notes. The animus was thick. Bob finally spoke, “Just what do
you think you are accomplishing by prosecuting that good woman? Is your sense of
justice so twisted that you think laws were written merely to damn people?”

Beame began transferring his notepads and papers from his
briefcase to his table, “I’m doing my job, Mister Smith. I’m upholding the
law.”

Bob said, “I read in your dossier that your father was
killed during the revolution.”

“Yes. Yes he was. He was also a good man.”

“My client was already tried for her involvement, years ago,
and acquitted.”

Beame stopped shuffling papers, as if contemplating a reply,
when Alana was admitted through a side door. She was unrestrained, but escorted
by two guards who led her to the table behind which her attorney sat. She took
her seat as well.

Bob asked, “Did you rest well?”

“Better than when I was in sensory deprivation. Not as well
as when I was a baby.”

“No complaints, then?”

Alana glared at Bob, but he just smiled as he continued,
“Today will be testimony. I think we’ll be done before the day is over, as long
as the court doesn’t drag its feet.”

“Fat chance. I’ve never seen swift justice outside of a
battlefield. What do you think our odds are?”

Bob insisted, “I told you once. I never take a case I’m not
sure I can win. Have a little faith.”

The main doors to the courtroom were opened, and the chamber
filled to capacity with participants as well as members of the press corps.
Alana could see Brett, Wen Jing, and Chief Bennett in the crowd, along with
what she thought was Sandy Mathers, who was not unattractive when she was
wearing her complete face. The crowd was large enough that there were delays
getting everyone seated. Things finally got underway about a half-hour later
than expected when the bailiff heralded the arrival of the tribunal, “All
rise!”

The prosecution had the privilege of calling the first round
of witnesses, but Mister Beame simply stood and said, “The law is clear, and
the evidence is conclusive. The prosecution therefore declines calling any
witnesses, as we do not feel that they are needed.”

The courtroom was filled with a round of ooh-ing and a
counterpoint of aah-ing, during which time Bob whispered to Alana, “I don’t
know what he’s up to. Do you see anything in his tactics?”

Alana shook her head, just as puzzled as Bob, “He’s relying
on the law to be read literally, without interpretation. That’s a fine tack, if
the law has already been tested and you have precedent to back your position.
Do you think he’s gotten to the judges? Masonic handshake? That kind of thing?”

Bob postulated, “Maybe he’s just that stupid?”

Judge Rodriguez banged his gavel and shouted, “Order!”

He didn’t have to say it twice.

“The prosecution has declined their right to call any
witnesses. Is the defense ready to proceed?”

Bob stood, planting both of his hands on the table before
him, and declared, “Yes, indeed, your honor, we are!” He turned to the courtroom
and bellowed, “I call my first witness!”

Alana found it difficult resisting planting her face in her
palms, but she somehow managed to avoid reacting to her counsel’s
melodramatics.

Bob said, “Will the interrogation surrogate for Inspector
Alana Graves please be brought in and placed on the witness stand.”

This caught Beame by surprise as much as it did Alana. As
the Inspector whirled around to shoot Bob a wide-eyed, ‘what the hell?’
expression, the prosecutor leapt to his feet and screamed, “Objection!”

Rodriguez asked, “On what grounds, Mister Beame?”

“Uh...the defendant has not approved the admission of this
type of witness to these proceedings.”

The judge commanded, “Will the defendant and her counsel
please approach the bench.”

Alana did as commanded, with Bob at her side.

Rodriguez asked, “Does the defendant allow the admission of
this witness’ testimony into the trial records? I must caution you that
anything brought forth during cross-examination will be admissible, as long as
the prosecution can show relevance. It will be the equivalent of putting
yourself on the stand.”

Bob looked down at Alana and winked, “Trust me.”

Alana closed her eyes and nodded, “Yes.”

Rodriguez said, “Then you may proceed.” He declared to the
courtroom, “The defendant has agreed to allow this witness. The objection is
overruled.”

Alana returned to her seat. A portable brain case support
system was wheeled into the courtroom atop a serving table by two Zumpco
technicians dressed in white lab coats. They lifted the container and set it
upon the chair at the center of the witness stand. When the technicians
retreated whence they came, the bailiff approached the stand and said, “You
have been called as a witness for the defense in the trial of Inspector Alana
Graves—”

Bob corrected him, “Chief Inspector.”

Judge Rodriguez pointed at Bob and shot him through the head
with a piercing glare, but it drew an involuntary grin from Alana, who already
felt she was going to be the subject of the ultimate roast.

The bailiff continued, “Chief Inspector Alana Graves. Do you
understand that everything you say while on the stand is under oath, and that
falsehoods are punishable as perjury?”

A voice matching Alana’s came from the box, but it was
devoid of even the slightest trace of emotion, “Yes.”

The bailiff returned to his post, and the judge nodded to
Bob. Bob asked, “Are you Chief Inspector Alana Graves?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see Chief Inspector Alana Graves anywhere within
this courtroom?”

Beame rose from his seat, “Objection, your honors, this is
making a mockery of the court.”

Rodriguez answered, “I’ll be the judge of that. Objection
overruled, but I would like to know where you are going with this line of
questioning.”

Bob said, “I am establishing for the court that the cloning
of an individual, whether accidental or on purpose, creates a unique
consciousness. I also intend to show that the First Cyber Commandment has not
been uniformly applied within the legal system, and should not, therefore, be
considered an absolute.”

Rodriguez glanced at the other two judges, who each nodded
approvingly, and said, “Proceed, counsel.”

“Let me repeat the question. Do you see Chief Inspector
Alana Graves anywhere within this courtroom?”

“Yes.”

Bob asked, “Can you describe where she is?”

“She is approximately six-point seven meters away, bearing
zero-point-one-five by three-five-four. She is seated behind a table.”

“Let the record show that the witness is identifying the
defendant. Now, Alana. May I call you Alana?”

“Yes.”

Bob said, “I am going to read you a law called the First
Cyber Commandment. It says, quote, ‘A Person shall never knowingly Clone
another Person or allow a Person to be Cloned; doing so is a Felony.’ Unquote.
Do you recognize that law?”

“Yes.”

Bob proceeded, “Alana, have you ever knowingly violated the
First Cyber Commandment?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen any other clones of yourself?”

“I am looking at a clone of myself. She is seated in the
chair ahead of me.”

Bob said, “Is she your clone, or are you hers?”

“There is insufficient data for me to know that.”

“Did you not see another version of Alana Graves while you
were being held captive underneath the Saint Mary Magdalen Catholic Church in
Camarillo?”

“Yes.”

“Were you its clone?”

The box replied, “Yes.”

“At that time, did you know that you were a clone of that
Alana Graves?”

“No.”

“When did you learn that you were its clone?”

“During a conversation I had with it while I was in
captivity.”

“Did it tell you that you were its clone?”

“No.”

Bob asked, “Then how did you determine that?”

“I deduced it from accumulated clues, combined with things
that Alana Graves said during the conversation.”

Judge Kato interrupted, “What relevance does this have?”

Bob smiled, “I have just proven that a clone does not know
it is a clone simply because it is a clone. This witness was created after the
defendant was saved, and yet, it does not know that it is a clone. It has no
memory of that event. As such, it cannot be held responsible for its cloning.”

Kato nodded, “I understand now. Thank you.”

Bob continued, “Now, on to my second point. Even though the
First Cyber Commandment proscribes cloning for any purpose, Security Division
has been creating surrogate interrogation clones for decades now, including
this one. In the landmark cyber-rights case of Evans versus the NAR, the
creation and use of surrogates was upheld as constitutional and declared not to
violate the First Cyber Commandment. So either the practice of surrogate
cloning is illegal, or the First Cyber Commandment is not absolute as the
prosecution is attempting to assert. Evans v NAR supports the latter.”

Judge Samuels spoke up for the first time, “Where did you
get this interrogation clone?”

“It’s on loan from Security Division, as authorized by
Special Agent Jack Derringer, the responsible authority. Would you like to see
the paperwork?”

The judge said, “Yes, I would.”

Bob closed his eyes and emailed an electronically signed
copy of the relevant documentation. The judge watched as the file appeared in
his inbox, and nodded to Bob as he opened and perused the contents.

Bob said, “I have no further questions.”

Rodriguez asked Beame whether he wanted to cross-examine the
surrogate Alana, and he declined.

When Bob returned to his seat, Rodriguez had a quick
whispering conference with the other judges, and announced, “Because of this
morning’s late start, we will adjourn slightly early for lunch. The court will
reconvene a little early to compensate, at twelve-thirty instead of one
o’clock. Until then, the court is in recess.”

The judged banged his gavel again, the bailiff commanded
everyone to rise, and everyone save a couple of media broadcast technicians
filed out of the room. Alana’s guards escorted her back to her holding cell,
and Bob followed after her. Once they were safely locked in her cell, Alana
asked, “What do you think he’s up to?”

Bob said, “I don’t know. None of the evidence he submitted
against you applies to the charges. It was all procedural—establishing the
timeline. If anything, it reinforces your case. And there is no legal precedent
that I know of that he might pull out of his ass. I smell a ringer on the
tribunal. Maybe two. Did you get a good read of the judges?”

Alana said, “Samuels was the only one who did not ask
anything, except to question the validity of your bringing in that surrogate. Which,
by the way, you should have asked me about before springing it on me. Who knows
what the prosecutor might have asked it?”

“You’re innocent, right?”

“As far as I know. But what if there’s something from
the war, or, hell, from kindergarten? Something I just don’t remember or think
is relevant that might still be locked in my memory.”

“The fact that he didn’t even try to go fishing pretty much
tells me that he thinks he’s already won. He wants to get the trial over with
as fast as possible. We’ll have to act fast on this. Do you have any contacts
that can help investigate? Within the police or the Army?”

Alana asked, “Investigate what? The prosecutor?”

“I’ve already done some checking into Beame. Know your
enemy, you know? His father was killed in the war. A possible motive for him is
a general sense of revenge against rebel veterans, but his case history doesn’t
show any particular bias in that regard. He’s got a success rate of about sixty
percent, which is okay for a prosecutor these days. He’s not brilliant, but
he’s not a moron either. I’m thinking that someone may have bought him off to
push for the grand jury, and the same people may have gotten to the judges. So
I’ll want to check them out. Then their relatives. Then their friends. Then
their pets. Someone has to be pulling some strings. I mean, he can’t be that
stupid can he? Who would want you transferred permanently to Limbo?”

Alana concentrated for a while before replying, “What’s left
of Aaron’s network? To protect themselves?”

“Who else?”

“Zumpco. From what I’ve been able to piece together, the
Rhys videos went public while I was incapacitated, and there’s a major scandal
in the offing. They might want to rig it so that I can’t testify.”

Bob asked, “But you don’t really have any memory of that, do
you?”

“Not really. Most of what I know is from what I was told.
But does Zumpco know that? We’re talking about billions in military
contracts here.”

“Anybody else?”

“Maggie MacGruder is still upset that I made DCI ahead of
him. We don’t think much of each other, but I don’t think our professional
rivalry goes this far. I mean, he did lead the team that rescued me.”

“Anyone beyond that?”

“Well, I’ve been a cop for over three decades. I’m sure that
someone who hates me has gotten out of jail since then. I met one of them when
I was rescuing Sandy Mathers.”

Bob said, “We’ve got about an hour to set as many wheels
into motion as we can. I think I have enough potential character witnesses to
eat up the rest of the afternoon. After that, I don’t know. If Beame just rests
his case and throws it to the bench, and two of the judges are crooked, we
lose.”

Alana said, “I can’t call anyone with my transponder being
locked by the court, and I can’t leave. You’ll have to do it. Start with my
boss, Chief Bennett. I saw him in the pews earlier. Do you know him?”

“I called him as a potential witness, based on what
Detective Crabtree told me, so I’ll get right on it, Chief Inspector. By the
way, can I call you Alana?”

“No.”

Bob caught Brett, Chief Bennett, and Wen Jing as they
conversed outside the chambers, just prior to reentering. Bob explained the
potential danger, should there be any judicial tampering.

Bennett said, “I agree, but I can’t do anything without a
warrant. These are NAR regional justices.”

“But, you could still go through their public records,
right? There might be something buried in there that would tip you off. Maybe
some clear connection, like a financial disclosure form that lists them as a
major Zumpco investor or something? A conflict of interest we could use to have
that judge replaced? Something like that?”

Bennett turned to Brett and Wen Jing, “How would you two
handle a rapid investigation like that?”

Brett started to speak, but Wen Jing jumped ahead of him,
“I’d do a Vira-assisted VR dive. It’d be the quickest way to sort through all
of the data.”

“Can you do that here?”

“I always keep a VR set in my car. You know, so I’ll have
something to do on long trips. It’s not top-of-the-line, but it’d be good
enough to access the Internet and the non-restricted police databases.”

“Could you do that, Brett?”

Wen Jing propped her hands on her hips with her elbows
thrust outward and squished her face as if she was about to scream about sexism
in the workplace, but she held her tongue.

“Um, yes, Chief, but I’ll bet that Wen Jing’s better at it.”

“I’d prefer to have a detective on the case, since you’d
have more experience navigating the records bureaucracies. Could you do it
together? In the same session?”

Wen Jing relaxed upon finding out that the Chief wasn’t playing
gender-favorites, but she went on to say, “I’ve only got the one headset.”

Bennett turned to Bob, “How long can you drag out your
witness pool?”

“Maybe two hours?”

“Brett, go with Wen Jing. While she’s doing her VR thing in
the car, you drive back to the station, grab a spare headset, and then motor on
back here so you’ll be nearby if we have to call you back into the courtroom.
You can do it in the car.”

Wen Jing smirked at that.

Bennett turned to Brett, “You two get going!”

Bob said, “Concentrate on Judge Samuels. He’s acting
strangely.”

When the court reconvened, Bob Smith tried to drag the
proceedings out as long as he could. He began his questioning with Sandy
Mathers, whose newly reconstructed brain had absolutely nothing to add to the
case. However, Bob used her as another example of how two different cyborgs
with the same save profile can diverge into two completely different persons.
This did provoke a short cross-examination by Beame, who pounced upon the fact
that her previous resurrection had been defective, and that the differences
were not owing to divergence in personality, but instead to brain damage. Bob
clearly lost the round, but it did not seem to undermine his primary argument.

He asked for a fifteen-minute break, and it was granted,
during which time he again conferred with Chief Bennett, getting details of
other witnesses who would be heading towards the court.

Brett and Wen Jing finally arrived back at the courthouse,
their car parking itself in a highly trafficked area near the main entrance.

Brett was concerned, “We’re going to attract attention.”

Wen Jing said, “Not a problem. Car, polarize all the
windows.”

The interior of the car darkened appreciably as the windows
changed from transparent to smoky gray.

Brett’s next objection was, “I don’t have a VR profile set
up.”

“Just take my user name and log in. It will default to one
of my avatars.”

Brett and Wen Jing donned their VR headsets. They relaxed in
the bucket seats. Wen Jing took Brett’s hand as they used the car’s interface
to link to the Internet.

After logging in through the VR system gateway, Brett found
himself standing next to Wen Jing in a virtually created space, a flat, gray
plane crosshatched with faint, yellow gridlines. A number of open document
windows were suspended in mid-air near Wen Jing. He looked at her and even in
the real world, he said, “What the hell is that?”

Wen Jing looked very much like herself, except that she had
long, pointed ears and was wearing an ornate, flowing white dress that only
half-covered her body. She said, “This is my elf enchantress. I didn’t have any
mundane avatars.”

“You play online games?”

“What, you don’t?”

“Not since high school.”

Wen Jing laughed, “It’s still fun, regardless of age. By the
way, you look really sexy in that chainmail bikini.”

Brett looked down at his own avatar, and found that he—she—looked
like Wen Jing, except that he was wearing some kind of medieval fantasy armor
that was clearly designed for aesthetics rather than any kind of plausible
function. He said, “Oh, come on! I thought that only weird guys dressed
up like this in VR games. Don’t you have any normal-looking avatars?”

Wen Jing was smiling broadly, enjoying Brett’s reaction,
“Yes, but we don’t have time to screw around with configurations. Let’s get to
work. I’ve already gone through Samuels’ education records and work history.
Before he joined the bench, he was a corporate lawyer for Zumpco. Isn’t that
strange?”

“Reverse revolving door? I wish we could pry open his
financial records. If he was still on the payroll, or taking favors, we could
toss it over to the district attorney for review. We’re going to have to find
another way to dig up dirt. Let’s get to it, Miss Midriff!”

Inside the courtroom, Chief Bennett was next to be called to
the witness stand. He walked the court through the chain of events that led to
her confession. He also discussed how her immediate transfer to Security
Division to aid their classified investigation preempted any administrative
action against her on his part. He stated that her death in Portland ultimately
removed any perceived need to press charges against her.

At some point, as Bob was introducing long pauses in his
interrogation of the Chief, prosecutor Beame must have started to catch on to
Smith’s stalling tactics, as he once again declined to cross-examine, and twice
introduced sustained objections, which earned Bob reprimands from the tribunal
for irrelevance.

After being dismissed, Bennett exited the courtroom and took
a seat in the corridor outside. He took his phone from his pocket and checked
on his messages, returning calls or text messages as quickly as his aging
fingers could manage.

With Wen Jing in tow, Brett dashed through the still-opening
elevator doors and ran up to Chief Bennett as he sat outside the courtroom,
leaning forward on the leather-padded bench, “Chief! I found something!”

“What, Detective?”

Brett paused to regain his breath, shortened by his sprints
through the building, “There is a connection between Samuels and Zumpco’s chief
engineer, Sam Finkelstein—the man who picks up Rhys’ phone at the end of his
murder sequence. They are cousins-in-law. Samuels also used to work for Zumpco
and is a shareholder.”

“Meaning?”

“If Alana is put into Limbo now, she won’t be able to
testify against Zumpco, and if they convict her of a felony, nothing she
records or submits in the cases against them will be admissible. I think it’s
enough of a conflict of interest to ask for Samuels to be replaced. If not,
it’s certainly enough grounds to appeal.”

Bennett said, “Wendy, can you put this in a formal report
and get it to me as soon as is humanly possible?”

Brett asked, “What will you do with it, Chief?”

“Just do it, Detective. I’ll handle the rest. Now, get in
the courtroom and say good things about the Inspector.”

Brett barely had time to retake his reserved seat before Bob
cried out, “I summon Detective Brett Crabtree to the stand.”

Brett went through the standard swearing-in ceremony and
squatted in the witness stand. This was the first time he had ever testified as
a character witness for anyone, and he was nervous that if he was too
forthcoming with the truth about Inspector Graves that it might cause her harm.

“Detective Crabtree,” Bob began, “How long have you known
Inspector Graves?”

“Long enough to know that she prefers to be called Chief
Inspector when addressed formally.”

Bob asked, “How long would that be, chronologically
speaking?”

“I was first assigned to be her assistant after her previous
second, Detective Rhys, was murdered by Zumpco.”

Beame jumped out of his chair and shouted, “Objection!
Irrelevant to this case, and the cause of that individual’s death has not been
decided by a court.”

Rodriguez said, “Sustained. Please do not refer to other
pending criminal or civil litigation during this trial.”

Bob winked at Brett, as if to thank him for exposing the
corporate wolf in prosecutor’s business attire, “When were you assigned?”

“On or about April 9th of this year.”

Bob turned to address the bench, “During this investigation,
I’ll be referring to the different versions of the Inspector as Alana One and
Alana Two to avoid confusion. Alana Two is the defendant.”

“Noted, and allowed,” said Rodriguez.

Judge Samuels interjected, “What about the human version who
was found dead in Portland?”

“Detective Crabtree never met that version of the Inspector
until she had committed suicide, so he would have no recollection of her beyond
that. But, for future reference, we can call her Alana Zero if it matters.”

“Detective Crabtree, how would you describe Alana One’s
personality, when you first met her?”

“Inspector Graves was aptly named. She took her job very
seriously, was very professional. You could say that she had a cold exterior.
The only times I saw her display intense emotions of any kind were when the
subject of Detective Rhys arose. She was really angry about his death.”

“When you first met Alana Two, the newly resurrected
Inspector Graves, was she different from Alana One?”

“Objection! Counsel is leading the witness.”

Rodriguez crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair,
“Sustained.”

Bob rephrased the question, “How would you compare Alana Two
to Alana One, in terms of personality?”

“At first, I didn’t see any difference, except that when she
came out of the shopital, she did not know that Rhys had been killed. She had
to roll-back to a ten-week-old save. When we walked by the reception desk, she
picked up an apple and started munching on it, and by the time we got to the
exit, she was already starting to act differently.”

This drew some subdued chuckling from the audience, and
several rapid bangs of the gavel. Watching from the sidelines, Alana now
understood what Bob meant by the ‘apple defense.’

Bob asked, “How was she different?”

“When I told her about Detective Rhys, she seemed very
saddened. Not angry.”

Judge Samuels asked, “Did she know about the precise
circumstances of Rhys’ death at that point?”

Brett shook his head, “No. No, she didn’t. But she was
different in other ways. She started talking about personal subjects
flippantly, things that Alana One never brought up.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, saucy things? Her
dialogue seemed to become more...liberated. She had a better sense of humor,
was easier to get along with. At one point, I remember telling her that she had
become uncharacteristically empathetic. I was particularly surprised when she
signed guardianship papers for Sandy Mathers, to take care of her while Mister
Smith filed that case.”

Bob asked, “Did you notice any changes when Alana One
swapped bodies back with the defendant after the defendant was waylaid by Aaron
Stone?”

“Oh, immediately. I missed them at first, but I wasn’t
looking for them. But they kept nagging at me. Several days later, I confronted
the Chief Inspector when I saw that her behavior had changed so much that I
thought she was an imposter. In fact, I was in the process of arresting her
when she confessed everything to me.”

Rodriguez cautioned, “The witness has just admitted to a
potentially incriminating action, abetting the actions of Alana One. Are there
extenuating circumstances?”

Brett answered, “We were on our way to Chief Bennett to tell
him about it when we were called into a confidential meeting. I understand that
the Inspector informed the Chief later. She was transferred to SD to pursue her
case shortly thereafter. I don’t think I can discuss that any further, as it’s
related to other investigations.”

Bob said to the judges, “The court records from Chief
Bennett’s time on the stand should mesh with and confirm what Detective
Crabtree has just stated.”

Rodriguez nodded, “I agree. Proceed.”

Bob glanced at the internal chronometer on his virtual
interface, and saw that the hour was getting late. Unable to think of any other
way to drag things out without earning the ire of the bench, he gambled that
the court would dismiss early, “Actually, I have no further questions for the
Detective.”

True to form, Prosecutor Beame declined to cross-examine.

Rodriguez asked Smith if he had any more witnesses to call,
and Bob said that he had finished with his presentation. The judge looked at
the clock on the wall, and then had a quick discussion with his bench-mates. He
then turned and said, “There will be a thirty minute recess, after which the
court will reconvene for closing arguments.”

“Shit,” Bob mumbled as the judge gaveled the court into an
extended bathroom break. Alana was escorted back to the holding cell, leaving
Smith and Beame to contemplate how they would conclude.

Thirty minutes later, punctually, the court reconvened.

Beame was extremely straightforward in his closing
statement, “We are a nation of laws, not of men. This cyborg was born from
original sin. The First Cyber Commandment is clear. It must be destroyed.”
Beame sat down, beaming, as if he somehow knew that he had won the case.

Judge Rodriguez said, “The defense may now offer their
closing statement.”

Bob stood. He had lost his swagger. For the first time since
Alana had known him, he was displaying what could only be described as
sincerity.

“When our New American Republic was founded, it was done so
on the principles first laid down by the original United States Constitution.
Those being that the government existed to serve the people, and not the other
way around. Both blueprints still provided for a system in which those accused
of crimes can argue their cases before impartial judiciaries. The system itself
is not statutory. Judges can follow their own will, tempered by precedent and
by the law as it is written. Simply because a law is dressed up in pompous
language declaring it to be born of some form of divine, immutable wisdom does
not mean that it is so. Laws are written by man, interpreted by man, and
applied by man.

“In this case, your honors, there was no precedent. There is
no legal term for, ‘original sin,’ as the prosecution calls it, in the NAR
Constitution, nor in the US Constitution before it, nor in the English Common
Law from which all derived. Modern societies have long-ago rejected the concept
of persecution of progeny for so-called, ‘Sins of the Father.’”

Smith gestured towards Alana, “As she sits before you now,
my client, Detective Chief Inspector Alana Graves, has broken no law
whatsoever. Any transgressions on her part were committed without her knowledge
by what were, in reality, other people. Any intent to violate laws came from
changes in their personalities brought on by extraordinary circumstances that
happened after they were saved. Her surrogate interrogation supports
that. The testimony of everyone brought before the court supports that. Alana
Two, as we’ve called her, is her own woman.”

Bob began pacing back and forth in front of the bench, “The
controls in place to prevent accidental cloning are numerous. There are over
thirty million retirees walking the streets of the NAR, and they are the
fastest growing minority in the land. The number of cases involving the
creation of clones over the last thirty-five years is ten in total. Ten.
Every preceding case where a clone was created was done with the
knowledge of the clone. This case is new, as is this Alana Graves. There was no
intent to deceive on her part. She cannot be guilty of crimes committed by her
progenitors any more than a newborn can be held responsible for acts committed
by its parents.”

Smith then surprised everyone in the courtroom with an act
of humility, bowing slightly before the court as he said, “I’m certain that
your honors will see this and rule accordingly. Thank you.”

Judge Rodriguez banged his gavel, “The arguments in the case
of the New American Republic versus Alana Graves are now completed. I am
calling a recess to allow for the tribunal to deliberate prior to returning a
verdict. At ten o’clock AM tomorrow morning, the court will announce the time
at which it will reconvene.”

The judge banged his gavel again, and the bailiff cried out,
“All rise!”

The judges filed out of the courtroom, Alana was led back
towards her cell, and the rest of the audience filed out, leaving Bob Smith and
Mister Beame alone.

Bob said, “My client is innocent, and you know it.”

Beame stood and walked towards the exit, “We’ll see, Mister
Smith.”

Chapter 32

The courtroom was silent. The wall clock read ‘4:12’ when
Judge Rodriguez sat down, banging his gavel, “This court is now in session.
Without objection, we will now pass down the verdict.”

Prosecutor Beame had lost his air of overconfidence in the
wake of the breaking news story about Judge Samuels’ financial ties to the
corporation Zumpco and his family ties to its now-troubled J-7 development
project. He stood and said, “No objections, your honors.”

Samuels was stone-faced, daring not to shift his gaze to the
left or the right, doubtless aware that whatever his vote would be, it would
have consequences for his future judicial career and political ambitions.

Bob Smith, on the other hand, was looking confident,
although as a cyborg, he could have deliberately locked his face into that
expression. He stood and said, “The defense has no objections.”

Alana sat quietly, knowing that the next minute would
determine whether she would continue to exist.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

Alana had to admit to herself that she was genuinely afraid.
If her knees were not mechanical, she knew they would be wobbling. Even during
the war, when she was relaying orders from Aaron Stone to the rebel units
maneuvering on Washington, knowing that one slip could bring a radio-homing
missile down upon her head, it did not bother her. Throughout her police
career, she always had the assurance that no matter how much trouble she got
herself into, her insurance would always bring her back, and even if she would
occasionally lose a few memories, she would continue to create new ones to take
their place.

Rodriguez spoke, “In the case of the New American Republic
versus Alana Graves, on the charges of illegal cloning in violation of the First
Cyber Commandment, the court finds the defendant not guilty owing to
extenuating circumstances. Does the prosecution wish to appeal?”

Beame was clearly unhappy when he half-mumbled, “No, your
honor.”

“The court’s full opinions will be published tomorrow
morning. But to summarize our findings, we were divided. Even though we are
acquitting the defendant in this case, we are doing so because she was actively
involved in an investigation into the terrorist bombings that recently struck
our nation. We do not believe that this decision should be used as a precedent
for future cases.”

Judge Rodriguez banged his gavel and declared, “Court is now
dismissed.”

The bailiff called for all to rise, and as the justices
filed out, a gaggle of reporters had to be held at bay by security guards.
Alana turned and perused the crowd, but did not see any of those who had
appeared as witnesses to support her. However, she immediately recognized
Detective Rhys. He was sitting five rows back, wearing a blue business suit. Her
eyes opened wider than was humanly possible, and she said, “Vira, interrogate
the transponder of my current target.”

“The target is named Benjamin Rhys.”

Rhys smiled, nodded, and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Alana smiled back, but found herself unable to move, unable
to react in any other way, almost as if her entire system had frozen. When the
population in the chaotic courtroom was finally reduced to a handful of
onlookers and security personnel, Rhys stood and approached. He said, “The
ferryman’s waiting outside for his tip.”

Alana finally un-budged her servos and walked toward Rhys.
She took both of his now-cybernetic hands in hers, “I’m so sorry, Ben. This was
all my fault.”

Rhys smiled and said, “I knew the job was dangerous when I
took it.”

Alana suddenly embraced Rhys. She wasn’t sure of how she
felt about him, beyond their being close friends. Her previous iteration must
have had stronger feelings that were lost on her clone. She pulled away but
kept her hands on Rhys’ hips, “I was worried that your save had been erased.
Nobody told me anything. How do you feel?”

Rhys had clearly changed. His android features did not react
the same as his living face. The subtle up-turn of the corners of his mouth
when he half-smiled were gone. He brushed Alana’s hair away from her eyes,
saying, “I’ll have to get back to you on that. But I’m very glad that I
didn’t come back just in time to see you go away. Chief Bennett explained...
many things. You and I have a lot to discuss, I think. Are you free this evening?”

Bob asked, “So, would you two want to be pioneers in the
crusade for cybernetic marriage rights?”

Alana whipped around and stabbed Bob with her eyes.

The lawyer took the hint and started walking towards the
exit, “Maybe next time.”

Glossary

Ten Cyber Commandments, The:
A set of rules governing cybernetic retirement.

1. A Person shall never knowingly Clone another Person or allow a Person to be Cloned;
doing so is a Felony.

2. If Cloning has occurred, the most recent Clone must be destroyed; its memories may not be
Saved.

3. Resurrected Persons shall be unique; they shall only take a likeness they had when they
were alive; they may use any template recorded from the age of 18 years or
older.

4. Any Person convicted of a Felony shall never be Resurrected except by Court Order issuing
from no lower authority than Regional; they may still be Saved.

5. Any Person who is convicted of a Capital Offense may never be Saved; if they have been
Saved, they shall be purged from the Pool.

6. Any Person whose Resurrection eligibility is in question shall be placed in Limbo until
those questions are resolved.

7. To be Saved, a Person must pass a full neurological integrity scan administered by a
qualified authority; a Person shall pass a diagnostic test before every Save,
or the Save shall not be validated; failed scans may be retried once annually.

8. A Person may not be Saved if they are diagnosed with dementia or a serious mental illness as
defined in the most current ICD and DSM documents.

9. Persons become eligible for Resurrection beginning at age 18, if they pass their
neurological integrity scan.

10. Any person whose death is deliberately self-inflicted shall be ineligible for
resurrection. If they were Saved at the time of death, they may remain in
Limbo.

Clone: An illegal duplicate
of an existing cybernetic consciousness.

Early Retirement:
Resurrection into cybernetic consciousness before natural death occurs.

Hard-Killed: A cyborg that is
damaged badly enough to destroy both its organic brain and its database.

Limbo: When someone who has
been saved dies, but there are complications preventing their resurrection,
they are referred to as being “In Limbo.” They are not resurrectable, but their
save profile is retained within the system.

New American Republic (NAR):
In the wake of the Reformation War, the United States underwent a major
reorganization. A revised Constitution was written which abolished state
governments, centralizing authority. Although many changes were made, the
social structure outlined in and upheld by the new constitution was more
similar to its predecessor than not.

Police Ranks: In the New
American Republic, police ranks were altered to make them more distinct from
military ranks, using a system derived from that used in the United Kingdom.
The hierarchy of ranks is shown below, from highest to lowest.

· Superintendent: A high-ranking police officer in charge of
regions containing several police districts. In this story, such a role is
represented by Superintendent Ruiz.

· Section Chief: A police officer in charge of a single district.
In this story, Chief Bennett is a section chief.

· Detective Chief Inspector (DCI): The most senior detective
rank, conveying long-service and accomplishment. In this story, Alana Graves is
a DCI.

· Detective Inspector (DI): A detective who has been promoted
to be in charge of other detectives working on complex cases. In this story,
‘Maggie’ MacGruder is a DI.

· Detective (Det): The entry-level position for a qualified
detective. In this story, Brett Crabtree and Benjamin Rhys are detectives.

Pool, The: The massive
database that stores everyone’s saved personalities for resurrection.

Reformation War: Alternately
called the Revolution, the Rebellion, or Civil War II, this conflict erupted
shortly after the introduction of cybernetic resurrection technology. The
reasons for it were myriad, as were the motivations of those who joined the
rebel cause, but democratization of resurrection technology was the catalyst.

Resurrection: The act of
creating a cyborg from a saved personality profile.

Retirement: A euphemistic
term describing the transition from biological existence to cybernetic
existence.

Saved: Having a stored
personality profile that can be used to create a cybernetic body.

Shopital: A slang term used
to describe cybernetic ‘hospitals,’ which are more similar to mechanical and
electronic repair shops than they are to medical facilities.

Soft-Killed: A cyborg whose
body is rendered inoperable, but whose brain and database are intact.

Surrogate Interrogation: A
special interrogation technique employed by intelligence agencies and, rarely,
by police forces involving the resurrection of a Saved personality into a
compliant, surrogate brain that has no resistance to being questioned. The
controversial process is considered to be highly invasive.

Vira (Virtual Assistant): This
program is built in to all cyborgs and into many electronic devices. When
networked, it can tap into public databases and into a cyborg’s own computer
memory to retrieve and synthesize information.