by Jim Keen
“Huh? What she do?” There were tears on his cheeks, thin trails that caught the light as they grew longer.
“She was happy, and he wasn’t. We moved here for her work, the biotech start up, just before all the visas were canceled. He couldn’t find anything to do, was stuck at home with us.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were only a baby. The happier she was, the uglier he got.”
“Do you remember leaving?”
—being pulled, arm up and hurting, the cast hard and fresh against her skin. Her mother dragging her and pushing the stroller down a dark street, trying to run, gasps of pain. Shouts from behind, looking and pushing and dragging, fast and faster, clothes torn, no shoes. Then a subway, down the stinking steps and through the turnstiles, onto a train. From dark to light, plastic seats, empty. Paulie screaming in the stroller, naked apart from his diaper, her mother’s feet in the middle of the carriage trying to push the doors closed as the PA announced a delay. Her father’s legs coming down the stairs, jeans and big red boots, black laces, his face, twisted in on itself as he screamed her name and vaulted the barriers. The doors closing, his hands beating against the glass. Blackness outside as they entered a tunnel, her mother on the floor holding her as she cried, the—
The cigarette smoldered between Alice’s fingers, smoke coiling upward like thin rope. “I remember nothing.”
“What about that small place in Queens, the one with the shitty A/C?”
She rubbed her eyes, fingers smearing the tears, not removing them. “Yeah, who could forget. What started you thinking about all this?”
He laughed, and the years left his face. “What else I gots to think about? Maybe dying is best. I get out, then what? There’s nothing to do no more anyways.”
“I miss you,” she said and meant it.
He nodded, stood, and walked away.
She remained seated in the cold and worn chair. Behind her, the glass eye of a security camera winked red, then cut off.
9
Alice rode a wave of longing and guilt back to the city, bike a streak of lights as it burst through traffic. She hit the ramp into the NYPD headquarters hard, shocks absorbing the load, and slid the bike into its charging rack. She took the elevator down two floors and jimmied the lock on Toko’s office as her alarm beeped nine o’clock. It was as she remembered—small with one wall made from tall curved-glass panels, their imperfections distorting the outside world as if she were behind a waterfall. A desk with an old screen and battered chair sat next to a framed red soccer shirt.
Alice sat at Toko’s desk, put her feet up, and struggled to slow her heart. She lit her cigarette as faint snatches of conversation drifted through the closed door, and she let her mind cycle through her memories of Julia. Where to start? She was still looking for a lead when Toko arrived, tired but pleased to see her.
“I locked this office,” he said, deep voice filling the space.
“Did you? I must have missed that.”
“Off the seat.”
“You look beat up,” she said as he lowered himself into the plastic chair.
“Kids are sick. It happens. So?”
“You mean did I see Paul?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And he’s still pissed off.”
Toko raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, all right, sorry. The prison is flooded with new inmates, but he hasn’t heard of anyone or anything weird from the chair or ovens. No news on any reprints either.”
“Figured. It was a long shot.”
“He told me about a new police force. Who are they?”
“SSP—State Security Police. A division of Homeland Security, tasked with political protection post Six-Thirty. They also run the new upload centers and group transports. They answer to the president direct. We have no jurisdiction. Stay away from them.” He nodded at her bruised cheek. “What happened?”
She touched it, then winced as a dull bolt of pain pierced her head. “The only thing worse than a cop is a rat, and I’m both. I don’t know if anyone will talk to me, Toko.” She sat in the old plastic chair opposite. “So how do you want to run this? Any other undercover teams involved?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“But it can’t have been just me investigating Julia.”
“The FBI took our data, and you were the only one their MI wanted back on the streets.”
She grinned. “I’m that good, huh?”
“Your progress was faster than some.”
“Can you reach out to your other teams, see what they’ve got?”
“None are relevant to this case. I’m not risking contact.”
“How about the other precincts? See what their teams have?”
“No, we need to keep this contained. The only people who know about Julia’s murder outside the FBI are the two of us, the Chief of Organized Crime, and the captain that approved your temporary employment. To everyone else, you’re back from a year’s rehab.”
“On my own then? Same old. What about the FBI’s New York office? They involved?”
“No. All contact is direct with the Six-Thirty team in DC. They delayed Julia’s testimony for another four days. There’s no way the head of the FBI is going up there without someone to blame. That’s our deadline.”
“And I have to come up with something in that time by myself?”
“Don’t forget the FBI agent.”
“What’s his deal?”
“He was involved in a Cali-Cartel investigation. There are similarities and we’re to partner with him.”
“Oh great, more bureaucracy.”
“Welcome back to civilization.” The door beeped, and Toko looked up. “Come in.”
A small, slim, man run through with wiry muscle entered. He wore a tight-fitting denim jacket over a checked shirt, faded jeans, and brown leather boots. Short black hair framed a thin face dusted with ancient pockmarks. A thick mustache suggested special-forces involvement while his jacket did nothing to disguise the large weapon hung inside.
Alice pulled herself upright, feigning casual disinterest. She smelled him now, dark and spicy like African coffee.
Silence stretched out.
“Toko, you going to introduce us?” she asked.
“Alice Yu, this is FBI Special Agent Xavier Lucas Garcia.”
Alice extended her hand. “Glad you’re here. We’ve been—”
“I’ve just wasted thirty goddamn minutes downstairs, so let’s cut the bullshit,” he said, voice rough and low. “So, you’re the idiot detective that spent a whole year with a reprint and couldn’t tell?”
“That how the academy teaches introductions these days?” She smiled and gave him the finger.
His unblinking eyes remained as hard and cold as nail heads.
She stared back. “Yes. I spent a full year with Julia Rothmore without identifying her as a Beta. And you wouldn’t have either.”
“You had no idea?” His voice was level, but Alice caught the undertow; if she missed something so obvious, what else had she ignored?
“No. She was perfect.”
“No registration tags?”
“Obviously not.”
“Bullshit.”
“Welcome aboard Special Agent.”
Xavier held her gaze a moment longer, then turned to Toko. “We need to keep my involvement between us. Both of you will continue your daily reports to the main FBI investigation in DC, but will leave my name off any field communications.”
“My instructions are—” Toko said.
“You will do as I say.”
“Now wait a minute—”
Alice had never seen Toko annoyed before, and as amusing as it would have been to see this play out, the memory and guilt of her brother’s situation weighed heavy. There wasn’t time for this. “Agent Garcia, we will do as requested, though it would help if you explained why you’re here.”
Xavier scowled.
“I worked undercover, investigating B13, the gang in control of LA’s port and drug trade. The operation was compromised, and my FBI partner killed, two days ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How did they know about you?” Alice asked.
“That’s what I’m here to find out. I’ve read your file. B13 were tipped off to my undercover work, same as happened to you. Someone is leaking classified information to them. I need my involvement kept quiet in case that person works at the FBI. Julia was tight with B13; we find her killer, maybe we find who is talking. Now, is that good enough for you? Or do you want to waste more of my time with goddam stupid questions?”
“That will be sufficient Agent Garcia,” Toko said, voice clipped with anger. “Officer Yu, what are your plans?”
“Julia’s print was better than anything I thought possible. I’m going to the Hymann Boutique on Fifth Avenue, order a new hand, and see how good they are. After that, I’ll speak to someone from Five Points, get a look at their port action. Then—”
Xavier didn’t wait; he turned and walked from the room.
Alice rolled her eyes at Toko and followed. She’d met a lot of feds in her time, and to a man, they were accountants in suits. This one was different—aggressive, determined, feral.
She didn’t trust him one bit.
10
They stood a few feet apart as the elevator descended in silence.
“Walk into a wall?” Xavier nodded to her cheek.
“Some people aren’t impressed to see me back in uniform,” Alice said.
“I have no time for sloppy work. Whatever your personal grievances, I don’t care. I need you focused and on point. If it’s the middle of the night and you want to meet somebody, I’m the first person you call, understood?”
“Yes, Special Agent Garcia.”
“If we have a problem, now’s the time.”
“You seem a blunt kinda guy, so here it is. I have a short window to solve this, and there isn’t the time to babysit an out-of-towner.”
“Do your job and we won’t have an issue.”
“Happy to be aboard, sir.”
“Outside of this building, call me Xavi. The less people know who I work for, the better.”
She flicked a mock salute as the elevator spat them out at the base of the building. Alice followed Xavi as he walked to an abandoned car slumped at the curb.
“Who the hell dumped that here?” Alice asked.
The car was a mile wide and twice as long, covered with a patchwork of paint. The body a burnt orange, while the doors, hood, and trunk were green, blue, and gray.
“It’s mine,” Xavi said as if she were an idiot. “If you want to mix with the streets, a car like this is necessary.” He swung himself into the driver’s seat.
Alice yanked the passenger door open; it gave a painful squeal as she slid into the interior. Xavi started the engine, kicking up a gray cloud of dust. She sneezed twice as he released the handbrake and swung the vehicle onto the road, cursing at a kid pushing a food truck. Alice had only known him for ten minutes and already felt like a dumb rookie.
They blasted up Fifth Avenue on a wave of stinking blue smoke to arrive at the Hymann Boutique on the corner of Cortex Park. An aggressive security team had forced the homeless to the perimeter, keeping the plaza empty. Xavi parked at the edge and walked onto the white marble surface ignoring the security team’s shouts. Alice followed and crossed to the boutique’s thirty-foot-tall glass entry cube. The most challenging part of the printing process, and the one that kept the price astronomical, was the power requirement. Normal city infrastructure couldn’t handle the loads required, so Hymann built their print shops alongside new fusion reactors. They made a feature of the equipment, turned it into part of the show. This one had been chromed and displayed in the entrance. Alice saw herself distorted in the tokamak’s polished torus as Xavi stood behind her.
“Ever been in a boutique?” he said.
“No.”
“Boutiques aren’t for you and me—we’re nobodies. Our badges open the door, but have no power here. Don’t let them see that. Keep it hard and heavy or you’ll get nothing but PR speeches.”
Alice turned on her jacket’s NYPD flashing logo. A cold wind moaned as it slid past the large glass cube. What used to be Central Park lay across the deserted road junction, trees a plastic line peeking over the new perimeter wall. It was Sunday, the only day with visiting hours, and two lines had formed by the entry gate. A small band of protestors walked up and down, holding signs and chanting, their voices audible across the quiet interchange.
“Why the hell are they still complaining?” Xavi asked. “Selling the parks was necessary.”
She turned to look at him, wind blowing hair across her face. She was tired, emotionally raw, and needed a cigarette. “That was the last public park, Xavi. There’s nowhere to go now, just buildings and hardscape everywhere.”
“This country is broke, it’s stupid to pretend otherwise. The Golden Gate Bridge’s sale paid police wages for a year.”
“Yeah, I get it, but the new owner was a PR disaster for the city.” They studied the large Cortex logo that straddled the entrance. Cortex, the company that ruined the world. “Okay, let’s do this.” Alice turned to the fusion reactor. The torus grew from polished metal panels—the tolerances and quality higher than anything she’d seen before. Four huge arms branched out from the plaza sides to suspend it in place. Below, she caught glimpses of the private showroom.
“The police, I presume?” A voice, dry and quiet.
Alice turned to see a small middle-aged man wearing a purple suit. A manicured silver beard formed a sharp V below his chin and both hands rested on a black cane. He stood with an uncanny symmetry—shoulders, arms, hands, feet aligned as if bisected by a mirror. His face was expressionless, but the heavy sarcasm meant he’d gotten the point of her display.
Alice turned off her flashing jacket. “You’re correct.” She extended her plastic hand toward him. She wanted to see his reaction; he didn’t disappoint, looking as if she’d offered him a piece of shrapnel. “I’m Detective Yu.”
Her raised hand hung between them.
“Well, I’m very busy, very busy indeed, and your car is leaking oil. Please leave now.”
“No. I need a new one of these.” She raised her hand until he couldn’t ignore it. “And would like a chat.”
“That’s just not possible today, not possible at all. Proper people make proper appointments, yes they do, and we are fully booked, yes we are. Come back in a week or two, or the one after that.”
He turned to find Xavi standing behind him.
“You’ll make time for us,” Xavi said.
The man bristled with indignation. “No, no, no. As I explained to your fellow officer, I am very busy, yes very, and can’t shift my schedule just because you want to talk.”
“Then I’ll arrest you for impeding an ongoing investigation and leave you in a holding cell overnight. It will be interesting to see whether you hold onto your job after that.”
The little man paled at the mention of unemployment and the social shame that would follow.
“Or you could adjust your schedule and answer my questions,” Alice said.
The man looked back and forth between them and sighed. “Well, this is most improper, most improper indeed. You people do not understand what we do and for whom. Still, if we must, then follow me.”
“What’s your name?” Alice asked.
“You may call me the Artist.” As he spoke, huge glass double doors opened, and a solid white stair extended to meet them. “Follow me,” he said and disappeared inside.
11
The Artist entered first and descended the stairs. Alice and Xavi followed, looking around. The moment they cleared the door, the large glass panels slid closed and silence greeted them.
“Is this printed?” Alice asked, pointing at the staircase.
The Artist turned back to her. “Of course. It�
�s from one of our architectural units.”
The long, wide room had titanium walls, and a ceiling and floor that glowed with a white light. The air was cold to the point of discomfort, and carried a faint smell of antiseptic. The boutique was as warm and welcoming as an operating theater, which suited its purpose. A dismembered male body quartered like a medieval sacrifice was spread on display.
At the bottom of the stairs the Artist activated the largest wall-mounted display Alice had ever seen. The first moments were filled with dreamy images of golden Buddha’s floating over reflecting pools, while some Hollywood actor explained the notion of reincarnation and eternal life. The images changed to show combat veterans being outfitted with the first printed limbs; rooms full of scientists painstakingly hand-modeling their body parts on 3D print systems—crude, with rough flesh textures and poor flexibility—but life changing to those they helped. Next came Charles Takamatsu’s legendary unveiling of Primus, the world’s first Mechanical Intelligence, and the Hollywood actor smoothly explained what had taken thousands of hours by hand could now be brute forced in minutes.
The color tones darkened, and the voice-over dripped fake sadness, as it explained how the Ones, the billionaires in the sky, still aged out and died no matter how many times their hearts were replaced. Overdubbed applause swelled as body scanning was explained. To make a full-body reprint—and achieve a capitalist version of reincarnation—the body had to be copied. This involved a scanning process that broke the body apart atom by atom, recording and destroying it at the same time. The video showed images of nuclear reactors, then particle accelerators, and finally MRI scanners until it ended with some glossy nonsense that explained the procedure as little men with clipboards who went into the body and wrote down the location and type of every atom.
Alice walked past the screen and over to the dissected body. It lay on its back, hairless chest facing the ceiling, limbs set about it. There were clear cut lines above the pelvis, at the shoulders, and across the neck. In the subtle lighting, Alice couldn’t see what kept the innards in; the red cross sections floated in the air. The arms were spread to either side, shoulder to elbow in one piece, then elbow to wrist, then the palms, fingers, and thumbs arranged like jewelry. The pelvis and legs repeated the pattern to the right, and the neck and head to the left. The gap between each cut was for the customer to study the meat before purchasing.
