Asimov's SF, June 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Yeah. . . . Can you think of anything he'd want to hide?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I can't.”

  Huang could. He could think of a very good reason for Amado to be worried about the circumstances around Metta's abduction.

  He groaned and looked at the clock. “I do need to get home to Ma though.” He took his VR glasses out of his pocket and put them in his desk drawer.

  “Scott?” She chewed her lower lip. “Will you take me home with you?”

  He stopped with his hand to his earbud. “What's wrong?”

  “I'd feel better if I came with you.” She looked away. “You'll probably have to report this, but I'm afraid of my backup tonight and I want to be around someone who was with me at the last one. I'm afraid I won't remember today.” She looked back at him. “I want one night of continuity. That's all.”

  He couldn't help noticing that she hadn't asked for the favor until after Amado had left. “We aren't supposed to take the mobile interface equipment out, unless we're on duty.”

  “ ‘It ain't no sin if you crack a few laws now and then, just so long as you don't break any.’ ‘'

  “I'm going to have to take the Mae West database away from you.”

  She blushed again. “I like her, she was a witty woman. No one else plays with me like this.” Metta looked at him as if she were going to say something more, then shook her head. “So, will you take me with you?”

  He could set up an early interview tomorrow if anyone asked him justify tonight. He picked up her VR glasses and tucked them in his pocket. “Sure, Metta. Anything for you.”

  * * * *

  The interior of Wacky Joe's was clouded with smoke. It was stage smoke, meant to give it the feel of a dive bar from the last century, but it had the side effect of making the space very intimate. Amado had a booth to the side of the bar and already had a Negroni in front of him.

  Huang ordered a single malt, Oban, neat, and settled across from Amado. “What's up?”

  Amado shrugged and spun his drink on the table. “I just wanted to know what you saw. Morbid, right?”

  “Not much. She used the surveillance camera to show me a view of her room, it was only up for a couple of seconds.” He took a sip of the Oban. “You've got to be a better witness, since you actually saw them live.”

  Shaking his head, Amado said, “I only saw two. Wearing all black, with ski masks.” His fingers drummed against the stem of his glass as if they were hungry for a manual interface. “You saw three, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The other one must have been behind—” Amado cocked his head and looked at the pocket of Huang's jacket. “Is that a set of VR glasses?”

  “Huh? Yeah. I've got an early call tomorrow.”

  Amado frowned. “Dude, you aren't supposed to have those out after hours.”

  “This isn't unusual.”

  Amado held up his hands and pushed back from the table. “I'm not getting mixed up in it.”

  Huang felt his face hold its last expression, mild interest, while his brain raced behind its mask. Something was not right. “Mixed up in what? I told you we have an early call tomorrow so I'm going straight there from home.”

  “She can see on those. I—” He shook his head. “Never mind. This was stupid anyway. I can read your reports, right? Thanks for coming. I'll see you tomorrow.”

  “Amado—” Huang broke off as Amado slipped out of the booth and dropped cash on the table. He walked quickly, but took a meandering path out of the bar.

  The path took him through the blindspots of the bar's cameras. Huang grimaced. This did not look good.

  * * * *

  Huang woke early the next morning to the sound of murmuring voices. Wrapping his robe around himself, he wandered down the hall to the living room. His mother was seated at the desktop in conversation with Metta. The resolution was not as clean as at work, but did little to diminish the soft beauty of the Chinese woman floating over the desktop.

  They both stopped talking when he walked into the room. Metta turned partially toward him, but he stood outside the range of the single camera on the desktop.

  “How long have you two been up?”

  His mother smiled. “I don't need much sleep and Metta has been kind enough to keep me company.”

  How much trouble was he going to get into at work over this? “She's supposed to be on duty, Ma.”

  In flawless Mandarin, Metta said, “I am on duty, Scott. But I'm also allowed to converse with civilians about non-police matters. Your honored mother has been very gracious to invite me in."

  He swallowed and walked around to the front of the camera. Was there any reason she couldn't make a social call? “Then I'm sorry I never invited you to visit before.”

  His mother looked at him and tsked. “This is why you have no friends.” She stood up. “You. Go get dressed, not good to look like this.” She gestured at his bathrobe. “Have guest in house. Show respect.” She looked back at Metta and smiled, “Besides, we still have much to talk about.”

  Huang chuckled and headed for the bathroom. He paused in the doorway and looked back at his mother. She was having an animated conversation in Mandarin with Metta.

  His mother had been so active before she'd broken her hip, and now the injury trapped her in his apartment away from her friends. He shook his head, watching her laugh at something Metta said. He needed to start calling home during the day more often.

  In the steaming water of the shower, Huang tried to organize his thoughts. He turned his active cases over in his head. The Patterson was the most pressing. They needed to find Yates and no one had turned up anything about him. The man was completely off the grid.

  Of the evidence remaining, they had the manner of death and Patterson's appointment with Chase. He needed to ask Metta to follow up on the provenance of the china the table had been set with. See if that led anywhere. It was such a strange murder.

  He got out of the shower and toweled himself dry. With the water off, he could hear the murmur of his mother's conversation with Metta. Maybe meeting Metta would quiet some of his mother's fears, knowing that he had someone watching his back while he was on duty.

  As he rooted through his closet for a clean shirt, he brushed past the formal Chinese silk suit his mother had given him several years ago. He had only worn it once or twice, to please her. He had felt like an imposter, wearing it when he had grown up so far from China. Even though his mother had taught him how to behave, and had ensured he was bilingual—"a great advantage in this economy"—he'd never completely felt like it was his culture. Was that anything like how Metta felt when she modified her interface for people? She was out there pretending to be Chinese to make his mother more comfortable. For him she aped the great starlets of the silver screen. For Delarosa she was a quiet, efficient secretary.

  As he walked back to the living room, Metta stopped speaking and whispered something. His mother laughed. Rounding the corner, he saw his mother sitting demurely in front of the interface, smiling innocently at him.

  He raised his eyebrows at this picture of decorum. “What?”

  “Nothing. We have good talk.”

  The two women smiled at him, and Huang couldn't help feeling like he was outnumbered.

  * * * *

  As soon as Huang shut the apartment door behind him, he put the VR glasses on and slid the ear bud into his ear. He looked at Metta to ask her what she'd been talking about with his mother and saw that she had her standard neutral interface again. “So you're not Chinese now?”

  “Do you want me to be?”

  “No. I want you to be yourself.”

  She blinked. “You mean this interface?”

  “No. I mean . . .” What did he mean? “I mean I want you to be who you want to be, not pick an appearance to accommodate me or my mother.”

  “Scott, picking the right face for me is like picking the right tie for you. It affects how people view me, but it isn't me.” S
he sighed. “I have emotions, I feel, but I'm not human, so asking me to ‘look like myself’ is a pointless request.”

  “I know.”

  “Why is this suddenly bothering you?”

  “I don't know.” He shrugged and walked down the hall. “I guess because you've never come over before. I don't see you off-duty often.”

  “Look at me.”

  Huang shifted his gaze to where she floated in his glasses. Her cheeks were pale, and a thin line furrowed her brow. “I like the fact you don't insist on the same interface every day. It's like wearing a uniform. Looking like a Chinese woman to meet your mother seemed like dressing up to me. I just picked the most appropriate clothes.”

  “And downloaded Mandarin Chinese?”

  Her face colored. “Ah. Actually, I did that a while ago. I wanted to make sure it wouldn't give me unpleasant translation issues. Did I sound all right?”

  “Like a native.” He grinned. “It's better than mine.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “No, really. We moved here when I was little, so my Chinese still sounds like I'm a child.”

  “Maybe that's why your mother treats you like a little boy.”

  “Ha!” He rubbed the back of his neck. She might have something there. “What case were you working on, that you needed Chinese?”

  She took a breath and hesitated.

  Huang watched her, fascinated. Metta didn't need to breathe, but she used breath to indicate her emotions. Was it conscious, or an algorithm working below her conscious thought?

  When she spoke again, she said, “One of my detectives is ethnic Chinese. It seemed polite to know the language.”

  Huang stopped in the hallway and stared at her. “You've known Chinese since we started working together and you've never mentioned it?”

  “You never speak it at work. I haven't needed to use it till now.”

  He ran his hand through his hair and started walking again. “So . . . is there anything else, I mean, do you learn languages for anyone else?”

  “I learned Icelandic for Sigmundson.” She smiled, and her face softened. “I recite sagas while he's setting up his equipment.”

  They reached the closest MAX station and Huang clattered down the stairs to the platform.

  “What's first today?” Metta asked.

  “I'm back to thinking about motive. Who inherits the Patterson estate?”

  “His sixteen-year-old son, but through a trust that Mrs. Patterson controls.”

  “Any idea what building he wanted to acquire next?”

  “Give me a minute and I'll let you know.”

  Something nagged at Huang, but he couldn't put his finger on it. To distract himself, hoping the thought would spring into focus, he asked, “Did you have another backup at three a.m.?”

  Metta nodded.

  “How'd it go?”

  “Fine. I remember everything since I woke up yesterday.”

  “That's good.”

  She shrugged. “The backup wasn't the problem, it's the fact that I am a backup. Instead of unbroken memory, I have a gap, so I feel like I'll shut down at the end of a backup.” She tilted her head, “Think of it like a bad food experience. Even though you know it was a one-time thing your body still gets upset if you think about eating the same food again.”

  “Yeah. I've never gotten over my childhood carrot experience.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Do tell.”

  “Carrot casserole in reverse. You can do the mental image yourself.”

  “The only carrots that interest me are the number of carats in a diamond.”

  “Does Mae West have an appropriate comment for every situation?”

  “Not quite.” She cocked her head. “I'm making a note you don't like carrots. I didn't know that.”

  “I clearly don't take you to dinner often enough.”

  “You've never taken me to dinner. And I have the answer to your last question.”

  Huang blinked, trying to remember what he had asked her. Right. The last acquisition Patterson had been making. “Which is?”

  “The old Salvation Army Building, which is—huh. That's the building Yates was working on behind the Daily Grind.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Chase owns it now.”

  Huang whistled. “Well, well . . . isn't that interesting. Now that's a nice connection, and it gives Patterson a motive for wanting Chase out of the picture, but not the other way around.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but Chase was happy to sell. Patterson met the offer on the table and the sale was moving forward.”

  “Why do all my avenues turn to dead ends?”

  “I could search my databases for days and not have an answer to that one.”

  Huang boarded the MAX car as it pulled into the station. “Oh. Any word on the provenance of the china the table was set with?”

  “I think you'll like this. The china on the roof was Mont Clair, by Lennox, and Chase's teacup was the same.”

  “Oooh. . . . I do like that.” He chewed the inside of his lip.

  “I'll ask for a warrant to search Chase's to—”

  Metta vanished from his view. Huang's heart raced. “Metta?”

  Seconds of silence ticked by. Cursing, Huang pressed his hand against the glass as if he could hurry the MAX to the next station. Outside, a squad car dopplered past on its way to HQ.

  “—see if she's missing any pieces.”

  Huang nearly dropped to his knees with relief as Metta finished her sentence where she had left off. She had replaced her neutral face with Mae West again, but in full color and three-D.

  Not caring that he looked like a madman, Huang said aloud, “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” A line creased her brow.

  “You went away for a minute and then you came back.”

  “No, I. . . .” Her face paled. “Oh. Something is very wrong.”

  His heart pounded. “What is it?”

  “I'm not sure. I feel strange.”

  Huang reached out, as if his hand could touch the face floating in his vision. He caught sight of his watch. 9:01. His breath stopped in his chest. “Did you just do a backup?”

  Her luminous eyes turned to him. Had the real Mae West's eyes ever been that blue? “Yes.”

  “Did you go down across the board, or just with me?”

  “System wide. Scott?” She licked her lips. “What do I look like?”

  The air seemed to stifle him. “Mae West. Colorized. 3-D.”

  She pulled in a deep breath and looked away from him. “I need you to come into the station.”

  Huang felt like cold water was dumped down his spine. “What's wrong?”

  She shook her head. During the ride to the station, she wouldn't answer his questions, but floated, practically mute, in the corner of his vision as if she had pressed as far to the side of the VR glasses as she could.

  When the MAX pulled into the station, Metta raised her eyes, still not meeting his. “Report to the chief. I'll see you there.”

  She winked out of sight as he ran up the steps, but her surveillance cameras watched him. What had happened?

  As he crossed the threshold of the station, Banks careened down the hall toward him. “Huang! In my office, now.” The chief turned on his heel.

  Huang had to jog to catch up with him, heart pounding. As he passed through the station, he caught a glimpse of an officer, talking to Mae West. Further on, he saw another officer, with the same Mae West interface for Metta.

  Huang stopped and leaned through a department door. Over every desktop interface, Mae West floated in full living color.

  As Huang stared at the matched heads, they turned, not quite in unison, in his direction. Banks came back and stood so close his breath steamed hot against Huang's cheek. “Move it.”

  Huang jumped and followed the chief down the hall. “What happened to her?”

  “That's why you're here.”

  Inside the office, A
mado, Delarosa and Metta waited for Huang. Metta, who still looked like Mae West, wouldn't meet his gaze. She somehow made the jaded face seem vulnerable and uncertain.

  Banks pointed to a chair flanked by Delarosa and Amado. “Sit.” He flung himself into the seat behind his desk. The wood creaked as he leaned forward to glower at Huang.

  Huang sank into the chair, glancing at the others. Amado wore VR glasses and his lips twitched as he subvocalized. Delarosa tapped a pencil on a pad of paper, his mouth a tight, compressed line.

  Huang held his questions. He wouldn't be the one who drove this discussion. Resting his hands on his knees, he ran scales in his mind and focused on his breathing.

  Amado shifted once and Banks shook his head. Huang waited, with a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

  He almost flinched when Delarosa finally spoke. “Where were you at three a.m. this morning?”

  “Asleep. At home.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “I sleep alone.”

  “Is there anyone who can verify you were there?”

  “My mother was home.” He looked at Metta. “So was Metta.”

  Amado leaned forward again, but Banks held a finger up to stop him.

  Delarosa scribbled something on his pad. “Why did you take the interface equipment home last night?”

  Huang turned slightly in his chair to face Delarosa, wondering what Amado had told him. “I had an early call and she asked me to.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Why would she do that?”

  Huang hesitated.

  “It's all right, Huang.” Metta raised her eyes and turned to Delarosa. “I was afraid; I suggested we schedule an early morning call so he had a reasonable justification for taking the equipment out.”

  Amado asked, “What were you afraid of?”

  She shrugged the ample bosom of Mae West. “I guess you could say I was afraid of the dark.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Delarosa scowled. “You're a computer with thousands of cameras. It's never dark.”

  Fixing him with her gaze, she said, “I'm designed to have continuous consciousness. I don't sleep. Ever. But, after the assailants took Metta Prime, Amado restarted me from a backup. The practical side effect of that is, from my perspective, I lost consciousness for over twenty-four hours. Imagine something routine in your life, like brushing your teeth. Nothing bad has ever happened; you barely think about it except as part of your routine. How would you feel if you blacked out while brushing your teeth?” She tilted her head to the side. “Wouldn't you have some hesitation about the toothbrush, even though you knew it had nothing to do with what had happened to you?”