The front of the bike jolted against a railing, and with a sudden angry whine the engine started again. The Tenma forced them forward onto a ground-level slidewalk, and the route flattened out. He gave a whoop, as though he’d planned it all.
“I think we lost them!” he shouted.
Miranda closed her eyes and clung on.
Chapter 2
“Definitely gang related,” Detective Bruce Tomson concluded, tapping his PAD as though taking notes. Caprice Nisei knew he wasn’t. She watched his big fingers from the corner of her eye. The movement was wasteful, annoying, and like everything about her partner, tested her tolerance.
“I do not think so,” she demurred, approaching the victim’s window. Elizabeth Webb had fixed white screens over the transplas, for privacy perhaps, or as a convenient backdrop for threedees. Caprice imagined what the view would be without them; there was another tenement building opposite, perhaps with a mirroring window and inquisitive neighbors. As it was, no one had seen anything.
“Look at the mess,” Bruce said loudly, bringing her focus back to the room, where Webb’s body lay in pieces. Outdated consoles and even more archaic computer screens overran much of the victim’s living area. Cables weaved dangerously among the machines splattered with darkened blood. Body parts lay where they had fallen, now contained neatly in electronically labeled and temperature-controlled bags. The victim had been a natural, without implants or g-mods of any sort. That was quite unusual, for a woman who dealt in illegal data.
“Yes, it is messy,” Caprice agreed, turning her attention to the door. Numerous locks flashed silent warnings along the edge, waiting for a reset. “And yet, there are no prints, no DNA, no seccam footage from the hallway or outside the building.” No feelings of an attacker’s anger or rage, only the victim’s fear.
“A known criminal, killed in a barbaric way to send a message. Seems clear to me—gang written all over it,” Bruce went on. “Pass this one on to Orgcrime; it’s their jurisdiction, I’d say.” He scratched his stubbled chin, but stopped and stood straighter as a young uniformed officer walked into the room, clutching her PAD to her chest. Caprice immediately began to feel nauseated, her body clenching and contracting. The detective opened her mouth to ask for help, but realized in time that she was only picking up on the anxiety of the newcomer, whose face was sickly pale. Caprice backed away to a safe distance.
“Netcrimes,” said the officer, as Caprice’s PAD chirped, receiving a new ID. “I just need to tag the equipment here.” She eyed the detectives warily.
“Be our guest,” Bruce offered. “We’re done here.”
“Almost done,” Caprice corrected. Bruce did not want to take the case because it would be hard to solve. Impossible, if a megacorp was involved, and the killer had been a professional, so that was conceivable. All the killer had left was his cold, dark determination, but she could not tell Bruce that.
“I suppose you’ll want to re-interview the neighbor who called it in,” Bruce said. “Terrify her all over again.”
“That will not be necessary,” Caprice replied, reluctant to repeat the experience.
She watched as the officer began tagging all the tech, moving away when the woman got too close. Was it her own presence or the gore of the murder scene that caused the young officer’s discomfort? It was no secret that Caprice was a clone. She wore her hair down to conceal the code tattooed on her neck, but her colleagues knew it was there.
She glanced at her partner. Bruce would never listen to her opinion willingly. This was only their second case together, and the commissioner had made them partners against their will. City Hall had pushed, and neither Caprice nor the bioroid detectives were entitled to work alone anymore.
“According to Forensics, the blades used were katanas,” Caprice said. “I suspect a corporate samurai or renegade assassin of some kind. Someone who wants to leave a mark. Someone with a corrupted sense of tradition.”
“Ah, Jinteki, of course. I knew you’d bring it into this somehow.” Bruce sniffed, his face turning red. She often inadvertently provoked him, when she only meant to speak her mind.
“No, I did not mean that. There is no evidence of a connection to—” She paused as her PAD vibrated on her belt. Someone she could not ignore had pinged her. It wasn’t the best time. “Excuse me.”
“What now?” Bruce asked, but she judged it one of those questions best left unanswered. She ignored him and retreated to the other side of the small living area before responding to the ping, putting a partition wall between herself and the natural humans.
“Good day, Toshiyuki,” she said quietly. An image of the senior director appeared before her, a projection from her PAD. He was frowning, and she sensed his irritation.
“Caprice, I require your expertise at a recycling center in north Nihongai.”
She paused, taking a moment to compose herself. “Recycling center?” she asked for confirmation, keeping her voice steady.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No. I mean, yes. That is, I will be there as soon as I can, but I am currently on assignment.”
“I need you now, Caprice. There’s been a breakin, and the nature is sensitive. We don’t want to involve the NAPD.”
“But I am the NAPD.” A breakin. That explained the request; she was safe. “And my department investigates homicides.”
“Caprice.” The low, warning tone of his voice was enough to silence her. He did not have to remind her what was at stake if she disappointed her makers at Jinteki. She closed her eyes and felt the warm fluid eddying against her skin, the fluid that kept her sisters alive in their vats. They were helpless, unconscious yet aware, and their fate was in her hands. She would go wherever Jinteki sent her, however unpleasant.
“Of course, Senior Director. I will come immediately.”
He ended the transmission before she could.
“Going somewhere?” Bruce asked, appearing at her shoulder. “You do know we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, don’t you?” He leaned against the wall beside her, arms folded. He was taller than average, by nature, not design, and looked down at her. He saw her as a Jinteki product, nothing more. He told himself that repeatedly, as though he were aware she could hear his thoughts.
“I am afraid I have been called away,” she said, “but I will return as soon as I can.”
“Who is it you work for really, Nisei?”
“I am currently in the employ of the NAPD, and I value my detective work highly.”
It was more than just a job for her—it was justification for her existence. But Bruce would not understand.
“I will return soon,” she added, but he put an arm out to prevent her from passing him.
“You may think you’re a detective, Nisei, but the true detectives spend years training, getting real experience on the streets. You’re just an experiment, a corporate toy. The commissioner will figure that out eventually. Until then, you’re just in the way.” He withdrew his arm. “I’m going back to HQ; there’s nothing to do here. You’ll find me there if you actually want to do any police work while you’re playing cop.”
“I will find you there,” Caprice repeated as he left, unwilling to defend herself. She could feel the resentment beneath her partner’s anger. Perhaps it wasn’t so unwarranted, she thought. Or perhaps his opinions were influencing her.
She took one last look at the murder victim to remind herself why it was so important to do her job well. The next time she saw this condo-hab it would be as a re-creation in virtual reality, and that wasn’t the same. The body and tech would be collected soon, the rooms cleaned and sterilized. She wanted to remember this place as it was, as it felt: the echoes of fear, panic, and pain, like vibrations under her skin. Scenes like this should not occur, and it was her job to prevent a recurrence. First, she had to satisfy Toshiyuki Sakai.
Express’s nerves were still buzzing after the chase, but his charge climbed unsteadily from the hopperbike, grippin
g the seat to stay upright. Her body shook, and all the self-important celeb bluster was gone, replaced by stooped shoulders and a hanging head, her blond hair a tangled mess in her face.
“I don’t have time for this,” Express said. “Come on.”
He took her arm and she raised her face to look at him, holding his gaze. In his limited experience, eye contact usually meant a person was going to speak to him or attack him, but she just narrowed her eyes and dropped her head again. He half pulled, half supported her as they left his Qianju in the parking lot underneath the building, a level supported by thick pillars instead of walls, leaving space for hoppers and groundcars to come and go from all angles at all times. There was an odd collection of vehicles in the lot, including old, battered electric-powered groundcars and some hoppers that had been modded, bloated fuel cells welded to their sides.
He steered her across the carboconcrete and she dragged her feet, unsettling garbage that had blown in and gathered in untidy piles, but they made their way to the tarnished metal doors of the elevator. The doors opened to reveal an unlit space with dated button panels and smelling of urine.
“No way am I getting in there,” she said, pulling back.
“You’d rather take the stairs?” he said, stepping in, as though ready to leave her there.
She followed him inside, pressing herself close to him to avoid touching the sides of the elevator. The doors thunked shut and they rose with a jolt. She clung to him, her fingers gripping his courier garb, pulling the cheap rubbery material taut against his skin.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Somewhere safe,” he said, “where you can rest.” His condo-hab. He’d taken “packages” there before, clones who did as he said so long as he spoke to them with humanlike authority. Clones who looked in awe on the home he’d made for himself, the acquisitions that were his own, the state-of-the-art tech and expensive furniture. They didn’t notice the bare floor under the rug, or the thick insulation he’d glued to the walls and ceiling. He didn’t know what this woman, this ristie used to the finer things, might make of it all. It shouldn’t matter what she thought.
He opened the door for her and she didn’t react; she just headed for his synthleather couch and stretched out on it. She didn’t seem to notice her fur coat falling open, or didn’t care. Underneath she wore nothing but a gold-colored miniskirt and two sun-shaped golden discs.
Express drew his PAD and stood over her, running a more thorough check for tracking devices than he’d made time for on the way. Nothing.
“No pictures,” she mumbled, and he ignored her, going over to his rig. His new console, the Akamatsu 4000, waited at the center of a tangle of black wires, its red light blinking impatiently.
He sat in his gamer chair and glanced back at his guest. She appeared to have fallen asleep, one slim arm stretched above her head, the other resting across her body.
“Big risk, big reward,” Li11ith had told him, like she was doing him a favor. He should have known that rescuing a clone as confidential as Miranda Rhapsody would be more problematic than his usual jobs, but he couldn’t resist the creds. She didn’t take orders like the clones he usually dealt with.
Then there were the Omoi; they shouldn’t have been there. They weren’t scheduled to be there. He blamed Li11ith for giving him outdated info, but someone in Jinteki must have changed his mind last minute. The presence of those clones meant Express hadn’t had time to get the hopper driver out, to reassign him to take the phony package away. He hadn’t been able to tie the job up neatly, the way he usually did, to buy himself more time.
He discreetly checked the shoutcasts on his personal lenses. He’d made a mistake. He’d disabled the seccams of course, but someone had taken amateur footage. He’d spotted Miranda Rhapsody, got a shot of her outside the Jinteki building. The vidder must have been reaching out of a window several floors above, and she had shielded her face as she fell back into the hopper. It was not a good enough image for facial recognition, but enough to start rumors. He could jack in and erase it, but already the clip had spread like a virus through the Net, popping up on tab-rags and mediafeeds. It was too late to do anything about it. He had done so many jobs, and never been foolish enough to let one get out in the open. Maybe Li11ith’s death had affected him more than he’d realized, or maybe he was just losing his touch.
She had been right about the big reward though—two million credits in escrow was worth the risk. He would do this one last job, and then he could afford to replace any outdated programs in his arsenal, update his console, and take more jobs that could be done solely on the Net.
He was growing beyond the Tenma specs, as Li11ith had always said he would. He couldn’t afford to get caught now.
He looked over to the sleeping celeb. The sooner he got rid of her the better, but she wasn’t ready. He would have to be thorough and employ the doctor’s services, and fast.
Chapter 3
Caprice had never visited a recycling facility, and even with the knowledge of the breakin, a part of her wondered if Toshiyuki was luring her there under false pretenses. Most clones ended up in such a facility eventually, some sooner than others, but she had not expected her time to come so soon.
She might have disappointed Miss Inada too many times, or her last psych evaluation with Dr. Knox might not have gone as well as she had thought, or there might have been a problem with the NAPD contract. If Commissioner Dawn deemed Caprice a failed experiment, it would cut her career—and her life—short. She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching out for her sisters. They were all still there; none had been decanted to take her place.
[…we’re waiting…]
The cab lurched to a stop as Caprice opened her eyes, or perhaps it was the sensation of breaking the psi connection. She nearly jumped as her PAD vibrated briefly to let her know that payment was transferring for the ride. The door opened and she stepped out into a pool of light provided by the Jinteki entrance. There was little need for ads in this neighborhood, and nearby manufactories blocked the sky completely. The air was uncomfortably warm.
Chairman Hiro prized perfection above all else, and his employees used cutting-edge technology and top New Angeles designers to remain true to his aesthetic principles. Or so the PR team claimed.
There was nothing beautiful about this place. Occupying only the middle floors in what was otherwise a tenement building, it seemed like something they were trying to hide. Bare plascrete walls, a few square, mirrored windows reflecting nothing but more plascrete. Nevertheless, the Jinteki tree hung suspended in the air above the door, rippling in the heat and smoke churned out by nearby chimneys.
Lives ended in this place. Clone lives, but the distinction mattered little to Caprice. Whether her Jinteki designers had intended her to or not, she valued her life, and she knew many clones felt the same. If she had been the “thing” Bruce thought she was, the “toy” he accused her of being, this place would not trouble her. Perhaps that would have been better.
She stepped forward, and the tinted transplas doors slid open. A figure waited inside the entrance hall, hands behind his back. Senior Director Toshiyuki Sakai wore his usual dark suit and his hair slicked back. He fixed his hollow eyes on her as she entered and the doors closed, sealing her in. There was no atmosphere control inside; the air was warm and stale. The light was too bright.
“Glad you could make it,” Toshiyuki said.
“I came as quickly as I could,” she responded automatically, wishing she did not always need to make excuses for this man, wishing her life were not his do with as he pleased.
There was a clone standing behind a large empty desk, one of the older secretarial genotypes. His eyes were on her, not on the colored figures that ran over the surface of the desk before him. She felt nothing from him but the curiosity he required to do his job: no fear, no sympathy. Some of the older lines were emotionally stunted, deliberately so. She wondered how many clones he had watched pass his de
sk on their way into the building and how few had walked out again.
“Tell the detective what you told me,” Toshiyuki said.
“At 0600 hours a Tenma courier arrived with a package, marked for one of the offices in the building,” the clone said, his voice flat, disinterested. “I checked our system and located the order, so I scanned the package and let him through.”
“What was in the package?” Caprice asked.
“Hardware to replace a defective component in one of our machines.”
“It was an optical drive, obsolete tech,” Toshiyuki said. “Not something we would require, but the scan did not detect any danger. It was plausible enough to grant the courier access.”
There had been old-fashioned components at the Webb murder scene, too. “Is there security footage?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, someone compromised our security system,” the secretary said. “There is no footage of the courier.”
“And what did he take?”
The secretary looked to Toshiyuki.
“Come this way,” the senior director said, and Caprice hurried to keep up as he marched her on into the building.
She did not hesitate as they passed through the unwelcoming grey doors into a corridor that smelled of sanitizing products. The walls and ceilings were white, spotless, like in a hospital or lab. She was careful not to touch anything, and to keep her psi under tight control. She did not want to feel anything here—her own fear was enough—but strong emotions seemed to press on her from all directions. She had to concentrate to keep them out.
Toshiyuki continued past unmarked doors to an elevator at the end of the corridor, and she moved obediently in his wake. There was no sound but the echo of their footfalls. The doors slid open and she followed him in, stepping into the carbosteel box, and stood with her body rigid as he placed his palm on a sensor on the wall. She could not let Toshiyuki see her fear; it would only amuse him.
Exodus Page 2
