by Jack Dann
Sympathy is rare among Retrieval Artists. Most Retrieval Artists got into this line of work because they owed a favor to the Disty, a group of aliens who'd more or less taken over Mars. Others got into it because they had discovered, by accident, that they were good at it, usually making that discovery in their jobs for human corporations or human crime syndicates.
I got in through a different kind of accident. Once I'd been a space cop assigned to Moon Sector. A lot of the Disappeared come through here on their way to new lives, and over time, I found myself working against the clock, trying to save people I'd never met from the people they were hiding from. The space police frowned on the work—the Disappeared are often reformed criminals and not worth the time, at least according to the Moon Sector—and so, after one of the most horrible incidents of my life, I went into business on my own.
I'm at the top of my profession, rich beyond all measure, and usually content with that. I chose not to have a spouse or children, and my family is long dead, which I actually consider to be a good thing. Families in this business are a liability. So are close friends. Anyone who can be broken to force you to talk. I don't mind being alone.
But I do hate being manipulated, and I hate even more taking revenge, mine or anyone else's. I vigilantly protect myself against both of those things.
And this was the first time I failed.
III
After the girl left, I stayed away from the office for two days. Sometimes snubbed clients come back. They tell me their stories, the reasons they're searching for their parent/child/spouse, and they expect me to understand. Sometimes they claim they've found more money. Sometimes they simply try to cry on my shoulder, believing I will sympathize.
Once upon a time maybe I would have. But Sir Galahad has calluses growing on his heart, I am beginning to hate the individuals. They always take a level of judgment that drains me. The lawyers trying to find a long-lost soul to meet the terms of a will; the insurance agents, required by law to find the beneficiaries, forced by the government to search "as far as humanly possible without spending the benefits"; the detective, using government funds to find the one person who could put a career criminal, serial killer, or child molester away for life; these people are the clients I like the most. Almost all are repeat customers. I still have to do background checks, but I have my gut to rely on as well. With individuals, I can never go by gut, and even armed with information, I've been burned.
I've gotten to the point where coldness is the way of the game for me, at least at first. Once I sign on, I become the most intense defender of the Disappeared. The object of my search also becomes the person I protect and care about the most. It takes a lot of effort to maintain that caring, and even more to manage the protection.
Sometimes I'll go to extremes.
Sometimes I have no other choice.
On the third day, I went back to my office, and of course, the girl was waiting. This time she was dressed appropriately, a pair of boots, cargo pants that cinched at the ankles, and a shirt the color of sand. Her personal items bag was gone—obviously someone, probably the maitre d' at the exclusive hotel she was most likely staying at, had told her it made her a mark for pickpockets and other thieves. Thin mesh gloves covered her enhancements. Only her long hair marked her as a newcomer. If she stayed longer than a month, she'd cut it off just like the rest of us rather than worry about keeping it clean.
She was leaning against my locked door, her booted feet sticking into the street. In that outfit, she looked strong and healthy, as if she were hiring me to take her on one of those expeditions outside the dome. The rent-a-lawyer next door, newly out of Armstrong Law, was eyeing her out of his scarred plastic window, a sour expression on his thin face. He probably thought she was scaring away business.
I stopped in the middle of the street. It was hot and airless as usual. There was no wind in the dome, of course, and the recycled air got stale real fast. Half the equipment in this part of town had been on the fritz for the last week, and the air here wasn't just stale, it was thin and damn near rancid. I hated breathing bad air. The shallow breaths and the increased heartbeat made me feel as if there was danger around when there probably wasn't. If the air got any thinner, I'd have to start worrying about my clarity of thought.
She saw me when I was still several meters from the place. She stood, brushed the dust off her pants, and watched me. I pretended as if I were undecided about my next move, even though I knew I'd have to confront her sooner or later. Her kind only went away when chased.
"I'm sorry," she said as I approached. "I was told that you expected negotiation, so I—"
"Lied about the money, did you?" I asked, knowing she was lying now too. If she knew enough to find me, she also knew that I didn't negotiate. All the lie proved was that she had an ego big enough to believe that the rules were different for her.
I shoved past her to use my palm scan when someone else was present. It let us in, but initiated a higher level of security monitor.
She started to follow me, but I slammed the door in her face. Then I went to my desk, and switched on my own automatic air. It was illegal, and it wouldn't be enough, but I wasn't planning to stay long. I would finish the reports from the last case, get the final fees, and then maybe I'd take a vacation. I had never taken one before. It was past time.
I wish, now, that I had listened to my gut and gone. But there was just enough of Sir Galahad left in me to make me watch the door. And of course, it opened just like I expected it to.
She came inside, a little downtrodden but not defeated. Her kind seldom were. "My name is Anetka Sobol," she said as if I should know it. I didn't. "I really do need your help."
"You should have thought of that before," I said. "This isn't a game."
"I'm not trying to play one."
"So what was that attempt at negotiation?"
She shook her head. "My source—"
"Who is your source?"
"He said I wasn't—"
"Who is it?"
Again she licked that lower lip just like she had the day before, a movement that was too unconscious to be planned. The nervousness, then, wasn't feigned. "Norris Gonnot."
Gonnot. Sobol was the third client he'd sent to me in the last year. The other two checked out, and both cases had been easy to solve. But he was making himself too visible, and I would have to deal with that, even though I hated to do so. He was extremely grateful that I had found his daughter and granddaughter alive (although they hadn't appreciated it), and he'd been even more grateful when I was able to prove that the Disty were no longer looking for them.
"And how did you find him?"
She frowned. "Does it matter?"
I leaned back in my chair. It squeaked and the sound made her jump ever so slightly. "Either you're up front with me now or the conversation ends."
The frown grew deeper, and she clutched her left wrist with her right hand, holding the whole mess against her stomach. The gesture looked calculated. "Do you treat everyone like this?"
"Nope. Some people I treat worse."
"Then how do you get any work?"
I shrugged. "Just lucky."
She stared at me for a moment. Then she glanced at the door. Was she letting her thoughts be that visible on purpose or was she again acting for my benefit? I wasn't sure.
"A cop told me about him. Norris, that is." She sounded reluctant. "I wasn't supposed to tell you."
"Of course not. Gonnot wasn't supposed to talk to anyone. This cop, was he a rent-a-cop, a real cop, a Federal cop, or with the Earth Force?"
"She," she said.
"Okay," I said. "Was she a—"
"She was a New York City police officer who had her own detective agency."
"That's illegal in New York."
She shrugged. "So?"
I closed my eyes. Ethics had disappeared everywhere. "You hired her?"
"She was my fifth private detective. Most would work for a week and then qu
it when they realized that searching for an interstellar Disappeared is a lot harder than finding a missing person."
I waited. I'd heard that sob story before. Most detectives kept the case and simply came to someone like me.
"Of course," she said, "my father's looming presence doesn't help either."
"Your father?"
She was staring at me as if I had just asked her what God was.
"I'm Anetka Sobol," she said as if that clarified everything.
"And I'm Miles Flint. My name doesn't tell you a damn thing about my father."
"My father is the founding partner of the Third Dynasty."
I had to work to hide my surprise. I knew what the Third Dynasty was, but I didn't know the names of its founders. The Dynasty itself was a formidable presence all over the galaxy. It was a megacorp with its fingers in a lot of pies, mostly to do with space exploration, establishing colonies in mineral-rich areas, and exploitation of new resources. My contacts with the Third Dynasty weren't on the exploration level, but within its narrow interior holdings. The Third Dynasty was the parent company for Privacy Unlimited, one of the services which helped people disappear.
Privacy Unlimited had been developed, as so many of the corporate disappearance programs had, when humans discovered the Disty, and realized that in some alien cultures, there was no such word as forgiveness. The Disty were the harshest of our allies. The Revs, the Wygnin, and the Fuetrer also targeted certain humans, and our treaties with these groups allowed the targeting if the aliens could show cause.
The balance was a delicate one, allowing them their cultural traditions while protecting our own. Showing cause had to happen before one of eighteen multicultural tribunals, and if one of those tribunals ruled in the aliens' favor, the humans involved were as good as dead. We looked the other way most of the time. Most of the lives involved were, according to our government, trivial ones. But of course, those people whose lives had been deemed trivial didn't feel that way, and that was when the disappearance services cropped up. If a person disappeared and could not be found, most alien groups kept an outstanding warrant, but stopped searching.
The Disty never did.
And since much of the Third Dynasty's business was conducted in Disty territory, its disappearance service, Privacy Unlimited, had to be one of the best in the galaxy.
Something in my face must have given my knowledge away, because she said, "Now do you understand my problem?"
"Frankly, no," I said. "You're the daughter of the big kahuna. Go to Privacy Unlimited and have them help you. It's usually not too hard to retrace steps."
She shook her head. "My mother didn't go to Privacy Unlimited. She used another service."
"You're sure?"
"Yes." She brushed a hand alongside her head, to move the long hair. "It's my father she's running from."
A domestic situation. I never get involved in those. Too messy and too complicated. Never a clear line. "Then she didn't need a service at all. She probably took a shuttle here, then a transport for parts unknown."
Anetka Sobol crossed her arms. "You don't seem to understand, Mr. Flint. My father could have found her with his own service if she had done something like that. It's simple enough. My detectives should have been able to find her. They can't."
"Let me see if I can understand this," I said. "Are you looking for her or is your father?"
"I am."
"As a front for him?"
Color flooded her face. "No."
"Then why?"
"I want to meet her."
I snorted. "You're going to a lot of expense for a 'hello, how are you?' Aren't you afraid Daddy will find out?"
"I have my own money."
"Really? Money Daddy doesn't know about? Money Daddy doesn't monitor?"
She straightened. "He doesn't monitor me."
I nodded. "That's why the mesh gloves. Fashion statement?"
She glanced at her enhancements. "I got them. They have nothing to do with my father."
My smile was small. "Your father has incredible resources. You don't think he'd do something as simple as hack into your enhancement files. Believe me, one of those pretty baubles is being used to track you, and if my security weren't as good as it is, another would have been monitoring this conversation."
She put her left hand over her right as if covering the enhancements would make me forget them. All it did was remind me that this time, she didn't react when my security shut down her links. This was one smart girl, and one I didn't entirely understand.
"Go home," I said. "Deal with Daddy. If you want family ties, get married, have children, hire someone to play your mother. If you need genetic information or disease history, see your family doctors. I suspect they'll have all the records you need and probably some you don't. If you want Daddy to leave you alone, I'd ask him first before I go to any more expense. He might just do what you want. And if you're trying to make him angry, I'll bet you've gone far enough. You'll probably be hearing from him very soon."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're so sure of yourself, Mr. Flint."
"It's about the only thing I am sure of," I said, and waited for her to leave.
She didn't. She stared at me for a long moment, and in her eyes, I saw a coldness, a hardness I hadn't expected. It was as if she were evaluating me and finding me lacking.
I let her stare. I didn't care what she thought one way or another. I did wish she would get to the point so that I could kick her out of my office.
Finally she sighed and pursed her lips as if she had eaten something sour. She looked around, probably searching for some place to sit down. She didn't find one. I don't like my clients to sit. I don't want them to be comfortable in my presence.
"All right," she said, and her voice was somehow different. Stronger, a little more powerful. I knew the timidity had been an act. "I came to you because you seem to be the only one who can do this job."
My smile was crooked and insincere. "Flattery."
"Truth," she said.
I shook my head. "There are dozens of people who do this job, and most are cheaper." I let my smile grow colder. "They also have chairs in their offices."
"They value their clients," she said.
"Probably at the expense of the people they're searching out."
"Ethics," she said. "That's why I've come here. You're the only one in your profession who seems to have any."
"You have need of ethics?" Somehow I had trouble believing the woman with that powerful voice had need of anyone with ethics. "Or is this simply another attempt at manipulation?"
To my surprise, she smiled. The expression was stunning. It brought life to her eyes, and somehow seemed to make her even taller than she had been a moment before.
"Manipulation got me to you," she said. "Your Mr. Gonnot seems to have a soft spot for people who are missing family."
"Everyone who's missing is a member of a family," I said, but more to the absent Gonnot than to her. I could see how he could be manipulated, and that made it more important than ever to stop him from sending customers my way.
She shrugged at my comment, then she sat on the edge of my desk. I'd never had anyone do that, not in all my years in the business. "I do have need of ethics," she said. "If you breathe a single word of what I'm going to tell you . . ."
She didn't finish the sentence, on purpose of course, probably figuring that whatever I could imagine would be worse than what she could come up with.
I sighed. This girl—this woman—liked games.
"If you want the sanctity of a confessional," I said, "see a priest. If you want a profession that requires its practitioners to practice confidentiality as a matter of course, see a psychiatrist. I'll keep confidential whatever I deem worthy of confidentiality."
She folded her slender hands on her lap. "You enjoy judging your clients, don't you?"
I stared at her—up at her—which actually put me at a disadvantage. She was good at intimidation skills, eve
n better than she had been as an actress. It made me uncomfortable, but somehow it seemed more logical for the daughter of the man who ran the Third Dynasty.
"I have to," I said. "A lot of lives depend on my judgments."
She shook her head slightly. It was as if my earlier answer stymied her, prevented her from continuing. She had to learn that we would do this on my terms or we wouldn't do it at all.
I waited. I could wait all day if I had to. Most people didn't have that kind of patience no matter what sort of will they had.
She clearly didn't. After a few moments, she brushed her pants, adjusted the flap on one of the pockets, and sighed again. She must have needed me badly.
Finally, she closed her eyes, as if summoning strength. When she opened them, she was looking at me directly. "I am a clone, Mr. Flint."
Whatever I had thought she was going to say, it wasn't that. I worked very hard at keeping the surprise off my face.
"And my father is dying." She paused, as if she were testing me.
I knew the answer, and the problem. When her father died, she couldn't inherit. Clones were barred from familial inheritance by interstellar law. The law had been adapted universally after several cases where clones created by a nonfamily member and raised far from the original (wealthy) family inherited vast estates. The basis of the inheritance was a shared biology that anyone could create. Rather than letting large fortunes get leached off to whoever was smart enough to steal a hair from a hairbrush and use it to create a copy of a human being, legislators finally decided to create the law. The courts upheld it. It was rigid.
"Your father could change his will," I said, knowing that she had probably broached this with him already.
"It's too late," she said. "He's been ill for a while. The change could easily be disputed in court."
"So you're not an only child?" I had to work to keep from asking if she were an only copy.
"I am the only clone," she said. "My father had me made, and he raised me himself. I am, for all intents and purposes, his daughter."
"Then he should have changed his will long ago."
