by Mark Budz
"I've got nothing to hide. I'm clean."
"I can see that." Van Dijk crossed an ankle over one knee, then tented his fingers under his chin.
After a beat, Harvey sighed in resignation and grudgingly slipped into his uncomfortable role as police informant. "I suppose you want to know if I know anything about that girl who died."
"Well?"
"What do you think?"
"I didn't figure her for one of yours," Judy’s Garlands was strictly Y-chromo. "But if you think that means you're off the hook, think again."
Harvey shook his head. "I don't know where she got 'skinned. Or what she was waring."
"But you'd know if there was bad 'skin going around."
"Business has been pretty clean of late."
"What about bad blood?"
Harvey smoothed his mustache with deft strokes of one index finger, first the left side, then the right "Always bad blood. You know that."
"Bad enough to kill?"
"Word I'm getting from some of the cinematiques is that she was new to the club scene."
"How new?"
"Hard to say. Couple of months, maybe. Give or take."
"So she was trying to break into the trade as a dancer, sex worker, whatever, and no one knows who she was or where she was from."
"You know how it is in this business. Everyone is someone else—and no one is who they say they are."
"I also know that if you don't put out," Van Dijk said, "you're shut out."
Harvey squirmed. "All I've heard are the usual ruumors, that's all. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Such as?"
"You know." Harvey waved a vague hand. "The 'skin she was waring was totally new. High-end. All of the rip artists wanted to get into her pants. But she wasn't putting out. That might have pissed some people off."
"New ware from who?" There were hundreds of philm studios releasing updated 'skin and downloads. For every legit shop, there were thousands of illegal ones.
Harvey shrugged. "Good question. That would imply intimate information about something I'm no longer involved in."
"You've always been a very intimate girl."
Harvey flounced dark lashes. "But very circumspect." He dimpled his left cheek with a fingertip. Or is it 'cised? I can never remember."
Van Dijk leaned forward. "This is not the time to play hard to get. I'm not in the mood."
"You never are." Harvey sniffed. "Party pooper."
"I'm serious."
"Uptight, darling. But who's splitting hairs?"
Very slowly, van Dijk puckered his lips and kissed air between them.
Harvey affected an air of exasperation. "Why do I always have to be the one to tell? What's in it for me?"
"Depends."
"That's what you said last time, and look what happened. I get raided and closed down."
"I know. I feel bad about what happened. But sometimes there's only so much a guy can do to protect a girl."
"Oh, all right." Harvey sighed. "IBT. They're on everybody's lips these days. I don't know why. If you ask me their stuff is crap, hopelessly derivative. But I suppose there's no accounting for bad taste."
_______
In his car, van Dijk got a call from Kostroff. He routed her to a d-splay on the inside of his winddshield.
"You're not going to like this," the medical examminer said.
"Tell me something I don't know."
Kostroff blew at a strand of hair that had curled around one corner of her mouth. "Cause of death in your stiff was acute neuroleptic shock, leading to sudden respiratory and cardiac arrest."
"Her nervous system failed?"
"Shut down, suddenly and catastrophically."
"How?"
"Basically neurotransmission in her central nervous system was hyperpolarized—inhibited—immediately prior to death."
"By what? Toxins?"
Kostroff shook her head. "All the blood and tisssue work came back negative for toxicity."
"So what are we looking at?"
"Something in the 'skin. It's got wetronic hooks into her peripheral and central nervous systems."
"What kind of hooks?"
"Nothing I've ever seen. I'm going to notify NTSI. At this point, it looks more like their baby."
Nanotechnological Systems Investigation handled everything from designer drugs to illegal ware, including street-kinked 'skin and dirty grafts. Since the forensics pointed to a cause of death other than homicide, the case was no longer his. He could wash his hands.
"There're couple of other things I found," Kostroff said, "which may or may not be important."
"What's that?"
"She was carrying a lot of dormant REbots. Mostly in the face. It appears that the bots took bone from her nose and cheeks and redistributed it to other parts of her skeleton for reuse."
"Nanoplasty for the 'skin." It was a high-end modification that made it possible for a person to alter their physiology to more closely imitate the appearance of the philm they were screening.
Kostroff nodded. "She was also pregnant."
Van Dijk took a moment to let this sink in.
"How far along?"
"I'm not sure. The baby was ... abnormal. I'm not even sure it was alive, strictly speaking."
"Abnormal how?"
"Fully formed and properly proportioned, for its size. More like a scaled-down version of an adult than a fetus."
Van Dijk raised his brows. "Piecework?"
"That's what I'm thinking. The infant, if you can call it that, was also 'skinned." Kostroff gnawed a corner of one lip. "It's almost as if the fetus was being used as a culture, to grow the 'skin."
"Any DNA from the fetus?" he asked hopefully.
Kostroff shook her head. "NOF."
So he wouldn't be able to identify the victim that way. Even if she had gone to a legal piecework clinic that kept DNA records, they would be confidential. He'd need a court order, and at this point he didn't have enough probable cause.
After Kostroff logged off, van Dijk stared at his reflection in the windshield, pale and spectral against the cabaret of street LEDs and blinking adcasts.
The girl. Lisette. He needed to find her. She had seen something—or someone—she shouldn't.
Why else would she run?
14
Nadice felt queasy. The trip to Dockton had left her shaken. So had lack of food. The shelter stopped serving at seven and she'd been forced to go to the Tandoori Express down the street.
Surely a solid meal would help. But standing in line, her guts recoiled at the aroma of warm chicken, chutney, and curried rice.
She clutched her plate, certain she was going to vomit on the elderly woman in line in front of her. The woman hunched over the buffet, oblivious, neck and shoulders curled by osteoporosis.
Nadice tried to tell herself the nausea would pass in a couple of minutes. She was tired, exhausted, that was all. It had been a long day. Stressful. She just needed a minute or two for her nerves to settle.
She eased out of line, made her way to an empty table, and cradled her head in her hands. The nausea abated some, enough for her to take a few tentative sporkfuls of curry. But the queasiness lurked at the bottom of her throat, and after a moment she pushed the plate aside.
It was more than nerves or not enough to eat. Tne 'skin was beginning to tox her. Under the ceiling lights, it looked poisonously dull and cloudy. She had been planning to take the inhibitor after the trip to Dockton. But with the ware still in her, she had to wait. Another day or two, Mateus had said. She wasn't sure she could hang on that long. She stared at the bamboo-patterned floor tile, unable to look at the frenzied ad clips that kept appearing on the veneer of the table. "lET—fashioning the fuuture." "Vurtronic ... so real it's reel." "Snap Dragon Karate, where open hands lead to open hearts."
"Mind if I join you?"
Nadice looked up. A man stood across the table from her. He wore black jeans, a faded denim shirt, had a neatly trimmed go
atee and a shaved head. His eyes were a quiet blue, swirling with specks of white like the flurries in a snow globe. Her gaze slid to his hands, tucked into the pockets of his pants.
''I've already eaten," he explained. He removed his hands from his pockets, as if to prove he had nothing to hide.
Nadice offered a vague nod, which the man seemed to interpret as an invitation to join her.
"Jeremy," he said.
"Nadice."
They shook. His hand was warm and dry, and didn't linger too long. She noticed his nails were philmed the same pacific blue as his eyes. For some reason it didn't bother her. Perhaps because she was too exhausted to feel anything but sick.
"I saw you at the shelter," he said.
Was he hitting on her? She couldn't tell. He seemed more curious than anything.
He nodded at her half-finished plate. "Didn't care for what they were serving up back at the cafeteria?"
"Not really." No way she was going to get into where she'd been and why.
He nodded sympathetically. "It can take a little getting used to. Especially if it's your first time."
He seemed to know a lot about her, more than she was comfortable with. Her left knee bounced under the edge of the table. "I guess."
"I assume you've met Sister Giselle."
"We talked, yeah."
He placed his elbows on the table and threaded hands together. "What do you think of her?"
"She seems nice enough and all"
"'Yes."
She got the feeling he was prompting her, expecting her to say more. "For a nun, I mean. I don't really know her."
"Of course not. Let's hope it stays that way." Nadice blinked, uncertain what he was implying. "Don't get me wrong. It's a great place. Clean, and well run. But you don't want to get stuck here long term."
"No."
"All I'm saying"—he leaned closer, lowering his voice—"she's not the only game in town. You have other options."
She shook her head numbly, feeling stupid, confused. She was missing something.
"I can help you," he said. "With the baby."
"I'm not—"
"You're not the first to end up here," he continnued. "Believe me. That's why I'm talking to you."
"I'm fine." Nadice smoothed her thighs with flat- tened palms. "I can take care of myself."
"I know you can." He spread his hands, as if conceding the point "Otherwise you wouldn't have found your way to the shelter."
"You don't know anything about it." Or me, she thought.
"I know it won't be easy. You'll need prenatal scans. Help with delivery. Drugs."
His bluntness unnerved her. She didn't feel mennaced ... in danger, or anything—just out of sorts, nudged from her center of gravity. "What're you saying?"
"If you're under contract, I can buy it out. If you need protection, no problem. If necessary, I can even arrange to have you naturalized."
And in return ... "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"
The flurries continued to swirl in his eyes, gently, patiently. "Your baby is special. Wouldn't you agree?"
She said nothing. What did he expect her to say? Still, he didn't seem to be patronizing her. The question wasn't entirely rhetorical.
"I have reason to believe that your baby might be unique," he went on. "A miracle one might say. I want to make sure that miracle is given the best posssible chance at life."
In a sickening rush, it came to her. He wanted her to sell her baby, or give it up for adoption.
"No," she said, pushing her chair back, away from him.
"You can't have the baby here," he said. "Where will you go? Whatever company you work for will pressure you to abort. So that's not an option. The father? If there is one, he isn't an option, either. Am I right? If there isn't one ... " His voice trailed off, but his gaze didn't falter. It blanketed her, enfolding her.
He knew. Somehow, he could tell there was no father. That she had conceived on her own.
"Think about it," he said. "That's all I ask." He reached across the table, took one hand, and pressed something into it, curling her fingers around the little object.
"You're not alone," he said, standing. "There are others just like you. Remember that."
And then he was gone. Nadice unfolded her sweaty hand. A polymer-coated combead the size and color of a pomegranate seed nestled in her palm.
Her head spun. When he said there were other women like her, did he mean other virgin pregnancies? If so, how many? Where? What was happening? How was it happening? The questions somersaulted inside her, leaving her motion sick and confused.
"Damn TVs," someone said loudly, pointedly.
Nadice jerked her head up. She'd been staring blankly at her bowl.
Two men stood at the far end of the table. Each held a bowl of soup and a package of crackers. They looked like temporary guest workers in their jeans and steel-toed Timbo boots, but underneath they were pure crunk.
"Fuckin' waveheads. In here ridin' dick. Knowmsayin? Bumpin' off at the mouth an kissin ass."
"Fasho."
They didn't look in her direction. But they seemed to be talking to her as much as each other.
"I can't believe they let 'em in here. He comes back slangin' that shit, I'm a gonna get off in his shit."
His companion nodded as the two sat. "Bet. I gotcha, bruh."
"Things are gonna get crucial around here. No way that motherfuck is gonna hull this place."
A Transcendental Vibrationist. That was who'd sat down with her. All of the TVs she'd ever seen wore robes. This one had been different, polite, not pushy. Still ...
She looked af the bead in her hand, then stood and pushed her chair from the table. As she passed a trash can, she paused, her hand near the opening.
She was doing fine. She didn't need any more help. She was safe. She had Sister Giselle and the other social workers to protect her. There was no reaason to go anyplace else. Plus, the TV's interest in her baby seemed odd, unnatural. And yet he'd known there was no father. And he had treated her with reespect. Not like a freak.
"You gonna pick your ass crack all day?"
Nadice flinched as a six- or seven-year-old boy prodded her in the back of the thigh with a spork. The bead slipped from her hand.
"Leave her alone," the small girl with him said. She sniffed, and rubbed her mucus-glazed nose with the back of her hand.
The boy ignored his younger sister, keeping his attention fixed on Nadice. "What's the matter? You a 'tard or somethin'?"
Nadice listened to the bead skitter across the floor—tick ... tick ... tick—then fall silent.
A sign? The bead had come to a rest in the corner, lodged in a grimy crack in the floor. Pick it up? No, she decided. It wasn't worth it. She'd find the answers to all the questions she had someplace else.
_______
Nadice woke to muted shouting. Faint ... down the hall somewhere. She imagined one of the elderly residents wandering the floor, confused and afraid, in an Alzheimer's-fueled panic.
The commotion grew louder. Not only that, it was headed her way. She sat up on her futon. Moonlight sifted through the window closest to her, projecting a grid of bleary lines on the far wall. Soft, stirring noises came from the other side of the partition, stifled whispers thick with anxiety, followed by hushed reassurances. At some point during Nadice's absence, a family had replaced the old woman who had shared the room with her.
Intermittent words punctuated the disturbance, urgent and sweaty:
" ... know you're here ... "
The voice sounded familiar. No, she thought wildly. It wasn't possible. Not here.
" ... room ... every one if I have to ... "
Mateus. He sounded drunk, angry. How had he found her? How had he gotten into the shelter? Nadice thought about the crunkheads in the fastfood buffet. Coincidence? It didn't seem likely.
" ... goddamnit ... where are you? ... "
She couldn't tell where his voice was coming
from. It caromed off the walls, like a reflection in a room full of fun-house mirrors.
Where was Sister Giselle ... the night staff? Someone must be on duty. Surely they had called the police.
A door banged open and someone screamed. There was a brief scuffle, then a thud shook the walls.
Nadice felt the shudder reverberate inside her. She rose, placing a hand against the fabric of the acoustic partition to steady herself. On the other side, the man comforted his wife, rocking her, stroking her hair.
"It's okay," he soothed. "There's nothing to be afraid of. We're safe. It's not him. Trust me."
She couldn't stay here. She had to leave. She made her way to the door, slowly at first, then more quickly. Gripping the knob tightly, she steeled herrself, then turned the handle and peeked out.
Mateus stood across the hallway to her left, next to an open door less than ten meters away. He was flanked by the two crunkheads. They formed a loose circle around a man who sat slumped against the wall. A woman wrapped in a pink nightgown hudddled in the doorway, sniffling.
"Shut the fuck up!" Mateus shouted, discharging flecks of pink-colored spit under the muted LED hall lights.
The woman flinched but continued to whimper. "Leave her alone," Nadice said. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind her.
Mateus turned. " 'Bout time."
"What do you want?"
He nodded at the crunks and walked toward her.
"Let's go."
"Where?"
His breath stank of cheap wine. "Wherever the fuck I" say." He caught her by the arm.
"I need my stuff," she said, stalling.
"Forget it." His fingers pressed into her biceps. "We'll get you new stuff."
Several more doors on the floor had opened. Out of the corner of her eye, people emerged, some sleep-addled, others irritated, belligerent. They coalesced into a smob of sorts in the middle of the hall.
A stocky, thickset Japanese man stepped forward. "Is there a problem?" He wore black drawstring baggies, a black leather jacket, and a green turban. In his right hand he carried a flute made out of a sawed-off length of white PVC pipe.
"No problem," Mateus said. "Go back to sleep."
"What's going on?" Nadice asked. She kept her voice reasonable and composed, trying to instill some measure of calm into the situation.
