by John Scalzi
Creek reached over and picked up one of the gloves. “It looks like skin,” he said. “Did this come from someone?”
“I didn’t flay someone, if that’s what you mean,” Fixer said, and pointed at the glove. “Human skin cells grown from a culture, suspended in a nutrient base to keep them alive. Fingerprints, palm prints, and skin texture are laser-etched. Refrigeration makes them last for about six weeks. Unrefrigerated, they last for about two days. They’ll get you off planet, and that’s about it.”
“Where do you get something like this?” Robin asked.
“One of the Malloys’ legitimate businesses is a chain of nursing homes,” Fixer said, and went back to the freezer to pull out another box. “I get skin samples and identities from the residents. They’re good to use because they’re alive but they’re not going anywhere. As long as you’ve got a breathing body, DNA, and fingerprints, everything else is just paperwork. The gloves themselves I make on medical apparatus I modified myself.”
“You’re pretty handy,” Robin said.
“Thanks,” Fixer said. “It’s nice that my college education is not completely wasted.” He handed the second box to Robin, who stared at it, and back at Fixer.
“Women’s DNA in those,” Fixer said. “Because, genetically speaking, one size does not fit all.”
Fixer helped Creek and Robin with the gloves and trimmed off excess material, so that the gloves went midway between the elbow and the shoulder. Fixer had both of them bend their arms and put their palms up; he tugged at their gloves to line up the fingerprints and then brought out what looked like a pair of calipers and placed them on either side of Creek’s upper arm and pressed a button. Creek felt a mild thrum of electricity and then the constriction of the glove adhering tightly to his arms.
“Ow,” Creek said.
“Relax,” Fixer said, doing the same to Robin. “They’ll give a bit in a few minutes. But better too tight than too loose. Now, let’s deal with your heads.” Fixer went away and retuned a few minutes later with another box. “High-tech,” he said, reaching into the box and handing a small plastic container of tiny circular tabs to Creek. “I apply these tabs to particular points on your face and head, and they tighten or relax the muscle groups underneath to alter your appearance. You’ll look different enough from yourself that you’ll get past facial-recognition scanners. Another short-term solution. The power on the tabs works for about six hours.”
To Robin, he handed a pair of scissors and some hair dye. “Low-tech,” he said. “You have great hair, my dear. But it’s far too obvious.” Robin took the scissors and dye and looked like she had just been told to cut her own throat. Fixer guided her to a bathroom and then came back to Creek. “I need to make a few calls,” he said. “I need to call in a few favors.”
“Thank you,” Creek said. “I really appreciate it.”
“They’re not favors for you,” Fixer said. “I can get you off planet under my own steam. But I have a feeling you’ve just qualified me for a long, necessary, and possibly permanent vacation. That’s going to require calling in some markers.”
“Sorry about that,” Creek said.
“Don’t be too sorry,” Fixer said. He dug out Creek’s anonymous credit card and handed it back to him. “You’re paying for it. And I don’t mind telling you I’m putting a hell of a markup on my services tonight.” Fixer headed up the stairs; Creek pulled out his communicator and made a call of his own to Brian.
“You’re very popular,” Brian said, again without preamble. “In the last hour or so there’s been about 2,000 attempts to hack your system, some of them actually pretty good.”
“The fact you’re here to tell me about it suggests you have it under control,” Creek said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Brian said. “Another way of putting would be to say that in about ninety minutes, a couple thousand elite and not-so-elite hacks are going to howl in terror when their little worlds implode. However, I’m less worried about them than I am about the fact that a judge has just authorized a warrant to search your premises and the chattels within, namely, your computer system, in an attempt to figure out just where you are at the moment. The cops aren’t going to be any more successful in getting information out of your system than the hacks, but if I’m disconnected from the network I’m not going to be much use to you.”
“Can you leave the system?” Creek asked.
“I don’t think so,” Brian said. “The network allows for small autonomous programs, like the drillers I’m currently swatting away, but I’m a little large not to be noticed just floating there in the aether.”
Creek thought for a moment. “The IBM at NOAA,” he said, finally. “It should still be accessible. You could go there.”
“Oh, very nice,” Brian said. “Back to the womb.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Creek said.
“I’m not complaining, Harry,” Brian said. “I like the IBM. It’s roomy. And it’s also connected to the government network, which makes my accessing it rather less obtrusive. Hold on, I’ve begun my transfer. Do I sound farther away?”
“Not really,” Creek said.
“And as I’m backing out of your system I’m formatting it and ordering it to disconnect from the network,” Brian said. “I don’t know what the cops are going to find in the rest of your house but your computer, at least, will be clean in just a few minutes.”
“What else have you got for me?” Creek asked.
“Tons,” Brian said. “First: The mall security cameras weren’t working—the police pulled some disruptors off your new friends—but you and Miss Baker were recorded by the Metro video cameras. That’s the bad news. The good news is that I managed to disconnect the feed from your train once I located you. The bad news is that I wasn’t able to disconnect the video feed from the Benning Road stop, so eventually they’ll figure out where you got off. But it still gives you a little bit of time. If you’re not already hurrying to do whatever you’re doing, it’s time to start.”
“We’re hurrying,” Creek said.
“Good to hear,” Brain said. “Second: Your ‘Agent Reginald Dwight’ is actually Edward Baer, who appears to be your average low-grade flunky type. Served a couple years for extortion and racketeering about a decade ago and got an extra six months tacked on to his sentence for assaulting another prisoner while in the pen. His official job is as a security specialist, which is some irony for you. Quite obviously an associate of Mr. Acuna, who has been signing checks to this guy for a couple of years now.”
“Is he dead?” Creek asked.
“No, he’s not,” Brian said. “He’s not exactly skipping through the daisies, either. He was admitted to Mount Vernon Hospital with multiple internal and external injuries, including a broken back and severed spinal cord. He’s in surgery now. There are two confirmed dead, one from massive head trauma and another from a gunshot wound, and two others wounded. One of those is unconscious, but one is conscious and being grilled by the police as we speak.”
“That’s five,” Creek said. “Where’s Acuna?”
“He’s not at the scene,” Brian said. “At the very least, there’s no word of his arrest or his being sent to the hospital.”
“That’s no good,” Creek said.
“Third,” Brian continued, “I figured out who it was who’s been trying to dig into your system for the last day or so: A guy named Archie McClellan. He’s a contractor for the Department of Defense. Have you heard of him?”
“No,” Creek said.
“Well, he’s definitely heard of you,” Brian said, “and since his attempts to hack into your system correspond almost exactly with your attempts to find your lost sheep, I don’t think his visits are coincidental.”
“Does this McClellan guy have any connection to Jean Schroeder or the AIC?” Creek asked.
“There’s nothing in his banking history that would say so. He mostly works for the US and UNE governments. His contract inform
ation says he primarily works with legacy systems. He’s got no axe to grind. Apparently, he’s just a geek. I’m crawling up his computer’s tailpipe as we speak. I expect to learn more any second now. But in the meantime I’d like to suggest to you that, yeah, we should assume whatever Jean Schroeder and his merry band of xenophobic freaks are up to, our friend Archie and the Defense Department are along for the ride.”
Creek open his mouth to answer when the door to the basement opened and Fixer stepped a few steps down the stairs. “I’ve got a ride for you two,” he said. “The Neverland cruise ship. The entire boat has been rented out to a group of Veterans of Foreign and Extraterrestrial Wars. It’s hitting some of the usual stops but then it’s going to some battle sites. So you’re going to have to pretend to be a veteran.”
“I am a veteran,” Creek said.
“Well, good. Then things just got easier for a change,” Fixer said. “The last shuttle up to the Neverland leaves from BWI in about two hours, so let’s get you two moving. Tell your friend to hurry up in the bathroom; I need to make passport pictures for the two of you in the next fifteen minutes.” Fixer went back up the stairs.
“Going somewhere?” Brian said.
“That’s the plan,” Creek said.
“You’ll recall that starships, even the comfy cruise liners, are totally out of communication when they jump into null space,” Brian said. “You can send messages through n-space, but you can’t send or receive messages while you’re in it. You’re going to be out of reach most of the time.”
“At this point I’m hard-pressed to see that as a bad thing,” Creek said. “Look, it’s a cruise liner. It makes stops every couple of days. As soon as we’re back in real space, the data feeds are open again.”
“Do you think when Ben told you to get lost he meant for you to actually leave the planet?” Brian asked. “If he needs you, even if you’re in real space you’ll be several light-years away. It won’t be that easy to hitch a ride back.”
“If Ben’s trying to call us back, it means that he’s figured out what the hell is going on, which means he’s going to have the resources of the State Department to retrieve us,” Creek said. “So I don’t think bringing us back is going to be that much of a problem. But in the meantime I’m not going to sit around trying to lay low on this planet and waiting for people to shoot our heads off.”
“What do I do while you’re away?” Brian said.
“I need information,” Creek said. “There are too many things I don’t understand, and too many connections I’m not making, and the lack of information is going to get me and Robin killed. I need you to find out all you can about what’s going on, who is connected to whom, and how it relates to the Nidu coronation. Most of all, find out everything you can about the Nidu coronation itself. People are trying to murder this poor woman because of it, for one thing, and for another thing, I want to make sure her taking part in it isn’t going to leave her dead at the end.”
“So, you want me to find out everything about everything,” Brian said.
“Yeah,” Creek said.
“That’s a lot,” Brian said.
“I’ve been asking the impossible of a lot of people recently,” Creek said. “Don’t see why you should be any different. Find out as much as you can, as fast as you can. Let me know as soon as you know it.”
“Will do,” Brian said. “As a bon voyage gift, allow me to do you a little favor. I’ve just put in a very credible tip that you and Miss Baker have been spotted at Dulles International, trying to get on a shuttle to Miami. I’m working on getting into the video camera system and popping up your images here and there. They’ll eventually figure they’ve been hoaxed, but by that time your shuttle will be off and you’ll be away. Oh, and look, the cops just busted down your door. I really should be going.”
“Thank you, Brian,” Creek said.
“De nada,” Brian said. “Just make sure you bring me back something nice from your vacation.”
“Let’s hope that what I bring back is me,” Creek said.
Creek found Robin Baker seated on the edge of Fixer’s bathtub with the scissors in one hand and a hunk of hair in the other, morose. She looked at him as he came through the door.
“The last time I cut my hair was six years ago, you know,” she said. “I mean, not counting trimming off split ends. Now I have to hack it all off. And I can’t even see what I’m doing.”
Creek took the scissors from Robin and sat down next to her on the tub. “Let me do it,” he said.
“Can you cut hair?” Robin asked.
“Not really,” Creek said. “But at least I can see what I’m cutting.” The two of them were silent for a while as Creek cut her hair as quickly and straightly as he could.
“There,” he said.
Robin stood up and looked in the mirror. “Well, it’s different,” she said.
Creek laughed. “I appreciate the diplomacy,” he said. “But I know it’s a really bad haircut. I don’t expect you to keep it. I’m pretty sure the cruise ship will have a beauty shop.”
“Cruise ship?” Robin asked. “As in boat or starship?”
“Starship,” Creek said.
“How long are we going to be gone?” Robin asked.
“I didn’t think to ask,” Creek said. “Why?”
“I have pets,” Robin said. “And I have animals in the shop. I don’t want them to starve. I should call someone.”
“There’s an APB out for us,” Creek said, as gently as possible. “I’m sure your parents and friends will know you’ll be away. I’m sure your animals will be fine.”
“If the police allow people in to feed them,” Robin said.
“There is that,” Creek agreed. “I’m sorry, Robin. There’s nothing to do about it right now.” He reached over and picked up the hair dye. “You want some help with this?”
“No,” Robin said, and turned on the water in the sink. “I can do this. Not that I would use this, normally”—she pointed to the dye—“this stuff is crap.”
“I don’t think the guys Fixer usually has use this stuff care too much,” Creek said.
“Probably not,” Robin said, sighed, and took the hair dye from Creek. She bent over and dunked her head in the sink to wet her hair. “How do you know this guy, anyway?”
“I don’t,” Creek said. “I only met him a couple of days ago.”
“How do you know you can trust him?” Robin said. She squeezed out some dye and started working it through her hair. “You’re only entrusting him with our lives.”
“I kept a secret for him, and I just paid him a lot of money,” Creek said. “I think it should be enough. You missed a spot in the back.”
Robin reached a hand back. “Be honest with me, now, Harry,” she said, glancing at Creek in the mirror. “Do you do this a lot? Involve innocent women in bizarre plots of espionage and assassination? Or is this a first for you, too?”
“It’s pretty much a first,” Creek said. “Is that the right answer?”
“Well, you know,” Robin said. “A girl does like to be treated special.” She dunked her head, rinsed out the dye, and held out a hand. “Towel,” she said. Creek grabbed one off the rack and handed it to her. Robin toweled off her head and then looked over to Creek. “How does it look?” she said.
“Black,” Creek said.
Robin glanced at herself in the mirror. “Ugh. I tried black once in high school. Didn’t work then. Doesn’t work now.”
“It’s not so bad,” Creek said. “It distracts from the haircut.”
“Harry, what’s in my DNA?” Robin asked. “You said there’s something in my DNA that makes me different, and that everyone else with my DNA is dead. What is it?”
Creek stood up. “I don’t know that this is the best time to get into it,” he said. “We have to get to our shuttle if we’re going to get on the cruise ship.” He moved toward the door.
Robin walked over and interposed herself between Creek and the do
orknob. “I think this is an excellent time to get into it,” she said. “People are trying to kill me because of my DNA. I think I deserve the right to know why. I think you need to tell me right now, Harry.”
Creek looked at her. “You remember what I was looking for when I came into your shop,” he said.
“You were looking for a sheep,” Robin said.
“Right,” Creek said.
“Right, what?” Robin said.
“I was looking for a particular breed of genetically modified sheep. At least I thought I was. But it turns out I was looking for you.”
Robin stared up at Creek for a few seconds before she slugged him in the jaw. “Goddamn it!” she said, retreating into the bathroom.
Creek massaged his jaw. “I really wish you would stop hitting me,” he said.
“I am not a goddamn sheep, Harry!” Robin yelled.
“I didn’t say you were a sheep, Robin,” Creek said. “I said I thought I was looking for a sheep. But you have some of the same DNA as the kind of sheep I’m looking for.”
“Do I look like I have sheep DNA?” Robin asked. “Do I look especially woolly to you?”
“No,” Creek said. “All the sheep DNA you have is switched off. It’s junk DNA. It doesn’t do anything. But it doesn’t mean it’s not there, Robin. It’s there. Just a little under twenty percent of your DNA is taken from the Android’s Dream breed.”
“You’re lying,” Robin said.
Creek sighed, and crouched down, resting his back on the bathroom door. “I saw pictures of your mother, Robin. Your biological mother. She was a genetically engineered hybrid between human and animal. She was one of several hybrids some sick bastard created to blackmail people. This man let your mother get pregnant, and he modified your embryo in utero—designed you to be a viable birth. She wasn’t fully human, Robin. I’m sorry.”
