Writing As We Go, Chapter 6

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Writing As We Go, Chapter 6

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Sat Feb 19, 2022 2:51 pm

CAEDIA IM Login
Name: Sbirch-95
Password: **********
Login Accepted

Users Online: Sbirch-95, JRDLawGiver, EagleC

Sbirch-95: What's the current situation at the scene?
JRDLawgiver: Absolute chaos. Two sentients down, the entire house trashed.
EagleC: The homeowner's there, as well. He's furious.
Sbirch-95: I'd expect him to be. When was he notified?
EagleC: Three hours after it happened. He was still at work.
Sbirch-95: Must be a nightmare for the guy.
JRDLawgiver: It gets worse.
Sbirch-95: Worse?
JRDLawgiver: His personal computer was tampered with. We'll get the full story at the scene.
EagleC: “Tampered with”?
JRDLawgiver: I'd prefer not to discuss the specifics on an—
Sbirch-95: We're secure. The failed DDOS against the local office proved that.
EagleC: Did anyone get a trace on that?

New User Joined: TWraith

TWraith: I just got back to the office. How bad is it?
Sbirch-95: We're on our way to find out now.
JRDLawgiver: the local police are already on the scene, holding down the fort.
TWraith: I'll be waiting. Make sure to check the two sentients before you send them.
EagleC: If they're not in the system—
TWraith: That's my department. It'd be even worse if they were.
EagleC: Do I even want to know?
TWraith: If the report on how they were scrapped is correct—
EagleC: I get it.
Sbirch-95: The locals haven't messed with the scene at all?
JRDLawgiver: Apart from searching for conventional evidence.
Sbirch-95: They find anything?
EagleC: Broken TV, broken windows, broken kitchen drawers, broken washer, broken dryer—
TWraith: I think we get the picture.
Sbirch-95: Was anything not broken?
EagleC: The robovac.
JRDLawgiver: He didn't even have a NonSen cleaner?
TWraith: If he did, his ex got it in the annulment.
TWraith: The locals have sent an officer to check on her, make sure she's unharmed.
Sbirch-95: I can see the house now. There's a local officer out front.
TWraith: I'll leave you to it, then.

TWraith has left the chat.

Sbirch-95: Whoever said “absolute chaos” wasn't kidding.
EagleC: Something's going up in the backyard.
JRDLawgiver: We'll ask about that as soon as we're out of the cars.

Chat Ended.

-----
The first thought that ran through Sierra Birch's mind as her CAEDIA-issue cruiser glided to a stop was that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to ensure that Bobby Pariello's life would be a living hell when he got off of work.

Even before she left the car, the blonde could tell that whoever had trashed Bobby's house had gone to extremes in the level of chaos they'd sewn. Every window had been smashed—from the inside. The window-mounted air-con unit on the side of the house was belching smoke and ice fragments. What appeared to be a geyser of some sort had erupted in the back yard.

The gull-wing door of the cruiser opened to allow Sierra to exit. Her fellow Officers, having arrived alongside her, were just leaving their own vehicles. Celia and Jared were both in casual attire, rather than their usual uniforms; neither had expected to be called in this late. By contrast, Sierra had yet to return to wearing her own uniform after a brief stint undercover—she, like Celia and Jared, was in casual gear.

A local police officer—Black, mid-to-late 40s—stopped the trio as they approached the drive. “Sorry, but this is an active crime scene.”

Sierra glanced at Celia and Jared before retrieving a wallet from her hip pocket. With her right hand, she held it up, revealing her CAEDIA badge; a small slit in the palm of her left hand projected a QR code. Celia and Jared had already mirrored the gestures.

The policeman before them regarded their badges before retrieving his phone to scan the codes. Brief video clips of each officer appeared on the screen: CAEDIA Officers Sierra Birch, Jared Knight and Celia Faulkner.

With a sigh, the officer lowered his phone. “Just wanted to make sure we weren't getting any other psychos out here,” he explained. “Especially after what went down.”

“We heard a few of the details on the way,” Sierra informed him. “It sounded—”

“Bad?” the uniformed officer echoed. “Trust me, it's a lot worse than 'bad', Officer Birch.” He gestured for the three to follow him inside, stepping over the ruined front door.

The artificial Officers stepped carefully as they entered Bobby Pariello's house—immediately drawn to the sharp smell of burnt-out electronics, singed metal and another odour that none of them commented on. Two figures covered in plastic sheets were off in the kitchen area to the right, one laying on the floor and the other slumped over at the microwave.

Sierra stepped towards the kitchen, her eyes taking on a faint glow.

“Any witnesses?” Celia asked.

“Everybody on the block heard the screaming, but it wasn't from either of these two—at least, I'd hope it wasn't.”

The discussion was barely audible to Sierra as she knelt by the figure on the floor, carefully pulling the plastic sheet away from the body. The brunette's face was frozen in shock, one eye wide open while the other was mid-squint. Her mouth had locked into a half-sneer; internal lubrication fluid had bubbled up from her throat and dried at some point in the past hour or so. More pressing was the telltale residue on her chest: Sierra recognized the leftover aspect of gynoid sexual fluid when she saw it. Some of it had gone into the ragged hole in the doomed gynoid's chest.

She'd investigated anti-android crimes before, but something about this was different. This wasn't just a smash-and-grab job turned into a sex crime. The residue on the victim's chest was proof enough, by itself, but protocol dictated that all avenues had to be followed.

“Anything?” Sierra hadn't noticed Jared kneel next to her.

“Whoever did this to her got off from it.” Sierra wasn't surprised at how toneless her voice sounded—in this line of work, getting too emotional was a liability. “Pretty sure our perp is a gynoid.”

Jared scowled. “Any chance we can keep this out of the papers?”

A shrill, nasally voice somewhere further back in the house, screaming about compensation and insurance, served as a fitting prelude to Sierra's own remark: “No settlement in the world is going to keep him from going to the press about all of this.”

Celia's gasp cut off any further discussion of the irritated homeowner; she'd dropped the plastic sheet from the slumped figure—female, younger than the first, but clearly artificial, as evidenced by the wires poking out from the tears in her neck, as well as the fluids staining her skin from where numerous small holes had been blown out. “Who could've done something like this?” she murmured.

“That's what we're here to find out.” Sierra motioned for Jared to help her move the microwave to the kitchen island, and for Celia to carefully manoeuvrer the ruined gynoid's body with it. “We'll have to take the door off,” the blonde mused. “Probably back at the office.”

Jared's attention was caught by the pile of diced objects on the island. “Any guesses?”

Sierra leaned in to get a closer look; the structure of her digital voice-box meant that she wouldn't have to worry about accidentally blowing any fragments off the island. “Photos,” she realized. “Chopped-up—maybe enough of them for a full stack.”

“Chopped up with what?” Jared arched an eyebrow. “Most of the cutlery got thrown into the dryer.”

“My guess?” Celia chimed in, nodding to a cabinet door. “That.” A cleaver had been sunken into the surface of the door, hard enough for the blade to partially be visible from the other side. “Haven't seen anything like this since—”

Sierra shot her a warning glance. “We get any matches on these two?”

Jared's eyes were glowing a soft emerald. “Evelyn Hinson.” He nodded to the gynoid on the floor. “Michelle Pickett.” He gestured to the gynoid whose head was still stuck in the microwave. “Both sentient, both in the system.” He winced. “And both with cloud backups.”

“That's bad?” Celia asked.

“They were uploading memories to the cloud until their systems failed completely.” Jared's tone was stern. “Every memory, up until COF.”

Celia's eyes went wide, and even Sierra had to turn away. Androids and gynoids rebuilt after suffering through particularly gruesome Cessations Of Function tended to either delete any memories of their final moments, or save them to an external source, away from their active memories and “selves”. Evelyn and Michelle, post-rebuild, would more than likely immediately recall how they'd met their fates, which could easily lead to trauma and potential failures in their system integrity.

“We'll have to get them to the Dyson Institute ASAP post-rebuild,” Sierra muttered. “It'll take a lot of counselling to get over how they were scrapped.”

“And we still don't know who scrapped them,” Celia added, scowling. “Or who trashed the house. They could be—”

She.

Sierra, Jared and Celia all touched their temples, their eyes glowing. “You've found something?” Sierra asked.

The Caller ID image in her field of view was blank, but the ID tag (TWraith) and badge number were positive matches to those belonging to her detective colleague, as was the guttural, low voice. “The office got the door cam footage, from before Evelyn and Michelle were in the house.

“And?”

This, you've got to see to believe.”

All three Officers saw, in a picture-in-picture window, the image of Bobby Pariello's front yard, a stolen vehicle having been driven onto the grass. For a moment, they wondered what the significance was—until a grinning, sprinting figure charged into view and jumped at the door, both legs extended. The footage cut out when the runner's feet hit the door.

“Play that back.”

The footage rewound, at Sierra's request. Again, the grinning runner charged up the walk—

“Pause.”

The footage froze, the smiling face clearly visible.

“Early 20s, blonde.” Sierra's eyes narrowed. “Given the evidence we've already found, she's definitely artificial.”

I can run a trace from the office. Any models currently active, manufactured over the past few months—”

“Try the past few years. Back to at least 2000.”

That far back?

“Call it a hunch.” Sierra frowned thoughtfully; the smiling face of the running gynoid seemed oddly familiar, but from where? “Let us know if you've got any leads.”

“What about the owner of the car?” Jared piped in.

Still in hospital, along with a friend of his. They were checking out a potential disturbance at that storage unit when they got jumped.

Jared looked puzzled. “The one where the door was broken from the inside?”

The very same. Neither of the two saw anything but a quick flash of blonde hair and a girl 'dressed like a hooker'—their words, not mine—before they got floored.

Celia rolled her eyes. “They didn't give a better description than that?”

They did get knocked unconscious, if you recall.

“So all of this,” Sierra cut in, “was done by one perp? The windows, the air conditioner, the washer and dryer—”

And the sentients.”

Sierra nodded. “All that damage, caused by one gynoid?”

Not to mention the three car thefts, the assaults at the storage unit and an accident downtown. Found a guy face down on the hood of his own car, said he'd T-boned an SUV and tried to call the insurance company before 'some chick' pulled him out, broke both his knees and then slammed him on his own car.

“And we have no leads on where our suspect is?”

None so far. If she turns up again—”

When she turns up again,” Sierra corrected. “And she will.”

She might also be armed and dangerous.

Sierra scowled, not caring that the detective wouldn't see it. “All the more reason for us to be ready for her. Nobody else—human or artificial—deserves to suffer the way these two did.”

I can see why the San Jose Police Department recommended you as their premiere representative to CAEDIA. You've got a servant's heart, and the mindset of a warrior.

“I don't want war with whoever did this,” Sierra replied. “I just want to see them off the streets.”

If we're lucky, she'll be off the streets soon enough.

“So we're positive that we're looking for a lone perp?”

The doorbell camera proves it. Nobody else entered, apart from Hinson and Pickett, since she did, and nobody else left after she blasted out of the garage with Pariello's SUV. She's the one we're looking for—”

“Are we sure?”

Celia's question prompted a scoff. “You're thinking the camera could've been spoofed?

“I'm thinking someone might've programmed an older model 'bot to do this,” Celia replied. Lowering her voice, she added “Pariello's not exactly popular, after all.”

“Which would make sense if this was just a prank,” Sierra reminded her. “Instead, we've got burglary, gross destruction of property and two sentients bricked. Someone who just wanted to annoy him wouldn't have gone that far.” She watched, impassively, as two coverall-clad men, both wearing CAEDIA badges, entered the kitchen; one picked up the microwave, while the other hefted Michelle's form up. “I think we can safely call this a crime,” she continued, “not a prank gone wrong.”

“Right.” Celia nodded. “I just—”

You hate the thought that all of this was done by one gynoid.

“Yeah.” Celia focused her stare on the floor.

“If it's any consolation, it's not one of ours. ALPHA's combing their records to make sure no gynoid registered with them was hacked or otherwise compromised into doing all this; the Coalition and the House are doing the same.

“Found something.” Jared held up a sterling silver cake server; it looked almost like a trowel. “Why's this on the floor?”

Sierra glanced at the server, then at the gaping hole in Evelyn's chest. “I think I know why.”

Bag it and bring it back—same with the cleaver. Even if it wasn't used on the two sentients, we might still be able to get a trace off of it.

“Will do.” Sierra walked back to the junction between the living room and the kitchen; she had a perfect line of sight to at least one other room that the perpetrator had trashed, as well as the doors to both bedrooms. “Why him?”

We're working on figuring the motive now. If anything comes up—”

“And if there was no motive?” Sierra frowned. “What if this was just random?”

That's a whole different can of worms.

Any further discussion on whether or not the crime was random was interrupted by the excessively loud approach of Robert Pariello, stomping and screaming at the top of his lungs that the “pricks” responsible for the utter devastation wreaked upon his house would soon pay. Sierra quickly retrieved an evidence bag from her coat pocket and handed it to Celia, who swept up the confetti pictures into the bag and sealed it just as Pariello entered the kitchen.

Compared to the engineered attractiveness of Jared, Celia and Sierra, Robert Pariello looked as flawed as one might expect. Short, stout and with a balding head that vaguely resembled an egg, the former weatherman and ex-stockbroker glared at the three CAEDIA Officers as if he'd suspected them of trashing his house. The first word out of his mouth, by way of a greeting or introduction, was an impatient “Well?!”

Jared and Celia exchanged glances. “Well, what?” Sierra prompted.

“Have you figured out who did this or not?!” Robert demanded. His high, nasally voice diminished any level of menace or intimidation that his words might've carried. “I want to know who tore up my house!”

“We're working on it,” Sierra replied, already turning her attention back to the downed gynoids.

Unfortunately for her, Robert apparently considered this simple gesture a gross insult. “So that's it? You're just going to look the other way and not give me any answers?!”

“I just said we're working on it—”

“You're not even real police, are you?! Just that stupid CAEDIA crap, here because of those two stupid robots!”

At this, Celia and Jared—who'd been conversing quietly about how to best get Evelyn's remains out of the kitchen to a waiting van outside—both looked up at Robert. Sierra slowly turned, her stare as cold as her voice: “Michelle Pickett and Evelyn Hinson were your neighbours, Mr. Pariello, not 'stupid robots'. They ranked as high on any sentience scale as you would, and—”

“Don't give me that!” Robert countered, wagging a finger in Sierra's face. “They had no right to be here!”

“They were trying to stop an intruder,” Sierra replied. “If they hadn't—”

“Who's your superior officer?!” Robert grabbed for Sierra's phone, still resting in its belt holster. “I want to talk to—”

“You can talk to the officer outside on your front lawn,” Sierra informed him, pushing his hand away from her belt, “if you want any updates on the gross criminal damage of your property. As for Ms. Hinson and Ms. Pickett, I'm the lead officer on this case—”

“I'm ordering you to give me your phone!” Robert demanded. “Otherwise, I'll call ALPHA and have you scrapped!”

Over by the kitchen island, Celia muttered “Oh, hell,” while Jared merely decided to closely examine the large dent in the door of the refrigerator.

Sierra, not surprisingly, was not phased by the “threat”. “I'm an Officer of CAEDIA,” she calmly stated, “and—”

“You're a rent-a-RoboCop with a cheap badge,” Robert spat. “My house has been trashed, and—GET OFF!” The hand at his shoulder was that of the Black officer from the yard, rather than Jared. “Bobby, I think it's time you take a break,” he advised. “Just step outside for a bit—”

“TELL HER TO GIVE ME HER PHONE!” Robert shrieked. “I'M CALLING ALPHA!”

“She's doing her job,” the officer insisted.

“HER JOB IS TO DO WHAT HUMAN BEINGS TELL HER TO DO!” Robert thundered. “SHE'S PROBABLY A REPURPOSED SEX DOLL! JUST LOOK AT HER!”

“Calm down, Robert!”

The human officer ushered Pariello outside, while Jared and Celia watched. “I'm guessing he's not going to be voting for any increases to CAEDIA funding come next year,” Jared mused.

“Does he not get that we are looking for the one who did this?” Celia asked.

“He's more worried about his insurance and whether or not it covers anything like this.” The scowl on Sierra's face was more than enough proof that she had no patience for Pariello or his outbursts. “And whoever keeps pushing the idea that all androids are 'three-laws compliant' needs to cut it out,” she added, shaking her head. “'Ordering' me to give him my phone, like I'm a NonSen—”

“It might just be stress,” Jared offered.

Not likely.

Sierra frowned. “You heard all of that?”

Heard it while I was checking Pariello's record. He should be lucky Pickett and Hinson bothered to see what was going on at his house at all—he's tried to push anti-Accords measures at every town hall meeting since they were passed, and been told off each time.

“Please tell me he didn't get replaced at the weather desk by an android.”

Worse. He's already been done for assault—he beat up a 68-year-old man in the parking lot on spurious claims, put the guy in the hospital. Refused to show up for his court date after, said the charges were a complete joke.”

Sierra didn't bother terminating the groan that issued from her lips.

He's also had problems with pretty much any co-worker who wasn't a WASP like him. As far as his views on A.I.s, M.I.s and the like—remember last year, when that stupid 'control collar' idea made the 6 PM news for being laughed out of Town Hall?

“Let me guess,” Sierra muttered. “Pariello.”

Right in one. Apparently, he's still trying to get it all the way to New Columbia.

Any further discussion was cut off by the local officer—Michael Carver, as the briefly-appearing info-box in Sierra's field of view stated—re-entered the house. “We're gonna have to take Bobby down to the station,” he informed the three CAEDIA Officers. “He's already on some conspiracy trip about the whole block being 'in on it', whatever 'it' is—” A shout from outside caught his attention, followed by several more—directed at the now-fleeing figure of Robert Pariello. “Oh, what the Hell?!”

“I'll go check the bedroom,” Celia offered. “See if we can find any trace of our mystery ransacker.”

“If nobody's checking the game room,” Jared volunteered, “I'll look there.”

Sierra nodded. “I'll stay up here. See if our intruder left anything behind.”

With her colleagues setting off to cover their chosen rooms, the blonde went to work on her own. She carefully stepped over Evelyn's downed form as she crossed from the kitchen to the living room. The soft glow had returned to her eyes as she regarded every aspect of the wrecked room, including the shattered TV.

Webcam disabled.
DVR hard drive: scanning
Hard drive intact


The contents of the DVR's hard drive filled Sierra's vision, stylized poster-like thumbnails of everything Pariello had recorded and saved. The last recording from before the TV had been smashed had started an hour before the break-in: a “documentary” from a Herring network about how the Civic Accords were part of some sinister agenda put forth to soften up America and make it ripe for a Marxist takeover. Sierra frowned, and nearly moved on—only to notice that the timestamps of the recording were slightly off.

“Load and playback, x50.”

Her vision filled with the Herring logo and several minutes' worth of footage, sped up and muted—until what would've been the 20 minute mark.

“Playback, standard speed—”

A gasp left Sierra's lips. The footage had been corrupted, dissolving into static and decaying pixels. The sound had been equally damaged, a cacophony of white noise and ruined audio. Occasionally, in glimpses far too brief for a human to catch, the picture solidified to show an image: a hospital room, a figure lying in bed. Brief segments of words surfaced through the murk of ruined audio: “time”, “state”, “distance”, “PROOF”. The voice sounded entirely too old to be the narrator of the documentary.

Before she could think to force-close the playback, Sierra's vision briefly filled with a horrific sight: a close-up of a figure, shrouded in darkness. The facial features were lost to the shadows, but the eyes weren't: golden sclera, shot through with spider-webs of sickly red; murky, dark grey irises, and foggy white pupils.

“Abort playback!”

Sierra's ocular sensors briefly deactivated, and she dreaded the possibility that those eyes would still be staring at her when they reactivated. Fortunately, her fears were for naught; the only view she had was of the living room, the ruined TV, and the DVR—which was now spewing smoke from its vents. A quick scan of the hard drive revealed that something had tripped to begin systematically erasing the contents. Sierra terminated her link with the device, her lips parting in another gasp.

“Everything okay?”

Jared's hand on her shoulder was a welcome diversion from whatever Sierra had just witnessed. “I'm fine. That isn't.” She nodded at the DVR. “Something else got recorded, over the regular programming—corrupted the entire drive.”

Without hesitation, Jared walked past Sierra and unplugged the DVR. “We can at least try a recovery,” he reasoned.

“Good point.” Sierra regarded the still-smoking device. “Find anything in the game room?”

“Bobby's definition of 'gaming' is pool and poker, apparently. Most of the cues were snapped in half, and...” Jared stared into Sierra's eyes, sending her the more lurid findings directly.

“Right on the baize?!”

Jared nodded. “Pretty sure the fluid will be a match to what we found on—and in—Evelyn.”

“I think we should tell the local cops to book Pariello,” Celia called out.

Sierra frowned. “Book him?”

Celia stepped out of the bedroom, her gloved hands holding up a portion of the headboard. “Remember that felony arrest he got for assault?” she asked. Jared and Sierra both nodded, prompting her to turn over the fragment of the headboard to reveal the holster glued to the back.

“Let me guess. No pistol.” Sierra already knew the answer, even as she asked.

“No pistol, and no sign of whatever he was hiding in his mattress. Whoever did this cleaned him out.”

“He's still on the hook for illegal possession of a firearm,” Jared mused. “We'll have to tell Officer Carver—”

“I'm hoping you don't have to tell me that you've got no leads on who tore this place up,” Officer Carver stated, sounding as tired as he looked. “We've already got a car out to find Bobby, since he decided to up and run off instead of just waiting for a ride to the station.”

“When you catch him,” Sierra replied, “you'll have to tell him to forget any hotel reservations he might've made.” She nodded to Celia, who held up the headboard piece with the holster glued to it.

Carver groaned. “You find the gun?”

“We think whoever smashed up the house stole it—”

“About that.” Sierra knelt by Evelyn's ruined form, retrieving a double-plug cord from her jacket pocket.

“No.” Jared was at her side in an instant, his tone grim. “You link up to her, you'll—”

“I know the risks.” Sierra gently moved Evelyn's body onto its side, finding the appropriate port on the small of her back and plugging the cord in. “If it gets too bad, I'll port out.”

“The damage done to her systems could cause massive feedback loops to yours,” Jared reminded her. “If they do—”

“I'll be careful.” Sierra found the corresponding port for the plug on the other end of the cord, and quickly removed the synthetic flesh covering. “This isn't the first time I've ported in.”

Jared and Celia exchanged glances. “You're sure?”

“Positive.” Sierra closed her eyes and plugged the cord in—

Find memory file.
File found.
Go to: Timestamp—
Done.


—and, in the memories of Evelyn Hinson, opened them again.

The kitchen was still a mess, but not nearly as bad as it had been when Sierra, Jared and Celia had arrived. The cabinet door with the cleaver embedded in it was still whole, the cleaver nowhere to be seen. Form the position Sierra found herself in, she could tell Evelyn hadn't ended up by the refrigerator by choice.

Have to check her thought processes later to see just what she decided to do. The ethereal tone of her own voice wasn't all that odd to Sierra; any time she ported in, her own observations sounded faint, almost ghostly. Might as well stop staring and get to the main attraction. Playback.

Instantly, an impact warning flew up into her field of vision—Evelyn's systems, she realized. Looks like I was right

The sound of something sliding across the kitchen island cut her off, followed by another impact warning and the rather jarring sight of a foot entering her view, smashing into her right wrist and snapping something in it.

Not my systems, keep that in mind. I'm not the one being damaged.

Sierra had to keep her mantra in mind as Evelyn's final moments played out. Off in the background, Michelle's muted cries and the pop pop pop of vital components blowing out sounded as if Sierra had been right there when it all happened. She heard Evelyn scream “MICHELLE!”, trying to get back to her feet only for a ruined knee to send her into a kneel. Feeling the refrigerator door slammed, five times, on her right arm would've been enough to force her to port out, but she bore the phantom pain (no sense in calling it “damage”; Evelyn was a Sentient, after all) without protest; she realised Evelyn's left arm was still undamaged, and that the blonde was still out of range of it. Someone—the perpetrator of all of this carnage—was laughing, a high, girlish squeal of absolute delight at the suffering being inflicted upon Evelyn and Michelle.

The CAEDIA officer watched as Evelyn was dropped to the floor, staring at her ruined right arm. The vocalizations she'd made were very obviously sobs; more than likely—

Sierra wasn't ready for the sudden, violent impact of a blunt object against Evelyn's cranial assembly. Damn it, I almost felt that! Evelyn's field of view became less stable, the kitchen suddenly awash with corrupted pixels and static. Notices and warnings from her internal stabilizers appeared; she tried to get back up! But why

The blunt object smashed into the side of Evelyn's head again.

Sierra could see the warnings: LEFT AURAL SENSOR DAMAGED. LEFT OCULAR SENSOR DAMAGED. GYRO-STABILIZERS ON LEFT SIDE OUT OF

Whatever the gyro-stabilizers were out of was never made clear. Another heavy impact gave Sierra an intimate view of the floor from Evelyn's perspective.

Again, the sounds of Michelle's demise over at the microwave filled the air, competing with the farther-off sounds of various appliances giving their last, and the ever-present, deranged laughter from the as-yet unseen perpetrator. What sounded like a heavily-degraded version of Michelle's voice was still screaming in agony from inside the microwave; it was obvious that the damage to her systems had been too severe to keep her online for much longer.

From the warnings filling Evelyn's view, it was evident that she wasn't long for the world, either.

Sierra felt the doomed gynoid's fingers drag her across the kitchen floor with her left arm, even as the blonde—still laughing, always laughing—bore down on her. A brief shudder indicated that Evelyn had tried to kick at her pursuer with her left leg; the impact of that damned blunt object proved that her effort had been futile. The object was brought down again, seconds later, onto Evelyn's left shin; even Sierra had to wince at the snapping sound she heard.

Something grabbed Evelyn by the shoulders, turning her over.

For the first time, Evelyn saw a clear, colour picture of the gynoid who'd wrecked Bobby Pariello's house.

Her face was round, almost “cute “ in a way—plump, pert lips below a delicate nose; eyes that seemed to sparkle with unbridled creativity (mixed, in this case, with a hefty dose of psychosis), under razor-thin brows; cheek “bones” that, on a different face, would've been the picture of cherubic innocence; and the slightest hint of a dimple to the chin. Her emulated age could've been anywhere from 19 to the mid-20s; Sierra guessed the latter. Were it not for the fact that she stood atop Evelyn like a naked, laughing colossus (Sierra could tell that human-real detail wasn't a high priority for this gynoid; the glistening, wet sex that loomed above her, or rather, above Evelyn, lacked even the lightest-toned hair above it), Sierra would've figured that the blonde was a mass-market “arm candy” model, meant to be the escort of any man (or woman) who wanted to make an impression at their next party.

There was also that unnerving sense of familiarity in the blonde's features...a fact that Sierra quickly filed away for later as, through Evelyn's ocular sensors, she watched the blonde lift the cake server, still grinning—still laughing.

I knew it

What sounded like the screech of a bird of prey, diving upon its hapless victim, left the blonde's lips.

The cake server was plunged into Evelyn's chest, just below her left breast.

What happened next almost overwhelmed Sierra—the sounds of everything the blonde had already damaged, all failing at once, was horrific. A groan from farther back in the house was followed by an almost biological churning, bubbling sound. A few seconds into that, an explosion drowned it out, soon accompanied by the chimes of the smoke alarm. What sounded like multiple engines grinding to a halt filled Sierra's ears, joined by hesitant, staccato sounds reminiscent of bursts of machine gun fire—or something backfiring. Three distinct sounds of water geysering forth joined the fray, followed by a fourth, more disgusting torrent of something else. Over at the microwave, multiple blasts issued from the doomed form of Michelle. Something out back went off like a cannon, followed by the muted sounds of several things splattering against the roof.

All of this faded to the back of Sierra's thought processes as she watched the blonde tear the cake server from Evelyn's chest—it had impaled a battery, and taken the cell out with it. Something arced from the ruined cell, sending a jolt back into Evelyn's form.

Seconds later, the visual feed began to degrade severely. Sierra could feel the other gynoid's body locked into a seizure.

The brief moments of clarity didn't help at all—the blond was now sitting on Evelyn's chest, throwing her head back and screaming in orgasmic ecstasy. She rutted her hips against the doomed gynoid, whose haptic sensors were functioning just enough to feel the fluids snaking down her chest—and into the ragged hole made by the cake server. This second round of malfunction-induced spasms were even more violent than the first—which only served to arouse the blonde further. She continued bucking against Evelyn's abdomen, going into a second orgasm—and sending even more of her juices into the jagged hole.

Evelyn's systems were failing. More and more feedback was lost every second. Her very memory was in danger of—

END PLAYBACK!

Sierra closed her eyes again, trying to shut out the blonde's orgasmic howling, the feeling of Evelyn's body slowly being destroyed, the explosions issuing from Michelle's ruined form.

After a few seconds, she opened her eyes again...once again seeing Bobby Pariello's kitchen from her own view. Evelyn was still laying on the floor, face-up, as she'd been in her final moments. Jared and Celia were staring at Sierra, both worried that their colleague might've been pushed over her own limits by the memories she'd just directly observed.

“How bad was it?” Jared quietly asked.

It took a moment for Sierra to compose herself. She nearly tore the cable loose from her own port, and didn't protest when Celia offered to unplug the other end from Evelyn. After a moment of silence, she rose to her feet.

Horrible.” The word left her lips in a harsh murmur. “Absolutely horrible.”

She didn't shy away from the arm Jared draped around her shoulders. “I saw her,” she continued. “The one who did all of this—the same one from the doorbell camera. She...she was laughing, the entire time!”

Celia's eyes, glowing softly as she called for assistance in retrieving Evelyn's body, went wide. “Laughing?!”

“Like it was all some kind of sick game. Like she was having fun.” Sierra didn't care that she was shivering. “I can't even begin to think why she did any of this—who could've wanted her to do something like this!”

That's why we're on this case—despite Bobby Pariello's delusions to the contrary.”

Slowly, the sheer dread she'd felt at witnessing Evelyn Hinson's last moments—from her own point of view—began to fade from Sierra's active thought processes. “Right.”

You'll want to get Evelyn and Michelle back to the office ASAP. Once they're both stabilized, I've got Elaine Dyson and a team from Stepford on a conference call to start counseling.”

“Good.” Sierra moved to let two more coverall-clad CAEDIA employees lift and remove the ruined body of Evelyn Hinson from the kitchen. “I think we should all get back to the office, let the locals find Pariello. There's not a whole lot for us to do here.”

The paperwork will keep until you get back.”

“I'll be in touch.” With a tap of her fingers against her temple, Sierra ended the call. “I'm guessing the local officers have everything on lock here?”

Jared glanced over his shoulder. “Apart from that geyser in the backyard.”

“The house didn't have a manager?” Sierra knew that the case would be a bit more complicated if Pariello's house was on the network of “A.I. Managed” homes in the neighbourhood.

Celia shook her head. “Doubt it. Everything here was Net-linked, but that's pretty much it.”

“Lucky break for us, then. I'll head back to the office—the report's not going to write itself.” Sierra didn't look back to acknowledge Jared and Celia nodding.

Hopefully, she could make some sense of this madness before sunrise.
-----
CAEDIA's inception had been a long time in the making. The Civic Accords had, until some point in 2021, been enforced by a mixture of the preexisting police forces around the country and the enigmatic “Metropolitan Monitoring” patrols that had been known to wear the Double-M badge.

Sierra reflected on this, and other bullet points of CAEDIA's history, as her cruiser navigated the mostly-clear roads. Any drivers who were out this late kept to their own routes, with the CAEDIA-badged car not drawing any glances or remarks from those few souls who'd decided to burn the midnight oil. Even if anyone was giving her funny looks, Sierra wouldn't have noticed—or cared. The interior of the cruiser's windscreen was filled with information, allowing her to review the facts of the case while self-drive kept the car from driving erratically.

Evelyn Hinson and Michelle Pickett had been model neighbours, in their community. The former was married, with an adopted child and a successful career at a national consulting firm to her name. The latter, by contrast, was still single but “available”; her career, as a social media personality and android rights advocate, was more “low key”, but just as lucrative as Evelyn's. The pair were well-known around their area for helping out, participating in community watch programs and offering outreach to those in need. Apart from their status as artificial persons, there was little to suggest that they were the true targets of what had gone down.

In almost direct contrast to his neighbours, Robert Pariello had, over the past few years, seemed to go out of his way to be as self-aggrandizing, obnoxious and ethically repugnant as possible. He'd been fired from every job he'd ever had, for reasons ranging from leaked tapes of “extracurricular activities” to fistfights with both colleagues and customers. His wife had left him, had their marriage annulled and moved to another state. Anyone who'd once been a friend of his had long since left him to his own devices.

None of this did anything to answer the big question: who wanted Pariello's house torn up, and why?

Sierra wasn't any closer to the truth as her cruiser pulled into the parking lot at the CAEDIA headquarters. Transferring to CAEDIA from the San Jose Police Department had been one of the biggest career decisions she'd ever made—Silicon Valley had, effectively, been her home since her first activation, and she'd done plenty to help the community. Still, she'd had no reason to regret turning in her old badge for the one she currently wore.

Detective Tom Logan, known around the office as “The Wraith”, was waiting by the front desk as Sierra entered. Just as Pariello's appearance was an all too human contrast to Sierra, Jared and Celia, Detective Logan's was proof of how inhuman a person could look with cybernetic implants. The long-healed, diagonal gash across his throat, still bordered with surgical staples, was a remnant of the injury that had ended his last career. His sunglasses hid both his eyes and most of the off-flesh plastic plating that made up most of his face above his nose, complete with odd, reddish streaks—reminiscent of goth-metal makeup—over each of his eyes. One had to look closely to see that the “paint” was actually translucent plastic, covering delicate sensors and transceivers. These, his 5'10 height and penchant for wearing all-black all combined to give him an imposing look, a sort of neo-tech vampire for the 2020s.

“Hinson and Pickett beat me here?” Sierra asked, not even glancing at the NonSen behind the desk as she signed in.

“Barely.” The detective's voice was a harsh, grating rasp, barely above a whisper—not electronic, but barely human. “I checked over their records again—we might be knee-deep in it with Hinson.”

Sierra frowned. “I missed something?”

“More like we did. Hinson's a transfer.”

“Shit.” Sierra felt like kicking something. A sentient gynoid's mind having been subjected to the kind of trauma Evelyn had endured was one thing, but a transference case was something else entirely. “You notify her husband?”

“He's been calling ever since she was admitted. Dyson and Stepford are still on the line.”

The detective matched Sierra's pace as the two made their way to the other side of the sign-in desk. “I talked to him myself, “ Tom continued. “He's, ah...”

“Pretty broken up?” Sierra offered.

“One of the worst things you can ever hear over a phone is a man begging you to do whatever you can to keep his wife from crashing and burning.” The detective's near-monotone rasp did little to drain the emotion from his words as he and Sierra navigated the halls of the building. “He's on his way here, last I heard.”

“What about Pickett?”

“Still searching her records. She has an owner listed, but she's not classed as a 'belonging'.”

“No property tags?”

“None that the office could find. She's got as much freedom as the next sentient.”

“Have we ruled out hate crime?”

“The usual suspects for that kind of stuff are already in jail.” The detective stopped to let Sierra enter the nearest door on their right. “Or so far off the Grid that going to Pariello's would've been more trouble than it's worth.”

“So no new leads on either of those ends,” Sierra muttered. “What—”

Her question went unasked as she glanced at the table in the center of the room. Michelle Pickett had been freed, in the interim, from the microwave—which showed just how much damage had been inflicted. Her face barely looked like it belonged to anything human; the synthetic flesh had cracked, peeled and partially melted in too many spots for a simple reconstruction to be effective. Her ocular receptors had blown out; the micro-animatronics that had formed her facial expressions had either fused or been fried by the excess electricity building up and discharging, and it was all too evident that her digital voicebox had probably blown out.

“This wasn't random.”

The detective's observation drew a frown from Sierra. “You think they were targeted because they were interfering in what was going on at Pariello's?”

“More like they were targeted because of what they were.”

“Except the perp is a gynoid, too,” Sierra reminded her colleague.

“I never said anything otherwise.” The detective sighed, the sound uncomfortably close to static. “Digital forensics is still working on the computers on-site. I hear Pariello pulled a runner.”

“We found evidence of illegal possession of firearms.” Sierra circled the table where Michelle lay. “Pretty sure it's not his first offence, either—and he was at work when it all went down. Who called him and told him about—”

“He didn't have much of a choice.” Detective Logan chuckled. “They fired him twelve minutes before he got the call.”

Sierra, midway through looking over Michelle's ruined face again, glanced up with a frown. “Please tell me you're joking, Tom,” she muttered.

“Apparently, one too many concerned parents were sick of him saying the animatronics were dressed 'like whores'.”

Before Sierra could even groan, Detective Logan continued. “That, and he got in his fifth fistfight this month—something about the kitchen switching orders on a stuffed-crust meat lover's and a thin-crust supreme. Started out shoving, and ended with a running tackle into a ball pit.”

“So he's got anger management issues.” Sierra shook her head. “Wonderful.”

“He's not the only one. Sandy down the hall had to send off a license termination notice for a Russian dealer—the one with the two blondes in all of his commercials.” The detective gave a short, grunting chuckle. “Jaro-something or other.”

“Jaromir Dezhnyov.” Sierra frowned. “Weird.”

“Hmm?”

“We just got a complaint yesterday about Jaromir Dezhnyov,” Sierra stated. “Harry Morgan—”

“The StoryCrafters guy?”

Sierra nodded. “He filed a formal complaint, said something about a NonSen sold back to him from Jaromir's. From what his report said, the NonSen had been refit over a dozen times—and most of the refits hadn't been documented or mentioned on the Bill of Sale.” She force-terminated a subprocess that would've put a scowl on her lips. “Apparently,” she added, “the last refit had left out her synth-gina and replaced it with—”

“A solid state drive,” Detective Logan finished, adjusting his sunglasses. “So that wasn't just a bad joke.”

“You heard about it?”

“Idle talk floats around here like a fine mist, Officer Birch. It would've been harder to not hear about it.”

Sierra leaned on the table, careful to not brush her fingers against Michelle's form. “You think there could be a link?”

“Between...”

“Pariello used to be a friend of Morgan's, or at least they ran in the same circles for a while.” Sierra drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “And Morgan was a frequent customer of Dezhnyov's.”

“Except Pariello never had any dealings with Dezhnyov.”

“So back to square one?”

“More like square two. We've got links between Pariello and Morgan, and between Deznhnyov and Morgan, but nothing between Pariello and Deznhyov.” The detective tapped his chin with his hand. “Morgan's clean,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Just ran one of his stories yesterday.”

“And where was he when Pariello's house was broken into?”

“Managing the story. Pretty sure we can get eyewitness accounts to back that up.”

“So no news on why that blonde psycho was at Pariello's to begin with.”

“We could always drop in at Morgan's,” the detective offered. “Offer to put a guard on his house, just in case the 'blonde psycho' decides to show up there. Deznhyov's too far outside of our jurisdiction to look after,” he added. “It'd be easier to head off the blonde before she gets to Morgan.”

Sierra nodded. “I guess it's better than just leaving him to his own devices. Shame we couldn't have warned her.” Her attention turned back to Michelle's form on the table. “The local cops are still looking for Pariello,” she added. “He ran before they could book him on the firearms charge.”

Detective Logan shook his head. “Maybe he thought you three were going to bust him for Pickett and Hinson.”

His remark earned him a frown from his gynoid colleague. “He didn't even recognize my authority as a CAEDIA officer.”

“I heard. 'I order you to give me your phone', and all that.” The detective had approached the table; he ran his hand up and down its surface as he paced. “Asimov probably never thought those three laws of his would be so twisted, misunderstood and weaponized the way they've been. Then again,” he chuckled, “it's a shame the good Doctor Asimov never knew just how advanced artificial intelligence was while he was writing his space operas and high science fiction all those years ago.”

“I'd rather focus on the here and now than shaming Isaac Asimov for something he never expected.” Sierra retrieved her phone. “Celia just called—she knows what kind of pistol Pariello was hiding behind his bed.”

“Probaby not a pea-shooter, I'm willing to bet.”

“Remington R51.” Sierra held up her phone, showing a picture of the gun in question. “Digital Forensics is looking for any records of Pariello having purchased the gun—if he did, that's a few more years to tack on.”

“And if he got it as a gift?”

“Doesn't matter—the pistol's not at his house anymore. The blonde probably stole it after she wrecked the bedroom.”

Detective Logan frowned. “She take anything else from his house?”

“Pariello didn't stick around to give us an inventory.” Sierra scrolled down the screen of her phone. “We'll have to check with his insurance provider,” she continued, “assuming he didn't call them up and tell them not to talk to us.”

“Seeing as how he's a fugitive, I'm pretty sure our orders blow his right out of the water.”

“Pretty sure he doesn't see it that way.” Sierra stowed her phone. “How soon can we contact her owner?”

“Her papers list a 'partner', not 'owner'. We're still trying.”

“If we can't get a hold of whoever her partner is in three days, she'll have to be rehoused—assuming she does't crack up during therapy.” Sierra shook her head. “I didn't even try porting into her.”

“Given how she went out, I'd say porting in would've been the worst thing—”

Detective Logan's remark was cut off by a low beep—from inside Michelle's form.

“No.” Sierra backed away, shaking her head. “There's no way—”

“I need a backboard in here, and a cleanup team!” Detective Logan had already run to the door, leaning out into the hall to yell for assistance. “Pickett's not as broken as we thought!”

Sierra considered deactivating her ocular and aural sensors, if only to spare herself from witnessing what would be—

Another beep sounded from within Michelle's body...followed, soon after, by a twitch.

It was subtle, at first—a finger on her left hand, barely moving. Her toes, still shod in the sneakers she'd had on, curled ever so slightly. Even the ruined synthetic skin of her face started to crack and crumble as the micromotors behind her lips and eyelids whirred into something resembling life—or, at least, the last moments of it.

Even as she backed away, Sierra was the picture of calm. She'd seen worse, after—

Michelle's right arm shot up, out, reaching towards the CAEDIA officer. At the same time, inexplicably, Sierra's phone buzzed back into life from her pants pocket. Sierra scrambled to retrieve it, only to stare as the base text messaging app filled with two words, repeated in an endless loop: HELP ME.

“—said she was a write off, no idea why—” Detective Logan reentered the room just in time to see Michelle's form begin to kick, her left arm grabbing and moving as if to push herself clear of something. In the corner of the room, the desktop rig that had been in standby lit up, a word processor opening and immediately filling with PLEASE HELP ME. The screen continued to scroll as the words filled page after page.

“How...”

The spasms that rocked her form were threatening to send Michelle off of the table—a movement only prevented by the arrival of three more CAEDIA officers to hold her in place, gently. “No idea how she's still functioning,” Detective Logan muttered. “The report from Pariello's said her CPU was fried—”

An utterance—not a word, but something in the shape of one—left Michelle's lips. Her voice sounded as if it was coming from a dying radio plugged into a fully-powered amplifier. Whatever she was trying to say, it was clear that every bit of data flowing through her digital mind was indicating that her body was suffering. Pools of ocular lubricant were welling up under the receptors sculpted to be her eyes, spilling down the devastated flesh of her face.

Something hit the floor with a harsh clatter of high-impact plastic on tile. It took Sierra a full minute to realize that she'd dropped her phone.

“Get her on the board,” Detective Logan instructed, “before she throws herself off the table!” Two of the Officers had moved to try and nudge Michelle off of the table and onto the backboard, but her flailing arms kept them at bay. A fingernail tore through the sleeve of one Officer's shirt, sending him back with a pained grunt.

The wailing from Michelle's wrecked vocal drivers never abated. If anything, it only got louder.

Grinding sounds issued from Michelle's torso and limbs as the gynoid's systems tried to compensate for the damage she'd suffered. The flow of HELP ME on both the desktop rig's screen and Sierra's phone was briefly interrupted with a parsed command—Michelle was trying to enter Maintenance Mode, assuming a sitting position so that her components would be easier to access, replace and/or repair.

“How?” left Sierra's lips as she tried to keep the pertinent text onscreen. “What happened to her was enough to fry her processors! There's no possible way—”

A hiss cut her off—a sheared-through coolant line had sprayed its contents through a hole in Michelle's left elbow.

Detective Logan had ducked back out into the hall, his shout of “I NEED CLEANUP IN HERE, NOW!” sounding almost like a rumbling growl. “WE NEED TO SHUT HER DOWN, OR SHE'LL REDLINE!” He gestured for the approaching cleanup team to hurry, even as Michelle's form continued contorting and trying to move on the table.

Sierra only looked away when both her phone and the desktop rig began beeping. The text filling both had turned red.

“She's circling the drain, Tommy! We need to—”

The detective dashed back into the room, grabbing Michelle's body by the shoulders. “We're not losing her,” he growled, his hands forcing the stricken gynoid's form to the table. “Get her partner, her owner, whoever they are, on the line—we need to shut her down, and soon!”

Even as she wathed Michelle's figure thrash against the table, against the hands holding it (she could only hope that the other gynoid's conscious self was offline, and that her body was merely going through the motions of a delayed reaction to her suffering) down, Sierra thought back to a lecture she'd attended while in the SJPD. The speaker had gone on, at length, about why sentient androids and gynoids would ever want to feel anything like what human beings knew as “pain”. It was, in the speaker's opinion, a way to level the playing field—to equate “damage” to something best avoided when possible, and mitigated when needed. Should damage be suffered, like an injury, and treatment (repair) needed, it served as further proof that sentients didn't see themselves as invincible or superior to humans.

Sierra hadn't agreed with the sentiment at the time. Nor could she ever imagine any sentient android or gynoid wanting to be seen as “equal” by way of enduring the suffering Michelle had been through.

One last cry—long, wavering and accompanied by the dissolution of the artificial skin of Michelle's face, revealing the servo armatures beneath—sounded from what had been the gynoid's lips before her body went still. The ominous, low and steady beeping had finally gone quiet.

The detective's expression was as inscrutable as ever as he took his hands off of Michelle's shoulders. “Status?”

A redhead in a form-fitting “clean suit” held up a device no bigger than a pack of playing cards. “Can't say for sure. She might've undergone personality stripping—”

“Billie--you've got a brother on the police force, right? Get Pickett to the lab and run every test you can, just to be sure.”

The redhead nodded, her colleagues helping to move the once-again motionless gynoid onto the backboard and secure all of the restraint straps. Detective Logan didn't watch as they lifted the board to carry Michelle's form out.

“I'll see if they need any help.” Sierra knew the offer would sound lame to the detective; even she hated the practically forced blandness in her voice. Without waiting for a response, she made her way around the table, to the door. “They might have to—

“You don't have to act like it didn't scare you.”

Sierra froze, one hand on the door pull.

“I'll get Elaine on the line and tell her to see if she can clear a slot tomorrow,” Detective Logan stated. “For Evelyn and for Michelle.” A low, rasping breath punctuated the sentence as he moved away from the table. “And we will catch the one who bricked them,” he added, stopping to stand next to Sierra. “It's our job, after all.”

“Right.”

“Sierra...” The hand on the Officer's shoulder stopped her before she could effectively sprint out of the room. “You're not just 'company hardware',” Detective Logan quietly reminded her. “If you need to take a break, take one. Nobody's going to hold it against you for it.”

At that, Sierra nodded, her eyes squeezed shut. “I will.”

“Good call. I'll let you know if anything comes up with Michelle.”

“Got it.” With that, Sierra let Detective Logan pass before leaving the room.
-----
Half an hour had passed, and Sierra had spent most of that time linked to the desktop in her office. Even with Detective Logan's suggestion that she take a break, she couldn't help but conference-call Jared and Celia, both of whom were still on-site at Pariello's house. Inventory on everything that had been broken by the intruder was still ongoing—all that was known, by the time the call ended, was that Pariello's insurance wouldn't cover it.

Sierra kept herself linked to the desktop as she conducted her research—on Pariello, on Jaromir Dezhnyov and on Harry Morgan. The only common denominator between the three was Harry Morgan; he'd been a friend of Pariello's, and until recently, a customer of Jaromir's. Morgan's own record was spotless—his CAEDIA file had no infractions listed, while his police record only had one incident on file, a fight with Bobby Pariello at a wedding reception a few years prior. From what eyewitnesses could tell, Pariello had accused Morgan of conduct unbecoming a gentleman, stemming from what, by all accounts, had been a simple, pleasant conversation between Morgan and Pariello's wife (the annullment of her marriage to Pariello was filed shortly after the reception). Despite this, Pariello had apparently been badgering Morgan with unwanted financial advice for the past few years.

“I wonder,” Sierra mused, moving her finger in the air as if scrolling a mouse wheel. The screen before her reacted, the text scrolling down as she continued to read.

“Wonder what?”

Sierra could faintly see Detective Logan's reflection in the monitor. “I was just thinking,” she mused. “There has to be a reason why Bobby Pariello's house got torn up. This wasn't just some random nutcase—”

“You're right about that.” The detective crossed the room, holding up a folder. “Thanks for uploading your scans from Hinson's memories, by the way—they were a big help with this.”

“'This'?” Sierra echoed, turning to regard her colleague with a frown.

“We got a match on the face you saw—and it's on the FV Column.”

Sierra winced. The FV (“Forbidden/Verboten”) Column was a list of faces that, for whatever reason, were banned (or no longer allowed) from being used for custom-made androids or gynoids, or for mass-market models.

“Check the printouts. You'll be quite interested as to where you might've seen that face before.”

Despite her skepticism, Sierra opened the folder—and found herself staring at the face she'd seen from Evelyn Hinson's memories. The smile was more relaxed, and far less psychotic, but almost every other detail—hair, “bone” structure, even the makeup—were identical. “Where'd you find this?”

“Recall list. 2003.” Detective Logan chuckled. “You had the right idea to search that far back.”

Sierra flipped through the pages, ignoring the erratic movement of the screen before her. “'P4RT4Y G1R7'—a party girl line?” She continued thumbing through the pages. “Factory recall—and half the pages on why she's recalled have been redacted.” A frown crossed her lips as she held up a page; most of the information had been neatly painted over with black rows.

“We're looking into why the recall notice was filed. In the meantime, I thought you'd want to get an update on Pickett.”

Sierra set the folder down. “They figure out what happened to her?”

Detecitve Logan tented his hands. “Apparently, the microwave only put her into standby.”

Something in the way her colleague spoke those words didn't sit well with Sierra. “Into standby?” she managed.

“Some kind of failsafe, to prevent personality-stripping. Problem was, it was on a timer. Our bad luck, the clock ran out while she was on the table.” The detective shook his head. “Every bit of data that was held back just went. Floodgates open, all that stuff.”

“Is she going to—”

“I don't know.” Detective Logan sighed. “She might need more time to recover from this than Evelyn, or she might just be able to section it all off and see it as a really bad dream. It's too early to say for sure.”

“Physical damage?”

“She'll probably need a full rebuild. Still waiting on a call from her owner/partner, to get her specs.” The detective gave a weary nod at the monitor. “Still trying to find a connection?”

“Something's been bugging me about this weird triangle,” Sierra admitted. “Pariello, Dezhnyov and Morgan—Pariello and Dezhnyov have both had dealings with Morgan, but not each other. It's like there's some angle we're missing, some link that's just not showing up.” She regarded the monitor with a frown. “Pariello's not the biggest customer of any of the local robotics firms,” she mused, “so what connection would he have with a Russian dealer?”

“I'd say 'mistaken identity', but there's a pretty big difference between 'Morgan' and 'Pariello' on a form.” The detective frowned. “And Dezhnyov isn't the type to send heavies after deadbeat customers.”

“How does he deal with them?”

“According to his file,” the detective replied, “he apologizes.”

It was Sierra's turn to frown. “Apologizes?”

“I've checked our list of complaints against Jaromir. Apparently, any time he feels 'slighted', he gets into a screaming match over the phone, then calls back anywhere from an hour to a day or two later and apologizes.” Detective Logan handed over a single sheet of paper. “He hasn't called Morgan yet,” he added.

“Still think we should send someone to Morgan's to keep an eye on him?”

“Wouldn't hurt.” The detective leaned in to get a better look at the screen. “I see Pariello's made it onto your reading list for the month,” he chuckled.

Sierra scowled. “The guy's a lawsuit waiting to happen, Tommy.”

“So I've heard. Any luck on finding out where he ran off to?”

“He doesn't have a HERC card, as far as I know. The local police are sending word out to any hotels and motels in the area that he might try to hole up in for a while.” Sierra scrolled down the screen a bit more, again moving her hand as if manipulating an invisible mouse in the air. “If they hear anything—”

“'Don't call us, we'll call you'.” The detective chuckled again. “Hopefully, he doesn't have any buddies in the business.”

Sierra nearly replied, only for a power management reminder to pop up in her field of view. “Guess I should call it a night,” she muttered, saving as much of what she'd been researching as possible and closing the rest. “Any bays free in Maintenance? Might go for a quick tune up before I charge.”

“They're all open, last I checked. Just try to get sorted before the end of the night.”

“I'll do my best.” Sierra rose from her chair, the desktop going into sleep mode as she moved. “And you're still on the graveyard shift?”

“I do my best field work from dusk 'til dawn,” Detective Logan replied. “I'll be back at my desk by daylight, anyway.”

The gynoid officer rolled her eyes. “You don't have to try to live up to your nickname, y'know.”

“Wraiths don't burst into flame in the sun—and neither do vampires.” The detective grinned. “Blame Murnau for that tired old cliché.”

“I will, and you're neither.” Sierra force-closed another power management warning. “And don't let me catch you telling any newbies otherwise.”

“Way to kill the fun.” The detective didn't bother pretending to sulk. “Give me a bed over a coffin any day of the week.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Sierra waved at Detective Logan over her shoulder. “See you next shift.”

“Likewise. Take care of yourself, Sierra.”

“I always do.”
-----
As Detective Logan had claimed, the maintenance bays were all free by the time Sierra made it in. There was only one technician active at the time, but she was more than happy to give Sierra a quick tune-up. Within minutes, the Officer had peeled off her shirt, exposing her artificially-toned abdomen and letting the tech open her up for a quick systems analysis. Having been literally built for the job, Sierra had no problem exposing her artificiality; as it was, there were no other androids or gynoids in the bays, and few humans other than the janitorial staff ever visited.

Abdominal Panel – Open.” As soon as the monotone words left her lips, Sierra groaned. She'd never been a fan of the system settings that effectively forced her to announce her status during maintenance. A monitor near the table she'd been sitting on allowed her to see the status of her own systems—apart from the low battery, she had no issues.

“Rough day, Officer Birch?”

“Rough night,” Sierra corrected. She knew the technician wouldn't ask for further details. “Just figured I'd get a tune-up in before the next shift.”

“Always a good idea.” The technician moved to access Sierra's back. “Not feeling any wear and tear as of late?”

“If I did, I'd have been in here earlier.” Sierra didn't care that her bra had just been removed. “Just—Dorsal access panel open—figured I'd get a quick inspection done, have that out of the way before the work load tomorrow.”

The tune-up took around thirty minutes to finish; nothing was out of place or damaged, since Sierra's case load had been somewhat light over the past few days. The worst she'd ever dealt with was a shoulder motor out of place, after a car accident (this had been well before CAEDIA had switched to their current model of cruisers, instead using rebadged and repainted “standard” police cars); she'd been out of action for a week thanks to an incorrect manufacturer listing on her paperwork. The error had since been corrected, but it had been a very annoying week in the interim.

“I heard about what happened with Pickett, by the way.”

Sierra frowned. “How much?”

“The whole aftermath. I was on call in the lab after the incident.”

Any further discussion was headed off by Sierra's phone ringing. “Can you get that?”

The technician obliged, retrieving the smartphone and handing it over to the Officer. The name listed under “Incoming Call” made it clear that putting this one on hold would be a bad idea. Sierra linked to the phone, answering as soon as she connected: “To what do I owe the honour, Chief?”

Bobby Pariello. We just got a call from...ah, is this a bad time?

“I'm just in Maintenance, sir.” Sierra wasn't embarrassed by the fact that her boss had just seen her topless; the Chief had conversed with her in Maintenance before, and had never remarked on whatever state of disassembly and/or undress she'd been in. “What did Pariello do this time?”

We just got a call from a ride-share driver. They've got Bobby in the car, and he's been going on for the whole drive about 'settling the score'. The driver's been killing time for as long as possible, but—hang on.” The sixteen seconds of silence ended with a yelled “What in HELL?!

“Chief?”

Pariello just stole the ride-share car he was in! Driver stopped at a filling station to warn us, take a break from all the ranting coming from the backseat—they just went back outside. No car, no Pariello.

Sierra groaned. “Did the driver say who Pariello wanted to 'settle the score' with?”

Better. Pariello was screaming as soon as he got in the car, said he wanted to go directly to Harry Morgan's house.

There was that name again, one side of the triangle. “And we know about this...”

“Driver's augmented, medical reasons. Also, their partner's a sentient—the way Pariello was rambling, they thought he'd go after her if he got a chance. The police are already inbound to try and cut Pariello off before he reaches Morgan's house. Morgan has a few sentients on payroll—”

“Meaning we need to get there before Pariello starts any trouble,” Sierra finished. “Just let me get closed up and get my clothes on.”

Your uniform. I read about Pariello's 'demands' back at his place.

“Sir—”

You weren't at fault then, but Knight and Faulkner are already en route.

“And in uniform.”

Right in one. Call when you get to Morgan's—and Sierra?

“Yes, Chief?”

Be careful out there.

“I always am, Chief.” Sierra sighed as the call ended, turning her attention to the technician. “Can you get me closed up? I need to get going.”

As the technician dutifully set to work, the Officer tried not to think of all the ways the next day could go sideways.
-----
Anyone else in Lexi's hotel room would've been appalled at the state she'd intended to leave it in. Whoever or whatever from the cleaning staff, upon being confronted by the utter hell before them, would've been well within their rights to ask for a pay raise—before embarking on the Herculean labour of cleaning the room.

Lexi didn't care. She'd have no reason to care, now that she was back behind the wheel of “her” car and on the way to a new hideout, at the instruction of her employer—the same employer currently communicating with her over the car's speakers.

Our two assets from Silicon Valley are being prepped for delivery to your location.” Zina's face, visible on the miniature monitor built into the dashboard, looked as gorgeous as it had been in 1:1 holographic form hours before. “You are to activate them and utilize them in your efforts to neutralize Harry Morgan.”

“And I get to finish the job when they screw up?” Lexi cheerfully asked. Despite the car being in self-drive, she'd decided to take the driver's seat; even as she conversed with Zina, she was half-dancing along to the catchy Europop beat of the tune on the radio.

If they fail, you are to complete their task.” Zina regarded the blonde with a warning glare. “They are—”

“Obsolete, and probably going to botch things without any help from me,” Lexi beamed. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I dunno why you can't send any new units over this way.”

I have no time to debate this issue with you. You have your orders.

“I know,” Lexi sighed. “I'll have them unboxed and ready when they show up.”

Do not alter their programming or perform any other unauthorized 'maintenance' on them.

“Why'd I have to get brought back online by a bunch of killjoys?” Lexi pouted. “Just because I like to have fun every once in a while—”

The option to remotely operate you from my location can and will be exercised if you refuse to comply.

Lexi stuck her tongue at the monitor. “You'd love to plug me into your universal remote and—” She stiffened in her seat, putting on an intentionally robotic monotone. “Con-trol me like the toy that you al-ways wan-ted me to be.

Zina's lips parted in a brief growl. “You have been told to not pursue any fantasies with me.

I ne-ver said a-ny-thing a-bout my fan-ta-sies.” Lexi gave a wide, very not-robotic smile.

The still-fuming Zina's face vanished from the monitor—replaced, as Lexi had come to expect, by the haunting image of those golden eyes. “Need I remind you of the risks you run by continuing to toy with Zina?

“It's just a way to alleviate my endless boredom,” Lexi sighed. “I know she'd probably ravage me to pieces if we ever got together—she definitely could, from the looks of it.”

Her proclivities are not your concern. The mission is all that matters.”

“I'll do the mission,” Lexi assured him. “Just let me do what I do best after it's all said and done, 'kay?”

Assuming you complete your mission, you will be free to have whatever 'fun' you desire.

“Oh, I'll complete the mission,” Lexi replied, still smiling. “Harry Morgan won't even know what hit him!”
-----
Even as the stolen car appropriated by the gynoid going by the name Lexi sped on, away from the hotel, the last of her handiwork at the hotel was just stirring into the digitized semblance of life afforded to her.

The NonSen maid, having been subjected to a multi-hour marathon of “fun” with Lexi over the last few hours, rebooted into a shuddering, troubled startup. The entirely-too-fake smile spread across her lips, giving the unnerving impression that, had the maid been sentient, she would've gladly reunited with Lexi for more “fun”.

“Mor.” The syllable was clipped off at the end, the gynoid's lips struggling to form the next half. “Mor.”

Something behind her vacantly-staring eyes grinded away. A drive, buried somewhere within her, spun up.

“Har-gan Mor-ry.” The mangled name meant nothing to the maid, even as she took a halting step forward. Two further steps were followed by another grinding sound, an alarming bang, and the maid briefly freezing, her smile lapsing, for a moment, into a sneer.

In second, her posture relaxed. The vacant, fake smile returned.

“Hargan Morry.” The maid continued to make her way out of the room, her pace far more lifelike, now. She was entirely unaware that, in less than five hours, that garbled name would be the last thing she ever said. “Hargan Morry.”

The door to the utterly trashed hotel room was left open behind her. Another maid would tend to it, after all.

Presumably, that maid might also be on hand to clean up what would be left of the unit currently exiting the room, when the programs Lexi had installed into her finished running.

It'd be glorious, no doubt. Like everything Lexi did, the chaos would be nothing short of beautiful.
-----
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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