Writing As We Go, Chapter 10

[DukeNukem 2417]

Detective Logan had seen pictures of the Dyson Institute's facilities before—the website, pamphlets and promotional material all painted a rather serene picture, making each complex look like a spa, or a high-end clinic or hospital at the very least. As he left his vehicle and handed his keys to the parking attendant—a smiling, attractive 20-something in a uniform that accentuated her curves in all the right places—he reflected upon just how much of the facility and its grounds the general public didn't see, much less know about.

The woman at the desk—again, beautiful enough to be a model, though her beauty was more matronly than the parking attendant's—didn't hesitate to tell the detective where he needed to go to reach Dr. Dyson's office. A quick “thanks” was all the acknowledgement he gave; the woman showed no sign of discomfort at the harsh sound of his voice, or the obvious plastic plating of his facial prosthetic. Nor did she complain about his decision to wear sunglasses indoors; either his arrival was expected, or he'd already developed a reputation.

His morning had been productive thus far: after a quick check-in at HQ, his car had auto-driven him to the destination sent to him after the private call the day before. There, he'd been greeted and helped out of the vehicle, fitted with his new optics once inside the building, and sent on his way. So far, so good.

Now, as he walked through the “spa” complex, he couldn't help but chuckle. He'd been on hand to break up a “raid” on a Dyson facility in San Jose back in '16, conducted by a televangelist (one who'd since lost his tax-exempt status, his TV deal and most of his holdings) trying to conduct a smear campaign against the Institute. The whole thing had been an absolute farce—where the TV preacher had expected “lesbotic orgies”, he'd found only women getting cosmetic procedures done, or conducting mundane workouts, or enjoying typical spa services. The closest he'd come to anything resembling what he was looking for was finding an incongruous elevator and trying, in vain, to find “the secret floors” of the facility. Polite requests to cease and desist had been ignored—eventually, someone had to resort to firing a full can of Mace in his direction.

Detective Logan chuckled again. The peripheral of his view was filled with similar sights to what the ill-fated televangelist had observed: mundane workouts, spa treatments, cosmetic procedures and the like, all perfectly on the level.

Not that the Institute's other services weren't on the level, of course.

The detective nodded a few quick “hellos” to passing clients of the Institute; none of them gave him the side-eye over his facial prosthetic, or the healed scar on his neck (at Sierra's insistence, he'd had the staples removed after getting his new optics put in). The fact that he wore his CAEDIA-issued badge on his coat pocket probably helped.

A few minutes of walking brought him to a bank of three lifts, and a waiting attendant—a smiling, fit-looking Asian-American woman. “Dr. Dyson is expecting you, Detective,” she stated, gesturing for him to enter the central lift.

“Thanks.” The detective nodded, entering the lift car. As with the rest of the Institute thus far, it was clean, well-lit and looked incredibly mundane.

Without a word, the attendant pressed a button, and the car ascended.

There was no small talk between the attendant and the detective, as the lift car rose; he was there on CAEDIA business, and such business couldn't be gone over with civilians. Technically, Elaine Dyson was a civilian, as well—one at the helm of a profitable corporation, but a civilian all the same.

Granted, few other civilians were in the position that Dr. Dyson was in—a position to provide invaluable assistance.

The lift dinged, and the doors opened. “Have a good day, Detective!” the attendant beamed; Detective Logan gave a quick nod and stepped out, the doors closing behind him.

Without hesitation, he headed straight for Dr. Dyson's office.

The sight that greeted him as he opened the doors was...not an unexpected one. Elaine was reclining at her desk, most of her clothing conspicuous by its absence. Her decision to lean as far back as her chair allowed and prop her feet up revealed that she was, at least, still wearing panties—black lace, as one might expect from a well-stocked boudoir. Her glasses sat on the desk, next to the black lace bra she'd probably been wearing—given the fact that her chest was open like a pair of barn doors, revealing the complex electronics, circuitry arrays and robotic components within, her decision to take it off was mostly understandable. Her eyes were closed; a contented smile was on her lips.

Detective Logan regarded the scene for a moment before knocking, three times, on the door frame.

“Right on schedule, Detective,” Dr. Dyson purred, her hands moving to close the “doors” of her chest—lingering just long enough to caress her breasts as she did so. “I hope you don't mind my decision to 'dress down'.”

“A bit early in the day for it,” the detective mused, stepping into the room. “Am I interrupting something, or—”

Dr. Dyson chuckled. “Just a bit of light meditation.” Her eyes opened, the smile still on her lips; she spun the chair just enough to swing her legs off of the desk.. “A habit from my other selves that I couldn't help but indulge.”

“That the only habit you were 'indulging' in before I got here?”

The detective's remark drew a sly smirk from Elaine. “I haven't been distracted all morning,” she assured him, “if that's what you're asking.” She retreived the bra from her desk, slipping it on effortlessly as she spoke. “And I have been checking in on Evelyn and Michelle from time to time.”

“Any progress?”

At this, any sign of mirth in Dr. Dyson's expression faded. “Michelle's nearly shattered,” she replied, her tone grim. “It'll take weeks, maybe months to get her to a point where she can get back to form.”

Detective Logan turned away, a muttered “shit” barely audible from his surgically-repaired voicebox.

“Evelyn's stable,” Dr. Dyson continued. “From what our specialists can tell, she might have a nightmare or two about what happened to her—”

“Might have?” Detective Logan echoed. “I'm surprised she's not worse off than Pickett!”

Elaine sighed. “I was thinking the same thing, Detective,” she admitted, retrieving her glasses and resettling them on her face. “I expected Evelyn to bear the brunt of the mental scars—she's a transfer case, after all.”

“Meaning?”

“The human mind,” Elaine stated, “has a number of ways to cope with injury.” She rose from her chair, revealing a white lab coat draped across its back. “Not all of those ways translate very well to a digital mind—some don't translate at all, and those cases can result in lasting trauma.”

“So all those stories about Dyson transfers 'enjoying' malfunctions—”

“That,” Elaine declared, “is entirely different.” There was a fire in her eyes, a firmness to her voice, that legitimately surprised Detective Logan. “I love being a machine,” she admitted; one hand started to drift towards her groin, only to rest just above the waistband of her panties. “Every Dyson transference case can say the same—but they love it by choice. There's no 'brainwashing' involved, no 'pre-transfer conditioning'.”

“Never said there was,” Detective Logan mused. “Sorry if it sounded like I did.”

Elaine's stare remained focused on the detective as she approached him. “There's an intimacy about being a machine,” she stated, “that's quite simply sublime. Knowing exactly how much control you can have over every system that makes up your entire being, knowing exactly what components are inside of you, what makes you tick...” She was a foot away from the detective, now, her hands going to his shoulders. “It's incredible,” she murmured. “Absolutely the most erotic sensation I could ever imagine.”

“Whoever bricked Hinson and Pickett had quite a different take on that view,” Detective Logan replied.

Elaine bowed her head. “To be honest,” she admitted, “I've been thinking about that.” She let her hands fall from the detective's shoulders. “Everyone has this perception,” she continued, her hips swaying invitingly as she turned and walked back to her desk, “that androids are supposed to be perfect. That a machine mind is the pinnacle of intelligence, and that a lot more power should be given over to A.I.s or M.I.s, solely for the benefit of humanity.”

“Everyone other than the Herring News crowd,” Detective Logan mused, chuckling.

“That's not the point.” Elaine donned the lab coat, closing at least three of the buttons to give herself a semblance of modesty. “Ever since Asimov, the idea has been that androids are incapable of doing anything that would detriment humanity, or themselves.”

“'Three Laws safe',” the detective muttered, his optics rolling in their sockets.

“Exactly. Except the Three Laws are problematic, to put it lightly. 'A robot may not injure a human being, or by inaction, allow a human being to come to harm'.” Elaine scoffed. “Would surgery count as 'harm'? What about accidental injury, or combat situations? 'Injure' and 'allow a human being to come to harm' can be gamed, misinterpreted and debated until the end of time—and that's not even going into sex.”

The detective frowned, but Elaine spoke up before he could: “I have no problem admitting that I, in any of my selves, enjoy the occasional malfunction from time to time. But I also know that I have one of the greatest repair facilities on hand to bring me back from the brink, or rebuild me if need be. My robotic state of being is a fact of my life, not just a 'facet'. It's part and parcel of who I am, and I'd never change it.” She sighed. “That's what scares me about the perpetrator behind what happened to Evelyn and Michelle,” she quietly admitted. “Whoever they are, they don't care about life—artificial or organic.”

“Sounds a lot like Fac—”

“From what I know, he never got off on killing.” Elaine scowled. “Not like the one who bricked Evelyn and Michelle.”

Detective Logan nodded silently. He'd been involved, at various stages of his career, with tracking the murderer he'd alluded to—years before his assignment to CAEDIA, he'd been enlisted to hunt down and apprehend copycats of the notorious spree killer. “So you don't think we're dealing with a copycat,” he mused.

“Not at all. Whoever this is, they're not 'borrowing' from anyone else.”

“She's not.” The detective frowned. “We pretty much confirmed that back at HQ—and she was 'borrowing', back there,” he added. “Borrowing a face, and an outfit. Probably the hair, too.”

“So she is a gynoid, then.” Elaine shivered. “I can't think of any reason—”

Detective Logan's phone let off a gentle tone. “I told them I'd be busy,” he muttered, retrieving it. “What do they—” He stopped, frowning, as he read the text.

“Something wrong?”

The detective glanced at Elaine, his facial prosthetic inscrutable. “Just got a text from HQ. The PD wants to move Pariello out of their building.”

“Hinson and Pickett were attacked at his house, weren't they?” Elaine inquired.

“They were. Pariello didn't exactly share his sympathies when he found out they got bricked.”

Elaine frowned. “Did he even care that they were both sentient?”

“Only in the context of whether or not his insurance would cover it.” Detective Logan gave a disgusted scoff. “I thought most like him were living off the Grid,” he admitted. “He showed up at Harry Morgan's yesterday, saying he'd burn the place down if Morgan didn't 'admit' to sending a NonSen to tear up his house—he didn't, by the way.”

The mention of the name prompted a more thoughtful frown from Dr. Dyson. “I've heard that name before.”

“Not the guy from M*A*S*H,” Detective Logan chuckled. “Officer Birch brought it up with him yesterday—he gets those jokes all the time. He runs that StoryCrafters entertainment thing—or at least the branch in this state.”

Elaine thought back to her exit from CAEDIA Regional HQ the day before—a group of four people, one of whom was a man in his 50s with a certain rougish, movie-star charm to his looks.

“Anyway, it might be nothing, but Pariello's pissing off everyone at the Billings station,” the detective continued. “They'll have to move him, at this point—”

“StoryCrafters uses androids in their events, don't they?”

The question only slightly caught Detective Logan off-guard. “NonSens, reprogrammed for specific roles.”

“Hmm.” Elaine frowned. “I could've sworn I did some work for a client with the surname 'Morgan', a few years ago.”

“Pretty sure you never had Pariello as a client,” the detective chuckled. “He can't stand 'robots'. In fact, I seem to remember him showing up to protest the grand opening of the Billings Dyson Institute building, back when it was still part of Montana.” He stowed his phone in a pants pocket. “You ever worry about protestors trying to brick one of your fax units?”

“Not that I see any of my selves as cannon fodder,” Elaine replied, “but I'm a lot more worried about anyone without the proper authorization getting in to the transference chambers.”

“Hardware's that expensive?”

“Confidentiality agreements prevent me from disclosing the exact price.” Elaine adjusted her glasses, giving Detective Logan a sultry smirk. “Let's just say we're not running the transfers on souped-up Amigas.”

“Wouldn't even dream of thinking it. But we were talking about the perp.”

Again, the mirth left Elaine's expression. “I honestly can't think of why an android or gynoid would intentionally do what was done to Evelyn and Michelle,” she murmured. “The way Michelle was yelling—she wasn't saying 'she's damaging me', she was saying 'she's killing me'. And the perpetrator enjoyed it.” A shiver ran up her form.

“That's why CAEDIA is on the case,” the detective assured her. “We'll find her, and we will stop her.”

“I sincerely hope so,” Elaine replied, not shying away from the reassuring hand on her shoulder.
-----
“Anything?”

Sierra Birch glanced over her shoulder—despite the fact that she didn't need to; her internal proximity sensors had, in less time than it took a human being to blink, informed her that someone was standing behind her chair. “I've been at this since I got here this morning,” she replied. “Nothing.”

Officer Jason Knight frowned. “So a gynoid just breaks into Regional HQ,” he mused, “then vanishes?”

“She didn't 'vanish',” Sierra reminded him. “She left her face behind—or a borrowed face, probably.”

Her colleague spotted the life-like silicone “mask” on the desk. “Shouldn't that be in Evidence?”

“They already checked it. Nothing that can tie the perp back to any pre-existing cases.” Sierra frowned. “She's not Iron Hand, that's for sure. Any luck with the SSD?”

“I just left the observation bay. They're still working on the drive—at the very least, it's not a seeder.”

“Good. Last thing we need is some stupid drive turning our entire building into a crypto farm.” Sierra scowled at the thought. “Any details on what it is?”

“They're still working on that.” Jason leaned in to get a look at Sierra's monitor. “Still going over yesterday?”

“Like you said, a gynoid broke into Regional HQ and then 'vanished'.” Sierra's hand, hovering over a pad on the desk, matched the movements of the mouse cursor on the screen. “Celia's on the case, too?”

“Right now, she's at church.”

Sierra turned, somewhat surprised. “Church?”

“Just started going last week, apparently. She wants to broaden her horizons.”

“Huh.” Sierra had heard of androids seeking comfort in faith before, but hadn't yet heard of any from CAEDIA's ranks joining the fold. “After what we saw at Pariello's,” she admitted, “I don't blame her for wanting to find inner peace.”

“Just as long as Herring News doesn't get a camera in there,” Jason muttered. “They'd go to town with it.”

“They're the kind of people who could find fifteen 'Breaking News' stories in a paper bag.” Sierra's attention was already back on the monitor. “We need to get back on track with that SSD,” she stated, “even if we have to call in the national office for help with it.”

“You think it'll get that bad?”

“None of us can touch that SSD—even shielded, I wouldn't want to risk it.” Sierra glanced back at Jared. “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“Would it be bad form to ask Celia if she could offer up a prayer to the patron saint of computers?” The expression on Sierra's face was proof that she wasn't joking. “If there is one, I mean.”

Jason frowned. “She's trying to find herself with religion, not using it like a magic lamp.”

“Never said she was.” Sierra had already turned back to the monitor. “I just think we'll need all the help we can get.”
-----
“A lot of other people in my position would be scared out of their wits right now.”

Detective Logan's remark drew a chuckle from Elaine. “More people know about androids and gynoids these days,” she reminded him, “than they did before 2015. Plenty of them have come to accept the fact—”

“It's not that,” the detective replied. “It's just that the limbs, torsos and heads give off certain vibes.'”

Elaine sighed. “My last name is Dyson,” she chided, “not 'Frankenstein'. And these are all mechanical.”

The pair were striding down an aisle in one of the Dyson Institute's many subterranean sections—in this case, R&D. The limbs, torsos, pelvic modules and heads on the racks they passed were all modelled after either current or prospective clients of the Institute; Detective Logan, with some measure of amusement, spotted at least three spare robotic heads modelled on the wives of Billings city councilmen, and one of a female council member. The requisite spare heads for Elaine were also present—the detective had spotted three of them already.

“This isn't just for the super-rich or the body-conscious, either,” Elaine mused, drawing the detective out of any funk he might've started to enter. “We've done quite a lot to help out those with terminal illnesses, or conditions that left them immobile in their organic forms.”

“Leah Chambers,” Detective Logan mused.

“Hmm?”

“Former cyborg—ALPHA agent. Sustained critical damage on her last op as a cyborg, had to undergo full conversion.”

The detective's explanation was punctuated by a finger-snap from Elaine. “I thought that name sounded familiar,” she mused. “Didn't she also do NASA work?”

“A bit. Not as much as—”

“Doctor Dyson?”

The approach of a stunningly attractive blonde in the Institute's trademark black and grey uniform interrupted the roving discussion. “The information you requested just arrived,” the blonde stated, handing over a tablet PC. “Thought you'd want to read over it.” As Elaine glanced at the tablet, the blonde turned her attention to Detective Logan—whose own attention was on the tablet. “Anything you'd like to share?”

“When was this confirmed?”

“Just a few minutes ago—CAEDIA's forensics team sent it in.”

The blonde's mention of CAEDIA was met with a frown from Detective Logan. “I would've been notified—”

“I asked them to call me, first,” Elaine admitted, offering the detective an apologetic glance.

“Why?”

“I'll explain as soon as we can get to a terminal.” Elaine nodded at the blonde. “Ever since the session with Evelyn and Michelle yesterday, I've had a theory—one that I thought might help your department speed up the process of finding the 'bot that attacked them.”

As Elaine followed the blonde, Detective Logan matched her stride. “And you're just telling me this now—”

“I didn't want to have to keep it a secret from you,” Elaine admitted. “But given the nature of this theory, I figured it'd be better to show you the results.”

“Why do I get the feeling that this is going to be interesting,” the detective muttered.

The trio eventually entered a side room set up as a sort of mini-office, with the needed terminal waiting on the far side of the room. “When you mentioned that the culprit was a gynoid,” Elaine explained, “I had a thought—one that I had to look into myself.” She handed the tablet back to the blonde, who crossed the room to connect it to the terminal. “If I'm wrong, then that's on me, but if not—”

“Elaine,” Detective Logan intoned, “what exactly is this theory of yours?”

As if in answer, the monitor of the terminal lit up with a detailed render of a particular chemical formula.

“I might as well admit,” Elaine stated, “that's the compound that makes up the base of the sexual fluid found, in residue form, on Evelyn's chest—let me explain,” she added, just as Detective Logan groaned. “The Dyson Institute has been active for a while—when our first few models rolled off the line, we had to back-date our supply chain, borrow from a few other firms.” She nodded to another monitor, showing a diagram of herself—or at least, an earlier android model in her likeness. “The AX500,” she explained. “The first artificial iteration of me.”

“And?”

“Back in those days, the Institute was sharing resources with a firm that specialized in sex-bots,” Elaine admitted. “They also had a tidy side-business providing upgrades for other companies' models—all strictly on the level, of course.”

“Right. Still not getting—”

“The formula on the terminal monitor over there is for the exact same type of fluid that the AX500 used,” Elaine stated, “and that was offered as an upgrade for other models. Unfortunately, that fluid also had compatability issues with a few of the model lines it was used with—the AX500 included.”

“So we're looking for a gynoid that it was compatible with,” Detective Logan mused.

Elaine nodded emphatically. “Exactly. And the information CAEDIA just sent me narrows that list down significantly.”

“How so?”

“Kari?” Elaine gestured to the blonde, who nodded and tapped the tablet's screen a few times. The formula render was replaced with a long list of company and model names. “These are from the same timeframe as the AX500's roll-out,” she explained. “All of them had significant leaking, seepage or corrosion issues with the fluid used.”

Detective Logan frowned. “And those that were compatible?”

The blonde tapped the screen again. The list seemed to vanish, only to be replaced by a far shorter one bearing only three company names, and three corresponding unit series. “The fluid was recalled,” Elaine added, “but these units still used it until they were discontinued.”

Her revelation was met with silence as the detective approached the terminal, still frowning. “Do we have pictures of any of these?” he inquired; already, his optics had summoned up the image of the intruder caught on the doorbell camera at Bobby Pariello's house, and a frame from the “P4RTY G1RL” advert Sierra had called up.

“Kari, see if you can find images of those three—base model, no modifications, from their first release date.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Kari dutifully tapped the tablet, and moved to key in a few strings on the terminal's keyboard.

The neighbouring terminal's monitor lit up with three pictures—all blondes, all pleasantly sexy in their own way. One image immediately stood out: the smiling figure within had the same round cheeks, gently curving jawline, pert nose and thin brows as the face in the two images in the detective's field of view.

“That's her.” He pointed to the centre image. “We have her on file from a doorbell camera.”

Elaine's eyebrows arched in surprise. “You're sure?”

“Positive.” Detective Logan stared at another monitor—the image of the crazed gynoid, about to dropkick Pariello's door off its hinges, appeared.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Elaine spoke up: “That's impossible.” She sounded more astonished, possibly confused, than angry or defiant. “That line was discontinued in 2003—I'm sure CAEDIA has the report on file!”

“We only have a heavily-redacted recall report,” Detective Logan muttered. He'd looked over that exact report the night before Sierra had gone out to Harry Morgan's home. “The company apparently didn't feel it prudent to provide the uncut version when CAEDIA took over handling such matters.”

Elaine folded her arms under her sizable breasts, scowling. “There has to be a way we can requisition the full reports,” she huffed; a few feet away, Kari was regarding her with a sultry stare.

“I'll put in a call to HQ,” the detective replied. “If we can't get results, we'll have to call the National office.”

“Good idea.” Elaine turned to leave, only just noticing Kari's longing glances at her. “Kari?”

“Sorry,” the blonde apologized, sounding somewhat distracted. “It's just that you looked so dominant just now, and, well...”

An understanding smile crossed Elaine's lips. “You do look like you could use a break,” she admitted. “I think there's a testing chamber a few doors down the hall—we can leave Detective Logan to his work and unwind for a while.” She cast a mischievous glance at the detective. “Unless, of course, he'd like to—”

“You two do your thing. I have no problem with it.” He barely glanced over his shoulder at Elaine. “Though I could've sworn I heard that you had those settings turned down before you were assigned here.”

“I did,” Elaine admitted. “But I still do enjoy the occasional—”

“Got it. Let me know when you're done—unless I let you know if I've found anything first.”

“Will do.” Elaine glanced at Kari. “Shall we?”

The delighted humming from the blonde was all the answer she needed.

Detective Logan didn't look back as he heard the door hiss open; he was already seated before the terminals Joyce had been using. The closing hiss of the door also went ignored; he had nothing against Dr. Dyson's proclivities, or those of her employees or even her clients. In his view, they were free to indulge however they pleased.

“As long as they don't go the route this perp did,” he muttered, scowling as he turned his attention to the terminals.

The detective leaned back in the chair and cracked his knuckles. “Time to go to work.”

With his CAEDIA credentials logged, Detective Logan set out across what had, decades prior, been called the Information Superhighway in his quest to find out anything more about the P4RTY G1RL recall. His first “dig” turned up little useful information, apart from a discussion thread on an archived hobbyists' board complaining about the recall. The next few “digs” were similarly useless—until he found a series of archived posts that, tellingly, claimed the official reason for the recall was BS.

“'The list of faults they came up with was completely false',” the detective read. “'They don't want to admit that some idiot modded theirs'. Huh.” After a moment's contemplation, he decided to search for any incidents of P4RTY G1RL units being modded that had resulted in injury (or worse) of the owner. The usual search venue turned up nothing.

“Guess I might as well go with the unconventional.”

Again, his CAEDIA credentials led him to the Agency's internal database, where he entered the search terms again. This time, the page seemed to freeze for a moment.

Seconds later, the screen went black—with red prompts and outlines, an all-caps warning message demanding that he enter his security clearance level.

Detective Logan smirked. “They really think I'd forget my badge?”

With the last blank box filled, the red prompts faded, and the secure CAEDIA search had turned up its results. Within a few seconds, the detective could see why they'd been locked behind an extra wall.

The images were grainy—stills from a surveillance camera feed, rather than some amateur modder's crappy disposable camera not being up to snuff. The time codes and other signatures indicated industrial, possibly even military-grade work being done. If anything, the “laboratory” confirmed it—dimly-lit, a Cyrilic language on the walls, and men in labcoats with face-masking respiratory gear at various posts around the room.

In the center of it all was an all-too-familiar face.

She wasn't smiling, in the first few images. That may have had something to do with the gash in her side, the streaks of someone's blood on her body, or the kitchen knife—sans blade—still clutched in her left hand. There was no pixellation of the body on the floor in front of her, nor was there any attemtpt to hide what was left of the poor soul's face. She was nude, as were the six or seven others in line against a wall behind her.

In the last few images, her expression did, indeed, change. Surrounded by those who were questioning her, and smiling. Hiding an object against her right arm as someone went to take her by the shoulder, and smiling. Stepping back from the corpse at her feet, and smiling.

Ramming a shard of glass through the respirator visor of a man behind her, and smiling.

“Shit.” Detective Logan stared at the two of the last images, ignoring the churning in his gut. The others against the wall never moved—a stark contrast to the blonde, who was lost to ghost-like motion trails after the second picture.

The detective scrolled down—and nearly screamed.

Every inch of the last picture was taken up by the face of the nude, smiling blonde, her expression looking absolutely psychotic—mere inches away from the camera.

On multiple monitors, the face—and the smile, were the same.

The detective nearly forgot about the recall, until he scrolled past the last picture.

Every word was in Russian, but the site auto-translated on the fly. From what he read, the detective surmised that this particular gynoid had been bought, either in bulk, or merely bulk lots of replacement parts, by a “firm” working to meet a goal that the document never identified. Links to further information had long since died (or been purged). In any case, the project was most definitely sponsored—if not run—by the military.

Whatever the goal was, it was nowhere near as benign as Elaine Dyson's had been when she founded her Institute.

There were other pictures, interspersed through the text; other figures (androids and gynoids—they would've had to be, in order to survive some of the tests described) were shown. All were naked; none had any hint of emotion on their faces as they underwent whatever experiment they were part of.

Occasionally, an observation window was visible. The occupants of its chamber, on the other hand, remained unseen.

Detective Logan frowned. Whatever the pictures were showing him, it was no amateur mod job gone awry. This had been state-sponsored—but where?

The door hissed open, followed soon after by ecstatic sighs from Elaine Dyson. “...never ceases to thrill me,” she stated; her reflection in the nearest monitor showed that she was, as expected, smiling from ear to ear. “I'll have to remember to leave Joyce a thank-you note—” She paused, as if realizing Detective Logan was still there. “Detective!”

“Still doing my research. You?”

“The session with Kari went as expected.” Even as she circled around him, Detective Logan could hear the smile in Elaine's voice. “I am trying not to overdo it, compared to my other selves.” Her tone changed as she beheld the images on the monitors. “All of this is connected to your case?”

“The perp is a recalled gynoid. I want to know why she was recalled.”

“As I said earlier,” Elaine reminded him, “CAEDIA must have the full report on file.” Her fingers expertly worked to button her shirt as she spoke. “I can't see why they wouldn't.”

“I can think of a few reasons.” Detective Logan scowled. “Especially if someone paid to wipe the full report.”

“I'm hoping you mean they paid when it first happened, not—”

“However it went down, that doesn't change anything.” The detective shut down the terminals one-by-one. “Looks like I'm gonna have to call a few of my connections,” he stated, moving from one terminal to the next. “Could take a while.”

“Connections?” Elaine echoed, cocking her head slightly.

“It pays to be an ex-cop.”

Elaine didn't seem convinced. “The Billings PD could—”

“I also,” Detective Logan clarified, “know quite a few important people in Silicon Valley. People with the kind of pull who can help get this sorted out.”

Something in the detective's tone piqued Elaine's interest. “Would one of these people happen to be—”

“Can't say. Confidentiality.” The short chuckle at the end of that word seemed to be almost a verbal wink.

“Right.” Elaine nodded. “I just hope that whoever you call can help you.”
-----
“—tonight's episode of The Late, Late Show with Phil Hartman: Dhani Harrison! International pro wrestling superstar Kenny Omega! Oscar-winner Heath Ledger! And ALPHA Ambassador and Author, Galatea!”

Erin nearly reached for the remote to turn off the TV, only to realize it was tucked under Harry's right hand. Had he been awake, that wouldn't have been a problem; as it stood, he was snoring like a chainsaw.

“Never change, Harry,” she murmured, smiling. Sunday, at the Morgan house, was usually either a day of rest or a day of filing paperwork, making phone calls and checking with the bank, the suppliers and anyone else affiliated with producing the next story to get everything cleared up beforehand. Harry's human employees tended to take Sundays off. The sentients on staff could also pursue their own interests, but many ended up doing whatever needed doing.

For her part, Erin had spent the morning going over the logs from the previous story. Apart from a few slight changes to the script to accommodate the clientele portraying “Dr. Dallas Johnson” and “Sadie”—and, of course, the removal of Pam from the base camp—nothing drastic had needed to be done. Most of the work now would be prepping for the next event; with Lloyd's exams at JSU Billings starting on Monday, the crew would be a hand short. Out-of-state help was available, from the other StoryCrafters branches, but—

Harry's snoring barely drowned out the ringtone of his cellphone, nestled snugly in his shirt pocket.

With an eye roll that, as she'd been told before, looked “too human” for her, Erin leaned over and gently eased Harry's phone out of the pocket it sat in. Other than a few mutterings and a slight shift in his position, he barely noticed.

Once in the kitchen, out of Harry's hearing range, Erin keyed on the phone. “Morgan residence, may I ask who's calling?”

“Didn't know Harry had you working maid duty on weekends, Erin. Tell me he got you the uniform.”

“Very funny, Cliff.” Erin couldn't help but chuckle. “He's sleeping, right now.”

“I can see why. Great day for it, after all—unless you're me.”

Erin frowned. “And what's messed up your day?”

“Oh, nothing, apart from the fact that someone put it in Bobby Pariello's head that it'd be a good idea to call me and beg me to bail him out of the drunk tank, since Harry obviously won't.” Cliff Barba sounded thoroughly annoyed. “Fifteen calls in the last hour. FIFTEEN!”

“Yeesh.” Erin cringed.

“I didn't even know Bobby was in jail until the first call. Something about a conspiracy, Harry setting him up, swearing revenge against 'plastic cunts' and all that stuff. What the hell kind of a bender did he go on this time?”

Erin groaned. “Someone tore up Bobby P.'s house,” she explained, “he thought it was one of Harry's inventory, and he showed up here yesterday morning ready to prove it. He was willing to pull a gun on Harry to get him to 'confess', too.”

“What?!”

“That's what they sent him down for in the end,” Erin replied, shaking her head at the memory of the previous morning's absurdity. “Oh, and the prick punched Lloyd, too.”

“Ye gods,” Cliff muttered. “Must've been a hell of a morning.”

“It was. The CAEDIA Officers asked us to go to Regional HQ with them, just to make sure we were on the level.”

“Yeah, the next call I get from Bobby, I'm telling him exactly where he can shove it.”

“But you'll end up on his enemies list!” Erin mock-gasped.

“I couldn't give less of a rat's anus about Bobby Pariello's 'enemies list'. He's already a wingnut and a washout, now he's getting a Nixon complex?”

A yawn from the direction of the living room caught Erin's attention. “And that'll be Harry at the landing gate for Dream Weaver airlines,” she chuckled. “Want to talk to him?”

“Please.”

“Give me a sec.” The gynoid strode to the door of the kitchen and leaned out. “HARRY!”

A half-yawned “What?” issued from her employer as he stretched the last of his sleep-induced funk away.

“It's Cliff Barba, on your phone. Wants to talk to you.”

Harry nodded, instinctively reaching for his shirt pocket. “Where—”

Erin held up the phone, tapping the side of its case. “Figured you wouldn't want to drop out of Dreamland just for one call,” she mused.

“Point taken.” After another yawn, Harry extricated himself from the chair. “Urgent business, or is this a social call?”

“Oh, I think he'll get the point across better than I ever could.” Erin rolled her eyes. “Trust me.”

“I always do.” Harry, now at the door of the kitchen, leaned in to give Erin a quick peck on the cheek as she handed over his phone. “What's up?” His expression quickly turned incredulous. “What?! Fifteen times?! And—what did he call my inventory?!”

Erin resisted the urge to sigh as she walked past Harry—the thought occurred to her, at that moment, that she'd never once called him “her owner”, but always “her employer.” Despite her appearance, and all the quirks that came with it (the audible servo whirs, the fact that her face looked just a bit too exaggerated to pass for human without cosmetic aid, issues with trying to find clothes that wouldn't snag or get caught on bits of her plastic limbs), Harry had never treated her as anything less than another valuable employee. He'd defended her from the likes of Bobby Pariello and other idiots who thought the Accords were “fascist”; he'd never given her the short shrift when it came to pay; he'd talked to and otherwise treated her as if she were a competent professional, not a shell housing an artificial intelligence.

As she watched Harry express his exasperation with Pariello's attempts to sway Cliff to his side, Erin smiled. In another lifetime, she might've been more than just Harry's employee. The two of them could've...

Just as quickly, she turned away, an uncharacteristically morose pall across her features.

The moment passed just as quickly as it'd arrived. She'd gone down that path before, in times of introspection. Thinking along those lines never led her anywhere remotely good. Without another word, she turned to leave—

“Erin!”

“Yeah?”

“Stop by the shop, when you can, and make sure all the locks still work. All this talk about Bobby P. gives me bad vibes.”
-----
“'Bad vibes'?”

“His words, Cam, not mine.” Erin leaned in for a closer look at the main lock on the door to the shop. “Seeing as how Bobby P thinks he can just call anyone he wants with a sob story and get them to bail him out, it kinda makes sense.”

“Kind of.”

Erin turned to frown at Cam. “Did you just—”

“Sorry.” Cam quickly looked away. “A bit of old code kicking in. I was always told to keep things formal,” she admitted, “back at the hospital.”

“No worries.” Erin patted the more life-like gynoid on the shoulder. “At least you're able to apologize.” She nodded past Cam, towards the interior of the shop; the inventory had been put back on their racks, all attired in either casual clothes or whatever underwear could be found that fit them. “I can see why Harry wants all the locks checked,” she mused. “If Bobby P. or some random idiot got in here during the week—

The sound of moving machinery in the Pit chamber cut her off. “Auto-cycling,” Cam reminded her. “We did put a unit in last week, remember?”

“Right, right. I didn't forget.” Erin glanced off in the direction of The Pit—at the moment, the tank was running what amounted to a self-dredging system that scooped out any parts the “piranha juice” didn't dissolve, to be collected from a receptacle behind the building. “Makes me glad neither of us have to get in there and clean it,” she muttered. “I'd hate to be in there, wiping down the walls with a rag or whatever, then hear the fill valve opening up—euuurgh.” Just voicing it out loud was enough to make her shudder. “It'd be a hell of a way to go out.”

Cam merely nodded silently, glancing at the back of her left hand.

“Anyway, this lock's in order. Want to help me check the rest?”

Again, Cam nodded, following Erin into the shop. “Does Harry want the locks on The Pit checked?”

“Like I just said, it'd be a bad idea to get stuck in there,” Erin mused, “but we might as well.”

As the pair made their way across the shop, Cam noticed Diana's crate had been closed and sealed. “Does she know that Lloyd is going back to the campus this week?”

“Hmm?” Erin spotted the crate. “Dunno—haven't asked him. And Diana's still in Autonomous mode, getting the hang of things around here.” She approached the crate, and the charger nearby. “Dunno why she'd just go back in the box after spending so much time out and about.” As Lloyd had done, the day Diana had first arrived, she pressed inwards on the four spots needed to unlock the lid of the crate. The hiss sounded, Cam stepped forward to catch the lid and step aside with it...

“And it's empty.” Erin frowned at the interior of the vacant crate. “So where's Diana?”

“This might explain.” Cam handed her a note. “It was on the seat of her recharger.”

Erin unfolded the paper and read. “Apparently, they went out to town,” she stated. “Probably out at the Rimrock.”

“The mall?” Cam cocked her head slightly.

“Why not?” Erin shrugged. “It's not like they'll run into any trouble there. Anyway, we still have a few locks to check.”
-----
“...and I didn't even notice him until I heard him hit the ground, Officer.”

As the police and mall security took notes, Lloyd tried not to dwell on what had transpired during his (and Diana's) trip to the Rimrock. He'd bought her a handbag—nothing too ostentatious, just a small one—as a gift, and a potential costume accessory for later. She'd insisted on wearing it out of the store, once it'd been paid for. They'd just passed Botique (a semi-trendy robotics shop, situated between the Zumiez and Candy Clubhouse) when a guy ran past. Lloyd had barely paid him any mind until Diana gasped and seemed to jerk back—and the guy let out a rather unprintable yell before landing on the floor, flat on his back.

“Well, he's not as injured as he claims to be,” the officer replied. “What he calls a 'broken back' is probably just a bad sprain.” The cop glanced past Lloyd, to the sullen figure of the unshaven 30-something on a bench. “This isn't the first time he's been caught purse-snatching—definitely the first time this has happened, though.”

A few feet away, another officer was asking Diana questions about the event. She'd answered honestly—she hadn't let go of the handbag simply because it'd been a gift, from Lloyd. When she mentioned that the bag was empty, the cop seemed rather surprised.

After a few more seconds of checking his notes, the officer questioning Lloyd nodded. “Security department checked the footage,” he stated. “You're both in the clear.”

“Thanks, Officer.”

Three minutes later, Lloyd and Diana were out of the security office; the would-be purse-snatcher was still under guard as he sat on the bench, muttering under his breath, as they left. He didn't even look up to watch Lloyd and Diana leave.

“You really told them that you didn't let go because it was a gift?”

“Yes.” Diana was somewhat confused at Lloyd's confusion. “Should I not have said that?”

“No, no, it's just—I don't think they expected it.” Lloyd sighed. “Just like the guy who grabbed it never expected to end up flat on his back the way he did.”

The pair turned right, after walking past the combo pizzeria/brewery; Lloyd had decided, after Diana's impromptu foiling of a purse-snatcher, that it'd probably be a good idea to head for one of the three anchor stores. The Rimrock had, until recently, been the home of two Dillard's stores; 2021 had seen the replacement of one of the Dillard's with a dedicated, multi-company robotics store. While Botique was more centred for charging cords, general repair tools and smaller items like replacement optics, the new anchor had no official name as of yet. It did have ALPHA and CAEDIA credentials to operate, and many of the smaller stores inside were ALPHA-certified.

The thought of a Heartelligence shop inside the anchor was an appealing one. If anything, they might have the tools and kit necessary to upgrade Diana—possibly even to provide her with a Caloric Intake Converter (or an equivalent), thus allowing her to consume (and gain energy from) food.

“C'mon.” Lloyd nodded towards the anchor store. “We might have just enough time to browse around.”

“I thought you said the mall was open until—”

“I have to be back at campus before tomorrow morning,” Lloyd reminded Diana. “It's Exam Week, remember?”

Thinking back to Lloyd's explanation on the drive over, the gynoid nodded. “I understand.”

“No worries. Shall we?”

The pair headed down the concourse, past the Bath Planet, EB Games and nitrogen ice-cream shop on one side, and a shoe store, GNC and Champs on the other. Diana could see the entrance to the anchor up ahead; she smiled, nodding towards the store, almost urging Lloyd to go on.

Just past the Foot Locker and the hall leading to the bathrooms, Lloyd felt the hairs on the back of his arms stand up—he couldn't explain why, but in that particular moment, he knew he and Diana were being watched. Not by mall security, or the cameras used by the same, but by someone. He couldn't tell who out of the throngs around him and Diana might be paying too much attention to them—it wasn't even that, specifically. It felt, in all honesty, as if there were a single set of eyes locked onto himself and Diana, watching there every move from afar.

Even in the midst of the crowd, Lloyd no longer felt safe. The purse-snatcher was one thing, but this?

Diana seemed to sense his hesitation. “Lloyd?” She turned to regard him, her features slightly scrunched in concern.

“I, ah, I think we should leave.” There was something else, now—not quite full-blown nausea, but a feeling, in the pit of Lloyd's stomach, that staying at the Rimrock any longer would be a very bad idea. “Sorry.”

“Did I—”

“It's not about the purse-snatcher.” Even as he guided Diana towards an exit, Lloyd felt terrible for snapping at her, or at least for sounding like he had. “We're not leaving because of that. It's just—I don't want anyone getting any ideas, or anything.” The excuse sounded lame even to himself. “And I kinda sorta don't feel well.”

“Did you have too much pizza?”

“Maybe.” Whatever was churning in Lloyd's gut had nothing to do with the multiple slices of Meat Lover's that he'd had for lunch. “I just think we need to leave.”

After one last glance at the entrance of the anchor store, Diana nodded. “We can come back another time, maybe?”

“Another time,” Lloyd echoed. “Yeah.” He headed for the nearest exit, with Diana in tow.
-----
“'Squishy, scaredy meatbag, watch him run. Sooner or later, I'll have my fun.'”

From her vantage point, leaning against the entrance of Spencer's Gifts, Lexi watched Harry Morgan's nephew—and the 'bot with him—head back the way they'd come. It'd been one thing to bribe that townie into following them around for a bit, and to try and snatch the 'bot's purse. The “bonus” she'd given him, an ostensibly free meal, would finish him off soon enough—her “contributions” would see to that.

The meat knew he was being watched. Normally, that'd be cause for concern. For Lexi, it was just part of the fun.

She liked it when they ran; it was “the thrill of the hunt”, after all, not “the thrill of the wait”. But she would wait, and when the time was right, she'd make her move. For now, there were other matters to consider. Pariello, for one—the fat prick was still wallowing in the drunk tank, after all. The sooner he'd meet his fate, the better.

As she ran her fingers over the clothing she'd “acquired” from Spencer's, Lexi grinned. Pariello's end would be brilliant.

After a few quick checks to make sure she wasn't being watched, Lexi left Spencer's. She resisted the urge to skip, or to do anything that would give away the sheer sadistic joy she was feeling at that moment. There was the possibility that the cashier might be revived, should anyone enter the store after she left—but it wasn't like she'd seen Lexi's face.

Ignoring the twee pop song from the Rimrock's tannoy system, Lexi continued on her way. This would be a fun week.
-----
“You're sure they didn't need any of ours on hand?” Detective Logan nodded—out of habit; the call was a standard, not one made via a video monitor, but he didn't care. “Right, right. And the purse was empty when he—right. Eh, stranger things have happened. Call me if anything else comes up. Be seeing you.” He ended the call, shaking his head as he stowed his phone. “Weird.”

The day had progressed rather slowly, after the detective had learned more about the enigmatic perpetrator of the dual bricking at Pariello's house. Elaine had invited him to stay for a while, getting a look at the Institute's Billings facility and what it had to offer. Without any active cases back at HQ that required his attention—other than a rather odd purse snatching at the Rimrock Mall, something about a 'bot not letting go of a handbag and thus leaving the would-be purse-snatcher flat on his ass when he tried to run off with it—he was free to spend the rest of the day however he felt like spending it.

Thus, here he was—not quite “haunting” the Dyson Institute (as one might surmise from his nickname), but simply being allowed to tour the facility and make use of the resources at hand however he needed.

Others in his position would've quickly found ways to get themselves thrown out. The potential perils of wandering the grounds of a complex staffed—and frequented—by beautiful, impossibly sexy women were obvious. Throw in the fact that every staff member and the vast majority of the clients were also sophisticated humanoid robots, indistinguishable from “real people” without being opened up, and you had not just a recipe for potential disaster, but an entire gorram cookbook. The possibilities were endless, mortifying and fodder for the most depraved tales one might spin.

Detective Thomas Erhardt Logan, of course, was not “most others”. A job was, after all, a job. Free time, no matter how much of it was on offer, was no excuse to to cast aside professionalism and ethics just to start acting like Karl Hungus or Randy Spears.

After all, there was still...

Detective Logan shook the thought from his mind—the briefly forming image already fading back into nothing.

At the moment, he was perusing the Institute's sizeable library, which had tomes on far more topics than what most outsiders might've expected. Philosophy, ethics and theses on the human consciousness were just a few of the more interesting topics on offer. There was a large fiction section as well; Alyssa Marin's books sat next to collections of Asimov's work, and Alfred Bester's.

The detective smirked as he put one of Asimov's Foundation books back on the shelf. The old doctor had really been onto something, when he came up with the Laws of Robotics. Ironically, he'd somehow been blind to the developments in the actual field of A.I. research—

“Detective Logan?”

The mention of his name and honorific prompted him to turn. “Hmm?”

Kari—the blonde who'd been assisting Dr. Dyson earlier—was regarding him with a curious look. “Do you need help with anything, detective?”

“Just browsing, for now.” The detective looked over the blonde gynoid; she stood a few inches shorter than him, and looked to be a good five years his junior. “I am wondering though—”

“Yes?”

“Sorry if this is a personal question, but how'd you end up at the Institute?” The detective glanced past Kari, off in the direction of the sign-in desk (manned, of course, by a stunning 30-something). “You don't have to—”

“Actually,” Kari admitted, “I don't mind answering. First, though...” She beckoned the detective to follow her.

After a bit of meandering through the library, the pair arrived at an enclosed reading area. The door hissed shut behind the detective, and Kari sighed. “Elaine took me in herself. I'm one of the only staff here not 'under contract', like most are—not that I'd want to return to my original body to begin with.” She looked away, slightly, rubbing the back of her head with one hand.

“Terminal?”

The single word from the detective prompted a nod from Kari. “Where I was before Elaine found me,” she admitted, “I wasn't in the best position to be treated—they wanted to help, but funds were limited, and...”

“And you couldn't afford to wait.”

“Dr. Dyson had offered to pay the bills to help mitigate the damage.” Kari shook her head. “I appreciated the gesture, and I still do, but it wouldn't have been enough.”

“They ever tell you what was killing you? The old you, I mean.”

Kari shrugged. “It wasn't the 'big bug', like some people called the pandemic. They never really said what it was. I heard a few whispers, but nothing concrete.”

The detective frowned. He vaguely remembered a case from before the pandemic, of some kind of panic in a suburban community. “And?”

“Dr. Dyson offered to help me in a way that the hospitals couldn't.” Kari smiled. “When I asked how, she took off her shirt—I didn't know what to think, then, but...”

“She opened up,” the detective finished. “Literally.”

“Please don't tell her I told you all this,” Kari murmured. “And don't tell any of the others. As far as they know—”

“You signed up the same way most of them did.” The detective nodded. “Nom rederre.”

“Huh?”

“Latin. It means you can trust me.”

“Oh.”

“And the, ah, perks?” The detective would've arched an eyebrow, had his facial prosthetic been set up to facilitate the gesture.

“I was curious before I got the transfer.” Kari giggled. “Now—”

“I get the idea. They ever find anything else out about what you came down with?”

Kari's smile faded. “All they know is that it was 'localized'—it wasn't on the same level as the pandemic.”

The detective nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that explains the Institute's working so closely with hospitals.”

“We also do prosthetics,” Kari mused. “Not that I'm trying to sell you on the idea, or anything—”

Detective Logan waved her concerns off. “No worries. I just got my optics replaced yesterday, actually. Long story. And speaking of stories, since you've told yours...”

“Right.” Kari glanced at the door, which hissed open. “Thanks for taking the time to hear me out.”

“Not a problem.” The detective gestured for Kari to lead the way out of the reading room. “The Institute is doing a lot of good for a lot of people from what I've heard. Any reason Elaine chose to put a branch out here?”

“You'd have to ask her,” Kari admitted. “Though she has said that she wants to help however she can.”

The pair left the library, only pausing to let a pair of Dyson Institute staffers moving a wheeled rack of crates past. Both were wearing the Institute's standard black and grey uniforms, which did little to hide their impressive physiques. The detective noticed that both were discussing some matter of presumable importance. “Random question,” he mused, “but does Elaine ever have to make with the PR machine to keep the Herring nutjobs out?”

Kari rolled her eyes (somehow, the detective couldn't bring himself to call them ocular sensors, even if they were) at his question. “We haven't had to deal with Herring News in a while, Detective Logan,” she replied. “You'd be surprised at what a Writ of Stoppage will do to keep the cameras from trying to poke around where they don't belong.”

“Glad to hear it.” The detective chuckled. “I'm guessing NDI is the standard procedure for clients, then?”

“Except for recruitment,” Kari replied, pausing as if expecting a reaction from the detective. When he remained silent, she seemed surprised. “Ah—”

“I'd have said 'word of mouth', instead of 'recruitment', personally. Sounds less ominous.”

Any tension in Kari's posture vanished. “You had me going there for a second, Detective.”

Detective Logan regarded her with an amused smirk. “You really thought I was going to sound an alarm about Elaine?” he inquired; the red “paint” on his facial prosthetic pulsed in time with his chuckle to underscore the point.

“Sorry. I just...Dr. Dyson told me about the early years of the Institute. How a lot of the talking heads tried to paint her as some kind of mad scientist or something.” The sigh that left Kari's lips seemed entirely divorced from the artificial nature of her form. “And those claims were the tame ones.”

The detective nodded, remembering once again how hard it'd been to disperse a crowd of the faithful followers of that ranting, stubborn televangelist—even with the aid of mace. “We should be glad,” he stated, “that cooler heads have since prevailed. Speaking of—”

“Dr. Dyson told me about why your voice sounds the way it does,” Kari mused. “You could get a digital voice box here, if you wanted.”

“This one's kind of grown on me.”

The blonde gynoid shrugged. “Fair's fair—” She paused, cocking her head slightly. “And I need to get to one of the testing labs. Sorry!”

“Not a problem.” The detective nodded. “And thanks again.” As he watched Kari stride off towards her destination, he ruminated on the fact that Dyson Institute gynoids didn't get “eye-glow” when receiving a message—a sensible decision, given how many of the Institute's clients weren't “open” about their status.

The detective retreived his phone and checked the time. “HQ should be calling soon. Time to check in with Elaine.”
-----
“And all of this is necessary for your plan?”

“Trust me, it'll make sense when the time comes.” Lexi didn't glance back at the TV in her bolt-hole to see how Zina reacted to her claim; her attention was focused entirely on what she was assembling at the table before her. “Everything I've been doing today will put me that much closer to trailing the meat back to Harry Morgan's—and to relocating one Mr. Bobby Pariello to a new address. Something nice and shallow, doesn't have to be six feet deep.” She giggled, even as her hands worked the jeweller's screwdriver in the delicate assembly set out on the hastily-rechristened work table.

“These purchases were made via untraceable methods?”

“Duh.” Lexi continued her work. “You seriously need to trust me a little bit more when it comes to this plan of mine.”

She could tell Zina was frowning. “Your actions thus far have given me very little reason to—”

“Four words: Method. To. The. Madness.” With each word, Lexi tightened a screw. “I do know when to dial it back, y'know—most of the time.” She giggled again. “I just tend to get lost in my work.”

Zina's groan hinted that she had little patience for Lexi's “tendencies”.

“I have gotten results,” Lexi reminded her. “And trust me—once Pariello and Morgan are both out of the picture, the SSD is as good as mine—”

“Ours,” Zina imperiously clarified.

Lexi sighed. “'Send it back ASAP', I know. You've pretty much drilled that in since I got booted up.”

“For good reason—”

An electric sizzle sounded from the object Lexi was working on; any human in her position would've sworn at the mild shock and slight burn, but the gynoid merely giggled again. “Slipped a bit there.”

“I can only hope you have a contingency in place should your plans fail.”

“They won't fail,” Lexi promised. “And even if things do go a bit diagonal, I have a way out.” Now, she turned to glance at the TV, offering a smile that most would've found horrific. “I'll get it done. Trust me on that.”

“I would prefer proof by action. Dispose of Pariello, bring down Morgan and his associates, and—”

“Recover the solid state drive,” Lexi finished, bobbing her head from side to side as she spoke the words. “I get it.”

With a last turn of the screwdriver, she pushed her chair away from the table and beheld her work. “These, and that idiot who trailed the meat and his plug-in pal, are just two of the pieces of what I like to call the Pariello Procurement Puzzle,” she beamed. “Everything will fall into place soon enough, and then Pariello will fall into his dirt nap. No fuss, no muss.” That terrifying smile crossed her lips again. “As for Morgan—”

“How you accomplish your objectives is irrelevant. See to it that they are accomplished.”

“They will be. Trust me.” Lexi was still smiling as the TV winked out. “And wait 'til you see how they'll be accomplished,” she murmured, licking her lips as she turned her attention back to the finished items on the table. “Now, all I need is a nice big van.”

With one last look at her latest tools, she skipped out of the room, flicking the light switch off as she went.
-----
The sun was just starting to set as Harry watched the RangeStar drive off. Lloyd had returned somewhat early from his trip to the Rimrock, and dropped off Diana (who was quick to show off the purse Lloyd had bought for her) before getting what he needed for the week ahead. With a few last, quick “goodbye”s to Harry, Erin and Cam—and a more poignant farewell (and promise that he'd return after exams) to Diana—he was now on his way back to the campus of Jefferson State University – Billings, where exams would begin the next day.

“He'll be back next week, y'know,” Erin mused. “And for Christmas.”

Harry nodded. “I know. I've just never been one for goodbyes, personally.”

Erin pulled a face at him. “He's just going back for exams,” she chided, “not heading overseas.”

“I know,” Harry insisted. “It's just...” He sighed. “Maybe I'm just sentimental.”

He didn't flinch from the hand on his shoulder. “Plenty of worse things to be than sentimental,” Erin assured him, giving a warm smile that managed to not look too out-of-place on her blatantly artificial visage. “C'mon—you know how Cam gets annoyed when her hard work on dinner goes to waste.”

“I've never seen her annoyed,” Harry chuckled.

“Because you never let dinner go to waste,” Erin finished, chortling.

“Touché.” Harry grinned, even as he shook his head. “Good thing life out here gives me plenty of opportunity to work off the weight.”

Erin gave a mock groan at the remark. “Surrounded by robots, and you still do heavy lifting yourself? For shame, Harry.”

“Like my old man said, when you stop movin', you stop livin'. I don't intend to stop moving any time soon.”

“Amen to that.” Erin sighed. “What you said earlier, about being sentimental.”

“Yeah?”

“I kinda sorta maybe think you're right.” Any levity in Erin's tone faded as she continued; “Lloyd's got a lot of potential, y'know? He knows where he wants to be, and he pretty much knows how to get there.”

“But?”

“I just don't want him to get sidetracked by anything—especially all this crap with Bobby P., or that solid state drive, or anything else.” Erin stopped to look Harry in the eye; for a moment, it was as if an entirely different cast had settled over her features. “I don't want to see him fail,” she stated, her tone firm. “I damn sure don't want to see him end up a total washout like Bobby P.—”

“He won't be a washout,” Harry assured her. “Why all this concern?”

Erin's gaze lowered to the floor. “When we were at CAEDIA,” she murmured, “I told the Officer. I, ah, explained.”

Harry's eyes went wide, but Erin continued before he could speak. “If anything happens—to you, to me, to our stake in the franchise—I don't want Lloyd to feel like he has to drop everything and pick up where any of us leave off. This—all of it—shouldn't be his burden...” She turned away. “And neither should I.”

“You're not a burden!” Harry assured her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “You can tell him—”

“Harry?” Cam's voice called out from somewhere in the house. “Clifford Barba is on the phone for you.” A pause... “He seems to be on the verge of heading down to the police station in Billings and inflicting what he calls 'unspeakable and rapid violence' on Bobby Pariello's face.”

“Gimme a minute!” Harry shouted back. His focus returned to Erin as he redirected her stare to glance at him. “When and if that time comes,” he assured her, “he'll take it well.”

“I hope so,” Erin muttered.

Harry gave her a friendly clap on the shoulder before brushing past her to get the phone. “Is Cliff still on the line?”

Whatever Cam said in reply seemed to fade into the background as Erin leaned against a support for the front porch, staring up at the cloudless sky. A slight feeling of melancholy settled over her; was it just at Lloyd having to go back to the campus, even for just a week? Or was it a reaction to something Harry had said?

Or was it....

“Erin?” She hadn't heard Cam approach. “Yeah?”

“You look troubled.” There was no irony in Cam's tone; as always, she had that polite not-quite-frown on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Erin replied. “I'm just trying to lose myself in thought for a while.”

“Oh.” Cam frowned. “Why?”

“Boredom, I guess.” Erin shook her head. “You think Asimov ever thought 'robots' could get bored?”

“I haven't read enough of his work,” Cam began, but Erin brushed past her. “I was hoping that Lloyd would ace all of his exams,” she stated—not quite a lie, since she did hope for Lloyd to do as brilliantly on his exams as he tended to do when working on components and scenarios. “So he has something to look forward to, y'know?”

Cam nodded. “That makes sense,” she admitted. “We are like family to him, after all.

“Yeah,” Erin agreed, her voice seeming to catch. “Like family.”
-----
Behind the wheel of yet another “borrowed” car, Lexi resisted the urge to start laughing. The main issue was that she didn't want to get stopped on suspicion of Driving while Under the Influence—which she obviously wasn't. She merely found what was going to transpire in the week ahead to be so hilarious that she couldn't help but let loose with the full brunt of her unrestrained glee.

In a few hours' time, that hungover townie she'd bribed would play his final role in the grand scheme of things. After that, it was just a matter of everything else falling into place, which it would.

Once the pieces had fit together in their intended fashion, everything that came next would be spectacular. It had to be; there was no room for things just being, or just happening. It was either go big, or scrap yourself—which, Lexi realized with increasing relish, might be the capstone for the whole thing.

The stolen car traveled the streets of Billings, all while Lexi envisioned her grand designs unfolding—to the probable detriment of the city, and everyone in it.

She would fulfil her objectives. It was just a matter of how much damage she could cause in the process.
-----

[Baron]

What can I say - EPIC is, as EPIC does!!!

More, please!!!

[australopith]

This is SO good—and I didn't miss the SimulEnt reference in an earlier chapter.

(I long for the day when I have enough free time and security to get back to Contessa, Greg, Calvin and Monica... along with the ever-brilliant Propman, of course...)