The Preserve

by Ariel S. Winter

  Dunrich sat down quickly and grabbed his phone. Laughton felt a little guilty for taking out his anger on Dunrich.

  The outside door opened, but Laughton started for his office without waiting to see who it was. He hadn’t gotten around his desk, however, when Kir walked through his office door. Six foot with dark hair, protruding cheekbones, and sunken cheeks, Kir was an imposing figure who could pass as human. On the preserve, where no one expected a robot, most people wouldn’t even realize he wasn’t human until they spent a little time with him. “This is it?” the robot said.

  Laughton was surprised by the smile he could feel spread across his face. He felt lighter. “Son of a bitch, it’s good to see you,” he said, and stepped forward. The old partners hugged. It was always disconcerting how cool a robot was to the touch. It made Laughton feel ridiculous, this upwelling of feelings.

  “It’s dead in here,” Kir said.

  “Only have two officers.”

  “I saw the one on the phone. The other’s out in the clown car?”

  “Fuck you,” Laughton said, noticing his language, the cursing around Kir. It reminded him there was a reason why he had left. Kir was a bad influence. That had nothing to do with whether or not he was a robot.

  “Sit down,” Kir said.

  Laughton tried not to bristle at being given an order in his own office. There were a lot of reasons he had left Baltimore, and it didn’t take long, apparently, to remember what they were. Kir might have considered himself pro-orgo—he voted for the preserve, solved human cases no one else would, didn’t mod his body, and now worked for the Department of Health and Human Services—but it was impossible for him to not still carry an intrinsic attitude of superiority.

  Laughton felt the ire rankle across his shoulders, his muscles tightening, but he tried to not let it get to him. It was just Kir. The thought filled him with exhaustion, and there was a wave of pain through his face.

  Kir caught it, the thousands and thousands of hours of Laughton’s face recorded in his memory giving the robot the ability to read his ex-partner that far exceeded most robots’ abilities, even Kir’s own abilities to read other humans. “Pain still bad?”

  Laughton nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And my niece?”

  “Perfect,” Laughton said.

  “So where are we?”

  “I was just about to go to Charleston to see the postmortem.”

  “How long has it been since you found the body?”

  “Fuck you. I’ve been busy.”

  “I wasn’t saying anything.”

  “You were, and I don’t want to hear it,” Laughton said.

  “Hear what?” Kir played innocent.

  “Kir, this whole thing’s such a goddamn mess.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Kir said.

  “I saw Brandis.”

  “Let’s go. You can finish filling me in on the way, and then I’ll fill you in.”

  They went back out to the squad room, and Kara Letts was talking to an anonymous hacker over an open phone line on the TV. Laughton had a moment of regret at having let Jones go, just when the man might have identified the caller. He snapped at Dunrich and pointed at the television. “Find out who she’s talking to,” he said.

  Dunrich started to hang up his phone, then put it back to his ear, unsure if he was supposed to keep after the autopsy or drop it for this new thing.

  “When you’re finished,” Laughton said.

  On the television, Kara Letts was asking the hacker, “Did you ever worry about your safety before the preserve?”

  “No,” the voice of the hacker said. “I’m not saying I’m worried now…”

  At least someone was thinking straight.

  Outside, Kir said, “How have you been, though? The family? What’s life on the ground like here?”

  “Until yesterday, boring.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I don’t know that it’s a bad thing. It is what it is.” He let them into the car. “How are things at the federal level?”

  “Have you seen the killer app?”

  “What do you mean, have I seen it?” He punched “The University of South Carolina Medical Center” into the GPS.

  “It’s pretty horrifying, the pictures. Just burnt and melted plastic and metal.”

  “Isn’t it a DOJ problem?”

  “They think it came from the preserve, so…”

  Laughton thought of everything he’d learned about Smythe so far. “Yeah, well I think that’s why my man got killed.”

  “And that’s why I’m here,” Kir said.

  “Got any leads?”

  “Maybe,” Kir said. “Our first body was fifty-two hours ago. There’ve been at least five total. All had ported sims, the same red memory stick.”

  “When you say ‘body,’ what do you mean? They’re robots.”

  “This sim fries their hard drives, literally. The memory, the operating system, completely burned out.” A slight pause. “Check your phone,” Kir said as Laughton’s phone buzzed.

  Laughton looked. “Shit.” It was an autopsy photo, the access panel at the back of a robot’s head was open, revealing a black melted mess inside. “Shit.”

  “You swipe, you can see the memory stick.”

  Laughton swiped to the next photo: a simple, undistinguished red memory stick, about the size of a thumbnail. It didn’t match any of the ones he’d seen at Sam and Smythe’s. He handed the phone back to Kir.

  “Plug-and-play sims have been growing in popularity over the last year or two. They run automatically, no chance to scan for a virus. Junkies like the unpredictability, the abandonment. The risk is real, it turns out.”

  “I don’t want it to be true, but my vic is your man.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Smythe’s partner said that he’d developed safeguards for his computers: if anyone tries to hack in, the machine fries, literally.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, considering the implications.

  “Then it’s damn good I’m here,” Kir said.

  “And I just fucking let his middleman go,” Laughton said. “We’ve got his car info, and he wasn’t going to tell me shit, so I thought it might be nice to see where he went.”

  “Look, we work the case. With humans, it can always be personal, even with all of the other stuff swirling around.”

  “Personal,” Laughton said. He grabbed the wheel and disengaged the auto-drive, pulling the car over.

  “What?”

  Laughton nodded toward the building across the street. “Let’s see if it’s personal.”

  The Liberty Fertility Clinic was located in what had long ago been an enormous house. It was three stories high with thick white columns holding a veranda above the entrance. A porch wrapped around the side. A sign in the front yard, rising out of a well-kept hedge, announced the clinic’s name and hours, but nowhere on the house proper was its current use apparent. It seemed an appropriate building for the propagation of the human race, a house harkening to a time of human splendor.

  The sight was marred by a pair of figures in yellow hazmat suits standing out front. As Laughton came up the walk, they turned toward him. One was a man in his midforties with a soft, wide face and a sandy mustache, his thin hair awhirl in his baggy helmet. The other was a lean woman, about the same age, her cheeks shrunken and her lips chapped. They held a butcher-paper banner that said in red paint, “Get thee to a quarantine.”

  “Chief Laughton,” the man said, his voice muffled by his mask. “Haven’t seen your wife yet.”

  “Hi, I’m Aileen,” the woman said, holding her hand out to Kir, who shook it.

  “Herb. Aileen. What time did you all get out here?” Laughton said.

  “Maybe a little before nine,” Aileen said.

  “Clinic doesn’t open until ten,” Laughton said. “Why do you keep up this nonsense? You’re not going to convince anyone to leave the preserve.”

  �
��They need to be reminded,” Aileen said. “Especially the ones who don’t remember the plagues,” she said, looking at Kir. “You put all these people together, it’s like begging for an epidemic. Just one person sick, just one…”

  “And kids,” Herb said, indicating the clinic. “Germ factories. Like a biological nuclear bomb. You want the remaining humans to die out, put them close together where contagion will rage like a wildfire.”

  “Why’d you two come to the preserve in the first place if you’re afraid of another plague?” Kir said.

  “Someone’s got to warn ’em,” Aileen said.

  “Just don’t pester ’em,” Jesse said.

  “Mister, I hope you’re only visiting,” Herb said to Kir. “You don’t want to settle here.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Kir said.

  Aileen grabbed Jesse’s arm. “You should take that daughter of yours and get somewhere safe, just the three of you,” the woman said.

  Jesse pulled his arm from her grip. “Just don’t be a pest to people,” he said again.

  He pulled open the door and led the way into the clinic.

  If nothing else, Herb and Aileen prepared you for the contrast between the former magnificence of the outside of the clinic to the clinical interior. The floors were cream laminate tiles with streaks of black meant either to imitate marble or just to help disguise any dirt. Walls had been taken down to create a large waiting area where there had most likely once been a sitting room and dining room. Flat-panel TVs graced the walls. A large reception desk stood dead center. The place had already been converted into a medical clinic before the preserve had been established, and it lent itself to its new purpose as solely a fertility clinic. The general medical clinic had since moved into an old office building.

  Jamie Cotts sat at the registration desk behind a computer, a printer, a scanner, and two telephones. She was uncomfortably attractive: dark brown hair, a small slightly upturned nose, large brown eyes that she accentuated with eyeliner and mascara. He wondered how many donors’ productions were fueled by fantasies of Jamie.

  “Betty’s not here yet,” Jamie said as Laughton and Kir came up to the desk. The waiting area was empty.

  “Herb and Aileen told me,” he said.

  Jamie shook her head. “I wish they’d go quarantine themselves.”

  But you don’t remember the plagues, Laughton thought, suddenly feeling more charitable to the middle-aged couple.

  “Is Moira in?”

  “She’s in her office. Should I call her?” Jamie said, placing her hand on one of the phone’s receivers.

  “Can I just go back?” Laughton said.

  She looked at Kir.

  “He doesn’t have to come with me.”

  She took her hand from the phone. “Sure. There’s no one here yet. Slow morning.”

  Jesse started around the desk, but he then stopped as though he had forgotten something—people tend to give away more when it seems like the question wasn’t worth more than an afterthought. He brought out his phone. “Do you recognize either of these men? Maybe donors?”

  Jamie looked at the phone. There was no reaction to Sam McCardy, but when he swiped to the photo of Smythe…

  blink, micro-expression—worry—smile without eyes—withholding

  “I can’t say. You’ll have to ask Moira.”

  “I’m not just asking as a friend,” Laughton said, tapping the badge on his shirt.

  The false smile grew. “Ask Moira first.”

  Anonymity and the sanctity of patient information were the law in the clinic, above the Law with a capital “L,” it seemed. “Sure,” Laughton said, putting his phone away and giving Kir a look that told his partner to see what he could do. “Buzz me in.” He pointed at the door that led to the inner workings of the clinic. It sported a red plastic sign that said, “No Admittance Without An Accompanying Employee.” A handwritten sign taped beside it read “Have you registered at a kiosk?”

  The door buzzed, disengaging the lock, and the chief pulled hard on the heavy door, stubborn on its pneumatic hinge. The tiles from the waiting area continued in the hall, which Laughton knew formed a square with doors on either side leading to offices, examination rooms, and sperm donor suites. Comfort suites—where couples met—were upstairs. Moira’s office was the last door on the left. It was open.

  “Knock, knock,” Laughton said from the doorway.

  “Jesse!” Moira said, standing up from her desk. She had been busy reviewing something on a large computer monitor. She stepped over, and they hugged briefly. “Isn’t Betty at school?”

  “Yes, I came to see you.”

  “I’m flattered.” Moira was the driving force behind the Liberty Fertility Clinic. She had been active in the repopulation movement for fifteen years, focusing her attention on far-flung humans living outside the cities, often traveling with a portable freezing unit to collect sperm once she had convinced people of the importance of preserving the species and the need for genetic diversity. As part of the movement, she had lobbied for the creation of the preserve and, continuing her good work once the preserve came to be, had opened the clinic in Liberty to assure that those living outside of Charleston were still integral in human development. A passionate woman, Moira was tall with short white hair and remarkably unlined skin. She always wore a white coat and a charm necklace from which five little figures hung, one for each of her children. Betty had met Moira when she was pregnant with Erica, and she looked up to the older woman almost as a mother.

  “If you’re not here to see Betty, then I think I know why you’re here. Ask me what you need to ask me.”

  Laughton would have liked to sit down, to strike a more relaxed tone, but Moira remained standing. He held out his phone.

  “I need to know if either of these men has ever come in here, and who they’ve seen.” Moira took the phone and brought it close to her face to examine. “First is Carl Smythe. Second is Sam McCardy.”

  Laughton watched the play of the muscles in Moira’s face, but they revealed nothing. It seemed likely that she genuinely didn’t recognize the men, but hard to say for certain. “I can’t release that information without a patient’s consent,” Moira said.

  Laughton took back his phone and pocketed it. “In the case of a murder investigation, you must.”

  Her eyes grew sharp. “One of these is the man who was killed?”

  “Smythe’s dead.”

  “It couldn’t last forever,” she said.

  “Help me minimize the impact. If anyone knew either of the men here, that could make a big difference.”

  “With a court-ordered subpoena, I’m happy to help,” Moira said.

  “That’s not necessary when it comes to identifying a victim.”

  “You’re not asking me to identify a victim,” Moira said.

  “Moira, come on,” Laughton said. “You’re worried about how this case will affect the preserve? Help me out.”

  Moira’s eyebrows pulled together, and the corners of her mouth dipped slightly. “Smythe was here.”

  So that was another reason he would come to town without a business meeting. “Was he here yesterday?”

  Moira smiled. “I can give you name, address, date of birth, but for anything more…”

  “Moira, you’re making me feel like we’re not on the same side here.”

  “If I don’t honor my patients’ privacy, how am I supposed to get them here?”

  “So who he might have seen is out of the question? If he saw anyone.”

  “Get a subpoena,” Moira said. “I’m sorry.” She sat down on her desk chair.

  Laughton considered sitting down on one of the visitors’ chairs to the side of the desk to try to just wait her out, but he didn’t think it likely he would be able to change Moira’s mind. She hadn’t achieved what she’d achieved by being easily swayed. “Can you at least tell me if he participated in the conjugal program or the donor program?”

  “Get a subpoena
,” she repeated. “I want to help you, but you need to get a subpoena.”

  He didn’t think it would be a problem to get one, but it was frustrating and annoying. This felt like the best lead yet, or at least one that was more likely than unraveling the illegal sims trade. That was a loose thread on a sweater; pulling on it would unravel the whole thing. This was a pair of gloves: because it was personal, it would fit. “We both know I’ll have the paperwork within the hour. Can’t you save me some time?”

  She simply smiled.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, and turned to go.

  “Make sure the paperwork allows you to access the relevant information of other patients.”

  Moira also hadn’t accomplished what she’d accomplished without being practical.

  “Thank you,” Laughton said. “At least I know I won’t be wasting my time.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Soon,” Laughton said. He went back down the hall and hit the release button on the wall to disengage the magnetic lock. In the waiting area, Kir was leaning on the desk with a wry smile, saying something to Jamie. They both looked at Jesse as he rounded the desk.

  “Your partner—”

  “Ex-partner,” Laughton said.

  “Was just telling me about when Erica was born, that you and Betty had wanted a human midwife, but there were none available.”

  “Listen, Jamie,” he said, trying to strike a casual tone, “Moira said Smythe came in, but she couldn’t remember if he saw only one person or if it was a few.”

  Before Jamie could even register the question, the word “Liberty” from the television caught the attention of all three of them. It was one of the few preserve channels that broadcast out of Charleston, news anchor Kara Letts. The closed captions that were popping up one word at a time in little black bars said, “Again, a body was found behind the Kramer’s Supermarket in Liberty late yesterday. The Charleston Police and the HHS had a joint press conference this morning…”

  The phone in Laughton’s pocket buzzed, two quick pulses that meant he’d received a text message. That would be the commissioner, no doubt.

  Jamie looked at him. “Is it true?” she said.