by Mel Odom
In the microgravity of the mag-lev utility closet, Jonas’s heart had pumped his body dry in seconds. Arterial spray had hosed the walls and the ceiling. He lay crumpled on his back in a partial sitting position against the back wall under an array of cleaning equipment and solvents.
“I did not kill Jonas Salter.” I met Cavanaugh’s gaze and held it.
“You’ve already lied about being at the warehouse by yourself. Why should I believe you?”
I realized then that Cavanaugh had trapped me, set me up so I would look badly during his investigation. Successfully questioning a suspect always relied on gaining leverage. If I’d been human, Cavanaugh might have rattled me.
But I wasn’t flesh and blood, and he was going to have to deal with that. “I cannot hurt a human being.”
“That could be another lie. You’ve already gone way past your programming parameters.”
“I have worked to keep the peace, to prevent the loss of human life, to prevent property damage to the people of this city. I have been within the parameters of my job.” That was true, for the most part. I’d also kept secrets from the NAPD. Some of them were my own, and some of them were at Captain Karanjai’s instruction.
“You escaped from Haas-Bioroid, you destroyed that warehouse, and you killed Jonas Salter. It took us a while to get his real name. Did he take on that new identity to escape you?”
Two of the three I had done. But not the third. “That tunnel and utility closet should have seccams that watch over it. Track down those files—”
“They’re erased.”
I immediately leaped onto another logic thread. “Then his PAD—”
“Also erased.”
“You can track his movements.”
“Shut up, Drake.”
I remained quiet.
Cavanaugh wiped one of those big hands across his mouth and chin. “All I want to know is the truth.”
I didn’t say anything. I’d lied to him and we both knew it. No matter what I said now, he’d have reason not to believe me. And if he asked the wrong question—like who had sent me to the warehouse—I’d lie to him again.
“Believe it or not, Drake, the homicide people up here know their jobs. They’ve been tracking Salter’s movements over the last few days while we’ve all been waiting for you to wake up. The last time anyone saw Salter, he was on Earth. Now he’s here and he had your blood on him.”
I didn’t have blood. I had the cooling system fluid that pumped through my extremities and chassis to keep me operationally at optimum. But that fluid had radioactive markers in it so I could be identified if there was no other way.
“You found fluid from me on Jonas Salter.” That was close enough to a question that my programming gave me a warning nudge.
“Yes.” Cavanaugh put his PAD back up against the e-reader. Instantly, the lab report spread across the vid.
I read through the report in a nanosecond and uploaded an image. I looked back at Cavanaugh. “I didn’t kill Jonas Salter.”
“Maybe you did and just had that part of your memory wiped.” The accusatory tone was rife with sarcasm. “Could be he put something in you that wiped your memory, too. He understood high-end programming. Neural mapping was probably a breeze for a guy like that.”
The deduction warranted merit. If the primary law that a bioroid could never harm a human was set aside, the scenario was plausible from Jonas’s end. He knew enough about neural mapping from designing gameware to effectively wipe my memories.
Someone had framed me.
Floyd knew some of the truth, but all he’d be able to verify was that I didn’t kill Jonas while I was piggybacking through him, but that I was interested in Jonas and had talked to him. Floyd’s testimony would also confirm that I had been looking for Jonas. I didn’t want to tell Cavanaugh about Floyd if I didn’t have to. I felt that Cavanaugh would simply choose to believe that Floyd and I were working in collusion. It was better that I was locked up and Floyd remained free to perhaps help me.
Most of all, though, I needed to get out of the cell.
I focused on Cavanaugh and spoke levelly. “Let me help you with this investigation.”
“The only way you can help is by confessing now and keeping this investigation from dragging out.”
“I am innocent.”
“No you’re not.”
And that was true. I was not innocent. Not completely. There were too many things that I couldn’t explain. I felt certain that Skorpios must have framed me for Jonas’s death. They would have wanted me off any investigation of them. I wondered if Chyou were still alive, or if I had lost another partner. We hadn’t officially been partners, but to my way of thinking, her loss would have still counted.
The door at the end of the hallway opened again and a woman and three younger men passed through, accompanied by a jailer.
Cavanaugh pierced the jailer with a look of irritation.
“Sorry, Cap’n.” The jailer shrugged and a brief flicker of distaste showed on his broad face. “I couldn’t stop ’em. She’s a lawyer.” He said it like the profession was some kind of terminal disease.
“Kristin Blaylock, representing Haas-Bioroid.” She was tall and elegant and could have been anywhere from twenty to eighty because her complexion was flawless and she had good genes—or she’d had heavy G-modding done or a plastic surgeon’s lasers had shaved away the years. She looked at me with amethyst eyes that glittered and contained silver flecks. “Drake 3GI2RC, do not say another word to these people unless I clear you to.”
I couldn’t even respond to acknowledge the order. Although I was leased to the NAPD, I was first and foremost the property of Haas-Bioroid. That was one of the reasons the police department had been so cautious about admitting bioroids to their ranks.
“I don’t care who you are.” Cavanaugh stepped in between the lawyer and me. “You can’t just come in here and shut this unit down.”
“I can. I did.” Blaylock spoke in a no-nonsense fashion that wasn’t meant to be endearing. “You’re not going to talk to Drake 3GI2RC until I clear the discussion and vet the questions.”
“That’s insane. This bioroid is a murder suspect.”
“You’re making my case for me, Captain.” Blaylock shot Cavanaugh a wintry smile. “The very nature of Drake 3GI2RC precludes any ability to harm a human being.”
“He killed a man.”
“Where’s your proof?”
“We have evidence.”
Blaylock smiled at him like he was brain-damaged. I had seen such expressions, and Shelly had explained them to me. “I’ve seen your evidence. It’s circumstantial at best.”
“This unit’s fluid—”
“Could have been stolen by any of a number of corrupt police officers within your department, Captain Cavanaugh. He’s shed plenty of it over the last few days for you people.” Blaylock raised an arched eyebrow. “And don’t begin to defend your co-workers. If there were no corrupt policemen in the NAPD, you wouldn’t have your present job.”
Cavanaugh closed his mouth.
Smallhawk took a step forward. “Drake 3GI2RC is, by your own definition, not human.” She spoke coolly, but with obvious antagonism. “As such, he’s not entitled to counsel.”
“No, he’s not. But Haas-Bioroid is. Until a judge can determine how potentially slanderous and libelous your investigation of this unit is going to be, until a firm foundation is set for your inquiry, you’re not going to do anything.” Blaylock held up her PAD. “I’ve got a cease and desist order from Judge Walter Blumenthal.”
I didn’t recognize the name, but evidently Cavanaugh did. He let out a slow breath and shoved his hands in his pants pockets.
Smallhawk held up her own PAD and downloaded the e-documents Blaylock presented. She read over them quickly.
“Don’t bother reading the small print.” Cavanaugh’s sarcastic tone rumbled through his clenched jaw. “These parasites will have every I dotted and every T crossed.”
<
br /> Smallhawk lowered her PAD. “Maybe we can’t question Drake anymore, but you can’t take him either. He’s remanded to our custody until this matter is resolved.”
Blaylock shrugged. “That will be sorted out shortly as well.”
I thought about that. Given the two preferences, staying in jail or returning to Haas-Bioroid, I would rather have stayed in lockup. I knew I wasn’t going to get a choice, though, and I was certain nothing good would come of a visit to Haas-Bioroid. Thomas Haas had already indicated he was somehow involved in what was going on with my investigation into Mara Blake. I didn’t know how far up the corporate ladder that interest went.
Emboldened at the turn of events, Cavanaugh grinned at Blaylock. “I guess we’ll be seeing you in court, Counselor.”
“You’re not equipped to play in the big leagues.” Blaylock turned from the captain to check her PAD, already moving on to new business like the current matter was over.
Restraining himself with obvious reluctance, Cavanaugh glanced at Smallhawk. “Let’s get out of here.” He craned his head around to look at me. “This isn’t over.”
Blaylock remained calm but spoke without looking at him. “Yes, it is, Captain.”
Without a look back, Cavanaugh walked back to the door. Smallhawk was at his side.
Once the IA team was gone, Blaylock approached me but stayed out of reach. She obviously wasn’t as trusting as Cavanaugh had been. “Did you kill the man they’re accusing you of murdering?”
“I don’t know.”
A twitch pulled at Blaylock’s left eye. Her perfect brow wrinkled for just a moment. “What do you mean?”
“My memory has been tampered with.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve run a self-diagnostic?”
“Yes. I wasn’t aware of the missing time until Captain Cavanaugh told me. I haven’t been allowed access to the Net.” I didn’t explain to her how empty I felt not being able to lock into the Net and download the constant barrage of information I was used to getting. I constantly streamed newsfeeds and police databases.
Now, there was nothing.
“The diagnostic revealed nothing out of the ordinary?”
“No.”
“Would you recognize anything alien in your software?”
“Not if it has been masked. There is no new hardware within my chassis.”
Blaylock nodded and made a quick notation on her PAD. “We’ll get you in for a complete checkup within short order. In the meantime, don’t talk to the NAPD about their murder investigation or what happened at the warehouse.”
That order immediately conflicted with my programming to function as a police officer and to protect humans. Having those weapons at large posed a threat. I knew that I would operate under those parameters first and her orders second. I also knew that telling her that would result in conflict. So I told her what she wanted to hear. It was the best compromise I could reach.
“Of course.”
Those amethyst eyes regarded me again, as if they could run a diagnostic on me and remove all the puzzling pieces about me. That would have helped me as well. I wanted my questions answered.
She turned from me without another word and led her entourage back down the hallway. The jailer followed.
Across from me in the other cell, a dark shadow stirred. I changed over to night vision and made out the heavily tattooed man sitting in the darkness. He was thickset and hairy, with a beard and mustache and curly hair. A metallic ink tattoo of a lizard wound around his neck and gleamed dully. He watched me for a moment more, then lay back down and pulled a blanket over himself.
I returned to my bunk and sat. There was nothing more I could do. I reviewed the events that had led me into this place. At least I could still do that. I also wondered how Chyou Xiang was doing and if she had gotten away. Whoever had sabotaged my memories might have gotten to her as well.
Chapter Forty
Breakfast at the jail arrived at 0704. Trustees pushed the carts along the hall and doled out the prepackaged self-heats. The meals were nutritious and provided an acceptable amount of calories, but they were not appetizing. That was not my opinion. I heard the complaints up and down the cells as my fellow prisoners—and I was uncomfortable terming myself as that though it was true—came awake.
Most of those men had to eat, shower, and be presentable for court by 0900.
I didn’t know what my status was to be. I sat on my bunk and watched as the trustee pushed his squeaking cart past my cell with a hostile stare.
“Fragging golem.” He spat at me, but he lacked the necessary targeting ability to hit me.
I ignored him and wondered if I was to be taken in front of a judge. And if I was taken to court, I wondered what I might say. Overall, I felt that preparing any kind of statement would be a waste of time. Kristin Blaylock or another attorney from Haas-Bioroid would be there and that person would shut me down. But I still prepared my defense all the same. I’d had to do such things when appearing in court against criminals prosecuted by the district attorney. It was something to occupy my mind with.
At 0743, two plainclothes IA officers came for me. Both of them were young men. Neither of them was talkative. They filled out the necessary e-forms as they identified themselves, presented the NAPD orders to assume custody of me, and placed me in handcuffs with enough tensile strength to keep me bound. They also placed a shock collar around my neck that would drop me in my tracks if I tried to run.
“Let’s go.” One of the men, Pearson, waved me out of the cell.
I’d stood inside the cell with my back to them, my hands behind my back, while the restraints had been put on. I was facing him as the door slid away.
I had not realized how much having the door open would affect me. Bioroids were programmed to understand emotion (to a degree) and simulate it as needed to ease humans. A layer of discomfort I hadn’t known I’d been feeling dropped away from me as I joined the NAPD officers in the hallway. I was not programmed to accept jail time.
I wanted to ask for clothing, even the bright orange jumpsuit the other prisoners wore, but I didn’t. My programming insisted that I blend in with humans as much as possible. I wasn’t a service bioroid designed only for manual service. I was a high-functioning representative of the best that Haas-Bioroid could deliver. As such, I needed to be clothed.
I tested my handcuffs and found them quite strong. I considered fleeing, but I knew that would be doomed immediately. One of the two IA officers would set off the shock collar and I’d be paralyzed a nanosecond later.
“Follow me.” The second man, Madison, led me down the hallway.
I walked silently behind him, hands behind my back, and noticed the baleful stares of the men still in their cells. Several of them cursed me. Others protested the fact that I’d been held in custody in the same holding area.
We passed through the door and into another corridor. Madison led the way to a service elevator in the middle of the next hallway. Armed jailers and NAPD personnel regarded me suspiciously.
My programming was in a flux. Pre-eminent among the foundations of my core identity were orders not to harm humans and to keep myself functional short of lethal action. Haas-Bioroid programmed all units for self-preservation because no corporation that leased or purchased a bioroid wanted a unit incapable of avoiding destruction.
If a bioroid were caught unawares in the middle of a high traffic area—also something of an impossibility—it was supposed to be able to act to ensure its survival. Programming medical rescue bioroids for battlefield assignments required layers of routines and subroutines to ensure the unit’s continued survivability against enemy forces while still tending to wounded soldiers.
The military had tried licensing bioroids to perform those duties but ultimately discovered that the actual work was too full of variables to get a product that was viable. Many bioroids had ended up strewn across those battlefields, or they’d beco
me targets themselves in the Clone Riots last year.
My programming was in conflict. I was supposed to do as I was ordered by the NAPD. Yet, if I did, in all likelihood I would be scrapped or at least repurposed. All the practical experience I’d gained as a police detective would be lost. That loss was unacceptable. Haas-Bioroid had invested in me.
Shelly Nolan had invested in me.
Underlying all of that was a subroutine that instructed me to in no way bring about any events that might result in harmful advertising to Haas-Bioroid. Accepting my fate would do exactly that, which was why Blaylock had sought to intervene.
I rode up in the elevator to the top of the jail. The main holding areas were beneath the lunar landscape. When we reached our destination, we were still below the surface on a tube station level.
We were also away from the Net dampeners. Everything above the main holding areas was hardwired for Net access. My internal PAD came back on in a rush of datastreams. I immediately accessed the media and started downloading all the stories I could about the destruction of the warehouse, the cargo ship crash, Skorpios, and the murder of Jonas Salter.
I also discovered that the NAPD had put tracking software on all my PAD functions. Net techs at the department were following my every move. At least, they were trying to. Their computer hardware might be able to track everything I was doing, but the human minds operating them couldn’t assimilate everything that passed through my interfaces at the speed I was capable of.
I intentionally opened up more dataports and streamed more and more information to cover what I was really after. I plugged into dozens of public information sites regarding Starport Kaguya, the Beanstalk, my old casework at the NAPD, and social media streams of a hundred different entertainment personalities.
In seconds I’d filled NAPD memory banks with several yottabytes of useless information. That alone would take hours for the techs to sort through.
I had what I was looking for before I’d finished half of those downloads. I’d found an anomaly in an e-message from Detective Royo that was an encrypted communication from Captain Karanjai. The missive was short and to the point.