
# Future City Blues

# a tech noir collection

Milo James Fowler • Simon Kewin • Neil Vogler
Table of Contents

I. The Wrong Tom Jacks by Simon Kewin

II. Tripler: The Beginning by Neil Vogler

III. Doppelgänger's Curse by Milo James Fowler 

## The Genehunter, Case 1:

# The Wrong Tom Jacks

## by Simon Kewin

Simms stood in a circular white room, surrounded by the frozen heads of forty-two dead from the twentieth century.

He recorded every detail of the scene via his brain plug-in. Strictly speaking he had no business being here in the LA Bethesda Eternity Clinic and you never knew when information would come in useful. He didn't have the clinic's full client list, but each head sat encased within a two-meter silver cylinder, each bearing a small name plaque his plug-in could resolve. He stored each name away, the one he recognized and the forty-one he didn't.

"This way. The patient is over here."

The ratty, unkempt clinician he'd bribed crossed the room, glancing backwards at Simms to make sure he was following. Simms smiled at all of it. At the attendant, so proud of his ridiculous little world, at their insistence on the word patient, at the whole insane set-up. Did these people actually think this was eternal life? That they could conveniently bypass society's slide into hell? Be woken up in a golden future with all their cancers healed?

Elsewhere in the clinic there were full bodies preserved. The ones who could afford the deluxe package. These poor unfortunates had gone for the cheaper option. Simms almost felt sorry for them. He wondered what sacrifices each had made for even this.

He put it out of his mind. What did it matter? Wasn't any business of his. People with money paid and facilities like this met the demand. No harm in any of it. Perhaps it wasn't so different to what he did.

"This is him."

Simms stopped at the cylinder the attendant identified. It looked good. Tom Jacks, born 1954, suspended 2015. Yeah, right. Simms knew very little about him. A famous name, sure, but this Tom Jacks was a nobody. His searches had turned up nothing interesting at all. He was just a unique pattern of base-pairs that someone, somewhere was willing to pay for. Weird, sure, but he asked no questions. Collectors collected and he provided. He'd triple-checked they wanted this man and not his famous namesake. Most likely some relative researching the family-tree. Or it could be other things, but that was none of his business. Get the DNA, get paid, that was all that mattered.

The job made him uneasy, though. Damn thing was, he couldn't see why. It was straightforward enough. Maybe too straightforward. Things didn't go like this. It had only taken him a day and no one had threatened him, let alone tried to kill him. Here was the DNA, conveniently packaged up in a frozen brain. Somehow, he was sure, he was being played. He just couldn't see how.

He looked at the cylinder. The head was sealed inside, awaiting the dawn of the age of miracles. A dusting of frost coated the silver exterior. Was that right? Wasn't it supposed to be insulated?

"And you can extract a sample?" he said to the attendant. "You're sure it's clean, no decay?"

"Of course. There's an access point for biopsies. I'm sure you've heard the stories. How we don't really preserve anyone, just take their money to maintain empty chambers."

The attendant shook his head at the things people believed. Simms said nothing. He wanted to get the job done and leave. Despite the cold and the sealed units, the place smelled of chemicals and decay. He was willing to bet the attendant came in here and talked to the damn heads when there was no one else around.

Simms took out the sterile needle he'd bought with him and handed it to the attendant.

"Here. I will test the sequence against his known phenotype. Anything less than 99% and the deal's off. Understand?"

Usually this was the time they started to bargain, see problems, remember expenses. The attendant merely assented with a nod of his head. Either he was a fool or he was playing a part. Simms watched as the man flipped open a small hatch in the side of the cylinder and inserted the needle into the dead brain within. A small screen lit up on the surface of the cylinder so they could see the needle's progress.

When he had the sample, Simms inserted it into the sequencer he carried. The device sampled the DNA, flashed through a simulated development cycle to full maturity, ran comparisons against the known historical details of this Tom Jacks. Within a minute, the results were communicated to Simms' brain.

His job would be a lot damn easier if everyone just got a number tattooed onto them at birth.

He looked at the attendant, waiting by the cylinder, breathing through his nose like this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. Or like he might bolt at any moment. He could be a useful contact. This job was junk, sure, but you never knew what the next one would be. A cryogenic clinic attendant amenable to bribery might be a very useful person to know. Especially since Simms now had recorded proof he had been bribed.

"The sample is good. Here's your forty K."

Simms transferred the agreed sum, encrypted and untraceable. He saw the moment the money reached the attendant: the smile that brightened on the man's face was like the summer sun rising. Doubling your annual pay can do that. Which only troubled Simms all the more. The guy was an amateur. Someone was playing both of them. He'd been careful. He was always careful. When he crossed the line he made sure he left no evidence. Always gave clients the full speech about the uses to which recovered DNA could be put, word-for-word from the law. So far as the authorities knew, he accessed only public records. The bribe to this attendant was an infringement, sure, but no one would be able to prove a connection. He'd run through everything several times but could see no loopholes. It nagged at him. He hated that.

"I'd like to leave now," he said.

The attendant nodded as he sealed up the cylinder. They left Tom to his long wait and walked out, past room after room of frozen remains. Simms wished he could grab the names on all the units, but the doors were sealed. The attendant, whose name he still didn't know, was taking enough risk letting Simms do what he'd done. They could always come up with some line about visiting a relative if challenged, but if the clinic owners found out what their employee had done, it would be all over for him. For a set-up like this, public perception was everything.

They stopped at security doors while the attendant let the machinery sample his DNA. What was that all about? Controlling who came in made perfect sense, but controlling who left? Did they think the dead were going to rise up and try to escape? They'd seen too many old movies.

The security doors hinged open and they were back in the warmer air of the clinic's lobby, all polished marble and subtle music. Vases of flowers. Real flowers. A group of relatives sat in silence on the leather chairs, their expressions blank, no one talking. He thought about them all: the thousands and thousands of dead people in there, the thousands and thousands of estates paying fees in perpetuity. It was a beautiful thing. Maybe he should start one up himself. A few big contracts and he'd have enough money. Then he could sit back and enjoy life, let others do the work. He was willing to bet the myths about these places were true, often as not. Make it look good, professional like a real hospital, and people would pay. You didn't need to actually freeze the remains. Who would know?

Turning the pleasant fantasy over in his mind, he walked to the clinic's jump node. Normally he avoided them. The public jump infrastructure was shot to shit. But with a job came expenses and with expenses came the wonder of private networks. He instructed the system to take him back to London. He dialled in a few random jumps around the world en route, too, to throw anyone who might be following him. Private networks were more reliable, sure, but he didn't trust them to be any more secure.

*

He knew something had gone wrong the moment he stepped out of the destination node. This was definitely not London Euston. Too clean, for one thing. Too quiet. He stood in a bare, square room; bright white walls, no doors or windows. The only way in or out was via the jump node he'd stepped from. He scanned it, as he habitually did, hoping to probe the network logs for anyone following him. The plug-ins required for this were highly illegal, but he happened to have a set hidden away in his skull. He got the node's address but nothing more. The gateway was deactivated. He checked his clock. Ten seconds had elapsed since he'd left the clinic. While you were in the jump network you technically didn't exist, had no consciousness of the passage of time. But, wherever he was, at least he had materialised. Everyone knew the stories about people trapped inside the jump networks, stuck for so long no one dared extract them to tell them. It was immortality of sorts, he supposed. Beat having your head cut off and frozen.

"Ah, Simms. There you are."

A disembodied voice from a metal grill in the opposite wall. He recognized it immediately. Things began to slot into place. So this was it? The whole job had been a GMA sting? Checking up licences?

"Agent Ballard of the Genetic Monitoring Agency," said Simms. "Hit another puzzle you can't solve? Having trouble telling the time, maybe?"

Ballard laughed his deep, rolling laugh. Was he nearby or somewhere remote? It didn't matter. It was typical of Ballard to lurk in the shadows. Simms really couldn't blame him. They'd met physically once or twice. If his face was as disfigured as Ballard's, if his features dripped like melted plastic, he'd stay hidden too. Acid thrown in his face, it was said, years back. Some thug resisting arrest. Ballard could have got it fixed long ago. Word was he liked his shocking appearance just fine. Found it useful when it came to playing the scary GMA agent.

"Simms, Simms. I'd really be more polite if I were you. I've pulled you out of the jump network to count how many laws you've broken today. Make my day any worse and I'll have to start looking real close."

The GMAn sounded delighted at the prospect.

"Investigate away. You won't find anything, but perhaps it'll make you feel like you're doing something useful with your life."

As he talked, Simms glanced around the room, trying to figure out an escape plan. He came up with precisely nothing. He had good plug-ins, unregistered military-grade tech that might be able to reactivate the jump mechanism. But they would take time to work and the GMA would have counter-measures. Plus, the less Ballard knew about his brain-boosters, the better.

"So," said Ballard. "According to the logs, you've been commissioned to track down the DNA of a Tom Jacks. Purpose: addition to an unnamed collector's molecule library. All completely above-board and legal."

"That's correct. And well done on the reading. Some of those words are tricky."

"I'm puzzled, though," Ballard continued. "You specialise in musicians. Rock gods and dance divas from history. This man was a no one. Times hard are they?"

"I have to work to make a living. You should try it some time."

"Surely you're not intending to pass this Tom Jacks off as the Tom Jacks to some unfortunate citizen?"

"Obviously not. That would be illegal."

"Oh, but wait, what's this?" Ballard continued. "I see you're on your way home from the Bethesda Eternity Clinic, last resting place of Tom Jacks - the wrong Tom Jacks - currently cryogenically preserved and awaiting a cure for pancreatic cancer. Now that is odd, because the estate of this Mr. Jacks has granted no access to his remains."

"Which is why my trip was futile," said Simms. "Shame, but that's how it goes."

"So you didn't, say, illegally acquire this poor, dead man's DNA?"

"That's right. I didn't illegally acquire this poor, dead man's DNA."

"And the large sum of money you just sent from one of your accounts?"

Simms smiled, sure Ballard could at least see him. "A down payment on a slot at the clinic for myself. And thanks for being so concerned about my well-being."

Ballard snorted with laughter. "And if I let the techs loose on your brain and all those exotic plug-ins of yours, you're saying they won't find the DNA of Mr. Jacks encrypted away somewhere?"

A warrant for a full brain-dump on a suspect was still hard to get, even on a genehunter. They both knew that. Simms had to hope it was too much trouble for Ballard to bother.

"Obviously not. That would also be illegal, Agent Ballard. I'm shocked at the suggestion."

"Or, I suppose I could visit the clinic myself," Ballard said. "Ask a few questions, see what really occurred?"

There was the weakness. The attendant should have expunged logs as instructed. He probably wouldn't stick to his story with Ballard bellowing away at him. Yet this was such a small-time job going to all that trouble made no sense. Ballard was having fun with him. Or... yes. He saw, then, what this really was. Some things didn't change.

"You could do all that, yes," said Simms. "And if I have accidentally transgressed some minor regulation, I suppose I'd have to pay some fine?"

"Approaching an official of a registered clinic without the estate's consent is a transgression, Simms."

"OK, Ballard. Just tell me how much you want."

"Forty K should cover it."

Simms considered for a moment. But there wasn't a damn thing he could do. If he refused he'd find his licence revoked one sunny day and that would be that. None of this fine would go near the authorities, sure, but he had no choice.

"Here's your money, Ballard. Now activate this node."

"My pleasure, Simms. And you be careful out there. There are all sorts of people trying to rip you off."

"Yeah. I heard that."

"Oh, and one more thing before you go. Who is Boneyard?"

Motherfucker. So this whole thing with the money was just a little extra for Ballard? He really, really hated the GMAn.

"Never heard of him. Friend of yours? Sounds unpleasant enough."

"A person I'd like to meet. I figure someone living in the gutter like you might have heard a whisper or two."

"And if I had?"

"Then you'd tell me. And we stay friends."

"Well, I'm sorry to be a disappointment."

"Oh, I'm used to it. But keep your ears open, OK, Simms? Bring me something useful and I'll think even more highly of you than I already do."

"Good bye, Ballard," said Simms. "And, just a suggestion, maybe spend that money you stole from me on cosmetic surgery? They can work miracles these days, you know."

*

Simms stepped out of a node in the twelve-by-twelve array at Euston and pushed his way through the crowds out onto the streets. The stacktower where he lived was a twenty minute walk away. As he strode along, he sent a ping out to the agent who'd employed him on the Jacks job. He didn't know who his real employer was, of course. He knew the agent only as Mann. Which was not going to be his real name.

Mann replied immediately. Simms had the uncomfortable feeling Mann had known he'd be calling. Was Ballard mixed up in this somehow? Was Mann one of them, a GMAn? Was his name what passed for humour in the GMA? Christ. How was a guy to make an illegal living with these mosquitoes buzzing around, sucking his blood?

"Mr. Simms. You have the DNA sequence my client requested?"

The voice on the other end was calm, thoughtful. More the voice of a lawyer, someone used to weighing words carefully.

"I have it here," said Simms. "Plus documentation to prove provenance. Send payment and you can have the code right now."

"My client will have to test the DNA first, Mr. Simms. He or she does not intend to pay for some random sequence of numbers or the genetic sequence of, let us say, a dead baboon."

"You employed me because you could trust me."

"Still, I am under instruction. This is what we agreed."

"And if I send you the code and never hear from you again?"

"Then you would have cause to be angry and could lodge a complaint with the authorities."

"Yeah, yeah."

Simms sent the sequence off through the ether. They'd agreed encryption keys up front so there was no danger it could be intercepted as it traversed the net.

"Many thanks, Mrs. Simms. I shall be in touch at the earliest opportunity."

"Make sure you are. Mann."

Simms closed the link and turned his attention to the London street. The usual shit, piles of rubble, dead... things. The rain hammered down, a blur of spray on the hard ground. Why was it always raining? Surely it could be sunny occasionally? At least the rain helped wash the stench of decay and burning plastic away. He was old enough to remember how it had once been, when the streets were more-or-less safe and everything more-or-less worked. Now look at it. People used to say everything was going to hell. They didn't say it any more did they? They knew it had damn well gone.

He shook his head. Nothing he could do. He felt like this because he'd finished a job. Normally, some investigation would be bouncing around in his brain and he wouldn't notice his surroundings, the scowling people, the filth. Now he did. He hated the emptiness that inactivity brought.

Still, he had money to burn. Despite Ballard's cut, he'd be solvent once Mann's money came through. He could afford some downtime. He'd earned it. He called up an overlay from the relevant plug-in to shut London out. Immediately, an augmented version of the city replaced the ruined original. Trees lined spotless streets. The air smelt of roses. Contented people strolled by, hand-in-hand. Children played. They were dangerous, these false realities. People got lost in them. But he could control it. Right now it was fine.

*

Back home, he decided, what the hell, to ping Kelly. They hadn't spoken for, what, two months? She'd said she was going to get back to him. He was still waiting.

"Simms? What is it?"

To his surprise, the connection went straight through. She sounded harassed, though, like she didn't really want to speak to him.

"Just seeing how you are. You didn't call, I was worried."

"Yeah, right."

"Come on, Kelly. That's not fair. How many times do I need to apologize to you?"

"Oh, plenty more yet."

"OK, OK. Look, I wanted to know how you've been, for Christ's sake."

She paused for a moment before replying, like she was regretting her harsh words. So he liked to imagine.

"I'm fine. Busy. We're taking more in each day. We're going to have to expand to house everyone soon."

Another dig at him. He was to blame? He collected DNA. If other people used it to fill their private zoos with black-market copies of the great and famous, how was that down to him? He didn't operate the cloning vats, he didn't discard the damaged misshapes when they turned out wrong. He just did his job. Jesus Christ, everyone was on his back today.

"Look, Kelly, I'm sorry, OK? Sorry for what I do. Sorry for all the people who wash up there with you. It's not my fault, OK? None of it's my fault."

"Is that right, Simms?"

"Look, the thing is, work's been going well. I was thinking I could come over. I know the refuge always need funds. I could make a contribution. Something. I mean, no one likes to see the state these people are in. And maybe we could do something together. Go some place."

It was partly his age, but fleshbots didn't cut it for him. Even when they proxied for a real person somewhere distant. You still knew. You always knew. The thought of sex with Kelly, the real Kelly, would make everything - Ballard, London, Mann - everything better.

"You want to give us money from some DNA job? To help the people here?"

For a moment, he thought she was warming to the idea. "Yeah. I thought, you know, it would be something."

"You're unbelievable, Simms. Un-fucking-believable."

"Kelly, I..."

But she cut the connection. She was gone. He didn't try to ping her back.

His eyes focused on reality once more. He stood and stared out of his stackroom window at the grey clouds sweeping in across the London skyline. God damn. Why did he bother? It wasn't like she'd been completely innocent was it? Wasn't that what she was doing, out there in the Arizona desert? Making amends, trying to put something back? He got that. He'd do it himself, one day, if he could. Enough money from a few big deals and he could start his own refuge. They could run it together, the past forgotten. He could idle away his days in the sun while she divided her time between him and saving the world's cloning victims. All those brain-damaged Elvises and broken Mandela-copies living out their remaining years. She'd be full of gratitude. It would be beautiful.

Well. If he couldn't have her, a fleshbot would have to do. He'd paid for good emulation, although he could always tell when it - she - said or did something the real Kelly wouldn't. When its sex-toy programming was a little too near the surface. Weirdly, that was always an instant turn-off. But it would have to do.

And, if he couldn't have the real Kelly, he could at least have real acid. He didn't go in for direct-brain electronic analogues. He had the plug-ins, sure, but didn't use them. Nothing touched the real stuff. You could still buy it if you knew the right people. And Simms prided himself on always knowing the right people.

He made sure the stackroom was secure. The fleshbot booted up and moved towards him, swinging its hips a little too much to be believable. Sims sighed. He wondered what would happen if he gave it acid, too. That could be funny.

*

The call interrupted him an hour later. It took him some time to grasp what it was. His com plug-in had trouble presenting his consciousness with an avatar of his caller. Had trouble finding his consciousness. Simms saw the sun turning into a vast face, becoming a mouth that screamed at him from the sky. Eventually he grasped someone was trying to reach him.

He shunned direct-brain drugs, but electronic detox could be damn useful. He kicked one off now, flushing the shit from his brain, sharpening the lines of reality around him. Slowly everything came into focus. Was his room always this small? Jesus. When he was ready he answered the ping.

"Hi, Mann. You got my money?"

"Can we talk?"

"What is there to talk about? I've done what you asked, now you pay the bill. That's how that works."

"I'd like to talk to you about another contract."

"Always happy to discuss a job. Let's complete the old one, then we can move onto the new one."

Didn't they have the money? But then, why bother to get in touch? More likely, they had a problem with what he'd done. The wrong Tom Jacks after all? He couldn't see how, but he didn't need an unsatisfied customer seeking revenge. Especially some big shot used to getting their way. He wished he'd spent more time researching Mann, found out who he worked for. But the amount of money involved had been so small he hadn't bothered.

"Of course, of course. Here's your money, Mr. Simms."

The man's tone made it clear the amount was so trifling he'd simply forgotten to send it. Simms watched the zeroes counting up in his brain.

"OK," he said. "Now we can talk."

"Excellent. As a matter of fact, I'd like to meet up with you."

Alarm bells rang. He was still a bit out of it, a bit paranoid, but employers wanting to meet up generally meant bad things. He'd seen it happen often enough over the years.

"Why? This conversation is completely secure. No one can overhear."

"My employer is rather old-fashioned. He or she likes to, ah, stare a man in the eye. Apparently, by these means, he or she is able to judge character very effectively."

"You want to set up a meeting between me and your employer?"

"That's correct."

Mann had his attention now. Simms reached out and deactivated the fleshbot kneeling on the floor in front of him. What was going on here? It could all be a line. A convincing tale. Still, it could also be something sweet. A meeting with the money behind the façade generally meant they were taking you more seriously. Which meant more of the money. If they were unhappy with him, why go to all this trouble? They could deal with him from afar: a shot in the night, an EM pulse sending his plug-ins into meltdown. But not polite conversation for fuck's sake.

"OK," he said. "Tell me when and where."

*

In the day he had spare, Simms took the time to do his job properly: find out who he was really dealing with, what their angle was. It didn't take a genius to work some of it out. The smoke and mirrors made it obvious. The party required DNA and they needed to be sure Simms was reliable. Now they knew. Problem was, Simms knew nothing about them. Knowledge was power. Anything could give him an edge, even if it only meant he could cut a better deal.

Standard trawls through the archives turned up nothing. Inevitably. With only a few hours to go before their meeting, unable to think of anything else, Simms decided to try Devi. Devi knew everyone.

Devi was another hunter, and hunters usually didn't mix. They were competitors. If you had a job another hunter knew something about they became your best friend. But if they decided to kill you and take the job themselves, they became your worst enemy. Devi had tried to kill Simms on at least three occasions.

Simms' ping went nowhere. Either she was offline or dead. He tried every ID he had but got a no response on all of them. OK. There were other ways to track down genehunters. None of them could stand to be unavailable for long in case a dream job came along, transporting them to a life of thrills and riches. Einstein's brain or the DNA of The Beatles. There was always a way to get in touch. You just had to know whom to ask.

He strode back to Euston, no overlays, still raining, and jumped half-way around the world to San Francisco. The Double Helix bar on Fisherman's Wharf was the closest thing genehunters had to home. It was an actual bar, a place people went to hang out, sit in shadowy corners, consume intoxicants and cut deals with each other. Like in the old days. Now such places were rare, old-fashioned, weird. For some reason, most hunters liked it. Perhaps for the same reason Simms preferred real acid. Nostalgia for the past, the good old days.

Inside it was quiet, the smoky air thick with murmuring. Glasses made of real glass clinked on tables that had once been living trees. People glanced up at him, looked away. He was known, welcome. Anyone could come into the Double Helix, sure, and sometimes tourists did wander in. But they left quickly, aware they weren't meant to be there.

Simms crossed to the bar. He felt relaxed. The Double Helix was, by common consent, neutral territory.

"What can I get you?"

Mac stood behind the old-fashioned bar, upturned bottles lined up behind him full of coloured liquids. Mac was always there, all wild hair and devil tattoos. His name wasn't really Mac. It just seemed like it should be, so everyone called him that. The joke was there were lots of Macs, clones taking turns to man the place. Day or night, there he was, never getting any older.

"The usual."

Most barmen would use a plug-in to work out what that meant. Facial recognition and a quick database lookup. Mac didn't need to bother with any of that.

"Quiet tonight," said Simms while Mac poured the Scotch.

Mac shrugged, unconcerned. Quiet was good. They all liked quiet.

"I'm after Devi," said Simms. "Heard from her?"

Mac looked into his eyes, assessing. He wouldn't want it too quiet. Bad for business to have his customers killing each other.

"Don't worry, just need her help," said Simms. "A few questions."

"This time."

"You know where she is?"

"I know where most of her is. The bits that are left."

"She's dead?"

"Oh no, she's alive. Amazing what they can do these days, huh?"

Details on Devi cost three more doubles, finest Scotch. Simms saw it as a win/win. Before he left he transferred more money, double what he'd already spent, then hit Mac with his final question.

"You heard of someone called Boneyard?"

Mac's eyes narrowed. He'd heard something.

"Sure."

"Who is it?"

"Don't know. Why you asking?"

"Because our old friend Ballard asked me, and I don't like to know less than a GMAn about anything. It's embarrassing."

Mac shrugged, like it was none of his problem. Which it probably wasn't.

"So, what?" said Simms. "What do you know?"

"That it's a thing, not a person."

"What else?"

"Only that it's something heavy. Bad for business."

"Ours or yours?"

"Same thing, ain't it, Simms?"

*

With the leads Mac had provided, Simms tracked Devi down to a hospital in Cairo where the medics were cultivating her a new set of internal organs. Seems her last job had gone badly wrong.

The roar of the great city hummed through the white walls. A thousand tubes and wires snaked from under Devi's covers to a silver box, where an array of lights blinked rhythmically. A box that more-or-less was Devi while her new body parts matured up from stem-cells. Devi looked deflated, her face more grey than olive. Her brown eyes were blurry and indistinct but she grinned her familiar, pained grin when Simms entered.

"How did you get in here?" she croaked.

"Told them I was a friend."

"Always were a convincing liar."

She shut her eyes, like she was drifting off to sleep already. He didn't have long to explain his situation. When he finished she nodded, as if everything made sense.

"What is it?" said Simms. "What do you know?"

"You got a voiceprint of this Mann of yours?"

"Sure."

Her plug-ins were fried so he had to relay the recording orally, letting his brain hardware control his mouth to make him sound like Mann. Wasn't perfect, but close enough. Sure felt weird, though.

"Yeah, that's him," she said.

"What do you know?" Simms asked in his own sweet voice once more.

"Remember Sanchez?"

"Sure."

"Your Mann was her Smith. She hooked up with them for some big deal about five years back."

"She's MIA, now. You're saying these people were responsible?"

It wasn't unknown for clients to dispense with their genehunters once they'd got the DNA they wanted. Dispense with them permanently. Cheaper than paying and it covered their tracks. The secret was to be indispensable. A rich client with a private zoo would always need more DNA. If they trusted you they would keep you on and everyone would be happy.

"No," Devi replied after a moment's thought. "I think you're good. Things went crazy for Sanchez after that. These people were straight. Kept quiet, paid their bills. You'll be OK as long as you don't fuck them around."

"Who, me?"

"Yes. You."

"She say anything else about them?"

"They're zookeepers, sure. A private menagerie of dead rock stars somewhere in the Caribbean. Word is they have more than that, too. A dark zoo of dictators and mass-murderers."

"And you're not telling me this to get me killed?"

"When that happens I want to be there."

Simms smiled, although Devi couldn't see it. "Thanks. You've been helpful. I owe you."

"Yeah."

Simms turned to leave. At the door he stopped.

"Oh, and Devi, get yourself fixed, OK? Shooting you in this state would be no fun at all."

She waved him away with a single finger.

*

"Mr. Simms."

"Mann."

Simms stood in an office, well-furnished but with no windows, no way of knowing where in the world he was. A room at the end of a jump address.

Mann looked like he sounded: a smart, highly-paid lawyer, dressed in expensive clothes, someone used to the finer things in life. He had no fear of Simms. On his own patch, protected by who-knew-what tech, he would be untouchable.

"So," said Simms. "Where's your master?"

"They may join us soon."

"Once you've checked me out."

"I'm sure they'll value my assessment of you."

"And, of course, they're watching everything that happens right now."

"No comment. But, if this situation is not to your liking, feel free to leave and we'll say no more about it. No harm, no foul."

"Sure, sure. Go on. The situation is to my liking. So long as you can talk for them?"

"I have full executive authority in this regard."

"Yeah, like I said. So, what's the issue?"

"Tom Jacks."

"Tom Jacks."

"Tell me, did you think it odd you were employed to acquire the gene sequence of, how should I put it, the wrong Tom Jacks?"

That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. Had they paid him just to lure him here? What was this, some twisted revenge set-up because the code wasn't to their liking?

"Now hang on. I established all that very clearly. The Jacks you wanted was most definitely not the Tom Jacks. What are you trying to pull here?"

"Mr. Simms, please. There is no need for anxiety. You completed the job we requested most capably and efficiently."

"Pleased to hear it."

"So, I'll ask you again. Did you think it odd?"

"It's not my place to question."

"Very well. Let me put it this way. If we had requested you retrieve the DNA sequence of the real Tom Jacks, the famous Tom Jacks, would your reaction have been any different?"

"I'd have wanted more money for one thing."

Mann smiled at that. "Understood. But, for the moment, recompense is not the issue here. The question is one of attitude. You have proved yourself a competent and discreet DNA Detective. I ask you again. If we had asked you to hunt the gene sequence of the real Tom Jacks, perhaps without anyone else knowing you were so employed, would you have been amenable?"

"Are you asking me to hunt the gene sequence of the real Tom Jacks? Or is this an interesting hypothetical conversation we're having?"

"That's what we're asking you, Mr. Simms."

The third voice came from behind him. Simms turned to see a woman stepping out of the jump node. He didn't know her voice although, when Simms turned to face her, a look of surprise flashed across her features. Something about his appearance had thrown her. Had they met once? He scanned her - face, plug-in aura - but got nothing. He also kicked off a jump network probe. Retrieving a source address could be useful. People tended to forget to cover things like that. While he waited for a response from the system he studied her. She was obviously rich. Super-rich. Everything about her made that clear. Not just the clothes and the jewellery. The rich could pick and choose metabolisms too, and this woman looked fabulous. Her eyes were old, wise, but she appeared to be no more than twenty.

The probe returned with her source address. It meant nothing to him, but he stored it away for possible later use and replied with a smile. "Then I'd take the job. Presuming we could agree terms and presuming you understood that retrieving the real Tom Jacks will be much, much harder. Perhaps impossible."

The woman crossed the room and sat down behind the desk. She seemed amused by something now as she looked at Simms. She nodded at Mann, instructing him to continue.

"We understand the difficulties you would face," said Mann. "For instance, there is the constant need to comply with the many and varied regulations governing the retrieval of deceased DNA sequences."

Simms had to stop himself from grinning. Rarely had someone asked him to break the law in such a polite way.

"We all have our burdens," said Simms. "But you learn how best to, ah, accommodate the law."

"Quite so."

It was Mann's turn to smile now. There was the briefest pause in the conversation. Mann and his employer communicating brain-to-brain.

"Mr. Simms, you recently spoke to an officer of the GMA. Can you tell us why?"

How had they known? Couldn't you at least trust government security agencies to be secure? Still, the question gave him hope. They were worried about him, worried he was GMA. Either that or they were very, very good actors.

Whichever, all he could do was tell them straight. "A corrupt agent called Ballard extorted money from me."

"Indeed?" said Mann. The lawyer studied him for a moment, forehead furrowing. Communicating again. They were debating him, assessing him. Damn shame he couldn't eavesdrop on them, but he didn't dare try.

"It must be difficult working with the GMA breathing down your neck all the time," said Mann. "Tell me, if we wanted you to work for us without them knowing you were so engaged, how would you feel?"

There it was. He should act horrified, walk out. But there were times you had to take a punt, trust your instincts. If you didn't, you stayed safe, legal - and poor. And he saw how clever they'd been. It hadn't been a test job. By registering a completely legal search for the wrong Tom Jacks they'd provided him the perfect cover in the hunt for the DNA they really wanted. No need to tell the GMA about the new arrangement. So far as they knew, the old job was still on the books. Simms had every right to pursue all possible means of acquiring that DNA, even if it meant excluding other individuals sharing, say, the same name. IDs got mixed up sometimes.

The woman and her advisor watched him intently. There was also the possibility he might not leave this room alive if he gave them the wrong answer.

"I'd feel cheerful about it," he said.

The rest of the meeting was detail. Some of the details were important: the money for one thing. The sum they agreed made it clear how serious they were. Anyone who could afford that much was not going to take being fucked around. At all. As they negotiated, Simms had to rely on plug-in overrides to keep himself from grinning like a child. This was good. Very good. Presuming he could find Tom Jacks - the real Tom Jacks - and presuming he could do so without the authorities knowing a damn thing, then he was set up. Some of those retirement schemes could finally become reality.

He felt only a single moment of doubt: a small voice in his head reminding him what they would use the DNA for. That sort of money definitely meant private zoos: illegal cloning and a life of slavery for an innocent individual who happened to share genetic sequences with a famous name. The voice had nothing to do with any plug-in. Simms pushed it out of his mind.

Once both parties had all the assurances and agreements they needed, Simms took his leave. He asked no questions beyond how to get in touch with them. He didn't bother with the statutory recounting of the terms of the law. They'd given him a month to find the rare and highly valued DNA of the dead rock star Tom Jacks. That was all he needed.

*

He spent the next twelve hours trawling all the public and private networks he could think of, seeking out scraps of information that might prove useful. Reliable cloning technology had been developed early in the twenty-first century by the notorious Dr. Grendel. Interest in collecting the DNA of the rich and famous had taken off almost immediately. As a result, a lot of people had gone to a lot of trouble to hide or destroy tissue samples over the years. The more famous the individual, the more trouble. Which was why genehunters existed. Society may be shot to hell, but there were always the mega-rich who could afford anything and everything they wanted. Historical figures became one more commodity, the rarer the better. It wasn't unknown for a collector to destroy all copies of the sequence of some star of yesteryear to make their collection all the more valuable. Which made Simms' job tricky when it came to someone like Jacks. No doubt about it, that DNA was going to be very well guarded. If it even still existed.

Simms sat unmoving as terabytes of data streamed through his brain, AI search algorithms occasionally picking out an interesting detail, tagging and cross-referencing it with other hits. Hopefully his plug-ins would give him an edge. He fell into half-sleep as his brain worked, eyes open but not really seeing, an occasional snippet of interesting information bubbling up to his conscious mind. He was only distantly aware of growing thirst and hunger. He would stop soon, eat and sleep. This was how he always was when he had a new job. Single-minded. Other plug-ins kicked in to boost his brain and body, keeping him awake and alert as he searched.

At the end of it, he reviewed what he'd found. It wasn't much. He had plenty of people offering to sell Tom Jacks hair follicles, Tom Jacks blood, Tom Jacks semen. Simms dismissed them all. None offered any provenance and none were expensive enough to be real.

One story he did keep returning to: the famous Montreux concert that degenerated into a mass brawl, the death of three fans and the hospitalisation of thirty others. This was early in Jacks' career, when he'd fronted the extreme metal band Teratoma. Their gigs were always abrasive, confrontational. When, for an encore, Jacks appeared in front of forty thousand amped-up, screaming metalheads carrying an acoustic guitar and started to croon love songs, there'd been a riot. Fans invaded the stage. That Jacks was injured in the melee was beyond doubt. Shaky video footage showed him with blood all over his face.

More interesting were unconfirmed stories of his two lost teeth, punched out by an angry fan. The records showed he had orthodontic surgery two weeks later, but there were no details of the procedure carried out. There were no surviving images of Jacks in those two weeks that might confirm the story. But there were persistent stories of the teeth being retrieved and sold by fans before, finally, being acquired by a modern-day genehunter on behalf of an unknown client.

Simms could find no hard evidence to back up any of it. Most likely it was all urban myth. The hospital records from Jacks' operation were gone. The records of those injured in the riot did still exist. Nearly a hundred people had been treated at Montreux Riviera Hospital for broken bones, facial injuries, contusions. There was a good chance diagnostic samples survived from all of them. But they were of no interest. The name Tom Jacks wasn't anywhere on the list, and the musician would surely have been recognized if he'd been taken there.

On the other hand, there were numerous rumours of Jacks clones being sighted over the years, the by-now dead rock star spotted in the unlikeliest of places. Jump nodes, shopping malls, ball-games. Again, the stories were probably junk; the standard fare of brain-addled fans. But one detail had caught the attention of Simms' AI routines. Loosely corroborated by cross-references with both medical and travel records, he had two accounts of a supposed Jacks copy being admitted to a refuge for the victims of botched clonings. Supposedly a clone from DNA from one of the lost teeth. This was only fifteen years earlier, meaning there was a good chance the man still lived.

It was a weak lead, one he wouldn't have bothered with normally. But for this case, any trail was worth following.

That was the good news. The bad news was the refuge concerned. He obviously recognized the Arizona location. It looked like he'd be talking to Kelly sooner than he'd imagined.

*

To his surprise, the node key she'd given him twelve months earlier still worked. Had she left it active on purpose, hoping he'd arrive? Or forgotten to cancel it?

He materialised in the public reception hall. The room was cool, air-conditioned against the fierce Arizona heat. Another disembodied voice spoke to him, this one a little more friendly.

"Please state the purpose of your visit."

They had to be careful, of course. In the early days, refuges had been plagued with tourists and autograph hunters harassing the patients. Part of the reason they were stuck in the middle of nowhere. Simms explained who he was, who he'd come to see. A uniformed guard arrived to escort him through the clashing desert heat to another low building where he could talk to Kelly. He didn't get to see any of the patients. They were allowed to wander freely, leave if they wanted, but were kept well away from public eyes. Simms could see lines of white houses in the shimmering distance. A little oasis of trees off in the other direction. He wondered if Tom Jacks, his ticket to riches, was somewhere among them.

Kelly sat in a plain, square room, polished terra cotta floor tiles and whitewashed walls. She was the same willowy, black-haired beauty he'd known, but she looked taut, too, her features drawn into lines. Her eyes were red like she hadn't been sleeping well. Crying herself to sleep over him maybe. Yeah, right. He remembered the fierce, eager strength of her embrace. Now they managed merely to greet each other politely. They'd been both lovers and partners once, back in the day. There had been jobs neither was proud of. She'd quit hunting, gone to the light side and joined clONE. He'd promised to join her, but hadn't. That was all.

"What is it, Simms? I'm busy."

"The jump key you sent me still worked."

She shrugged, swept her hair out of her eyes. "Don't read anything into it. I forgot to cancel it. You're not welcome here. Didn't we talk about this?"

"I'd like to make that contribution we discussed."

"You discussed it. I refused."

"So your finances are so good you can afford the moral high ground?"

She shrugged, said nothing.

"Look," said Simms. "I understand your reservations. But no one's untainted are they? I can provide funds and you can do good with them. How is it helping your patients to refuse?"

She scowled, looked at him. Did she see through him? But it wasn't just an act. He meant it. He'd seen too many cloning disasters over the years. He wasn't a bad person.

"How much are you hoping to contribute?" she asked.

"You could do a lot of good with forty K, I expect?" He hadn't really thought about the amount. Forty seemed to keep coming up.

"We could do some good, sure."

"I'll transfer it to you now."

She shrugged, sent account details across without looking at him.

"This doesn't buy you anything, you know," she said. "It doesn't get you access to any DNA. Or to me."

"No, no. I know."

He'd hoped to spend time with her, imagined the two of them walking through the refuge. Maybe even bumping into the Tom Jacks clone, grabbing a DNA sample without anyone knowing. This wasn't going to happen. They weren't going to let him get close. Still, if he could somehow confirm Jacks was here, it would be something.

"I thought I could maybe sponsor an individual patient," he said. "You know, make a real difference to one person."

She was immediately suspicious, eyes narrowed. "What we do with the money is our business."

While she talked he sent out probes to her plug-ins. She had the usual array of brain add-ons. He'd once known some of her private keys. He hoped she'd forgotten to change those, too.

"I'm not asking to meet any patients, or even see them. I thought I could choose a particular individual to help. If you had a list, I mean."

It was an old technique, surprisingly effective. The suggestion of a list prompted one of her plug-ins to react automatically, pulling relevant names out of a database. Real names and their associated clone-twin names. As he'd hoped. She suppressed the data immediately, but not before he caught a glimpse.

He kept his expression blank but it didn't help.

"What did you do?" she said, standing up, sending her chair tumbling to the floor behind her.

"What do you mean?"

"You were in my head. What did you do? What did you see?"

"Nothing, Kelly. I..."

"That's why you came here, isn't it? Not to help them. Not to see me. You're working. Dear God, Simms, I don't believe you. How do you manage to fuck everything up so badly every time?"

"But..."

He didn't have time to say any more. Four guards burst into the room, weaponry aimed at him.

"Hey, OK, I just wanted to help is all," he said.

Kelly backed away from him. "You wanted to help yourself, you mean. Like always. You disgust me, Simms. Take your money and get out of here. And don't come back. I've deleted all your access keys."

"Kelly, please. I did want to see you, really."

But she turned and strode away. The security guards pulled him to his feet and prodded him out the other way, back to the jump node. He thought about fighting back. He might be able to stun them if he unleashed his offensive brain hardware.

He restrained himself. He didn't need to. Because the beautiful fact was that Tom Jacks was there on her list, along with the name of the clone who carried his DNA. Luis Jesus. And that was a name he had come across before. Come across very recently.

He still had a shot. He didn't need to break into the refuge after all. Life was good. He let the four grunts escort him to the jump node, a smile on his face.

*

Simms stood outside the shining glass building. Another day, another hospital to break into. Except this was a real one, with real live dying people inside. Which all meant real security, too. Going to be a damn sight harder to infiltrate than Bethesda.

He'd worked on the place for over three weeks, more and more desperate. He'd tried hacking them, tried profiling key staff members to see if anyone needed urgent money. Nothing. He'd even engineered an injury – a self-administered cut to his leg – so he could get inside and take a look around. All he'd learned was the place was a damn fortress, private security keeping everything locked down. He'd discovered old tissue samples were kept on a sub-basement level, but that was it. All that efficiency meant there was a good chance the blood sample of Luis Jesus, one of those injured in the Montreux concert riot, would still be down there. The problem was getting to it.

He wondered if Kelly's clone knew his name was one of Tom Jack's pseudonyms. Jacks must have made it up that night, hoping to avoid attention. Most likely, the name was a joke on the part of whoever had created Jesus from that broken tooth years later.

It didn't matter to Simms. He had to get down into the basement, grab a sample and get out. And he had to do it now. Mann's month had all-but run out. All Simms' other schemes had come to nothing. Sometimes you had to dispense with subtlety and go in all guns blazing. Or at least, sneak in and come out all guns blazing. He didn't like the odds, but he refused to let this job slip through his fingers. Chances like it only came along once or twice in a lifetime.

His plug-ins got him through the door from the hospital's public area to the Staff Only corridors. He'd cloned the ID of one of the surgeons, a Dr. Echt, away speaking at a conference in the Far East. Simms had gambled the hospital systems wouldn't be paranoid enough to cancel Echt's access for the week he'd be away. It looked like the gamble had paid off. Simms walked down the deserted corridor, feet clacking on the hard floor. He resisted the temptation to tread softly. The key to deals like this was to look like you belonged. Ask questions rather than answer them.

Two women approached him down the corridor. He'd profiled everyone he could find at the hospital. They were admin, high up, but in a different department to Echt. He ignored them, like he was deep in thought. People at work didn't smile at each other. The women passed by, paying him no attention.

The hospital was big, rambling, but he had the floor plans stored in his brain. He made his way to the lift that descended to the basements. Instead of using it, he pushed open the door to the adjacent fire stairs. There were cameras everywhere and a lift could become a cage at the touch of a button. Stairs at least gave him a shot.

Two levels down he reached another set of security doors. Echt had no access down here, so Simms resorted to hacking. He unleashed the electronic wizardry in his cranium. If someone asked what he was doing, his only plan was to start shooting. But this was a storage level; he'd calculated few people would come down here. And most likely they'd take the lift. Another reason to use the stairs.

After a solid minute of work, the locks on the basement door succumbed. Electronic systems were easy to fool given the right tech. What you couldn't do was stop all the background logging and cross-checking. He knew he wouldn't have long before they came for him.

He flicked on the lights. No point hiding now; it was all about speed. He'd hacked the tissue catalogue and knew precisely which cabinet and which drawer he needed. He ran, muscles and brain amped up to the maximum. It was cold down here, refrigerated, but he barely noticed. It took him only twenty seconds to locate the sample of Luis Jesus. Five less than planned. Perhaps he had a shot at this after all.

The blood sample was old, dried to a dull brown. They kept them for a hundred and one years in case of legal challenge. Sometimes he loved the forces of law and order. He might not get good DNA but it was a chance. He sampled the blood, storing the sequence for later analysis.

The first blaster shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him round. Lucky, really: it meant the next shot missed and he was facing the right way to see the two security guards standing by the door to the stairs. His med plug-in began saturating his system with painkilling drugs as he assessed the situation.

"On the ground. Now!" the guards called. They sounded cross. Simms looked like he was going to comply, moving slowly. Then, muscles acting at reflex-speed, he pulled out his blaster and fired. Resorting to shooting was an act of desperation, an admission of failure. He'd run out of other options. Guided by his military-grade aiming software, his two shots found their targets. The guards sagged to the ground. They'd wake up in a couple of hours. He wasn't being humane. If the authorities did catch him, a couple of murder charges would just make everything worse.

He ran. The police would arrive soon, and his defences would be nowhere near as effective against them. His plan was this: run like hell for the doors before they got to him. It wasn't his best plan ever, he had to admit.

He raced up the stairs three at a time and into the corridor. He heard running feet as more guards converged on him. Sirens and bells in the distance. Time for his exit strategy. There were two other doors to the hospital, including one to admit deliveries too big for the hospital's jump nodes. That door might not be locked down. The danger was they'd work out he was using Echt's ID and track him through the building. Or they could follow the trail of blood he was leaving on the floor...

Ninety seconds later he made it to the cargo door. It stood half open, easy for him to duck through. Metal crates had been neatly stacked just inside and he could hear the motors of some sort of transport vehicle presumably delivering more. He hadn't spotted any more security. Maybe they'd all gone to defend the jump nodes like he'd hoped. He was shaking, either with excitement or loss of blood, but he ignored it. He darted for the door, dropping the Echt ID from his brain and adopting another, unrelated one prepared for the purpose.

The second shot slammed into him before he heard it. The ground threw itself up at him and he knew no more.

*

"So, Simms. Here we are again."

Simms came round in another small, square room, somewhere still in the hospital judging by the medical paraphernalia around the walls: the oxygen feeds and alarm buttons. Everything was spotless, sterile. He lay on the hard floor. They could at least have found him a bed. Still, he was alive. Armed GMA agents guarded the door. Someone leaned over him. No mistaking that face.

"Agent Ballard."

"You're under arrest for the illegal acquisition of the DNA of Tom Jacks. Plus the contravention of numerous other laws I haven't even thought of yet."

Simms tried to think straight through the veils of pain filling his brain. How much did Ballard know? His GMA plug-ins were secure from Simms' intrusions and his ruined face was, as ever, impossible to read. How much did he really understand about what was going on here?

"I'm sorry, don't have any such DNA."

"Really, Simms. Is that the best you can do?"

Simms rose to his knees, tried to stand. He'd feel better if he could look Ballard in the eye.

"It's the truth."

"So you're here visiting a dying relative, is that it?"

Simms calculated for a moment, trying to find a way out. It was hard when people insisted on keeping secrets. In the end, he decided to adopt the simplest approach.

"OK, Ballard, I have just illegally acquired a DNA sample. But I assure you it isn't Tom Jacks."

"Who then?"

"One Luis Jesus. Check the records if you like. He has no connection to Tom Jacks."

There was a slim chance Ballard knew Jacks and Jesus were one and the same. Simms figured it was a risk worth taking. He watched Ballard's eyes, the brief moment of vacancy while he checked on the name.

"Never heard of him."

"No reason why you should. He's a nobody."

"Then why go to such lengths? You could have been killed. You still might be."

Was this further extortion? Pay a fine and go on his way? He doubted it. Ballard was corrupt, sure, and a bully. But he did his job. Unless a bigger prize was dangled before him. Simms decided to gamble.

"You want the truth? I heard a rumour about him. In connection with Boneyard."

Ballard's eyes narrowed. Simms had his attention. Whatever Boneyard was - and Simms had absolutely no idea - it was of great interest to Ballard.

"What connection? And why are you looking?"

"Because you asked me to."

"Don't get smart with me, Simms."

"I'm serious. Boneyard is of interest to you. And that means I'm in a position of power if I find out about it."

"It?"

"Uh-huh. Boneyard isn't a person. It's a thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"Haven't got that far yet."

"And you think you can bribe me if you find out?"

"I think I can bargain with you if some other minor contravention of the law comes to your attention."

Ballard studied him for a moment. This could go either way. The GMAn could arrest Simms and charge him, tie him up long enough to blow all hope of completing the Jacks job. Or he could believe Simms' line. It all depended how much Ballard wanted this Boneyard. Simms' chances hung by that thread.

"Tell me the connection," said Ballard.

"Not until I have something concrete. I'm acting on a whisper here and it may come to nothing."

"Tell me who the whisperer is."

"Sorry, can't reveal my sources. Look, Ballard, you can drag me off to some dungeon and ream the facts out of my brain, but what good will that do you? This Boneyard is well-hidden. I know next to nothing. But if I'm allowed to operate, maybe I can come up with something for you. I don't need you as an enemy."

"And you think all this can be made to go away?" Ballard indicated the hospital with a wave of his hand. "All the crimes you've committed today?"

"I think you can make it go away. Come on, we both know this little scene is nothing. Unimportant. It's beneath you, Ballard."

Ballard took a step forward. Simms braced himself for a blow. Instead, Ballard jabbed his finger into Simms' wounded shoulder. A moment of raw agony cut through him before his med plug-in could react.

"OK, Simms," Ballard said, whispering into his ear. "Here's what's going to happen. I'll let you operate. For now. Bring me Boneyard and we can remain friends. But I'll be watching, Fuck with me and I'll know about it."

Make them think they'd won when they'd lost. It was the only way.

"Whatever you say. Now, can I go? I have work to do. Real work."

Ballard stepped back and pulled open the door. "Get out of here. And take my advice, Simms. Leave Montreux before the local police get to you. They won't be as friendly as me."

"Just what I was planning to do."

*

"Mann?"

"Mr. Simms. You certainly like to leave things until the last minute."

"I have what you want."

"Excellent. Send it over for assessment and, assuming all is well, we'll complete the transaction as agreed."

"It's on its way now."

*

Now this was Simms' idea of a hospital. A tropical beach to convalesce on. His own nurses on hand to bring him everything he might need. No one trying to kill him. Bliss.

He yawned, stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. He sipped his mojito. He was beginning to like them almost as much as Scotch. No doubt about it, the money from the Jacks job was making him a very happy man.

Except. Problem was, he was already getting bored. He could feel that itch. What was going on in the world? Who was in the Double Helix right now, cutting a deal? Above all, what the hell was he supposed to do? He'd thought to take a year, two years off. Get fixed. Chill out. Two weeks in and he was already wondering if Mann was trying to reach him with another name.

He decided to make a few calls. Where was the harm in that? He put himself back on the net and pinged Devi, partly to see if she'd made it through her procedure, partly to send the fee for her help. Always good to keep contacts sweet. Devi accepted the money with something like her usual abrasiveness. When Simms sent her the view from his hospital window, she cut the connection, swearing creatively.

Simms then transferred 100K to the account Kelly had given him back in the refuge. Anonymously. Perhaps she'd realise it was from him and perhaps she wouldn't. That was up to her. But he found the act gave him a strange sensation, made him feel better about things.

He was about to vanish from the net again and ask for another mojito when the ping came through from Ballard.

"So, Simms. How is the investigation going?"

For a moment, Simms was confused. Surely Ballard would know the Jacks job was over by now?

"Investigation?"

"Don't play games with me. You know what I mean. Our agreement over Boneyard."

"I wouldn't call it an agreement. More of an... understanding."

"Is that right? Well, just as long as you understand I own you now, Simms. I've got enough evidence to put you away for about three centuries. But if you're useful to me I might forget about it."

Simms thought about cutting the connection there and then. Easy enough to hide away, switch IDs, kill off Simms and become someone else. He had the money to do it, now. Problem was, he liked genehunting. And if he wasn't Simms any more he'd be back to square one, an untrusted unknown, one among thousands.

"OK, Ballard," he replied. "I think I can get my head round what you're saying. But I'll work at my pace, in my own way. Have you got that?"

"What I've got, Simms, is your licence in my hands. And if I think you're being unhelpful to an agent of the GMA then I'm going to have to sit down and review it."

"Yeah, yeah. Look, I'll be in touch. Sweet of you to call, and I'm sure you've missed me, but there's really no need. I'll bring you something when I have it."

"Make sure you do."

Simms did cut the connection, then. He called for the mojito and sipped at it, lost in thought, watching the sun melt into the sparkling blue sea.

So. What the hell was this Boneyard anyway?

* * *

Simon Kewin is the author of over a hundred published short stories. His work has appeared in Analog, Nature, Daily Science Fiction, Abyss & Apex and many others. He's also the author of the _Cloven Land_ fantasy trilogy and the _Engn_ books. He lives in England with Alison and their two daughters. He sometimes wonders why it rains so damn much.

The Wrong Tom Jacks is the first of five Simms cases. The second case -  _The Zombies of Death_  \- is available here from Smashwords. Or, save 30% off the price of the five cases and read The Genehunter: The Complete Casebook, available from Smashwords. Find out more about the series at www.simonkewin.co.uk/genehunter.

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# Tripler: The Beginning

## by Neil Vogler

#### |

#### / THE BEGINNING \

#####

##### Agent Eighteen, Harry Allwear. Target: Kevin Anthade

Seventeen trackers have died trying to nail this Tripler. The last one's name was Cherim; he'd notched up nine successful Tripler kills during his career. Now he's dead, shot twice in the head, simultaneously but from different angles, by the same person. Cherim was a charmless soldier, didn't make jokes, didn't get jokes, stank of leather and booze, never had a sniff of a woman he didn't pay for. But he was exceptionally good at killing people.

Being handed this assignment makes me nervous.

I've killed three Triplers; there's something nice and rounded about that statistic. It suits me. If I get a fourth, it might upset my balance. Not sure how I feel about four. Though I'd be willing to bet nailing four would feel better than getting killed.

This Tripler's name is Kevin Anthade. He's eighteen. Little perv was caught on multiple cams spying in three different ladies' changing rooms at the same time. They tried to arrest him at one site, had the wrong Version – not the Primary – and he slipped away, began a rampage. Government eyeballs saw the red flags, collated the footage, put the pieces together, and called us.

That was eight months and seventeen trackers ago.

Triplers are basically one person that can become three identical people. The Primary can create and operate two other selves – Versions – at the same time as maintaining his normal body. All three can move and think and respond independently, but they are ultimately controlled by one mind. Three entities, one person. When they're Tripling it's impossible to tell which is the Primary – there are no physical giveaways. The two Versions are indistinguishable from the creator. The only way to kill a Tripler is to nail the Primary. Otherwise you're toast.

You have to kill them. There's really no choice. The thing about Triplers is they never stay sane. Once they start flexing their Tripling muscles they get homicidal really quickly, and before you know it the bodies of their victims are stacking up and everything around them is burning. Triplers seem to be inherently unstable and uncontrollable; once they've hit the murderous stage there's no reasoning with them. And even if you do somehow manage to snare the Primary using a non-lethal method and fend off or incapacitate their Versions, in my experience a cornered Tripler will always, always choose suicide over capture. One way or another, being a Tripler is a shortcut to a messy death.

None of our scientists know exactly how it works yet. Phenomenon started six years ago, shortly after that classified UN research plant went up in flames forty miles outside of Prague. One theory is the explosion released an experimental, physics-bending contagion into the local ecosystem which contaminated the wildlife, mutated, and promptly made the jump to humans. It's a good theory, but what's stopping it from becoming fact is any solid evidence whatsoever.

In the beginning Triplers would appear at the rate of four or five every year in and around the capital of the Czech Republic, which is how that Prague plant rumour gained traction. Our organisation would get a call, a tracker would be sent, and the offending biological anomaly would be taken care of. Tripler corpses would be bagged and tagged and sent off for analysis, and operatives would come back full of crazy stories. For a couple of years it was a deeply extraordinary but seemingly contained problem, curious and fucked-up, scientifically exciting, yet small potatoes on a worldwide scale.

Nowadays, however, Triplers show up all over Europe, and there have been a slew of confirmed cases in the US and South America too. Persistent rumours of Tripler activity in the likes of Russia and China also keep doing the rounds. Despite our best efforts to the contrary, their numbers are increasing, and we don't know why.

What we do know from examining the dead ones over the years is this: whatever's causing these cases isn't airborne or easily transmissible. It looks like we're dealing with a unique bloodborne virus with an abnormally low level of infectivity, something that affects only the tiniest percentage of the population. It could be that most people are simply immune, or it could be that there's an underlying, pre-existing medical or genetic condition that connects all the Triplers we've seen so far.

It's not my job to sweat those details, though. It's my job to take down the infected. That's always been the policy: eradication is better than contamination. Every time you wipe out a Tripler, you're stopping the virus dead in its tracks, and saving who knows how many other lives in the process.

Like I said: killing them really is the only choice.

Anthade is apparently holed up in the back of an underground London club called Cube; he has an unspecified but acknowledged association with the owner. Triplers love crowds because they can operate without it being obvious. Three simultaneous perspectives are useful, especially if you know you're being tracked. Hunting a Tripler in here is going to be tough – it's a large, sprawling, popular club. The raw numbers alone will make this difficult.

Also on my mind is the fact that this guy's killed seventeen of my peers, all of whom ranked higher than me in the tracking stakes. I can't discount the idea that he has someone on the inside of my organisation passing him info. He may already know my face.

I'm thirty, so I definitely look out of place. The music sounds like a banshee made of bass puking relentlessly in your ears. Thuddingly dumb but unfeasibly beautiful scantily-clad eighteen year-olds are everywhere in this place, all out of their heads on scrat or whatever the hell kids snort these days. None of them look sober enough to even run if shots start getting fired; we could be looking at some serious collateral damage here if things get messy. They all have the same half-assed, only half-aware expression. The way they're dressed, they all practically look identical. There's a depressing uniformity.

I order a beer and spend the first half hour nursing it and scanning the several hundred patrons for a match. I get nothing. Anthade is not here. Either he's gone, he was never here in the first place, or he's hiding himself very well.

In the gents I take a piss at the urinal and surreptitiously check the weaponry beneath my clothes. I am good to go with two tiny but very powerful handguns – wristspitters – and a thin stack of army-issue mini-grenades.

Then I hear it: the sounds of multiple people in the stalls behind me. There are four stalls in all, three of them occupied. And in every one, I can hear the sounds of people having sex.

The tracker training kicks in. I can sense that it's Anthade. In amongst the cacophony of low grunts and high-pitched moans, a breathless, masculine expletive that escapes from the nearest stall confirms it for me: he's in there. That voice is a perfect match for the numerous audio recordings of Anthade I've heard.

It hits me then: don't know why it didn't occur to me before. What do you do when you're eighteen and can split yourself in three? Of course, you have sex with three different women at once. Because why not?

Tactically, this whole scenario is a gift. Enclosed space, controllable environment, subjects distracted. Silently, I unclip three grenades, one for each stall. I also ready a wristspitter, just in case.

The grenades have a range of ten metres. I'll deploy them and be outside the door when they go off. Then I'll come back in shooting when the smoke clears to blow Anthade's punchdrunk Primary head off, if he's somehow still alive. His conquests in the cubicles will die too, and normally I would never shed innocent blood in this way, but I have my orders. Intel says this guy has already killed thirty-eight people, including seventeen of my colleagues. My over-riding mission priority is to execute him however I can, and I've been explicitly instructed to take my first available shot at him, even if it involves creating human casualties. Don't pause, I was told. Do not hesitate at any cost. The risk of him getting away if I flinch at possible collateral damage is simply too great, and I might never get a second chance to kill him. I can't dick around.

Nevertheless, I can't deny it: killing anyone like this makes me uneasy, no matter how much sense it makes in theory.

I'm about to commit and deploy the grenades when the door opens and a muscular clubber walks in, hand already on his fly. When he sees me he freezes. I point the wristspitter –

And two pairs of rough hands are abruptly slapping me around. The asshole has split! He's a Tripler too –

"You a goddamn tracker?" one of the Versions growls, knocking my weapons away as the other one grabs me around the neck. The sex sounds in the stalls instantly cease. I stare at the Primary, say nothing. Who the fuck is this guy?

"Boy, are you in the wrong place," the muscle-bound kid says.

The stalls open simultaneously. Anthade appears at all three doors, adjusting his clothes. Each Version is followed by a pretty girl. The same pretty girl.

In the blink of an eye, Anthade recombines back into one man. The girl does the same.

I'm held too tightly to move.

I should have known. Despite myself, I almost laugh. Cube. The club's called Cube. How did I miss that?

This is a club for Triplers.

Which means our Tripler problem is far, far worse than we ever imagined.

"There are four hundred of us in here tonight, tracker," hisses Anthade. "You're about to find out what it feels like to get stomped on by twelve hundred pairs of feet all at once."

I feel a sharp impact to my head, and then everything goes black.

When the lights go back on, I'm staring at Anthade. He's standing in front of me, thoughtful, arms folded.

Something is not right.

"Change of tack," he says, shrugging. "We had a vote. Welcome to the promised land."

Something is really not right.

"Jesus Christ," I hear myself say, somewhere over to my left.

"Fuck," my other Version says from behind me.

I can see Anthade from three different angles.

"They say it's a disease," he tells me smugly. "Well, like all good diseases, we've learned how to weaponise it."

I let out three long, low groans.

The nineteenth-best tracker in my organisation is really going to have their work cut out for them.

##### Agent Twenty, Shannon Vanyard. Target: Kevin Anthade

#### |

#### / ONE \

I've been summoned to see The Controller. This is not good news. In our organisation, you don't speak face-to-face with Management. You get your orders over a secure line, you get your mission details as encrypted data files, and you get your weapons delivered by courier. Trackers don't have meetings with the high-ups.

Something must be wrong for Hugo to call me in here.

The Controller is a wide-shouldered, immaculately attired, dark-skinned, shaven-headed behemoth. He exudes capability and health; always has. When he hired me I remember thinking, I wonder if he'll turn into a flabby bureaucrat now he's going to be calling the shots from behind a desk.

Nope.

"Sit down, Twenty," he commands. I do as I'm told. There's no particular warmth in his eyes; all I see is the usual cunning and efficiency.

"We have a problem, Shannon," he says, sitting on the edge of his desk. "A big problem. And we need you to step up to fix it."

Now I know something is wrong. Only my ex-husband has ever called me Shannon; everyone else calls me Shy. Hugo calls me Shy or, if we're in a formal org conversation, Twenty. Him wheeling out Shannon right away is code for this is serious fucking business.

"Number Eighteen," The Controller continues, his voice tinged with contempt, "has been turned."

Number Eighteen: Harry Allwear. Thirty years old. Nailed three big-name Triplers in his time with the organisation. Last assignment: Kevin Anthade.

Anthade's a particularly nasty case. Eighteen was sent to nail him and put a stop to his rampaging. But when Harry didn't check in after six days and Anthade cropped up on CCTV in London, Management understandably assumed their tracker had been killed, just like the previous seventeen operatives.

They were wrong. Harry survived. Something else went down instead.And Eighteen is now a Tripler.

The problem with that is, all Triplers are psychotic and homicidal. A maniac Tripler with Harry's enhanced killing skills is an alarming prospect to say the least.

The other problem is that Harry's my ex-husband.

"Harry killed Nineteen last week," Hugo says. "Here's the visual confirmation."

He shows me the video footage. Sure enough, there's my ex – my ex times three, in fact, cleaving in a man's head with what looks like a fencepost, a plank of wood, and a baseball bat, all at the same time.

Nineteen was no slouch in the violence stakes. In fact, Nineteen was a vicious son-of-a-bitch. I was paired with him once on an assignment. Nineteen never missed an opportunity to spill blood. He was a cold bastard.

Nowadays, a dead cold bastard.

Back when I worked with him, his number was Thirty-Six.

Triplers have really thinned us out lately.

"I need to know," The Controller says, snapping me back into the moment, "that your prior involvement with Harry won't stop you doing your job."

"Don't worry," I say. "I've been looking for an excuse to kill him for the last two years."

Harry cheated on me with my former best friend. It's a story as old as time: the love triangle. Three people stuck in a tangle of shit. How beautifully ironic.

And now I get to go toe-toe with him. Just us, a couple of wristspitters, and a dozen or so mini-grenades.

Hugo tells me the theory they're working on is that Anthade and Harry have somehow become friends and associates. Brainwashing is not being ruled out, but if you ask me, that's hilarious. Harry's a lot of things – a deluded prick, a shithead, a profound disappointment – but he's got an iron will when it comes to combat and confrontations with the enemy. I can't imagine anyone brainwashing Harry. He does what he wants to do.

As he proved with my former best friend Kajsa.

"The other bad news," says Hugo, "is that we've had to reassess what we thought we knew about Tripler numbers. We knew their numbers were on the rise, but if the intel we're getting is correct – and we believe it is – then their numbers are sharply on the rise. The org is about to get a lot busier, Shannon. And that's part of why we want you on this. Intel-gathering will be your secondary mission."

Hugo explains what we know, which is thin at best. Looks like selected Triplers have gotten together and formed some sort of cult, and Harry's their newest convert. What nobody yet understands is how Harry has been transformed into a Tripler. This is not a virus that's easy to contract. Unless you want it.

I definitely don't want it. Why would you want something that actively turned you insane?

"Find Anthade first," says my boss after we've talked over the possibilities, studying me with ice in his eyes. "Get as much information as you can, and then put that kid down for good. After that, track Harry. When you find him – and I'm sure you will – get whatever you can out of him, too. Use any and all pressure points. Use your familiarity and any emotional connection that you might still have. Exploit Harry's weaknesses." The Controller leans forward in his chair for extra emphasis. "And then execute him with extreme prejudice."

Orders don't get much clearer than that.

"Trust me," I say as I leave Hugo's office. I'm already aching to get a weapon in my hand. "Extreme prejudice is guaranteed."

Twelve days and a slew of intel later, I'm in the US, about twenty miles outside of Indianapolis, and I have Anthade in my sights.

Anthade has been visible. But the separate eyes we've had looking for Harry have turned up nothing since the CCTV incident with Nineteen.

But right now it's Anthade I want. The target knows I'm onto him, and he's on the run. What he's doing in this location I can only guess at, but I've got him spooked. He hijacked a car using a gun in a tiny industrial town a few miles back, then cheerfully threw the owner out of the passenger door whilst the vehicle was doing seventy. The car owner will live, by the looks of it. Just.

But then Anthade panicked, or misjudged. He's an experienced killer, but perhaps not an experienced driver. Crashed the Lexus into a barrier at a crossroads, and flipped the vehicle over. Survived, but is possibly hurt. His gun got left in the wreckage. I know because I picked it up and pocketed it.

And now, Anthade is stuck. He has the advantage, what with being able to split into three and all, but all around us are huge flat fields full of corn. Lots of hiding places, yes, but there's no high ground. Plus, so far as I can tell, he's unarmed and maybe bleeding.

I ditched my own car at the side of the road at the crash site. Tracking Anthade on foot is better. Much harder to hunt anyone effectively in a car.

So it's me versus him, a straightforward battle of skill. Exactly how I like it.

Truth is, I'm itching for this fight, and I fancy my odds. As I'd been leaving his office Hugo had said, Shy, remember this guy has killed seventeen trackers. Weapons Division have therefore come up with a little extra firepower for you.

I love Weapons Division.

I have two rapid-shot fully loaded next-gen wristspitters, one strapped to each forearm. These are upgraded with a new mode that can fire an automatic twenty-five feet wide spray of bullets as well as the usual concentrated, three feet wide burst. I've got four spare clips on me for each gun as well, which is more than anyone recommends you carry, but an abundance of ammo always aids my sense of security. I also have eighteen army-issue mini-grenades strapped across my chest, just in case.

Anthade is going down. They estimate he's killed thirty-eight people. Thirty-eight. He's only eighteen years old, for Christ's sake.

I sense that something is amiss with the terrain around me, and then I see it: a telltale gap in the head-high corn. The long stalks have been disturbed, knocked down in a hurry. He's entered the enormous field to my left, and he is obviously in no kind of condition to worry about being subtle.

I pause, check my weapons. It's hard chasing Triplers on foot. In a straightforward footchase, Triplers almost always win, because when they grow tired they simply Triple, and get one of their Versions to turn around and distract or confront their pursuer whilst the Primary gets their breath back, escapes to safety, or finds a fantastic firing position somewhere.

Tricky little shits, in other words.

But I haven't met one yet who can outrun wristspitter bullets.

Weapons primed, I step cautiously into the field.

Blood. Spatters of red patterning the corn stalks. Anthade is bleeding.

It's impossible to say whether this means both of his Versions are bleeding too. If he Tripled before he got injured in the car, then the damage will be limited to the Primary. But if he got injured and has since Tripled – which is the most likely scenario – then each Version will be bleeding too.

I could really do with a handbook for Triplers, because I hate tracking them when there's still so much about Tripling we don't know. No one's had a chance to study these bastards too closely. We've never managed to take one alive yet, which makes studying them particularly hard. If you get a chance to shoot a Tripler, you go in for the kill. That's org policy, and it was always Harry's advice too: if you get a clear shot, then don't dick around.

Harry a Tripler. I still can't believe it.

As I make my way through the corn I can clearly see the city of Indianapolis rising as a vivid urban outline to the west. Why Indianapolis? What's Anthade, an Englishman, doing over here, so far from home?

Thirty metres into the field, I halt, squat down, and listen.

I hear birds cawing. A plane overhead droning. The gentle, hypnotic swaying of the corn stalks. And –

The sounds of several people gasping.

Three Anthades are lying on a bed of trampled corn, collapsed. Each one is pawing at his chest. The blood flows out of three jagged, messy gashes.

Guess that car crash was worse than I thought.

This kid looks so young. His faces are twisted in pain.

"Well, holy shit," I say, stopping about ten metres away and training my two wristspitters on him. "Turns out, sometimes dreams do come true." On my spray setting, at this range, he will be dead as soon as I give a flick of my finger, no matter which of the trio is the Primary.

Anthade, times three, looks forlornly up at me.

"You're Shannon," the Version furthest from me gasps, recognition in his eyes. "You're Harry's wife."

"Ex-wife, Anthade. Harry's been dead to me a long time. But that's fine. Let's talk a bit about him, shall we?" I'm shocked that this kid knows who I am, but I'm not about to let that show.

"Harry's one of us now," the Anthade nearest me sneers through his pain. "He belongs to the cause."

"The cause? What cause is that? Three seats on every bicycle?"

Anthade, summoning his courage, grins at me from his three positions on the ground. In those simultaneous grins I see flickerings of the madman that has killed thirty-eight other human beings.

"You don't know, do you?" The middle Anthade starts to laugh, and the laugh quickly degenerates into a hacking, squelchy cough. "Your organisation really is as backward and clueless as Harry said."

I smile back at all three of him. "Anthade. Look at your wounds. You're going to bleed out soon, all of you. It comes down to this: you can die slow, or you can die fast."

"Fuck you, tracker."

I smile more widely, fractionally move my finger, and set the wristspitter in my left hand to narrow beam.

"Let's take a chance," I say. "I'm guessing the Version of you here, on my left, is not the Primary Anthade. Let's see how good my intuition is."

I squeeze the trigger. The Anthade closest to me goes down as his chest explodes in a mass of blood and gore. Then, a second or so after exploding, the splattered bits appear to get sucked back into each other, and the whole corpse suddenly starts imploding. The remains of that Anthade shrink down to a speck in the air, and then disappear. Moments later there's no trace of that Version anywhere.

There's something you don't see every day. I've killed two Triplers, but both times I got lucky and nailed the Primary at the same time as the others, with the result being that they all died simultaneously. You kill a Primary, they die like a human. There's none of that imploding shit, and the other two Versions simply vanish as if they were never there in the first place. I've only ever seen implosions on recorded incident footage.

The other two Anthades scream obscenities at me, but they don't die or disappear. What I've heard from other trackers is that pain makes it harder for Primaries to Triple. Let's test that out. Even if he manages to get a new, replacement Version into existence, it's going to be weak, bleeding, and badly damaged, just like the Primary. And – again, if everything we know is correct – standing at this distance I should also be right on the edge of his Tripling range.

"So now we've got a fifty-fifty chance," I say, training one wristspitter on each of the remaining Versions. "I like those odds. I guess this makes you a Doubler now."

As I'm talking I'm looking for concealed weapons or anything else the Anthades might be hiding. Triplers, when cornered, have an annoying habit of committing suicide. Contrary to what I want him to think, I don't want Anthade dying until I'm ready for him to do so.

On the periphery of my vision, I catch movement. A smudge of red. I turn around, fractionally, for a better look. I'm expecting to see Anthade's new Version lurching at me, clutching his guts. The state he's in, I doubt he'll even be able to stand upright.

But it isn't him I see.

Incongruously, there's a little girl of seven or eight dressed in a wide-brimmed straw sun hat and a bright primary red T-shirt and shorts over in the far corner of the field. She's wending her way from one field to the next, oblivious to what is going on. Far as I can tell, she hasn't seen us. Farmer's daughter, by the looks of it. Carefree. Innocent. As I watch, keeping one eye firmly on Anthade the whole time, the little girl stretches up to the sun in the clear blue sky, dancing around in circles.

I was like her once. Exactly like her. I even loved red.

There was a time when I was that innocent.

And then I learned how to use a gun.

"Hey, Shannon," Anthade says.

I give him the benefit of my full attention once more, trying to shake off the surreal quality of the sight.

"Tell me where Harry is, Anthade, or both of your bodies are going to lose some limbs."

"No," says a voice in my ear.

A blunt object is driven into the side of my head, and I stumble heavily onto the ground, seeing stars, galaxies, black holes, on the very edge of consciousness. I dumbly raise my head, bringing up my wristspitters –

But then someone is on top of me, holding my wrists down. It's Anthade's Version, wielding a huge stone. But something doesn't look right. Something doesn't make sense.

This Anthade is completely unhurt. No blood, no sign of any injuries.

Tripling is not supposed to work like this.

But then it hits me: Anthade has killed seventeen trackers. He's not your average Tripler.

Maybe one of the ways he's succeeded in killing so many of us is that he's not like the others. Maybe if you kill one of his damaged Versions, they come back perfect, copying an earlier original, unhurt template.

Like hitting a fucking reset button.

"Consider this a message from Harry, bitch," says Anthade.

He bashes me in the head again, and my vision swims, warps, lurches –

I see the little girl in red, but the force of the blow makes her into two little girls, then three –

And then I feel a final bolt of pain, and the lights go out completely.

#### |

#### / TWO \

If he can't do it, don't worry. I'm more than happy to mess this bitch up.

In the dark, that's what I'm hearing. Fine words to wake up to, Shy. My mind snaps into gear immediately: I've been captured.

Fine. I'll send him down, says another voice, this one also male, though considerably older-sounding. South African, maybe. I hear a solid door snap shut. The sound tells me I'm in a relatively small space. A small to medium-sized room; a storeroom, perhaps.

I keep my eyes shut, and curb the powerful impulse to shift position. No need for anyone nearby to know I've regained consciousness yet. Tracker training is brutal, but comprehensive. It teaches you to automatically latch onto whatever perceived advantage you think you have and then immediately move to maximise that advantage. In this case, I have consciousness when my enemy doesn't realise I have consciousness. With great effort, I stay still, assessing my situation.

I'm strapped to a cold metal chair with what feels like electrical wire, head slumped forward. My arms and legs are protesting where the binds are digging into me. I'm intact, so far as I can tell. I don't appear to be bleeding. That's surprising, and fortuitous.

The air is warm, stale. I can smell fumes of alcohol in the air. My captors have taken my coat, and obviously removed my weapons, but otherwise I'm still dressed. I have cramp in my extremities, but it's not yet serious.

The first talker is hovering, studying me. Can feel the gaze, smell a hint of sweat. Male. The two of us are alone together, or as alone together as you can ever be with a Tripler.

There's no doubt in my mind that it's Anthade looming over me.

I listen, trying to tune into specific sounds. I can hear muffled music, a repetitive bass rhythm pulsing insistently from somewhere overhead. From the way the room smells and the feel of the air, I'm going to bet they're holding me in the back room of a club somewhere.

My brain starts fitting it together. Harry was heading to a club called Cube in London when he disappeared. That club closed down two days later, though there was no evidence at the time to suggest the two things were linked.

Somehow I doubt I'm in London. But what if Cube is part of an international chain of clubs? And what if Indianapolis has one?

I hear the person opposite me shift position. I'd guess he's wondering how best to wake me up, how best to get me quaking in my boots from the get-go.

I examine the other sensory information I'm receiving. I might be broadly intact, but my skull still feels like someone has taken an industrial sander to it, and all the sounds I can hear come with an accompanying painful second-long echo, as if I'm hearing them inside a long and vast tunnel. My right ear is also a ball of endlessly thrumming pain.

I remember very clearly Anthade standing over me, psychotic smile on his face, smashing the stone down on my head.

Little prick is going to pay for that.

Behind my back, the fingers of my tied-together hands touch.

A callused palm slaps my cheek. It's designed to be a short, sharp smack.

"Shannon," trills a familiar voice, goading me. "SHANNON!"

I open my eyes and pretend to stir, playing up the grogginess and confusion.

And there's Anthade, having just Tripled. All three of him look much better than they did in the cornfield. He's got a new set of clothes, some colour in his face, a swagger to his movements. A manufactured swagger, and I'd guess he's still in pain, but anyway. Somebody's patched him up.

Baggy clothes too, I notice on the three of them. No visible bandages. Important, as a torturer, to show no signs of weakness.

As for the environment: I was right. My prison is a medium-sized windowless store room, with just a single bright bulb burning overhead. There's disused furniture stacked in one corner, but otherwise the room is empty. No CCTV or other cams that I can see in my immediate line of sight, either. Good.

"I'm not going to lie to you," the Anthade in front of me says mockingly, crossing his arms. Another Version, over to my left, adopts the same stance. "One way or another, tracker whore, you're going to die today. The choices are: you can go slow, or you can go slower. Both ways are going to be painful and humiliating. This I promise."

"Anthade," I murmur, testing my voice, "if it stops me having to listen to your self-aggrandising bullshit, then I absolutely welcome death."

The angry punch to my head is predictable, but still hurts like fuck around the already tender top of my head. The Version that's been behind me walks into view to join the other two, grinning.

"We're going to cut you in half, tracker bitch," he says, running a hand through his hair.

I suck the pain in, grit my teeth, breath deep.

Now that I can see all three of them, my fingers go to work.

The nail on each of my middle fingers is false. As my torturer and his Versions leer at me, still enjoying their self-satisfied grins, I work the nail from my left hand free.

"You know what? You're quite hot for an old bird," the Anthade to my far right says. "Nice tits, anyway. If you weren't Harry's ex I'd have you spread out right now, and I'd be taking turns with my selves."

"I'm sure even with three of you, I'd hardly feel it," I sneer.

The Anthade in the centre kicks me hard in the stomach, making the chair rock on its legs and knocking the breath clean out of my body.

He steps forward. There's rage in his eyes; I've really riled him up.

"Trust me," he breathes hotly in my ear, "you'd feel it."

I have the nail detached. Inside is a very small, half-inch razor-sharp blade. As I regain my breath and Anthade backs away I slide it out, and begin soundlessly slicing through the electrical wire around my wrists.

Captors always want to tie your hands together. They always want to remove your nails later, during the actual torture process. Never think to check them over first.

I'm three-quarters of the way through my cutting job when the door opens.

My heart simultaneously soars and sinks.

It's Harry.

It's quite a moment, seeing your ex-husband for the first time after a gap of over two years. It's even more of a moment when you're strapped to a chair against your will and you know your ex has become a psychotic killer that can split into three people.

He looks pale, haunted, and twitchy, but then he's always looked like that. It's what attracted me to him in the first place. His shoulders seem bigger, though; he's been hitting the gym since we broke up. Hair's shorter, military-style, suits him. Clothes are a little rumpled, implying that he had to travel to get here.

His eyes look me over. They're full of something, many things, but I don't know what exactly yet. Too much going on.

Funny reunion, this. I want to kiss him and murder him, all at the same time. Neither are currently viable actions. It's not a million miles from how I felt when we were married.

The door slams shut behind him. Harry stands there, rigid and stiff like the soldier he's always been, staring intently at me, face magnificently unreadable, not saying a word. Anthade, meanwhile, is still grinning away like some kind of asylum inmate.

"Hi honey," I say, addressing Harry. Might as well be me that gets the ball rolling. "As you may have gathered, I'm number Twenty in the organisation now."

He scowls at me, brow twisting into its familiar knot. Harry has acquired the body language of a wild beast, trapped in a cage, barely contained. Looking at him, all of a sudden it seems he's studying me with bewilderment. As if he's never seen me before in his life.

In my head, I see him beating Nineteen to death three different ways.

"So here we fucking are, Harry," the Anthade closest to him says. "Welcome to our very special event. Thromlin tell you why you've been invited to this party?"

Slowly, Harry stares from me to Anthade. Frankly, I'm relieved to get his gaze off me.

At the back of my chair, my fingers have not stopped working.

"I think it's pretty fucking obvious why I'm here," Harry says. His voice is more of a bark, but it's steady. Idly, I wonder what sort of weapons he's packing, and then, bizarrely, if he's been eating right lately.

"It's what needs to happen, Harry. Thromlin says this is it, your last test. We need to know all she knows, for the good of the fucking cause, man. So we're going to torture your old bitch wife, and then you're going to be the one that cuts her head off, okay? It's what Thromlin wants. And after this, you're done. You're all the way in, man. Full access. Thromlin needs a capable right hand. You're it, once you prove you can truly sever all ties with your past." All three Anthades stare pointedly at me, sickly smiles plastered to their faces once more. "Sever being the operative word," the talker adds, bending down to open a kitbag that turns out to be predictably packed with a variety of shiny knives, cleavers, and other gouging and cutting tools. One of his Versions picks out a knife and positively beams with delight.

At this, Harry flicks his bemused gaze back to me.

The last time I saw Harry, we fought. I don't mean we argued, either. We fought with hunting knives, and then, when they got knocked to the floor, it was full-on hand-to-hand combat. I'd just found out he'd cheated on me. I wanted blood, and I was determined to get it.

We both ended up in hospital.

Different hospitals.

After that, we divorced through our legal people. Spoke on the phone a few times, ranted and screamed, but never saw each other. We were never in the same place at the same time.

Too dangerous.

Harry has a cleaver in his meaty hand, and an expression on his face I cannot fathom. The Anthades hang back, watching, waiting. Anticipating the first cut.

"I guess it was always going to come to this," I say as he closes in on me. "You, me, a bunch of weapons, and a torture scenario. Hell, if this was the Hilton, it could almost be our honeymoon."

Harry's eyes are boring into mine. A whole bunch of quirks work their way around his face that I don't recall ever having seen before.

It's scary, actually. Disturbing to witness. Like someone else trying to get out.

Or maybe, more precisely, two someone elses.

"You have no idea," he says, haltingly, "what this is like, Shannon."

"That's right, Harry," one of the Anthades calls. "She can never understand, because she's one of them. A fucking normal. Your lesser. Cut her up, Harry. Do it. Do it for the cause."

Harry looks at the enormous cleaver in his own hand, like he's wondering how it even got there in the first place. And then his fingers close more tightly around its handle.

All Triplers are psychotic. We know this. And Harry wasn't wholly sane to begin with...

"Do me one favour before you start slicing me up," I say to him, playing for time. "Triple for me. I need to see it with my own eyes, Harry. I need to believe it. I need to see what you've become."

He pauses. A tiny shiver, a flex, passes through the length of his body, like he's shaking something off. And then, all of a sudden, in a blink, there's three of him.

Three ex-husbands in a row. Now I really am stuck in my worst nightmare.

The one in the middle steps towards me, cleaver raised.

#### |

#### / THREE \

I was pretty sure, up until thirty seconds ago, that Harry wouldn't torture and kill me. But now I'm not quite so certain. The way the three of him are looking at me, I see murder in their eyes. I see an abnormal, unhinged, unnatural energy. And I see naked, undisguised bloodlust.

It's hard to keep watch on three Anthades and three Harry Allwears at once. Takes some doing.

Behind my back, I've finished slicing through the wire. I hold the pieces together for show, just in case, mini-blade nestling in my palm.

One of Harry is now so close I can smell his godawful musky cologne.

I've got one move here, one more thing to try. And if that works – if – then I get to test an interesting theory that I've hit upon about Triplers.

All or nothing, Shy...

"Harry," I say to the armed, slowly advancing Version, "It may surprise you to learn that I've fantasised about this scenario. But in my fantasy, it's you in this chair, and I'm the one with the cleaver. Look, I understand that this is the way it has to be... that this is the way it always had to be... but you should know something. Despite my best efforts, despite the resentment and the hurt and the acid burn of bitterness that still eats at my guts every single time I look at you... I still care about you, Harry. It fucking pains me to say it. But part of me is still your wife."

A moment passes. The air in the room feels one hundred times heavier, and I brace myself for something. A blow to head, a derisive laugh, a dismissive snort.

But no. Instead there it is, in his eyes: confusion. Or confusion of a different kind to that which existed moments before, anyway. Suddenly, instantaneously, Harry reintegrates and is one man again. He turns around to Anthade, the Anthade on the right. The one that, coincidentally, is nearest to me.

"I'm not —" Harry begins.

He doesn't get to finish his sentence.

I fling myself out of the chair at the nearest Anthade, clutching my tiny blade. In two lightning steps I'm on him. And then, even as I see his Versions moving in frantically to grab me, even as I feel two sets of panicked hands on my neck and back, I'm jabbing my arm at Anthade, and with one single brutal curve of my wrist I slit his throat from ear to ear.

Anthade's neck fountains vivid red blood. He gurgles angrily, disbelievingly, bits of him splattering over his desperate fingers as he claws at the wound, and then he obligingly collapses to the floor. His Versions, bereft of their life-giving Primary, vanish and die around me.

I whirl around to Harry. I'm blood-sprayed now, poised for more combat, and all I have is this shockingly tiny blade. Facing him and his cleaver, I feel abruptly ridiculous.

I'm acutely aware there's a kitbag full of blades on the sticky floor between the two of us, however. If he goes for me, I'll have to block the blow, and scramble on the floor for the nearest knives.

And then I really am going to kill him.

Harry, still as a statue, glares at me.

Then, very slowly, he lowers the cleaver in his hand.

"How did you know?" he demands. "How did you know that was the Primary? There's no physical difference."

"I have a theory," I say, bending down to gather up the torturer's kitbag. I pick up two of the biggest knives first, one for each hand, and then sling the bag over my shoulder, feeling instantly better. "The theory goes like this: Triplers, in times of stress and in close proximity to each other, will always address the Primary in a conversation where one or more of them has Versions in the room. Could be an unconscious thing. Maybe it's instinctual, a survival mechanism of some sort. I don't know. Anyway," I add, glancing pointedly at Anthade's blood-soaked corpse, "my theory seems to have been proven."

I look back, and Harry meets my gaze once more. His tics have calmed down, but they're still present.

"Or maybe I'm just lucky," I say. "So, let's talk business. How many people out there in this club today, Harry?"

He tilts his head, frowns. "I counted twelve. Thromlin's people. All members of his faithful flock."

"All Triplers?"

"Yeah. So what now, Shannon?"

"If I had to guess," I tell him, raising my knives, "I'd say carnage. What weapons have you got on you?"

He reaches into his jacket and produces his standard-issue wristspitter, which he straps on and clicks into place in one easy motion. The sight of it fills me with envy.

"I've got this," he says.

"Do you know where they've stashed my weapons?"

"I reckon I can guess."

"Well okay then," I say, removing my other false nail. This one was specially crafted for me by Weapons Division; it's packed with a tiny amount of high-powered explosive, about enough to blow up a decent-sized car.

I stand ready at the door. "Shall we?"

Harry nods.

"After you, then. Seeing as you've got the gun."

Harry throws open the door, and immediately starts firing. I almost crack a smile.

Just like old times.

What follows is messy. When I said I was anticipating carnage, I wasn't lying. The wristspitter cuts down four non-Tripled hostiles that we encounter in rapid succession, and then all hell breaks loose. Armed with only the knives and my explosive charge I manage to blow up a wall and take down two unarmed Primaries, finishing them both with stabs to the neck, but suddenly it seems everyone else has a gun, and one of the barrage of shots whizzing past my head grazes my left temple.

Weird thing. In the middle of the battle and with blood oozing out of my forehead, I think I see a little girl in red, escaping through a window. One second she's there, the next, nothing.

More Triplers seem to be piling in on us, all of them armed, all of them baying for blood.

In the midst of the fight there's Harry, still the best close-combat fighter I have ever seen, in three places at once, his Versions battling different enemies as his Primary lets off round after round from the wristspitter.

I have no idea how that works. How can you control two other selves and successfully concentrate on three separate, but related fights? How do you hold all that in your head, the multiple perspectives, the necessary moves and counter-moves, the incredible amount of variables?

We're backed into a corridor in the bowels of the club, taking heavy fire and in danger of being cornered, when we finally find the room with my weapons.

After that, with my brand new wristspitters on a wide-spray setting and my mini-grenades finding their marks one after the other, the rest of the firefight is over very quickly.

Down the road and safely away from the smoking remains of Indianapolis' incarnation of Cube, I wipe the blood from my head, borrow Harry's phone, and put in a call to Management.

"Yeah," I say. "I have Harry. But there's been a change of circumstances. He's just helped me kill a lot of Triplers. He wants to come home, so I'm bringing him in."

Hugo, understandably, has some concerns. I listen impatiently as he voices them.

"Look," I say, "Harry found himself in a unique situation and decided a deep cover operation was the most useful way forward. He's ready to give us all the intel he's managed to gather. And in return, we're going to have to help him."

Harry watches me from multiple positions in the parking lot, smoking three cigarettes at once.

We take Harry's car, and I opt to drive.

"The org has a safehouse and medical centre about ninety miles east," I say, swinging the car out onto the highway.

Harry grunts.

As we drive, I keep having to look twice in my rearview mirror. Periodically there are two other Harrys on the back seat. They keep appearing and disappearing, just sitting there, saying nothing. It's freaking me out.

I let some minutes pass, and then I have to ask him something.

"What's it like?" I say as we overtake a huge haulage truck.

The Harry in the passenger seat turns to me, face twitching. He knows what I mean.

After a few seconds the Versions on the back seat disappear and he says, "What's it like? It's like having multiple fucking personality disorder, except each one of the personalities is me, and they can all talk at the same time." His voice, which had been agitated, softens slightly. "I'm me, but there are two other mes inside this body as well, both of them with voices exactly as loud as my own. And it's chaos, Shannon. In here." He taps the side of his head, stares out at the bland, unchanging scenery. "Our brains aren't meant for this shit. That's the truth. You think we only split into three when we Triple, but that's wrong. The three of you are always there, under the surface. The only time you feel relaxed and in control and remotely at peace is when you're physically Tripling. And when you're Tripling, about all you want to do is kill and destroy."

I stare at him, try a smile. "You even want to kill me?"

"Shannon. Just drive."

"Okay. But if you're really going so crazy, how come you're managing to hold it together here and now?"

He sighs. "I'm not, Shannon. Believe me, I'm really not."

His Versions appear again on the back seat, full of nervous energy.

I take the hint, and put my foot down.

Five miles out from the safehouse, I have to pull over and get out of the car.

"What is it?" Harry demands warily, scanning the road.

"I thought I saw something," I say, my eyes roving the landscape next to us.

"What?"

I'm about to tell him, but then I realise I can't. I'm going to sound crazy.

From the car, I'd thought I'd seen a little girl in a red outfit and a straw hat ducking into the bushes.

I'd thought I'd seen me. As an eight year-old. Just like in the cornfield with Anthade.

"False alarm," I say, climbing back behind the wheel. "It's been a long day, Harry."

Eleven days later, I am once again back inside The Controller's slick, minimalist office. Debrief.

"Harry has willingly submitted to every test and answered every question we can throw at him," my boss says, clasping his large hands behind his back and watching me intently from across the office. "And this is what we know as a result. As I said to you before, there are far more Triplers in existence than we ever suspected. Certainly hundreds, possibly thousands. We had thought that most Triplers were isolated cases of seemingly random human beings stricken with a disease. We believed that the infected went mad within a matter of months, became pathologically homicidal, and operated by themselves, for themselves. We were wrong. Not only are there many more of them than we originally thought, it turns out they are organised, united, motivated, capable, and have resources, an agenda, and a very clear network."

"You really believe they're that organised?"

The Controller nods once, his eyes full of distaste. "We're certain of it. Harry has identified a command structure of sorts, and a central leadership figure: Raymond Thromlin, a wealthy American businessman-turned-terrorism funder based in and around Indianapolis. Harry also claimed that there are vast numbers of Triplers at Thromlin's disposal. An army's worth, Shannon, all with weapons and financing behind them."

An army of Triplers, all potentially as murderous and insane as Anthade.

I shift position in my chair.

"What else?"

"We know they're experimenting. We know they've managed to weaponise the Tripler virus. We believe they have an endgame."

"Let me guess," I say. "They're the new superior species of human. The rest of us have to die."

Hugo shrugs, picks up a glass of water from his desk, and takes a sip. It's the most casual thing I've ever seen him do in this office.

"We think they're planning two things: widespread conversion with their weaponised virus, to swell their ranks still further, and then widespread destruction to make way for their new world order."

I ponder the implications of that for a moment. My hands are itching for wristspitters in them all of a sudden.

"So what happens to Harry now?" I ask.

The Controller sets his glass down. "We keep testing. Our specialists believe they can design a comprehensive programme of drugs to keep Harry from going insane. They can't cure his Tripling – at least not yet – but they think he might ultimately be able to exert complete control over his condition, if they get the meds right. And that's a big if."

"What if they do get it right? Will you let him back out into the field?"

"That remains to be seen. If the Triplers are raising an army, then it won't hurt us to have someone with their skills on our side. The strategic advantage will be... sizeable. But Harry back in the field is a long way off, I'm afraid. Six months at least."

Six months. The lack of action will drive him crazy, let alone the extra voices in his head.

"Anything more?"

"Only this, an unexpected development: we're still analysing Anthade's blood. There are things in his DNA profile that we've never seen before. He'd been biologically tweaked, Shy. The likes of Doctor Rennard and Doctor Foster will be able to explain it better than me, but it looks a lot like he had some kind of in-built chemical defence mechanism. Under duress, when his fear response was triggered, he would have secreted some kind of mild hallucinogen. Whatever it is seems very effective against normal humans, lasts a long time, and serves to disorientate potential predators."

Well. That explains the little girl in red, then. Maybe you're not mad after all, Shy.

At least, not yet.

"What I'm saying," Hugo adds, "is supremely well done for killing him. But for the future: watch your back. There could be more like him, or others in possession of tweaks which give them other abilities."

I nod, and rub my hands together to stop the itching. "So where does this leave us going forward?" I ask.

"It leaves us with you, number One. And it leaves us to prepare a counter-offensive."

He picks up a thin file, strides over to me, and places it in my hands. "Suspected Tripler activity in the US over the last week," he says. "We'd like you to handpick a team and take the fight directly to Thromlin. You'll be given considerable resources. As a result of all this new intel, our budget has been greatly upgraded."

A team. America. This is different, new. Serious change of Management tack.

I reach for the file and glance at it. I see words like explosives, hijack, robbery, murder.

I've nailed eleven Triplers so far.

Looks like I'm going to be fighting a lot more of them in the very near future.

* * *

A former freelance journalist, during his developmental years **Neil Vogler** wrote television scripts, screenplays, novellas, and radio skits. Aside from his stint in the world of journalism he has had a diverse range of jobs and has at one time or another been a shelf stacker, a barman, a busker, and a hard-bitten wine adviser.

Neil's writing was initially recognised in 2012 when one of his short stories was featured on the literature development charity Literature Works' inaugural podcast for showcasing the best new writing in the South West UK Region. He lives in Devon.

A lifelong science fiction and fantasy fan, he is signed to December House and writes sci-fi action thrillers and contemporary fiction. He occasionally blogs at awriterhemuttered.blogspot.com. If you wish to get in contact with Neil, please see his blog for email details, or find him on Twitter @Neilvogler.

Harry and Shannon's story continues in  _Tripler: Book #1 of the Tripler Trilogy. S_ ee Neil's web site for details.

## From the Case Files of Charlie Madison, Private Investigator:

# Doppelgänger's Curse

## by Milo James Fowler

1

They called it the City of Angels, once upon a time. But that was before the fallen variety started roaming our congested streets and dark alleys, seeking whom they might devour. Figuratively speaking. The only demons I'd ever seen were flesh and blood—human beings who'd lost track of their humanity. Too many to count.

For the past quarter century or so, the city was officially designated as Sector 51.7634 by the United World government. Had a nice ring to it, but probably wouldn't look too good on one of those I Heart T-shirts. Not that tourists visited our town much anymore. There were other places to go and things to see—like that big green lady with the torch on the east coast. What was left of her reminded folks of the good old days, back when immigrants by the thousands flocked to our shores seeking freedom and a better life.

Now they came seeking refuge from the Eastern Conglomerate's warmongering.

The woman seated in my office was no immigrant, neither Russian nor Japanese. But she shimmered like a heavenly creature, and if I hadn't known any better, I might have confused her with the real deal. Gorgeous copper hair flowed over the shoulders of her raincoat, every centimeter charged with a protective layer of static. One of the best ways to keep the acid rains assaulting our fair city from ruining one's fairer complexion, or from burning holes through what could have easily been a thousand-credit coat.

"I need your help, Mr. Madison," she said, leaning toward me. She sat with her legs crossed, her form-fitting skirt ending at the knee. Her electrostatic overlay ran down to the soles of her flashy scarlet pumps, ensuring that not a viscous drop of rain touched her flawless skin. The girl glowed, but I had a feeling she would have been just as gorgeous without the protective layer. Her emerald eyes stared at me from a curtain of long lashes that had yet to blink. "My life is in danger, you see."

Such was often the case when folks came to see yours truly: Charlie Madison, detective.

"Have you gone to the cops?" A perfunctory question. I already knew the answer: your average citizen tended to avoid local law enforcement. Even the police who weren't tied to the mob had their own ideas about looking out for the common good, and justice seldom entered the equation.

"They wouldn't believe me." She clutched a black-sequined handbag on her lap. "It's too bizarre."

I leaned back in my faux-leather desk chair until it squeaked. Fizzing raindrops drummed against the windowpane behind me like impatient fingers. Amber light from the streetlamp eight stories below filtered through venetian blinds, painting the woman before me in dim, diagonal stripes.

"Maybe you'd better tell me all about it," I said.

"Then you'll take my case?"

I held up a hand to slow her down. "Haven't agreed on anything yet."

"Money is no object, I assure you." She paused, cocking her head to one side. "You have no idea who I am." Her tone wasn't conceited. She sounded curious, like I was a lone oddity in her privileged life.

"You have the bearing of a woman with means. Other than that, I'm sorry, no." Her face didn't ring a bell.

"Does the name Forsythe mean anything to you? As in Alexander Forsythe?"

"Sure." The man had made a fortune on our city's mass transit system, back in the day. The hyperail was still in working order, last time I checked. But call me old-fashioned; I preferred taking a cab or hoofing it rather than trusting my life to a bullet train. "You're too young to be his daughter."

"Granddaughter." She smiled slightly, lips curving at the corners into small dimples. "Amanda Forsythe."

I nodded. "And you're saying the cops wouldn't be any help to a Forsythe?"

"I may have..." She cleared her throat, eyebrows contorting. "They don't take me seriously, Mr. Madison. Over the years, I have unfortunately...cried wolf far too often, if you catch my meaning."

"I see."

"But those days are far behind me now. I'm a mature woman, not a silly girl looking for attention."

She still looked girlish. Couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

"Regardless, you've garnered some unwanted attention. Is that it?"

"Why, yes." She went back to unblinking mode. "Someone wants to kill me. I've received threats—"

"That's nothing new though, is it, Miss Forsythe? There's always going to be some nut job out there wanting a piece of your pie. Or maybe this is something different. Someone suffering from unrequited love?"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's—" She dropped her gaze, fingers tensely massaging her purse. "You're going to think I'm crazy too."

"Try me."

"All right." She sat up straight, chin held high. Probably learned that posture in finishing school. "There is a woman who looks exactly like me. She's stalking me, Mr. Madison. She's sending me threatening messages, and I'm not afraid to admit I'm just about at my wit's end."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Every day for the past two weeks. She will leave a note—handwritten, not a ping on the Link—on the windshield of my car, beneath the wiper. Or under the mat by my front door. Or delivered by a waiter in a restaurant or coffee shop." She popped open her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of half-sheets creased down the middle. "Here. I've kept them all. I don't know why. Maybe to prove this is really happening to me, that I'm not losing my mind. Not yet."

I leaned forward, reaching across the desk to take them. Each note had been written in the same penmanship—all caps—on the same sort of stiff recycled paper. Nothing sent over the Link, which would have been possible to trace.

"There's no room in this world for the both of us," I read one of the notes aloud. The same message appeared on every piece of paper in one form or another.

"Then I received this one less than an hour ago." She handed me another note. "My driver found it slipped into the doorframe of my car as he opened the door for me."

SAY GOODBYE TO THIS WORLD

I glanced up from the paper. "How do you know she left it?"

"Because she's always there—fifty, a hundred meters away—when I receive one of these. She watches to make sure I've gotten it, then she vanishes into the crowd."

"Couldn't it be a hologram? Somebody projecting an image of you to get your goat?"

"No, nothing like that. Our neighborhood does not allow the use of obnoxious holo-advertisements and the like. There's no way it could be one of those holograms."

Of course not. The high society end of town would have field dampeners installed to prevent such garish displays of free enterprise.

"No offense," I said, "but how can I be sure I'm not looking at a hologram right now?"

She blinked, bewildered. Then she noticed my gaze briefly trace the outline of her static cling.

"Oh, forgive me. I forget to deactivate it sometimes." She pressed a small node behind her ear, and the energy shield dissipated, revealing the gorgeous girl minus the glow. "I get so used to wearing it when I'm out in weather like this."

"Of course." Only the fanciest of toys for the rich and famous. For the rest of us, we had that trusty protective polymer we sprayed on our coats. Extended their lifetimes by a year or two, if we were lucky. "Miss Forsythe—"

"Amanda."

"I'm not sure how I can help you. If a threat has been made on your life, then you have to go to the police."

"I told you. They won't help me. But I don't need them anyway."

"You need a bodyguard."

"I have one." She nodded toward the front office beyond my closed door where Wanda Wood, my personal assistant, was busy babysitting the big guy in the tailored suit. "What I need is you, Mr. Madison. I need you to find out who this woman is and what she wants from me."

"I'd say it's fairly clear." I gestured toward the notes strewn across my desk. "What about this?" I sorted through the papers and held up one in particular that had stood out from the rest.

NO ONE CAN HELP YOU

Her slender shoulders shifted up and down. "What about it?"

"If she doesn't want you going for help, she won't be too happy about you coming to see me." If she existed at all. "Couldn't this be some sort of harmless prank? Maybe a long-lost twin you never knew about?"

"I'm an only child, Mr. Madison. And I don't have any cousins, if that's what you're going to ask me next." She leaned forward without a hint of levity in her cool-eyed gaze. "I'll pay double your rates for the evening. I'll wine you, dine you. If she shows up, you'll follow her and find out who she is. If she doesn't, you can forget you ever saw me." She paused. "Because I'll probably be dead by this time tomorrow."

Overly dramatic? Maybe. But with the possibility of four hundred credits staring me in the face, I wasn't going to argue.

I stood, buttoning my suit jacket. "How am I dressed?"

She almost smiled. "You'll do nicely."

2

Grabbing my trench coat off the rack across from Wanda's desk, I nodded to Amanda's hired muscle and noted the metallic sheen of his left hand. Most likely a fellow veteran; but unlike me, not all of his limbs had come back from the war intact. Wish I could say I'd returned home unwounded. But not every injury inflicted by the Eastern Conglomerate could be seen by the naked eye.

"You can go on home," I told Wanda. "See you in the morning."

I didn't need to remind her to lock up. Between the two of us, she was never the one to forget.

"You goin' out?" She rose to her feet at her desk, leaving her Underwood to sit untended. The thing had been rigged to work with her Slate, antique keystrokes working in conjunction with a touchscreen. The girl was quirky all right, and I wouldn't have had her any other way.

"Miss Forsythe is treating me to dinner."

Wanda looked Amanda over with the mistrust born of class distinctions. Don't get me wrong, Wanda was as classy as they came; she just wasn't born with a single silver spoon in any of her mother's kitchen drawers.

"We're glad to have you as a client, Miss Forsythe," Wanda said in a clipped tone. "Payment for Mr. Madison's time—"

"Has already been wired to his account." Amanda didn't bother to grace Wanda with a glance. Activating her rain shield, she took the arm of her imposing bodyguard who'd yet to show a single facial expression, and the two of them exited into the main hallway outside. "Coming, Mr. Madison?"

I leaned over and gave Wanda a peck on the cheek. The girl smelled like lavender soap, and she was a real looker with those bottomless blue sapphire eyes, blonde curls that bounced across her shoulders, and legs that wouldn't quit. Smart too, blessed with what they called a perfect memory. Nothing ever slipped past her unnoticed.

"You don't usually date your clients, Charlie," she said quietly, turning her back to the door and leaning against her desk.

"They don't usually pay me double." I gave her a nudge. "You jealous?"

"Of her? Yeah, right. Spoiled brat's got a stalker, right?"

"You guessed it." Unless she'd been eavesdropping. Wouldn't put it past her.

"Dangerous?" She gazed up at me.

"We'll see." I patted the slight bulge under my left arm where I kept my .38 Smith & Wesson snapped in a shoulder holster. "Don't you worry."

"Not you I'm worried about." She nodded toward the hallway where Amanda and her escort waited patiently. "It's Little Miss Sparkle Toes."

"We get a few more cases that pay this good, you might be able to buy your own fancy rain shield."

"That'll be the day, Charlie."

Probably right. But at least I'd be able to pay the rent on this place as well as my apartment. As of late, it tended to be a financial juggling act when the bills came due. The last thing I wanted was to live out of my office; but if push came to shove, I'd sooner lose my flat than my place of business.

At least the office made money—every now and then.

3

Our first stop was Leonardo's, an Italian bistro on Broadway where Amanda's driver remained parked at the curb under the pouring rain in a slick black sedan. Her bodyguard sat at the bar, keeping his eyes on us in the mirror behind the rows of wine bottles. Amanda and I took a table for two by the front window where we both had a decent view of the deluge and vacant sidewalks outside. Not to say it wasn't crowded out there. Hovering right outside the rain-spattered glass like small UFOs were half a dozen weather-beaten paparazzi-cams vying for the best shot of Miss Forsythe and her mystery date. She didn't seem to take notice of them at all.

"Popular spot." I glanced across the heads of our fellow patrons, numbering close to a hundred and packing the place, wall to wall. Not a single flowing copper lock among them to be seen.

"Safety in numbers, right?" She deactivated her electrostatic shield and surveyed the menu, swiping her index finger across the display in the glass tabletop. "What looks good to you? The lasagna's a little heavy from what I recall, but the sauce is to die for."

Being stalked by her own doppelgänger—not to mention those cameras—hadn't affected her appetite, by all appearances. "Your call."

She glanced up. "You're easy."

"Just along for the ride."

She studied me for a moment. "Have you always been a detective, Mr. Madison?"

"Depends on what you mean by always."

"Fine." She tapped the menu, ordering two plates of lasagna and a bottle of the house merlot. I didn't usually drink on the job, but I wouldn't mind filling up on rich Italian fare tonight. "How long, then?"

"A few years."

"And before that?"

"The war. Same as your bodyguard, if I'm not mistaken."

She nodded. "Brock was a surgeon. Lost his right arm and both legs overseas."

The arm I'd noticed, not the legs. Prosthetics were getting better all the time at mimicking natural human movement.

"I don't think he likes me." I glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He eyed me coolly.

"He's just overprotective, that's all. It's been hard on him, these past couple weeks. He wants to keep me safe." She tried to laugh it off, changing the subject. "What about you, Mr. Madison? Did you lose anything in battle?" Her gaze drifted down my torso.

"Nothing that shows." Seeing my gunner squad mowed down by a platoon of E.C. mandroids with meter-long bayonets, slicing through them like sickles through bloody wheat—that sort of thing sticks with you. Changes you on the inside where nobody can see. But while it's one thing to be a haunted man, it's something else entirely to let it interfere with your work.

"You ever feel like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

"How's that?" I focused on her.

"This supposed cold war—it's like a pregnant pause, really. We're just waiting to see who will make the first move. Us or them."

"Let's hope they take a nice long while deciding." The Eastern Conglomerate would never join the United World; China and her allies had made that clear enough from the start. But the current global stalemate was the closest thing to peace our weary old planet had experienced in decades. I didn't mind it one bit.

She smiled faintly. "So you came back a war hero, and you—"

"Never said that."

She shrugged. "You made it back alive. I figure that qualifies you as a hero. So you get back to the city, and then what—you decide to become a detective? Just like that?"

"I liked the idea of being my own boss." After years of taking orders from pig-headed UW commanders, I knew I'd never be able to work for the government again. Or anybody else, for that matter. "Thought I could make a difference."

"Here?" She scoffed. "This town is the pits, in case you haven't noticed. Between the mob and the politicians, it's a wonder we haven't been quarantined. Why stay? You're not tied down here, are you? Do you have a family or something?"

Nothing like that. I had friends. I could count them on one hand, but they were all the family I needed.

"Some might say this city's a lost cause, but I don't see it that way. Sure, Ivan's mob runs things, and most of the cops are on his payroll. But there are still people in this town who want to see it cleaned up. I figure if I can help out some of those people, I'm doing what I can to make this city a better place."

"People like me." She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth; they hadn't come cheap. "Honestly, Mr. Madison, I wasn't sure you'd still be in business. I found you listed on the Link, but nowadays you don't hear much about private investigators anymore, you know?"

"We're a dying breed." The Link now made it possible for just about anybody to play detective—as long as what you were after was in range of the nearest vid-cam. But for dark business that often took place off the grid, your local gumshoe came in real handy. "Not that I mind the lack of competition."

The waiter arrived with our steaming lasagna, bread sticks, and wine. I kept an eye on Amanda's bodyguard as we ate. His gaze hadn't wavered from our table; his face remained an expressionless mask.

"Has he seen your double?" I nodded toward the bar as I dug into my meal.

"Brock? Yes. Every time. Jerry too—my driver."

"How many times would that be now?"

"More than a dozen."

"With the notes increasingly threatening?"

She nodded. Then she stared, open-mouthed. Not real ladylike, showing off that half-chewed mouthful of mush. But as I turned to follow her gaze outside, I saw what had attracted her attention.

She stared for good reason.

There stood her doppelgänger in the pouring rain, sheltered under a flimsy umbrella and wearing a slick black raincoat. Same gorgeous copper locks flowing over her shoulders, but no sparkling electrostatic protection.

Keeping the umbrella between her and the paparazzi-cams, she pointed a revolver straight at Amanda.

4

"Get down!"

I knocked our table over and grabbed Amanda by the wrist, pulling her behind it just as a shot took out the front window. Glass exploded in razor-like shards, skittering across the tile. Gusts of cold wind swept the invading rain inside Leonardo's.

"This way, Miss Forsythe," said Brock the bodyguard, standing between Amanda and what remained of the shattered window. Somehow, he'd managed to launch himself more than twenty meters from the bar in the blink of an eye. Now he stood brooding over her like a hen protecting one of its chicks.

"Where is she?" Amanda demanded, furious but weak in the knees.

"Gone." I stepped outside, crunching glass under my shoes. I squinted into the rain as I put on my hat. Not as fancy as an electrostatic shield, but it did its job. "You get all that?" I shouted up at the floating cameras.

Lenses flared and retracted, whirring in midair. Remote-controlled by some nameless, faceless voyeur who got paid to sit on his ass all day. Laziest job in the world, if you ask me. But good work if you could get it.

Remembering what Amanda had said about her double always leaving a note, I headed down the street toward her car.

Jerry the driver stepped out, shielding himself uselessly against the rain with one hand. The hybrid sedan sat with its engine off.

"Is Miss Forsythe all right?" Jerry said in a shaky voice.

I nodded. "You see which way the shooter went?"

He pointed back the way I'd come.

"Same woman?"

"What?"

"Miss Forsythe's stalker."

"I believe so."

"You saw the whole thing?"

He nodded.

"Didn't think to tap the horn or anything? Scare the woman off?"

Jerry cursed. "I had no idea she was armed!"

"She ever tried taking a shot before?"

He shook his head. "Should I call the police?"

"Yeah. I really think you should."

I backtracked past Leonardo's, heading up the sidewalk, looking for any sign of the woman. Zilch. No idea who she was or what she wanted, but one thing I knew for sure: this was a police matter now. Attempted murder was nothing to sneeze at. Whether or not the cops believed Amanda's story was beside the point. She had witnesses—including footage soon to be all over the Link—of that woman pulling the trigger. It was no ghost of her attention-seeking, overactive imagination. It was the real deal that could, apparently, disappear into the night without leaving a trace.

Too bad those hover-cams hadn't been tasked with following the shooter. The paparazzi were too busy selling their footage to the highest bidder.

By the time I hoofed it back to the restaurant, the owner had already activated an electrostatic barrier in place of the missing window to keep the rain out, and the patrons had settled down somewhat. Brock stood in the street where Amanda's car was now double-parked, engine silently idling. He held the rear door open as she slipped inside.

"Hold on," I said as I approached. "The cops will want to question—"

Brock slammed the door shut before I could make eye contact with the girl. He turned to face me, his mechanical hand landing squarely on my chest.

"Miss Forsythe's safety is my only concern, Mr. Madison," the bodyguard said in a low tone. I noticed the bullet hole in his right shoulder, torn straight through his suit jacket. Good thing there was only a metal prosthesis underneath, or he would have been bleeding out. But in order to intercept that round as it plowed through the front window, he must have seen the shooter before Amanda or I even laid eyes on her. "The police will be directed to Forsythe Manor. They will question her there. Her dealings with you are over. Permanently."

Not exactly the case. She'd paid me for two days' work, minus expenses, and so far I'd worked less than an hour. I planned on finding out who that doppelgänger was, and why she wanted Amanda dead—whether or not Brock the cyborg let me anywhere near her.

I wasn't a dog with a bone. I was just a man who liked to see things through.

5

When I got back to my office, I expected the place to be empty. But Wanda hadn't followed my instructions too good.

"Had a feeling you'd be back," she said as I let myself in. "Once I saw this."

She detached her Slate from its Underwood dock and handed it to me. Displayed across the glass touchscreen were multiple Link facets, each playing the same scene on a loop: the umbrella-carrying shooter out front of Leonardo's; the massive bodyguard lunging in the way of a speeding bullet; yours truly on the floor with Amanda Forsythe behind an overturned table, covered in shattered glass. Had to hand it to those paparazzi-cams; they'd gotten some decent footage.

Oddly enough though, none of the scrolling headlines had anything to do with the attempted murder. Instead, they focused on—

"See right there? New love interest," Wanda pointed, reading over my shoulder. "What could socialite Amanda Forsythe possibly see in one of the last private eye's to hang a shingle in this town?"

"Shingle?" Who used that term anymore?

"Has she grown desperate in her old age—" Wanda continued to read.

"The girl's not even thirty, for crying out loud!"

"—or just slumming it for kicks?"

"Next time I see a paparazzi-bot, I'm considering it open season." I patted my holstered .38 and handed the Slate back to her. "They don't care that somebody took a shot at her. All they're concerned about is her love life."

"Is there any?" Wanda raised an eyebrow, folding her arms.

"We barely got into dinner. And I have a feeling dessert wasn't on the menu." I rubbed my face with both hands and blew out a sigh. "Listen, since you're here—"

"Actually, I'm on my way out. My boss told me to go home early, but you know, I had a few things to finish up. Now that's done, so..." She placed her Slate back into its typewriter housing and reached for her coat. "I'll see you tomorrow, Charlie."

"Would it make any difference if I needed your help?"

She paused. "Would it pay overtime?"

"Time and a half."

"Double."

The kid drove a hard bargain. "Deal." I pointed at her Slate. "I need you to dig up whatever you can on Amanda's bodyguard, Brock. Her driver, too: name's Jerry."

"Last names?" She slipped her phone over one ear.

"No clue." I gave her a wink. "But that shouldn't be much trouble for you, Tech Wiz."

"Caveman," she muttered with the makings of a smile, her gaze already transfixed on whatever invisible facets she'd opened in her mind's eye.

That's how the Link worked; it took everything you'd normally finger-swipe through on a touchscreen and projected it into your field of vision—but only yours. Nobody else could see what you were looking at. Phones hijacked your visual cortex or something, transmitting audio along with the visual stimuli. Real fancy, but I'd sooner be caught dead than wear one of those things. Machines and me hadn't gotten along real well since the war; I had no desire to rely on technology in any of its forms. Besides, all it would take was another EMP airstrike from the Eastern Conglomerate, and the Link would go the way of its much more impressive predecessor, something they used to call the Internet.

"What do you want to know?" Wanda said, smacking that signature wad of gum.

"How long they've been working for the Forsythe clan. What their backgrounds are. Brock's a veteran, half-machine." From the moment I met him, I got the feeling he didn't approve of Amanda seeking out my help. Why? Didn't he want to know who that stalker was?

"And this Jerry guy?"

"He saw the whole thing—that woman with the umbrella opening fire on the restaurant. Said he hadn't noticed a gun in her hand. Guy with eyesight that bad shouldn't be driving for anybody."

She nodded, looking like she was staring at the office door; but I knew those gorgeous unblinking blues were taking in all manner of data on Amanda Forsythe's hired help.

"You've got a call coming in from the 37th precinct," she murmured, multitasking. "Sergeant Douglass would like to speak with you about the incident at the restaurant."

That was fast. But then again, the incident did involve a photogenic city socialite.

"Route it through my intercom," I said, opening the door to my office.

"Already done," Wanda replied. Tech Wiz at work.

Navigating my way through the dark office, I managed to make it to my desk without banging my shins into anything. Lights out kept the electric bills low, regardless of the bruises. Collapsing into my faux-leather desk chair, I flipped the switch on the intercom.

"Charlie?" Douglass's brogue came through louder than necessary.

"Who else?"

"Right." He chuckled. Nothing in the world could dampen his spirits. One of the last honest cops in town, a man I was lucky to call my friend. "Listen, I just need to verify you were at Leonardo's this evening—when the shootin' took place."

"You know I was." Otherwise, he wouldn't have called.

"Yeah, sure," he hemmed and hawed. Then he came out with it: "I hate to do this to you. I know time's are tough and all, and I'm sure Miss Forsythe is a real big fish."

"Paid me double."

"You don't say? Well, that makes this twice as hard then." He paused. "You've gotta step off the case, lad. This is a police matter now, and we've got the girl in protective custody. You know how that goes. No interference from the private sector." Subtext: I'd be arrested on sight if I didn't follow his advice, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Have your detectives questioned her yet?"

"Heading over there now. Stankic and Bellincioni—"

"Stinkin' and Blinkin'," I muttered with a curse. Dirty cops, both of them. Detective Stankic was a slob with an affinity for garlic and onions and sauces that stained every tie he knotted around his mottled throat. Detective Bellincioni had a nervous tick that caused her to blink one long-lashed eye more often than was necessary. Hence my nicknames for them—which sounded more than a little like their actual surnames. They didn't like it, but that was all right. We had what you might call a working antagonistic relationship.

"Hey, I don't like 'em any more than you do, Charlie. But the captain assigned 'em this case. I'm just holdin' down the fort tonight. If Miss Forsythe doesn't agree to come over and ID the shooter, they'll keep her home under watch until the perp is apprehended."

"You see that footage on the Link?"

He scoffed. "Damned hover-bots. Damned paparazzi! Didn't even think to swoop lower and get a good look at the shooter's face, now did they?"

"I saw her face."

Douglass paused. "Did you now?"

Didn't matter. I was off the case. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

I signed off and returned to Wanda's front office. She held up a finger to keep me from breaking her concentration. Then she pointed that finger at her Slate. Spilling across the screen were rapid-fire mental notes she was making as she concluded her Link search.

"Well, Charlie, that will either put you to sleep tonight or put your mind at ease." She rubbed at her eyes as she removed the phone from her ear and slipped it into her purse. "Either way, it's late, and I'm goin' home."

I retrieved her Slate from the Underwood. "Everything here?"

"Everything I could find." She pulled on her coat and stifled a yawn. "Both upstanding gentlemen, by all accounts. Been workin' for the Forsythe clan for years. Came highly recommended, the usual."

"Easily accessible information?" I raised an eyebrow.

She graced me with a sly smile. "Sure. If you know where to look. See you tomorrow, Charlie." She opened the door to the hallway and gave me a wink. "Don't stay up too late. You need your beauty sleep same as anybody else."

With that, she was gone. And I was left to scroll through virtual pages of notes on Brock Moynihan and Jerry Gunderson, two men who'd been in the employ of the Forsythe estate for decades. Amanda's father had hired them both around the same time, back when she'd started high school. Had he been worried about the boys at her school? Jerry had been her driver from the start, and Brock her bodyguard, escorting her to and from classes. That had to be fun for the poor girl. Not much room for a social life.

But things had changed when she went away to college, out of state. Neither fellow went with her. Both men started working for her father instead. Brock lost a leg in a car accident, protecting Mr. Forsythe from an oncoming vehicle—so not all of his prosthetics were thanks to the war. Amanda had been wrong about that. Jerry's eyesight was never brought into question. Both men appeared to be above reproach.

When Amanda's father became ill, she returned home from college and never finished out her senior year, choosing instead to sit at her father's bedside. Her mother had passed away a year or two before, but that hadn't interfered with Amanda's studies. Daddy's girl? Oh yeah. When her old man finally kicked the bucket, the entire Forsythe estate became hers. Who needs an education when you're set for life?

Brock and Jerry stayed on, reprising their roles as her personal bodyguard and driver. Life went on—until just a couple weeks ago, when this doppelgänger showed up out of the blue.

A knock sounded against the frosted glass of the office door. Outside, I could make out the shadowy form of someone standing in the hallway. Wanda? Had she forgotten her keys? Unlikely. The girl was like an elephant in the memory department.

With her Slate in one hand, I unlocked the door—of course she'd battened down the hatches on her way out—and pulled it open. Smiling at her, I said, "Forget something?"

My smile faltered. I didn't say anything more. I thought about going for my gun instead.

"Mr. Madison?" said Amanda Forsythe, dripping wet in a slick black raincoat. She held a collapsed umbrella down at her side. "You're Charlie Madison, right? The detective?"

6

I nodded toward my name on the door.

"Right." She blinked up at me. Her hair wasn't as immaculate as Amanda's and her facial art—mascara, lip rouge, the rest—wasn't as pristinely maintained, but this girl shared the same face. Uncanny. Her voice, however, was lower by an octave. She'd spared no expense to look like the socialite, but tampering with the voice box was tricky. Maybe she hadn't wanted to take her obsession that far. "You were at the restaurant—"

"So were you. Target practice?"

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't—" She nodded with determination. "I've been afraid something like that might happen."

"That you'd try to kill her?"

"That I'd lose it. You can only press someone so far, Mr. Madison, before they...break."

She appeared to be speaking from personal experience. "The cops are looking for you," I said. "Attempted murder on a local socialite? Not something you'll be able to put behind you anytime soon."

"I wasn't trying to..." She squeezed her forehead, swooning all of a sudden as she stared at the hallway's tile floor. "I didn't want to kill her. Not really. I just...wanted to scare her—in a big way."

"Her bodyguard took the bullet."

"Brock's half-machine. He'll be fine." She raised one hand and leaned against the wall. Her emerald eyes glanced past me at my dark office. "I could really use somebody to talk to."

"Are you armed?"

"Search me." She opened her raincoat. No electrostatic filter for her. This doppelgänger was a commoner like the rest of us. "Or take my word for it. No, I'm not. I tossed that gun as soon as I could. Can't believe I fired the thing."

I studied her umbrella for a moment. Lethal in the right hands, sure; but those hands of hers didn't look like the type. Deciding to give her the benefit of the doubt—whoever she really was—I stepped aside and gestured for her to come on in. Pointing at the futon couch next to Wanda's potted lily, I waited for her to take the hint and sit herself down. Then I closed the door to the hallway, but not before making sure it was empty outside. She hadn't been followed by cops or hover-bots—or any accomplices, from what I could tell.

"So, you like to write." I set Wanda's Slate into its Underwood moorings and leaned back against the desk.

"Write?"

"Threatening notes, mostly. By hand. Old school, but I can respect that. I'm something of a Luddite myself." I folded my arms. "What I can't understand is what you hope to get out of it. Having yourself surgically altered to look like her. Stalking her. Scaring her. What's your endgame?"

"You should ask her the same thing. It's been going on for weeks now. I can't figure it out. Believe me, I've tried. Do they want me to lose it and kill myself? Is that what they're after? With me gone, do they think they'll get everything? Live off my inheritance and die of old age together?"

"They?"

"The imposter and her cronies—Brock and Jerry. They've been plotting against me!"

Crazy talk.

"You mentioned Brock before. War veteran, upstanding guy from what I can tell. Lost his second leg protecting Amanda's father."

"No, he didn't." She cursed mildly under her breath, her fingers kneading the hem of her raincoat. "My father told that to the press to cover up what really happened. He didn't want them to know about Brock's weird little hobbies."

"Your father?" I almost smiled. Before I had a chance to weigh the potential consequences of challenging a sociopath's delusion, I said, "I see. You actually think you're Amanda Forsythe."

"Of course I am," she said wearily, shaking her head. "Who else would I be?"

A delusional doppelgänger—the spitting image of Amanda Forsythe with some sort of malicious intent I couldn't for the life of me figure out.

"How do you think Brock lost his leg?" I said.

"Playing with explosives. It's his thing. He's something of a mad scientist, really. He makes these gas-bombs and uses them as practical jokes. Believe me, growing up with that guy around all the time? It got old real fast."

"So you're saying the woman I had dinner with, the woman wanting me to track you down—" I paused, looking her over. "You're saying she's the imposter."

"That's right." She raised her chin regally.

"And her hired help are working with her—assisting in the charade?"

She nodded. "I need you to help me reclaim my life, Mr. Madison. I can't go to the police, they'll never believe me." She bit her lip for a moment. "I used to be quite the spoiled brat, you see. When dear old Mommy and Daddy wouldn't bestow enough of their kindly attention on me, I would call the cops, tell them I was being abused. Neglected, perhaps, but never to the extent I fabricated for local law enforcement. I'm a laughingstock to them now. They probably read about me stalking her and think she deserves it. Because they think she's me!"

Short of administering a DNA test, how was I to know if she was who she said she was? "Amanda—the other Amanda—paid me double to take her case. What can you offer?"

The fire went out of her eyes. "I barely have enough to live on. They've left me with that much, you see. I rent a flat off Market Street, and I can buy food. But that's it. They cancelled two of my credit lines, and the one I have left is closely monitored. The balance is never more than what I need for the day." She paused. "They're keeping me alive so I'll lose my mind. So I'll off myself, and they'll be rid of me without getting their hands dirty."

Either she had an incredibly inventive imagination, laced with all manner of paranoia, or she was telling me the truth. In which case the first Amanda had played me for a fool, hoping to include me in her staged play. But to what end? She said she wanted me to find out who her stalker was, follow her and find out what she wanted. All right. The stalker had come to me instead, and I'd found out more than I bargained for—assuming any of it was on the level.

According to this woman, she was the real Amanda Forsythe, and all she wanted was her life back. Simple as that.

My job was done. Now what? Contact my client and tell her what I'd discovered? That would go over well.

"I can't pay you now, but when this is over—" she went on.

"She's in protective custody. It won't be easy to get to her." Detectives Stinkin' and Blinkin' would see to that, not to mention Brock the bodyguard. A gas-bomb hobby? Weird. "That's what you want, right? To confront her?"

She blinked. Her eyes were glassy. "I don't know. But I can't let her steal my life from me. This has to stop."

"If you show up at her place—your place—you'll be arrested." I paused. "But that could be for the best. Get everything aired out, once and for all. They could run a DNA test on the both of you—"

"I want you to prove she isn't who she says she is." She got to her feet, gripping the umbrella down at her side. "That's all. Can you do that?" She pulled open the hallway door and stepped outside. "Mr. Madison, please." She was struggling to maintain her composure now. "Will you—even though I can't pay for your services?"

"If what you say is true, then you've already paid me." Via her imposter. "And if it isn't, well...She paid me double, like I said." So I had another day to see how the case panned out. "I'll do what I can."

"Thank you." She nodded vigorously, causing either tears or viscous raindrops to ooze down her cheeks. "I'm sorry I got your couch wet. I have to go. Good night." She shut the door, and her heels clopped quickly down the hallway outside.

7

I briefly considered following her back to wherever she lived, to corroborate that part of her story, but that's when a ping came through on Wanda's Slate. Incoming message—video file. Addressed to me.

Curious, I tapped it open and watched as a scene from earlier that evening replayed before my eyes. The vantage point was different this time. Instead of looking at Amanda from behind my desk as she sparkled there in her electrostatic shield, I now hovered near the ceiling. Strange. I didn't recall there being any sort of recording device in my office at the time. I wouldn't have allowed it.

Maybe this was standard operating procedure for the rich and famous; they did seem to enjoy being on camera at all hours of the day and night. And a personal micro-sized hover-bot could have been concealed under an invisibility cloak or some other illegal tech. But that's not what bothered me most about the footage.

The audio had been doctored.

"I need you to take care of her," Amanda was saying. "Permanently."

"I'm no hitman," I replied. My voice, but I'd never said that.

"Detective, hitman—you'll be whatever I need you to be. I've wired payment for your services, double your rates. I expect that girl to be dead by morning. You've killed before. You were in the war. This should not be a problem for you."

"Maybe if I knew who she was...Why she has to die."

"She's a dangerous psychotic. She's surgically transformed herself to look identical to me. And she's threatening my life. I'm scared, Mr. Madison. Won't you help me?"

I watched as the on-screen version of me stood and buttoned his suit jacket. "How do I look?"

Amanda smiled. "Like a killer."

The video ended there. No message attached. No clue who'd sent it. Wanda would have been able to find out where it originated, but I'd have to wait until morning for her help. In the meantime, all I could do was play the video back a couple times and marvel at the seamless audio overlay. Our lips moved completely in sync with a bizarre script we'd never written.

"What the hell is going on here?" I muttered.

Was someone setting me up for an impending murder? Implicating Amanda (or her imposter) in the death of her stalker (or the real Amanda Forsythe)? Why drag me into this mess?

No chance I'd be going home now. Sleep had retreated far beyond my grasp. I clenched and unclenched my fists, staring at the frozen image on the screen. Me standing there looking like a doofus, ready to do my mistress's bidding. Any tech wiz worth their byte would be able to tell the video had been tampered with. Right? No way anybody would take it seriously.

Then why was my pulse racing?

There were two police detectives already on this case who wouldn't think twice about locking me up: Stankic and Bellincioni, providing protective custody for Amanda—the first Amanda who'd come to see me. If whoever had sent me this video sent them the same thing—

My intercom bleeped. Wanda had it set up in her absence to receive and send calls without her Link interface. No way to screen the caller with my low-tech device, but that didn't matter. Right then, I needed a diversion.

Dropping into my desk chair, I flipped the switch and answered, "Madison."

Silence answered, punctuated only by the rain drumming and sloshing against the windowpane behind me.

"Hello?" I checked the intercom, making sure the thing was still plugged in.

"Drop the case," came a man's muffled voice. Unrecognizable.

"Did you send that video?"

"Forget about Amanda Forsythe."

"Can't do that." She came to see me twice, after all.

"He wants her dead."

"Who does?"

"With the police hanging around, he'll force you to do it. He wants her out of the picture. He can't do it himself. He's...not right."

"Who? Give me a name."

"I've already said too much, Mr. Madison."

He ended the call.

I flipped off the intercom and cursed, rocking back in my chair. Who was that? Brock the bodyguard? Jerry the driver? The second Amanda had said they were working with the imposter. Had one of them gotten cold feet, decided to cut me loose? Too late for that. One of them had sent the video, had rigged a silent, invisible camera to record the whole thing when the first Amanda sought my help. Which one was more likely to possess the requisite audio-tampering skills? A cyborg who liked playing with explosives? Or a chauffeur with poor eyesight?

Better question: which one was more likely to lose his nerve?

8

I had to get out of there. Figuring some fresh air would do me good, I shut down Wanda's Slate and tucked it into a bottom desk drawer. Paranoid? Maybe. I could have deleted the video, but I needed her to check it out first, find out who'd sent it. Verify the audio was fabricated.

Forgoing the elevator in favor of a little exercise, I took the stairs down the eight flights to the ground floor. I pulled my fedora down low and popped my coat collar, going for as much protection as possible as I stepped out into the acid rain. My destination: the news stand on the corner of the block.

Sure, it was late—or early, depending on your sleeping habits. But I had a feeling old Mr. Newspaper would be at his post. He always liked the wee hours before dawn, said they set him at ease. He wasn't one of those people who needed noise to distract him from his sorrows. He was comfortable in the quiet. Lucky devil.

I may have saved his frozen ass once in the war, back when we were stationed in St. Petersburg during the dead of winter. He was my commanding officer in those days, a time we'd both worked hard to put far behind us. For the most part, I'd say we succeeded.

I found him arranging stacks of periodicals bound in twine beneath his stand's rain-battered awning. All that paper—it was hard to believe eReaders had been so hot on everybody's New Year's Eve list when I was a kid. Some tech fads just had a way of dying out, helped along by the Eastern Conglomerate's EMP bombardment of major United World cities.

"How's it hangin', Charlie?" He glanced up at me with a grin around his chipped pipe.

"A little uptight," I admitted. "Nothing a little poisoned rain can't cure."

He chuckled. "I think we're immune."

He'd once told me the chemicals we were exposed to in the war had already done all the damage anybody could take, and he was now impervious to whatever else this crumbling world had to throw at him. Maybe I subscribed to the same theory.

"Popular girl." I gestured toward a pile of tabloids he'd dropped onto a stack of newspapers that would go out in the morning. Amanda Forsythe's face was all over the covers.

"Our city's little darling." He raised a bushy eyebrow at me. "How was the dinner conversation?"

"Cut short." I glanced at the text splashed across one of the cover photos. There it was, in black and white—the same thing Wanda had shown me on the Link. The gorgeous socialite was slumming it with a washed-up detective. Not those words exactly, but that was the gist. "I might be in over my head on this one."

"You two run in different circles. What were you expecting?" He was ribbing me, of course. I could see the look in his eye. "But you're not here about your love life."

"No problems there."

"Because it's nonexistent."

"Less trouble that way."

He snorted and grinned. "You find out who the stalker is?"

"Found out who she thinks she is."

"And that's thrown you."

"A bit." I tugged one of the tabloids free and stared into Amanda's beautiful eyes. Only two-dimensional, but more than reminiscent of the real deal. "The men who work for her—they might've hatched some harebrained scheme. Maybe it's about money, I don't know. But it's taken a dark turn, and they've roped me into the middle of it."

"They expect you to play a part in their game?"

"They're gearing up to force me to."

"Well then. You know what to do about that." He stared back at me. "Do what you always do—what they least expect!"

"Right." Easier said than done.

Part of me wanted to head over to Market Street and start ringing doorbells until I found the second Amanda. But that would be playing right into their hands—whoever had sent that video. If I found her dead, it wouldn't look good at all. I'd be the prime suspect. Another part of me wanted to go straight to the first Amanda's mansion where Stinkin' and Blinkin' had her under watch. Tell her about the video and her double. See how things panned out.

Which was the more unexpected course of action? If only I could've cloned myself and headed both directions at once. That sure as hell would have surprised all parties concerned.

"I'll go home and get some shut-eye. Nobody will see that coming."

He shrugged. "Sure. Sleep on it. An answer may reveal itself to you in dreamland."

I would've laughed if that had never happened before.

"How much?" I nodded at the rag in my hand and reached for my ident card.

"You know your money's no good, Charlie. If it helps with your case, consider it gratis." He paused then, eyebrows contorted as he stared into the night for a moment. "You know, now that I think about it, I remember something in one of the gossip columns about her bodyguard. The big guy with the prosthetics. Back when she went off to college and left him behind, he got hurt. Lost his other leg."

"I've heard the stories. It either involved a berserk vehicle or an explosion."

"Add this to your list of culprits: rumor had it he did it on purpose. For attention. Maybe he felt neglected and abandoned."

"He thought she'd come back. But she didn't."

"Not even for her own mother's funeral. He didn't stand a chance."

"You're saying he was sweet on her." More than that. Obsessive.

Mr. Newspaper tapped his wrinkled earlobe. "I hear things is all. Sometimes the voices make sense, you know?" He gave me a wink and went back to sorting through his stacks.

I'd made up my mind. I wouldn't be paying a visit to either of the Amandas, and I was too amped to head home with any thought of sleep. Instead, I decided to head over to Brock's domicile.

9

Very few perks came along with being a veteran of the United World Armed Forces. If you came home in one piece, you counted yourself lucky. I'd learned long ago not to expect anything in return for my years of service. The United World government was too busy licking its wounds, grateful for the current cold war respite to regroup while the Eastern Conglomerate did the same. But as a detective, I found my ever-helpful VA rep. to be a virtual fount of information.

"What's that name again? I've got the files open here." Carol was on the east coast, three hours ahead. Still early, but not so bad that she'd let my call go straight to the mailbox.

"Brock Moynihan. Ran into him just yesterday. It's been years, you know?" I kept my back to the half dozen patrons in Howard's Tavern, each one silently drinking alone. Before me in the cramped phone booth, a dingy wallscreen the size of a file folder glowed with my rep's image on it. She hadn't gotten ready for the day yet, and she didn't seem to mind me seeing her in slinky pajamas. Adjusting her glasses, she parked stray strands of her graying brunette hair over one ear and peered at the Slate in her hands.

"Were you stationed together?" Her eyebrows knitted as she finger-swiped the tablet's screen.

"No, but we might have gotten a little drunk before we shipped out."

"Might have?" She glanced up at me.

"I'm a little fuzzy on the particulars. It was a crazy night."

"I'll bet." She went back to tapping on her Slate.

"I should've asked when I saw him yesterday, but it all happened so fast. We each had places to go, people to be."

"How's the private eye gig working out for you, Charlie?"

"It pays the bills." Sometimes.

"Well, this is interesting." She glanced at me again. "Says here you both have someone in common: a Miss Amanda Forsythe. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"She's a client."

"Apparently, Mr. Moynihan works for her as a bodyguard." She paused, chewing her lip. "What's this really about, Charlie? Did you even know Brock Moynihan existed until yesterday?"

Should've known better. She was almost as sharp as Wanda. Almost—because nobody on the planet was, as far as I could tell. Wanda's perfect memory had a way of setting her apart.

"A woman's life is in jeopardy. I think Brock Moynihan can help."

She blinked at me. "Well, that's all you had to say." She rattled off his address, and I filed it away, pretty sure I'd remember even without Wanda's total recall. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Charlie?" She dropped the Slate beside her and slipped off the glasses. The vid-cam's perspective shifted upward, and I saw that Carol was sitting in a large bed with rumpled sheets. She smiled at me and toyed with the top button of her purple silk pajamas.

"Never enough time in the day." I gave her a wink and tapped the screen, ending the call.

10

Brock Moynihan didn't live on the bad side of town. But he wasn't in the same zip code as his employer, either. Plenty of holograms glowed into the night, up and down his street, advertising everything from cold medicine to birth control. I had a feeling he'd still be with Amanda and the cops at Forsythe Manor, and I hoped to have free run of his place. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of mad scientist's laboratory I might stumble upon as I picked the lock and let myself in.

I found nothing of the sort. Not right away, anyhow. The place was bare, Spartan. A torn, overstuffed couch faced an old cabinet-style TV. I shut the front door on the dark, fourth-floor hallway outside and went room to room, keeping an eye out for what might turn up. The guy didn't spend much time there; that much was obvious. A couple bottles of beer in the otherwise empty fridge, a bag of low sodium potato chips in one of the cupboards. If he was obsessed with Amanda, it made sense he would spend all of his time around her. And if she was an imposter, then it also made sense he'd be close by to make sure she kept up appearances.

No computer. No file cabinet. No paperwork of any kind stored anywhere. The place had the feel of a well-worn safe house to it. The bed was made, military fashion; the closet contained one change of clothes. Looked exactly like the suit he'd worn earlier.

I don't know what made me check the back wall of the closet. Detective's intuition, maybe. The storage space was far too small, considering the size of the sliding door. There had to be some kind of partition covering additional storage.

There was another sliding door in the rear of the closet, padlocked shut. Interesting—just enough to get me to draw my revolver and break the lock. The door jerked aside, half-sliding with stubborn resistance as I shoved it open. Impenetrable darkness met my eyes along with the sharp odor of cleansers and other chemicals. Odd place to keep such things—right next to your bedroom.

I felt along the wall inside that secret room, but there was no light switch. I drew my lighter and flipped the cap. The flame leapt upward, splashing its flickering glow across the prison cell walls. That's what the space looked like, without the niceties. Instead of a steel toilet, there was a dentist's chair bolted to the floor. Instead of mostly naked ladies, only one woman's picture graced the walls in dozens of photographs. Each one had been taken of the girl lying in that surgical chair, undergoing various procedures. Plastic surgery, by the looks of things. Each before-or-after photo was labeled in black marker with a date. Seven years ago—that's when they'd all been taken over the course of six months. That's when this red-haired girl had undergone her transformation. In this cramped, sterile room, Amanda Forsythe's double had been created.

But the process wasn't complete. Recent images lined the edge of one wall: photos of Amanda's neck and throat alongside anatomical diagrams of the larynx. Handwritten notes had been made, a date set for the following week. Dr. Brock Moynihan was preparing to take Amanda's double under the knife one more time.

Would he ever be satisfied with her? Or was that her curse—to exist in the shadow of the real Amanda?

The front door creaked on its hinges, echoing in the front room. No footfalls. I must have neglected to shut it all the way. Old buildings tended to have warped doorframes, either too tight or too loose. Closing and pocketing my lighter, I kept my revolver out just in case I'd be dealing with unwanted company. For the time being, I left Brock's secret surgical lair and passed through the short hallway toward the couch and TV.

A large man in a gas mask faced my direction, shutting the door quietly behind him. The insectoid eye sockets and elephantine proboscis of the mask gave him a decidedly non-human look as he squared his shoulders and stared at me. Streaks of dim light from the streetlight outside cut through slats in the window blinds by the couch. Otherwise, the place was draped in silent shadows.

"How did you get this address?" Brock's muffled voice came through the thick rubber.

"Pays to have connections." I raised my .38 toward his shoulder of flesh—the left one. "Why the mask?"

"Because of this." He held up what looked like a gas grenade. No wonder he didn't keep much around the place, if this was what he liked to do in his free time.

"Planning on stinking up the joint?"

"Put down your gun, Mr. Madison. I would hate for you to wake my neighbors. They are elderly citizens, most of them. They need what little sleep they can get."

"Very considerate of you." I cocked the hammer. "Listen, since I've got you here, I've been hearing some conflicting stories about that leg of yours. The one you didn't lose in the war. First it was a vehicle you intercepted on its way toward Amanda's father. Then it was an explosion in your gas-lab. Less than an hour ago, I heard you may have done it to yourself. Blew off your own freakin' leg, just to get a girl's attention."

He lobbed the grenade at my feet. As soon as the canister hit the floor and rolled toward me, gas billowed from it in every direction. I pulled my coat over my head and dashed straight for the window, running full-tilt into it and expecting to crash through the glass onto the fire escape outside. Instead, I bounced off the reinforced plasticon and landed awkwardly sprawled across the couch.

"You were supposed to go after her, once you received the video. To make sure she was all right. But thanks to my little wasps, I saw that you had come here instead." He gestured vaguely at the air in the room. "You can't see them, of course. Micro-cams the size of insects. My own ingenious design." Brock loomed over me like something from a nightmare, swaying as the room spun behind him. He held the canister over me as the gas spewed forth. "Breathe deep now, Mr. Madison."

I shot him in the face—or tried to. My arm wouldn't cooperate. It moved in slow motion. And my trigger finger wouldn't curl. The room was getting darker. Soon I'd be out cold, and there was nothing I could do about it.

"You will kill her, Mr. Madison," the monster said, slapping the gun out of my hand with his steel arm. The revolver clattered across the floor. I heard every bounce it made across the wooden planks. "You will kill her, or you will lose a limb. Perhaps I will start with your shooting arm. Every day that you procrastinate, one of your limbs will be taken from you in your sleep. To prove this can be done, you will go to sleep now. And when you awake...there will be a nasty surprise waiting for you."

He didn't laugh like a maniacal fiend. He just stood there, watching me, as impenetrable darkness swallowed my senses.

11

A crushing blow to the jaw woke me. I sat up with a start, finding myself on the couch in Brock's apartment. The glow of the streetlight outside had been traded for morning daylight, overcast and gray. Enough to see by.

Brock held the gas mask in his steel hand. He'd used the other one, made out of flesh and bone, to welcome me to the day. Thank God for small favors.

I quickly patted my arms and legs, checking if they were still there. "You didn't do it."

Brock ran a hand through his mussed-up hair and stared at the floor as he paced. "No. I couldn't go through with it." He'd tucked my revolver into the waist of his trousers. For now, he left it there. "Not saying I won't. Just saying I may have lost my nerve a bit. It's been years since I've operated on a man. The plastic surgery, that's different. Superficial. But to amputate..." He shook his head. "I wasn't sure I could risk it."

"Because you're not a killer. Not anymore." I watched him. "What the war made us do, that's not who we are."

"What do you know about it?" He glared at me.

"Lost my entire gunner squad to a platoon of mandroids. Spent some time afterward avenging their deaths—trying to. Did plenty I'm not proud of."

"Eastern front?"

I nodded. "You?"

"Nagasaki."

It's a wonder any piece of him had survived that hell zone. We lost most of the Japanese islands to E.C. firestorms at the height of the war.

"We've seen enough death to last us multiple lifetimes." I paused, watching him. He was staring at his prosthetic hand like it belonged to someone else. "How could you want to harm another human life?"

"Have you ever been in love, Mr. Madison?"

"Sure. Once or twice."

"Was that love returned to you? Or was it unrequited?"

I had a feeling I knew where this was going. "If you love her, how can you even think of killing her?"

"I can't." He shook his head. "I can't face her. She has power over me, you see. I can't explain it. Her very presence overwhelms my soul."

"She's just a kid—"

"She's a goddess!" His eyes flashed wildly.

"I assume we're talking about the stalker, right? The real Amanda Forsythe?"

"Of course. When the media attention became too much for her, back when she was in high school—perfection incarnate, immortal beauty walking the earth—I convinced her parents it would be in their best interest to hire a body double, one we could use to distract the paparazzi while Amanda went about her daily life. I had it all figured out, you see, and when we found the right girl, Mr. Forsythe allowed me to be responsible for her makeover. Every detail had to be perfect, and I knew what had to be done. Amanda was a priceless painting I'd studied for years, a flawless angel. I knew every centimeter of her body, and I knew how to mold that girl into her image."

My skin was crawling, but I tried not to let it show. "You did a standup job. If it wasn't for the voice—"

He cursed foully, pounding his fist into the steel palm of his prosthetic. "I could never get that right—not without surgery on her larynx. I tried to convince Mr. Forsythe that it would be worth the effort, but he was satisfied with the girl's appearance. Besides, he wanted her to keep her mouth shut, you see, to avoid suspicion. I disagreed, and my views were duly noted. But that was all. And because of it, she will never be perfect—not until I make that much-needed adjustment."

He was staring again. Had he lost his train of thought?

I cleared my throat. "Listen, I can see you care for the girl—"

"I thought we would have more time together. With her double leading the media on diversionary paths throughout the city, Amanda and I would be able to truly connect. No distractions. Just the two of us."

"But she wasn't interested."

"Such a flippant way to describe my pain." He stared at me, and I had to wonder if he was getting his nerve back. Which would be the first to go—my shooting arm? I seemed to remember him mentioning that before, while I was in a gas-induced stupor. "But of course you're right. That's all it was to her, a matter of interest. She didn't find me interesting. She tolerated my presence. While I worshipped the ground she walked on, while my heart raced anytime she shared the same roomful of air, she never saw me as anything more than a servant. An older man. A cyborg," he spat. "I had to think of a way to earn her affection—"

"But that didn't work out so well either—injuring yourself. So you've finally decided to kill her. If you can't have her, nobody will. Something deranged like that, right?"

He ground his teeth. "You are a man without fear."

"I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you're getting at."

"You really should be."

I shrugged. "You can't kill the girl. You can't cut my arm off. Seems like all you can do is run your mouth." I got to my feet. Too quickly—the room swayed a bit. I still wasn't over the effects of the gas, the smell of which lingered in the room like an ashen ghost. "So how about we part company, and we both go back to doing what we do best. I'll solve my clients' cases. You can take bullets for well-crafted doppelgängers. Deal?"

He drew my revolver and aimed it at me. Not a good feeling to stare down the barrel of your own weapon. I felt more than a little betrayed.

"You will kill her for me, Mr. Madison. Or I will give that video to the police, and you will be finished in this town. I happen to know that the two detectives at Forsythe Manor are not fans of yours. Not at all. They will be more than happy to put you in your place!"

That's when a shot rang out. But it hadn't come from the muzzle of my .38 Smith & Wesson. It came from the front door—a door that was now open, framing Amanda in a black raincoat with a smoking gun in her hand.

12

"No..." Brock staggered forward a step as blood ran into his eyes from the exit wound, a hole the size of a golf ball in the middle of his forehead.

Amanda met my gaze. "Thank you," she said. "From both of us."

Brock squeezed the trigger on my revolver, and I hit the floor as one round after another plowed into his couch, right where I'd been sitting a few moments before.

"Amanda—wait!" I shouted as her heels dashed down the hallway outside and descended the stairs.

Doors flew open along the hall as neighbors cried out, "Did you hear a shot?" and "Call the police!"

"Amanda..." Brock groaned, collapsing to his artificial knees. He emptied my gun into the defenseless couch and kept pulling the trigger with his steel finger, clicking on each vacant chamber.

It's a wonder he didn't die immediately. Must have had something to do with his mechanical parts, wired to his brain. As long as they were functioning, they required cerebral impulses. But he would die eventually; of that there was no doubt. Nobody takes a round to the head like that and lives to tell about it.

Amanda hadn't dumped that gun of hers, after all. Made me wonder who she'd been aiming at when she shot up Leonardo's. Had that been her first attempt on Brock's life?

I was out in the hallway before my feet knew what to do with themselves. Nearly tackling an elderly lady in a flowery kimono, I steadied myself against the wall and made sure she was all right.

"The police are coming, mister," she said, the skin around her eyes crumpled like old parchment. She clung to my arms. "You won't get far."

"Wasn't me." I shook her off and stumbled down the hallway, navigating my way around the other scowling neighbors. "Which way did she go?"

But of course none of them knew who I was talking about. By the time they'd filtered out of their units, Amanda had been well out of sight.

"You think you can come in here and shoot up the place, mister?" Mrs. Kimono called after me, earning a low murmur of discontent from the other locals.

"He killed Brock!" hollered a hoarse voice from Moynihan's open doorway.

Fighting waves of vertigo, I managed to make it down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor just as the foyer doors swung open and two dark silhouettes faced me. One looked like an unshaven whale stuffed into a rumpled suit. The other looked more like a scarecrow with poor posture.

"Madison!" Detective Stankic bellowed. "I had a feeling you'd be mixed up in this."

"Stay right where you are," said Detective Bellincioni, whipping out her cuffs and heading straight for me. "You have the right to remain silent—"

"Did you catch her? Amanda Forsythe? She must have passed right by you!" I gritted my teeth as Bellincioni slapped on the cuffs and cinched them tight.

"—anything can and will be used against you—" she rattled off my Mirandas.

"Forsythe was here?" Stankic belched. "She gave us the slip back at her place. The chauffeur said this Brock guy might be in trouble. Crazy love triangle or something?"

"Something like that," I muttered.

"How the hell do you fit in, Madison?"

"I'm the hit man. Don't you know?"

"Yeah, I saw that video. Looking to make a little extra money on the side, eh?"

"Can't really picture this one as a hired gun," Bellincioni said. "His aim's never been too good."

"It does the job." I jerked my arm free of Bellincioni's claws. Being cuffed was bad enough; I didn't need her paws on me. "But your Amanda didn't shoot Brock the bodyguard. That was her stalker." Who happened to be the actual Amanda Forsythe. Had she known Brock was planning to kill her?

Stankic took a long draw on his soggy cigar stub before blowing the rank smoke into my face. "You'll have plenty of time down at the station to get your story straight."

13

Once Stinkin' and Blinkin' escorted me inside the bustling chaos of Precinct 37 at dawn, Sergeant Douglass saw to it that I didn't end up downstairs in a crowded holding cell full of drunken degenerates. Instead, he took me straight to his makeshift office—otherwise known as the staff lounge—and booked me there.

"Can I trust you not to make a run for it?" he said, unlocking my cuffs.

"I wouldn't get too far." I glanced out the door into the noisy bullpen. "Thanks for getting me out of their clutches."

"Stankic and Bellincioni? They didn't have squat on you. The video, sure, but our tech crew is workin' on that as we speak. They'll guarantee it's a fake." He heaved his broad shoulders, equal parts fat and muscle, and blew out a sigh. The man had the build of a pro rugby player whose glory days were a couple decades past. "But what about Amanda? Any clue where she's gone off to?"

"Which one?" Talk about a femme fatale—times two. "From what I've gathered, Amanda Forsythe and her double could have been in cahoots from the start. Getting rid of the bodyguard was a common goal. He had plans to kill the real Amanda and take the look-alike under the knife, do some work on her voice box. Make her sound like the genuine article. Real creepy-ass stuff."

"So she reaches out to the real Amanda, and they hatch out a plan to do him in—before he can harm either one of them. That about the shape of things, lad?"

I nodded. "But why they included me? No idea."

"Diversionary tactic, maybe. The bodyguard had his own endgame in mind: killin' off the real Amanda and livin' off her fortune with the imposter. Only he didn't figure the two of them would want anything to do with each other."

"And now they've both gone off the grid?"

"For now. But we'll find 'em eventually. If it's a priority, that is. The commissioner may want us to leave well enough alone. Could be argued Amanda Forsythe acted in self-defense."

"At my expense." I wouldn't soon forget Brock pointing my gun at me while she ended him. If he'd pulled that trigger a split-second sooner... "I'll be wanting my revolver back, by the way."

"Soon as it's out of evidence, I'll make sure you get it. Forensics was busy prying it out of Moynihan's mechanical hand, last I checked."

"The guy had it bad." I rubbed my wrists where Bellincioni had over-cinched the cuffs. "Old enough to be that girl's father. Obsession in the extreme."

"Not to mention the gas mask. What the hell was that all about?"

I shrugged. "Guy was a freak."

Even so, he'd needed serious help. Not everybody had returned from the war with their heads on straight. I'd wager a guess that most of us hadn't. Brock Moynihan had jumped into his work as a bodyguard with both feet, but that didn't mean he'd been ready for it. He had a few screws loose, but not in his prosthetics. They'd been the only parts of him not prone to malfunction.

"Am I free to go, Sarge?"

Douglass nodded. "You do good work in this town, Charlie. I don't care what the likes of Stankic and Bellincioni have to say about it."

They tended to see me as a chronic interferer in police investigations. They even went so far as to call me a soulless mercenary, while they, in contrast, rode a pair of high horses. They were paid by the city to look out for its best interests, after all. Problem was, those interests were usually tied straight to the mob.

"Thanks, Sarge. If either one of those Amandas makes contact, I'll be sure to let you know." Technically, the first one was still my client until sundown.

He chuckled. "Let's hope they leave you be. I have a feelin' you won't be signing on for any more doppelgänger cases in the near future!"

"You got that right."

14

By the time I made it back to my office, Wanda was already at her desk, fresh and ready for the start of a new day.

"I may have left a facet open on your Slate," I said, hanging up my coat and hat.

She nodded. "I might have played it twice. Some video."

"What did you think?"

"Whoever switched out the audio did a pretty good job. It would have been believable—if I hadn't heard the actual conversation between you and Miss Forsythe. Or her double, rather."

"You make a habit of eavesdropping?"

"Sometimes." She smiled up at me. "But what we really should be discussing is countermeasures. You know, maybe some sort of defense system to keep invisible cameras from floating in unannounced. The privacy of your paying clients demands it, don't you think?"

I gave her a wink. "Good idea."

She glanced at my vacant holster. "Where's your gun?"

"In evidence. Amanda's bodyguard emptied all six rounds at me right before he died."

"Yikes." She neglected to blink. "You all right, Charlie?"

"Will be, once we get ourselves another case. The rent doesn't pay for itself, sweetheart."

"You know what? There might be a girl in my building who could really use your services."

"Oh yeah?"

"Only..." She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe it's not a good fit. You see, she's got this evil twin, and—"

"I'll be in my office."

It was later that night when a courier from the precinct showed up at my office door. I'd already sent Wanda home for the day, and the place was dark and quiet. Just the way I liked it after an unpredictable twenty-four hours. Perfect for dozing.

"Yeah?" I said as I opened the hallway door.

"Sign here, please." The young woman thrust a Slate at me. Her cap was pulled low, the bill keeping her features out of sight.

I took the Slate and saw the image of my .38 revolver—which the courier proceeded to retrieve from her messenger bag in a transparent snapcase. I signed off on it, and we traded. As she slipped the tablet into her bag, I popped open the case and flipped out the cylinder on my revolver.

"Cops couldn't spring for any ammo?" The chambers were as empty as Moynihan had left them.

"You'll have to take it up with them." She turned on her heel, and as she did so, I noticed the copper sheen of her hair, pulled up tight and tucked under the hat. No shimmering static shield tonight, but her natural glow was just as angelic as it had been the night before.

"Where will you go?"

She was halfway down the hallway before she stopped. Turned. Smiled back at me. Amanda's double, judging by the tone of her voice. I had a feeling that somewhere downstairs, the actual police courier was sleeping off a knock to the noggin in her skivvies. Wouldn't be fun waking up from that.

"We're thinking Mexico."

"Nice down there this time of year." I stepped out into the hall and leaned against the doorframe as I holstered my revolver. "Good plastic surgeons."

"That's what we hear." She hesitated. Unconsciously, she stroked her neck. Her voice was her own. Would she try to get her face back? "Thanks, Mr. Madison—for your help."

"Not sure I did much of anything. She pulled the trigger."

"Brock...was dangerous. He had me fooled, though. He made me think he loved me, that we had a life together. That Amanda deserved to have everything taken away. She was always such a bitch to me..." She shook her head. "When I saw what he was planning—with my voice—"

"You saw? How?"

"I tasked one of Brock's wasps to follow you. I saw everything in that secret room. Heard everything he said to you." She hesitated. "He would have killed her, and I never would have been good enough for him. We had to get rid of him. There was no other way."

Not sure I agreed with that, but I wasn't one to pontificate on particulars. "What about Jerry? Is he next on your hit list?"

She smirked. "Jerry's an idiot. Harmless, really. If he's smart, he'll get out of town and stay the hell out of our way."

I could see it in her eyes: she was a force to be reckoned with now. Not a victim under the knife in those surgery photos. Not an imposter naively believing the promises of a dangerous man. She was becoming her own woman, even as she wore the face of another.

"You two try to stay out of trouble."

"We'll give it a shot." She smiled and gave me a little wave. Then she trotted off.

I shut the door and locked it behind me, taking a moment to imagine the two Amandas on a beach along the Mexican Riviera, tossing back margaritas under a high intensity SPF shield. That fair skin of theirs would broil, otherwise. Would they enjoy the good life together? Or would they team up as cold-blooded assassins for hire? No way to know. But I had a feeling they'd be remaining off-grid for a while.

Would I call Douglass about her visit? Sure, after I gave the girls a healthy head start south. Amanda was no longer my client, but I figured I could give her that much. She had paid me double, after all.

As for Charlie Madison, private investigator, he was headed home to sleep in his own bed. The night may have been young, but if it knew what was good for it, then it would keep quiet and let him catch up on some much-needed winks.

This case was closed.

* * *

Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day and a speculative fictioneer by night. When he's not grading papers, he's imagining what the world might be like in a dozen alternate realities. So far, his short fiction has appeared in more than 150 publications, including AE SciFi, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Cosmos, Daily Science Fiction, Nature, and Shimmer. Find his novels, novellas, and short story collections wherever books are sold. www.milojamesfowler.com.

## **The Genehunter: The Complete Casebook**

Available from Smashwords | Find out more

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**Some secrets are best left buried...**

Simms is a genehunter, paid to track down the DNA of the famous and infamous of history for his clients' private collections. What they do with the DNA isn't his problem - even if they are using it to create illegal clones.

He walks a line, pulled in many different directions at once. The law, competing genehunters, ex-lovers, religious nuts and anti-genehunter crazies. But when he works the Boneyard case he discovers that, sometimes, you have to decide which side of the line you're on.

And when he starts to uncover the truth of his own origins he begins to question everything he is and does...

A future noir cyberpunk novel set on an Earth slowly going to hell. _The Genehunter_ follows the adventures of Simms, genetic detective and all-round nice guy. Originally published as a series of five linked novellas: _The Wrong Tom Jacks_ , _The Zombies of Death_ , _The Clone Who Didn't Know_ , _A Soldier of Megiddo_ and _Boneyard_.

Praise for The Genehunter

"Reminded me of some of the best William Gibson books ... it's been quite a while since I've read a cyberpunk novel this good"

"As thought-provoking as it is entertaining."

"Top notch cyberpunk, SF-noir thriller with enough subplots and clandestine organizations to keep mystery/conspiracy lovers captivated to the very last page."

"I was unable to put down the story of Simms the Genehunter and his search for self - and, of course, the DNA of the rich and (in)famous."

## **Harry and Shannon's story continues in _Tripler: Book #1 of the Tripler Trilogy,_ available now:**

Harry Allwear is back tracking targets, but everything has changed. Now he's a Tripler himself, caught permanently on the edge of madness, and only experimental medication is keeping him sane.

Distrusted by the boss of his organisation, and considered a liability and a wild card by those in power, he's a Tripler hunting others of his kind in order to serve the greater good – and keep his sanity-preserving medication coming. Eventually, if he proves himself enough times, he might even get to see his ex-wife Shannon again.

But when a Tripler bomber wreaks havoc in his home city of London, Harry discovers his tracker colleagues murdered, his organisation devastated, and the doctor who created his medication kidnapped. Out of meds, low on resources, and burning with a desire for payback, Harry learns the startling truth: the Triplers have unified into an army, and are engineering a radical new dawn for the planet Earth.

Harry may be the only one equipped to stop the coming war, but he has a serious problem: his sanity is already slipping away. And the most lethal enemy of all could be one of his own selves...

_"10/10... Neil Vogler perfectly blends together science fiction with tropes of the psychological and action thriller... From the beginning I was hooked and remained so through to the very end"_ – John Collins, THE CULT DEN (www.thecultden.com)

_"Vogler's writing is energetic and visceral... The book is everything you want in a good sci-fi story: it's exciting, unpredictable, and unashamedly dark"_ – Kate Wilson, ONE DAY PERHAPS I'LL KNOW (www.katejwilson.com)

_"It's dark, and when it counts most the tension is cranked up pretty darned well... I would like some more, please"_ – OVER THE EFFING RAINBOW (www.overtheeffingrainbow.co.uk)

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**From the case files of  Charlie Madison, private investigator – available wherever eBooks are sold:**

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**The public can't know they exist.**

It could start a panic. The average citizen is perfectly fine with superheroes saving the day or causing mayhem in movies and comic books. But if those suprahumans actually walked among us, what would happen then?

In a crumbling post-war city of the future, private eye Charlie Madison stands in the gap. The last of his kind, a champion of lost causes, he confronts corrupt cops, violent bratva and yakuza, doing whatever he can for the average citizen in need of help. A war veteran with plenty of hardship in his past, he's not afraid to go toe-to-toe with the powers that be, whether they're in the criminal underworld or the federal government.

Madison has encountered more than his share of unusual suspects over the years. But this time he's up against something he's never seen before, on or off the battlefield: people with unnatural abilities. Suprahumans. Gifted ones. Their powers are too incredible to believe, too dangerous in this unstable world. Their existence is a secret guarded by government agents who mindwipe anyone encountering them.

For Charlie Madison, the Suprahuman Secret emerges when a little girl goes missing and no ransom demand is made. He takes the case, but time isn't on his side. After 48 hours in this town, it's unlikely an abducted child will be found in one piece. As the mystery unfolds, Madison uncovers a bizarre truth about the girl that seems impossible. But it could explain why she was kidnapped -- and why she might still be alive.

Find out more: www.milojamesfowler.com

## What readers are saying:

"Where the gumshoe element ends, the future begins."

"Genre-blending fans should find a fun, fast read here that'll whet the appetite for more."

"All the requisite elements of a hard-boiled drama fused with near-future technology."

"It's not often I find a captivating series in such a unique genre as this."
The Wrong Tom Jacks © Simon Kewin, 2012.

Tripler, The Beginning © Neil Vogler, 2014. First published in 2014 by December House.

Doppelgänger's Curse © Milo James Fowler, 2015.

All rights reserved.

The authors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.

The contents of this book are works of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

CROW•18
