“What are the chances that Conrad Hurt is a member of Sigma Iota Nu?” he said. “SIN for Singularity, a group of the brightest up and coming robo-geeks, destined to change the world. Man, to be a fly on the wall in one of those meetings.” The fraternity had since been dissolved, but the core members had all become famous for their feats in robotics and engineering.

  “So, Hurt was the big brother who would’ve overseen Michael’s crossing,” he said, but that still didn’t clear anything up for him. A vice president had power, and Conrad Hurt seemed to like power. His willingness to leave the sciences to play at politics spoke volumes. He was an interesting man, pale, bald, yet he looked a lot younger than his sixty years.

  Dhata found a video of Hurt; it was of him taking the stage to speak at a university. The video was propaganda to make him look bad, since he bypassed several of the synth speakers to shake the sole human’s hand. Dhata watched his body language, wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the slight seemed to be deliberate.

  Now why would one of the men responsible for giving synths life be such a dick to them on a big stage like that? he wondered. Conrad Hurt was a geek, so maybe it was one of his own internal jokes. The synths would see him as somewhat of a god, so nothing he did would ever be truly deemed as offensive. Still, the world was appalled by his actions that day, and the article accompanying the video was very critical of him.

  “I need to find a way to question Michael,” Dhata said. “If he won’t talk to me, then one of his family members will.”

  ‡Chapter 17‡

  Toast to the Good Guys

  Monday was a bullet train of activity, with plenty of things going on. Dhata delivered the rack to Ariana that had all of the cameras synced to it. He also showed her the surveillance from the beach, where he was making death threats to one of his captains. She seemed satisfied with what he gave her, so he made a call to Aaron, reassuring the synth boss that Jackson’s time was limited.

  Lur didn’t call again and wasn’t picking up her phone, so Dhata decided to press on. He called the Atlanta precinct where the soldier had been detained, asking if it was possible for him to visit. “I’m sorry, detective, but he’s been sent up north to a maximum security synth prison,” the woman on the line said.

  “I didn’t think what he did was that bad,” Dhata said.

  “It wasn’t, not for what he came in here for, but recently he hurt several corrections officers,” she said.

  Another soldier from AKR flipping out and hurting people, he thought. “Thanks for the information,” he said.

  There was a message from Hiroshi with a red exclamation symbol, so he quickly opened it, expecting bad news. It read: Rack cracked but withholding details. Let’s discuss it over ramen in the old place.

  Dhata felt a rush of excitement. What could he have found? Whatever it was had to be major since he wouldn’t give the details over the phone. He tried Lur once again to let her know he was leaving, but the phone hummed and faded, the way it did when someone was out of range, so he wrote her a note to call as soon as she got it.

  Construction was still going on for the devastated Tampa Shuttle port, so he had to find the closest alternative, which happened to be in Orlando. The last time he had been in the city, he had been beaten up, drugged, and kidnapped. He hated the memories because they came with anger, a rage that went deep, beyond anything moral.

  He remembered the men who drugged him, and wondered if they would still be in the same place. He could walk in with the shotgun, yell out, “Remember me?” and then pump several rounds into the bartender and his friends. Escaping? No need; the police avoided Orlando more than Ybor City. After exacting his revenge, the only thing he’d have to worry about would be more members of their gang coming for him.

  The thought of blowing them all away made him feel better, but he knew that there was a line that he shouldn’t cross. He was no longer a policeman, held by the badge and its laws, but he was still a good person beneath the duster and the paperboy hat. Killing in cold blood was a slippery slope, and if he did it once he’d be willing to do it again.

  He’d happily kill those hools and bathe in their blood, then find their boss and kill him too. But then what? Would he murder Jackson Cole? It would make Ariana and Aaron happy, and then he could fly out to Cuba and shoot Carlos Ruiz in the chest. It was never as easy as kill and then stop. It was akin to cheating on an exam. Let’s say you cheat, just a little, and you get away with it. You are sure to do it again, whenever you feel it’s necessary.

  For now he would stay the course of being a professional skiptracer, shooting only at those who more than deserved it. Where words could work, they first must be employed, and the trigger must be the final option.

  He packed a suitcase and headed out, dressed a lot more formally than he normally did. He wore a suit, tailored tight against his frame, but didn’t bother wearing a tie. He found his old, police-issued electroshock tube and checked the cartridge. Satisfied, he nodded and slipped it into his pocket.

  The shuttle port security officers would make some noise, but would back down eventually when he showed them his skiptracer’s license. The tube wasn’t lethal, but they spared no chances, especially after what had happened with the suicide bombing.

  As was the case with the last few weeks, the shuttle port was practically empty. Only the brave flew these days while most people drove wherever they could. Now he was flying out to see Hiroshi and the last thing on his mind was a suicide bomber. He went through the motions of getting himself scanned, swiped his hand to deposit the UCC payment, and took a seat inside the bullet-shaped shuttle.

  Typically he loved flying, but somehow it felt different. Son of a bitch ruined it for me, he thought as he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable in the seat. He couldn’t help but admit that he was frightened; it was an emotion that overwhelmed him as soon as he entered the shuttle port. His mind was also beleaguered by his financial situation. He was about to find out more towards the investigation, but he was still scraping the bottom of that UCC barrel.

  Then there was Lur. Where had she gone? Had she been captured by AKR or the FBI? No, he thought, that wouldn’t make any sense. He had spoken to her the day before and she had said that she was meeting a friend. But she should have been back this morning, or at least called, and that concerned him deeply. Knowing Lur and her impulsive ways, he wondered if she had hopped on a boat to Cuba.

  There would be no way to tell, but the calls he made were falling off, and that made him think that she may be within her father’s borders. The property that Don Jose owned was a damper on the Global Network. No calls could easily be made there, not unless someone inside initiated it. Tracing a line there would be impossible, even with the aid of a cypher.

  Lur would be on her own, whether she liked it or not, and he wouldn’t know where to start in finding her. Flying over Cuba to confront Jose’s kidnappers – that would be literally suicide. Plus the last time he was over there, Jose captured and tortured him for two long days. His bones ached just thinking about it.

  “She’s a big girl,” he whispered, trying to convince himself, but what he really needed was a stiff drink.

  The shuttle’s vibrations relaxed his muscles and he tried to have his mind do the same. Lur was more than capable—she was an impressive woman who had faced down fires without suffering the slightest burn. She didn’t need rescuing, and he was flying to Tokyo. It really wasn’t the time to be worrying.

  He closed his eyes and thought of the past, lovers who had been a part of his fractured history. There was Michelle, his wife who used to be his best friend, and then there was Candace, the synth Mary who helped him to destroy that marriage. Candace was murdered and he met her friend Esti, who knew him better than any woman he’d known.

  Esti was a tall, beautiful, confident woman, with a tremendous laugh and an addiction to electronic cigarettes. If anyone doubted synths had life, all they would need was an evening with Esti. He smiled at her memory, the tobacco scent in her black hair, and the way she was always a step ahead of him.

  Esti was special, but Lur was the one. He had met her in Orlando when he was a John, and they immediately clicked. It was something out of a love story, the chemistry that they had; this was until he found out her father was the biggest gangster in Cuba. Lur, and his fight for her, led him to Jose Diaz’s catacombs, where they extorted him, then tortured him and told him to stay away.

  He opened his eyes and pulled up the screen to see the bright lights of Tokyo, Japan. Dhata was quite surprised by how happy he felt as they landed, seeing the neon blue buildings glowing on the horizon. The cars on the highways looked like hornets on a warpath, and the large speaking advertisements were so numerous.

  Dhata wondered what it would take to get a citizenship in Japan, and if the work for a skiptracer would pay any better.

  He caught up with Hiroshi and they went down past the lake, to the sub city ramen shack, same as before. He pulled out a stool and took a seat, greeting the vendor and touching his hands. Dhata glanced at Hiro, taking in his changes. He looked a lot more human than before.

  In Japan, the synths were a lot more accepted, so looking like a human was low on their agenda. Hiroshi, on the other hand, looked like a slender Japanese model. The only thing that made him synth were his silver insectoid eyes. These ugly portals allowed him to stay connected to the grid, and it didn’t seem to hurt his chances at procuring female company.

  They ordered several dishes, and Dhata tried something new, scarfing it down while the synths looked on in awe. “One day they’ll get used to a big black man devouring ramen,” he said.

  “You think that’s what they’re gawking at?” Hiroshi laughed. “There’s a lot more to you than that, Dhata. You’re a giant, hunched over, enjoying sub city food.”

  “So the rack,” Dhata said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Please tell me you found something that will make me happy,” he said.

  “There was a lot on there, Dhata. It was very much his private rack. He stored things on there that a synth would typically keep inside his head.”

  Dhata put the bowl to his head, slurping the liquid down, then looked over at Hiro with an eyebrow raised. “So there’s things on there that he didn’t want any other synth to get access to?”

  “That was what I was thinking,” Hiroshi said. “I am thinking also that he kept it away from his wife, considering the sort of encryption that it had. There were journals on his military life, photos of friends, and the thing that I know you will be interested in: a group that he referred to as his ‘family.’”

  “You’re thinking that this family is The Unsung,” Dhata said, smiling as he wiped his mouth.

  Hiro nodded slowly as he ate. “I looked up some of these days and many are synths who went dark a while ago. Permanently detached from Arch Brain. They are invisible to just about anyone.”

  “That’s pretty big, Hiro, so I guess my question then is, how do I catch up with one of these invisible synths?” Dhata said. “I’m thinking that if I can get ahold of one of them they can clear things up for me. Like, whether or not Jordan and Tyler were made to do the things that they did.”

  Hiro reached inside his pocket and pulled out a cobalt square, then slid it across the counter to Dhata. “I brought you the drive so that you can take it back for your investigation,” he said. “I think my part is done. Now that we know that Akiyama Koch Robotics isn’t behind Lur’s attack, I no longer have a private vendetta against them.”

  “I know, Hiro, and I want you to know that we really appreciate everything you’ve done. This thing would have gone cold if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Thank you, Dhata, that does make me feel good. Being a hero isn’t something that many cyphers can claim to be. Most of us are hired to hurt, tear down infrastructure, and shatter privacy.”

  “But you are a Hiro,” Dhata said smiling, and the cypher gave him a blank expression. “Tell you what, Hiro, I’m working an angle, and as soon as I get paid, you will get paid as well. I take care of my people, and without you, I would still be in bed wondering what hit that shuttle port.”

  “No need, Dhata,” Hiro said, and he poured sake into two glasses and slid one in front of him. “What I did was for Lurita, and that has not changed. Speaking of which, where is my pretty understudy? I thought that you would bring her with you on this trip.”

  “You know that implant you helped her install to change her identity? I’m not sure if she should be traveling on shuttles, being that it’s sort of illegal,” Dhata said.

  Hiro scoffed. “You’re being paranoid, and it’s untraceable … perfectly legal. Any shuttle port rack will see her as Fabiana Lopez, I made extra sure that there would be no complications. Fabiana is a citizen of the United States with a clean record and a stellar work history. Lur walks through security and they will roll out a red carpet. That implant has her as a model American, my friend.”

  “Damn,” Dhata said. “I wished that I knew this … I told her to stay away from shuttles no matter what.”

  “Well, being that you have synths blowing up shuttle ports, it probably was good advice,” Hiroshi said.

  “Lur left to look in on her father,” Dhata said. “Though I have no clue where she is since she’s not picking up her phone.”

  “Have you tried tracking her?” Hiroshi said.

  “No … there’s a line that I don’t cross when it comes to family and friends.”

  “It’s a good thing that I have no such line,” Hiro said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a portable black rack. He gestured a few times across its surface before placing it on the counter.

  A holographic screen appeared above the rack with a map of the world on its display. Hiroshi wiggled his fingers as he typed on the virtual keyboard, then slid his hand across it and made a pinching motion. The map expanded and zoomed in on the southern tip of Florida, and then a blue dot appeared and started throbbing rapidly.

  “Looks like she’s in Miami,” Hiroshi finally said. “I think Lurita is doing okay.”

  “Good,” Dhata said. “That puts my mind at ease. Now, I will take this beautiful blue construct back and see who I can find for questioning.”

  “What if you find out that The Unsung isn’t behind this?” Hiroshi said.

  “Then I’ll know for sure it’s the government,” Dhata said. “And if it’s the government, I’ll move on with my life. I’m not into picking fights that I can’t win. There’s a war going on between the lowest humans and synths, which means that a lot of people can use a skiptracer’s help. My bank account needs a facelift, Hiro, and chasing government spooks won’t keep the lights on.”

  “Then let’s toast to us, Dhata, mercenaries on the side of good.”

  “Now that’s a toast, Hiro, my man,” he said, and they touched glasses and drank.

  ‡Chapter 18‡

  A Kidnapping in Party City

  The personal rack of Jordan Crane was an open book on the man’s life. He loved his wife, and loved being a soldier, though the things he did for his country were all classified. There was a folder for Natalya, one for his military history, and another for a group he called “the family.” Looking at the photos of this family of his, Dhata tried to surmise who they were and where they met regularly.

  They seemed to meet in warehouses, basements, and attics, and the twelve people in attendance were all former soldiers. One photo was a movable panorama, which showed Jordan with Tyler Fort. They were shaking hands inside of a ballroom that seemed to be filled with military personnel. There was a note scrolling across the bottom that read: Me with my Akiyama Koch Robotics brother, Trigger Ty.

  If he’s labeling Tyler separately, then they aren’t all from Akiyama Koch, Dhata thought. I wish he had notes on all of them to spare me some time. After an evening of sleuthing, he felt exhausted. He had been through Tyler’s files several times over, and had a list of names to question.

  Aside from this, he settled on the fact that Natalya was the user in the relationship. She had targeted him because her bosses made her do it, then went through the motions of dating and marrying him. Part of her plan dealt with hiring Dhata to spy on Jordan under the false notion that he was cheating on her. But what she really wanted was for him to kill her husband before he was able to blow up the shuttle port. Failing that last step had foiled her plans, and what they ended up with was 25 innocent people killed.

  Dhata lay back on the bed and thought about it. He had all the pieces now to make an intelligent guess. Natalya was a cyborg whose body would have cost well over a million UCCs. She was under the protection of FBI agent, Samuel Underwood, who was more than willing to have her share his house. She was also free to go wherever she liked, with the agent playing her personal driver.

  When Natalya hired them, she had said that they were doing well financially. She also lived in one of the richer neighborhoods in Tampa where synths were not allowed to own property. You were playing at human, and your dumbass neighbors believed it, he thought. You’re either an FBI plant, or some sort of spy for someone rich and powerful.

  The thought of Natalya being an FBI tool made the connection to Jordan a no-brainer. They thought that he was a member of a dangerous sect that they couldn’t get information on, so they used a pretty Trojan horse to move in on one of the members. Dhata realized then that he had messed up his chances by interviewing Natalya the way he did. In talking to her, he had shown that he was prying, and the FBI would do whatever they could to take him off—

  “Lur,” he whispered as he sat up. She had received the message from her friend in Cuba at the oddest time. To the outside world she was Fabiana Lopez—the email should have said as much. For this so-called friend to open a random email, from a random woman in her boss’s inbox … that was one hell of a stretch.

 

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