Chapter #22Without a Trace by: Seuzz   "How does Cupcake know our codename for Greystoke?" you ask.
Knotts doesn't immediately reply. But when she does speak, it's to Patterson. "Close the door." Then she leans forward, speaking intently. "First of all, keep what you just said to yourself. I don't want any more paranoia, any more suspicions, any more witch hunts than we've already got going. I know what you're thinking. I don't want anyone else thinking it too."
"But should we at least be thinking about it?"
Knotts glances up at Patterson. "Did Kips tell you about our ghost?"
"You mean the celebrity no one's ever seen? Yeah."
"Well, that's just it," she says. "No one has ever seen him. So we try not to get excited when weird things happen. Like Cupcake knowing our codename for his friend."
"I get that," Patterson says. "But isn't Kips right? Isn't this something we have to take seriously?"
"There's lots of ways the celebrities could've gotten the name 'Greystoke'. They picked up gear along with Stanfill and Carrero. Cupcake could've found references to Greystoke in their texts. Fuck, we still haven't ruled out that Crazy Ivan's in our inner comms."
"Was it Crazy Ivan putting holes in— in a certain dartboard?" you ask, and Knotts's eyes harden. "I'll be happier if we get everyone Patterned again. Hell, I'll volunteer to go first."
"Not a bad idea," she says. She glances at her computer screen—which is turned away from you—and taps a button. After absorbing whatever has caught her attention, she smiles brightly at Patterson. "How about you go around the corner and get us some burgers," she says. "We didn't get those donuts like you wanted. Oh, and don't mention Patterning to anyone you run into. It makes them jumpy."
Patterson leaves, and you and Knotts follow him into the hallway. "We'll go see the elves, get it set up," she says. "Also, that was a note from them about the clothes Chernov's date left behind."
"And?"
"And we'll find out what they found."
* * * * *
"Nothing," says Dr. Bennett. "Except traces of dirt." His mouth twists sourly in his trim, chestnut-colored beard.
"You mean nothing traceable?" you ask.
"I mean nothing. No DNA, no hair, no skin cells. Except for the dirt, very light on the fabrics, they could've come straight from a dry cleaner. Straight from a factory, even."
"Those were fishnet stockings," Knotts protests. "You're telling me—"
"That they hadn't been worn. Nothing had any material on it." He looks abashed, even a little angry, as you and Knotts stare at him. "I wish I could help you, but there is nothing in that pile to follow."
"Do you have a theory about why there was nothing to find?"
"The clothes came straight out of the packaging?" he suggests. "No, that won't work, because clearly they'd been worn. The stockings were stretched and the shoes had scuff marks and—"
"What about stains in the knickers?"
"God, you're gross," you mutter.
"Nothing. If I had to guess, I'd say that the clothes had been put on a mannequin to give them a 'worn' impression before being dumped in the garbage."
"Why would someone do that?"
Bennett's eyes narrow. "That doesn't fall within my bailiwick."
Knotts glowers at him, then turns to leave.
"What do you want me to do with the wardrobe?" Bennett calls.
"Take up cross-dressing!"
"We could return those things to CID," you suggest when you catch up to her. "Maybe they could catch something our guys didn't."
"CID's not as interested as we are," Knotts says. "Besides, we're flushed out of CID." She raps on a door, and at a muffled reply enters the office.
The Moustache, putter in hand, is tapping a golf ball across the floor. He glances up without apology. "I can do vfor you?"
"Is the shadow mind back in order?"
"By tonight, I hope. The diagnostics caught a few more bugs."
"Is it going to bust again, if we run it hard?"
"I think we'll have vfixed it." He straightens. "But how hard do you want to run it?"
Knotts closes the office door behind her. "I want to use it to do some deep, deep Patterning on people."
The Moustache frowns. "The standard Patterning protocols—"
"I don't want to tell if there's been any changes in my people. I want inside their heads. I want to know what they've said and done and felt and seen."
He looks very grave. "The machine itself will be robust once the shakedown is vfinished, but a shadowing process is egkstremely ehksacting, requiring careful calibration of and upon each subject. Even under standard conditions, we antizipate ten or twelve hours from the start of a procedure until its end. Dhere is also a great deal of preparation before each procedure—"
"But you need a test case still. You told me you haven't tested it on actual subjects, you only did simulations."
"Dhat's true."
"If you still need to run clinical trials—"
It amuses you to hear Knotts talking like this program is subject to government health regulations.
"—run them on my guys. You'll have your trials, and I'll have the deep Patterning I need."
"How many trials?"
"Eight, at least. Maybe a dozen."
The Moustache tugs at his nose. "Dhis early, dhat would be a month of trials, at least."
"If we last that long," you mutter.
"Then we'll get started as soon as you're ready," Knotts says crisply, and the other gives a resigned shrug. "Second—"
"Second?" The Moustache gets a despairing look.
"Did Bennett talk to you about the DNA search he was doing for me?" She relates the analysis of the clothes. "Can you think of a reason that there wouldn't be any remains on discarded clothes?"
"They were never worn?"
"Assume they were. Assume someone was wearing these clothes, and took them off, and threw them away. Why would there be no cells or dandruff or hairs—?"
"But dhere would be. Dhere must be. Unless they were thoroughly cleaned after dhey were taken off."
"But they weren't. Yes, a normal person would leave that kind of stuff behind. Therefore this wasn't a normal person. What kind of a—?"
"Ah!"
"Ah?"
"Ah. I dhon't know, but now I understand your question. An interesting puzzle. A person who dhoesn't shed." A faraway look comes into his eye. After a moment, without losing that look, he takes up the putter and again hunches over a ball. "I will have to meditate on it."
"I don't want to take you away from other work," Knotts says dryly.
"Not at all. I was pondering a redesign of the Mavis unit, but dhat was only practical." He taps the ball, but it misses the cup. "Dhis is more interesting, more speculative." His voice trails away.
Knotts tugs you back outside. She glances around before taking you into the unisex bathroom. She runs water in the sink and splashes around, then pulls you in close so she can talk in your ear. "How are your relations with that girl over at Vulcan?"
"Deborah? I haven't talked to her in awhile."
"She's not mad at you, is she?"
"Why would she be?"
"Don't be a moron, if you haven't talked to her in awhile—"
"I'm sure we're fine. She was just looking for a little more, you know, variety in her love life than even I could—"
"Well, I want you to talk to her. This thing that killed Chernov, Bennett said 'mannequin' and that made me think 'robot'. Don't laugh. If Vulcan knows something about that kind of stuff—"
"Vulcan's not going to tell us if they've got robots in development."
"You don't ask what they're working on, Kips. You just tell 'em we've got this problem, and do they know anything that could shed some light on it."
"I'll try," you say, feeling dubious. "But who do I take with me?"
She reflects for a moment. "She's not going to open up if you've got someone else with you," she muses. "Mm, take Patterson. She won't notice a little girl you're babysitting."
"And if Greystoke comes for me, he won't notice the little girl either," you say glumly.
"Exactly. Patterson can get the drop on him."
You stare. "One, I don't want Greystoke coming for me, and two, what the fuck can a ten-year-old girl do against Greystoke?"
"Give her a snoozegun, Kips. Christ!"
* * * * *
"Spoiler--5" 
The next day.
"You're kidding, right? Something this small can actually take out someone as big as—?"
"Oh yeah, trust me," you say. "It will. I just hope to God you only have to take my word for it, man."
"Celia."
"What?"
The ten-year-old girl puts her hands on her hips. "When I'm looking like this, my name is Celia."
"Sure thing, sweetheart. And I'm your Uncle Terry."
Her lip curls. "We don't even look like each other."
"Step-uncle, then. You know, you're talking us out of a close, tender relationship and more into the my-stupid-sister-in-law-dumped-this-hellion-on-me kind of a thing. If you want ice cream when we're done—"
"Is that the story, then? Step-uncle? Fine." She tucks the snoozegun into her little purse. "Well, come on. I can't believe you're dragging me—"
"That's right, have your fun. I remember my first mission inside a skin. You won't believe me, but these are the best days of your life." You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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