CMR Chapter 4

Dolly hadn't spoken since she finished answering the Ringside Army Command investigators' questions. She even provided a recording of the incident, helping herself to some of the RAC data while she was plugged in. Masquerading as a synth often lowered the guard of the authorities; a synth wouldn't have thought to take a look.

She spent the intervening time between the interrogation and disembarking in Gulf City on Terra reviewing the evidence. What she saw wasn't comforting. She watched the video from the inspectors' body cams as they boarded that mysterious gray craft. The only information on it was that it had come from Uranus.

In the video, the three inspectors boarded. They were calm, confident, bored. The inside of the gray vessel was dark and mostly unfurnished, but sigils and strange writings covered every bare surface in glowing paints. The olfactors on the body cams detected incense and sulphur. There was no cockpit, no pilot's chair. The sole occupant was sitting cross-legged in the center of the hab, still and unmoving. The inspectors requested identification, then demanded it. It wasn't until they raised their weapons that the occupant moved. 

When she stood, it was one smooth motion. Blades unfolded from her forearms. A suggestion of a powder blue nun's habit had been tailored and sliced to show off the woman beneath. Specifically, it showed sleek cybernetics and gleaming bioplastic. She was average height for a Uranite, but too symmetrical and too ideal. Her hair was shock white and her skin had been replaced by a sleek white bioplastic banded through with glowing neon pink bands at the hips, thighs, and shoulders. Her eyes glowed digital pink and the irises adjusted with cybernetic precision. 

The cyborg killed them all within three seconds. They'd opened fire when she moved, but between her serpentine movements and her armored chassis they didn't have a chance. Despite the savagery of her attacks, she was precise, driving those blades in with only as much force as necessary to kill.

While she was reviewing the video, Crenshaw and CeeDee were locked in an argument that Dolly barely followed. "They were Necroids," Crenshaw repeated, as if this time would be the final straw. "Nanites do that. Terrorists love using them. They're scary but they're not magic."

"They weren't Necroids," CeeDee insisted again, her voice almost as reasonable as the first time she'd said it. "They were Zumbis. Someone Bound a Pithrak in them after they died." 

Dolly returned to the video. The next ten exchanges wouldn't change from before. Both of them were far too convinced that they were correct. She focused this playthrough on the assailant. She was average height for a Uranian, but Dolly couldn't identify a single original part of her body. If it wasn't for the way she moved, the way her clearly organic brain processed her surroundings, Dolly would almost think that she could be a robot or some assassin synth. The clothing was too human as well. Some lecherous owner of an assassin synth might dress her like that, but something about it just felt vain rather than lecherous. The mockery of the habit would probably indicate a religious upbringing gone sour.

"They were Necroids," Crenshaw pushed. "I've killed half a dozen Necroids in my time with House Helicon. There's no spinshow nonsense needed."

"Zumbis, Scampi. Necroids bleed black. Zumbis bleed green."

Dolly moved on to the part that she had been hesitating to watch again. The cyborg standing over the upturned bodies of the inspectors. Calling out nonsense words and chanting. Were the salts she sprinkled over the bodies a delivery system for nanites? Perhaps. Why the mummery for no audience? Was it all for the body cams? She didn't seem to be paying any attention to those. Dolly considered picking up a nervous habit. Perhaps she might try grinding her teeth.

"Why would anyone even need to make one of these zombies when Necroids exist?" Crenshaw argued, the final attempt of the logical loop that he and CeeDee were stuck in.

"Zumbis," CeeDee corrected again. She was more exasperated this time, closer to the end of her rope. Dolly wondered why she wasn't content to let him twist this time, as she was with her tarot. "Zoom-Bees. Zumbies. And maybe it was someone who's better at Calling than computers? Or maybe it's because the authorities can trace nanites' serials. Zumbis just look like corpses when they're dead. Other than some subspace contamination, they're not useful to investigators."

Dolly switched the recording to her own. She played the quadrisection of the first inspector. There was so little blood, but filling the cavities of the body was a brown and green sludge. Some kind of mold, maybe? Then the end of the third and final inspector. CeeDee had shouted something. The syllables were different, but they were clearly the same language as the cyborg's theatrics.

Then, it happened: the anomaly that had Dolly replaying it all. The chemical trace of sulfur. A sudden increase in pressure, slight enough that a human wouldn't have noticed but measurable. It was as if something had suddenly entered the closed air of the room, something with a small volume. The inspector's dead, staring face collapsing as if pinched off by a toothed machine, torn away. She had sliced her anyway, but she was already falling. She'd wanted to see if there was any sign of cybernetic reanimation by nanites. Repeating the experiment. This inspector, too, had been mostly empty of blood and seemingly held together with sludge instead.

"You're a mole," CeeDee accused. That was new, so Dolly turned and watched the two of them. "Blind, but your nose is good. You know this doesn't smell right."

"You got that right, at least," Crenshaw grumbled. The airlock chirruped that it had finished normalizing the air. He stood up and adjusted his coat and hat. He'd swapped out his clothes and thrown the ruins of his previous outfit in the recycler. The new ones were a little baggy on him, and Dolly reminded herself that she needed to ensure that he was getting enough calories. With their increased workload lately he'd been burning more than usual, and Crenshaw had a tendency to forget to eat several meals between his weekly treat of lo mein. "Why did the Necroids get sent at us? Had to be someone else going for this rat. Probably doctored the inspectors to make them look like those zombies. Means one of your type, sending a message."

"Z..." CeeDee started, then gave up. Dolly sympathized; Crenshaw could be exhausting. CeeDee continued, "That's actually a good point for once, Scampi. They shouldn't have known we were in the running yet, right?" She thought about it as they gathered themselves to disembark. "You feel paranoid recently? Like you were being watched?"

"I always feel like I'm being watched," Crenshaw answered with a laugh. "Goes with this line of work." 

She nodded. "They've probably had a Gaze on you since you got hired. We'll have to go get you cleansed before we try to learn anything important. Come on, I know the place." She didn't leave room for an argument. She plucked a stray hair off his collar, and then she was out through the airlock and down the stairs.

"Calling me 'Scampi' when I'm three heads taller than her," Crenshaw grumbled, mood souring. He reached for his pocket flask and groaned when he remembered its fate. 

"It's your eye color," Dolly mused, cautiously poking her head out of the airlock to check for ambush. "Scampi."

"What?" He scratched his stubble as he pushed by her. "They're purple, like everyone else from New Morrossu."

"Shade, Mack." She followed him out and then down the stairs. "It's the shade of purple. Scampi purple. It's a little impressive that she matched it exactly so fast, most people aren't that discerning."

"She's a real artist," he sneered.

Gulf City was warm and wet. It covered most of the Central American region, entirely enveloping the coast of what used to be called the Gulf of Mexico before the ice caps melted and turned the Gulf into just more of the Atlantic Ocean. The megahabs were typical Terran construction; enormous edifices that each held hundreds of thousands of family-sized apartments. In the days before space travel, before the five hundred year baby boom following the Cozine Disaster, the population of a single megahab would have filled a city all by itself. Gulf City had thousands of them, and in between were nestled office complexes, entertainment hubs, parks, art installations, and all the things that give a city a life and soul of its own.

They caught up with CeeDee at an el-train terminal. She was chatting up a man in a puffy dramwear jacket. She looked at Crenshaw and beamed. "There they are! Daan, this is my brother, Crenshaw, and his companion synth Dolly. Crenshaw, this is Daan, he's a paralegal."

Crenshaw squinted at the man, then held out his hand. When Daan took it for a shake, seemingly as confused as Crenshaw was, Dolly saw CeeDee slip her hand in the man's pocket. It was only in there for a heartbeat before she crowded closer, putting her chin on his shoulder. 

"I bet paralegal pays well, huh?" she purred.

Daan blushed, dark skin getting darker, before pulling away. "Excuse me, I'm actually... this way. See you around." This last was delivered with the tone of someone who hoped it was a lie.

"Do we just harass random strangers, now?" Crenshaw asked, watching the man hurry away.

CeeDee watched him retreat as well, then answered, "No. But if what I think is about to happen does, then I'd rather it happen to a stranger."

Before he could demand clarification, the train arrived and locked onto the side. The frictionless tubes in which the trains ran didn't allow for sound, so the trains ran in a silence that always unnerved Crenshaw. He liked the magtrains on Saturn better, rolling through concave grooves on positive-positive charges with a respectable buzz and regular clattering. They piled into the car and were forced toward the rear of the train by the crowd piling in behind them. 

"Is there a reason we couldn't get a cab?" Crenshaw complained.

"We need to be surrounded by a crowd until you're cleansed," CeeDee shouted over the crowd. "Humor me."

"Yeah, alright." He rolled his eyes but didn't argue further. He reached into his coat and yanked his hand back. He gritted his teeth and looked at the overhead monitor to watch the city pass by.

Dolly swatted behind her, causing a man to pull his hand back with a yelp. She locked eyes with CeeDee, who was smirking at her. CeeDee leaned in close and asked, "What? You're not flattered? He could have pinched anyone but he decided your rear was the most pinchable."

"Synths don't feel flattered," Dolly answered carefully.

"No. They don't," CeeDee's smirk grew a little wider. "They also don't get irritated." She glanced at Crenshaw, who was now separated by a few jostling bodies and paying no attention. "Why haven't you told him?"

Dolly weighed the risks and benefits of a lie, but decided that CeeDee was already too sure to bother. It would be better to get through the conversation quickly than to drag it out. "It's not worth the risk. He bought a synth. He'd be legally obligated to install a cricket if he knew."

"And you don't want a conscience?" CeeDee pressed.

"I have a conscience," Dolly mumbled. "I don't want a leash. I'd rather be a secret than a slave."

CeeDee nodded, pulling back. Dolly read her body language loud and clear; she had accomplished whatever she had hoped to from that conversation.

A cry rose up from the back of the train as the adjoining door opened. People crowded in, trying to escape. Crenshaw and Dolly had the same idea, both gripping the overhead handles and lifting themselves to see over the crowd. Daan was at the center of the clearing left by the panicked crowd. He was screaming and clutching at his head. When bystanders approached, he flailed at them, battering them with fists bloody from tearing at his scalp. A train marshal pushed through the crowd and leveled a D-HEW at him. He zapped the deranged paralegal into unconsciousness. Crenshaw and Dolly exchanged a look and dropped back down into the crowd. They shoved their way to CeeDee, who looked guilty.

"Thought so," she mused, responding to questions that weren't asked. "You need to get cleansed. Now." The train arrived shortly after, and the unmistakable sounds and smells of a Xinztown filled the crowded car.

They started down a series of jumble-down alleys and followed a stairwell into an underway. 

"Smells like home," Crenshaw sighed. The Nicholson Xinztown on Ganymede was almost like this one, a little less wet and a lot less hot. That's not what he meant, though, and Dolly recognized the signal immediately.

They were being followed.

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