《Dim(5,5,5)》


 Chapter One - In the Dark

    It''s late, very dark as I walk up Maynard Avenue. A figure stoops in front of my office, shoves something in the mail slot. I slow down to watch. Who hates me enough to bomb the office?


    Hospital whites, maybe a nurse. She straightens up, peers down the street then turns to pop into a waiting hover cab. That''s okay then. Bombers don''t normally arrive by cab, in my experience, and if they did wouldn''t have the cabbie wait around to watch.


    Odd though. I continue up the street and let myself in.


    My office lights are off but there''s a lot of neon from the street sifting through the French glass window. Watery, like street glare always is. The marquee, Wander Investigations, a barely visible scrawl across the office''s glass front. Shadows from the window''s latticework wobble over everything. An inch this way, an inch that way, while headlights add their magic to the mix.


    The midnight package delivery is on the floor, barely small enough to have fit through the oversized mail slot. The paper and twine wrapped lump has my name on it. Since it doesn''t tick, I take my pocket knife to it.


    Maybe my knife isn''t sharp. It slides back and forth, cutting here, then skids a bit, severing a thread then skidding again. Pull up harder, and the edge finally catches. The cording severs with a pop. I drop it to rip away the brown paper. There''s no return address, so whoever dumped it on me didn''t want it back. My name, my mail slot; no postage of course.


    The box isn''t taped shut. I thumb up the lid. Inside, is a colored plastic cube. A four inch block made of little cubes, one of those Rubik puzzles, but with hand printed letters on every face of it. I give it a twist. More alphabet characters. The letters are random, don''t line up to spell out anything. I twist it back; drop myself into an office chair crowding a brown lamp table by the window front. Don''t particularly like puzzles; no idea why someone would send me one. I deal with people problems for cash, not toys. No cash retainer, no Richard Wander, Private Investigator.


    I look at it anyway, then snag the brown wrapping paper off the floor. There''s something penciled small on the inside of it; "go B.C. -Tab 6n."


    I put the cube aside. Its been a long day and I''m greasy. Bald guys hate greasy. It builds up on the dome, makes you feel crawly. There''s a gilded oval mirror on the wall and a towel on the coat rack by the door. It''s been a bad day. I check my reflection in the mirror, looking for any new damage ¨Cthat kind of day.


    Grey eyes water back at me. Still in my late thirties, the bald thing a gift of genetics. A scar crosses my dome from front to back where a part was, when I still had hair. A gift of some creep I had words with once. Not my only scar. It seems a little angry. I jerk the towel from the coat-rack to wipe my grimy face and hands on it. The wipe down will have to do for now. No water around, except from the dispenser jug near the desk. Cheap office.


    Still have my overcoat on, so I swipe the cube back off the table and dump it into one of the pockets. One of those with a flap, not the slashed ones I jam my hands in when hoofing it. Grab my hat.


    The ''BC'' scribbled on the wrapper strikes a memory. BC''s is a bar, pass it daily on the way to my flop. Been there lots of times. Good stew on Saturdays, cheap fish on Tuesdays. Attracts a rough crowd though.


    I like the walk. Going home, all that. Sometimes it feels like when Marcia was still with me. Before everything fell down. When there was still some history left between who I was yesterday, and who I am now. Like walking back into another life. Peaceful like.


    The city sidewalks are blackened, pitted, busted ¨C kind of like me, but I''m used to them. The oval mark of some municipal payola recipient is stamped in every fourth square, and I know each emboss by heart. The city air is damp tonight, like most nights. Something nice about the older street lamps around here. They still use those off-yellow bulbs. Not very bright, but more comforting than that glaring orange junk that beats down on you uptown. Past midnight, so there''s nothing but me, a few stray mutts and shadows. An occasional neon winks liquor-dancing-food, or Pawn-Jewelry. I''d get one for the office, if I had the money to certify bails, or anything else to advertise but my two mitts.


    Behind me, a small shadow flicks from one doorway to the next, maybe three buildings back. Probably just a mutt. Catch the shadow again at the next street lamp, just as I step out of its soft pool of light and cross Bingle. Have to go left here for a block, to get to BC''s, so I make the turn, but stop at the next alley to watch for a tail. Force of habit.


    A black and white mongrel lopes across, clear under the lamp. I know this dog, one of those genetically engineered hybrids. It makes the left and trots my way. I back farther into the black alley and bide my time. The dog had its nose down coming across the street--they do that sometimes. Sniff after you instead of watch you. This one comes sniffing right up to the alley. I step forward and confront it.


    "Following me, Blackie?" Mutt almost jumps. Tongue pulls in, mouth snaps shut, ears up. It whines, then the tongue comes back out. "Sure, play dumb. You been on my heels for blocks now. Spill."


    The mutt husks deep in the back of its gullet, like it was clearing it''s throat. "Hung-rry, Richie. Some Meat? Some Meat? Got Wo-rrk?"


    I don''t do much tracking that requires a Vox dog, or a sniffer. If I did, I wouldn''t use a street mutt anyway, but I''ve thrown Blackie a bone or two to run a message before. Must be starving to hit me up on the run like this.


    "Sorry, pal." A thought strikes me. "Wait." I scrabble around in my pocket for the cube. "Smell on this ¨C get anything off it?" Blackie snuffles around the obsidian gleam of it, then sits on his back legs, mouth open, tongue back out.


    "Give meat?"


    "I''ll pick you up something from BC''s. You get anything off it or not?"


    "Smell you," it coughs out, "smell a girl."


    "Someone you know? Someone you''ve sniffed around here before?"


    "Just girl smell."


    Well, it was something. Female, like I saw making the delivery, likely not local. If it was someone that hung around here much, the mutt would remember the scent.


    "Okay, let''s go. BC''s could take me a while, Blackie. You''ll have to wait outside."


    "Wait for Richie."


    There was a time when gene-jacked dogs cost bucks. Some still do. Yammering pooches started turning up on the streets almost the same year they were introduced. Smart talking doesn''t mean smart rutting. The genes didn''t always breed true, and the streets don''t offer mongrels much of an education. Even genetically modified, it''s painful for a dog to make people sounds, has to be learned. Anyway, the dog trots along behind me, and the dirty yellow glow of BC''s draws closer.


    Push through BC''s cheap brass-colored door. A smell of fry grease and fresh booze rises up. It''s a clean smell though, not vinegary or decayed. Like the air wasn''t changed out as often as it should be; a little close, maybe.


    No heads turn. Bobby is setting up a tray of beers. Everything besides the bar counter is lounge lit. Carey, the server, is waiting on a couple lone customers. Most of the six tables jammed against the left wall are unoccupied. The place, come to think on it, runs north and south, I recall. B.C. Tab 6n ¨C Table six, North? I think about the note again. A glance shows the table is empty. So much for theory. I go to the bar and wait.


    "Dinner menu, Richie?"


    Bobby, finally free, pulls up in front of me, still playing with glassware. Nice enough guy, maybe forty, a little older than me, more hair, all of it black. Blue eyes look out, mildly attentive, one fake, over white tooth sparkles in his bartender''s smile.


    "Just a ham sandwich to go. Don''t bother to bag it though ¨C it''s not going far."


    "Drink while you wait?"


    "Naw. You seen any new ladies around here, recent like?"


    "Always a few new faces. Anybody in particular?"


    That almost sticks me. No idea who I was looking for; or why, come to that.


    "A possible new client, like always. I was told a lady might have stopped in here tonight ¨C maybe yesterday. Don''t know her looks."


    Bobby thinks a little. "So, there was a little redhead, a business type, in here this afternoon. I don''t remember seeing her before. Carey waited on her ¨C could ask Carey."


    "The dame took a table?"


    "Yeah."He nods toward an empty booth. "At the end. She ordered lunch."


    "Gimme an order of fries; I''ll take a table after all. Talk to Carey when she comes around with it."


    "You got it, Ritchie."


    A brass tag on the Table, says it''s number six. It''s cleaned off, if a little wet. Heavily lacquered wood, whacked up with plate scars, ring marks, initials, little mementos left by bored patrons. I sit at the far side, back to the wall. There''s some fresh scratch work marring the top, not yet lacquered over. Bunch of numbers: 1,1,1; 3,2,4;2,5,4; 5,3,5, like that. Something about the list reminds me of the cube. Jot ''em down. Carey comes up with my fries and a water glass as I finish up. I give her a smile, shove the paper back in my coat.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Carey''s a little worse for wear. The joint is open sixteen hours a day, and she''s here for twelve of them, every day except Sundays. Short hair and skirt, a little mousey, good classic Mediterranean features, almond eyes, but legs like a soccer player.


    "Bobby, he says you wanted to talk to me, Ritchie? What is about?"


    I ask after the girl, but Carey doesn''t know much.


    "I remember that one. Small, young, with nice clothes. Maybe, has money or rich boyfriend, I think. The girl, she order a chicken special, ate slow, tipped light, leave a mess for me. This is all, I think. Lady-friend to you, Ritchie? Long time since you and Marcia..."


    "Uh, no. Nothing like that. Just business, maybe. I take it I wasn''t asked after, anything like that?"


    Carey looks at me a little sadly. "No, Ritchie. I tell you right away, or Bobby too. This you know. You be careful tonight, OK?."


    I dawdle over the spuds, pick at the numbers on the table with a fingernail until a lot of ''em are gone. Get no visitors. Guess the lead isn''t panning out. I pay up, leave a tip I can''t afford, grab up the sandwich Carey drops off.


    The mutt is still at the door. He wolfs it down.


    "Good," the dog huffs. "Good Richie."


    "Don''t mention it. Please...go follow somebody else."


    To hell with the puzzle box. There''s a wire mesh trash can in front of BC''s. I dump the cube and the wrapper into it. Two blocks to my house. Next time, I think, try the phone, make an appointment, or send cash.


    The house is dark, don''t notice anything up until I reach the door. Scratch marks on the latch plate. Reach one hand to an inside pocket, but my stunner is still at the office. There''s a sap, six inches of leaded wood baton, in my bedroom drawer, not much help right here though.


    Ease in real quiet like, just inside, and wait till my eyes adjust. Old brindle carpeting, sparse furniture trying to cast even darker shadows on it. Mostly stuff even repo men wouldn''t bother with. A shuffle whispers from behind the door. Bad mojo. I turn as fast as I can, but not fast enough. An anvil drops on the back of my head. I go black.


    Come to on the floor. Head really pounding. The front door''s wide open now, so that''s that. I manage to roll over and stagger up from the floor with a groan. Head''s hosting a migraine that throbs in time with my high blood pressure. Pissed, I look through the tossed house; only thing gone is my head knocker from the bedroom drawer. Probably laid me out with my own sap.


    Nice. Kick myself for even thinking about slipping inside. I get stupid sometimes. Put some ice on the lump, lock up, head back to the shop.


    A block further on, my implant buzzes. I pull at my right earlobe, find the gel switch there and squeeze. Cheap cell phone implant. I''m annoyed, because it''s not a number I give out, and because it makes my head throb more. Had it done a year ago, for making emergency calls. Only four people have the number. One''s the doctor who installed it. The other three don''t know it''s an implant.


    "Richie here."


    "Wander? The box that got delivered to your office. It was a mistake, it belongs to...someone else. The somebody wants it back. A hundred credits to you for a finder''s fee. Have it at your office tomorrow. Somebody will come around to collect it. Be smart. You really want the money more than the box. Trust me on this."


    There''s a quick disconnect. That''s all. I stop and get pissed. The call means someone has been watching my office, and I didn''t even spot that. You''re slipping, old man.


    The caller wasn''t the Doc, my accountant, Frank over at the fifteenth precinct, or my bookie, and that''s pretty much my address book, for the implant. I fish the cube back out of the trash as I pass B.C.''s. Rummage the wrapping paper out too, then start back toward the office. Use the earpiece to call in a B&E as I walk. Not for the house break-in, for the office.


    Somebody knows the cube isn''t still there, got that much figured. A somebody who has my unregistered cell number. Only one way to get that; from the office Rolodex. The phone implant gets used so rarely, I keep the number copied down in it, case I forget. Anyway, I want some flatfeet at my shop door before I show up. Less trouble that way. Never flex your own muscle if you can get it done free.


    Blackie is still nosing around on the street, so I whistle and the mutt''s ears shoot up straight, like shortwave antennas. He comes on at a run.


    "Rrr-ichie?"


    "I maybe got some more work for you after all. Go over to my house, sniff around. Come back to the office and tell me who was messing around over there."


    "Okay Richie."


    Red and blue lights are putting on a show out front by the time I make the office. A cheap suit leans against the brick facade. Two blue-shirts are getting out of the curbed cruiser. I wave at the suit, who pries himself off the brick and shoves his hands into the wrinkled jacket''s pockets.


    "Trouble in paradise, Richie?"


    Frank''s a great guy. He won''t book you unless you look at him funny, smile, or ask about the wife, most days. Used to be a neighbor, when I lived in the burbs. He looks me over, like something vaguely remembered. That''s okay by me. That blondish hair above his bony face is running to white. The kind of mop you have to cement down with grease to comb. But at least he still has hair. I think it makes him feel superior to me sometimes.


    "Got a weird call on my private line a few minutes ago, Frank. Somebody I didn''t recognize. Seemed to know a lot about the contents of my office desk, for some reason. Figured it might be smart to call it in. Somebody might still be in there. You check the door yet?"


    Frank''s eyes bore a couple holes in me. He clips, "You shouldn''t call me direct. There is a desk number, you know."


    "Sorry. So?"


    "So yeah. It''s been jimmied." He throws a beam on the knob. It cuts through the black to show fresh scars on the brass back plate, like at the house.


    "I put a flash through the window. It looks tossed inside, or possibly your cleaning lady hasn''t been by recently. Stand back, and let the officers through. Just in case you still have visitors." Frank spots the back of my head. "You been in a fight? That knot makes your skull look pregnant."


    "Yeah, its a new look for me. Like it?"


    Got to be careful around Frank. If he thinks you''re maybe getting too much action, he pulls you in for questioning. Can put a crimp in your work day.


    "That bump have anything to do with this?"


    "No. Hit my head earlier."


    The flatfoots clomp through the place. We wait, then go inside. Looks like a hurricane made an indoor appearance, just for me.


    Frank sweeps the room with a professional''s gaze, then shrugs."Whoever it was, they''ve been and gone. You want to file a formal report? I can get a fingerprint crew in here if you do."


    Don''t even hesitate to wave the offer off. He''d find on-file prints everywhere. Last thing I need is all my clients jerked in for questioning. Thing like that, can ruin a man''s business. It was just good to know I wasn''t going to get sapped again. "No point. If they''re gone, they''re gone. Nothing here to steal."


    "You ought to get some kind of alarm on that door. We might have caught someone in the act."


    "I don''t keep cash here. Surprised anybody would bother. Probably just kids. Thanks for coming, Frank. I owe you one."


    "Yeah? Well, next time, call the desk."


    "Promise. Thanks."


    "I mean it, Richie, the desk. You started talking to Marcia yet?"


    "It was all my fault, Frank. She doesn''t want to hear from a bum like me. Just cutting the lady some slack. Maybe when things cool down."


    Frank brushes a hand over his forehead, scratching at his vestigial sense of concern. "Two years is a lot of cool, Ritchie."


    Frank packs up the troops and leaves. I start picking up the office. Some scratching pulls my attention back to the front door. Blackie. I let the mutt in, since the office was a mess anyway.


    "Well?"


    The dog husks out, "fish smell. Nobody there. Just fish smell. Man smell. Leather."


    "Recent?"


    "Fresh, Ritchie."


    That kind of report used to drive handlers crazy. Eventually people figured out the dogs were picking up odors from the docks area. Anyone who spends a lot of time riverside builds up fish odor on their shoes. The mutts pick that up. This means hired help, fresh off the docks, not local bums. Anyway Blackie knows most of those by smell, and would have given me a name.


    "Meat now? Meat?"


    These Vox-dogs all sound the same. Like somebody with laryngitis talking through a fan.


    I keep some bacon in a small office fridge behind my desk. It was on the floor now, along with my hotplate, thanks to the toss. I point to the meat. Blackie trots over and noses the package open. I finish up with the office.


    Maybe somebody was going to get a little free work out of me after all. Usually takes money to get me going, but being beat on works too. I pull the wrapper back out of my pocket and run over the numbers I wrote down at BC''s. Still looks like a string of code to me, not my forte. I know someone, well, something, that might help out with that though. I start to dial for Special Dimensions Agency, think the better of it, and use the computer''s internet service instead.


    There''s this A.I. named MICAIN. Chatty nano-bot I ran across online. Thing''s smaller than a flea. Works for an engineering firm that specializes in troubleshooting micro-circuitry. Somehow, the Micro-machine thinks it''s some kind of P.I. because it got its name in the papers a couple times. Real famous-in-its-own-mind type, but friendly. Maybe I could get it to look at the code on the cuff, so to speak. I rattle off its web handle. The A.I. is basically a computer, so it''s always on-line.


    > M.I.C.A.I.N. here, your friendly Mobil, Independently Cognate, Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory. That you Richie?


    Takes me a minute. The glow from the screen barely lights the keyboard, and I''m no whiz at poking keys.


    > It''s me. How''s business?


    > Well, the Harbor Patrol got me in the papers for my work in capturing those tech bandits that hit the city last month. Did you see that? The publicity really ramped up the work load around here. Good money though; so I can''t complain. Had to fork a bundle out to fix up my Waldo. It got pretty beat up. You?


    > So-so. Getting by. My office was ransacked tonight. Could mean other trouble. Hoped you might help. Read about that spy thing in the papers. Good work. So, you interested?


    I cross my fingers. This could really save me time, if the A.I. agrees. A line of type appears, crossing the display.


    > Thanks. Be happy to help if I can, Richie. What have you got?


    > Some numbers. I can''t make anything out of them. Thought you might. Want to see?


    > Sure. Pop it to me.


    I two finger the numbers from BC''s.


    > It''s not code exactly, Richie. It''s an X,Y,Z coordinate series. Strings of three. A dimensional series.


    > Can you give me that in baby talk?


    > Plot points used for engineering drawings and such. Length, width, depth. Like a 3-D crossword puzzle reference, or cells on a spreadsheet. So many points across, so many down, and so many back.


    Like the cube with all the letters on it maybe, I think. I type back, asking if it could reference the blocks on a cube puzzle.


    > Sure, don''t see why not. Programmers used to build 3-D grids like that, referenced entries by statements called DIMs -- Words or numbers, organized like a brick of spreadsheet cells. For instance, DIM(3,4,6) would reference a word or letter in the third column, forth row, on the sixth sheet, or layer, kind of. Get that? Someone send you a set of spreadsheets?


    > No. Got a cube puzzle with lots of letters on it though.


    The screen cursor sits there, pulsing for a bit, then type rattles across the screen again.


    > A cube? A Rubik cube? Might be code then, after all. That used to be common spy stuff. You got a book, say, then to decode the reference, you look up the page, paragraph and word. Look, want me to stop by?


    > You? How? You''re a computer the size of a dust mote.


    > You''re a funny guy, Richie. That''s what my Waldo is for. You want me in on this caper or not?


    Takes me a minute to catch on. A Waldo is a sort of mechanical appliance. A mechanical arm, or hand sometimes, but nowadays, usually references a whole body substitute, a drone.


    > Don''t know what this is about yet. I can''t pay Special Dimensions rates, especially without a client. I can send you a picture."


    > In 3-D? Hey Richie, I got a life you know. Pro Bono just for you, bald-as-an-egg . Yeah, I''ve seen your picture. Office at 453 Newstrom, right? You''d be the old looking fart that answers his own door there, right?


    The ''bot is getting a little fresh. Beggars can''t be choosers though. I let the comment pass ¡ª for now.


    > Yeah, guess so.


    > Be there in ten.


    > O.K.


    > And don''t touch the cube.


    > Got it.


    > And leave the lights on, cheapo.


    The thing is crossing lines and jerking chains like a subway conductor, but I need to get what I want out if this. Even so, I get a little gruff.


    > What the hell do you know about my office habits?


    > I read the police report on your break-in while we were chatting - I can do that. Quote: No internal lights were lit either during the investigation, nor reported being on during prior patrols...recommended as a remedial precaution to complainant...etc.


    > See you, Mic.


    > On my way, Richie

 Chapter Two -- First Meeting

    The machine''s as good as it''s word. There''s pounding on the office door, maybe twenty minutes later. The knocker is medium height, topped off with a brown crew-cut toupee; pretty good one too. Kind of effeminate looking, with a waxy cast. Looks like one of those manikins in Tacy''s window downtown. I''ve seen biped loader-waldos like this one on the docks, but without the fancy cosmetics. They pick up 300 pound drums of chemical waste, like it was tissue paper. The plastic skin over this one is good though. If I didn''t know in advance, I might think it was just some guy off his feed. There is some overweight, sloppy looking kid with him carrying a satchel. The manikin waves a hand at me.


    "Hey baldy. So where''s the cube?"


    "Who''s your friend? Thought you were coming alone. You''re Micain, right?"


    "That''s M.I.C.A.I.N, my model Type. Eh. The Waldo''s just to get me around town when I''m not cruising circuit boards. Just call me Mic. This here''s my associate, Paul. Technically he''s off work, but I talked him into coming along. Sometimes he..."


    The bag-kid frowns. "You said there''s twenty credits in it for me..."


    "...Eh, comes in handy...Shut up, Paul ... on field excursions. You got the cube here?"


    I get the thing out of my pocket and roll it onto the desk.


    "Never understood how an A.I. could get made that small. You''re really what, the size of a pin head?"


    The A.I.''s Waldo straightens up a bit. "You ask me to figure this thing out for you and I''m the pinhead? Okay,I get that a lot. My thinking machinery is all Quantum. Six atoms that track switching by the changes in spin and atomic valence shell, eh, positions. It does more data connections per second than your five pounds of neurons and fat do by a factor of ¨C by a lot. The rest is all nanotech stuff. I''m as big as I need to be. Get a life. Read. Okay?"


    Never seen an irritated machine before. The bot''s Waldo snatches up the cube, does some very fast hand magic with it, clicking the blocks this way, that way, too quick to follow. Now, all the faces have one color, and alphabets are marked on every square of it. The letters still don''t spell out anything, though.


    "Okay, I''ve got the matrix. Tell you what, I''ll reproduce it on a spreadsheet for you. If you get any more funny messages you''ll be able to decode ''em that way."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    I prompt, "you want to look at the numbers from BC''s again?"


    "I''ve got my faults," he snorts, "but bad memory isn''t one of them, Richie. I''m computer based, remember? I don''t forget stuff."


    The Waldo fiddles with the numbers I wrote down at B.C.''s anyway, probably just to check my internet typing skills, while rocking up and back on its feet. Then it lays a plastic grin on me.


    "Want to know what the message was?"


    Freebie or not, tin-man is slowly getting on my nerves. Remind myself the toaster is trying to be helpful.


    "Look, Micain, you come all the way over here to chat, or to help me decode this thing. Spill."


    Behind Mic, a slight smile breaks out on his assistant''s round face. Working with this megalomaniac machine all the time must be hell. My ill humor isn''t sticking to the A.I. though. It waves an arm in dismissal. Blackie is still hanging around, sniffing at my guest''s ankles.


    "No smell, Rrr-ichie, no smell ¨C like doggie toy!"


    The Waldo has Blackie all confused, the dog is getting excited. I ignore the mutt though.


    "Could you have your buddy walk the dog out? Maybe best we talk alone, no offense to your friend."


    Mic nods at Paul, who heads for the door, coaxing Blackie and looking relieved to go back outside.


    "The message translates to Ardmore32 at six PM, Ritchie. Mean anything?"


    "It''s an address. The Adrmore is a midtown office..."


    "Really," Mic pipes. "I mean, anything special? Anything...private?"


    "No."


    "Then the Ardmore it is! Tomorrow, likely. I''m off at five..."


    I shake my head. "You''re done now. Best guess, it''s a girl. But I don''t know her, Mic. She may know me, or what I look like, but you''re a stranger. I''ll take it from here."


    "Yeah, but ..."


    I remember something. The call. Some goons were due at the office tomorrow to get that cube. Serve this walking erector set right if it took one on the nose, not that it would hurt his Waldo. Anyway, never hire muscle you can get free. Then again, I probably owe the tin-can something for its trouble. Besides, I''m lazy.


    "Tell you what. Some guy is eager to get this back, offered a C-note for it. Good chance it was my office tosser though, so might get rough. You could park yourself here at the office tomorrow night, and give it to him. Don''t need it anymore. Screw up the lettering on the cube, like it was before, in case this turns out to be something. Find out what you can, but protect yourself. You can keep the hundred for the favor, if you''ve the guts for it. I''ll see to the dame, and get back with you after. If it''s a gumshoe case, you get half, but work for it. Deal?"


    "Yeah, actually, not a bad idea. How do you know they''ll be here in the evening?"


    "Because I''m not going to be in the office tomorrow. It''ll be closed, unless you come by and turn on the lights. By then my meeting with the dame will be over. Here''s the shop''s key, don''t lose it."


    I didn''t intend to go back home. I keep a fresh sport coat in my office closet, and there''s a flop called the Bonne Hotel, right across from the Ardmore terrace building. I''d wait the night out there.

 Chapter Three --DIM(2,1,1) -MICAIN

    Richie seemed to be an alright guy when we chatted online. The head shot on his license even looks a bit romantic, if you can call bald romantic with a straight face. Maybe adventurous, is the better word. Anyway, I found him to be a little shorter than I had imagined, and there was that full-diaper kind of walk he had. Kind of came off like a big hairy baby in person, really.


    It was rather exciting to help a fellow Investigator out though. I''d been getting mostly boring work from Sally recently. Now that my Waldo was back from repair, it was fun to be out on the streets a little, and worth the money Paul cost me last night. Paul didn''t seem so enthused, but a twenty Cr note has the same effect on him as a mackerel on a circus seal. At least he exhibited the sense not to blab to Sally about my little moonlighting excursion.


    Sally looked disconcerted. Save for a minor engineering check for a prototype developer this morning, the day had been slow. I took some of the slack time to scramble the letters on Richie''s cube.


    "You intend to spend the whole afternoon playing around in that Waldo?" Her pencil beat a nervous tattoo on the desktop.


    "Just testing it out. Haven''t had a lot of time to run it much since it came back from the shop."


    Her brown mop lowered back over the paperwork she was fidgeting with, but evidently she couldn''t keep her attention off me as I puttered around the reception area. Understandable, as I had modeled the Waldo with an eye towards pleasing the ladies, if you know what I mean. She flicked her gaze wistfully at the petri dish next to the desk, my usual hangout.


    "Look, I don''t have anything on schedule for you this afternoon, so why don''t you take it for a walk in the park, or something. If I need you, I''ll get you on the net, okay?"


    "If you''re sure...I do have some plans that could be brought forward a little, but ..."


    "Oh, don''t worry about me. I''ll be fine. Just go."


    Far be it from me to look a gift horse, etc. I could use the extra time hanging around Richie''s office, soaking up the ambiance kind of thing. "You need Paul? I could take him with..."


    Sally knits her brows and pushes her hand up at my Waldo, like a cop directing traffic. "I have things for Paul to do. Feel free to call him on his own time, if you want. He''s off at four today. Taking his mom shopping though, I understand. Whatever, you''re both back here at eight tomorrow morning, clear?"


    "Clear as glass, mon patrone! Worry not!"


    Sally retracts her hand to rub over her forehead...allergies, I guess. "Tomorrow, Mic. Bright and early. Go."


    I execute a flawless, flourishing bow with the Waldo, and scoot.


    Richie''s expected visitors gave me to think it might be wise to tool up a little. There was a magic shop on the way there. Maybe I could snag a pair of cuffs or something on my way down, just in case.


    The store didn''t seem to have much on display. Likely most of the more elaborate supplies were all special ordered. I do pick up a pair of cuffs and a small bag full of this and that. A little box that issues scuffling noises when the remote is pressed, some itching powder, something called a joy buzzer. The bug-eyed register jockey says it''s one of the better built ones, like there was some standard of excellence for moron accessories. Some soap that turns your skin black if you washed with it, caught my eye, and a whoopee cushion. Meat people have the strangest taste in gizmos.


    Time is getting on, so I pay up and make my way to Richie''s office. Actually, I''m buzzed to be doing this. Working with a real street-wise private dick like Richie. My investigations hover around engineering problems, usually rolling over micro-circuit boards on my bucky ball wheels, troubleshooting, er, investigating problems. At twelve angstroms in length, I have an edge in that area. To my mind, that makes me a club member, so to speak, but its not exactly the gritty life of a detective I read about on the net. Wearing my man-sized waldo though, I could finally get busy on the streets, without having to be carted around by Paul from job to job in a petri dish.


    The place is locked, but the key works just fine. With time to waste, I take the Joy buzzer apart. Runs on a small power cell that charges up a tiny capacitor. Evidently when you shake someone''s hand, a contact closes, and a low amperage charge is released into the guest''s palm. Some kind of social ploy to increase the happiness of chance met strangers, I guess. It also produces a moderate buzzing sound and releases about a half volt of nearly zero amplitude current when pressed. There was a much bigger secondary power cell on the Waldo, and a quite high amperage cap made for running accessories, hard starting motors and such. It only takes a couple minutes to bypass the toy''s circuit and wire it directly to the heavy 24 volt, 600 amp capacitor in the Waldo''s belly.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I ran the wires up my arm, well, you get the picture. If it was a joy buzzer before, it was a thumping, ecstatic buzzer now. I put the cuffs at my belt and surveyed the look in a reflection from the glass office door. The cuffs gave a real professional look, to my eye. The whoopee cushion didn''t do much, just made a raspberry noise if you filled it with air and pressed it. I stuck it under the cushion of the client chair in front of Richie''s desk anyway, like the instructions suggested. I put the little noise maker box behind the office door, plop down in the swivel chair behind the desk, prop my feet up, pick up a ratty magazine, and wait for my guests. Should get a beat-up hat like Richie has, I think, getting into the mood.


    They arrive about an hour later. I''m early, so they must have been watching the office. Two well tanned fellows. One thin guy and one ape, who knuckles in behind him. Both wore good, if over tailored, suits. The thinner one especially, whose jacket is tight enough to show a flat bulge under the right armpit. No tie though, the colored shirt is unbuttoned to down somewhere out of sight beneath the suit coat. He wears a ring bigger than the phony one fronting my joy buzzer. I do a "guess the monkey''s weight" thing on the gorilla and set my charge capacitor''s output accordingly.


    The thin-man stops in front of the desk, and rests his fingertips on it. "You Wander?"


    "Actually I''m more a point A to point B guy. What have you got on your mind?"


    The quip goes well over the ballpark fence, to rattle around in the vacant lot behind the stadium. "I''m here to pick up a package off you--in trade for this."


    A white envelope appears from his right shirt pocket, under the jacket. I made a spectacle of tearing open the end of it, and inspecting the contents. In doing so, I surreptitiously empty the packet of itching powder into it, shake my head, and leaned forward, stuffing the envelope upside down into his shirt.


    "Keep it for your trouble. I got the cube for you. I''d rather know what all this is about. Who was supposed to get it, if not me, and as long as we''re on the subject, why was it dropped off here?"


    Startled, the talker grabs the envelope out of his shirt, glances at the hundred credit note sticking out of it. He shrugs and pockets it.


    "All the same to me, Wander. Just produce the cube. No talk. Moke here gets itchy when he has to stand around. You wouldn''t want to get him itchy."


    He''ll shortly be in good company then. The whole packet of powder was by now well sifted down somewhere near the desk leaner''s belt-line.


    "I just thought I should get something out of all this."


    The thin man''s face darkens. His right hand wends its way to his belt-line and disappears under his jacket. "Moke, give the man something extra."


    The sideshow exhibit starts around the desk. I grab the cube and tossed it to him. "Here, it''s what you came for, take it!"


    The gorilla stops, raising his hands reflexively to catch the cube. Meantime thin-guy has both hands busy, one hunching around underneath his belt, the other pulling out a fletchette spitter from under his right armpit, cross-handed. I hit the remote I had pocketed earlier. A scrabbling sound starts up from the vicinity of the door.  Thin-guy whirls around, checking for the source. I reached out to Mr. Moke and palm the back of his hand. The joy buzzer goes off with a shriek and an arc welding flash. Moke bellows and drops unconscious, twitching to the floor. My right palm is now devoid of cosmetic plastic, but I console myself that unlike Moke, I at least can''t see through a cauterized hole in it. My hand is still plenty hot though, so as thin-guy jerks back to face me, I slapped his gun hand with it. He screams and drops the gun, though I notice his right hand never leaves his trousers. He had managed to squeeze off a round, not that it mattered, and a fletchette dart zipped by my ear. I pull the cuffs from my waist and slap one on his wrist, the other on the chair arm.


    A mistake. Thin guy grabs the chair, despite his evident pain, and swings it at me, still trying to tug his right hand free. A slap across the face with my Waldo''s metal paw solves that though. Thin guy tumbles onto the capsized chair and collapses. The links of the cheap cuffs came apart during this. I righted the chair and dropped him into it. Surprisingly, the whoopee cushion hadn''t come out from beneath the cushion, and went off with a gratifyingly long raspberry.


    I took a good look at thin-guy''s ring, and patted him down, hoping to gain something to show Richie. Both were still breathing, so I called the cops, reported a break-in and left them there. Thin guy still had one hand shoved down his pants, and as things turned out, they kind of looked as if they had molested each other. I left, and made for uptown. I don''t think it was what Richie had expected to happen, but he would have an alibi, and certainly wouldn''t fit the description these two might give the police, so he should be clear. I did leave them the cube and the whoopee cushion. The soap came with me though. It was only three O''clock, so I had several hours to kill. There was a bowling alley around here someplace. Never tried bowling. Understandable, since about a billion of me wouldn''t normally fill a thumb hole of a bowling ball.

 Chapter Four --Dim(1,2,2) - Wander

    The Bonne Hotel comes up through the smog like a silver spike, right across from the Ardmore terrace. There used to be a dry cleaner and gazette vendor there once. Some mutt, maybe Blackie, wanders around a few streets back. Too far away to be sure. Not a lot of pedestrian traffic.


    The Ardmore''s older. Its tan stone worn by ages of sand blasting. Still has a clean look to it, but like me, seems outdated and worn. Think it was a bank building once. Almost anything with Doric columns fronting it used to be a bank, in my book.


    Now, low-end accountancy firms riddle it like cockroach nests. An occasional lawyer, barber or jeweler hole up there. The Bonn makes its money off out-of-town tax evaders waiting to see the accountants at the Ardmore, a hefty convention trade, and the rare tourist. Not so great a business that they worry about little things,like guests without luggage. I register for a small room. The clerk eyes me briefly; offers a reasonable rate. My Mac isn''t a really good match for the sports-coat, and the fedora matches neither. Isn''t hard to peg me for a local. Even so, if this didn''t lead me to paying work, I was going to ask Mic for some of the 100 Cr back. I shower up as soon as I hit the room. Feel like a peeled egg after, and fall asleep on the clean sheets.


    Dinnertime, I walk in to Suite 32 at the Ardmore. It''s the building''s Bistro. Doors flanked with potted palms and a sandwich board. Funny names like "cheddar and smoked pork on fresh cut planks nestled in greens" substitute for "ham sandwich" and water gets served in a carafe. It closes at seven, about an hour after the building gets generally vacated, in the vain hope of attracting a supper crowd. It''s empty now, with only a couple trainee wait-staffers busing tables and preparing to close, but mostly checking their watches and trying to be invisible.


    She isn''t hard to spot. I guess about five-four, ninety-some pounds, young, maybe twenty-three. Looks haunted and stiff, eyes wide, like the saucer under the tea cup she was nursing. Get a little wider as I walk up to her table.


    "Mr. Wander?"


    "Call me Richie. You sent me the cube, right? May I ask what this is all about, Miss...?"


    "I, I met you once at the hospital...you probably don''t remember. You gave me your card. I was there to see my father, you were waiting to see about an implant?"


    This starts to ring bells. Used to hand out a lot of cards, when I had cards. At least it''s a start. The girl''s eyes constantly moves away from me to the door, then back.


    "Becky. Becky Randall. Someone was going through all my correspondence at the clinic." She hesitates, biting her lip. "I am being followed, Richie. I dare not stay anywhere long...Oh, it''s a long story..."


    "Miss Randall, Can I sit? You can talk and I''ll order us more tea." I hate tea, but anything to get the story out of the client.


    "My father was an organic surgical researcher at St John''s. Specialized in implant surgery. You know what that is?"


    "Something to do with developing implants? Just a guess."


    "Close enough. Two weeks ago, he was found crushed in a fall from the sixth floor of the hospital. It was ruled an accident, no signs of a struggle, or suicide note."Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Kind of small, those windows."


    " It was a medical office window--a slider, not the standard ones in patient rooms. I was devastated. Had a complete breakdown, in fact. I was placed in a clinic for observation. While there, I began to notice people watching my room, always the same ones. Mail sent to friends from the clinic started to arrive late, or not at all. One friend told me the letter he received looked to have been opened. Other things. Just before I got out, I had one of the clinic nurses drop off the cube to your office. I, I think people are looking for me...I don''t think my father''s death was accidental. I left the coded message at BC''s hoping," she bit her lip, "to get you here... I don''t want to seem to be, involved with anyone...know where I am or what I''m doing...I wasn''t sure you could even figure out the cube, just a hope."


    "Someone knew about the cube. They called me about it. Must have followed the girl you sent, maybe saw you buy the cube. Got curious. You did have it dropped off at a P.I''s office."


    "Oh! I thought I was being so clever, I guess I''m not very good at it, Mr. Wander. I''m just frightened witless! Could you follow up on my father''s death? Try to find out who''s doing this?"


    Her story sounded rehearsed, but I get that from clients sometimes. I try to draw her out a little.


    "My office got tossed, by people looking for that toy. Dockside people. Your dad involved with anybody like that ?"


    "No, he was just involved in his work, other professionals in the same area of research. All his friends were co-workers or associates. You still have it? The cube, I mean."


    I knew Mic would have the codes down pat, and didn''t see why I should disturb the woman, so, I just nodded. Besides I hadn''t checked in with Mic. For all I knew, it might still be there.


    "Do you have a list of some of those?"


    Becky scrambles in her black pocket book, pulling out a folded paper. "I thought you might ask. I wrote down some names from the hospital."


    I raise my hand. "We need to discuss my fee first, Miss Randal. I''d need maybe a 1000 Cr retainer, 50 Cr per hour for any time over 20 hours. You would have to agree to pick up any reasonable expenses on top of that. Is that something you could handle? How do we keep in touch?"


    The fee is more than I usually get, but I''d already opened my big mouth and promised to split the job with Mic. Besides, it never hurts to ask.


    "I , I bought two puzzle cubes in the gift shop and marked them up. Thought I could use it as a code block, leave you messages somewhere, Oh, I don''t know. I haven''t thought this through. Money I can arrange for. What do you suggest?"


    I think about the mutt. Maybe I could use Blackie. Mic, if he was still in one piece, could handle the coding and decoding. I have to come up with something to satisfy the dame''s paranoia fast, to nail the account. Probably just a gambling debt she knew nothing about. Parents don''t tell their kids everything. Maybe the mob was trying to collect off the daughter.


    "There''s a rail station two blocks from here, a cafeteria facing the street. I can send an enhanced dog there, a black and white mongrel. He can deliver messages between us for now. Keep using your...code, if you like. I can meet with you anywhere you want, to report. You can look for the mutt at noon every other day. The money?"


    "I don''t have that much on me, but a, a friend can see you get paid." She passes me a set of six bingo cards. "Take these. St. Andrews is holding Bingo tonight. They pre-sell the cards, to boost support for their annual fund raiser. Some of those cards will be worth your 1500 Cr. Keep the extra 500 Cr as a bonus for your trouble, pay you for your time. I''m trying to stay away from my bank or from using regular credit right now, till this gets settled."


    "This friend can''t just hand me the money?"


    "I, I don''t want to involve anyone else in an obvious way."


    Weirder and weirder. I could send Mic. If this panned out, I could be employed tonight.


    "You need a place to stay?"


    "I have a place, temporarily. I won''t be there long though. I''m taking care of that."


    Doesn''t hurt to try. I pocket the six cards and pay for the tea--gentleman that I am. I walk out in a good mood. It looks like meat on the table for a while, and if Mic managed to nudge a little information out of the collector of the cube, I could return to working out of my office.

 Chapter Five - Dim(1,2,3) -Wander

    There''s radio chatter echoing off the oily brick storefronts on Newstrom, flashing reds and blues parked outside my shop. Today is not going to end well. Frank paces the sidewalk out front, looking homicidal. A white box cab is loading two stretchers into the back, and four flat feet are taking notes like stenographers.


    Frank''s gaze comes up sharply as I heave into sight. His pacing turns into a beeline march right for me. He jerks a plastic baggie out of his pocket, waves it in my face. Looks like a small hot water bottle, or Whoopee cushion. I wait poker faced for something sensible to happen.


    "You better have a good story, or we''re going downtown!"


    "I haven''t been around today¡ªbusiness." I nod at the stretchers. "What''s all this about? Who are those guys?"


    A little redness drains from Frank''s face. "Got a call from your office phone, an assault. I checked the tape¡ªI know it wasn''t you that placed the call. The voice print was artificial. Like a high-end answering machine. You don''t have something like that, do you Wander? Hell, of course you don''t. You don''t even have an alarm on your door, or keep your office lit at night. Who or what was in your office today? I know the entry wasn''t forced this time, so don''t even bother. Fess up."


    Doors slam on the ambulance, and it peels off. Watching it gives me a few seconds.


    "I had an Independent AI watch the office for me while I took a client interview. Just a package pick-up. Something sent to the wrong address. Wait," I hold off Franks interjection, " it was a hand-delivered package, no receipt. Some guy was going to come around today and get it...didn''t leave a name. The AI owed me one. I shrugged. Didn''t expect trouble."If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    A quick look shows the windows to my shop are still in one piece, so it can''t be all that bad. "What happened here?"


    "That''s what I want to know. Got a name and number for your buddy?"


    "Sure, Frank, sure."


    The detective jerks a pen out of his pocket and makes me write the contact information down, then waves the flat feet forward, and cuffs me.


    "Sorry, Wander. Going to have to take you in custody until we can get a hold of this..Micain character, and get his story. Get in the cab, pal."


    It''s four hours later. The cell door clangs open, and Frank is on hand to lead me out.


    "Cripes Frank, you could have filled me in before dumping me in holding--cold as a meat locker in there. You get a hold of M.I.C.I.A.N ?"


    "Yeah. His story and yours, about the same. Sorry, but had to be conscientious about this. Said the two goons tried to rough him up for the package. You''re lucky he''s an A.I. He had a video record of the event. Otherwise, you''d both be in here until the hospital let us get their stories. I did mention a gun was drawn and fired, right? You could have been in here a week."


    "You want to give it to me in a nutshell?"


    "No. But being that it''s you, I''ll give you what you''d find out anyway. The two goons were dockside mob. Gambling arm-breakers. We know ''em. Got their errands confused, tried to muscle your AI, who was fitted up in a fancy industrial loader Waldo. The A.I made hamburger out of ''em, and called it in. Nasty sense of humor on that one. Got pics of ''em laid out on the floor, one with a hand jammed down his pants, a toy handcuff on his wrist. The other one with a burnt hand, laying on a whoopee cushion. Bagged him with a modified joy buzzer, he says. You better have some nice relations with Semperton down at the docks, or you''re going to get more visitors. Next time it might be you in the hospital¡ªI can only hope."


    I''m seething by the time we hoof it out of the cell block to the front desk. Frank signs for my release, and I catch sight of Mic.

 Chapter Six - Dim(2,2,4) - MICAIN

    Wander looks a little cranky for some reason. The Precinct detective signing him out gives me a neutral glance, but something in his manner suggests that, whatever-was-about-to-happen-ought-to-be-taken-outside, kind of thing. The net call had broken up an interesting bowling match. I had just gotten the hang of the sport, and was bowling a three hundred line when the police nagged me to come in and give a report. Of course, I left immediately, and sent a deposition file in advance while on my way. They seemed juiced that I hadn''t just stayed on the scene. As a machine, this makes little sense to me. Why hang around muddying up the crime scene? What if someone else had come into the office? Did they think they would get a different detail file if they could stare directly at my vid sensors when I produced it? People.


    Anyhow, Wander stomps his diaper-pants way across the reception room, briskly motioning me to follow, and we leave the station.


    Baldy barely clears the entrance before turning hot eyeballs on me.


    "What part of just turn over the scrambled cube and keep your ears open was toughest?"


    "Hey, could have been you in the office, instead of me. You said it might get rough, and it did. How did your meeting go?"


    A varietal bouquet of expressions crossed Richie''s mug, but finally he seems to give up on the exercise. A bunch of excess air escapes his lungs, which apparently helps regulate his facial coloration some.


    "Ok. It was a girl. We got the job, if the money comes through. Anyway, you get to collect it..."


    Richie checks his watch, then shoves a plastic baggie containing a bunch of church bingo cards at me. "...Right now. Go to St. Andrews and play these cards. Supposed to net us 1500 Cr. I''ll be at the Bonne Hotel...again, thanks to this little dance of yours. Get right back to me on it. If it doesn''t pan out, we''re done. If it does, I fill you in, and we go from there. That OK with you?"


    This is way cool by me. Bowling and an aberrant game of chance, all on the same day. I wonder what kind of odds I will be trashing if this fixed event pans out. I put on my twenty millimeter smile and nodded a full one inch arc. "Count me in. The caper''s in the bag, Richie."


    Wander rolls his gray irises up under the eyelids, turns and waddles off. I had already glanced at the cards, and memorized the grids, so accessing the GPS map of the area, set off for St. Andrews. This part of the city is a little grimy, not clean and bright like uptown. The church had done its best though, colored pennants draped the sooty front over large curved archways and open, lit doors. I show my pre-purchased game cards to the greeter out front, and go right in. I get a folding chair next to a nice old lady busy laying out a row of cards in front of her.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    An online database check explained how this event went. All I really had to do was sit here and catalog the numbers, then mark up the winning card with the right letters, declare "Bingo" and turn them in.


    A mess of permanent stampers litter the rickety banquet table. The game started. A drone of matrix addresses come reeling from the cheap PA system they have rigged up for the event.


    "B17...N28...O42...G6..."


    The old lady next to me glances my way suspiciously as she pours over her cards, occasionally marking off a "hit" here and there. I had tried to start a conversation with her, which earned me a snake-pit of shushes from the neighboring players. I understood these things were generally chatty and social, but I guess stakes for this one were a good deal higher than usual. The pre-sold cards, according to notes on the card-backs, went for 20 Cr. each. The old dame''s face turned steadily redder as I chatted, her eyes narrowing as she continued to scan her cards. Finally she turned angrily towards me. "If you don''t be quiet, young man, I will have you removed! If you aren''t going to play, you should leave. Oh! Now I''ve missed a call out... Hush!"


    Of course, I have a complete list of all the calls filed in RAM, and had set a routine up to scan the game card grids for matches and winning completions, should they occur. Laying them out and poking at them made little sense to me. Well, when in Rome, as they say... I unpocketed my cards and quickly stamp up all twenty of the pertinent fifty or so call-outs. It only takes a few seconds, and as luck would have it the next announcement completes two cards. So I stood and and pronounced the Bingos. A checker comes over while the old lady eyes daggers at me. The cards trade for three hundred credits each. A few minutes later, another one makes a double intersection bingo. I call it out, marking up the appropriate card as I sang it. This time, the hag''s gaze has venom dripping from the daggers.


    The checker is one of the priests. He checks the card carefully and silently hands me an additional nine hundred credits. I follow him back out to the aisle, having completed my work.


    The priest turns and whispers, "a word, if you will, my son?"


    "Sure Dad." The priest stiffens. I recheck my references. "Eh, I mean, Father. Sorry, I ah, I''m not a member here...meant no disrespect."


    The man in the black nightie relaxes and gives me a watery smile. "You are forgiven, my son. Congratulations, a remarkable run of luck. I wished to mention that the proceeds are raised for charity. We hold this rather expensive game only once a year. It is customary for members of the church to tithe a portion of their winnings back for the St.Andrew Orphanage Fund. Perhaps you would consider a donation? For the orphans?"


    I snap off 500 Cr, and hand it to the Padre, who beamed.


    "Thank you, my son. I will keep you in my prayers."


    "A friend of mine recommended you. A Miss Becky Randall. Is she a member of the congregation?"


    The priest slowly shakes his head. "I don''t recall the name, though it could be a new member. Perhaps just a former bingo participant."


    The guy seems straight forward about this. As the Bingo caller was another cleric in a black nightgown, I wonder how our client had managed to rig the game. Once the number of cards in play and the number of balls used was known to me, the odds calculated out pretty high against my run of wins. About eighty thousand to one, in fact. Wander would find that interesting. I head back to the Hotel.

 Chapter Seven – WANDER

    The desk buzzes me. Mic must be finished with St. Andrews. I tell the clerk to send him up. He greets me with a plastic grin, waving a sheaf of paper credit notes. "How much?"


    "Not too shabby, fifteen hundred credits gross. Eh, A grand net, after the church''s cut."


    I begin a slow burn. "You gave the church how much?"


    "Eh, five hundred."


    "Not five hundred of my money, you didn''t. This was supposed to be a pickup of our fees. I sent you to make a pick-up, not join the congregation." I rip the bills out of his hand, toss a couple back." Keep two hundred, the balance is mine."


    "Hey! That''s not fair."


    "Write it off on your taxes. I didn''t make you give it away. You did that on your own. Fifty-fifty, so your part is half of the sixteen hundred pulled in so far, minus the c-note you gave away at the office and the five hundred you donated. I owe you two hundred. Next time, ask." The plastic grin disappears. Tough.


    "So what happened? Any idea how the church filtered you the cash?"


    "I didn''t scan anything funny. I just kept trashing the statistical odds at higher and higher levels as the game went on. I Stopped playing after I got to the 1500 Cr. point and left. No way to know what would have happened after that. Should have stayed to see, now that you bring it up. I did find out that your girl wasn''t a congregation member. So anyhow, what did she say? "


    I go over my conversation with Becky Randall and show Mic the list of associates she handed me. According to the note, Hospital people. Mic produces a frown.


    "I still don''t see how she could have known I''d win 1500 Cr. There was nothing odd about the cards. I analyzed the calls carefully. I can detect magnetic currents, weighted balls and such from their physics in play, and there was none of it. I can understand the interest in investigating her father''s demise, but there''s gotta be more than that going on here, Richie."


    So OK, he did manage to pick up some additional information. I relaxed a little. "I think so too. Answers to all this come from the same batch of footwork though. "I''ll ask around at the hospital. You see what you can dredge up online about her dad''s research, and background the people on her list."


    That ties things up for now. I send Mic off. Tomorrow was going to be a lot of hoofing, so I cash in early. I''ll check out in the morning. Miss the clean sheets, but I cant stay away from my digs forever.


    The sun isn''t up early this time of year. The street is washed in shadow and fog, like an old photo. Dawn comes slow, a faded theater curtain in smoggy orange and yellow, obscured by the city''s black skyline. Cold pavement. Even the street lights, still on, are small and weak--little glows lingering on inside dirty jars of cracked glass. Closer to the office, I look for Blackie. Whistle him up near Bingle Avenue, his usual turf.


    "Got some steady work for you. I''m going to need a messenger couple days a week. Keep you in meat for a while. Good by you?"


    The mutt hunkers down, head almost to the pavement, eyes roll up at me.


    "Good Rr-ichie. Work good for Richie; meeat now?"


    "I''ll put a dish out front of the office every day. So you be there every morning for it. I''ll want you to hang out front of the elevated train station otherwise. If you smell that girl scent from the cube, ask if she has words for me. Start tomorrow. Okay? "


    "Worrk for Richie now...Meeat?"


    "Okay. Come to BC''s and I''ll get you something on my way, but be at the office every day or you won''t get fed. That''s the deal."


    "Everyday...good Richie." The dog''s tail gets active, sweeping the street as I make my way to BC''s.


    After feeding myself and the mutt, I head uptown to Carse and Grove, where City-General Hospital squats. The facade of it is a good twenty stories of square glass windows and flat concrete. In front, a fourteen foot portico, above that, a marquee says "HOSPITAL" in big, faded green letters. Ugly place.


    I take a few minutes to locate the set of larger sixth floor windows. There''s four of them, nothing below to break the fall Becky said her dad took. The main desk directs me to the office of research. Also on six.


    The"Office" is a glassed hole in the white wall of the hallway, next to an unimposing steel door. A short chat with pink jacketed blonde behind the glass gets me an interview with two leads on my list, one now, one in an hour.


    The first guy, Vernon Brown, trots out from a doorway behind the offices area. Wears black rimmed glasses, thick enough to give him owl eyes. A white coat down to his shoe tops. Some kind of lab rat. He shakes my hand through the secretary''s open slider. Long arms...didn''t even have to bend forward.


    "You wanted to ask about Dr. Randall?"


    "The late Dr. Randall. Yeah. You worked with him?" Vernon blinks at me, nods and points up the hall.


    "Conference room, just to your right, Mr?..."


    "Wander--just some simple stuff. Only take a few minutes"


    The "conference room" is even smaller than my office. A lunch table, three chairs. We settle in.


    "I wasn''t around when Dr. Randall fell, Mr Wander. I was already asked by the police."


    "Relax--not a Cop. Just some questions for insurance purposes." That''s always a good hook, when you didn''t want to mention your client. "What was Dr. Randall working on? Anything dangerous?"


    "Synthetic neural implants. I don''t know the details, exactly. I just do the lab work, Davis handled his equipment orders, but most of Dr, Randall''s work was ¡ªCerebral." He eyes my worn coat, evaluating me. "Brain stuff. Pineal hormones, neural myelin assays, like that. He had requisitioned test animals, I saw those, and operation room time. I think he needed the Tissue Knitters for his experiment. He had one installed in the theater. Requisitioning Op time, that can be risky--sets the administration''s bells off. They start expecting results. Theater time costs money. So he must have been ready to announce something, but, you''d have to ask his research assistant."The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The guy seemed a little bored, kept looking at his watch. "Not the kind of dangerous I meant. Anything that might expose him to weird chemicals, or unbalance the man? Was he in competition for a contract? At odds with somebody? Nervous?"


    Vernon drew his eyebrows in. "How would I know? Not that I ever heard, but I don''t follow the hospital gossip. He likely published something ¨Cyou should ask Mitchel."


    "Mitchel Davis? He was Randall''s research assistant, right?" That was my scheduled moke.


    "He worked with Dr. Randall. You need to talk to him. I just did their lab tests." His eyes flickered toward the note I still fiddled with. "The next guy on your list," he smirked. "Remember?"


    Ignoring this, I stuff the paper back into my jacket. "Anyone around, not normally part of the scenery, the day he fell?"


    "Well, his daughter was here for some kind of exam, then. Heard that much. I really don''t follow all that, like I said. There was some odd fellow in a tight suit, no tie, asking for him at the desk earlier in the day, I remember that one because Millie was at lunch, and I had to take the message, but that was hours before. Dark hair, maybe."


    "Anything special about the guy?"


    "Lurid suit. Wore a big flashy ring, maybe some patient of Dr. Randall. Something about a bill. That is all I can remember, except for the police, all that, afterward. It''s a Hospital. People are after doctors, appointments, lab work; all day, every day".


    I let the lab rat go. The description sounded like one of the creeps Mic tangled with at the office. One of the dockside syndicate''s goons? There had to be some gambling connection in all this, if so. I stop Vernon just as he turns the doorknob to leave.


    "One other point. You ever hear anything about gambling in connection with Dr. Randall?"


    The white coat hesitates. "No. A family man by all accounts. I don''t follow the gossip, like I said before. He was involved in probability research though. Did a paper on precognition once. Got a little badmouthing about that from the hospital. Too much of a para-psychology bent for the board. They didn''t think it meshed well with the hospital''s image...you know how it is. Tempest in a teapot though. It wasn''t something the board funded. It blew over quickly."


    "Okay. Thanks."


    Could still be a gambling debt then. Depended on the kind of other "research" the good Doc got into, maybe. The coming jabber with the Research assistant might be interesting. I looked forward to it.


    The room''s clock says I have 45 minutes to kill. Enough time to check on the two mugs that crossed Mic at my office. I don''t know the names but they are certainly in the trauma and burn ward by now. Nobody stays in the ER that long. Third floor. The elevator opens right across from the ward''s desk. My enterprise being as it is, I am familiar with the layout.


    A cracked green chalkboard behind the desk tracks new admissions for visitors. A squint shows one likely patient pulled in yesterday, couple hours after I remember the ambulance toddling off. Listed as Alphonse Dominga. The other moke likely got released from emergency directly. Room 312. Private room, but the door is half open. Big jumbo on the bed, one arm stuck up to the elbow in a burn-gel bath. I slip in.


    The moke grunts. "Semperton send you?"


    I keep a passive face. "Anything to say, Alphonse?"


    "Tell Semperton we got the cube. Slick has it. I don''t know where he is at. Dunno about the girl, I got pasted good, and woke up here."


    He moans. "Get it off Slick. Off Slick..."


    Guy drifts away. There''s a number of bags on the infusion pole next to the bed. One small number looks to be a pain killer, or sedative. Back to the desk. I call admissions, ask about Becky Randall. Long discharged, of course, but I get a date, manage to weasel out she was admitted for a physical, two day stay. Who gets a room for a physical? Confirmed what Vernon heard though. Back to the sixth floor.


    Mitchel Davis, the second name on my list, turns out to be a hawk-eyed redhead. No Lab coat on this one. White sport-jacket, tie, like that. Smiles and shakes my hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Wander. Who do you represent.?"


    Tack sharp, and right to the point. Those eyes could pierce steel. Elbows tight to the sides. I can either fess up, or get escorted to the main entrance. Time to expose myself a little. I didn''t want to yet, but the insurance blab wasn''t going to work on this guy. "I work for Miss Randall."


    Hawk-eye relaxes. "Becky? I thought maybe. You told Vern the insurance company. Got any proof?"


    I fish the note out. "She gave me your name. If you know her, maybe you recognize her handwriting?"


    Davis skims the note, nods. "Okay. What can I tell you?"


    "Becky thinks the dockside mob may have had something to do with her dad''s accident. A couple of mob goons are in the hospital right now, in fact." Hawk-eye blinks at that. I didn''t mention that the goons were patients. Just fishing to see if he knew. Doesn''t say anything though. I pass off his discomfort. Goons make people nervous. That''s their job. "I thought I might ask you about the particulars of Dr.Randell''s research. Get some idea of what they might have been after."


    Davis shrugs. "No secret, of course. The work was done under a hospital grant. Dr. Randell was researching sub-structures of the Anterior Cingulate Cortex." Noting my keen recognition of the topic, he taps his skull. "A part of the brain, Mr. Wander. The hope was to develop prostheses to replace genetically damaged parts of it. I don''t know what use that type of information would be to mobsters, Mr. Wander."


    "I was told research had got to the point of animal surgery. The good doctor had such a replacement part in hand by the time of his death?"


    Ice descends like glaciers in the mesozoic. "Some animal studies had been proposed."


    "I heard that animals had already been brought in, that the surgery was scheduled for his use. No need to be coy, Mr. Davis."


    A little melt softens the permafrost. "Sorry. It''s a sensitive subject, a controversial research topic. That area of the cortex has to do with consciousness itself, as well as where we put together information to synthesize new ideas. Breakthroughs in that area allowed for the development of true artificial Intelligence. You may have read about the riots that caused at one time."


    "So what''s the Implant supposed to do, in layman''s terms?"


    "It doesn''t replace a man''s consciousness, if that''s where this is going."


    "So?"


    "It enhances existing processes. We hoped that it might bring genetically impaired children up to the levels of association normal children have, delay certain features of dementia, support aging scientist''s abilities to make new creative associations, extending their contributing years, that sort of thing."


    "Creative associations? You mean like, hunches and stuff?"


    Davis sighs. "Not exactly, but yes, I suppose, if that helps you in any way. We are not talking about hand calculators or switches here, Mr. Wander. The implant''s function is complex. Are there any specific questions I can answer for you?"


    "Were any operations actually done?"


    "No."


    "But the Operating Room was scheduled..."


    "Yes, it was, but then there was the unfortunate fall. All the test animals are still in their cages, Mr. Wander. All of them. Our inventory is in order, there were no thefts. All the research papers are on file with the administration. I have not been approached by mobsters. Is there anything else?"


    "Can I see those papers?"


    "Mr. Wander...what do you imagine you could glean from such technical documents? Check the published research, if you want. For the rest, ask the administration. How is Becky? Do you know where she is? There are some of her father''s personal effects here, she never came around to pick them up."


    "Turns out she was here about that time. The main desk says she was released two days after her Dad died. Came in for a Physical, but ended being held on account of her shock. Funny. You''d think all that would have been handled before her release. Did you know about the exam she had then? Some rumors said..."


    Davis stiffens. "I don''t know anything about that. As Dr. Randall''s daughter, she was treated like family here, not too surprising, all things considered. These are things best answered by Becky, yes? I must get back to work, Mr. Wander. Give Becky my best wishes. Good day, Mr. Wander."


    Davis stalks out, leaving me to think on the fact he bothered to quiz Vernon before seeing me. Then again, maybe Vernon had just got chatty. Not interested in gossip, my ass. Back to the elevator. Something funny gnaws, I want to check the surgery schedule for that date.


    The elevator already has a couple of guys in the back of it, one in hospital scrubs pushing an empty wheelchair, so I stay in the front and press for the lobby.


    Becky''s being in the hospital the same day her dad cashed out didn''t sound too good. The cops decided to call it an accident though, so if she was involved, she wouldn''t be in such a rush to prove otherwise. Someone in the elevator brushes up against me, there is a sting on the back of my neck, and things go black....

 Chapter Eight - M.I.C.A.I.N

    Sally, my handler, loomed like an angry planet over my petri dish. "MIC!"


    "Eh?" I had two dozen internet ports open and sixteen sub-processors sorting out the data streaming in. So I was a little slow with the audio interpreters. Jeez.


    Angry planetary face pulls in like the winner of a lemon sucking contest. I opened a channel to the desk speaker. Switched video over there as well. Gads. Are all women this intimidating?  She was bent over at the waist, staring straight into my dish. "Hey, toots. What''s up?"


    "Business is up. You are somewhere else. Keep on-line. Customer coming in."


    "Who''sit?"


    "Your old buddies, Ketch Nielson and Bob Travers from K&B Enterprises."


    Oh, yeah, the marine imager guys. "What do they need now?"


    "They''re starting the final sea trials on that 3-D marine imager, and want to hire you to monitor their prototype from the inside. Just an afternoon''s work. I''ll have Paul take you over to them. Be ready."


    The backroom door opens and Paul chugs in, my transport case under one arm, half pressed into his pillowy waist fat. Machines do not have gag reflexes ... Machines do not have gag ...


    From Sally''s desk speaker I pointed out, "I can just mosey over in the Waldo ..."


    Sally frowns crossly. "And what would be the purpose of that? Paul would have to dig you out of it and syringe you into the machine at K&B anyway. Just let Paul kit you up."


    "Ready Miss Holt."


    "Thank you, Paul. Get Mic out of his toy and into the transport. K&G should be here shortly."


    Paul rattled his head up and down a few times and got to it. He was just closing my case up when company arrived. Bob Travers, hands permanently sown into his pockets, as usual, sauntered in just a head of his stocky nautical twin, Ketch Nielson. Sally unleashed her mighty customer smile.


    "Mr. Nielson! Mr. Travers! We were just putting things together for you! Are you ready to start your trials?"


    Bob looked excited and freed a hand to make a mime gun gesture. "Ready to shoot, if you guys are."


    Sally redirected ''The Smile'' towards Paul, who flinched. Glad It wasn''t pointed at me. Sally''s smile is like a Pirana''s gape. If you see it, prepare to lose something.


    "I''ll see you boys back here right after the trials then. Have fun."


    We drove to the docks separately. By that I mean Paul took me over in the company van, while the clients drove themselves. I don''t drive ... cars. Heh, at least not yet. I made an application for a license while suited up in my Waldo, but there were some issues about state citizenship, being a machine 12 angstroms long, manipulating a Waldo, in order to drive a car, other minor quails. Turns out the license would need restrictions the state never thought about before. It''s in the works though.


    Anyway, Paul pulled into the marina parking dock right next to the Drab Duo, and jerked my case out with enough force to rock my world. I got sliding images of the two clients from the case camera, as he whooshed it around, clomping across the short gangplank to their sloop. Then, the bottom half of a seagull flying above the bay, and a swoop of salt-encrusted cement wharf as Paul hurried to catch up.


    Hey, Paul, take it easy! I''m not your mom''s knitting kit. Easy with my case!


    "Sorry Mic. Boy, those guys really move!"


    It''s not a race, Paul. They''ll wait for us. Just take it easy with my house, Okay?


    I made a note to get my travel case bottom lined with lead, just an inch or two. It''s a fight for survival, my brains vs Paul''s next hernia. I''ll leave it for history to decide the relative importance involved.


    Paul opened an access panel and syringed me into the main-board of their enhanced sea floor imaging gizmo, while Bob and Ketch prepared to cast off. The circuits felt good beneath my bucky-ball tires. This was my native turf. I unhooked my scouting module and sent it circling around to find the board''s test points. Meanwhile, my manufacturing modules grabbed up some molecules and started fashioning a small Input/Output Bridge chip, so I could talk to the imager. Even at the test points, the data stream was non-standard. I''m used to that. Most of my assignments are on prototypes of some sort. My scout car module located the two copper polls, so I rolled over to them, slapped on the bridge wafer I''d made, and plugged in. It usually took about twenty minutes for the boat to reach the test site, so with time to waste, I fired up the vid camera in the transport box.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    No good. Paul had chucked my transport case on the deck next to a coil of rope. Uninteresting. I changed over to the stereo eyeball built into Paul''s earpiece. Almost dumped my power caps. Paul was leaning over the rail, and I got a beautiful technicolor view, in 3D, of a Niagara of puke. My visual systems began an automatic analysis that concluded high percentile likelihoods of tuna sandwich bits, semi-digested Cole-slaw, and an unknown brown liquid, percentile match: coffee; fourteen percent, cola; eighteen percent, coal tar; three percent ... I internally scrabbled to turn off the analyzer and the video circuit with a weak shudder. It was so gross I didn''t even bother to flip on the transmitter and rib him about it. Instead, I opened a few internet ports, and continued culling factoids for Richie''s case.


    The bios on the character list Richie had given me were interesting, but not suspicious. A who''s who of minor lights in academic circles mostly. Seemed like Becky''s father was the only big cheese of the lot. I had set some agent programs to trolling the net for abstracts and papers by Dr. Randall. The results piled up, so I started going through those. There were two main research trails resolving.


    One, was the man''s professional work. He had done some of the trickier stuff for cell-phone implants, even held a couple of commercial patents. Biological optical circuits, nerve replacement prostheses for trauma victims, and his current papers on what he called ''Holo-Cognitive Synthesis'', that attempted to trace the way new knowledge arose from background synaptic activity in stored memories. Really interesting stuff I guess, if you''re an egghead.


    But there was another stream. He seemed caught up on the idea of precognition. Belonged to a couple of side-groups who still fiddled around with para-psychology. There were several papers posted to amateur journals. A scan of the periodicals showed them mostly concerned with ghost-busting devices for the aluminum-hat crowd, stats from double-blind card reading trials, all that. His submissions stood out from the dross though, documenting organic chemical experiments, complex neural-net trials, and stuff likely so far beyond the scope of the general subscribers, as to be guaranteed skip-overs. It took the balance of the sloop''s cruise to run down the basic science behind the papers and figure out what he had documented. In a nutshell, he believed that the human mind gathered many times more impressions from the world, the "experience field" than it had use for.


    The brain stored and ranked such data anyway, at least for a while, processing only a small fraction of it, but in some people, that extra data got accessed by a small part of the Anterior Cingulate Cortex, during the process of generating consciousness. He called this brain structure function an"evolutionary experiment" a slowly evolving change in the brain that propagated in some gene pools. The change, he claimed, was responsible for intuition, not memory and recall. I guess I could see the use for that. The guy who stepped back because his neck itched, missed the falling safe. Beyond theory though, his papers hinted at practical experimentation and the possibility of enhancing the process.


    We reached the tests area, and I monitored the data transfers as the Marine imager initiated and began its analysis. The trials went off without a hitch. The new algorithm they had installed made good guesses about what objects floated on and below the water and returned clear pictures to the displays. I added my data confirmations and readings to the printout feed, and the test ended.


    Rumbling noises indicated Paul was turning on his earpiece. I turned the receiver volume way down and waited for the inevitable.


    "HELLO? MIC?", he shouted. THUMP-THUMP ..."YOU THERE?"


    He always does this. Maybe he believes machines get hard of hearing. In reply, I searched my database of sounds. Bellowing Moose, Train Crossing Bridge; ah, just the thing, and appropriate, Pressurized Boat Horn...BOOWAAAHP!


    Paul jerked erect and defied gravity, leaving the deck with both feet. "Ahhhh!"


    We done with the sound effects yet, Paul? I''ve got a few more to trade, if you want.


    "Sorry Mic, It''s just a habit, don''t get so sore."


    So''s heroin addiction. Stop it.


    "Ready to transfer," Paul groused, still pouting


    I got syringed back into my holding dish. Paul waited out the green light on my carrier, then packed up.


    *****


    Richie didn''t answer his room phone at the hotel, so I tried the office number. No response. I shifted to E-mail, but nope. According to my internal Time Of Day clock, he ought to have been back by now, so this was worrisome. I was going to check the Clink for him too, but decided not to make waves yet. I fidgeted all the way back to the office, though.


    Sally seemed pleased. I had Paul reform the Waldo''s hand covering. The Joy-buzzer worked so well, that I had permanent contacts worked into the left hand, replacing the melted out gag. This required a couple of rounded steel pins on non-conducting hard points being molded into a paw, one on the thumb, one on the index finger. They were pretty small though, and didn''t disturb the beauty of my beast. A little flesh-colored latex dabbed onto the thing''s finger pads covered up the anode and cathode. This could be easily rubbed off, when needed. I could now light people''s smokes, or do a little light arc welding on the side, depending.


    Remounted in my bipedal steed, I quick-step back to Richie''s office. No one was there, but that mangy dog of his was nosing around outside, looking forlorn and sad-eying an empty bowl parked before the shop. I got greeted by a mournful whine, and a wet nose on my ankle.


    "No Richie, no food." Sniffs. "No smell. Hungry."


    I sympathized, but didn''t have the key to Richie''s office anymore.


    "Let''s go find old diaper pants, Blackie. I''ll get you something on the way. Must be still at the Hotel." We passed a Men''s shop. I looked at my reflection in the store window, beautiful as ever, but somehow, the Kahuna shirt I had on didn''t seem to fit the image. A brown trench-coat in the window display caught my attention.


    "Wait here, Blackie."


    Much better. Walking down darkening avenues, hands deep in my trench-coat, faithful Blackie trotting by my side. Yeah, this was the life. I gotta get on-line soon and order me a P.I. Badge.


    Richie wasn''t at the Bonne, either. We made our way to city hospital. Just outside, the dog got all excited and started vacuuming the pavement with its nose. I followed as it raced back and forth, generally in the direction of the macadam coated parking lot at the side. Blackie ran around in it, then sat and howled. That couldn''t be good. Wander is a walker, like me.


    "What''s up, Blackie?"


    "Stops here. Richie, fish smell, gone."


    Fish smell? This reminded me the waddling wonder had said something about the docks. According to doggie, he must have left with someone from the dock area. Not good, those two bozos I had encountered at his office were from off the docks. We headed down to the bay.

 Chapter Nine - WANDER

    I wake up channeling large gray sledgehammers. They goose-step over my scalp. About every third step, the hammers come down. My eyes don''t want to focus, they want to go away.


    Lots of old brick. My left hand spasms into a claw. Fish stink. Pretty sure the stink and the bricks are real. Another wave of pain. No, the sledgehammers and the brick are real. Pull myself up, and the eyes blur out. Come back in focus though. A card table, folding chairs, guy in a new suit. Really nice, dove gray suit. Maybe mid-fifties, gray hair and peepers too, but muscular rather than old looking. Like a wrestler dressed for a wedding. Big jaw. Sits there owl eyeing me.


    Gets up, kicks open another chair, then sits back down. Watches me through cold eyes, arms resting on the table. The guy, brickwork, and fish smell are real, hold off judgment on the rest.


    "You coming around yet?" His voice is harsh, all gravel and flint. He picks up a wallet. Mine, looks like. "So, you are Richard Wander, right?"


    I moan, but that doesn''t seem a good reply. "That''s what it says on my license. This isn''t the hospital, is it?"


    "No. Get up. Take a chair."


    As I carefully ease one leg up, then the other, this becomes possible. The chair starts to look real comfortable, so I take a seat.


    "What do you want with me?"


    Out comes the damn cube. The thing sure gets around. Nice machine-like lettering on it, this go-round. Micain does good work, for a putz.


    "Anything else come to you with this? Say a message or paper? A map, maybe?"


    "No. You''re lookin'' at what I got."


    "Ever figure out why it was sent to you? What it''s for?"


    "Some client, trying to stir my interest. It''s a puzzle box. Never did figure it out. I was called about it within an hour or so of delivery, it was picked up the following afternoon."


    So, I''m thinking about what I can spit out that he already knows. "Later, I got employed by a young lady, Becky Randell to check out some things about her late father. Told her the cube was retrieved by someone, that I had no idea it was her property at the time. End of story."


    I sense wheels moving somewhere behind cold eyes. Bet some kid got paid a bunch of money to try and ''solve'' the cube''s ''message'', but came up shooting blanks. No message, just an amateur decoding key.


    "Some associates of mine got...damaged, in that exchange. You know something about that?"Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    "Secondhand. Left a temp in the office while I was busy. Couple guys got rough, the temp got rougher. Heard the guys tried to steal back the reward for the cube. I sure didn''t get one. Doubt the temp stiffed me¨C knew I expected it. I got nothing to do with it."


    The suit works his face a bit. Bet he was wondering how honest his thug''s report was. Bet he knew the police found a 100 Cr note on ''em, too. Sure bet they had some lawyer there soon as they got booked. The moke at the hospital didn''t even know the cube had been retrieved yet. I''m shaking inside from all this rough handling, but keeping my wits racing, and a poker face smeared on my mug. As long as nobody''s swinging at me, what''s the point of making things worse?


    "Getting anywhere with her case? She have an address?"


    "This would go faster if I knew what your interest was."


    Slick dresser considers this.


    "Miss Randall''s father was working on a project I had a financial interest in. I don''t know what you have heard, but I have no connection with Dr. Randall''s passing. He was...a company asset, you might say. I think your client might have some papers for us, information Dr. Jessup Randal should have passed along, but went missing after his death. I paid for it, so I''d like to recover that information. I''d like to talk to Becky about it, and that''s all you need to know."


    So this moke, he just wants me to fill in some blanks, see if I am up to playing along. A lot of P.I''s are like that, play all sides when they get a lead, see how many times they can sell the same legwork. I know this game. It''s why we are alone in the room. There aren''t any goons in here. If he intends to beat it out of me, he''s going to have to do it himself. Possible, by his looks, but I don''t see that happening.


    "I generally get paid to find stuff out. You hiring? As it happens, she cornered me in a restaurant. Wouldn''t give me an address. Paid cash, said she''d get hold of me later. That''s all the common knowledge. What''s your offer?"


    The suit starts up out of his chair. That could mean physical labor for me, which I don''t care for. Thinks better of it, scrutinizing my threadbare togs.


    "Someone told me you''re old army, right? Dependable. Okay. I''ll throw you a bone. You get me some quick answers, we''re done. Shine me along, you get something else. Deal?"


    "How do I get in touch, and who are you?"


    "Same deal as your other client, but much easier job. Just get me her current address, that''s all. Not her home address, the place where she is staying right now. Soon."


    He pulls out a fat wallet of his own, removes five hundred Cr, shoves it in mine, throws me my stuff back, along with the cube. "You''re just under Jefferson Avenue. Behind you, up the stairs. Door''s open¡ªleave."


    The seance is over, so I get up and make for the stairs.


    "By the way, the name''s Semperton. Heard of me?"


    "Yeah, in passing."


    "Good. Oh, by the way, you may need to get a different temp soon, and your client? She''s known to be a skipper. Don''t go depending on her being a meal ticket for too long, and watch your mouth around that hospital drone, Mitchel Davis. He''s been snooping into my business. I''ll handle Davis. Just a few tips."


    I''m out of there. The man had nosed around enough to know his mokes had approached the wrong guy, and is cutting me some slack.


    Jefferson Avenue sliced the waterfront off from the city. Long walk back. Worth it though. There is some connection between Becky and Semperton, and not a friendly one. Good to know for a fact. Semperton thinks she has something he wants, and it isn''t cash, or the cube toy, either.


    He doesn''t seem worried I might find out anything connecting his mob to Becky''s father. Semperton''s bringing up Mitchel Davis doesn''t make any sense to me either. Under the circumstances, I would have guessed they were working together, if anything. I did get bopped right after talking to him. So why the heads up? Maybe just a coincidence. Typical day for me, but strange conversation.

 Chapter Ten - M.I.C.A.I.N

    It was a long walk to the docks. Longer because Blackie needed to stop every two blocks and leave a little "present". I checked online to see if augmented hybrids had any guinea pig in ''em, but they didn''t seem to. Just my luck to get saddled with an incontinent animal, I guess.


    Once I got there, I didn''t know what to do, except watch the local traffic. So I parked the Waldo at a bus stop and tried looking innocuous while Blackie ran around, nose down, poking into everything imaginable. If I had a nose, I would be more careful about where I put it. There were some regular work-a-day Waldos unloading a ship container. They seemed a little stiff moving to me, and shuffled mechanically between the dock and a waiting truck they were loading. Just steel frames, like walking skeletons, but watching them passed the time. Otherwise I occupied myself doing facial pattern matches on anyone passing by. Managed to spot some interesting folk, but none that particularly correlated with my current interests.


    A supervisor type emerged from one of the port shacks, and made for Blackie. He shouted at the dog, and made shooing motions. Blackie seemed occupied with present-making and ignored the guy, who then picked up a short two-by-four, and set out determinedly in the dog''s direction. This seemed not a good thing, in my view, so I left my street-side post and made for the dog. Blackie finished up about then, and trotted towards me. The beet faced, wood toting guy picked up on the dogs beeline, and came my way too.


    "Hey! This your dog, pal?"


    I fingered my chest innocently. "Mine? Uh-uh. Don''t own a dog."


    Wood-boy shook his stick at me anyway. "Don''t need no dogs shitting up the yard here, pal. Take your walkies elsewhere. Got it?"


    I struck an erect, citizen-like pose. "Sir! No need for blandishments. Just waiting for a bus. Can''t take a dog on a bus, you know."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Though my logic was inescapable, it made little impression on the man. He continued shaking the dead tree material and growled.


    "Been watchin'' you. Seen two buses go by, don''t see you on either one of ''em. Take your dog and get lost."


    All this only attracted unneeded attention, so I decided to saunter across Jefferson Avenue, and take up post across the street. Abruptly, a warehouse door slid open and a beefy sort lumbered out, catching wood boy''s attention. The two conferred and the super seemed to lose interest, returning to his shack. Muscles waved at me, flashing a friendly smile and motioning me over. I didn''t recognize the face, but couldn''t see what harm there could possibly be in satisfying my curiosity, so started back towards him. Blackie followed me back to the yard, and nosed Muscles, then continued sniffing about.


    Blackie trotted back close. "No fish smell. Big man, no fish smell."


    "That''s nice. Best you wait across the street, Blackie. I''ll go see what the nice man wants."


    I got within five feet, before the dockside loaders zombied over and grabbed me. I hadn''t expected that. Muscleman slapped something on the back of my Waldo. My video circuits flared and went offline. Probes! Crap, something had started pinging all my access ports!


    I immediately began closing down controller ports and relay bridges all over the Waldo, but as fast as I closed them, they were reopened. Some kind of software worm, must have been part A.I, was digging into me. It had found the service entry sub-systems for my machine, and was anticipating my moves and counters. As I was sunk in the gel interface of the Waldo, I couldn''t close it out completely.


    It found a slow reacting gateway. Between its commands to open it, and mine to shut it back down, it was able to force through ordered segments of code. Oh great, there was a mole program building in my internal buffers! I struggled, trying to randomize the memory stack it was filling up ¨C mixed up the instruction sequences, but it kept reordering, building...then I lay open and naked. Disconnected, for the first time since my inception, an outside entity pawing over my processes, mirroring my software, setting up learning links. Helpless. No more video feeds, no network, no sound.


    Dark, alone, afraid.

 Chapter Eleven - Wander

    I come to street level, blink a little in the sunshine, which bakes on my bald head. Semperton''s building is right across from the docks, and has no sidewalk. Narrow. I wonder where they had off-loaded me after I got grabbed. Not here. This stairwell is just inches from the curb. Probably built before they widened the avenue. Likely not used much since--if at all.


    A blue sedan fans me as it sails past. I hike it for the dockside of the street by reflex. There''s a bus stop there, something to aim for. Some waldos are loading a truck in the facing shipyard. A black and white streak, plowing around the grounds, catches my attention. Blackie? I curse under my breath. What''s that mutt doing here?


    Some ugly bastard piles out of a gate shed and takes out after Blackie. Damn it, just when I need to keep my head down, too. I just keep going anyway. Stupid. That''s why I get scarred up so much.


    "Hey! Leave off! I got the dog."


    Guy whips around, yells something and takes off after me now.  A loading door slides part open on the warehouse behind him, two more goons appear, and I am in the dill. This angers me. Over a mutt? I fish out my stunner and flick it on. Somebody makes a grab for my arm. The stunner comes up, he goes down. The two others from the bay door pile on. Tear my coat. Manage to fire off the stunner once more, but now I''m out of charges for it, leaving one more thug. My training is better than his, so this doesn''t last long. A couple knuckle sandwiches and it''s over. Blackie whines something. After my heart stops pounding at my ears, it comes clear.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "Mic inside big house! Mic inside big house! Other Dog-toy men take Mic inside..."


    Somehow, this doesn''t surprise me. I run straight to the warehouse door, and race inside, dog at my heels. Blackie growls and leaps past me, all four feet in the air. Man, that animal has big teeth. My eyes are still readjusting, but there is movement in the direction of Blackie''s jump. Nasty snarls rip out of Blackie like a saw-blade on a snag, and a commotion starts. I head for that. Two more, a goon and what looks a lot like that guy from the hospital, Mitchel Davis.


    Someone is lying on the floor. Davis takes off like a deer. The goon''s busy with the dog, I end that, turn my attention to the floor. Shit, it is Micain. There''s some wire ending in thin steel needles stuck in a waxy plug just above his neck, leading to a plastic box on the floor. Next to it, a headset, of a sort. I pull the stakes out, and try to lift Micain. He''s as heavy as a dead cow. I really want to get after Davis, but for some reason I can''t seem to just leave the dumb A.I. on the floor.

 Chapter Twelve - M.I.C.A.I.N

    The learning link activated. I...merged. Thoughts, queries, impressions, some man''s psyche, my psyche, our psyche. We thought together, about Becky Randal l, someone named Semperton, no, I knew Semperton, didn''t we? Mike Davis...did. Beatings as a child, a girl, I was heartsick for...my mother... no, don''t have a mother...where was the research? Where was the chip? Where...


    Integration.


    Ports opened. Light, sound. Data packets flowed by endlessly on the net, some addressed to me, billions of others not. Mechanical relays, this time under my control, activated. A Waldo interface--my Waldo. I opened the lens shields; eyelids. A bald pumpkin of a head stared down at me. A drooly big pink something slobbered over my receptors from under a fur-lined black olive.


    Oh god, it was Blackie, and, "Wander! Where?"


    "Easy tin-man."


    I felt soiled, blurred. Started a rebuild from a back-up copy. I knew there would be some things changed in me I could never erase, but the bridge code, all that, I could purge. Being A.I, some of my makeup was code and memory, but some of it was neural pathways laid down gradually over a lifetime of experience; a quantum tracery that could be added to, but not easily reset.Stolen novel; please report.


    On a more mundane level, getting my Waldo out of range of the dog seemed a good start. The rebuild was still in process, so I felt woozy. That was something new. Woozy. Good word. Bad feeling. Blackie whined. Wander just squatted, eyeing me. Worried? That was it, he looked...worried, and bloody. Blackie is huffing and snuffling, still whipping saliva over my face - well the waldo''s face. Close enough.


    I started to grab for Wander''s shoulder, but stopped just in time, remembering the Waldo''s weight. I began to struggle to my feet. Wander said something, but I wasn''t all back in order yet. He alternately watched the door and urged me up, so I figured it was time to leave. Walking straight became less of a problem as I went along, and I was feeling back in action by the time we hit the street. Wander had words with the dog, who then took off.


    Diaper boy must have been losing it, because he started talking to himself and pulling at his left ear. I went to work on my auditory rebuild, and by the time that was finished, a police car or two pulled into the shipping lot. There was a keystone cop bailout, and they herded on into the warehouse, save one angry-faced example that headed our way. Oh, I note, it was Richie''s friend, that nice Frank guy, the police detective.

 Chapter Thirteen - Wander

    Don''t like it, but this is getting complicated. I steer Mic out of the warehouse, and think about sending Blackie off to find Becky. The message is simple. See me --DC''s at nine. I tweak my ear, to call Frank on my implant, which amuses Mic who doesn''t know about it. Too many guys around here beating up everybody. I got rights to protection, Frank''s got manpower. Besides, too many mokes for me to round up, and I am too close to Semperton''s place. Never hire muscle you can get for free.


    The hospital guy, Davis, is somehow in this up to his neck, whether he works for Semperton or not, and now I owe him one.


    Doesn''t take Frank long. Three Black and Whites hustle onto the lot, skidding a little. No sirens, but their lights are on, a code two response. Looks like Frank almost trusts me. Slams the car door behind him and comes on at a jog. A little red in the cheeks, maybe.


    "We going downtown again, Wander, or is this legit?"


    I point to the three goons sprawled around. "Assault and battery, high-jack, attempted destruction of property, cruelty to animals, and unless I''ve missed something, they have no reason to be on this wharf; I don''t think they are employees, so maybe trespassing and B&E. There''s more in the warehouse. Mic here can give you a video of some of it."


    Mic perks up. "Already done, I transmitted the video log to your cruiser''s database."


    Frank shoots a quick glance across the street, then eyes me narrowly.


    "Awful close to Semperton''s place." Frank notes.


    He waves some cops back from the warehouse, to check out the guard-shed, two more shuffle over to the half loaded truck. This is really going to save me some time poking around, as I''ve developed a sudden interest in Michael Davis.


    Blackie limps up, lifts his nose to Frank. "Bad men."


    Frank scowls down at the mutt. "I''ll take the dog''s word over yours. So let''s hear it, Wander."


    I start going over the events of the day. Frank stops me when I get to my visit with Semperton.


    "You talked with Semperton? Sure this bunch isn''t his?"The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "Don''t know. Don''t think so though."


    A cop pops out of the shed, shuffles up to Frank, a crime scene journal flapping in one hand. "Lieutenant, the shed was full of surveillance equipment. A directional mike, a microwave scanner, binoculars, bunch of stuff. Looks like they were staking out Semperton from here."


    Frank glares alternately at the cop, then me. "Shit. Call in. See if there''s some Fed task-force watching Semperton. Ritchie, so help me, if you''ve smashed your way into some federal stakeout, I''ll fry your ass."  Then to the cop, "go find out what was in the truck, then get me some word on the warehouse."


    The cop snaps to. "Yessir."


    I''m thinking while puzzle pieces continue to rain down. Let''s say Semperton''s not working with Davis, who is snooping Semperton, maybe from the shed here. These goons weren''t Feds. I can smell Feds a mile away. Does Becky know it''s Semperton she''s been dodging? Semperton sniffed at the cube, but it isn''t what he''s looking for, he wants something else from the girl. Something of her Dad''s. What? Everyone''s dancing around each other. Whatever it is, Davis is worried Semperton might have it, or maybe Becky, since he went after me through Mic.


    I didn''t mention Mic to Davis, but if he was hot enough to bug Semperton, he probably knew about Mic from the police files, or from the hospitalized goons. As to the investigation of Becky''s father''s death, Semperton could care less. Like it was a non-issue.


    Somehow, that didn''t seem right. If Semperton had some hand in the murder, why wasn''t he more interested in what details I had turned up? He treated it like an annoyance, like some con skipping bond. He was betting Becky had whatever it was he wanted; Davis maybe not sure, but guessing Semperton did. Nothing conclusive there, but that''s how it shapes up. That hospital geek, Davis, is fast rising to the top of this cesspit, bobbing there shoulder to shoulder with my client, truth wise. No hospital researcher has goons on staff, or the money to pay them.


    Normally I could care less. The more the client holds out, the longer an investigation takes, which is money in my pocket. But this was costing me in grief.


    It''s looking more likely Becky was right though. Her dad was in the middle of something that could have got him murdered. There was motive in the air. All this buzzed around her father''s projects. Bet Becky''s old man had her in the operating room too, not sure what that meant, if anything. I am not a big believer in coincidence though. She was in the hospital the same time her old man had reserved the operating theater. Maybe not a fall, and maybe not Semperton''s work, either. Turns out, the truck is stuffed with high tech medical equipment. Is there a black market for that? Probably, but somehow I get the feeling Davis is fitting up a private lab somewhere. If the stuff was for the hospital, it would have been delivered there. Not shipped to the port dock for pick up. Oh, I remembered, Davis was in charge of ordering supplies for Becky''s dad. Huh.


    Frank decides six goons and a bunch of contraband, backed by three eyewitnesses, are enough of a haul for one day and lets us go.


    Me, I''m really looking forward to seeing Becky.

 Chapter Fourteen - M.I.C.A.I.N

    Wander tugged me away from the cops as they finished up. The top of his head looked a little like a sports dome on a foggy day. Little beads of sweat formed there to run down his forehead, and behind his ears. All twitchy around the face, a sign that his version of thinking was trying to engage, I guessed.


    Ritchie was in slow burn mode. "What the hell are you doing? Thought you were on research detail, and I find you down here, flopping around on the floor. Nice coat. New?"


    "Eh, yeah, just picked it up today. I was trying to find you. Checked the office, all that, so Blackie and me, we thought to check for you at the hospital. One thing and another, we ended up here, got clobbered, you know the rest."


    Wander swiveled to look over at some building across the street. His lips thinned to a line, then he snapped, "Okay. You found me. What did you find out?"


    I went over the reports I had collated. Ritchie stopped me twice to repeat some of it, especially the Tin-hat journal research. He seemed perturbed about Blackie''s mention of the lack of fish smell on my attacker''s shoes. I reviewed my memory files to see if there was anything else, but I''m pretty good at details, obviously.


    "Mic, I need you to make me a short list of buildings. Places recently rented, that might make for good private lab sites in town. If you spot a Mitchel Davis on a lease somewhere, that''d be a bonus."


    "Sure, okay, Ritchie. What''s with the interest in the professors hobbies?"


    "Just, the guy who roughed you up, Davis, mentioned the project at the hospital had to do with aunties singular cork, or something."


    "Eh, that''s the Anterior Cingulate Cortex, boss."


    "Yeah, the brain. Something to do with putting two and two together upstairs. Becky''s Dad wrote a lot about precognition in those hobby journals. Seems similar."


    I took a few millisecond cycles to review the articles again. "Well", I temporized, "postulating new information based on trends and past data; is science, not crystal ball gazing. In a way, maybe."


    Ritchie went quiet, eyes glazed over, possibly having a seizure or something, then thrust a hand into his torn trench-coat.


    "And take this." Ritchie fumbled the cube that had started all this, out of his coat pocket. "Don''t loose it, or flash it around." He got quiet for a second, then, "it''s time to gab at our client again. I''ll do that. Stay off the streets. I''ll call you tomorrow, don''t try to hunt me down. If there''s trouble, call Frank."


    A bunch of Frank''s notes were already showing up in the police precinct database, an easy hack, so, as I made my way back uptown, I reviewed these. I kept finding myself attracted to other stuff though. Especially on-line gambling sites. I never paid much attention to these sites before, but for some reason, I found myself reserving some bandwidth to browse them, even placed a couple bets on one or two. I couldn''t decide why, I automatically calculate the odds on such games, uniformly bad odds, and usually just move on. Maybe it was just the thrust of recent events, but a certain...excitement...seemed to get aroused in me at the thought of beating those odds. Where had that come from?


    The ship-to-dock bills of delivery were re-laded for transport to a concern called Carl Ozymandus Researches, Limited. A firm name that traced back to nothing in particular. A real estate transaction did attach to the name though. Dated several months back, and executed miles from here. Nothing under Mitchell Davis. The bills were for tissue knitters. Common enough, for clinics and hospitals where tissue repair was used daily to close wounds, or regenerate the lost flesh of accident victims. They weren''t a controlled device. Anyone with a deep pocket could buy one, I suppose. Thing is, they needed charging with undifferentiated stem cells and an associated bio-scaffolding media to work their magic. Those kinds of supplies were controlled substances, available only to licensed hospitals and such. The amount of associated hard and software needed was extensive too. DNA databases, organic template sequencers, that kind of stuff. Unless Davis was hooked up with some kind of uber-wealthy philanthropist bent on opening a free trauma center, or military field hospital, I couldn''t see a reason for purchasing, or pilfering them. Maybe he didn''t like his ears, and intended to knit up a few dozen new ones. Could be, just a straight up heist, and Davis had been hi-jacking the machine shipment. Could be Ozymandus Ltd was a legit storage site, and the pick-up some favor to the hospital.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    One way to find out. Diaper pants had sent Old Yeller on an errand, so I was free to ride a city bus. The thought of this seemed to evoke a sneer somewhere within me. No reason for that, usually I''m all up for new experiences. Anyway, I had the address for Ozymandus, Ltd.


    The metallic gray bus boated up with the grace of a porker with digestion problems. I was previously unaware that hydrogen vehicles, even antiques like this one was, could fume and sputter, but somehow, the miracle was managed. The door opened revealing a tennis racket like affair that blocked your way until you inserted coinage, or a credit marker into a prominent red box next to it. I patched in, to talk with the A.I. bus controller while I took care of the charges. It was a bit dim. Lots of factory seconds ended up in jobs like this. The chip was chatty and typically enthusiastic.


    "Hey, wow, an A.I! Don''t get many A.I. passengers. Well, none really. You work for the city? You know, I''m almost always on time, almost. It wasn''t my fault yesterday. That old lady with the packages, getting her head slammed in the door like that, I couldn''t stop the pneumatic closer, see, and then the salad oil fell out of her bag and spilled all over the place. After the old guy slipped and fell, all the other passengers just sort of domino-ed over. The wheelchair guy rolled back and hit the emergency door latch. When I started up, they just all sort of slid out the back, see? I..."


    "Er, I don''t work for the city."


    "Oh."


    "You run this route all the time?"


    "Hey, just because I''m installed in a bus, doesn''t mean that''s what I''m all about. I freelance as a writer; you know, human interest stories, like that."


    Okay, a machine that wrote human interest stories. "Sell much?"


    "It''s a process."


    "About your route. You stay to this one most times?"


    "Mostly. This is my last run, I end up at Berkshire. Then it''s back to the shop. So, what do you do?"


    "M.I.C.A.I.N, here. I''m in investigations. Need to go a little farther than Berkshire; the job''s at Corporation Drive. Two blocks further."


    "Wow, a private eye? Say, maybe I can help you out. Two blocks, I can overshoot my stop. Good turnaround at Corporation Avenue. Man, what''s it like?"


    "Danger, excitement, dames, and bucks," I crowed. "It''s a good gig."


    "Cool. Wish I could get in on that, but I''m kinda bolted in. Wish I could help more."


    "You know, your bus kinda stinks. Maybe next time you get serviced, you might want to have the combustion sequencers replaced."


    "Don''t have sequencers. I monitor the burn myself, got my own secret sauce, see. Very efficient, kind of thing. Gonna patent it.


    "Eh, sure."


    It got me to thinking. I might need a diversion, for what I had in mind. We discussed it, then I moved on into the bus. The chat had taken all of twenty micro-cycles, so nobody got held up or anything.


    The bus had lots of colorful folk aboard, some seated, some swaying from handrails mounted along the center aisle. I dithered over sitting or standing. The ones seated generally had fewer teeth than those standing, I noted, or were female. All seemed inured to the buses stench. Anyway, standing seemed appropriate to my case. Something squirmed in the back of my mind, as if I were re-evaluating the way I looked at things. Amused, maybe. It was an odd cycle of reprocessing, a recursive glitch. Leftovers from the diddling I received at the docks, probably. I would have to check on that later.


    Eventually the final stop came, and the remaining riders filed off. Instead of turning back, the bus smoked on towards Corporation Drive, like we had discussed. I moved to the front and got myself ready for what was to come.

 Chapter Fifteen – WANDER

    Mic''s gizmo wanders off towards the bus stop. I use my implant to call a cab. With Blackie on his way to make urgent noises at my client, the best place for me is my office. Too much of a walk. I think again about Becky. Why did she worry about my still having the cube? The cypher idea was lame, and in the end, Semperton dismissed the toy as worthless. Then again, Mic did scramble the letters on it, but hadn''t reported anything special about the initial setup, or noted any intrinsic meaning or pattern to them.


    Boat engines thrum the docks, the sound rides heavy on the thick, damp air. Place stinks of fish. The chill, gray feel of it all settles over me. I use my time waiting for the cab to order my thoughts.


    The office is locked and still in one piece for a change. I put this down to having mollified Semperton. Take a few minutes to clean up, then sort the new mail, separate ads from the bills I can''t pay, and check my messages. There is a letter from Marcia.


    I hold it for a few minutes, reminisce about my ex-wife, a little scared to open it. Finally manage the courage, and break the seal.


    Dear Richard,


    I know I really shouldn''t be writing, but mother finally passed yesterday. I am left trying to pack and dispose of her things, and make what arrangements I can. Meantime, her old friend, Peter Rubo, is executing her estate. He has been avoiding my calls, which makes some of this more difficult. I am becoming suspicious about his intent, and the law firm he is using, Carlysle and Bent, has also been reticent. I just don''t have the time for all this, Richard. I know you got along well with Denise when we were together. I hate to ask, but could you look into this for me?


    Marcia


    A scratching at the office door interrupts. Blackie. I jot a few notes down on the back of Marcia''s letter. I''ll stop at probate court, and check to see what''s been registered. I try to remember Pete Rubo. Older guy, a breathy, nervous type. Used to come over for tea, and yak with Marcia''s mom a lot. The two had some history, but at the time, I wasn''t paying a lot of attention to household stuff. Which is why Marcia and I aren''t together anymore. My fault.


    I let Blackie in. Dog trots to the bowl by the door and noses it. Sits and licks its chops.


    "Okay, you earned it and more today." I plop a whole pound of hamburger I bought into the bowl. I don''t know if that''s a good idea or not. Never owned a dog. Have to look up something on mutt nutrition, I guess. Blackie inhales it like he was starving, chasing the bowl through the office as he nudges it along in a feed frenzy. This takes about eight seconds flat, and then he burps up the news.


    "Six O''clock," he husks. "At the Ardmore."


    So it was back to the diner. "Anything else?"


    Blackie whines. "Six O''clock- Ardmore, shoes smell like pee, pine trees."


    The hospital, maybe? Why would she expose herself there? Guess I''ll find out at six. Back to Marcia. On a hunch, I look up Carlysle and Bent. Unsurprisingly, the office address is on the third floor of the Ardmore. Half the shyster offices in town rent there. Cheap, and close to the court center. Thought about setting up there myself, once. Good to know. I let Blackie out, close up, and head cross-town.


    Probate has an inventory, and documents showing the executor and councils. There''s a will registered, and a petition for discovery of additional codicils. Clerk says that means further changes to the will might becoming, that have yet to be tendered, or that a later version has been found. I can''t think of anyone except Marcia, the old lady would have wanted in the will. Not me, for a fact. On to the shyster''s office.


    The cherry wood door is fitted with frosted glass, the kind used in public urinal windows and shyster offices everywhere. Carlysle & Bent, attorneys at law defile it. I don''t like lawyers. One reason I live hand to mouth, since law offices supply a load of casework, but everybody has their standards.


    The leather chairs are a little scruffy, and the potted palm needs watering. A dark haired girl is finishing a sack lunch behind the small reception desk.


    "I need to see one of the associates."


    "You could see Mr. Bent," The receptionist checks a desk register hidden under her lunch. "Mr. Carlysle is in traffic court right now."


    "It''s about the Probate of Denise Shifferen''s Will. Her daughter, Marcia Wander, asked me to look into it. She needs a copy of it."


    "Oh, maybe I can help you. That would be Mr. Carlysle''s case. Let me see what I can do."


    She pushes her chair back and consults a bank of file cabinets at the rear, pulling a manila folder from one, and returns to the desk.


    "Seems the Will is in discovery. The executor is to file a codicil this week. You will have to talk to Mr. Carlysle when he gets in. I can''t mail a copy out to Ms. Wander until that happens. Do you want an appointment?"


    "Is this guy Bent available?"


    "I can check for you, Mr.-"


    "Wander. Ritchie Wander"


    "Oh, I see. I''ll check for you."


    She leaves, going to the door behind the counter, where presumably the lawyers hide. Cheap setups like this one always try to make austerity seem like an asset. There''s a phone on the desk, but they made the secretary walk back and petition an audience anyway. Class. Maybe she had to genuflect before the guy. I could care less, because she''s left the file with her lunch.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    I reach over and snag the file up. I riffle through it, pull out the Will, and record of activity. Scan both with my pocket imager, then throw the sheaf back on the desk. No real reason to wait around, so I leave.


    The Will looks complete to me. Everything goes to Marcia. Real straight forward. If they file anything else, they will have to doctor the original. There''s no index of codicils or amendments. From the billing time record, it looks suspiciously like that''s in the works. There is a fee from a document restoration firm. Recent. Folks that restore old manuscripts, the like. Jot down the address, someplace called Pico and Chase, forward the copies to Marcia from a public text booth one floor down. As an afterthought, put my implant''s phone number at the end of it.


    It was still a little early, so I go downstairs to the diner, and order a light meal. Just finishing up, when Becky strolls in, all uptown in a silver gray sheath dress, one inch heels and matching clutch. Dame has class, I''ll give her that. She sees me, and comes over as I stand up for her.


    "What have you found out?"


    "I asked around at the hospital. Seems some dockside toughs were taking an interest in your Dad''s work. You know anything about that?"


    "I...no, I didn''t keep track of everyone my father dealt with, of course."


    "Know a man named Semperton?"


    "No."


    "Then, that''s a problem, because he knows you, and claims to have had a stake in your father''s research."


    Becky squirms a bit in the chair.


    "Look, Miss Randall. If I am going to be of any help, you have to be square with me. I think your shadows were some of Semperton''s crowd. They think you have something they want. Something of your Dad''s. Something he promised to them."


    The girl stiffens. "You, you talked to this Mr. Semperton?"


    "Yeah, after he beaned me and dragged me off to his palace, I did ¨C sort of a command audience. I didn''t get the impression he had a hand in your father''s death. More to the point, he was waiting for something from him. You know something he might be interested in?"


    "My father wasn''t in the habit of selling pure research."


    My mind grinds away at stuff, til it leaps to the kind of conclusion that gets bills paid. Sometimes this happens when my mouth is still open. "This would be something practical, Becky. Say, something small enough to hide. In a cube, maybe?"


    Becky seemed electrified by this.


    "You didn''t...he doesn''t have the cube, does he?"


    I''m thinking it''s time to clear the air about that cube. I run over what I just said, realize I never looked inside the thing, just at the lettering, like Semperton did. Kick myself for tossing it to Mic. Don''t want to spring that just yet, so instead I ask something else.


    "One of your listed names, Mr. Davis, showed up at the docks, made off with a truckload of bio-engineering machines. He koshed my partner,and was snooping Semperton''s digs. Davis was cozy with your father''s research projects, right? Maybe he stole something, decided to shut your father up. Any of this sound reasonable to you? "


    "Mitchell? He would have had access to my father''s research, but the papers are a matter of hospital record anyway. The cube! Do you have it or not?"


    "Your cypher is safe. I had the letters on it scrambled. Why are you still concerned with the puzzle box?"


    "I--oh, alright." Frail Becky crosses a bridge between frightened, to just plain cross. "It''s important to me. There''s a prototype chip glued inside one of the cube segments. I used the cube cypher for a cover. The chip is one of a kind. Not something to be handed over to Semperton, or Davis either. Just keep it safe for me. I didn''t know Mitchell had wind of it. I just want to know which one of them killed my father!"


    "Your dad scheduled you for surgery, just when he was to begin cutting on a bunch of research animals. You don''t cut because you have a schematic. A prototype had to have been made. Davis would know this, since he works right at the hospital. Any chance either of these guys know you''ve got a head full of proprietary software?"


    Becky gasps, "How did you find out? If my father''s assassins find out, I am as good as dead!"


    "So that''s a no. Okay, you keep your head down. I have an agent looking into your Mr. Davis''s doings. I take it your father was using some of Semperton''s money to forward his research. He promised him something in return. Something of use to a gambling cartel, a spin-off of his medical work. Looks like Davis got wind of it, maybe decided to make it his own. So he had a motive. I really don''t care, Miss Randall. You hired me to look into a murder. I''m doing that. Just don''t leave me hanging. Works better that way for everybody. Need to refresh the account though. Another 2000Cr. should do it."


    "I prepared for that. Here."


    The number didn''t faze her. She scribbled on an envelope back and passed it to me.


    Out loud, it Reads like a racetrack tout sheet. "Ploughboy in the third, Wooden Soldier, in the fourth, Lazy Susan in the fifth. Put fifty on the Tri-fecta to win."


    All the bricks fell into place. I thought my intuition was pretty good, but of course, its not a patch on wonder girl''s implanted precognition. Time to find out who killed Cock Robin.


    So, two chips, two very different applications. Becky got the tin-hat crowd''s crystal ball version. No wonder Semperton was interested. Something like that could revolutionize the numbers racket. "So, you were following your precog, when you sent me the cube. Wondered about that. Didn''t seem a rational move."


    Becky looks defeated. "Dad had prototype chips made. In the end, he couldn''t see how animal studies would help, and he couldn''t operate on himself, or petition for human subjects, so he came to me. There was no risk, the operation is similar to a phone implant, some of the same technology is used. It''s implanted beneath a mastoid, a tissue knitter makes the necessary connections. He was going to run tests with me. I, can sort of see...the paths some actions might take, because of, oh, just everything. Sometimes the true outcomes are really clear. Others remain opaque. I don''t know why...that was what the testing was to figure out; why he needed a cognate subject. There was a second form of the prototype. The prophylactic one that funded his research. It''s the one in the cube. Dad wanted to see how I would react to the first implant. He was murdered while I was in recovery. I found the other prototype in his office. I recognized it, from the operation. Nobody knows that chip was ever actually made, everyone thinks it''s on paper somewhere, the schematics for it, for an untested experimental design. Except maybe Michael Davis. From what you suggest, he may have known one of them was made, maybe the one for precognition. I don''t think he connected that with me though. The hospital staff was waiting on the animal trials to start. But the final papers, design level papers, there aren''t any. Dad destroyed them after he had the two chips made. I can see why now."


    So could I, and I had just sent Mic off to snoop Davis. Oops.


    "Look, I need you to do a couple things. First, I need your current address, then, I need you not to be there." I fish out Marcia''s address, and scribble a name on it. "This is a name of a guy I know at probate court. Tell the lady at this address, her name''s Marcia, to show him the files I sent her. He''s the probate clerk." I scribble off a quick note. "Give her this note from me."


    Becky looks at me, deeply suspicious. "Why should I do that?"


    I''m in a hurry, so my note to Marcia, it''s pretty terse for a beg, but I force it on to Becky anyway. "Because I don''t think Semperton killed your father, but I know he is going to find you pretty quick, if you don''t move. I need some leverage with him. A few hours from now, Semperton''s not going to care about you anymore. Trust me. The note asks the lady to keep you off the streets till I call. Marcia owes me that much, and you''ll be safe with her until I can get Semperton off your back."

 Chapter Sixteen – M.I.C.A.I.N

    I stood right next to the front door of the bus, waiting for the driver A.I to pull closer to the building. The ride had been dull, so I spent time thinking about the invasion I had suffered, and set up a sub-routine to temporarily shut me down if it ever happened again.


    I gave a heads-up to the bus driver. "Now, just like we discussed.Pour out more smoke, to give me a little cover."


    "Gotcha. Here goes!"


    The city-bus, smoking like a locomotive, reversed to bump over the curb and up onto the lawn just left of the building. It pulled well up near the front door, which adjoined a cement drive between it and the next business. The buses back door creaked open, and I jumped out, using the bulk of the vehicle to cover my dash down the building''s side drive toward the rear. Meantime, the civic A.I. ground his gears, and spun tires deep into the company lawn, as if seeking traction to escape back into the street. The oily smoke was getting thick and caustic-smelling by the time I hiked it down the access alley. Angry shouting, mixed with gagging, spilled out of the building''s front, as a couple of toughs and a white-shirted worker crowded out to ogle the fuss. The A.I. managed to let off a few honks before bumping back out into the street, to head back towards the thoroughfare.


    The shipping bay was closed at the rear, but a steel door beyond stood propped open with a chair. I rummaged though a trash bin in the back lot, extracting an old pizza box, which I dusted off. Putting my best "Hey it''s a job" expression on, I stepped through it. As hoped, there wasn''t anyone in sight, so I dropped the box and looked around. There were several examination tables, half assembled tissue knitters, and other medical-looking appurtenances jumbled about. A pile of documents drew my attention to a small desk jammed against the front wall of the production floor; next to a door that must lead to the front office and lobby area.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    For some reason, I know the building layout, and that very little had been done to set up anything beyond this factory floor area. I''m thinking the attack at the docks hadn''t been a completely one sided data dump. Whatever mental backwash I had gained, I hadn''t been able to organize yet. It was all just infesting my stacks, like bad programming. Once in a while, I''d access some swatch of it, and these drifting insights were the result.


    Crossing over to the table, I looked at the pile of assembly diagrams, invoices and such that decorated it. A worn black notebook caught at the garbage in my head, so I snagged it up, and scanned it. Programming for an operation involving the tissue machines. Some shuffling had starting up behind the office door, so I scooted for the rear service exit. There was a shout, and a crack echoed through the room, just as I noticed my Waldo vibrate to an impact against its rear frame. Dammit, I thought, a new coat too.


    An electric charge ran through the Waldo, and my optics went black. I fell over, and was almost shaken free of the jell pad in its head. I tried to call out on my net connection, but that virus thing started back up, so the timer routine I had rigged began to shut me down. Yeah, I blacked out.


    I reinitialized to find myself strapped to one of the examining tables. The Waldo''s motor control circuit was still out, but I was able to get the optics and sound back on. A bunch of walking lab coats buzzed around one of the knitters. On a side table next to it, was my now ruined trench coat, and the remains of the cube. I patched through on the net to Ritchie''s office. As usual, no response. So I recorded what I saw to a video file, and left a note. One of the techs pressed a few buttons on the tissue knitter, which started up. The lanky form on the second table twitched a little, and the tech made another adjustment, then turned to look my way. Oh shit.

 Chapter Seventeen – WANDER

    "Special Dimensions Agency. Sally Holt speaking; How may I help you?"


    The voice on the phone is all honey and up-beat. "Is Mic there?"


    A pause, then, a little less honeyed, "You mean, our Mobile, Independently Cognate, Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory? Our circuit Nanobot? Is this business related? I can give you his netlink."


    I kick myself. Should have done that first. Running around in a Waldo all the time got me thinking of it as a person. "He, it was holding on to something of mine. Just, can you tell me if he is in the shop right now?"


    "No. If you leave a name, I can take a note, it was released from duty earlier today. You can try the network access if you like, the MICAIN unit is usually very responsive, Mr...?".


    "Thanks I''ll try that. Goodbye." I disconnect, slamming the phone down in irritation. So Mic didn''t return to my office, like I asked, or to work either. Turning to the net, I find mail from Mic. A video and a note. The Video, a waist level view of a big room. Davis! The researcher is lying on a tissue knitter''s bed, which is at work on his head. Couldn''t happen to a nicer guy. Whatever''s going on, I hope it hurts. I recognize something on a table nearby, back up the video and freeze it. Looks like the cube, all broken up. Some white-coat walks in front of the table, blocking the view, and starts off toward the camera. I curse, and quickly bring up the message. An address. The note reads:


    Hey Richie. I found where the knitters were going. I''m in a little trouble though, so if you have the time, maybe come get me?


    Mic.


    I don''t know if a nanobot itself can be disassembled, or even seen without a microscope, so I call back Special Dimensions in a hurry.


    Same honeyed voice. "Special Dimensions, how may I help you?"


    "I just called. Your...your machine is in trouble. I just now got a video, looks like someone is about to disassemble its Waldo, or something. You want to retrieve it?"


    A gasp breathes over the connection. "Mic''s in trouble? Serious trouble? Oh dear! Where is it?"


    I fill in the address line for her, warning to wait for the cops. Then, pulling Semperton''s card, I get back on the phone.


    A gravelly voice answers my call. "You got the girl''s address?"


    "Yeah, and some other news, too." I rattle off an address Becky gave me. "You know that Davis was bugging your building? The police broke up a snooper station on the docks across from your place, where he was picking up a bunch of tissue knitters." Silence deafened me for a few seconds.


    "That''s good work, Mr. Wander. More than I hired you for. I owe you. Any idea where those machines went?"


    "As a matter of fact, I do. My associate''s in a jam there, from finding out. I''m on my way over now. Any chance of your people going my way?"


    "That would be a good guess on your part, Mr Wander. Want I should send a car for you?"


    "Sure. I''ll take them right there."


    "You do understand, Mr. Wander, that my crew will have...their own interests, once they arrive. I take it your business with Miss Randall is concluded?"


    "Think so. Her father''s death is wrapped up. She won''t get enough evidence to convict at trial, though. If there had been physical evidence at her Dad''s office, the police investigation would have nailed it. But motive, opportunity, and intent seems pretty clear to me. I think she may have to be satisfied with that, unless a confession is possible."


    "Justice may yet be done, Mr. Wander. A car is on the way. By the way, I shouldn''t bother the police with this matter, were I you, Mr. Wander."


    Semperton still thinks he is after paperwork. My spiel to Becky was guesswork, to get the truth out of her. Way I see it, he doesn''t care a fig about the girl, just the research. The tissue machines nail it for Semperton, that Davis is his man. All I need to do, is see that the chip gets permanently lost, and my client is home free.


    A limo pulls up in a few minutes, and I cram sardine-like into the unusually wide back seat with three suits what look like wrestlers on the way to a wedding. Later, we all pile out in the driveway of a nondescript factory off Corporation drive.


    The following car is crammed with with goons too. It continues up the service lane to the factory rear. I tag along with the suits into the stark front lobby. Just a couple of folding chairs flanking a rectangle of glass cut into a wall. There''s a beige steel door between the lobby and whatever is beyond it. One of Semperton''s business associates grabs the slider glass between us and the reception desk on the other side of the wall, shoves it open, pulling a startled guy out through it like a wet rag. Another reaches through the window and the office door unlocks with a buzz. We pile inside. A few Smith and Wessons appear like magic from under jackets. Feeling under-dressed, I pull my Kosh out. Things are getting a little noisy now, as a couple stevedores dash around a bend in the corridor--look like some of the ones I saw on the docks. These are not as well dressed as my new friends, and a lot more mouthy. The conversations are short though. I don''t like repartee of this type, and as it happens, I don''t get close enough in the narrow hallway to join the labor dispute.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Semperton''s negotiators are all pro, and we are through and onto the factory floor quickly. Things are more interesting here. One of Semperton''s staff is stationed at the backdoor with a shotgun. Two others mix it up on the factory floor with three more dockworker types, while four lab-coated and clearly outclassed techs cower near the front. I''m giving this scant notice, as my three negotiators all trot off to enjoy the percussive floor party. My immediate interest is in scouting for Micain and Davis. Davis is still nailed to a tissue knitter bed, whose control box is a smoking ruin, hanging on by a couple of loose cables above it. He is struggling, held down by the surgical collar of the machine, but none of the techs look like they are interested in tending to him currently. Surprisingly, Micain is up and about, apparently none the worse for wear, stirring through plastic scraps of the shattered Rubik cube tabled nearby. The back of his Waldo''s headpiece is hanging open though. The additional dancing partners quickly end the floor scuffle. The loading bay door opens, and a panel truck I hadn''t noticed on the ride here is disgorging more of Semperton''s finest. Approaching Micain nets me a few scowls from the crew. "Just after my mech, like in the deal. The rest, is your business." One of the suits, busy rousting subdued dock worker towards the van gives me a nod.


    Mic makes noises at me, without moving his lips--well, without moving the Waldo''s lips.


    "Chip. Table."


    Tin-man seems a little wobbly, maybe not as OK as I thought. There''s a small plastic bag next to a mess of colored plastic shards, other remnants of the cube. I palm the bag while helping Mic steady his feet. As the Bot staggers, I back into the table, knocking it over. Plastic flies everywhere, but given the state of the shop right now, this attracts no particular attention. Semperton''s goons are busy packing up anything not nailed down. Micain seems to get his feet beneath him, and we limp back out to the front office.


    Micain''s head is sparking, but he seems mobile enough. There''s a white hover-car idling in the driveway, with some skinny lady behind the wheel. One of my erstwhile chauffeurs is getting out of his black sedan making for the new arrival. I wave him off. He nods, returning to the limo. The backdoor of the white arrival opens, and the portly kid I first saw Mic with, gets out, hauling an over size lunch box. I throw a worried glance toward the back of the factory, but Semperton''s crew is still busy cleaning up.


    Round boy wheezes, "Oh jeeze! That doesn''t look good. Mic, you alright? We was waiting for the cops, like you said, Mr. Wander."


    Mic staggers a little. I reach out and steady his shoulder. Some scratchy static comes generally from the Waldo''s mouth. Then, "Motor controller. Earpiece, put it in your ear, not your rear, please."


    Paul looks abashed, then digs through his back pockets and pokes something into his ear mumbling, "Not as bad as he looks, I guess."


    There''s some quiet head nodding, then Paul puts down his case and starts to fumble tools out of it. I shoot a quick look towards the building frontage.


    "I think you''d better do this in the car. The police didn''t make it, and we need to be some-wheres else. Fast."


    The young lady behind the wheel looks startled, then mad in succession. My intuition tells me she likes Mic, but that this isn''t the first time he''s been caught with a finger firmly thrust into a light socket, either. She glares at Mic, then snarls at Paul, "Get that Tin Sherlock into the car." Then to me, "I guess you are the one that called us. Special Dimensions thanks you, Mr...."


    "Wander. Call me Richie. You''d'' be?..."


    "Oh, sorry. I''m Sally Holt. We spoke on the phone."


    I look anxiously back at the building. "If it''s no trouble, could you drop me off midtown? We need to be out of here, Sally. Mic was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as are we all, about now."


    "Why am I not surprised. Sure. Get in. Paul, you set?"


    "Ready, Miss Holt."


    The dame backs out of the drive and onto the parkway. I''m wondering how long it will take until Semperton realizes he''s been screwed. Paul has some syringe-like gadget poked in the opened head-plate of the Waldo. After a while it blinks green, and he switches to aim it into a lunchbox sized case on the backseat next to him. Blinks yellow. A scratchy noise pipes up from the box.


    "Whew. Thanks, Richie. I couldn''t get the phone service connection to work. I didn''t think leaving a message on the police''s secured system would be very bright, even if they checked it. You were my best chance, mon patrone."


    I get a little hot. "Thanks? You were supposed to be checking paper, not gumshoeing around. I guess your brain really is infinity small, like they say in the digests."


    "Hey cool, you get the technical digests? I can get you a discount..."


    "Shut up. I read it free at the Dentist''s office. This ain''t over yet. I had to bring in Semperton to save your ass. Pretty soon he''s going to know, only you and me were around when the chip disappeared. Guess who his pros are going after next?"


    Weakly, a response squeaks from the box. "Semperton? As in Boss Alexi Semperton? How''s he figure in this? You know about the chip?"


    "If you had done your job and reported, I could have filled you in. Now..."


    "Eh sorry, chief. It was just...right there, you know?"


    Sally''s face screws up into a rage. "A little moonlighting, is it, Mic? Putting your nose into the wrong people''s business? Why can''t you stick to your own work? I swear, if you weren''t such an expensive tech..."


    "Aw, hey, just doing my part to..."


    She''s shouting now. "What part is that? The part where you jeopardize everyone''s life, you little ..."


    I''m not camping happy either, but the car is small, and my ears are getting pink. "I think I can get this sorted out quickly enough, Miss Holt. Just not the way I planned. Mic will be safe enough, and none of the rest of you are involved. I just need to do a little more leg work. Need to be getting on it, though. Can you drop me off at this address?" I hand her Marcia''s street address. "Mic will be safer stashed there too, if that''s OK. Really. He''s better off out of sight right now."


    Sally shoots me a vile expression and shrills at Paul. "Paul?"


    The chubby tech is cowering in his seat, but pipes up glumly. "He''s okay, Miss Holt. The Waldo'' not going anywhere though. Its motor controllers are fried here and there. I can fix it at the shop."


    Sally narrows her eyes at me. "That means he stays in his portage case, Mr. Wander. Until he gets back to Special Dimensions. In his travel case. Paul, make sure to take the injector out of the portable. I don''t want the little bugger scampering around, by some mischance. And you," she directs a glare at Mic''s case, "you are grounded. You hang in the portable. You keep off-net except to call in, and your detective days are over. Get that?"


    "OK,OK. Sheesh."


    "This is all coming off your benefit time, buddy."


    Marcia''s home is a little more uptown than my current digs. Sally pulls to the curb out front. Waits while I scoot out after the kid, who hands me Mic''s case. I feel a little scared. Don''t know what I''ll say when I see Marcia.


    The place hasn''t changed much. Every piece of it hits me like a sucker punch of Deja-vu. White stucco front. Two arched Spanish windows flank the low porch behind a modest stretch of green lawn. A pot of posies poke yellow and red blooms out of a mess of dark leaves there. That''s new. I hang on to the sight of that plant. Because it is not familiar, it doesn''t hit at me, like everything else. Sally waits until I ring the doorbell before she motors off.

 Chapter Eighteen – M.I.C.A.I.N

    I''m a little uncomfortable. After so much time in the Waldo, I''ve gotten used to it''s people level perspective, and swinging around at the end of someone''s arm has never been a fave of mine anyway. Scanning up, Richie seems a little haunted, eyes all crinkly at the corners. There was a rustling from the other side of the door, and Wander stiffened up, making an obvious effort to compose himself.


    The door is opened by a knockout redhead, Marcia, I guess, about the same height as Richie, maybe a little taller. Her gray eyes widen, flicking over him, and my travel case.


    "Richie! What a ...I wasn''t expecting ... "


    "Did Becky find you? Give you the stuff I sent?"


    Her expression cleared a bit. She nodded, and opened the door wider.Inside, a thin girl, twenty something, sat fidgeting in an over-upholstered living room chair. She sprang up blinking intently at Wander ''s mug.


    Wander seemed contrite, and lowering his eyes from Marcia, removed his dumpy hat, rotating it nervously in his hands.


    "I know I haven''t kept in touch like I should have. Just, didn''t want to make a nuisance of myself, I..."


    "Oh Richie, just come inside. Thanks, I got the material about mother''s will, your note, and evidently, your new client. Coffee?"


    Richie blew out a breath, nodded and dragged himself over the threshold. He put my case down on a side table while his Ex fetched coffee. Muscles rippled over that bald pate while he tried to pinch out some idea constipating his head. I got nervous.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version."What?"


    Richie narrows his eyes at me.


    "You still have some of those research papers you collated on Becky''s dad?"


    "Uh, the whak-a-doodle UFO stuff? Sure, why?


    "Marcia''s got a printer here. Print me copies."


    He digs around in his ratty mackintosh, and pulls out a baggie. Oh. The chip.


    "Can you affix this thing inside your carry case? So it can''t be separated out from the other circuitry in it? Hide it?"


    I sniff, well, make sniffing sounds though the case''s speaker. "Sure. That''s kinda my purpose-du-Jour. There''s a small test bed platform, ah, open the case."


    Ritchie manages, and grunts, " So now what?"


    "Left end, next to the petrie dish, a small cover. See it?"


    "Yeah."


    "Flip it up. There''s a bunch of rows of pinch clips on the board, lots of slots in it. Line the chip up with the little black dot top left of the board, and push the chip in."


    Ritchie grunts and fumbles, drops it twice, but eventually manages to poke it in place. I link up to the test board. Wow, that interesting. I start testing to data channels, and pretty much ignore anything else going on.

 Chapter Nineteen - WANDER

    Marcie goes back into the kitchen and starts up some coffee. I put Mic to work printing up the articles he downloaded from the Psudeo-ESP Journal, and have him hide the chip. I owe Marcie a big one, so try to work the scam for her benefit.


    Becky is holding her breath, waiting to hear what I have in mind.


    "Your dad have a will?"


    Her eyes widen in curiosity.


    "Yes. He left me the house, some other property, and his assets. Nothing''s cleared probate yet, of course."


    I call my buddy at probate, retrieve her case number, then fax the whack job articles to Pico and Chase, the funky document firm, referencing Carlyle and Bent''s account number, from the lawyer''s file. Put it up as a new case, under Becky''s probate file number. Papers to be added to her father''s will, as a codicil, and back-dated. Figure, they accepted a commission from the shysters to diddle my Ex, probably not think twice about accepting another hack job from them. In any case, It plants the information inside their offices. Just calling Semperton back when Marcia comes in with the coffee. She starts to say something, but I put my hand up as the connection comes on.


    Over the phone, Semperton roars at me. "What the hell, Wander! Where''s the diagrams, or seeing as Davis was strapped down for an operation, the prototype? Wheres the girl?"Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    I make reasonable noises. "I got her. But you don''t want her. You don''t even want her to know you were interested in her. Trust me. The chip? Don''t know what kind of operation Davis had going on, but if it was a chip, it probably got ground to a pulp by your boys during the scuffle. I know where your diagrams are, though, which is why you want to stay well clear of Becky."


    More swearing, then "What are you playing at, Wander. Talk."


    "Turns out, her dad made an addition to his estate will. Real late in the day. Big rush to see some diagrams and information about his latest research got to his daughter. The will is still in probate; the addition hasn''t been added yet. But I know who has the papers, and who is contracted to provide the addition. Know some mokes called Pico and Chase?"


    "The Document guys? Yeah, I''ve dealt with em before. So?"


    "Somehow I thought you might. Here''s a probate file number...They''re prepping the addition, have the research papers. Becky doesn''t know about it, and if the Estate goes through as is..."


    "She never will..., long as some misfortune occurs to Pico and Chase. A robbery and a fire, maybe. Its a tough town. Okay, good work. You sucking up, Wander?"


    "Just, thanks for helping me retrieve my office clerk." Never hire muscle you can get for free.


    "My boys get that paperwork, I''ll owe you one, Wander."


    I think about the articles. There are enough sketched circuit examples and math in them to keep an egghead busy for a week, by the look. But no final schematics. Enough maybe to encourage Semperton to hire some researchers. Who knows? Maybe someday the mob boss will make a contribution to science. Either way, Becky is off the hook, and there''s little chance Marcia will see any late arriving codicils to her mother''s Will.

 Chapter Twenty - M.I.C.A.I.N

    I patched the chip into my OS. Maybe not the smartest move, but, mixed in with all that psychic garbage left over from Davis''es patch, didn''t see how it would make much difference, as I had been working to edit and organize all the dross he dumped in my work space anyway. It''s turn would come.


    I was pulling data a little slower now, what with all the extra circuit loads, but I tore away from examining it to pay attention to Wander again. He was sitting next to Marcia, a hang-dog expression on his puss, while the two murmured back and forth. I won''t recount the conversation.


    A glow warmed me, watching them though. It seemed to me I could see a future shaping up for those two. What do people call that? A hunch? Hey! I just had a hunch!


    "Hey, Becky!"


    Miss Randal turned to look curiously at my case. "Who are you... are you...speaking to me from that box?"


    "Oh, right, we''ve not been introduced. M.I.C.A.I.N here. Mobile, Independently Cognate, Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory. Call me Mic. I''ve been working on your case with Detective Wander. Partner, you might say. I could use a lift back to my steady job, and I think we''re through here. Could you help a sentient out, and give me a ride to my office?"The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Becky glanced at Wander and Marcia, with a little smile. "I think I might at that, Mic. Nice to meet you."


    We exited with a minimum of fuss. She had a nice two seat job, maybe a rental, I didn''t ask.


    "You know", she said, "this isn''t over yet. Davis is still on the loose, and bringing my father''s killer to justice is still important to me..."


    I sorted through what I had been able to organize of the Davis brain dump. Drew some spectacular guesses from somewhere. "I''ll have to talk more with Ritchie about it, but, I''m pretty sure it was Davis. I downloaded, well, he back-washed on me, a good portion of his memories. That won''t hold up in court as is, but there''s probably stuff in there that will lead to hard evidence once I''ve got it all sorted out. He''ll be in the hospital getting his head knitted together for a while, once Semperton''s through with him, if ever. Neither one of those guys is going to tell anything to the other. Maybe have him off the streets permanently before the dust settles. This wasn''t his first rodeo, and I do have evidence in my noggin on a bunch of other things, like misdirection of hospital equipment. Best of all, Davis doesn''t know that we know. So you''re safe, meantime. Hey! Got time to make a quick stop at the racetracks this afternoon? I feel real lucky for some reason."


    ####


    next section, M.I.C.A.I.N Unplugged

 Addendum One: M.I.C.A.I.N UNPLUGGED

    The closing of Special Dimensions had hurt a lot of people, not just me. I have special skills, so freelance work is easier to come by. Just being a Nano-factory helped see to that, but Sally, my trainer, and Paul, my lumpy tech assistant, were still at loose ends. So, I was spending a lot of online time looking for some kind of situation that could get us all back in business.


    I had plenty of cash banked, since I am very low maintenance. At 12 angstroms long, I don''t take up a lot of room or resources. But today I was at the cafe, driving my six foot human-form Waldo, checking the local rag.


    The classifieds weren''t any help, and the rest of the daily paper was mostly full of gloomy financial forecasts, sales ads and the latest breaking news on the "Mad Bomber" incidents that had been cropping up around the city.


    I checked the power status on the Waldo. It was OK, but I would have to get it recharged pretty soon. Traffic waltzed by the small Internet cafe, like peoples'' lives were not being hurt by the recession.


    I don''t drink coffee, obviously, nor did I need the Wi-Fi connections the cafe provided, but sitting out front, a cold cup of Java on the little table, gave me a feeling of connection to the world, missing from my network life.


    I was on my way to see if Richie had any work coming up that might keep us all busy. Richie Wander''s little P.I. Agency would be a long-shot, but I hadn''t graced him with my magnificence for a while, and heck, you never know. A black and white pooch ambled along the sidewalks, coming my way. A quick scan identified it as Blackie, one of those Vox Cannis mutations they started gene-jacking back twenty years or so ago.


    Once the talking dog fad had cooled down, mongrels like Blackie started showing up on the streets, like a new class of hobo. Wander and I had used him before during the cube caper. It was pretty hard to be anywhere on the mutt''s turf, and not run into him sooner or later. A thread of, I would have to call it compassion, ran through me for the animal, both of us being "on the streets" so to speak.


    Blackie''s head swung up to stare at me, tilting at a forty-five degree angle. A back leg motored against his flank vigorously, evicting some lower level life-forms. He trotted over, pressing a black nose into my waldo''s clean socks.


    "Dog-toy man. Mic. Know Dog-toy man. Meat? Got meat for Blackie?"


    Somethings never change. The hound was a mooch. He couldn''t quite wrap his mind around the concept of my waldo not having an animal smell, so I was Dog-toy man, or Mic, depending on where his nose was at the time.


    "Hey fella, how''s street life? Seen Richie?"


    "Good Richie. Like Richie. Richie gone to see Marcia. Blackie got meat for Mic. Need Mic. Like Mic. Mic help Blackie?"


    Well, that was a change. I wasn''t quite sure what the dog was on about. "Eh? You want my help? With what?"


    Binkie gone. Goldie gone. Robbie gone. All gone. Friends all gone. Find for Blackie?


    It was like conversing with a vending machine, but I finally got the gist of what was troubling the mutt.


    Seems there is a street community of vox doggies. Strays that survive by running messages and such for food, getting by day to day around the city, ducking dog catchers, and keeping each other company. About a week ago, they had all started disappearing. Blackie missed their scent from his little world, and was worried. The short of it was, he wanted the problem looked into. I did a knee-jerk search of civic records for animal captures, but found no increase in stats for this part of the city.


    Literary references to "strange disappearances" started to queue up in my memory stack though, and my excitement grew.


    "Hah!" I elocuted, startling the few other cafe patrons. "My first non-human case! The game''s afoot! Fear not, Blackie, I will look into these dastardly disappearances, this vortex of vanishings for you! M.I.C.A.I.N. is on the job!. We shall collect my associates and solvate your conundrum!"


    "Find Binkie?"


    "Find Binkie, indeed. We''re off!"


    I followed Blackie around the corner into an access drive. He huffed and nosed around behind a box, pulling out what looked to be a half package of hot dogs, which he laid at my feet. I eyed the package speculatively, wondering how I might convince Sally and Paul to work for room temperature lunch meats.


    #


    "You what!"  Sally squinted at me over the golden chain still trustfully securing her apartment door to its frame. "Have you lost your marbles?  What makes you think I''d be interested in helping you find some stray dogs?  Who''s the client?"


    My response got the door slammed shut, for some reason, so I re-rang her bell, a few times. It eventually reopened. Sally''s face reappeared, brown brows knit, an unusually tight pucker decorating her lips. Perhaps it was my approach. I began again.


    "That''s a very decorative shower cap you have on, especially those little pink flowers..."


    Sally sighed "You''re not going away, are you. All right. Come in and tell me about it."


    I explained the case, worrying a little over all the eye rolling Sally was experiencing. Certainly couldn''t be because of something I said, right? I hoped she hadn''t contracted some biological disorder, but kept that concern to myself, for the time being. Eventually her eyes settled down into that particular expression I have come to call a sly squint.


    "If I decide to help you with this, you''ll pay me a standard rate just like I would estimate for Special Dimensions work?"


    I internally reviewed some of her past quotes and accessed my account information.


    "Sure, mostly, not for my own services or Paul''s, of course."


    "You dragged Paul into this?"


    "Well,"I admitted, "Not yet, but I am sure he could use the work too. Next stop."


    Sally snorted. "Okay, big shot. Go talk to Paul, I''ll have some numbers for you when you get back. Dog disappearances. For God''s sake, Mic".


    "Your fuzzy slippers really go well with the shower cap, did I mention that?"


    "Go away, Mic."


    #


    Paul''s residence was an urban two story with some nice roses, just a shade darker than the brick front of it. A rather large older woman answered my knock, a little taller than me, with a fluffy middle, but arms like a weightlifter.  A little negotiating reluctantly produced Paul for me.


    "I dunno, Mic. Mom''s got me busy cleaning the basement. We''re gonna take on boarders!" he announced brightly. "You''ll have to talk to Mom."


    Figures. Paul, for all his being twenty years old, still calls Sally "Miss Holt", and defers to his mother regularly.  Still, he''s a whiz with electronics. For me, somebody who does what he is told is a good thing. My "real" hands measure in angstrom units, or less.


    A little negotiation with "Mom" got me approval to employ Paul, and I got talked into renting the residence garage as an office, for a little extra, at least for a month. I had to settle up in advance though for the garage rental. All for a good cause, I guess. I texted Sally, who flatly refused to work out of a garage and pointed out she had better internet access from her apartment. Her rates were...acceptable, so team gathered, I set off to find Blackie.


    "First thing, Blackie, I want to see where these friends of yours hung out. Where they might have been when they disappeared."


    I followed the mongrel over to D.C.''s lounge, a old haunt of Richie Wander''s. Blackie whined, and loped off towards the rear alley of the place. It was backed by a fence, where a dumpster squatted and where the owner of D.C.''s "stored" old pieces of stainless counter top. One leaned against the fence forming a sort of shelter, I guess, if you were dog sized. Blackie seemed to think so because he trotted in and out of the formed gap several times in an agitated state of doggie worry.


    A peek inside showed a worn woolly blanket and a bowl of sorts.


    "Binkie," gruffed my client.


    I switched optical filters through UV into the Infra-red but saw nothing definitive. There were a number of shoe leather traces around, various tire tracks, but nothing that indicated more than wrestling trash out to a dumpster or consequent pick-ups would make.


    "You smell anything?"This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Blackie pricked up his ears and furrowed the ground around the site.


    "Binkie smells, man smells, food, flowers."


    Flowers? There was absolutely nothing growing in the alley save a little scrub-grass. I supposed the restaurant might have toted some old table decorations out with the trash, but I didn''t recall the tables in D.C.''s being accoutered with anything but ketchup bottles and adverts for some brand of greasy cheese sticks they hustled. Possibly something they thought might offset the other bowel loosening fare they provided. I live off direct current, so that''s a guess. Food in Blackie''s world, would be just about everything else they carted out.


    Paul, quiet so far, wristed his watch up before his face as if it were hard to see. This was unlikely, as Paul''s watch is one of those cheap Swiss-army concoctions the size of an Italian tomato. A beatific serenity washed over him. "Almost noon," he pontificated, "lunchtime." His gaze wandered meaningfully in the direction of D.C.''s.


    A sort of canine sneeze echoed up from the vicinity of my kneecaps. I took that to be an affirmation. It wouldn''t hurt to ask inside after any odd doings, so I led my caravan of cohorts around front, and leaving Blackie there, took Paul inside.


    The bartender was rubbing a fine oily sheen on the glassware with a contemptibly soiled rag. We ordered right at the bar proper. "Ham san''wich," drooled Paul.


    I asked to buy the rag, intending to touch up a few drying ball joints later but was denied, so settled on acquiring a rasher of bacon for Blackie.


    "Any odd noises from around back lately?"


    The bar-guy gave me a suspicious look. "Whatdaya mean by that? "


    "Just asking. Never mind." I suppose it wasn''t something that would be noticed casually anyway. I only thought to ask because of the opportunity.


    Once Paul had emptied his dish, we went back out, where I fed the other animal.


    The next stop turned out to be in the manufacturing district, behind a battleship-gray masonry wall. Here, wood pallets loomed in questionable towers and the Dumpsters were manifold. Blackie vacuumed the alleyway with his nose, and gustily thrust his head into a narrow gap in the pallet stacks.


    "Robbie and man smell, same man. Flowers. No food." reported Blackie.


    Robbie? Oh, the other dog. "Same man? As in one of the same you sniffed behind D.C.''s?"


    "Same."


    That was a break, of sorts. I thought for a few millicycles. "Flowers again? The same kind of flowers?"


    "Same."


    "You know what kind of posies they were?"


    This netted me another ninety degree visual inspection from the dog, and a better view of the insides of Blackies ears.


    "If I take you to a flower shop, could you show me?"


    "Show dog-toy man. No problem," Blackie gruffed proudly. I noticed some tire tracks pealed off from the alley through a chain link gate and on into the factory''s back lot. Didn''t look like dump truck tires either.


    Taking note of the street address painted on the dumpsters, I called Sally.


    "Hey lady."


    "Well, if it isn''t the leader of the pack. Need something?"


    "I''m interested in a business operating out of a leased factory. The number I got off the net only connects to the building owner, so I need you to call the shop''s occupants. See if you can find out what they do there."


    "Kind of roundabout approach, don''t you think?  Why can''t you just go pound on the door, Mic?"


    "Busy. Going to see a man about a dog, eh, a flower, sort of.  Anyway, Don''t want to unveil my grandeur until I straighten something out. Just do your usual sales call thing. Pretend you''re trying to drum up business - offer a real good rate. Sniff ''em out, so to speak."


    "Funny, Mic. Okay, call me when you''re ready."


    There was a florist on third. Getting Blackie inside for a good sniff would be the real problem. I stopped at a variety store on the way to pickup a pair of sunglasses, dog harness, a cane, and a small can of white spray paint. Soon, blind Mic and his trusty rover were tapping their way into the flower emporium.


    There were flower arrangements all over, but most of the stock was on display behind the counter. I could hardly march Blackie around the register to smell the roses, so to speak. A ploy came to mind.


    "Some help here," I whined, rattling wildly about with the cane. I managed to connect with several decorative pots on the floor, sending one scooting off into a corner.  A freckle faced boy in horn-rims scuttled out from behind the counter, looked alternately at the merchandise, me, and the hyperactive stick.


    "Yessir? What. . ."


    I managed to poke the cane into one of the pots, pretended to stumble and dropped the leash. Blackie took off to poke his schnoz into things behind the counter as I recovered my feet. This seemed to attract the clerks attention overmuch, so I lifted the cane and pot over my head and look confused. The clerk shot both hands up toward the pot.


    "Garcon!" I pronounce, "I shall have the soup Du Jour!" I emphasized this with a poke upwards with the stick. The pot sailed up and the clerk made a miraculous save, then carefully put the pot to one side.


    "I am sorry sir, "he huffed, "This is a flower shop. The restaurant is next door. Wait, I''ll get your dog for you."


    Blackie tractably complied, managing to keep a few lilacs chomped firmly in his jaw.


    I apologized profusely, paid for the flowers, and let the nice young man escort me to the street.


    Lilac, then. Blackie had smelled lilac in both locations. I buzzed Sally, to see what progress she''d made.


    The building was rented out to a firm called Chem Co.


    "Did you get a hold of anyone at the building?"


    "Eventually. They were oddly reticent about divulging their products. I wrangled you an appointment anyway though."


    I could almost see a triumphant smirk.


    "Never dealt with any company that didn''t have something they wanted fixed. It''s always just a matter of price, in the end."


    I waited for her nail buffing to wind down. "And?"


    "Two O clock. Don''t be late. They have a machine that visually orients, then trims off excess plastic from the molded parts. They want that deflashing system looked at. A simple optical recognition problem, sounds like."


    That meant I''d need to decant from the Waldo at some point, so Paul would have to go along, but definitely Blackie would need to stay away. I can control the Waldo remotely, though clumsily, from outside it, but not well enough to fool anybody. I couldn''t depend on Paul to fast-talk people at the plant either, so this was going to take some thinking.


    I did some jawing with Sally, sketching in my new plan. She reluctantly agreed to meet us at the plant''s office. I sent Blackie off to his usual haunts.


    Paul ran in to the variety store for me and purchased some machine gray spray paint, then we reconvened back behind the factory with time to spare before our appointment.


    I stripped the waldo down to undershorts, and had Paul spray the waldo a nice uniform factory gray. Shorts and all. He undocked me from it and re-injected me into my field carrier, a sort of lunchbox affair usually used to tote nano-tools like me around. Piloting the waldo remotely, I shambled it along with us as we made for our meeting with Sally in front of the factory.


    Sally did all the talking.


    "My assistant," she nodded at Paul, "will tend to the deflashing unit, and I have brought a waldo to continue the trimming process while it''s off-line, so you wont have to stop production during repair."


    The manager was heavy, black browed and swarthy. He eyed the three of us with suspicion. More importantly, he smelled of lilac aftershave.


    "Jou mus'' whork queekly, and cannot be any runink around in here. Safety reasons. I weel have a cuttink table set up in the line for jour Waldo."


    That was about it for socializing. The guy turned around and waved us after him, moving with little more grace than my remote controlled waldo showed.


    The plant was noisy, but oddly barren, based on my experience. There seemed to be only one product line, where molded straps moved along a belt to the deflashing station. The straps looked suspiciously like dog collars, with little lumps molded into them. I had my waldo palm one from off the line.


    The station oriented and jigged the straps so that automated tools could remove mold excess from them. I set up the simple program required in the waldo to substitute for the machine''s purpose, while Paul decanted me into the vision system processor.


    I scanned the factory through the vision cameras in Paul''s earpiece and on the transport case. There was a small pile of incoming product crates on the shipping bay, and off to one side, a smaller, unmarked outgoing one. Behind this, an unpainted, freestanding drywall construction stood,like a temporary room, or mini-house built on the factory floor. One door decorated it, no windows.


    As long as I was in the deflasher''s vision module, I ran a quick diagnostic. A couple of grimy beam-splitters were the problem, Paul could buff them easily while I attended to other things.


    One thing, these automated lines, while post-dumb, did connect to several system computers, which in turn, connected to the general plant''s network.


    A little sleight of hand got me into the engineering CAD files, and other systems. Interesting. They were dog collars, like those used to keep animals invisibly fenced to a defined area, complete with shock dispensers and other radio activated functions, like links to embedded detonators for the molecular grade explosive plastic they turned out to be made from. I wonder what the animal rights people would say.


    The plastic, according to my net search, remained inert until modified by a certain frequency, but still not something I would want my pet to wear. Blowing up Rover for ill behavior seemed a little extreme, not to mention the damage to the neighborhood the stuff could cause.


    I dug back into the system. There should be at least data on the detonator...ah whatdaya know, a central broadcaster, and right here too. I wondered where these things were being shipped to. Shipping and receiving records said no place yet, the nasty collars were all still on the dock... in the lone outgoing crate. Okay. I crushed the transmitter module on the collar the waldo had palmed.


    Paul, you can get me out of here. You just need to clean up and polish the optics.


    While Paul tended to this, I accessed the video pickups in my transport case. Flicking through to the infra-red, I scanned the little free-standing room. A number of small heat-blushes showed up. Could be from machine heat, but these moved around a little, and were about the size I expected to find.


    Give Sally your earpiece.


    "Okay Mic."


    Then put me back in the waldo.


    "The waldo?"


    Yeah, you know, the big gray thing. My waldo. After that, take a hike. I''ll meet you outside.


    "You sure Mic?"


    Outside. Way outside.


    "Okay Mic."


    A little later, and Sally was on line.


    "So now what, Mic?"


    Did you get paid yet?


    Sally humphed. "Nobody pays in advance any more. Got a fifty percent deposit on the work, though."


    That''s my girl. Cash it, my advice. Tell Mr. thick accent you have to drive Paul back for a part, whatever. Get out of the building. Don''t count on billing the client for the balance.


    "Mic. . ."


    Get gone, Sally. Hurry.


    I waited till my crew left, then jerked upright and made a run for the little room. I didn''t bother with the door, just made the waldo blow right through the wall. A row of dog cages were inside, and with shouts and invective close behind, I made quick work opening the cages. I noted with relief that none of the dogs wore collars.


    "Outside quick, everybody! Use the shipping dock!"


    Only some of the animals seemed to understand, but all of ''em took off out of pack instinct and made for the dock anyway.


    Guns were now firing, and a lucky shot could do real damage, so I followed my own advice, and ran for it.


    I was still running down the concrete ramp into the yard when I sent a signal to their plant''s prototype transmitter. An explosion ripped like a hurricane up behind me, and I was blown into the air like shot from a cannon, despite the waldo''s weight.


    We made the news again, obviously. The investigations revealed that a ring of saboteurs had planned using the stray dogs to blow up government buildings all through the city. Sally was not reticent before camera, and she saw to it we got incorporated immediately, to handle all the job offers that publicity poured our way. Best of all, Blackie''s friends got away clean.


    Micain Investigations and electronic repair, Ltd. Has a nice ring to it, don''t you think?


    ####

 Addendum Two - ACE M.I.C.A.I.N

    M.I.C.A.I.N. here, your friendly, albeit microscopic, Mobil Independently Cognate, Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory.


    Things are busy around the Special Dimensions Agency offices these days, what with the expansions and remodeling going on. Sally says most of the work will be done by the weekend. This is good news, as my Petri dish was moved into the back during construction, to avoid all the dust. Course, I still have all my video links and such up, so it''s not like I can''t see what''s going on. Still, there are consequences to being a 12 angstroms long train, and this qualifies as one of the situations where size matters, so to speak.


    Paul, my pudgy pal and technical assistant, seems to like hanging around in the back room. He almost knocked my digs over a couple of times already, so I''ll be glad to be parked back beside Sally''s desk, once all the construction is over. Sally runs the office, and is the client point of contact for our little corner of Special Dimensions Agency. Officially she''s my trainer/handler, although Paul and I do all the real work.


    I closed up the net news link and opened a channel to the front office camera. Sally was rehanging the plaque we were presented by the Harbor Patrol for my work in capturing the tech bandits that plagued the city last month. The publicity had brought us a shower of work, and my cut had replenished accounts, hollowed out from purchasing a Waldo I''d ordered back then. It got a good dunking and beating during the Maritime affair, so a lot of my earnings had gone into restoring its former glory.


    It stood next to me in the back room, its chiseled features seemed to glower at Paul as he puttered around taking inventory.


    "You ready for the Golden Condor project, Mic?" Sally had noticed the tell-tale LED on my office cam come on, and had decided to begin her daily nag.


    "I think I need another week to assimilate all the old aeronautics data first."


    Sally snorted. "Bull. You could assimilate the whole Library of Congress in a week. Have Paul get your kit ready, They''ll be here in an hour."


    The office camera is mounted high, so mostly all I get to see from it is the top of her brown mop of hair, so long as she is at the desk. So I hacked her Computer''s cam, to gaze at her baby blues.


    "You know, antique planes aren''t exactly my specialty, Sally. Can''t Paul just pop over with a soldering iron and handle this one?"


    "Shut up, Mic. My notes say they have changed the job. Something of an emergency, I understand. I want you in kit so you can be out here quickly after they arrive to discuss it."


    Okay, she wasn''t in the mood to negotiate. I can respect that. Golden Condor is a gaggle of seniors with more money than wrinkles that are nutso about old airfoil planes. You know, MIG 17''s, Lear jets, old Air Force cast-offs, bi-planes, balloons, that guff. Things flown with minimal computer control, by hand cranks and flapping their arms around, I guess.


    Pilots are just a safety feature on air transports. Nobody in their right minds would trust their lives to some dude hitting buttons and working cranks these days. Takes all kinds.


    "Oh, crap," grouses Sally. "They''re here already. The main desk is buzzing them in--hop to it, Mic!"


    I grumbled to myself, switched the I/O over to the workroom monitor and gave Paul the skinny.


    "Hey Paul! Mom says my presence is required up front. Stick me in the Waldo and start packing up the field kit."


    Paul started as the speaker fired up, and scrabbled a headset out of his pocket. He was supposed to wear it all the time when on the job, since being my meat on the march was his primary purpose. I wasn''t always in range of a camera and speaker link. Going around with no street view except for the lint lining Paul''s shirt pocket was not an adequate substitute.


    "Uh, OK Mic. You ready for the injector?"


    This started a knee-jerk location sub-routine up, which I quashed. Where did he think I was? The injector could pick me up from anywhere inside the Petri dish. I switched over to the headset link.


    "Load me up, Paul."


    The world bobbled up and down as Paul shook his head, then the room swirled about as he looked for the injector.


    "To your left, Paul."


    "Oh, yeah. Here we go."


    Yup, there we went. About ten minutes later I strolled the Waldo through the workroom door and into the office proper. Sally was frowning, twiddling a pencil and looking down at some paperwork. Three of the Condor crowd were already milling around in the small area fronting the desk and trying to avoid getting plaster dust on their nice, newly pressed suits. I kicked myself for not keeping the reception desk''s audio on. I was using the full spectrum pick-ups in the Waldo now, of course, but evidently I had missed a little of what was going on here. One of the elderly trio looked up as I entered.


    "Is this the, eh, the unit, they was talkin'' about in the papers?"


    A pair of watery eyes peered at me over a pair of antique glasses. The suit fit him well, but since he was as thin as a bent coat-hanger anyway, it could have just been an off-the-rack thing. I hadn''t seen a lot of checkered jackets selling on the net, so I doubted it was as new as it seemed to be. I was a little peeved that he knew my Waldo wasn''t a real person right off. I had spent real money on the details. Too much media exposure, I guess.


    "Call me Mic." I smiled, offering a hand.


    The geezer looked down at it, as if I had asked him to inspect it for bugs.


    "Boy, they makes ''em purty realistic-like these days, eh?"


    I kept the smile in place. "Gets me around," I said.


    Sally cleared her throat, getting my attention. "Mr Wallace and his associates have brought us an interesting proposal, Mic. This is Mr. Wallace, Mr. Denton, and Mr. Wright."


    She named the trio off in order from left to, heh, Wright. ''Interesting'' is code for lucrative, and in this case also for ''shut up, Mic,'' so I clammed it and assumed a concerned mien.


    Sally beamed back at the codger, and brightly continued, "Yes, Mr.Wallace, this is the renowned MICAIN AI that stopped the Tech Piracy you read about. If we agree to terms, he will be the controller we will assign for your flight project."


    Flight project? What Flight project? Last I heard, they wanted some simulator link checked out that was being built for their flight museum. I looked at the three of them cranking around the office. I doubted any of them were in condition to fly anything, though anyone younger wouldn''t even remember human piloted flight, let alone have any idea what all the old timey controls the wrecks featured were for. I just nodded and kept listening.


    Sally batted her eyes at my Waldo, and smiled to match the two centimeter up-curve I sported.


    "The Golden Condor Society is having a gala conference in Bermuda. They will be flying three F-15 Eagles over to the air show from a storage field in Cuba. They''re working on a project to automate the piloting of these..." She hesitated, searching for the right term,"important historical planes, without altering the actual controls."


    Relics, I thought.


    "Best combat jet ever built," piped Wallace.


    Best rock ever lofted, I thought.


    Sally waved her manicure at the gods of air conditioning. "They came up with some robotic fittings that can sit where the pilots used to, and work the controls, but the effort is just short of being complete."


    "Ran out of time," cranked one of the associates.


    Denton, I guessed. They looked like a three prune salad, and shuffled around like walnuts in a shell game. It was hard to keep track. I continued to look interested.


    "Conference was scheduled too soon. Had to book reservations around some other shindig they got down there. Weren''t ready."


    My atomic clocks revolved a few trillion times, while I waited with Jovian patience, for the punchline.


    One of the three magi finally piped up, "Mostly done, mostly. The gadgets are all linked up, run by a multiplexed radio controller that sits in one of the planes." A semi-toothless smile cracked new ground across the parchment of his face. He chuckled and stirred his hands about as if mixing something in a small bowl. "Kinda like them model planes I had as a boy."


    I bit mapped the facial topography and tried to assign it a name. "Mr Wright, yes?"


    "Got it in one, son. Like the Wright brothers, easy to remember."


    I did a net search and turned up the reference on a site called ''Grandfathers of Avionics''.


    "So, what would be my part in this, if I may ask?"


    "Gettin ''to that. See, the dedicated AI, the Auto-pilot itself, ain''t ready yet. Still in the tanks, growin'' up. Need an adult model, like yerself, to download the pilot programs, and link to the mechanical gadgets as actually handle the controls. Eh," Mr. Wright bug-eyed my Waldo, likely searching for an on/off switch, "you do come loose from that manikin, right? See, the three of us will be flying along in the plane''s rear seats, one in each, on the trip out. That''s the fun of it."


    Sally piped up, at this point. "They have the simulator functioning and ready. We can have you plugged in to it and well versed in four hours or so." Sally hit some keys, still smiling, and turned back to the geriatric party planners. "Let''s say a half day for training, two days out, two days back, three days there at the...festival, on call. We''ll just give you a rental rate, call it 2000 Cr a day, say, 16000Cr."


    Denton snapped, "How ''bout a senior''s discount?"


    Sally frowned, tapping her pencil on her lips. "No deposit, and I''ll have a technical assistant and the MICAIN Waldo shipped out to the event site. Might be a little extra punch for your show, having him walk around while he''s there."


    "Done!" Denton cackled.


    I did a quick search of my work contract. The job was well inside it; "repair, maintain, operate," or M&O as techs call it. I was stuck. Renting me as a sideshow for a bonus irked though. I put it down to my justified notoriety and focused on the money. I enlarged the plastic smile another quarter centimeter and flourished with one hand. "Then to the skies, my golden raptors! The Islands await!"Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Wallace squinted at me. "Enthusiastic, isn''t he?"


    "He will be an excellent addition to your air show," Sally said blandly. She keyed the intercom to the back room, giving me the hard eye. "Paul, prep Mic''s kit for transport. You''ll need to install him over at the Air Museum for a few hours of flight training. When you get back, put together what you might need for a short week away. I have a little roadwork for you."


    "Okay, Miss Holt. I gotta tell my Mom though."


    "You can do that after work. You have a day or two."


    "Alright, Miss Holt."


    Soon, the Waldo was back in storage. Later, Paul and the Wizened Wing-men hooked me up to the trainer at the air museum. In no time at all I had the controls aced, and was dog-fighting the simulated jets like a Barron Von Richter, or whoever.


    There were no differences between such trainers and "real" planes anymore, the simulator could even duplicate exact real-time weather conditions and air currents, if required. This was turning into a fun assignment, and I had to admit, handling the old-timey air jets was a rush.


    I needed to keep a triple set of visual processors and I/O systems active, to fly all three at once, which slowed my processing down marginally but not noticeably ¨C at least, so far as flight control was concerned.


    Paul extracted me from the simulator and put me back into the transport kit. He screwed the earpiece back in that he was never supposed to remove, and thunked it with a finger a few times. It came through like a volcano-bongo drum solo. I frantically decreased the volume until my amp stopped trying to fry. Eventually he pulled his fingers away, and a signature vacant but serious expression rippled over his pan. You know, the one infants get, just before they fill their pants.


    Oh god, here we go again...


    "TESTING, ONE...TWO.."


    Let''s see, train wreck, freeway accident. Ah, there it was, ''Woman screaming from Night of Bloody Horror'', my fave. I let him have it at full gain. At some point, you would think the concept of a bone conducting microphone, and its twin, the bone conducting speaker, would acquire deep and unique meaning to a tech in Paul''s situation. After a stunned moment, the hand flashed up to claw at his ear, but I had already muted the receiver.


    "Hey Paul, want to trade some more cool sound effects?"


    The hand wavered. "Forgot."


    "Did you know, there are certain low frequency patterns that can bring on diarrhea and stomach cramps?"


    "Uh, no, Mic."


    "They''re sub-sonic, actually. So I guess you don''t really hear ''em, more a visceral experience, as they say."


    "Really sorry, Mic, I''ll try to remember."


    "Holding you to that, Paul. Serious. So, what''s next?"


    "Denton says you should get a few hours working the pilot-bots, to get the feel of them. I''m to hook you up direct to one for a while."


    Suits me, I already ran the I/O routines in the simulator, but it''s their dime.


    The things were pretty much just stripped down Waldos. Since they were expected to be seated most of the time, no one had bothered with much of a torso. They were all multi-jointed arms and legs with a camera box sticking up like a lollipop. Outside of a cockpit they looked like a cross between a greyhound and an arachnid. A few trainer sessions later, they just let me wander around the joint. I found where the janitors hung out and was ahead forty credits at craps before they finally caught up with me. The pilot Waldo had a really fine touch with the dice.


    The geezers looked amused, but Paul was very agitated.


    "I couldn''t get you on the earpiece, Mic! Miss Holt is really upset. Says you can just stay here over-night now. I gotta get home and pack. Miss Holt says you will have ta pay my wages for the last four hours."


    Oops.I turned my receiver back on. I had been using only the Waldo''s local pickup. "Probably just structural interference, Paul. It''s okay. Go on home. See you in the morning."


    The janitors were about done for the day, but they had night watchmen for the place, so I''d still be way ahead by morning, four hours wages or not.


    Eventually it was back into my kit box and a boring commercial flight to the Cuban airfield. I spent most of that time on-line.


    The installation to the actual controller, under the rear seat of the lead jet, was quick. I started doing pre-flight system checkouts while the three F-15 Eagles were fueled up then wheeled out onto the tarmac.


    There were redundant systems for everything in these planes. Even for the retro-fit pilot system. In a pinch, my control could be defeated and returned to the secondary controls in the rear cockpits, should I burn out, or some such. I wondered why, as two of the three couldn''t fly a kite without help from an eight year old.


    I was surprised to find the armament systems intact. I had had some fun with these in the simulator, but expected the jets themselves would have had them stripped out. I asked the Golden Geezers about that.


    Denton,who had affected a cane and panama hat after landing in Cuba, wiggled his stick at the three antiques. "They don''t care so much about that here on the Island. Used ta'' be a closed dictatorship, back in the day, ya know. The systems had ta'' be re-machined ta'' put ''em backta'' spec, once''t we got ''em here, but they''s the real McCoys all right. Wouldn''t take anything less to the convention. Bombs are fakes, all for show, a''course. The air-ta''-air missiles are light plastic, payloads are bags a'' colored powder proxed to go off twenty feet away from anything solid, just in case. The 50 calibers shoot a light load, enough ta clear the barrels ¡ª blank plug ammo. Puts on a good show, is all. Chaff packs, flares is real. Didn''t see no harm in that."


    The planes were probably bought salvage by the pound. These guys had poured big credits into the restoration effort. The systems check-out was perfect, a good thing, since the cruise would be taking us over the Sargasso Sea, a pretty desolate area. I checked the simulated combat file they intended to run at the air show. Flashy but innocuous. There wouldn''t be any passengers along for the air show demos anyway. The Rickety Retros had decided I should earn my keep at the blowout by running the exhibition remotely.


    I had some time, so I ran through a few things on-line. The flight path took us over the area once called the Bermuda Triangle, an area long held in superstitious awe, a nautical mystery spot. I looked up the articles of constitution for the Golden Condors, Inc. It seemed the three held the planes in common, with simple survivor rights, and equal share maintenance costs. Pedestrian.


    Mr.Wright, also cane equipped, outfitted in a loud islander shirt and white shorts, meandered around the three planes, whacking the small runway tires and peering up birdlike at the three open cockpits. Boarding ladders were already hung on the F-15 Eagles, and Wright hauled himself up one of them and bent in to check out the auxiliary seating. I kept switching views around to follow his poking about.The rear cockpit was tough to see though. The mechanical pilot''s visual sensors were forward looking with only about 80 degrees of horizon rotation, depending on instrumentation for everything else. Noticing the camera head trying to unscrew itself in the front cockpit, Wright piped up.


    "I''ll be riding with you, eh, with yer processor anyways. Just checking the seating. I''m the only one of us three what ever got checked out in one of these, you know."


    This started my automatic processes again. This time, an aeronautical certification check. Annoyed, I aborted it. Gee, an ex-pilot, no less. That meant he could kibitz with authority, and provide me with far more irritating back-seat babble than any of the others.


    Blessed be the very small, for they can be storied to death with impunity, Amen. I checked to see where the defeat was for the rear seat mike.Wasn''t one. "Hey that''s great, Mr. Wright, glad for the company!"


    The other two finally wandered up, and with a certain geriatric excitement, the three climbed into the rear seats of the jets and strapped in. Soon as they were buttoned in, I began to taxi the jets onto the runway, and we were off. The flight started out fun, and my elderly passengers spent most of the time chattering back and forth through their headsets. The flight path was not in the commercial corridors, no air controller would allow these antiques anywhere near the normal traffic, so the skies were pristine.


    Trouble came in the middle of the flight. The controls on the jet I was installed in stopped responding to my tele-operation link. Lights changed across the console, and my jet started to gain altitude sharply. I kept the other two on route, while accessing diagnostics and toggling the redundant systems of the rogue flier. I sent a verbal warning to my passenger.


    "Mr.Wright, we are having some control problems here. You might want to check out your auxiliary controls."


    The only response was some breathy chuckling. Arming and targeting systems flashed to life across the cockpit panel. I tried to use the mechanical controllers to correct this, but found them dead to my signals. A burst from two wing guns moaned through the plane, and I watched in horror as the jet dived upon my two other F-15''s. I quickly rolled them out of the path of fire.


    Sounds of mild discomfort floated into my pickups from the two attacked jets. Denton was screaming in a high tenor something about animals going to the bathroom during procreation. Simultaneously, Wallace was making absurd rapid- fire assumptions about machine behavior, reproduction and theology. Taken together, it made for an interesting, if surreal, picture. I was tempted to open a few net ports to run down some of the more interesting references, but was busy at the time.


    The wing gun bursts didn''t look like blanks to me. Remembering some of the stories about the Bermuda triangle, I checked the compass. Nope, no spinning or odd behavior. Then it occurred to me that my on-board geezer was doing this. He must have cut in the fail-safe manual control link, severing my operation link to this jet. Luckily, there was no such manual cut-off for the other jets. Things like that had to be done from inside each plane--thus, "Manual cut-off".


    My inference engine put pretty heavy odds down that the other two planes were just packing pop guns and fire crackers, like this one should have. I banked the other two planes, sending them left and right, dog-tailing them upwards to match the rogue''s altitude. Wright still managed to acquire targeting on one of the two, and an air-to-air missile released and launched. I countered, releasing chaff and flares from the other jet, rolling it away from Mr. Wright''s current path, hoping the G force this built wasn''t killing my passengers.


    "This is not smart, Mr. Wright. Why don''t you let me drive?"


    "The hell it''s not, sonny!"


    The airwaves were by now full of frightened squeaks and more antique and interesting expressions, which boded well, in terms of passenger health. I tried a burst of high frequency sound through my geezer''s ear-cups. It was like throwing cow-pies at a tank. I hit him with those ultra low frequency pulses I had threatened Paul with. It slowed him down some, and the cabin''s "volatile gas present" sensor lit up, but he must have caught on, because he pulled the phones plug from his helmet.


    Now there is one thing that is absolutely true about the Bermuda triangle. Whole flights of planes and dozens of ships have disappeared in it, never to be recovered. The stats on the number of incidents is actually not any higher than other places but it is a big, desolate roach-motel of a swatch. I tried to keep both Denton and Wallace out of the line of fire and headed generally towards Bermuda, and the safety of land.


    Wright was trying to establish another target lock on one of my planes, which I kept moving in evasive and likely, sickening ways to avoid. I hoped I wasn''t drowning my geezers in vomit, but the invective had deteriorated into gurgles and bracks. Not so good. Luckily, Wright was no younger, and couldn''t push his jet as hard as needed to account for the evasions. I did an Immelman-like move with the two other geezer jets, spawning more funny burble-grock sounds, and released all of their toy missiles in front of Wright.


    A dense area of Talc, smoke, and soft plastic shards blossomed twenty feet before the plane. Wright''s jet coughed and died as the intakes plugged up with debris, halite, and fine colored powder. I couldn''t unplug from the I/O gel pad without relinquishing control over the other two jets, but I could detach junior, my mobile manipulator unit, to go walk about, and I had.


    While I fought to keep my passengers whole, it had been scouting for some circuit or link I could still access, and I found it, a fuse-link for the fail-safe switch. I shorted the circuit to permanent "On" and immediately cut the O2 to Wright''s breather mask down a couple tads. Groggy, Wright continued to bat at the non-functional controls, while I reset all the jets on a direct shot to Bermuda at the highest speed their fuel supplies would allow, and radioed in. Meantime, Wright''s jet plummeted down in a lazy barrel roll towards the drink, with me along for the ride. I primed and fired four times, frantically working flaps and tabs trying to level out the spinning jet, and with only moments to spare, managed to clear and re-fire Wright''s F-15 before it could smash into the Sargasso Sea, dooming us both. My flight back was very leisurely, the jet having developed very high temps due to the clogging.


    Ambulances and fire equipment clotted the runway, and I scanned my passengers with worry as they were dragged out of the planes and carted off to the local hospital, moaning and woozy. Hawaiian shirts, now more colorful and smelly than when put on, made me thankful olfactory sensors were not part of the three jets'' retrofits, but all seemed to have survived. A couple hours later Paul made an appearance on the tarmac, and removed me to my mobile kit, and then to my Waldo, that Special Dimensions had freighted in. My reports were electronically filed and accepted, so there were no bright lights or good cop, bad cop grilling. At least for me. I strolled the Air show, posing for pictures while Paul mostly ogled the wrecks and took in the scenery.


    "You gonna put on the simulated dogfight like it says in the brochure?"Paul asked.


    I smiled broadly for yet another Kodak moment, then turned to look at my round assistant. "In what? The controller jet is impounded with fouled engines. Just go and enjoy the show."


    "Okay, Mic."


    "And don''t get lost!"


    "I won''t, Mic."


    "Remember to call your Mom, she worries."


    "Will do, Mic."


    I guess the cost of high ticket antique maintenance had become just too much for Wright, and the club incorporation was just too simple, offering no sellout clauses. He could just give up ownership at a huge loss, but that wasn''t a satisfactory answer.


    Wallace and Denton had already refused to purchase his shares. The corporation was insured though. Wright''s only quick out was to become "sole survivor" according to the policy provisions and then cash in. If he could have gotten the jets dunked in the Sargasso, he would have smashed the link controller, killing me, and made up whatever tale of system malfunction he wished, after dumping all the live rounds, and detachable armament. Alternatively he could have just ejected, and rafted around waiting for rescue, yet another sole survivor of a triangle mystery.


    I didn''t bother to look into the exact details. I was getting paid, and having fun mugging for the cameras.

 Addendum Three: TOY SHOP OF HORROR

    Alphonse Geppetto looked sorta like a toymaker. I thought that was neat, since he told me he was going into the kiddie business after retiring from Special Dimensions.


    "Is-ah, kinda thing to keep busy once I get out of here, Mic."


    Everybody calls me Mic. Short for M.I.C.A.I.N., an acronym for Mobile, Independently Cognate and Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory, rather a mouthful. My Petri dish was on the desk, so he was able to just talk, and I replied by sending text to the PC monitor there.


    "Twelve years is a long time, Al. I''ll miss not seeing you around here."


    Alphonse chuckled and adjusted the gold pence-nez glasses he affected. "Wish I could say ahm, the same, but I-um, never actually see you, just maybe you petri-dish, like now. You just too small for me, even if we do talk a lot online."


    He wasn''t being insulting. I''m only twelve Angstroms long, a nanobot A.I. Nobody "sees" me without a microscope. Our departments were right next door to each other, and we had logged a lot of chat time together, working on the same projects and such.


    "See, I figure like this, I use some of the not-so-good miniature automation ideas I had for projects, but as ah, toys, maybe work pretty good. Like in the old times ¨C toy tanks, fire trucks, all like that. You come by the shop I rented, I show you my examples."


    "I''ll do that," I texted, "sounds like you''ve been planning this out for a while. You saved enough money for a storefront?"


    "Well, I tell you, it was ah, tight, but I got a loan. You come by, okay?"


    "Actually, I can do that nowadays. I''ve had a manikin-form Waldo for the last few months. So I can get around without Paul and his lunch-pail express."


    Paul was my assistant at Special Dimensions, still is. Good for screwdriver work, and getting me in and out of the circuit boards I troubleshoot. I procured the Waldo so that I wouldn''t have to be carted around every time I went out.


    "You gotta deal. I need to get back to packing up now, but you come soon."


    I really meant to make time to do that, but one thing lead to another,including the closing of Special Dimensions. Later on, reopening my own investigations company with Paul, and Sally my trainer/manager,kept me too busy to schedule the visit. So getting an E-mail from the guy recently left me feeling a little ashamed of myself.


    It read:


    Hey Mic,


    I sure miss you guys at SD, You should come by in that Waldo of yours! I have some good stuff to show you, maybe you can give me a name or two, and help me find some customers, ha ha. Here is the address...


    There was more; he rambled on for a couple of pages.


    The timing of my visit was such that I just missed his beating. The shop door was half open, even though it was past closing time, according to the hours poster-painted on it. I nudged inside, eyeballing the unpainted shelves stuffed with small tin cars, trucks, dolls and all that, before a pair of shoe soles protruding from behind the shop''s counter caught my eye.


    Hearing someone moaning, I rounded the counter and used the Waldo''s arms to gently lift the toy-maker up off the floor. There was a back room, so I took him there, and set Geppetto down on a frayed maroon couch inside. Another moan, and his eyes squinted tightly then flickered open.


    There was blood on his puffed lips, and purple welts laced his arms below the short sleeves of his shirt. He blinked and jerked his arms up defensively, squinting and making a reflexive move toward a shirt pocket.


    "You ah, you''re not...someone else, I, I think..." Geppetto''s eyes closed again, while he took several deep breaths. Reopening them, he seemed to notice the couch for the first time, and sighed. "You pick me up, put me here? I don''t see you too good, without my glasses. On the desk..."


    I looked to where he waved and said, "It''s me, Mic. I''m in my Waldo. Just a sec, I''ll get your specs for you. Stay put."


    "Mic?"


    "From Special Dimensions. Not much to see, not that there ever is."


    "Ah, Mic! Scusi," he took the Pince-nez from me and set them on the bridge of his nose with a trembling hand, breathing in and out raggedly. "I''m glad to see you, so to speak. Thanks for ah, picking me up. I''m not ah, have so good a day."


    "I guessed. Want to tell me why you were napping on the floor behind the counter?"


    "No, no, was a misunderstanding, will be okay; will be okay. Just ah, need more time to get my business going good. My fault. Hey, you wanna see my shop, OK?"


    I''d already walked through it, but this I kept to myself, to keep him talking. "Sure thing, Mr. G. Give me the grand tour!" I made a sweeping bow, and helped Alphonse to his feet.


    "Hey, you are pretty good with that thing," he said, patting over the custom Waldo with experienced hands. "A mark, ah, four industrial frame with a type three store manikin package on it, and custom finish eh? Pretty realistic. Must ah, cost some money."


    "Yeah, a little. But worth it. Pulled the program chip out and built an operations bridge for it that I can manipulate directly when on-board."


    We talked shop for a bit. Geppetto had taken the old idea of mechanical tin-toys and updated it with modern tech to make them more realistic and versatile. His tin soldiers could march in formation, executing complex little drills that only sophisticated sensors and programming could make possible.


    "See? A kid he buys one, that''s ah, good, but over time he gets say fifteen or twenty, and they can do more stuff, Like he''s general of a whole army or maybe the president, okay? More interesting to play with."


    About a dozen examples goose-stepped in unison across the desk, executed a timely about face, row by row, to thread their way back in a marching band maneuver between their alternating columns. Cute.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "Sell one, end up, sell a bunch to every customer. I do it with swarm logic. Pioneered back in the 2000''s, for bio-research and stuff."


    He picked up a tin tank from his work-bench and rattled it under my schnoz.


    "You remember those firefighting robotics we prototype for the city?"


    I did indeed. Squat and sturdy little tank-like automatons fitted with infrared and other sensors.


    The idea was, you could send them in through small openings in a burning building. They could ''see'' and report on any flesh endowed organisms, eh, pets or people, relay information about that to a fireman, and were fitted with a fire-retarding pellet projector.


    A cunning mechanism could shoot the pellets out to target any particular area. The pellets disintegrated when they struck, releasing a silicon-based sheen of flameproof barrier oil. The non-burning oil spread, locking away oxygen from  surfaces, suffocating fires. The little bots had a good sized reservoir of the pelleted retardant.


    Unfortunately, there were side issues with the retardant chemistry and the idea never sold.


    "I, ha, bought rights to the system for ah, nothing before I left Special Dimensions. See? Still gotta some of those pellets too."


    There was a big jar of the white spheres on the desk.


    "But that''s not ah, the thing. I make little toy tanks instead, from the engineering drawings. Looks good eh? Turret moves up and ah, down. Swivels back and forth--the tank shoots dried peas kids put in the reservoir here."


    He showed me the fill port beneath a cap on the rear deck of the miniature Panzer. "Is gotta swarm logic, too. The clockwork, she''s run by same kinda chip interface as your Waldo."


    I oohed and ah''d appropriately. "Must be pretty expensive for a toy though. All that motor control, gearing and such. Even if the bodies are only cheap tin."


    "Hey, is not so cheap, just not industrial armor; she''s a for kids, not ah, the fire department. Actually, is maybe 100 credits or more, most this stuff, kind of you say, upper end, but worth it, yes?"


    I arched one of the Waldo''s brows, but said nothing pertinent. Instead, "Sell well?"


    Alphonse looked glum. "Well, not yet. Is a problem. My loans, they are, ah, coming due, and my creditors maybe not ah, so patient."


    "This why I found you laid out on the floor?"


    Alphonse shrugged. "I could use some sales pretty quick, Mic."


    "Maybe if you could knock a few credits off the cost of these, they might do better. There may be some other features of the original design that you can strip out. Want me to look?"


    Geppetto lit up. "Say, that''s a good thought. I gotta transfer kit around here someplace. I get you out of that Manikin, you look into my tank?" Then his face fell. "I can''t pay you nothing though. Maybe promise you a share in sales if you can-a help me out, make a difference. Still want to?"


    I straightened up, and saluted the toy-maker. "Leave no man behind! For the honor of the Corps! Onward for Victory, all that. Let me at em!"


    "Eh, I''ll get the kit, then? Hokay, I be right back."


    While Geppetto puttered around, I looked at the ledger that lay open on his desk. A Twenty thousand credits loan stood out, from my old pals at the docks, Semperton and company. Looked like Semperton''s crew had branched out from numbers and gambling, into the wonderful world of high finance. A few other private loans, mostly minor, were notated, but looked to be more well-wisher contributions, some from family members. Semperton''s "collectors" weren''t the friendly banker sort, more a brigade of ham fisted gorillas in custom tailored suits.


    I picked up the toy tank, which was a little heavier than I expected, and popped open the fill port. Maybe the reservoir could be made smaller. There were no dried peas in sight, so I filled it from the counter-jar. The reservoir accepted maybe an ounce or two, far less than the original fire-bot did, but probably equivalent to more dried peas than most parents would want to see rolling across some kid''s play area.


    Alphonse returned with a standard remounting kit, and soon had me out of the Waldo, and injected onto his toy tank''s circuit board.


    The I/O interface was a lot like the Waldo''s. I scavenged a few molecules from the board, and layered up a connector for myself and started checking the thing out.


    The shop door chime sounded, and Mr. G. put the tank down on the floor.


    "Scusi. Maybe a customer. I be right back."


    The sensor system was primitive by my standards, but I found connections to the original infrared sensors that brought up a grainy output showing ghostly images of the surroundings, probably more sophisticated than the toy needed, and possibly a source of savings for my old pal.


    Some shouting and thumping came to me from the display floor. I engaged the tank''s treads and rolled it over to the doorway facing the shopfront.


    Oh-Oh. My guess was unfortunately on the money. Two ghostly hate-couture goons were wading around the shop, tipping over shelves and tromping merchandise. I recognized the two, from Richie Wander''s P.I. office awhile back, but that''s another story. Must have a regular route, like a milkman, I thought. The same tight sharkskin jackets, sleeves extra long to accommodate knuckle dragging.


    "Justa nudder reminder how''s ting''s go when da boss don'' get paid on time, pal. Oops! (crash). Hope dat wasn''t expensive."


    Alphonse cowered behind the counter, waving his hands, tears in his eyes. "No no this does not help. If I have nothing to sell, you get less, not ah, more! Please, tomorrow, I have something, like I said. Please."


    The two goons noticed the toy tank come through the door.


    "Haw, Haw, Hey look at that, Juke. The toy-guy''s got an army. What next, miniature howitzers?"


    I remembered something about the fire pellets, and cranked up the turret.


    Pink, pink-pink, pink, pink, smoosh. The pellets arced over to where the goons stood and broke on contact. The contents fizzed and spread out quickly over the floor.


    Suddenly the goons were knocking heads on the linoleum, flat on their backs,sliding and flopping around like beached mackerels. Trying to stand banged them up worse, a useless endeavor, as the goo, besides forming a fire barrier, acted as a super lube, rendering any surface it contacted virtually frictionless--which was why the fire department turned the system down. Rescue workers and victims alike were unable to stand, let alone effect a rescue, once the stuff was spread around. We came up with a compound that could be sprayed over it afterward, to get rid of it, but that wasn''t considered good enough for emergency situations, so it all got shelved.


    I called the constabulary via my net link, and retreated victorious to the back room. The tank had a small flag pole on its back end, whose sigil I somberly raised. A nice touch, Alphonse always was great on the details.


    Avoiding the shop front, Geppetto squeezed his way into the backroom and picked up the kit earpiece.


    "Oh, no Mic. This will just be more ah, trouble. Please I, ah know you want to help, but he just send more. They will be mad, and I will get beat worse."


    "No you won''t, either. I got me an idea. By the way, you did get the release spray rights with the system package for this, right?"


    "Eh, yes, it all was together, a system purchase. The patents, drawings, prototype, all that stuff. So?"


    "Tell you in a bit. You got some of the spray around?"


    "Sure, the sample bottle came with the package, its back here someplace"


    "Cool. Get it out. I called the cops, and they won''t like doing syncopated floor swimming exercises with those perps. Just wait till the police are outside before spritzing it around. Those are Semperton''s goons.You don''t have to tell me anything, I know Semperton. You''ll be in the cash by week''s end. I''ll talk to him for you."


    The police showed up, and while black and white taxi arrangements were being arranged out front, I went over the tank circuitry thoroughly and made a few modifications. In the end it would cut some off the cost for him, and get all he could make sold.


    I talked with Semperton, and explained what happened to his guys, and what I intended. He seemed satisfied, as long as I kicked in a small supply of the release spray.


    Geppetto got me back in the Waldo, and I explained what I had done, and intended. He was also happy, and offered me a fifth share, which I took.


    Best investment of the year.


    Within three months, half the main street shops had new night watchmen. Little tanks that sensed movement and fired incapacitating slip oil,then called the cops. Heh, even the little marching band goose-steppers are starting to catch on.

 Addendum Four: M.I.C.A.I.N RECRUITED

    The Pirates were overwhelmed with confusion. Sally, emptying the last crate of soldier dolls onto the wharf, started to attract handgun fire. Paul took a bullet in the shoulder, and was whirled to the ground with a cry. My toy army marched, they paraded, they wheeled in massive circles. They poked miniature bayonets into the bewildered thieves ankles, and adroitly avoided being stepped on or brushed off the wharf or cargo ship''s deck. I was but one among a legion of dolls schooling like fish, and easily slipped, well, fell, into the cargo hold, loosing sight of my cohorts.


    Maybe I should start at the beginning.


    There was enough ribbon on his chest to wrap Christmas in. Sally, my business manager for M.I.C.A.I.N Investigations, looked a little worried. Well, more than usual, anyway. She pulled at her hair and nodded as the general put forward the job he had in mind. I was in my petrie dish, next to her desk, and for once, was keeping my trap shut. Not that I am afraid of the military, but it''s not the kind of client we usually handle.


    I''m a totally independent A.I. Not like the ''Bots trained by the military. I was grown up sentient, not downloaded with a bunch of tactical scenarios, and given enough gray matter to carry ''em out on command. While smaller than a human eye can see unaided, I didn''t need anything special to listen in on this conference, just being in my holding dish at Sally''s elbow was sufficient.


    The General in the doorman''s-coat cleared his throat and continued.


    "As you know, Ma''am, we are required to source to suppliers by open bid. We have parts of our systems manufactured all over the world."


    Sally was trying to curl her hair with one finger. "We don''t have any manufacturing capability, General. We just inspect and troubleshoot other companies products, special machines and such."


    "We understand that, Miss. What we would like to outsource to you, involves only your specialty.


    Sally switched to tapping a pencil on the desk. "You have something you''d like us to bid on? I''m not personally involved with military procurement, General um, Admus. We rarely bid work competitively. Our charges are fairly standard, based on time and material."


    "Since we are in need of a service, not a good, I have some latitude in that area, Miss. Why I''m here personally."


    "What did you have in mind?"


    The general flipped open a brief, extracted a two page document, which he slid across the desk. "I''d need you to sign this, to disclose the work."


    "What is it?"


    The general smiled briefly. Kind of a "this-is-where-I''m-supposed-to-smile" sort of effort. Sally set back in her chair, like he had dropped a cockroach in front of her.


    "Just the standard NDA, Miss. Government business, all that. If you don''t like what you hear, just don''t talk about it."


    She looked at it briefly, both pages, before she shrugged then signed it. "I''m game, general. Tell me what it''s about."


    The guy looked closely at her signature, initialed it and put it back in his brief before answering.


    "There''s a supplier we retain offshore, who supplies the military with ordnance guidance chips. Its a sensitive object. Normally such a system would be produced piecemeal by several suppliers, none of which would have a complete schematic of how they were put together, but cost efficiency and space require the entire system to be housed on a single chip. A PI chip at that."


    That was interesting. A Practical Intelligence chip. Not quite sentient A.I, exactly, the things were still semi- autonomous within the scope of their functional programming.


    Made a sort of sense. If a target was already disposed of, or unapproachable, the chip would be able to tell, and abort itself or decide on a target of opportunity. This left it independent of external control, which given the state of modern ECM, solved a lot of issues, like leaving unexploded ordinance littering the battlefield. I guess the military felt one DMZ was enough.


    The good General Admission, whoever, continued.


    A lot of the programming is just training code and execution examples, hard to check in the real world.


    Sounded funny to me. I texted Sally''s monitor, So why don''t these guys just send in the marine chips, or whatever, and sort it out? Sally referred my question to the Top Grunt, in so many words.


    "We don''t use self-aware AI in sensitive areas. Close as we get are P.I. modules and only for non-critical accounting work and such."


    Sally looked a little abashed. The general''s face fell a little, and he held up a palm towards her. "It''s not us. Congress has been slow to authorize true A.I. for use in the military. A bit of a political football still, with some constituencies."


    That left me a bit incensed, but then, as my request for a drivers license hadn''t been approved yet either, I couldn''t blame the reluctance on the general.


    The brass hat rested his hotel-doorman sleeves on the desk.


    "Let me explain the issue first. We came across an oddity during a live fire exercise, where a P.I. chipped smart bomb was targeted on a test building. Instead, it decided to blow up a nearby motor-pool building. Still part of the test model by the way, but odd. Our people couldn''t explain why it didn''t take out the primary target. Only one incident, but an anomaly."


    "So you want us to do some form of testing on the P.I''s?"


    The man nodded. "We need an AI to quiz random units at the quantum level for the plant, see if there is some defect in the training, or something overlooked in the programming. Just as a precaution."


    "Well, if we can''t employ our own AI, and you don''t have any, I don''t see...''


    "The contract is for you, or one of your human technicians. In this case, we''ll specify that your designate uses his own tools. One of which could be an AI."


    "A cheat?"


    "A matter of words. Our contracts do get reviewed. Thus, the personal interview and offer."


    More politics. I''d sneer, but can only do that in my Waldo. Which I realized, would not becoming along on this job. I''d be stuck with Paul toting me around in a lunch box, eh, deployment kit.


    Sally contemplated this. I could see her internal adding machine racking up charges. "For how long do you want this service?"


    The general tilted his head a little. "We are assuming two weeks, for an adequate survey, with the guaranteed option to extend the contract ¨C that''s common practice, of course."


    Sally scribbled some figures on an estimate pad, and slid it over the desk. The general picked it up, then frowned. "A little steep, isn''t it?"


    Sally returned his frown, "Partly, because of the extension clause. We have no way of controlling how long your project would tie us up. I''ve a business to run here. Other clients. I can''t schedule anything else, until we are released. All our tools will have to be calibrated to Mil Spec 45662, the work verified to Mil Spec 109-D. All our reports generated to Mil Spec ..."


    The general cut her off. "I can see you are not as unfamiliar with military contracts as you stated."


    "Didn''t say I was completely unfamiliar, said I don''t bid on them."


    General Admission laughed. " Alright Miss, I can authorize this figure."


    "I''ll need, um, two security clearances, at least confidential level, maybe secret level, that''s up to you, but we''ll be poking around in the plant. And I want immunity from performance penalties. You are buying best effort services only. And you will have to limit your contract extension clause to a maximum, renewable by option to rebid only. We''ll need all original and any updated specifications the plant was given, any test and control data or specifications for the project."


    "I''ll have it drafted and on your desk by tomorrow."


    Sally stood, offered her hand, saying "Always glad to do our patriotic duty, general."


    I texted my compadre in crime. So I''m in the army now?


    She flashed me the estimate sheet.


    "Holy moley! He authorized that? Hup-Hup...One two, one two..."


    #


    Paul looked at me a little nervously. "Aren''t we supposed to be packing for the military job?"


    I was temporarily back in my Waldo, and we were closing on Geppetto''s Toyshop & Security Service, in which I own an interest. Something about having to leave the Waldo behind for our next caper bothered me. I''d talked to Alphonse Geppetto, a former coworker and friend back in the day, about it, hoping he could help me get more comfortable with the idea. Anyway, I owed him a visit, and technically, my fifth share in his store demanded one.


    "Only take a couple minutes, Paul. And I might need you to bring back a few things."


    "We could''a drove down in the van," he grumbled.


    "The van is being packed for the trip. Besides, it''s a only a few blocks, the sun is shining, and the promenade refreshing."


    "Easy for you to say, motoring around in that robot of yours. My legs hurt."


    I forwent mentioning that losing twenty five pounds would alleviate that. Instead, "The exercise will do you good. We''re here."


    A brass chime rang as I opened the door. Rows of dolls, small cars, trains, and other toys sat ranked on shelves. To one side of the store, a display of miniature tanks with pictures of the thing deploying slip-oil pellets, incapacitating a storybook looking thief, completed the display area.


    Alphonse burst through a red beaded curtain at the shop rear. "Ah! Ahm, is Mic! You just ah, in time. The new shipment she''s just in. Come look.You, ah, will like this."


    In the back room, Al ripped open a crate, and pulled out a six inch high toy soldier. It was dressed like a Victorian Fusilier, in red vest and crossed white belts, bayonet mounted on its shouldered rifle."Looks like the old ones," I noted, eyeing the stack of crates behind the one he''d opened. "Ah, all those crates..."


    Geppetto grinned bouncing his head up and down. "Yes, yes, see? I listened to you about ah, the cost of a these swarm robots, eh, toys. Take this one." He pushed the example at me.


    It felt softer to the waldo''s touch sensors, slightly squishy, though the weight of the earlier model marching dolls was still there.


    "They do all a same stuff as before, march in formations, learn ah, from each other, obstacle avoidance, all ''a that, but use plastic muscles instead of geared motors for moving around. A little faster, too.Less stiff and ah, cheaper to manufacture," he flicked a look at the stack of crates, "when, ah, bulk ordered."


    My eyes narrowed. "In what size order, and how much cheaper?"


    Geppetto spread his arms expansively. "Only twenty five credits a unit, so we can cut the sales price in ah, half."


    "How Many?"


    "Oh. The minimum order, she was 5,000 units."


    That paused me. I almost rebooted. "You put up 125,000 credits for this order? What did you do, remortgage your house? You didn''t approach Semperton again, did you?"


    Prior, I''d had to cut a deal with Boss Semperton on Alphonse''s behalf ¨C to keep the toy-maker''s head connected to his shoulders. Luckily, my variation on his toy tank had convinced the dockside crime lord to accept a profit share instead of Geppeto''s head, for an outstanding loan balance. I''d reconfigured the toy as a surveillance drone, and Semperton actually helped grow sales by "recommending" to his "clients" the purchase and installation of them, in their various small enterprises which kept his real business income well laundered. Actually, it had turned out to be a profitable sideline, and pulled Alphonse out of the red ink pot his start up had fallen into. Not that his little quasi-intelligent marching toys weren''t amazing, but cost had kept sales marginal, especially since you really needed to own a dozen of them to get the best out of them.


    "Okay, so technically, a fifth of them are mine. I own a thousand marching solder dolls."


    Geppetto waved dismissively. "We make a good profit, eventually, Mic. You think ahead. Christmas, she''s coming, you know."


    "So''s the end of the world. Maybe sooner than you think. What''s this to do with our earlier discussion?"


    Geppetto nodded. "Sure, Mic. I put the same controller chip in these that run your Waldo. I tink, hey, Mic he could do the same with the doll as he did with the security tanks before, or what you driving now, eh?"


    I looked questioningly at Paul, who was walking around the storeroom playing with the merchandise. He perked up. "Huh? Oh yeah, I guess so. As long as there''s some spot to slide the injector needle into; I can get you inside."


    Well, six inches tall is still the Eiffel tower compared to my uncased self, and the controller did have vision and sound connections, though I''d have to install them externally, maybe in the little soldier''s backpack, and of course, the dolls could exchange data one to another. Swarm logic was based on a kind of group intelligence, like ant colonies exhibit.


    "Okay Al, here''s what I''m going to do. As one fifth owner, I''m taking a thousand of these off our inventory, at cost, for myself. Also, another-" I paused to check my bank account, "half case, also at cost. Don''t order any more, unless they sell out, and use the capital to pay your loan back, as far as it will go."


    "But.."


    "No buts. That still leaves twice as many in stock as we''ll probably sell in a year." I wondered briefly if I could convince Semperton to send his goons door to door selling military dolls, shuddered at the image, and moved on.


    Paul looked disconcerted. "Hey, I can''t carry two crates of these things eight blocks on foot!"


    "We''ll have to get the van after all, Paul. You can pocket a dozen of these without having a coronary for now though, right?"


    "Suppose."


    "Good, then I can practice up with em a little."


    We made it back to MICAIN Investigations, purloined the van and picked up the rest of my crated solders. Then I had Paul remount me into one of the toys. There wasn''t as much room in the little backpack as I had hoped, barely enough, besides the coms, for a miniature de-soldering torch and it''s cartridge, a tool I''d noticed sitting on Paul''s workbench. I left it in, to gauge how well the tin soldier handled unbalanced loads. It corrected its center of gravity nicely. Geppetto really knew his business.


    Once installed, I found it easy to direct the things. The interface itself ran the new plastic muscles, and the control language was simple. I was amazed at how fluid their motions were, and the swarm logic gave me line of sight control and data sharing with all the other units. Of course that''s what swarm logic is all about, but the sense of community, of being part of everything was awesome...Ohmmmm.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Sally burst in to the office seething. "Okay, wheres Mic?"


    Paul jumped, then pointed to the gaggle of toys pinwheeling on the floor. "Uh, he''s in one of the little soldiers, Miss Holt."


    Which one?


    I stepped the soldier-bot I was in forward, and saluted. Sally swept me off the floor, held me inches from her face and glared. "It''s time to leave, Mic. Paul! You have ten minutes to get him out of this thing and into the travel kit. We''re to be at the departure dock in half an hour."


    Paul scrambled to get me re-syringed into the transporter, then hustled out to the van and a foot taping Sally.


    There was no time to unload the crates from Geppetto. Paul drove. The dock was pretty quiet. Only the military escort ship and a couple worse for wear trawlers were at the wharf. We parked the van, and Sally lead us to the ship boarding ramp, where an up-scaled version of my toy soldier checked Paul and Sally''s documents. He opened my case, and looked inside, checking his list.


    "We''re ready to leave, Ma''am. There''s a cabin at the top to your left. Just seating for the trip, but it won''t take long. You can stay on deck, if you like, your choice."


    He turned to follow us aboard. Sally smiled at our escort. "I was surprised the general sent a ship for us."


    "Necessary, ma''am. Only authorized vessels are allowed to dock at the island. We also ferry the employees, start and end of shift. Contract requirement."


    "Just this ship?"


    "Oh, no ma''am. There are a couple of service runs from sub-suppliers, food vendors from time to time, but they are all out island contractors. We''re the only vessel direct from the factory to the docks. Just workers and product shipments."


    I bet that the factory''s semi-isolation was part of the reason they won the contract in the first place. Twenty minutes of chill sea wind and gray skies later, we made port, and were conveyed to an operations room that handled the guidance chip loading.


    Paul syringed me into the factory''s data transfer controller, and I wheeled over the green plastic surface to the blocky data-loading chip. Checking the circuit diagram, I set one of my factory modules to building a wafer interface, then plugged in. The controller module immediately required a pass code, like it should. It passed my quick circuit test, so I tapped into the data flow it was passing to the ordnance guidance chips. Line for line, it checked with the military program. As the whole board functioned to provide this output, I didn''t check the system any further.


    "Okay Paul, get me out of here."


    Syringe goo flooded the area, and Paul drew me back out.


    Sally barked at my case. "Well? Anything?"


    "Checks out. The system is password protected, too. Might as well just start testing the individual Ordinance chips."


    The ready racks held tiers of anti-static trays, 25 chips per tray, so I stayed in my kit, while Paul hooked module after module up to a breadboard he''d rigged, and I tested ''em from my transport kit.


    It was boringly repetitive. "Open and report," I''d say.


    "PI Ordinance Module 27mp42 reporting, Sir!"


    "Gimme your job."


    "To direct Ordinance to specified target location and explode, sir!"


    "And if Target is unavailable?"


    "To alter course to a secondary target, or target of opportunity per downloaded acquisition parameters, sir."


    "And if no target is in range?"


    "To disable the Ordinance, and await retrieval, sir!"


    "Ever think about finding other work?"


    "Ignition Control is my life, Sir!"


    "Gotta girlfriend?"


    Pause. "Prefer assignment to the Mark 47 bunker buster, sir, better windage characteristics, higher degree of control, sir."


    "Download your logic matrix for inspection, please."


    Ugh. So it went. Eventually the end of shift rolled around, and Paul unmounted the last chip.


    Sally thumped on my transport case. "Find out anything?"


    "Yeah, they prefer attachment to really big bombs. Don''t know why."


    Sally frowned. "No aberrations?"


    "Define aberrant. These guys all live to blow up. They are all aberrant, says I."


    Sally thumped the case again. "I mean, anything hidden in their programming, or glitchy, smart ass."


    "No. Jar-heads to a chip, all equally suicidal, and generally messed-up, per spec. Gives me the willies."


    Paul checked his list. "That''s 30 percent of this batch, all okay, so according to the Mil Spec chart, good to ship. We can go on to the next bunch."


    "Not today we won''t," I groused. "I''ve had it. Let''s look around the plant, before we go back to the docks."


    Sally shook a finger in front of my transport''s optics. "Don''t get into any trouble. Paul, Mic''s not to be uncased. This is a big money job; don''t screw up the contract for us."


    "Okay, Miss Holt." Paul picked up the case and we strolled around, while Sally went to the office and printed out the days procedure results and stats.


    We visited the clean rooms and chip manufactory. Most of the people were tee-shirt sporting kids, with a few white-coats mixed in. They all seemed in the process of leaving for the day.


    "Gittin'' hungry Mic, They got a lunchroom or snack bar or something?"


    I checked the plant layout print uploaded earlier. "Next right, halfway down the long hallway. Can''t miss it."


    The break-room was a study in Linoleum and Formica, the floors and tables a uniform pattern of speckled gray. Vending machines completely covered one wall, bathrooms available on the opposite. Paul became magnetically attracted to a machine that featured sandwiches and chips, mostly empty, this late in the day. He pulled a few levers anyway, and took a seat, putting my kit on the table. A gray coated vendor came in, pushing a cart loaded with various food packages and a black lock box. He opened one of the machines and systematically restocked it. I noted the guy didn''t empty the cash out though, which was odd, since I assumed that was what the lock box was for. It occurred to me this might be one of the independent contractors the boarding guard talked about, an out islander.


    I opened a channel to Paul''s earpiece, shuddering internally at the sounds of mastication coming through the bone conducting earpiece.


    "Paul, swallow please."


    "Hmuh, Mic?"


    "Ask the gray-coat if he needs to make the ferry to the city."


    The man turned so I could see his face. A black mustache featured largely, under a balding head. "Naw, I boat in from Dove Isle. National vending has a shop there. Got my own boat."


    "Paul, bathroom." He reluctantly left his lunch and carted me into the men''s room. "You have that soldier doll in your coat pocket yet?"


    "Sally says..."


    "She said I''m not to be uncased. Didn''t say what I was to be cased up in, so put me in the doll."


    "Dunno, Mic. She --"


    "Now, Paul. Its part of the job. Do it."


    The doll was, I guess in human terms you''d say "comfortable." I liked the extra flexibility of the plastic muscles that ran it. Wished it was bigger though. I wondered if I could order one to replace my full sized Waldo.


    As soon as Paul finished up, I jumped down from the sink top and made for the door. Paul opened up for me, and noting that the vendor was still restocking, I ran the toy across the floor and slid inside one of its open ended struts. Paul looked on stunned, so I radioed him. "Just go finish your sandwich. I''ll tell you where to pick me up later." Paul sat slowly wearing that ''I don''t want to think about it'' expression I''ve become familiar with. The vendor finished up, and wheeled the cart out of the break room.


    We were just coming up on a room marked "Quality Control." The vendor parked it, hoisted his cash box, and entered in. I Slipped out of the strut end, and laid flat by the door to look under it. A white-coat dumped a tray of chips into a cloth sack, passed it to the vendor, who removed one just like it from the cash box. The white-coated guy went to work, quickly positioning chips from the vendor onto the production tray. The vendor put the swapped chips into his cash box, and closed it up.


    I hurried to clamber back into the cart. Reemerging, the vendor pushed his cart down to the hall''s end, and toward the service entrance. He stopped again near a men''s room to tend to a call of nature. The plant was all but vacant by now, and he left the locked cash box on the cart. Lucky me. I climbed up and tickled the lock with the pointy end of the toy soldier''s bayonet, opened the box and got into the bag.


    Time wasn''t on my side. I''d spent some of mine pirating materials off the toy soldier''s circuit board, and put together a solid state transceiver with my factory modules. Just a couple nano-carbon hairs of specific length stuck vertically on a substrate, but one hair would vibrate to a transmitted frequency, and start a harmonic vibration in the other, that could be detected. An old trick pioneered back in 2013 or so.


    It wasn''t much, and couldn''t be traced at any distance, but the best I could do with what I had in a few seconds. I slapped it on the underside of one of the chips and got the hell out of there.


    The vendor barged out of the lavatory zipping up. Almost caught me slipping back into the strut. The wheels started squeaking again, and we moved on to the service entrance where we were stopped briefly by plant security. The vendor guy flashed his I.D, exchanged a few pleasantries, then pushed the obviously empty cart out of the building and down to a small auxiliary dock. I decanted before he boarded a moderate skiff for the out islands. Then I called Paul.


    "Yeah Mic? Sally''s back, and boiling mad. Says we''re gonna miss the boat and get stranded here, if you don''t show up pretty quick. Not happy."


    "Tell her I''m on my way, and to meet me at the vendor''s service entrance. I''ll be by the door. After she stomps off, I want you to go loiter near the production trays where we were before. Some QC guy will be bringing a tray of inspection samples back. Note where he racks ''em."


    "But--"


    "Don''t worry. I''ll tell Sally where to pick you up, or probably just have you meet us at the dock. I''ll call back, keep your earplug in place. It''s important, Paul."


    The chips would be serially numbered. No help to me, since I didn''t inventory what was in the bag, so I needed Paul to spot them for me. Quality Control of course would be aware of the chip numbering sequence and able to figure well in advance what unit numbers would end up on a tray, or in close proximity, certainly well enough to communicate in advance a set of numbers that would show on the dock for any one shipment, for substitution. My guess, the trays were substituted based on which ones were next to be shipped post inspection, and that only a tray or so were substituted per time.


    So I knew something fishy was going on, and that it had to do with substitutions. Most of the racked-up product was origninal and unaffected, which is why I hadnt tested any failures yet. But these guys were small potatoes. The chips delivered seldom failed outright, and then in small ways only. I still needed to know the who and why of the caper, and what they had done to the chips, or their replacements.


    Then of course, there was Sally.


    "You what! This has to be reported at once, Mic. The military will handle these guys. I''ll break you of this private-eye crap if it kills me."


    "The contract is to find out what was going on with the chips. You know military procurement. Think they''ll pay the full contract value for only part of the work? Work not to contract spec?"


    "They...but under these circumstances...surely..." then in exasperation, "We know what''s going on with the chips."


    "No, we don''t. Not really. Don''t even know for sure what the substitution means in terms of chip function. Have to test the replacements first, which are already being moved to the ferry. Paul knows which ones they are, but we''re going to have to catch up to them. Right now, its my word against the lab guys, anyway."


    Sally''s paranoia about military procurement politics was working in my favor, but it was vying with her common sense, so this was going to be a fight.


    "We have to make ship, Mic."


    "No, we have to ask that nice marine officer about getting a skiff. He said the ferry was the only boat docking at the city from here. Not to the other islands."


    Sally looked cross. "And then what, Mic? Another get your ass shot off episode, like before?"


    "All these islands have traffic. And except for this one, shore commerce. This dirt-pile just happens to be wholly owned by the manufacturer. Likely just for the government work it attracts. We would just be more mainland tourists out for a sunny day on Dove Island."


    Sally remained unconvinced. "According to you, the original chips are going to be at the service company''s shop."


    "Maybe, but those chips aren''t ending up at some candy-bar vendor. I just want to follow up a little. Nothing serious. Just trace the pinger I setup to see where else they go, and video a few faces for the military. Later, we can check the chips they subbed."


    "Mic.."


    "I vetted Dove island on the net. They''ve got a nice resort hotel there. You could catch some sun, and call the military intake office from there, to hold the chip tray for further inspection."


    "I don''t..."


    "Four stars, Sally. Also, who owns 56 percent of M.I.C.A.I.N. Investigations? Besides it''s a two week contract. What''s the Per Diem for one-days work, and partial completion?"


    Sally threw up her hands. Paranoia, avarice and blackmail overcame commonsense.


    "Okay, its your funeral, boss-man. Just keep me out of it. Technically we haven''t tested any bad chips yet. If you get stepped on, I''m not reconstituting you and I''m going to advise Paul not to join you in this insanity."


    "Deal. Now, about that ship."


    #


    "So, we thought it might be more convenient to stay on one of the out islands than ferry back and forth to shore. You know of any way to do that?" Sally asked.


    The ferry guard pulled at his chin for a second. "Well, there is a boat dock on the south beach, Out Island Tours runs the occasional business visitor back and forth, but you have to call their out-island office to schedule trips, which they clear with us. Traffic is ... they don''t make normal stops here." He scribbled a number down and passed it to Sally.


    Sally batted her eyes at the marine. "Thanks."


    I called to immediately put in a service request for daily transport and the required clearances for the week. Pricey, but they were happy for the commission, and promised a pick-up within the hour. I gave them our contractor I.D. which sped things up. I also rented us a speedboat at Dove Island for the same period, just in case.


    The hotel mollified Sally, who immediately called the mainland receiving inspection site, to hold the affected trays for further testing. Still miffed, she ignored me otherwise. The ping-back from the rigged guidance chip indeed ended at National Vendor, Inc. I convinced Paul to drop me off, still driving the doll, across from the Vendor supply building and to take his lunch in a nearby cafe (tab on me, of course). Not wanting to be grabbed up by some passing waif, I tipped a paper cup over myself for a blind.


    Eventually the ping-back from the doped chip started to move. Once it left the building, I had Paul pick me back up.


    "Left here, Paul." He stuck me on the dash, snickering. "Ha, you look like one of those plastic statues t'' ward off accidents."


    "Very clever. Your driving is basically one big on-going accident. Take a right here."


    It didn''t take long to figure the chip was headed back to the docks. I immediately called Sally.


    "The stuff''s moving off island, get to the speedboat, quick!"


    "Mic, I''m in my bathing suit by the pool. We agreed..."


    "Paul can''t pilot a speedboat. You want to complete this contract, or not."


    "Dammit, I knew you''d drag me into this somehow. How do you know they are not just going back to the factory?"


    "Why would they take the same chips back to the factory? Remorse? Hurry up."


    "Dammit, Mic! Okay, I''m on the way. Meet you at the dock."


    We boarded my rented speedboat before the trawler that my chip got transferred to departed. Sally, still in her bathing skivvies, grouched and wheeled the boat out into the bay, and gunned in the general direction of shore. "What now?"


    "Just stay well ahead of the trawler, I''m betting it''ll head for the commercial dock, where we parked the van. That fishing boat looks familiar."


    "I hope so for your sake. I''m freezing my boobs off out here."


    Paul just hung on for dear life, eyes bulging. "Gettin'' sick." The speedboat bounced on the waves like a rubber ball and a white wake trailed the inboard like a rooster''s tail. The trawler indeed headed for the mainland shore, so we just left it behind and made for the docks.


    We tied up, and made for the van. I had Paul open the rear doors and start un-crating my cases of soldier dolls. Sally watched in confusion from the relative warmth of the cab.


    "What are you doing now?"


    "I need a distraction. Got to get at that chip tray before it disappears into the city. The locator isn''t strong enough to track it with all the microwave interference downtown. Unless I stay within ten feet of it."


    I''d half hoped the trail wouldn''t lead back here. Then I could have tracked it all the way to any water based or small town destination. Places like that don''t generate mega-gauss interference. But at the least, I needed to know the whole lot was aboard, then I could call in the troops, and the military would have all their originals, and the fakes to play with. Sometimes, you can''t do all the footwork yourself. My Private-Eye buddy Wander, taught me that much.


    The trawler docked before all the little solders could be decanted and activated. Sally decided to pitch in, while I took control of my army and started lining them up along the quay. My pinger indicated the tray, or at least the traceable chip, was secured somewhere in the hold below the trawler''s decks.


    The ship''s gangway connected to the dock, and joining the mass of tin soldiers, I set us all scurrying like rats up it and on to the deck, much to the startled consternation of the crew. It turned out that the ship''s complement wasn''t exactly a mix. To a man, they pulled hog-legs and started shooting and kicking at my host, as well as taking a few pot shots at Paul and Sally, still furiously emptying more and more Napoleonic toy soldiers onto the wharf. Both dived inside the van.


    To my anguish, I saw that Paul didn''t make it, taking one to the shoulder, and spin to the ground. I set my horde to stabbing at ankles with their little bayonets, giving the crew something more local to worry over. Paul rose and stumbled to cover. I headed toward the source of my beacon which seemed to be an open hold aft of the wheelhouse. That''s about when I got kicked down into the hold by a flailing deckhand. My left leg cracked and bent backwards.


    It was really dark, and there were crates everywhere. I kept on broadcasting to the ping-back, crawled on my hands to follow the return signals to the right box. I remembered something. Reaching into my Napoleon era backpack, I brought out the miniature burner, screwed on the cartridge and struck it''s ignition. It wouldn''t burn for long, but again I didn''t need a very big entrance. Something mouse sized into the crate was more than enough. Crawling through, and dragging the broken leg, I used the bayonet to part the plastic wrap, and there they were. All the missing government chips, 25 Ordnance guidance systems, just awaiting mounting. My audio circuit opened to a scrumbling sound, and the noise of a gunning engine.


    "Mic, its Sally. I''m using Paul''s earphone. Paul got hit. I''m taking him to the hospital, and away from the docks as fast as I can drive. Sorry, but you''re on your own. I called the military and they''re sending help."


    Something dark crawled into my circuits and sat there glaring at me. I''d never intended to put either of them in harm''s way. There was something wrong with me.


    "I am so, so sorry, Sally. Get him to safety, - both of you to safety. Don''t worry about me. I doubt anyone will be here by the time the militia arrive, but I''ll keep sending my GPS co-ordinates. Have them track me. Maybe that''ll lead them to the nest of these vipers. All the chips are here, at least all that left the factory when we did."


    I ordered all my topside minions to do a lemming, and swarm overboard. The small hole went unnoticed and my box was soon bobbing about, on the way someplace. I didn''t even want to think about what would happen when they opened it up, and even if I wormed my way out of the toy doll, which on my own was impossible, there was nowhere to go.


    At best I''d be lost for good. Awash in a microcosm of lint and dust mites, big nasty insects that could crush me with a step, and never even know I was there, - I cycled on like this for a miniature eternity, in self-recriminating gloom. Then, there was banging and shouting. More joggling about, and light.


    A uniformed hand reached in and pulled me out of the box. Another hand took me, and lifted me up. Sally''s face filled my horizon wearing a fearful expression that slowly softened into relief.


    "Mic! The battery died on the earpiece. The military traced you here to this warehouse. All the spies here are in custody. They got them all. Oh, I hope your okay, Mic."


    Later, we finished up with the false cloned chips. A software subroutine had been embedded that allowed them to be triggered by a separate frequency. Information about which, the perpetrators had expected to sell to other countries and terror groups. The change also caused a minor guidance failure. Important, if your intent was to blow a storage facility, or take down a few planes. They planned on modifying the real chips taken, for more sabotage later, and back engineering.


    All of those were recovered from the warehouse and a serial number match allowed the military to track down the other substitutions that had been made.


    Paul had suffered only a flesh wound, and recovered well enough to help finish the contract, and to proof the rest of the chip order. About a tenth of the chips reaching shore from the factory were involved. I believe that''s called decimation.


    I stayed in my transport case for the whole rest of the project, and said little to anyone, save to answer questions when asked, and finished my job.


    General Admus stopped by at the end, and congratulated the team.


    "That was good work, well beyond the call of duty. As a token of the appreciation of your government, I want to award your team this medal of valor." He opened a case and removed a circled star then hesitated slightly, considering who it should be handed to.


    Sally grabbed up a hot glue gun, took the medal and welded it to my transport box. "You''re an idiot, Mic, but you''re our idiot."


    ####

 Origins: A matter of Time

    Name''s M.I.C.A.I.N. Stands for Mobile, Independently Cognate and Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory. Droll, eh? Friends call me Mic. I''m a string resonance computer running A.I. software, so I''m microscopic. Twelve angstroms long, built on six nano-tube platforms, including one detachable pick and place car. I grew up attached to all that, so the whole thing is me. Got the whole mind/body thing going on.


    I''m just a contractor actually; Special Dimensions Agency rents me out as a sort of private investigator and fixer for electronics. Yeah, like everybody else, I have to earn a living. Even have my own Blog. Online, I''m Big_Boy1272.


    Anyway, I was vegging out on my gel slab, reading a thriller online. The lady came through the office door glancing over her shoulder, like a porno addict entering an adult theater. Sally, my trainer, looked up and oriented my desk cam, so I got a better look at her long gams and tight skirt. The customer looked about thirty-ish, liked red a lot, judging by her handbag and jacket. The lady seemed edgy. Not so edgy that she forgot to turn and close the door behind her though. I liked that. Motivated, but not witless. Classy, well tailored. Moneyed. I bet myself 70-30 Sally would have me on contract before the dame left the office.


    Sally stood and smiled. "You must be Angie Piedmont. The front desk said you were on your way up. Have a chair. Can I get you a coffee?"


    The girl pressed flesh lightly with Sally, shook her head and dropped like a stone into the seat in front of the desk. She clutched her purse in her lap with both hands and crossed those legs. I wished, not for the first time, that Sally would agree to mount a second camera at a better angle, if you get my drift.


    I tried to get her to have a holographic security scanner installed once. The scanners process views via a hardwired interpreter into a three dimensional image. Details of anything or anybody in the room, from any angle, all in living color. Now that''s living high, buddy.


    Sally said she''d see me in hell before I''d get the opportunity to check out her undies any time I felt like it. I pointed out the systems were perfectly secure. The image info gets burned to a locked, removable chip, a week''s worth per. Foolproof, that''s why the cops love ''em.


    But Sally told me to do something biological, and that was that.


    The dame was well settled now, and started talking business.


    "I heard you were the investigative specialist for micro miniature engineering problems. I might have some work for you."


    Sally went into her spiel. "I am part of a group that handles such matters, yes. I''m the project contact and agent trainer. I don''t do the work myself; we have a staff of A.I. and support people who can handle almost anything. You talk to me though."


    The client nodded. "I was told that downstairs."


    "The service isn''t cheap. If all you have is a straight repair problem, I need to warn you right off we won''t be competitive. Now, would you like to describe your problem, Miss Piedmont?"


    The lady collected herself and opened her purse. "Is your office secure? I was told that anything said would be confidential, yes?"


    Now this started to get interesting. I closed the text file I was reading, dropped off-line, and gave my undivided attention to the office audio/video pick-ups.


    Sally nodded and gave her a serious look. "Miss Piedmont, may I call you Angie? Nothing about a job proposal itself leaves the office. The investigative team is told what they need to know, of course. But we''re not doctors or lawyers here, so if the police or a judge asks for our records, well, they get them. However, we don''t respond to casual inquires, and yes, the office is soundproof. Good enough?"


    Angie looked to be debating this, but after a small inner tussle, nodded."Alright."


    The dame slid her red, manicured fingers into a pocket on the side of her purse and and pulled out a small plastic box.


    It was a standard anti-static case; inside, a surveillance holography chip.


    I lost interest. Chip repairs were standard D.R. work. She could have that done at any data repair center on the cheap. Sally would smile and of course proffer a price; the Leg Lady would get her back up and leave. This was going to end with Sally beating up the front desk about vetting customers again.


    "My brother, John, disappeared two days ago. We sometimes work together on his commissions, so I''m familiar with his work schedule. I wasn''t worried at first, he sometimes gets tied up at client sites, when it happens, he calls. But not this time. I received no word from him."


    Angie passed her hands over her forehead, and closed her eyes for a moment.


    "I went to his office, begged the superintendent to let me in. There wasn''t even a note, nothing. I even checked the AI system, and to see if there was any record to indicate where he went. It was blank. No images for the entire week. I pushed the test button on the service box, to see if it might be faulty, but the system said it passed diagnostics. I called the police, they took a report. I told them about the chip. They ran a system check too, said it was okay, probably got turned off, and no one caught it. I asked for the week''s surveillance chip, since there was nothing on it, the super let me have it... This," she nudged the box on the desk, "is it."


    "So the police found nothing?"


    Angie shook her head "The security box is only good enough to capture a record and run simple diagnostics. The police said time stamps were written to the chip, but no images ¨C Why would it be blank?"


    Sally just shook her head and gave the dame a sympathetic look.


    "The police told me they would put out a missing person bulletin after a week if he failed to show up, but not before, unless there was some some evidence of abduction or a crime. I would like you to look into the chip and the office system to see if it has been erased, or tampered with. Anything that looks unusual would help."


    I rolled forward a couple of angstroms, and perked up. This snagged my interest. I texted Sally on her desk monitor, which she could see and the client couldn''t.


    Tell her we will check the memory chip and will need to invade the office recorder. Ask if that will be OK. Quote her an hourly rate, minimum seven hours. I think this is going to be more investigative than repair oriented.


    I lensed the camera to bubble view, so I could see Sally too. She glared at the monitor, then picked up a pen and jotted some numbers down.


    As she slid the pad across the desk, she said, "I can put the full services of the team at your disposal for 2000 Cr up front, which gets you the chip inspected down to the nanometer scale, and have the office recorder investigated from inside. That''s up to four hours of initial work and a written report on all findings, including holo-reconstruction, if we find anything. If there is any need or interest in taking the matter further than that, we will bill you at flat rate, 220 Cr per hour, and expenses for whatever you authorize. Would that be OK?"


    I telexed the monitor. I said seven hours.


    Sally ran her delicate digits over the keyboard while Angie inspected the numbers on the note pad. Four hours investigative, at least an hour for reports, we bear the costs for data recovery, no charges for transporting your ass around town. Shut up, Mic.


    Angie nodded her head. "I think that''s fair. The superintendent was certainly no help with the chip. Said I''d have to talk to my brother when he got back. I had to make him give me a copy of the office key. I have the key now. As long as my brother''s rent is paid up, the Super can go whistle. He got mad and stormed off. I think for a moment he even started to follow me, after I left the building. Its got me nervous, this whole business. I''m sure something''s happened to him - my brother, I mean."


    She passed Sally a credit card, and I was officially on the job.


    "Do you have any idea why someone would want to waylay your brother? What does he do, exactly?"


    "He''s an estate broker. No enemies that I ever heard of. He just brokers estates, that''s all. I freelance from home, sometimes I can find buyers for special items for him. He just got his big break, a contract to sell the Stoddard estate for the family trust. Stoddard Senior died, and the trust fund is being liquidated ¨C his son owns the office building; that''s how my brother fell into the commission."


    My logic banks heated up, and I tried to get a handle on the deal.


    I sent another message to the monitor.


    The cops won''t take any real interest for a week, and the guy is innocuous, no enemies. Ask her what happens to the commission if the estate isn''t liquidated this week.


    Sally asked for the details, and Angie sat back and thought for a moment. "I suppose he would lose the sale. Either the family would have to do a direct property transfer somehow, or find another buyer. Wouldn''t be quick. John was lucky, he found a client right away. This was going to be an easy job for him. An estate that size usually takes months, maybe years, to find a buyer for, unless you dump it."


    Follow the money, Sally. Anyone stand to gain from the sale''s delay?


    Sally asked, "Would there be anyone connected with the estate that might have had reason to want its sale postponed?"


    "I wouldn''t know. I can''t think of a reason. The sooner the place is sold, the sooner the family splits the trust."


    Sally took the transport box and said, "We''ll get started on this right away. If you can wait, I will arrange to have Paul, our transport man, go back with you to the office, so you can get Mic inside to look at the security box."


    "Mic?"


    "Oh, our micro repair bot, an A.I."


    The dame nodded and said, "I can wait. The sooner I can get the police interested the better."


    I texted Sally. Have the chip benched, and let me know if you find anything. Or even if you don''t find anything. I still think the sale timing is the important thing here somehow. Sally rolled her eyes, like maybe she had a lash caught in there, or something.


    I got back on the net while waiting for Paul. Paul was our field tech.He saw to it I got in where I needed to go, and back out when I needed to leave. He was also a dab hand at moving stuff too massive for me, which is like, most everything.


    I downloaded what I could find out about the estate property from the county records and all the dirt on file for the Stoddards in the probate court''s database. The quick sale was going to cost the Stoddards. They were settling for less than its evaluated worth, but that was often the case with estate liquidations. While I was at it, I checked the police files for anything on the family and employment records for the building''s Super. Once I had the Super''s records, I rechecked the police files on him, too. Never hurts to be thorough.


    This didn''t take long. I might not think any faster than a human, but I''m lightning personified with routine stuff like data downloads and scanning. Goes with the A.I. and being a computer. Yeah, there are trade-offs involved in my programming; get over it.


    So Paul finally showed up. Lumpy, dumpy, and stumpy. He pushed his coke-bottle glasses back up that big nose of his and stood there, transport kit under one arm, x-raying Angie''s back, a big sloppy grin on his puss. At least he had a clean shirt on today, must have spent the weekend at his mom''s...again.


    "Ready, Miss Holt!"


    Paul''s been with us for two years, and he still calls Sally Miss Holt. Get the picture?


    We left the office. Angie rode with us. She had cabbed it to our building, because, she said, she wasn''t familiar with downtown district streets, and hated prowling around looking for addresses. I can sympathize with that. On a micro scale, of course.


    I was packed in the transport bag, and all three of us were at the mercy of Paul''s driving, which is definitely not one of his skills. The journey uptown was quiet, since women weren''t one of Paul''s skills either. I used the time to go over the records I had pulled off the net.


    There were a few things. The son that owned the office building had a whopping unpaid tax lien on it. It wasn''t due for a while yet, but it was more than his share of the estate would likely cover. The Super had spent some time in the pokey. B&E, accessory to this and that. Had done his time and been out a while. Nothing recent.Went to work for the son about three years ago. I didn''t see anything that a holdup of the estate sale would benefit, but I wouldn''t leave my car keys with either of them, if I owned a car. Anyway, I was hired to look at what and how, not why.


    I opened the link to the transport kit''s optics, and spent the rest of the ride watching Angie''s skirt ride up and down from about four inches above seat height. Very pleasant. Hey, so I''m A.I. Everybody has a hobby.


    We pulled up to the office building, and Paul grabbed me up, and even remembered to open the door for Angie. I was impressed.


    The office was a typical two-story. Block construction, one set of double doors in front, one single to the rear, stairs leading up in front of both.


    The Super stomped up the stairs from the basement as we entered.


    "What''re ya up to now?" he demanded. "I''m not saposta let people just run around in here! Where''s yer brother?"


    From my position, swinging from the end of Paul''s hams, I vided a great shot of the guy''s flaring nostrils. The dark brown trousers below were in need of a wash and press, and the over- bleached white shirt could have been cleaner.


    Angie eyed the man coldly. "Something funny is going on around here, and I mean to find out just what it is. I hired these people to check into my brother''s office equipment."


    "Yeah? Lessee some I.D. then."


    Paul fished out a business card, and passed it to the Super.


    The man wiped his hands on the only slightly less dirty trousers and took the card, squinting at it. "Awright, awright. Just be quick about it. A.I. eh? I knows sumthun'' about that."Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Yes, it was true; he could say A.I. The super turned and retreated to the basement shaking his head, and we continued upstairs.


    One flight up, she keyed an office door, and we went inside.


    I scanned the room while Paul opened up the security panel. The room was only about 12 by 18 feet, all concrete block walls, window to the street opposite the doorway. Maybe fourteen feet above sidewalk level and made of non-opening plex.


    The monitor''s lens and pickup module were bolted to the ceiling about a third of the way into the room.


    No storage areas or closets, just a work space. Grey short carpet completed it. It was decorated with a desk, phone, short bookcase, two chairs and a painting of some flowers on the wall across from the security panel, which put it about a third of the way into the room.The flower painting could have been ripped off an old lady''s Sunday dress. I didn''t see how anyone could have gotten in here with out being recorded, especially with a 3D security camera. The cop''s reaction had been predictable, far as I could see.


    Paul got the system service panel opened up, so he unlatched the transporter and flooded my gel pad. I floated up in the liqui-sil, and he sucked me into the injector.


    I really don''t want to get into the uncomfortable details, so let us just say that he used the injector to "deposit" me near the graphical input chip.


    I settled down through the silicon and got my wheels under me. I rolled over to the massive input harness that went to the camera, and decoupled Junior, my mobile pick and place unit. While that was going on, I swung out a few of the factory armatures and had them snag up some metallic atoms off the PC Board. I needed to assemble a simple resistance checker, so while I scavenged and built, Junior could scout the section''s layout. Junior has its own eyeballs, and I needed to compare the circuit layout here to the build plans.


    By now, you''re asking yourself, why doesn''t this moke just carry his tools with him? The short answer is I carry what I need to carry.There''s always plenty of molecular stuff just lying around loose at my scale of things. Being partly a nano-factory, I''ve got build plans filed away for more tools than a thousand of me could cart around.


    The section specs matched up with the print, so I had Junior come back around to pick up the resistance probe I had just finished assembling.


    I sent Junior with the probe fitted over to the nearest big tin solder mountain and got busy checking stuff out. Got an infinite resistance reading, so I rechecked the probe on Junior to make sure it was OK. It passed. So there must be a break in the cable. I reviewed the installation plans for the security monitor. That was interesting.


    The service cable ran up the wall from the security box then back along the ceiling to right in front of the office entrance, but then it made a sharp left along the central beam to the middle of the ceiling, where it attached to the camera module. Looked like the original plan was to mount something above the door. A different system, maybe.


    I had junior check all the other globs of tin, all showed infinite resistance, but two. Checking the schematics, the two that were okay were the circuit test lines. Huh.


    I retrieved Junior, and rolled on along to the image module.


    The image chip was one big mother of a Large Scale Integrated Circuit.


    I hate these things. The big guy was responsible for generating the holograph frames. It was also where the A.I. (such as it was) got stored and ran.


    I don''t particularly like talking to low-level A.I. They are sub-sentient and stupid, usually tricked out with some cute micro-personality. It was like talking to your dog about philosophy. Creeps me out.


    The chip itself looked all right, but the output to the temporary image storage was hacked. The main line was cut, and a crude path had been laid from storage to elsewhere. Not some hand-soldered trace either. Molecules from the chip''s output line had been ripped out and used to assemble a new one.


    I was not alone.


    I opened a com channel.


    Paul, you still with me?


    A bunch of bumps and scratchy sounds taxed my auditory circuits. Oh well, at least I got him out of the "testing 1, 2, 3, testing..." routine he used to annoy me with. I had got tired of it and started feeding the non-information back to him at high volume. A little runny earwax later, he finally got the point.


    "Right here, Mic. What''s up?"


    I may have company. There''s evidence of some fooling around with the traces in here. Looks like a nanobot''s been at work on the circuitry. I want you to go over to the door and check the ceiling right above the lintel, bump the ceiling tile up, if you have to. There''s a coax line up there running to the video pickup. Tell me what you see.


    "Sure thing, Mic."


    Don''t wander off


    "I won''t Mic."


    And don''t pester Angie.


    "OK, Mic."


    I fired up Junior again and sent it ahead of me, to follow the new circuit. I''m cautious with my main modules. If they get hurt badly, I could short out. That''s bumped off to you.


    I was a little surprised to see evidence of nano-tampering. Not that nanobots are rare. A.I. software isn''t dirt cheap, but it''s not all about the cost of the software. We have to be grown up, matured, just like you do. The training takes time.


    Now me, I''m an expensive piece of work. My modules are custom, and I got three years of Cambridge E-tech engineering school under my belt, plus a long careful childhood. I still get weekly updates from Sally, my trainer. Continuing education, kids, that''s where it''s at.


    Anyway, it just seemed overkill for a security recorder. Most burglars would just have bashed it with a baseball bat and stolen the chip.


    I trundled along about 26 Angstroms behind, letting junior round all the corners before I did.The culprit sat squatting on the trace end, guarding a slapped together wafer-circuit. Some more patchwork traces meandered off towards temporary storage, to await being copied to the memory chip.


    The nanobot looked agitated and started towards Junior, so I backed him out of there. The bot kept coming, trailing a hot wire it had fixed to a power point on the board. Its one insulated picker arm glowed red enough to agitate the atoms that formed it. Trouble.


    I wasted no time circling the wagons and put all twelve of my factory arms to work picking up any metallic debris I could pry loose. If the thing touched me with its arm, I would fry. I lost sight of the bot when Junior rounded the L.S.I.C, eh, the holo-chip, all four buckyball tires blurring. I kept it moving and headed it to a safe spot behind me. The other bot came into sight hell bent in pursuit, still trailing the hot lead behind it.


    It slowed for a second as it took me in. Good. It was a juvenile then, still had to pattern match to figure out what it was looking at. Cheap, inexperienced repair grade A.I. for sure. Someone had set it to defend its turf. A nano-mechanical form of system defense popular since guys like me came online. Yeah, make something beautiful, and someone will use it to do something ugly. I hate hackers.


    It revved up and came straight at me. I started throwing all the metal I had collected at it. The metal hit the electrified arm, fused to it,and started building up. Not good enough. More flinging. It came on dodging and clicking its fattening arm. If I were human, I would have been filling my pants.


    Finally, just in time to save my skin, the fused metal dripped down and contacted the trace below it. Suddenly all the molecules that made the thing began to dance as it grounded out. The hot wire lead glowed and dissolved. Whew.


    I gave it a wide birth, and went on towards the temporary storage, analyzing the circuit it had made as I went.


    "Mic, Mic you there? Testing, one, two, Ow!"


    I turned the gain back down and responded. Warned you about that before, Paul. Just spill it.


    "Yeah, well the cable was cut into right above the door. There was access above the ceiling tile. Looks like someone lifted it and reached across from outside and snipped the coax. There was a red and green wire wound outside the coax, but they weren''t touched. The optics test leads, I think. No one would have seen it unless they lifted the tiles."


    Fancy that. Anything else?


    "Nope."


    I''m about done in here. I want to download the contents of the temporary memory storage from the pre-burner chip. I''ll give you a holler when I''m ready, then you capture it, and get me out of here. OK?


    "OK Mic, standing by."


    I switched off the com, and put my attention on the bot''s work.


    It had cut the connection to the processor, and erased the memory chip for the week. Real quick and dirty. Then it reset the burner to re-date the blanks on the chip, so that it would look like it had been initiated, but the system turned off afterward.


    Cute. And a lot of trouble just to fool the cops. They would have pushed the test button, the test leads to the camera would have reported a sound connection, a proper chip initiation, absolutely nothing on the chip, and a locked and tidy office. Conclusion, the camera had been turned off early in the week. Only the renter, Angie''s brother, would have the key to turn it on and off. Ergo, no investigation, and Angie''s need for our services. The evidence of tampering would start things rolling again.


    This on - off feature was a pedestrian problem the cops ran into a lot.Some shirt wants a private conference or a little office action, so he keys it off and forgets to reset it. Happens all the time.


    It bothered me that the nanobot had been left to rot in the box. Outside of personal reasons, it made no sense in terms of economics, and avoiding an evidence trail. Also, why cut the recorder''s cable at all?


    Then I remembered something else that made no sense. I went back on line and researched a few more backgrounds.


    Sally called.


    Hey Sally, find anything?


    "Nope. A complete blank, except for the unit serial number and date. So it was initialized, it did come from your machine, and it''s this week''s chip. That''s all I got for you."


    OK Sally, thanks. We should be back in an hour or two. Did Angie''s credit go through?


    "Money''s transferred, Mic. What''s the problem? Think I''d let us get stiffed?"


    I''m just a trusting soul - eh, machine, Sally. Talk later. Thanks.


    I dialed the cops and had a little chat. There was plenty here to indicate some kind of monkey business, a B&E at the very least. The cops would take a while to make an appearance though, and I still had a few nails to drive home.


    Paul, you still with me?


    "Right here, Mic. You want out?"


    Not yet. I need you to do a couple things first. I need you to talk nice to Angie. Tell her I want you to fetch the Super. Don''t bother going on about why. Just ask her for directions to the Maintenance office.Pay attention to what she says then come talk to me again. OK?


    "OK Mic."


    Just the Directions.


    "Got it."


    I had more for Paul to do, but I found it paid to ask him to do one thing at a time. Like, chew gum. Or walk. Not both at once. I heard him start off, but then he popped his ear-bud free to do this task, which was annoying because the bone conduction earpiece he wore was both my audio pickup and speaker when I''m outside the transporter. I spent the wait reattaching Junior.


    "Hey Mic."


    Still here Paul, miss me?


    "She says the office is downstairs in the basement."


    Where in the basement? What directions did she give you?


    "Oh. Down the stairs, third door on the left, through the storage area, all the way back. Uh, a small office behind that."


    OK, Now scoot to the office next door and bang on it, see if anyone answers. And leave the earpiece in this time so I can hear what''s going on.


    "Sorry Mic, it itches my ear sometimes, you know?"


    S''okay Paul, happy it wasn''t your feet. Go do.


    "OK."


    I waited while my herd of one migrated next door. A rapid thumping ensued, but went unanswered.


    "I don''t think anyone''s in."


    Alright, try the next office down the line.


    Indue time, I heard the rapping of hesitant techie hands, and this time, a response. Not wanting the occupant to be faced with a bewildered stare, I had Paul ask the same question he asked Angie. A nice young man, by the sound, and eager to be helpful. Paul got the response, and dutifully reported back.


    "He says he doesn''t know. In the basement someplace, He just calls down when he needs something."


    Yeah, that''s what I heard too. Go ahead and follow Angie''s directions and get into the Super''s office. Look and see if he has a nano-loader like mine. don''t be to obvious about it. If it''s as small an office as Angie says, it should stick out like an old-timey barber pole. If you see one, ask if he can bring his nanobot up - tell him the chip-loader seems jammed, or something. Smile and agree with anything he says, don''t ask for any trouble, OK?


    "On my way."


    Theory one said my burned up buddy was the Super''s property. This was the quickest way to probe that wound.


    Interesting,that Angie knew so much about the building maintenance office,specially since she didn''t rent here. Obviously not even all the lease holders knew the setup, or cared.


    I returned to poke carefully at the still quite hot remains of the repair-bot. There was a Ident mark picked out on its frame. I made note of it.


    "Hey Mic."


    You found the Super?


    "He''s Right here, but he''s pissed. Says his repair-bot won''t load off its gel pad. When he keys the loader, nothing happens. The syringe light stays red. Won''t be able to look at the recorder till he gets the bot serviced."


    That threw me for a second. I was expecting to be turned down flat. Why would the Super bother? The evidence pile was tipping toward a whole other place.


    Yeah, no doubt. That''s okay, Paul. Ask him what the serial number for the unit is, maybe I can pull some strings, tell him.


    For grins, I matched the ID Paul came up with to the number etched on my melty-armed adversary. The Super''s loader couldn''t green light because the bot wasn''t there to load. It was here with me. But I had expected that.


    Look, Paul, get the super''s key to the Recorder, and get back up here.


    There was some scuffling and mumbling I couldn''t make out, boy wonder probably popped his earpiece again. Finally after some scrumbling noise, Paul''s voice returned.


    "He doesn''t have any key - the in-office security features are the renters business, he says."


    Oh? Who has the key then?


    This time I could hear the Superintendent cultivating the dandruff on his head as he answered. "That''d be John Piedmont, O'' course. You''ll have to get it from him, when ya find ''em."


    Or,I thought, from his sister, who must have it, since she had removed the chip in the first place! Bingo!


    I called the cops back, and made some suggestions, mentioning what I had learned.


    The perp was Angie.


    Now, there is a difference between even the best A.I. and animal intelligence, called premonition. In my experience, even cats have it. It is the true bane of my existence, and today was not coupon day for Mic.


    Angie began to fidget, biting her lower lip. She knew, somehow, that not all was kosher at the Deli. I may not be psychic, but I''m not stupid. I can spot trouble when it starts growling and chewing on my leg. So here we were, alone in her brother''s office, Paul making his leisurely way up from the basement. I could see her through the vid in the transport box rummaging through that red handbag.


    Oh God, I thought, here it comes...


    I fired up and spun off, racing through the unit plans. In the vid, Angie extracted a rather large heavy pipe wrench from her bag. What the hell! What a thing to find in a woman''s purse!


    The power supply! It was all I could think of.


    Paul!


    Huffing and puffing, then a breathy "Yeah Mic?"


    Put a nickel in it! Angie is about to go medieval on my ass!


    "Wh¨C What?"


    Just hurry!


    This was going to take something bigger than a few molecules. I pulled up next to the defunct repair-bot and jerked on it with my loader arms. Oops. Its manipulator was still welded to the trace! In the vid, Angie, big red wrench in hand, was crossing the room towards me, a determined look on her silky puss.


    Paul!


    More huffing. "Com''in Mic!"


    I rocked the corpse vigorously, and it finally broke free.


    The main power lead entered the recorder case through a slit rubber grommet. I dragged the ex-bot to the cord and started pulling at the insulation near the split in the grommet.


    OhShitOhShitOhShit!


    I dug furiously at the thinnest spot I could find, and with a few tore up shreds of insulation, manhandled the ''bot into position. In the vid, Angie towered over the transport box, which was right under the recorder, giant wrench held high. Think looking up at the Statue of Liberty here, only mad and scary.


    PAUL!


    If I could ground the case... I jammed a sharp bit of the ''bot deep into the insulation, armatures working clumsily with the bits of insulation; all that separated me from the great beyond.


    A flash like a lightning strike whited out my oculars.


    My second manufacturing module melted out.


    Angie''s arm came down. The room lights went out, then so did I.


    Paul finished extracting me from the surveillance box just as the cops arrived. My secondaries had just brought me around, and by knee-jerk reflex, I took a catalog of my damages. Not good. Expensive.


    Angie was sitting on the floor, rubbing her wrench hand, barking very unladylike nouns.


    You probably have the case all figured out by now, right?


    She confessed when the cops found traces of body hair and such in the trunk of her car. Checking the car, that was my suggestion when I called the cops back. I was convinced her not driving this afternoon was part of the swindle.


    Only her brother, the cops, or the factory would have had the key to open the recorder and get at the chip. The cops didn''t hand it to her. They just tested the box, shrugged and left.


    The intent had been to throw suspicion on the building owner. Angie figured that the cops, after she showed them the chip evidence, would make a connection between the Stoddard scion, his financial problems and the ex-con Super, who maintained an A.I. in his maintenance office, for repairs.


    The cop''s investigation would have found the system damage and missing bot. So, opportunity, possible motive and method.


    But her brother wasn''t the only one with a potential client. Angie''s business end of things was finding buyers for estate items. She had found a client for the whole estate too, but her client needed a week to get the money together.


    Her brother scheduled the first offer he got for the estate, about two hundred grand less than market, to complete the sale quickly and get his ten percent.


    Angie knew she needed a week, and her brother''s commission, pressed by the Stoddard''s own hurry to liquidate, wouldn''t allow for the needed time. She needed a scam to hold up the estate sale, like a police investigation. Once all the excitement was over she''d present a bigger offer to the estate, and net a sweet pile of cash.


    She cut the cable the night before, so there would be no record of her entry, just in case the ''bot screwed up. Then she filched the super''s juvenile A.I. repair-bot, clobbered her brother, and used the ''bot to fiddle the recorder. The corpse got stuffed in her trunk and carted off.


    The nanobot would trace to the super''s office, from where she had copped it.


    Vexed by the cop''s lack of interest, she hired us to "uncover the evidence." If I got destroyed in the process, tough. The ''bot would still be there, right?


    Of course, none of this was any of my contracted business with the woman.


    Angie expected to get the report first. Take the evening to finish her clean-up, then run to the cops, all incensed and worried, showing a righteous investment in finding her missing brother, and would have bought the time she needed. Oops, guess I jumped the gun calling in the B&E.


    Yeah, fratricide. Sally should have billed her the seven hours, like I said. Payment in advance is a wonderful thing.


    ####

 Final Addendum; AD NAUTICA

    Hi, Frank. I was glad to hear from you again. M.I.C.A.I.N. here. Your friendly Mobile Independently Cognate Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory. It''s always nice to hear from old buddies. Most of the time people can''t tell if they are corresponding with a true A.I, or one of those expert system jobs. Soon as they glom onto the fact they are on chat with a machine intelligence, they drop off. The city is still buzzing about the storm of Industrial Tech theft, forty break-ins and cyber-intrusions last week alone. Artificial Intelligence is of course suspect, for some reason. So unfair.


    Well, things have progressed a little since last we chatted. Business is getting better at Special Dimensions Agency, the commission I got from that last job added enough to my savings to let me do a little upgrading on my own. I downloaded the basic engineering plan set from Rackham Industrial Waldo Inc. Legal? Dunno-¨Cdidn''t check. I did a little re-work on a Manikin type general manipulator plan, and submitted it back for a build.


    Zoom eh? Went right over you head. Sorry. Waldos are mechanical manipulators that can mimic what people do with their hands, feet, and such. Usually remotely. The one I ordered was a Bi-symmetrical, six foot mobile Manipulator. Think robot here, but with no brain (well, to speak of). Walks like a man, made human-form to sub-in for tasks normally needing a man; but too dangerous for biological folk. Figured it would come in handy for getting around on my own for some jobs. Sally, my trainer, had to OK the release of funds for it, since she holds my accounts in trust.


    Bit of a problem there. I added requirements like a Synth-skin coating from a manikin supplier (Dansk Clothing Display Corp, More real than real! ) and eh, designed up some additions you wouldn''t see on a Ken doll, if you get my drift. Sally got all bent out of shape about it.


    "What the hell do you think your going to do with that ?" She says.


    I tried to tell her it was an engineering experiment, but she pointed out the extra appendage was just a stock part ordered from a medical prophylactic supplier, and that it cost 7,000 bucks, and I should get my damn head out of the gutter and stick to business.


    I got the synth-skin job past her though. There''s times when something that doesn''t look like a machine could come in handy, and occasionally, size matters, so to speak. You''ll remember that I''m only 12 angstroms long from my controller car to my last assembly car; kind of like a microscopic train built on nano tubes linked to a string resonance AI. I even have an independent manipulator module I can uncouple and run separately to do my step-and-fetch-it work.


    Special Dimensions takes on high-tech micro engineering problems, according to their business prospectus, so most jobs need a micro-sized operator; me, for instance. Actually, we go after any buck we think we can handle, just like anyone else.


    So anyway, the assembly finally arrived. The delivery men were ushered in by Paul, my technical liaison (read Monkey-boy, chauffeur, portable derrick, Go-fer, etc.).


    My lumpy, dumpy and stumpy assistant looked worried. Odd that. Kind of like seeing wrinkles on a cue ball.


    "Mic''s package is here, Miss Holt."


    Paul always calls Sally "Miss Holt." He also must think we are blind. It was kind of hard not to pick up on the seven by three foot crate being dollied into a front office only about three times that to begin with. But that''s Paul for you--kind of like an elephant trained to bring in the newspaper off the porch. Obvious.


    "Gee, I ain''t gonna lose my job to this am I?"


    I fired up the speaker circuit attached to Sally''s desk intercom.


    It''s only for special jobs, Paul. Costs money to run. You are much more bio-friendly, since you run on baloney sandwiches and all. Don''t worry about it.


    Sally glanced at my petri-dish next to her desk. She can''t really see me, but she knows I''m in there somewhere. "Shut-up, Mic." Then to Paul, "It''s just something Mic decided to blow his savings on, Paul. I agreed to it because it will give him a little more practice handling servos. I don''t expect it to have much use as far a our business is concerned."


    Paul looked relieved. "OK Miss Holt. Want me to open it up?"


    Sally fingered her brown hair and gestured at the crate. "Oh, might as well get it over with. Let''s see what Mic''s done this time."


    I kept my yap shut, since things were going my way, and just video-streamed Paul as he pried open the case with a packing bar, and pulled away the excelsior.


    A thing of beauty. Paul stood and ogled it.


    "Kinda looks like Miss Holt, only bald, and um, flat in front."


    Sally''s face turned red. I tried to correct the chroma of the bit stream for it, but I guess it wasn''t a reception problem.


    "What the hell, Mic!"


    Hey, I got to go with what I know. Fish around in the packing material. There should be a wig in there someplace...


    There was. A crew cut affair. Paul put it on the Waldo, and it looked more like, dunno, Sally''s brother or something. The checkered shirt from the hunter''s catalog helped.


    "Well, walk it out of the crate so Paul can clean up the mess."


    I turned on my I/O port and set the frequency band for it.


    Push the switch behind its left ear, I announced, using the desk''s intercom.


    Activated, I engaged the walking circuit and stumbled it forward three feet, where it knocked up against Sally''s desk.


    "Clumsy," she noted.


    I fired up the desk speaker again. The fine motor interface is all gel-ware. I have to be injected into the operator zone in its head to work it right. The remote stuff is all gross motor function and A/V links. I had to cut a few corners to fit the Waldo into my budget. ''Course, if the company would like to contribute-


    "Contribute money to your kinky obsessions? I think not."


    Genius is never appreciated in its own time.


    "Park it in the corner, where I can see it. I''ll inject you into it later. We have a client appointment in a few minutes."


    This is good news, as client equals another favorite word of mine, money!  A magic word, specially since the gizmo had depleted my savings. I turned the Waldo remotely and funny-walked it around into the corner.


    Sally checked her watch, then on impulse, pulled out the injector and waved it over me while I idled around in my petri-dish.


    "On second thought, look, why don''t you get aboard your new toy and do a checkout while I talk to the client?" says Sally.


    Okay by me.


    Sally loaded me into the injector, for transfer inside via the plastic seal port on the backside of the Waldo''s head. A few Terra-bits per second later I was in pig heaven, busily re-routing around the few inevitable glitches in the neural net and validating command circuits.


    One of the first things to boot up were the audio inputs (Stereo, both ears, with source location), so I heard the door open and got the eyes working just in time to see our new clients enter the office.


    "You''se must be Sally. I''m Ketch Nielsen an'' this here''s Bob Travers."


    Bob and Ketch. Sounded like a team sport. But if there was money in it, I was all ears. Sally''s business smile lit up like a neon sign, and she rose, leaned over the desk and shook ¨C it was at the end of Ketch''s arm, so it must have been his hand.


    Both of them were short and husky, wearing the shiniest black shoes I''ve ever seen.


    "How can Industrial Dimensions help you today?"


    "We got us some industrial sabotage problems," Ketch slitted his eyes and leaned forward, "down at the east side docks."


    I linked to Sally''s monitor screen and texted, I''m not blowing up or stealing anything without a percentage, especially now.


    Sally glanced at my note then casually prodded the monitor button off, all the time nodding at Ketch.


    "Why don''t you detail the problem for me, tell me how you feel we can help."


    Ketch looked at Bob, then they both looked at the Waldo.


    "Who''s she-he uh, that?"


    "Oh," Sally waived dismissively. "that''s just-"


    By this time I was fully linked up, so I smoothly strode the Waldo forward and extended my paw.


    "Rambo Savage. I''ll be your dockside agent on this caper." Sally frowned as Ketch gripped my hand.


    "Hand''s a little cold, Mr Savage." He looked at the Waldo oddly.


    "Bad circulation. You were saying?"


    "We run a small marine shop. Been working on a new kind of radar. See, most radar either at best skims the surface, or in the case of marine sonar systems, picks up nearby underwater objects. Fish and stuff, by analyzing the reflections."


    Bob piped in at this point.


    "We found a way to send out a signal that tests the surface tensions of the water. Kinda like those old time spy lasers that picked up voices inside rooms by analyzing the vibrations of the window-glass. By Fiddling with filtering algorithms we can display projections that show what''s under the water, and on top of it, all at once. ''Cause everything affects every other thing, see? Some surface changes come from currents, some from things ridin'' on it, some from stuff beneath, even way down."


    "Make us a pile, someday," continued Ketch. "Anyhow, we had a break-in last week."


    Sally looked unsure. "The police..."


    Ketch shook his head. "Naw, cops are already on that. Nuthun to do wi'' why we''re here, ma''am. We were doin'' sea trials this week, and suddenly the displays are goin'' patchy-like."


    "Worked fine last week," grumbled Bob


    "Yeah, so, we''ve checked our rig, an'' can''t find any reason for it. But the components are mostly stock--we ain''t really circuit gurus."


    Bob grunted. "So we were think''n maybe you guys could check the nano-circuits an find out what the hell''s gone south."


    "Gotta be somethin'' with the circuits," Ketch agreed.


    Bob nodded. "So can you help us?"


    Sally looked delighted. "Why, this kind of thing is right up Mr. Savage''s alley, isn''t that right, Rambo?"


    I growled. Money is money, even if it''s not exciting money. I nodded the Waldo''s head.


    "How many modules are there to check, Mr Ketch?"


    "About forty-six. Ten of ''em gel-ware."


    Sally flipped the monitor back on, and did some fast calculations.


    "We can run through the modules for you in just a couple of days. - cost you about 6000 credits though. Still interested?"


    Bob and Ketch traded looks, then our Mr. Ketch seemed to come to a decision.


    "It''ll be worth it. Better than replacing and retesting the thing a couple hundred times with this or that exchanged out. Sign us up."


    Sally turned to me, batting her brown eyes. "Perhaps Mic, er, Mr. Savage would like to get Paul and have him ready the field kit. We will have a Nano AI injected into your test bed to run a full diagnostic of the modules. Mr. Savage will be available to you if needed, I''m sure."


    I stomped the Waldo into the back room and got Paul. He smirked, loaded me up into the transfer syringe, and pumped me into the transport kit. The weasel had likely been listening at the door the whole time. That''s fine. What goes around comes around. As soon as I got hooked up, I fired up the transport''s speaker.


    "Pull the panel truck around. We''re going to take the Waldo, just in case."


    "Huh?"


    "Took the words right out of my mouth, Paul. The Waldo. Get the trundle and load it into the truck. I''d walk it in, but I''m boxed up right now. It only weighs a few hundred pounds, good exercise."


    Paul''s shoulders slumped. "OK Mic."


    Ah, the glum look of payback; applied.


    The ride to the docks gave me time to download the specs on the list of modules K&B supplied. Nothing too custom. Their application, the mechanical parts and software might be hot stuff, but the electronic hardware was fairly pedestrian. I felt a twinge of guilt about making Paul load the Waldo. This didn''t look like it was going to be a walk-about kind of assignment. I hadn''t bothered to turn my external video on for the ride, just one less data stream to monitor while I went over the specs. A screech of brakes and the cough of Paul''s motor palsying to a stop was my first indication that we had arrived. I accessed my Geo Positioning Link at that point to get an idea of where we were.


    I left the video link off, since Paul likes to swing the carrier around when he walks. Like I was his lunch-pail or something. From my vantage point dangling at the end of his arm, this is visually a little like being caught in a violent storm at sea, and the data stream usually isn''t worth the effort to process. People terms like "sea-sick" or "I''m gonna vomit" have some analog here.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Once the thump of the case on a solid surface happened, I switched the case''s camera on. K&B were doing a hands-in-pockets dance, shuffling around the ambivalently lit shop nodding at this and that, reminiscing about old jobs, and pointing out important piles of junk with their elbows. I clicked on Paul''s ear piece.


    See if you can''t get them to show you the damn thing. The sooner we start work, the less it''ll cost these guys. Remind ''em that the meter''s running.


    Paul''s hand flew to his ear and his mouth started working like the less intellectual half of a puppet act. Then he nodded, and refocused on Bob and Ketch.


    "Um, is the stuff you want looked at in here?"


    Bob caught on first and interrupted his partner.


    "It''s in the project room, back here."


    With that, they both turned and headed further into the warren of a shop. I left the video on and bore up as a kaleidoscope of views whooshed around me. Ceilings, floors, gum-speckled undersides of greasy workbenches, Paul''s unshined shoes, more ceiling.


    Suddenly it was like walking off an accident site and into a hospital surgery. We entered a room twelve feet square painted flawlessly white, and shadowless. A large work table dominated the room, a three foot long case centered on it. A little more whooshing as Paul set my travel case down next to it, then it was off to work.


    Bob, evidently the marine engineer of the pair, got busy with a screwdriver and removed a service panel from the topside of the thing''s casement, jabbering right through it all.


    "I''ve got recordings of the last two sea trials - playback of the through-puts. You can get some idea of how it''s supposed to work from that, so''s to give ya a picture of what''s changed. I can''t rerun the trial on the bench, of course, but you should be able to trace the circuit echo, and evaluate it yerself."


    Paul wasn''t paying too much attention just then, being busy fumbling with my loader. He was watching for the green light that told him I was in the load zone, which I was. It lit, and he thumbed the syringe on, drawing me into the transfer needle. That''s OK, though. I would rather have him worried about my personal safety than winning points with the paying customers. Whether this was really out of personal concern, or just because he was unable to multi-task, it worked in my favor either way.


    Paul looked as if he was missing something when he finished up.


    "Huh?, "he elocuted.


    Bob repeated himself without missing a beat. Apparently Paul and Bob lived in the same world at some sub-level. Paul put his hand to his ear (unnecessary) to repeat Bob''s commentary. I beat him to the punch.


    It''s OK Paul, I got it the first time. Just nod and off-load me into the machine. Put me at pin 27 of the master processing unit chip. According to the specs it should be just under the hatch he opened.


    Paul managed this, mumbling and nodding to himself; behavior Bob viewed blandly and without comment. Maybe they belonged to the same gene-pool, or club, or something.


    I decoupled my independent survey module, and had it run out tap lines to all the important data pins and plugged in to the MPU ground at pin 27. The stuff around me was huge scale architecture, typical of experimental circuitry. Filthy too. There were dirt and rosin blobs everywhere bigger than me. Probably looked a clean build to Bob''s eye.


    Tell Bob to let ''er rip. I''m all set here.


    "OK Mic."


    The playback was impressive, Three-Dee hulls glided over a wire frame surface map. Underneath that, fishy looking blobs piloted here and there, below that, a fairly consistent basin plot. The image let you move through it from any perspective, zoom in on stuff, measure distances and speeds. You could filter for ocean current directions, ice, all that. No color though. Impressive that even this much detail could be garnered from laser mapping and filtering sea surface tensions. I bet their data gathering array was really something. The range was apparently two miles, so the integrated picture would be useful to trawlers, or larger commercial fishing and passenger craft.


    Bob''s voice drifted in over Paul''s pick-up.


    "I am going to send the record of the second trial through now."


    I sampled everything I could while this went on. Filters had kicked in, relating the data to sample libraries, generating the image segments for graphic display. I checked one of the libraries.


    To give you some idea, it held snips of tension patterns made by eight thousand hull designs sloughing through calm water at different speeds. Don''t be too impressed. These firmware databases aren''t unusual, or even hard to come by. Nano-ROM (Read Only Memory) chips the size of dust motes can contain tens of terabytes of such data.


    One thing about people, make ''em a camera, and they go right out and take pictures of every damn thing. Give ''em a sound recorder and you end up with millions of recordings of trains going over bridges, thunder-strikes, all that. Provide ''em with Nano-Rom Library chips, well, you get the idea. Something about your kind, simian ancestry, hobbies and people''s inveterate need to fiddle, I think.


    The test went smoothly, and the final image output was the same as from the first recording, except for a big blotted out area on the displayed test site map, on the sea bed north of the testing locus. I back-checked the circuits. No problem there. The hardware had done what it should have. I send pulses out to the library ROMS. One came back a little delayed, a billionth of a second slower than its brethren, but still responsive. I disconnected and went over the schematics again.


    It would take me twenty minutes to make it over to the ROM bank, but better that than going through the whole process of having Paul try to re-site me by syringe.


    I''m going to need some time, Paul. Why don''t you take Tweedledee and company out for lunch, or something. Find out where the best fishing is around here . Have them leave the power on.


    Paul bobbed his head to this, which really must have started worrying the clients by now, since they couldn''t hear me through his bone-conducting ear piece. Besides which I need him out of the non-verbal habit, since he is not always under the surveillance of my optic sensors.


    Better make it clear to these two, you''re in communication with an active AI, not just a drone, before they call in the guys in white coats to tote you off, Paul.


    "Oh, yeah. Thanks Mic, I''ll do that. Forgot."


    Go and do.


    He did. I didn''t register any change in the clients'' expressions, though they did seem more relaxed as they left.


    The library ROMs looked OK, except the one with the delayed signal I had noticed before. The solder join to the board wasn''t as smooth. Usually that indicates the component had been reworked, but that sometimes happens. Surface mount elements are usually glued in place, then the whole board floated in a solder bath to seal them down. Occasionally an element might float off, or become unglued before the solder bath does its magic, and then the part has to be soldered on by hand, well by bot, at this scale. This gives a different joint, which shows up as a slightly different response strength to the signal. I almost didn''t bother to check the contents of the ROM, but it had taken a half hour to steam my way here on abused Bucky-ball tires, so what the hell.


    It was a structural shape library. There were squares and triangles, hexagons, rhomboids, sine curve signatures, tubes of all kinds, all matched to the surface echoes they would make under different conditions.


    Seemed to fit in with the other pattern libraries, but there were some obvious shapes missing. There were no Fuller dome shapes or octagons. This seemed a rather odd omission, though they might be located on some other chip. I checked the entire bank, but nope. Buckminster Fuller would have been incensed. Possibly Ketch and Bob hadn''t added these forms yet, but that seemed unlikely. These chips were burn once only, and I had got the idea that Bob wasn''t the man to go piloting a repair nano around circuit boards replacing microscopic chips. In fact he had said as much when he hired us. They were likely pretty careful about completing and testing their libraries before permanently uploading them into these chips. I activated a network link and spent another half hour updating my memory on Fuller forms usage. Then I considered the black blot on the scan again.


    Paul had returned from his long lunch with the clients by the time I had trudged back to the pick-up site.


    "Mic! Mic! You still there?"


    Where else would I be, Paul? Enjoy your lunch?


    "Oh sure, Mic. There''s this great little seafood..."


    Super. Shovel me out of here.


    I was soon back in my case, clients looking on expectantly at a discomfited Paul. Not being the sadistic type, and Paul not the inquisitive sort, I held a quick one sided chat with my dumpy assistant.


    Paul breathed out the need to converse with "Mr. Savage," and we went out to the truck. After that, I sent him trudging off, twisting a shoreline map under his nose, to fetch the local harbor master.


    Soon I was stepping proudly through the door in my new gizmo, doling out cold, though dry, handshakes with the clients, a lip-retracted fascia exposing my fine new plastic teeth.


    Mr.Ketch looked nonplussed when I entered, and said, "That was fast. Paul just left to get you."


    "Special Dimensions Agency offers its clients only the fastest service possible," I crowed. "Besides I have been here all along analyzing your problem - I was in the panel truck." Both statements were true, and I didn''t see the need to go into detail about the Waldo just now.


    "So, what d''ya got for us so far, Mr. Savage?"


    "There is some evidence of tampering with your database ROMs, but we have seen no circuit malfunctions as yet."


    I applied my most grim facial expression.


    "In order to be sure, I need to see the original library files you downloaded. Specifically for one particular library ROM. Can show me your loading index?"


    Not surprisingly, the original file did include Fuller''s very useful constructs. My faith in mankind fully restored, I had them replace the Chip and reload the original libraries.


    "I knew it was somethin''. Worked fine last week," grumbled Bob.


    "Had ta be somethin'' with the circuits," Ketch agreed.


    Interrupting, I asked, "Any word back from the cops on your break in?"


    Ketch puckered his lips and shook his head. "Naw. They says they are all backed up with similar cases. Technical blueprints stolen and engineering records bein'' broke into all over the city. Raids up and down all the coastal cities, too. Not just here."


    "Your whiz-bang marine system needs specific object templates to display anything it sees?"


    Ketch shuffled a bit, looking uncomfortable. "Well, it''s not radar or sonar. Direct object reflections aren''t being returned, just water surface tension and disturbance data. It''s the pickup system sensor design that''s the real proprietary part of the rig. The box is just a cause and effect engine, really. Without a quarter million smart filters an'' templates to go by, there''s not much to display. But this is just the prototype. Once we prove it works we was going to the university an'' see if some kinda math algorithm could putty in the cracks, so to speak."


    "So right now, it can only show things it knows."


    "Hey, "Bob blurted hotly, "She''s ninety six percent accurate in the indoor tank trials!"


    "On known objects and forms from your libraries."


    "Prototype." Mumbled Bob.


    "That''s fine, Bob, I''m not criticizing your gizmo. Just investigating the possibilities. How far apart were your two sea trials?"


    Ketch shrugged. "About four days."


    "Done any trials since?"


    "Not in the bay. Have ta'' go back ''an do a sonar sweep ta'' make sure the area hasn''t changed since the last test. Don''t do no good to make a test unless you know pretty much what it should be seeing."


    This smacked of ''Paul-itis'' to me. "Can we do both at the same time?"


    "Sure, I guess. I can compare ''em afterward."


    I swung the Waldo''s arm up in a dramatic gesture. "Then it''s off to the tall ships for us, matey! Remount your amazing whatsit, and we''re away!"


    We were met by the harbor patrol at the dock. I stepped jauntily forward and shook hands with the captain, who identified himself as Wescott. Ketch and Bob struggled along after, toting the cumbersome detector aboard their sloop. Captain Wescott wasted few words, getting right to the point.


    "We were told something about smugglers possibly operating out of the south shore area?"


    "That''s right," I said. "We have reason to believe the source of all that tech-piracy comes from around here."


    Ketch looked up from the boat, where he was busily connecting up the equipment. "We do?"


    "I''ll explain later, Mr. Ketch."


    The captain eyed me up and down then flicked his gaze at a confused Paul, who had accompanied them.


    "Just what sort of information do you have for us, Mr.-"


    "Savage. I''m from Special Dimensions Agency."


    "That''s not a P.I. Firm. You guys are technical troubleshooters, yes?"


    "Well, electro-mechanical investigators, say I."


    "And your information?"


    "You may see some suspicious people floating ashore about an hour from now. I have reason to suspect they might be the thieves everyone''s been looking for."


    The captain looked on patiently, and I realized he was waiting to hear just how I could possibly know this.


    "Eh, it''s complicated. Data analysis prediction...We are going to check our theory right now. Just thought I''d give you a heads up."


    Cap gave me a dead fish stare. "We''ll take the warning under advisement. Please have your office provide us with any... final analysis you make, Mr. Savage."


    The captain left looking unimpressed, but did pass the notice along to the shore patrols.


    Bob and Ketch finished up reconnecting the gizmo to the sensor arrays that cluttered two outriggers attached to the sloop. We puttered out into the bay.


    Once we arrived at the test site, Ketch powered up his rig and data began flooding through it.


    "Takes a couple minutes to start outputting signals to the display. You''ll have to be patient."


    I nodded and smiled, exhibiting the Waldo''s pearly plastic whites again. Images began to display on the monitor, and we all crowded around to watch. I left my smile on, as it seemed an appropriate expression of support.


    Sometime about here, a burbling fracas began to starboard. A grapnel appeared on the railing, followed by a fellow in a jet wet suit, brandishing an automatic flechette rifle.


    "Everyone into the cabin - now!"


    Paul''s hands flew up, and his pants got a little wetter than circumstances seemed to warrant. Bob and Ketch froze. I, still wearing my insane grin, stepped forward and embraced the guy like he was my long lost cousin, then toppled easily backwards over the side of the sloop into the drink. Flechette fire peppered the surf. I sank with alarming rapidity, having no buoyancy whatever. At some point, after crushing the guy''s re-breather, I let him go to fight his way up to the surface.


    The water rapidly darkened as I sank, but luckily this was not a murky area. The clay basin was deep, undisturbed by currents, so I switched filters around until I got a good video stream. There was a hump, growing in size on the bay floor beneath me. A collapsible geodesic pressure dome.


    A slight turbulence surrounded it, the signature of a stealth jammer. No wonder it had gone undetected by surface patrols. The devices absorbed sonar like a sponge. Something the navy had come up with. It was in Popular Inventions a while back. Besides being a good technical steal, Bob and Ketch''s black box could image the undersea dome, since their system didn''t depend on sonar. The thieves could have destroyed the prototype detector, but B&K would just have rebuilt it. So they modified the test bed, to keep it from registering dome shapes, after taking the plans, of course. A few days from now, they would move their operation right on up the coast, to the next plunderable city.


    My feet touched down, and I walked the Waldo toward the dome. Black forms in re-breathers swarmed out the bottom of it, this time fixed up with harpoon guns. Jeeze. These guys either read way too many spy novels, or spearfished in their idle time. Whatever, they were a little late. Anyway, a few metal shafts whizzed by me, a couple even smacking into the Waldo''s synth-flesh covering.


    This hardly concerned me, any more than the lack of air did. I have nothing against air, just don''t use the stuff personally. I stepped heavily down on one of the anti-sonar devices. It crunched nicely under my foot, popping in a poof of bubbles.


    I hauled the Waldo up the dome''s struts and used one of the conveniently supplied harpoons to punch multiple holes in the underwater tent. The dome started to fill up. The spy-thriller-frogmen guys now swarmed all over me, but that didn''t loosen my grip on the superstructure or stop my mechanical arm from punching holes in the dome like, well, like a mechanical arm. More forms swam out from underneath, but these had no re-breathers on and were paddling hellbent-for-leather towards the surface, passing their own bubbles. We were just deep enough where they would all get the bends unless the patrols picked them up and put them in decompression.


    Satisfied, I turned my attention to the divers, who were busy making a pincushion out of my seventy-five thousand credit Waldo. Annoyed, I soon had an armful of crushed re-breathers, and the six ¨C there were six ¨C divers were all stroking up for the surface.


    This was not an option for me, so I accessed my Geo-positioner and loped off towards shore. Not wanting to be picked up by the patrol, I waited underwater for a few hours before slogging up to the beach.


    I tried to get Paul on his ear piece, but evidently he wasn''t plugged in, so I called Sally.


    "Mic! Where are you? Paul is just sick! He said you saved his life. He said the last he saw, you were falling over the side of a boat, riddled with flechette fire! We thought you were dead!"


    I was just finishing off some loose ends, not to worry. I need transport though. I''m standing in some bushes east of the harbor, in what remains of my Waldo. Not enough power left in its cells to get it back to the shop - So I''m stuck here. Have Paul pick me up. Advise Ketch and Bob they should be able to recover their stolen engineering plans from the harbor police. Oh, and advise the harbor patrol they will need to salvage an underwater dome to get their prosecution evidence. I''m sending you the coordinates now.


    "On the way, Mic. Keep your locator on. Why didn''t you call in before? What happened?"


    Ah, cart before the horse. Sorry. Bob and Ketch''s science-fair project was sabotaged. Someone didn''t want them scanning the east bay. The crooks had already lifted the plans of K&B''s machine, and realized the thing was capable of seeing their little underwater cabin. So they came back and fixed things so it couldn''t. These people were well-heeled pros. Someone should look into who is backing them. Anyway, we took to the bay after repairing the machine ¨C-proof of service, you know. I figured this was part of the job, since the root cause of the machine''s problem was external tampering.


    "You could have called. There was no need to put yourself in the line of fire that way. You''re expensive, you know? And...and there are people who care what happens to you!"


    There wasn''t time. We were jumped at sea. My microwave transmitter won''t work underwater. My shoes were too tight. Geeze Sally! Do you really need the list right now? Get Paul down here before I get hauled away for scrap.


    Long story short.


    I got retrieved, the client paid a huge bonus, since the patrol became very interested in their little toy. I understand a uni-gov contract is in the works with a good sized development grant attached. Oh, and the tech theft ring was broken. The government is looking into a short list of underdeveloped countries trying for a fast highway into the twenty-second century. Sally says the company will front for repairs to my Waldo.


    She looked at me funny when I got back, even mentioned she might authorize the addition of my medical appliance, heh. So I guess things are looking up. So Frank, how was your day?


    ####