Wyecomb was training the pulsing blue point of a laser scalpel on a factory seam behind the felled unit\u2019s left ear when, distantly, he heard the cough of a jeep’s engine followed by the slam of his screen.\u00a0 He did not look up, but called out.
\n“Leave them on the table, Lieutenant.”
\n“Leave what?”\u00a0 Wyecomb looked up, and saw the lean form of Colonel Krieger pass through the tiny front office of his quonset and into the workshop.\u00a0 He wore a tattered issue tunic untucked over khaki shorts.\u00a0 A forty centimetre cudgel of dried, stained baobab hung loosely in his right hand; the witchstick was accepted as token of authority among the local tribe, and Krieger had enthusiastically adopted it early in his tenure.\u00a0 “Lieutenant Kotcheff tells me we’re down a doll.\u00a0 Tell me he’s wrong, Mister.”\u00a0 Krieger always used the honorific, reminding Wyecomb of his status as the only civilian on the base, and omitted the paramech’s name, revealing his contempt for it.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 His very presence in the lab set Wyecomb\u2019s senses tingling.
\nWyecomb rose from his perch at the table.\u00a0 “See for yourself, Colonel.”
\nKrieger moved with uncustomary slowness toward the counter as Wyecomb eased the unit onto its back.\u00a0 The breasts had evaporated, leaving brittle pouches of collapsed skin, dimpled with nipples the colour of dead leaves. A milky discharge oozed from fissures at the temples, unseen by the vacant eyes that stared to the halogen threads in the lighting grid above. Above each hipbone, softly serrated shadows were discolouring the desiccating flesh, remembering where fierce fingers had gripped the synthetic skin.\u00a0 As the dehydration advanced through the unit, imprints of violence rose slowly to its surface like photographic exposures rising to the light.
\nKrieger belied no emotion.\u00a0 \u201cWhat\u2019d she do – span?” he said, casually.
\n“Hardly.\u00a0 Isn’t a quarter through its cycle.” Wyecomb spoke warily.
\n“Maybe she – it – just faulted?”
\n“When a 550 faults, it shuts down.\u00a0 There\u2019s no doubt of cause, Colonel.” Wyecomb snapped a command into the air, and the scanner head on the workbench buzzed into action above the contused chest of the unit. He turned back to Krieger, confidently.\u00a0 “What we call fatal abuse.\u00a0 Defined as irreparable damage to the hard assets resulting directly from\u00a0 excessive user behaviours.”\u00a0 He gave it a moment to sink in, then added.\u00a0 \u201cIt appears to have been deliberate.\u201d
\nKrieger studied the scanner’s image, not sure what he was looking at.\u00a0 \u201cAnd it\u2019s irreparable.\u201d
\n“Completely.”
\nKrieger turned away impatiently.\u00a0 His eyes skipped about the interior of the lab, his witchstick twitched.\u00a0 “I’ll have to take your word for it.\u00a0 What do we do next?”
\n“I’d asked Lieutenant Kotcheff to supply me with logs.\u00a0 If I need to investigate further, interviews and such, I’ll need your help.”
\nThe Colonel\u2019s fidgetting ceased abruptly.\u00a0 He fixed Wyecomb with a stare.\u00a0 “Investigate?\u00a0 Investigate what?\u201d
\n“Finding the man responsible.\u00a0 I’ll need it for the insurance claim, and I imagine you’ll want to take some disciplinary action.”
\n\u201cDo you, now…\u201d\u00a0 Krieger said, slowly.
\nWyecomb stopped his work; his confident tone was suddenly gone. “You agree, Colonel, something must be done?”
\n“Absolutely.” Krieger replied, with a sheen to his voice. \u201cBut I was thinking more of you arranging for a replacement.\u201d
\n\u201cBut what about…?\u201d\u00a0 Wyecomb\u2019s eyes referred to the destroyed android.
\nThe Colonel\u2019s hard eyes conferred a moment\u2019s consideration on the unit.\u00a0 \u201cThe unit is irreparable, so you replace it.\u00a0 It\u2019s right there in our service contract, Mister.\u201d
\nWyecomb stared at Krieger, unable to believe the blasphemy.\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re not going to do anything about this – this -\u201d
\n\u201cThis what, Mister?\u201d
\n\u201cThis abuse – this vandalism.\u201d\u00a0 Faced with Krieger\u2019s complacent stare, Wyecomb forged on.\u00a0 \u201cThese units, they\u2019re not fucking toys, for Christ\u2019s sake.\u201d he spluttered, his anger overwhelming his propriety.
\nKrieger exploded with laughter.\u00a0 \u201cMister, you ought to read your company\u2019s brochure,\u201d he panted, regaining his composure.\u00a0 \u201cFucking toys is exactly what they are.\u201d
\nWyecomb puckered, forcing moisture into his mouth.\u00a0 \u201cThey\u2019re more than that, Colonel.\u00a0 They\u2019re better than any doll you ever had. You know it.\u00a0 Your men know it.\u201d\u00a0 His voice was tight, but confident.
\nSomething in his tone made Krieger pause.\u00a0 \u201cWhat\u2019s your point, mister?\u201d
\nWyecomb swallowed a boulder of baked air.\u00a0 \u201cYour dolls perform way above spec because they\u2019ve been modified to.\u201d
\nKrieger completed his circuit, walked right up to Wyecomb, and stood just six inches from him, his pale eyes boring into Wyecomb’s.\u00a0 ” You’ve been modifying these units?\u201d\u00a0 He sounded impressed.
\n\u201cMostly sub-system work so far, to give them better tolerance to the climate.\u00a0 But I\u2019ve done a few behaviourals as well.”
\n\u201cNow that you mention it…\u201d\u00a0\u00a0 Krieger clucked, knowledgeably.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m impressed, Mister.\u00a0 Frankfurt know about this?\u201d
\nWyecomb\u2019s slim modesty couldn\u2019t hide a blush of pride.\u00a0 \u201cNo.\u00a0 They will, but not yet. Nothing personal, Colonel, but field service in the Sahara is not my ultimate career objective.\u00a0 But while I\u2019m here, if my personal R&D projects can deliver better results for the company\u2019s client \u2013 well, we\u2019re all happy, right?\u201d\u00a0 He leaned forward, earnestly.\u00a0 \u201cThe point is, I’ve got a lot of work invested in these.\u00a0 I can give your boys dolls that do them better than the company ever intended.\u00a0 But they have to learn to respect what they have.\u00a0 This -\u201d he waved to the countertop – \u201cIt can\u2019t be tolerated.\u00a0 You lose an active unit.\u00a0 I lose months of R&D.\u00a0 We both lose too much.”
\nThe colonel nodded slowly, as if digesting a profound truth.\u00a0 \u201cAnd these mods of yours,\u201d he continued in a fulsome tone, his witchstick tapping at the android\u2019s upper arm, \u201cTo what extent might they be responsible for this unit\u2019s present condition?\u201d
\nThe warming air between them turned to ice.\u00a0 Wyecomb coughed in astonishment.\u00a0 \u201cYou can\u2019t be serious.\u201d
\nKrieger\u2019s expression said he was. \u201cDon\u2019t recall much of a problem with failure before you got here…\u201d
\n\u201cThe problem is your men.\u00a0 They\u2019ve got to be disciplined to -”
\nThere was a whisper in the thin air, then a shriek of shattering polymer as the unit’s midsection exploded, sending shards of synthetic skin showering to the floormats.\u00a0\u00a0 A jagged wound splayed like a huge, thickly-petalled flower where the stomach had been.\u00a0 A tremor jerked through the body and the right arm slipped over the edge of the counter, then swung like a pendulum, describing the sudden silence in a diminishing arc of pale dust. Wyecomb watched, paralysed with shock.
\n\u201cDiscipline of the men-\u201c\u00a0 Krieger spoke in a voice like buffed steel, his eyes welded to the Paramech. \u201c-is my job.\u00a0 Your job is to repair equipment. Don’t ever get confused again.”\u00a0 He lifted the unit’s dangling left arm with the tip of his stick, and dropped it onto the table.\u00a0 He paused, looked at the ruin on the counter.\u00a0 “There appears to have been an accident with this unit.\u00a0 No fault of yours.\u00a0 No fault of anyone’s.\u00a0 We\u2019ll file a report, eventually.\u00a0 Just get it repaired, or a reasonable substitute on duty, by 1800 tonight and I\u2019ll have no reason to investigate further..”
\nWyecomb swallowed, dryly.\u00a0 His heart was rioting in his narrow chest.
\n“Alternatively,\u201d Krieger continued, \u201cI\u2019ll be compelled to advise SSOC that our contractor is failing to meet minimum performance requirements.\u00a0 I\u2019ll also have to report my knowledge that you\u2019ve performed unauthorized mods on active field units.\u201d\u00a0 He was gratified to see a fresh spasm of panic in Wyecomb\u2019s eyes.\u00a0 \u201cI don’t know how well you know your company, but let me tell you,\u201d he added, almost conspiratorially, \u201cthat will be one career-killing comment field.\u201d\u00a0 The stick swished against Wyecomb\u2019s lapel, never touching his flesh. \u201c1800, Mister.\u201d\u00a0 Krieger strode toward the exit.
\n\u201cI can\u2019t do it, Colonel,\u201d Wyecomb called out, his voice quivering with desperation, \u201cI have nothing here, no resources, nothing-\u201d
\nKrieger stopped, and turned.\u00a0 His face was creased with genuine curiousity.\u00a0 \u201cHow exactly do you run a service depot with no spareware?\u201d
\nWyecomb frowned, as if the question were profound.\u00a0 “It\u2019s mostly software.\u00a0 Just download it.\u00a0 I\u2019ve got a few hard assets in my hangar queen, but nothing that will-”
\n“Your what?”\u00a0 Krieger followed Wyecomb\u2019s gaze to a plexi shipping tube on a shelf against the back wall. The contours of the draped shape inside the tube were unmistakable. Krieger started towards it.
\n“Hangar queen.\u00a0 It’s an outdated unit.\u00a0 Just keep it on hand for parts.”\u00a0 Hesitantly, Wyecomb followed the soldier.
\nKrieger stopped in front of the shelf.\u00a0 “Let me see her.”
\nWyecomb opened the hatch and pulled away the drape with a tired gesture.\u00a0 “Like I said, she’s just a parts depot.\u00a0 She\u2019s barely operational.\u201d His voice was cold, meek. “She’s pretty old, too.\u00a0 330.”
\nThe Olympia 330 had been modelled on less extravagant lines than the 550 series of comforters that Krieger and his unit were using.\u00a0 Five feet six inches tall, with slim shoulders, and less muscle mass than was now considered desirable.\u00a0 Her breasts were firm, and her thighs slender.\u00a0 She was completely hairless.\u00a0 Her mouth was wide and full.\u00a0 Her eyes were taped over with strips of matte black duct tape.\u00a0 Krieger peeled back one piece; an empty socket shone back at him. \u201cShe looks pretty much intact.\u201d
\n\u201cShe is, pretty much…\u201d
\n“So we\u2019ll take this for the time being,” said Krieger.
\n“She’s junk, colonel. She\u2019s not equipped to…to..\u201d
\n“To fuck fifty grunts a day?” Krieger surveyed the unit again, from shoulder to pelvis and back again.\u00a0 \u201cShe looks plenty equipped to me.\u201d\u00a0 Wyecomb said nothing.\u00a0 Krieger nodded, smiling, but there was no pleasure in his face.\u00a0 “We have a contract, Mister.\u00a0 Five comforters.\u00a0 Fix her up.\u201d
\nWyecomb stammered, “There\u2019ll be technical issues, Colonel.\u00a0 Protocols … permissions…\u201d
\nThere was a quiet rush as Krieger aspirated. \u201cI don\u2019t expect her to meet your usual standards, Mister.\u00a0 I don\u2019t even expect her to meet spec.\u00a0 You owe me a doll.\u00a0 I have a hungry crew.\u00a0 Just get her operational.\u201d\u00a0 He cast a fleeting, slit-eyed glance at the android.\u00a0 “For once in your life, Mister, \u201c he turned back to Wyecomb with a gaze that was both threatening and weary, \u201cFuck procedure.\u201d\u00a0 He strode out into the merciless heat of the desert mid-morning, the witchstick jumping at his side.
\nWyecomb slumped back against the shelving and slowly swung his gaze from the demolished 550 to the defunct, dormant 330, and back again.\u00a0 With no sexual impulse to confuse his deliberations (his hormone blocks were thoroughly effective) he saw only inoperable machines and impossible expectations. Finally, he closed his eyes, and saw a promising career spiralling away on a sudden cyclone of Saharan dust.\u00a0 He snapped to just as his legs began to buckle. He stood, quickly, with a rush to his head.\u00a0 On his desktop, the dedicated line to Frankfurt blinked its cursor.\u00a0 He looked, with fresh, more desperate eyes, at the 330, the 550, and the desk clock.\u00a0 And the screen.
\nI don\u2019t know how well you know your company\u2026
\n\u201cFuck procedure,\u201c\u00a0 Wyecomb muttered, \u201cI have orders.\u201d\u00a0 He rose.
\nComforter behaviours postdated the 330 by several years, and while the documentation admitted no such possibility, there was no technical reason to expect they couldn\u2019t be applied.\u00a0 She possessed all the basic behaviourals required, Wyecomb recalled, they just needed to be stitched together into a new operating regimen.\u00a0 He short-booted the unit and walked it to a workbench, and watched it lie itself down in obedient silence.\u00a0 He barked a scanner into attendance, and sent a query into its archive.\u00a0 It returned, and disgorged a lengthy scroll of outdated but prosaic instruction language onto his screen, capped with an oversized title in an inappropriately ornate font: Implementing CLisa.
\nSo, she had a name. He began to burrow into her epidermal encryption, and soon hit brick. Good brick. He pummelled it with decryption codecs.\u00a0 Gates opened, layers of security peeled away, and he pushed forward, deeper, toward her core. Meanwhile, in an analytical corner of his mind, a question was forming.
\nThis brick was too new for CLisa\u2019s generation.\u00a0 Which meant it had been added later.\u00a0 Why?
\nThat question was overshadowed by a growing sense of urgency.\u00a0 For a simple prelim, it was taking far too long.\u00a0 Then, like a spelunker squeezing through an ever narrowing aperture suddenly stumbling into a vast cavern, Wyecomb slipped through the last of CLisa\u2019s superficial defences and he pitched forward into her soul.\u00a0\u00a0 Somewhere along the way, his breathing stopped.
\nHe had read everything ever documented on C-330\u2019s.\u00a0 All the archives described the unit\u2019s interior as spacious but primitive, barely functional by current standards, a cavern.\u00a0 What Wyecomb faced was a cathedral – spacious, but packed with detail of extraordinary complexity. CLisa\u2019s core held more intelligence than he\u2019d ever seen in a single unit. Her toolset was vast, rich with infinitely refined behaviours, operating procedures he\u2019d never heard of, context patterns of incredible sophistication. She possessed expansive culture and acclimatization libraries.\u00a0 Physically, she had abilities and permissions that were troubling in their candor.\u00a0 Beyond sexual.\u00a0 Violent.\u00a0 Lethal.\u00a0 They were also disturbingly accessible, too close to the surface.\u00a0 It was as if some vital membrane was missing. Something…
\nOn a hunch, he sent forth a simple prompt.
\n>bio
\nHe opened the file, and CLisa\u2019s past rippled onto his screen.\u00a0 Every assignment, objectives and results, postscripted with the cocktail of behaviours assigned for each.\u00a0 A quick visual scan set Wyecomb\u2019s heart hammering as he read names that rang with historical import.
\nRio, Khartoum, Nicosia, Hong Kong. She\u2019d clocked kills in a dozen locations on three continents.\u00a0 She was what the company had then called a Special Diplomat, an assassin empowered to a level of independence long since outlawed in the Reyjavik Convention.\u00a0 Now decommissioned, all her lethal behaviours were intact, though dormant;\u00a0 her instruction board sat empty, ready for fresh input.
\nWyecomb riffled her basics, her essential behaviours.\u00a0 As he suspected, they were rooted in hardware.\u00a0 No amount of hacking could undo them.\u00a0 And, with a shiver, he identified that parameter, that prevailing condition that he\u2019d failed to identify earlier.
\nShe had autonomy. The power to make her own decisions, judge her own actions, decide her own fate.
\nWyecomb looked at the supine profile on the bench with a slow, respectful gaze.
\nGet her ready, he\u2019d said.
\nAt 3:20, Wyecomb hotlined to Krieger\u2019s office.\u00a0 His clerk answered.\u00a0 \u201cColonel\u2019s busy. Make it wait.\u201d
\n\u201cIt can\u2019t -\u201d
\n\u201cIt\u2019ll have to.\u201d
\n\u201cI have to speak to him, it\u2019s extremely-\u201d
\n\u201cThe Colonel is engaged.\u201d\u00a0 The speaker droned in disconnection mode.\u00a0 He re-keyed, heard the buzzing of a locked off circuit.\u00a0 He keyed off.
\nWyecomb sat on a folding stool, looking at the 330\u2019s profile, for a long time.\u00a0 Krieger\u2019s eyes bored into his memory.\u00a0 Krieger\u2019s words played again and again in his mind.
\nGet her ready.
\nHe began to cut and paste behaviours. He applied new instructions with textbook precision, noting carefully where embedded behaviours were suppressed, and by what process.\u00a0 Several, he noticed, were outdated and provably faulty.\u00a0 A few were ones he\u2019d identified through his own research as particularly susceptible to local conditions.\u00a0 He stuck to the book.\u00a0 No-one auditing his work would find any evidence of improvisation, or malpractice.\u00a0 All the while a dark chamber in his heart pounded with a fearful certainty:\u00a0 this doll would not tolerate even casual abuse, much less the concentrated violence that had felled the 550.\u00a0 But \u2013 Wyecomb allowed himself a small, rueful smile – he had his orders.
\nHe reached up, peeled away the tape over the left eye, looked into the gleaming polychrome cavern of the socket.\u00a0 She needed eyes.\u00a0 He turned to the 550; while the body was demolished, the unit\u2019s eyes were undamaged, and far from empty.\u00a0 Their opticlog would contain an encrypted record of the last user, a coded sexual fingerprint designed to be easily passed among the comforters\u2019 commnet, and a detailed recollection of the last encounter.
\nWyecomb smiled, sensing some perverse poetry in his work.\u00a0 He avoided downloading the opticlog to a terminal where his eyes could see their contents; instead, he set the eyes into the 330\u2019s vacant sockets, and booted the unit, then looked down.
\nIn an eyeblink, the 550\u2019s intimate memory of its final, fatal encounter and the identity of its last, abusive client were transferred into the 330.\u00a0 She was complete.
\nWyecomb coughed, and the gooseneck twitched.\u00a0 \u201cImplementing CLisa.\u201d
\nShe woke as they always did: suddenly, completely, with a vacant stare as they digested the updated instructions.\u00a0 Her eyes found him too quickly, and pierced him with concern.
\nThere is no target.\u00a0 Is this correct?
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\nBut I protect myself – by what degree?
\n\u201cAny.\u201d
\nThe 330\u2019s eyes did a slow blink as she processed this new mandate.\u00a0 At the same time, the data from the 550\u2019s opticlog was factored and assimilated. The eyes opened, blue and beseeching, and the 330 spoke, with an intimacy reserved for her prime programmer.
\nThere has been bad damage.
\nWyecomb met the even stare with his own, his eyes stinging.\u00a0 Something lumpish had worked its way into his throat.\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re better now.\u201d\u00a0 His words were carefully chosen.\u00a0 He could see the interpreter software running options.
\nDo you mean that I am healed, or that I am improved?
\n\u201cYou can fix it.\u201d
\nI may fix it, or I am able to fix it
\nHe said nothing, but handed her a bagged jumpsuit, and stepped slowly away, to another workstation.\u00a0 After a few keystrokes, he began dictating into his logfile.\u00a0 \u201cPort complete.\u00a0 No precedent or documentation for this adapt was available, but I believe the port is technically successful, though high risk, repeat, high risk.\u00a0 The compatibility of current 550\/v code with 330\/c logic is dubious.\u00a0 Strike that.\u00a0 Hazardous.\u00a0 The 330 appears to possess hard behaviours which may not be governed by 550 instruction sets.\u00a0 Nonetheless, I have followed orders, and shipped the 330, with misgivings, and under protest.\u201d\u00a0 He filed to Frankfurt, and copied Krieger, knowing that the colonel\u2019s filter would prevent any message from reaching HQ.\u00a0 He filed secure backups in his local archive.\u00a0 The record would survive somewhere.\u00a0 He turned to the 330, now sheathed in the thin fabric shell.\u00a0 Her eyes were large, innocent and wary.\u00a0 It was, Wyecomb noted wryly, a seductive combination.
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll need to find Kotcheff, in the supply hut.\u201d He opened the airlock, and a gulp of hot, tired air assailed them.
\nThe 330 stood, with more dignity than any machine should enjoy, then strode out into the compound, her buttocks weaving a smooth, confident beat through the afternoon heat.\u00a0 Wyecomb watched her progress.\u00a0 As she approached the end of the compound, Wyecomb was pleased to see the grunts emerge like helpless animals drawn to the charms of an irresistible\u00a0 new predator.\u00a0 They formed a small parade behind her, clustering into the narrow porch of the comfort hut in the distance.\u00a0 They were, from his vantage, a mere disturbance of the dust, bare ripples in the endless heat that beat up from the dirt and decay.
\n\u201cFuck them,\u201d said Wyecomb quietly, \u201cFuck them all.\u201d<\/p>\n
The hammering on his door came from no human hand;\u00a0 some blunt instrument was slamming the front wall of the hut, sending tremors right into his brain.\u00a0 Wyecomb crawled up through the thick blanket of somniacs, saw darkness outside, heard the strident voice of an MP.\u00a0 \u201cWyecomb?\u00a0 Five seconds, and we\u2019re coming in.\u201d\u00a0 Another barrage on the door.\u00a0 Fear encased his head like a helmet of wet steel.
\nHe staggered out through the screen door, into the grasping, tattooed arms of four MP\u2019s.\u00a0 They trundled him into the back of an idling jeep.\u00a0 \u201cDowntown, Mister,\u201d\u00a0 And they lurched away, down the compound.
\nWyecomb knew he could not be hallucinating, though he seemed to be.\u00a0 The camp was a surreal carnival of fire and anarchy.\u00a0 Torches, sparklers, zingers, flares – incendiaries exploded everywhere, lighting the camp with erratic, bewitching light. Vague human forms danced in and out of the sudden shadows, coupling and uncoupling into confusing shapes.\u00a0 The din of human voices was deafening.\u00a0 Under it all ran the insistent, penetrating beat of primal drums.\u00a0 The vehicle wove through the throng and the noise at terrifying speed.\u00a0 The trip seemed like six hours in hell, but a mere two minutes after he left the lab, Wyecomb found himself in the CO\u2019s cramped, highly lit office.
\nKrieger wasn\u2019t there.\u00a0 Kotcheff was, settled familiarly in the Colonel\u2019s swivel chaise, his fingers working the edges of a ziploc bag that contained some dark, viscous mass.
\nAnother baggie lay on the front of the desk. It\u2019s contents were less bloody, and smaller.
\n\u201cBalls, Mister Wyecomb,\u201d\u00a0 Kotcheff said, answering the question the paramech hadn\u2019t asked.\u00a0 He leaned forward and slapped the second bag beside it.\u00a0 \u201cAnd that, if you can believe it, is a heart.\u00a0 A man\u2019s heart.\u00a0 The engine of life.\u00a0 Can you believe that\u2019s all that we have inside us, keeping us going?\u00a0 Looks pretty frail, don\u2019cha think?\u201d\u00a0 Kotcheff made some intestinal noises.\u00a0 He was drunk, Wyecomb realized suddenly.
\n\u201cWhere is the Colonel?\u201d\u00a0 he asked, an edge of panic in his voice.
\n\u201cA man\u2019s whole life, right there,\u201d Kotcheff continued, his tone slightly maudlin.\u00a0 \u201cHeart and balls.\u201d\u00a0 His tone turned curious, \u201cTell me, did someone higher up order dolls that dismember their clients?\u00a0 Or is this one of your enhancements?\u201d
\nWyecomb\u2019s stomach was a volcano.\u00a0 He could not take his eyes from the two plastic bags.\u00a0 For all his experience building androids, he\u2019d never seen real human body parts before.\u00a0 The sight of them paralysed him.\u00a0 But his imagination was taking a steeper toll.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhere – is Krieger?\u201d
\n\u201cCan they all do this?\u201d Kotcheff asked,\u00a0 \u201cPhysically tear your heart out?\u00a0 I mean, as a user, I should know…It\u2019s a risk, right?\u201d\u00a0 His eyes fixed Wyecomb, demanding an answer.
\n\u201cHe asked for it.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d
\n\u201cThe colonel.\u00a0 He asked for it, specifically.\u00a0 This unit, on duty. I warned him … \u201d\u00a0 He stopped, reason taking hold.\u00a0 \u201cPerhaps I should contact my office.\u201d\u00a0 he said, as evenly as he could.
\nKotcheff studied him leisurely, his head bobbing.\u00a0 \u201cPerhaps…\u201d His eyes settled on the bags of offal, then floated back to Wyecomb, the accusation loud and clear.
\n\u201cHe ordered this, Lieutenant.\u00a0 Check the logs.\u00a0 I cautioned against it, but he ordered it.\u201d Wyecomb stammered, his eyes drifting back to the bloody sacks on the desk.\u00a0 \u201cI can\u2019t be held responsible.\u00a0 You\u2019re the ones who – you\u2019re all responsible – I had no choice-\u201d\u00a0 He was interrupted by a door slamming open behind him.
\n\u201cYou have a problem, Mister.\u201d
\nThe voice was unmistakable.\u00a0 Wyecomb snapped to, his hysteria shocked into submission. Krieger entered the office like a hurricane.\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019ll do, Sergeant.\u201d He slapped a curling tube of faxpaper onto the desk, stirring a tiny protest of dust, and settled into his chair as Kotcheff scuttled out of it. He opened a low drawer and hoisted a 40 ounce bottle of black market Glenfiddich onto the desktop.\u00a0 \u201cJoin me?\u201d
\nWyecomb\u2019s head swam.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat\u2019s going on, Colonel?\u201d
\nKrieger cocked his head toward the porthole, to the sounds of celebration, then theatrically noticed the bags of flesh on his desk.\u00a0 \u201cAh, this – yes.\u00a0 Sete is dead.\u201d\u00a0 Wyecomb did not react.\u00a0 \u201cSete.\u00a0 The local warlord.\u00a0 The bastard that\u2019s been stirring up this shithole for the past two years.\u201d\u00a0 Wyecomb\u2019s face still barely changed expression.
\n\u201cI\u2019m sure this is a good thing, Colonel, but-\u201d
\nKrieger moved in, with a slow smile.\u00a0 \u201cUnbelievable luck.\u00a0 See, we\u2019re contracted to protect the oasis.\u00a0 Nothing more.\u00a0 We\u2019re forbidden to engage in local issues.\u00a0 It\u2019s been difficult.\u00a0 Frustrating.\u00a0 This son of a bitch has been trying our patience for so long…\u201d\u00a0 Krieger smiled, leaned forward, spoke quietly.\u00a0 \u201cRumour is, he was murdered by a white witch.\u00a0 Some phantom.\u00a0 Wooed her way into his bed… Just the local gossip, of course, we have no reliable information.\u201d\u00a0 Krieger paused, looking confused, \u201cMy grasp of the dialect isn\u2019t perfect and I haven\u2019t seen the body, but I gather she removed his heart through his mouth.\u00a0 You\u2019re almost a doctor, Wyecomb – is that possible?\u201d
\nWyecomb didn\u2019t answer.\u00a0 It was all he could do to control the tremors shivering his body. \u201cWhere-\u201d
\n\u201cWhere would a man of his naturally suspicious nature have gotten so comfortable with white women?\u201d the colonel put, expansively,\u00a0 \u201cGood question.\u00a0 One can only assume he\u2019d had a long and gratifying relationship with them. Gotten to know a lot of them.\u00a0 Over a period of time, as it were.\u00a0 Probably figured they were all the same.\u00a0 Purely pleasure.\u00a0 Not a dangerous bone in their bodies.\u00a0 Reasonable conclusion.\u201d\u00a0 There was no sympathy in his voice.\u00a0 \u201cOr-\u201d\u00a0 Krieger exaggerated confusion, \u201cOr did you mean where is the woman who dealt the man this most unhappy blow?\u201d\u00a0 He let the question hang, his eyes bright with knowledge.
\nWyecomb had no answer.\u00a0 Krieger turned his head, unsteadily, to the window in his wall, which was a ragged porthole onto the African sands beyond.\u00a0 \u201cWho knows.\u00a0 It\u2019s a local issue, none of our concern.\u201d\u00a0 He looked back at the baggies.\u00a0 \u201cCurious, though, that she\u2019d leave these souvenirs at our doorstep\u2026 Anyway, all that aside, we have other business.\u201d
\n\u201cColonel?\u201d
\n\u201cYou were going to supply a replacement for the unit that went down.\u00a0 Where is it?\u201d
\nA whole new seam of fear opened in Wyecomb\u2019s gut.\u00a0 \u201cI sent her down, last night, on schedule … she … she\u2019s …\u201d
\n\u201cKotcheff?\u00a0 You take delivery of a doll last night?\u00a0 1800 hours or so?\u201d
\n\u201cNo sir, Colonel.\u201d
\n\u201cBut she came, I saw her.\u00a0 Right here.\u00a0 You know she did, she -\u201d Wyecomb\u2019s gaze strayed to the bloodied bags, and his voice stopped dead, and his eyes found the Colonel\u2019s.
\n\u201cSeems you have a doll gone AWOL, Mister.\u201d\u00a0 Krieger leaned forward over the desk, his voice honeyed.\u00a0 \u201cWe can keep this between ourselves for now – Frankfurt doesn\u2019t have to know.\u00a0 You\u2019ll sort it out.\u201d\u00a0 Krieger smiled.\u00a0 \u201cHell, it\u2019s just a little inventory problem. You\u2019ll sort it out.\u201d He poured an inch of the single malt into a paper cup and pushed it across the desk toward Wyecomb.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHave a drink, Mister.\u00a0 You look a little off colour.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Wyecomb was training the pulsing blue point of a laser scalpel on a factory seam behind the felled unit\u2019s left ear when, distantly, he heard the cough of a jeep’s engine followed by the slam of his screen.\u00a0 He did not look up, but called out. “Leave them on the table, Lieutenant.” “Leave what?”\u00a0 Wyecomb…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-161","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/161","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=161"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/161\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":162,"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/161\/revisions\/162"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=161"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=161"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/joesays.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=161"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}