Born December 29 [?], 2128, St. Paul, MN. High school: Parkhurst Gentlemen's
Seminary, Albany, N.Y. College: University of Saskatchewan, Canada, class of
2151. Bachelor's degree in Journalism and News Photography. Photojournalist for:
Des Moines "Trumpet", 2151-2152; Chicago "Tablet", 2152-5; Detroit "Star", 2155; New
Boston "Herald", 2156-2157; Albany "Times", 2158-.

Known for an especially "hard-edged" style of photography, almost art-like in
execution, but better known for photographing crime scenes and controversial subjects,
particularly his stark portrayal of the injured in the 2153 uprising in Beijing,
China.
 

Albany "Times-Herald", September 24, 2159

Mecha Throttles Five in Omaha Nightclub

Omaha, NE. (AP) Five people were throttled by a possibly malfunctioning male
Mecha, believed to be a lover-model, in Diamonds, a nightclub on Portland Street
last night after Stephane Phuong, a local college student tried to approach it.

"It [the Mecha] was sticking to the shadows of a booth in the back," says Victor
"Tic" D'Onofrion, the club manager. "I was just approaching it to tell it to
leave since we have three lover Mechas working the floor... At the same time,
Phuong came up and asked the Mecha if it had any clients that night. "It looked
at the young man with this utterly wild look in its eye, like a rabid dog. It
told him to back off, or words to that effect." When Phuong did not leave the
Mecha alone, it jumped up and tried to strangle the 23-year-old robotics
engineer with its bare hands. A waitress, Donna McLachlan, and her brother Karl
Reiner, the club's security guard, tried to separate the two, but the Mecha attacked
Reiner before turning on Mrs. McLachlan. Two club patrons tried to assist
Reiner, but the Mecha attacked them as well. All five were rushed to local
hospitals with non-life threatening injuries.

Police tried to subdue the Mecha, but it fled out the back door of the club.
They were able to get a description of the Mecha, which matched the description
of a Mecha responsible for stabbing several people in Nova Francisco yesterday [...]
The Mecha may be trying to flee north over the Canadian border.

* * * * *

Cecie was just heading out to rent a 2-D vid that evening when the phone rang in
her room.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Cecie! It's me, Frank."

"Ah, long time, no hear from. What's up?"

"More like what's down: Hal McGeever just arrived in Sin City, USA. I met him
upstairs this afternoon: he'd just got the job."

"Uh oh! That doesn't sound good."

"It is and it isn't: Finkelsteen hired him as a photographer and me as a
reporter-writer, so we're gonna be working together. Kinda like the old days
when he and I were working together in Chicago. It'll be better for him this
way, I can keep him focused."

"If he's anything like you say he is, he'd have a hard time sticking to his
work."

"Yeah, he was a little mad when I met up with him: he'd been in the city only
three hours and he was dying for a poke.

"But to cut to the chase: we're celebrating; we're having dinner here tonight
about nineteen oclock. You're welcome to join us, unless you had plans."

"As a matter of fact, I didn't, but I'll be along...about seven, did you say?"

"Heavy on the about: be prepared for the guest of honor to be late. He might
find a good piece of silicon and get himself sidetracked in a little dark
corner."

"I can manage that: count me in."

"Oh, uh, one last thing: I'd be careful about bringing Joe along: Hal might get
a little interested and that might get Philas skirts in a knot...maybe Bernie's too,
since she had a crush on the robot who looks like me."

"I can take care of that if Hal tries anything funny, and I think Joe could blow
him off just as easily. He's not calibrated for that kind of interaction."

"Okay, but I warned you -- geez."

"What?"

"Flyte must love you for hiring out Joe."

"Actually, he's given Joe the order to let it be on the house if I'm short on
cash."

"Grrrrr, Hal would loooovvvve to be in your shoes."

"No, he wouldn't, because I don't do anything."

"Might be good for him, though, to see someone who's mastered the fine arts of
just being friends with one of those."

Cecie dismissed a temptation to say, 'There's more than meets the eye with Joe
and I.'

* * * * *
 
Cecie and Joe arrived at the Langiers' at five to nineteen. The clammy drizzle of
the night before had turned to a cold downpour and the wind made using umbrellas
almost impossible. At least it was drier on the Lower Deck, but they could still
hear the clatter of rain and the steady gurgle in the ductwork overhead and
pouring down the ducts along the huge concrete supports of the Upper Deck.

Hal hadn't arrived by the time they reached the Langiers' door; Frank let them
in. Bernie and Phila, who were setting the table, both wore higher collared
blouses than usual and their skirts dragged on the floor. Cecie somewhat
cavalierly wore a maroon blouse over a black simuleather skirt with a side split
up to her mid-thigh and black leggings under that.

"I dont mean to criticize how you're dressed, Cecie, but are you sure Hal won't
get too...interested in you?" Phila asked Cecie.

"From what Frank told me about Hal, I think you could be bundled up to the eyes
the way women in the Middle East had to until the middle of the last century,
and Hal would still find you a desirous object," Cecie said, as Joe helped her
take off her trenchcoat.

"A woman who artfully conceals the charms of her body often incites more desire
than a woman who does not," Joe commented. "Men start to wonder what treasures
she has concealed."

"Well, Hal wouldn't want to see much of Bernie and I," Phila said.

Joe smiled innocently, lowering his eyelids. "I would beg to differ with that
statement until it has been proven otherwise. And even then, you would still
possess your unique graces."

"You're hopeless," Phila said, going back to the stove.

"Thank you," Joe replied to her back, over his shoulder as he and Cecie returned
to the front room.

Frank had perched himself on the sill of one of the front windows, careful to
avoid Philas ceramic scarecrow as he looked out, watching the street.

"So, you got the job, Frank?" Cecie asked.

"I've got it, but I'll be on probation for a few weeks. You hear about the Mecha
that got destroyed last night?" Frank asked.

Cecie looked at Joe, then back to Frank. "We nearly tripped on the body," she
said.

"Lucky for Cecie she was with me: I saw it in the shadows when she could not,"
Joe said.

"I called his owner, and then the security guards came along and started
questioning me."

"They held her in utter suspicion when it is common knowledge she would never
harm one of my species."

"They concluded it all by telling me not to leave town."

"Uh oh," Kip said. "Did you tell them where you were all last night?"

"Yeah, so don't be surprised if you hear from security pretty soon," Cecie
concluded.

"Wonder if the 'Broadsheet''ll have me covering this mysterious rash of Mecha
murders," Frank said. "Hal would loooovvvve to do the photography for it. Much
as I don't want him hedging on my turf -- not that it's really mine -- he'd be a good
photographer for the paper."

"Why, does he specialize in the borderline lurid stuff?" Kip asked.

"Unfortunately, yeah, we were in Beijing during the uprisings and he had to get
a dozen memory cards for his camera, he was getting shots of just about
everything -- including when that assassin gashed my neck."

"Ouch!" Kip cried. Joe cast a concerned eye on the base of Frank's neck.

"Sounds about right, the creep," Cecie said.

Frank looked out, over his shoulder. "Speak of the creep, here he comes." He got
up and went to the door, paused a second and opening it, stepped out onto the
sidewalk. Kip followed him, so did Cecie, with Joe at her side almost
protectingly.

The welcoming committee stepped out onto the sidewalk.

A throaty whistle echoed off the walls of the buildings and the ceiling of the
street.

"What's that tune?" Kip asked.

"Sounds like 'Mack the Knife'," Cecie said.

"Hey, you two-timing little runt, go home and wash behind your ears!" Frank
cried to the outer darkness.

"Oh, go scrape the down off yer jaw, boy!" a grating, nasally sneer retorted
from the nearer shadows.

A small man inside a huge black overcoat sidled up to the door. The wide-brimmed
homburg that covered his head tilted up and he peered up at them from under it.
The top of his hat just leveled with Franks chin.

"Hal."

"Frank." The two men clasped hands like prizefighters shaking hands. Frank threw
his arm around Hal's scrawny shoulders and hugged him roughly. Hal slugged him
between the ribs with his free hand; Frank grunted and they separated.

"The only thing better'n a good enemy is a good friend," Frank said.

"And the only thing better'n a good friend is a good enemy," Hal added. With a
crooked grin that showed the gaps in his front teeth where some had been snapped
off short, he continued, "Which must make me your best comrade in the world."

"After my wife and my brother-in-law," Frank said.

"Aw, you got me on third string?" Hal griped. "Damn you, Sweitz!"

"Third's better than not at all," Cecie said as Frank led Hal up to the door and
over the threshold.

Hal regarded her sidelong with narrowed eyes that made her think of a snake's.
He took off his hat, uncovering his head; he wore his reddish brown hair cropped
close to his skull, as if to conceal the thinning spots on the back and the way
his hairline had receded. He looked up at her with his green-gray eyes narrowed
appraisingly: she met his leer squarely.

"So what would you say to a little poke?" he asked.

"Hello, little poke," she said.

He jerked his thumb at her as he turned to Frank. "Don't tell me 'Ask a stupid
question, get a stupid answer'. I cant get started with this girl."

"You cannot get started with her because you are not supposed to get started
with her," Joe said, stepping between Hal and Cecie as if to protect her.

"You again," Hal grumbled, with what was supposed to be irritation, but which
came out sounding like growing interest. His narrow eyes closed down to slits,
but a smirk of barely veiled pleasure twisted the corner of his too-thin mouth.
He parted his lips and ran the tip of his grayish tongue over them, wetly. Joe
took Hals too attentive staring with a calm silence.

"Not in front of the ladies, Hal," Frank warned.

"We'll put that on pause, fella," Hal said, as Frank led the way into the
kitchen.

Phila and Bernie were setting the table as they all trooped in. Frank began the
round of reacquaintance, starting with Bernie.

"Bernie, you remember Hal, don't you?"
 
"Oh, that was a year ago; I can't remember half the people who were at the
reception," Bernie demurred, offering her hand to Hal.

He took it and smiled in a way he probably meant to be seductive, but the corner
of his mouth rose too high. "You don't remember me, but I remember you -- you mind
if I call you Bernadette?"

"Well...okay," she said.

Phila didnt lift her eyes from the baking dish she carried from the stove to
the table.

"I hope you havent forgotten me too, Philomena?" Hal asked.

"You can call me Mrs. Langier," Phila said, keeping her eyes averted.

"Oh, a formal lady, eh?" Hal said. Joe took a stance as if he might interpose
between Hal and Phila, but Kip stepped in.

"So you're the other guy trying to get the job at the 'Broadsheet'?" Kip asked.

"The other guy," Hal repeated, wagging one bony finger at Kip. "I like that:
folks used to refer to Frank an' me as 'the looker and the other guy', but I'm
digressing... Yeah, Frank and I are eyeballing the same job, but I've settled on a
photography job that just opened up. I'm better with a camera than a datascriber
any day."

"Did you bring your camera?" Frank asked.

By way of reply, Hal reached into his breast pocket and took out a small digital
camera. "Brought the Brownie camera: too much trouble to lug around the full
rig. Besides, it's just you folks." He snapped a few photos as they gathered
around the table, one of Frank and Bernie, and then without warning, a shot of
Joe eyeing the Mecha skull with a dubious fold between his wide-spaced brows.

"Are you going to print out those pictures right away?" Bernie asked.

"I might doctor 'em a little first, take care of the glare on our fine friend
here, for instance," Hal said, returning the camera to his pocket. "Anyone ever
tell you that you photograph bloody well, Joe?"

The Mecha smiled, but he did not look at Hal. "The photographer of the wedding
photos said almost the self-same words of me, only more delicately put," Joe
said.

"You would say it like that," Hal grumbled. "I took a few snaps myself, meant to
bring 'em, but I left 'em in my hotel room."

"Now where are you staying?" Kip asked.

"The Do As You Like Hotel, name's longer than the rooms are wide," Hal said.

Phila and Bernie had taken Franks warning to heart; there were six Orgas at the
table, but Phila had cooked enough for eight: roast beef with oven-roasted
potatoes and tarragon-touched asparagus. Cecie caught Hal smiling crookedly to
himself. Was that a good idea, Phila?

Kip led the blessing; Hal didn't join them, which didn't surprise Cecie somehow.
Ungrateful little bugger, she thought.

At least Hal's table manner balanced his appetite. He had also mastered the
knack of talking with one corner of his mouth while chewing and not exposing
what he was chewing. He and Frank regaled the rest of them with accounts of
their college pranks and their exploits in journalism.

"We were covering the palace uprising in Strelsoro, and we were walking through
this market square, trying to get back to our hotel," Frank began. "I'm walking
ahead of Hal, trying to cut the crowd for him, when he lets out this awful roar.
I turn around in time to see this big woman lugging Hal away, flung over her
shoulder like a sack of laundry."

"Nobody told me Strelsori women were that tough," Hal said. And no one told me
they were that good for--"

"Maybe I'd better tell the story," Frank said. Phila wrinkled her face in
disapproval. "I had to chase them through the crowd, but I couldn't keep up,
there were too many carts and people and stalls and animals in the way. I had to
notify the police and the American Embassy to get Hal back."

"That's awful!" Phila cried.

"It wasn't so bad," Hal said, around a mouthful. "She just wanted someone to,
er, love. She was the widow of some deceased Strelsori general: she knew what
she wanted, so she grabbed it with both hands."

"You could have gotten killed," Bernie said, with a note of concern.

"True: she might have rolled on me," Hal said.

"Is this why Strelsor broke off diplomatic ties with us?" Kip asked.

Frank shook his head. "It's a lot more complicated than that, a LOT more."

In between chatting and mouthfuls, Hal kept eyeing Bernie, who gracefully kept
her eyes averted not with the crouch of the old days, but almost with the
elegance of a highborn lady. He tried eying Phila, but she kept looking over
Hal's head.

He tried eyeing Cecie, but she met Hal's eye squarely. She half-expected to see,
from one blink to the next, the pupils of Hal's eyes change from round openings
to horizontal slits like a snake's.

Joe, seated on Cecie's left, looked past her head at Hal, his eyes utterly devoid of
expression.

"What's this, a double stare down?" Hal asked, coolly nerveless.

"It might be if you don't back down," Cecie said.

Hal lowered his gaze from her face to her plate. She'd never been much of a meat
eater and the piece shed gotten was tough and gristly. "You gonna finish that?"
he asked. He'd already had second and third helpings.

"It's full of gristle," she said.

"I'll take it for you," Hal offered. He skewered the chunk with his fork and
popped it into his mouth. He crunched it contentedly in his cheek teeth and
swallowed.

"I hope that doesn't give you indigestion," Bernie said.

Hal grinned, showing a pink filament of gristle caught around his eyetooth.
"Don't worry about me, Bern, I've got the insides of hyena: I can digest
anything."

"Some folks would argue you have the outsides of a hyena as well," Cecie said
with cool humor.

"You got wit under that poker face of yours, Cecie," Hal said.

As Phila and Bernie cleared the table, Hal, leaning forward slightly, started
working at his belt buckle under the edge of the table. Phila glanced to see
what he was up to, but turned away as if she feared what he was up to. The
buckle popped open with a faint jingle. He sighed expansively and refastened his
belt a notch or two looser. Cecie wouldnt swear to it, but his left side, below
his ribs, seemed a little swollen.

"Pardon my gluttony, but it's what happens when you spent the first ten years of
your life in state institutions, half-starved most of the time. I wasn't as
lucky as Frank here: he had family to fall back on when his folks croaked off.
The syphilitic whore that bore me left me to die in a trashcan, but someone
found me and took me in. The state of Minnesota stepped in, took custody of me,
and tried to find my parents: they found my mother, but she had no idea who my
father was and she couldn't get a license to keep me. When I was ten they put me
in stasis, part of the cryogenic human trials for a new syphilis treament; I'm still something
of a guinea pig: the experts 're still tracking my medical history to see if it
continues to affect me."

"Stands to reason: I think the cryo froze some of your brain neurons," Frank
said.

"See what I have to put up with, even from my friends?" Hal said, jabbing his
thumb at Frank. "So far Im told the only after effect worth noting is my
stunted growth." He shrugged, then grinned crookedly. "Makes quick ones in tight
places easier, and it's handy in trying to get the right shot from the right
angle. I've climbed up to places other men couldn't go."

"That's awful," Phila said.

"Some of us ain't lucky enough to grow up in Norman Rockwell-ville," Hal said.

"Uh, that's Stockbridge, not Westhillston," Cecie put in.

"Close enough," Hal shrugged. "Lest you all think I had a purely institutional
upbringing, I was lucky enough to get the 'Daddy Warbucks' adoption. Anselm
McGeever of the pharmaceutical company Portnoy-McGeever found me and adopted me.
Too late: fixer-upper kids are not always the walking miracles you hear about. I
embarrassed Pop so thoroughly that he paid my college tuition to get me to go
away."

"At least you had some hope in your life," Bernie pointed out.

"Precious little of it," Hal retorted.

"Need help with the dishes, Phila?" Cecie asked, as Frank, Hal and Kip went to
the front room.

"We can use all the help we can get," Phila said. "Funny you're staying back
here, I figured you'd be with the others."

"Not with the Hollow Leg present," Cecie said.

"May I offer you the moral support of my presence?" Joe offered.

"Yeah, would you stand guard over the kitchen door so Hal doesn't come looking
for dessert?" Bernie asked.

"I would gladly render this service," Joe said, planting himself before the
doorway between the front room and the kitchen.

Even over the rush of water, they still could hear the men's voices, talking and
guffawing, regaling each other with anecdotes. They heard Hals rasping little
voice most often.

"What an unpleasant little man," Joe remarked.

"Frank wasn't kidding when he said Hal eats a lot," Phila said, scraping a plate
into the trash.

"I kept waiting for him to do a Jacob Schmidt," Cecie said.

"Do what?" Bernie asked.

"Eat himself to death," Cecie said. "I'm referring to a character in Kurt
Weills opera 'Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny' who has probably one of the
most unique deaths in all of opera, not the usual death by daggers, poison and
consumption."

"Or rather, it is a death by another kind of consumption: the consumption of
comestibles," Joe remarked.

"He reminds me of Carton Jacobi," Bernie said.

"Might be the eyes," Cecie said.

"They're certainly roving enough," Phila said.

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind, but if the shoe fits..." Cecie shrugged.

When they had finished, they headed into the front room to rejoin the menfolk.
Hal had slipped on his overcoat as if he were on his way out, his left hand
thrust deep into his pocket; Cecie guessed he was supporting his bloated
stomach.

"Are you going so soon?" Bernie asked.

"I hate to break it to you, but Im afraid I gotta: Finkelsteen wants Frank and
me to report in at eight tomorrow, plus I'd like a little taste of the night
life here, if y' know what I mean." Hal grinned suggestively. Relaxing his face,
he glanced down at himself. "As soon as I work over this: take it as a
compliment, Missis Langier."

"Well, get the rest you need and I'll see you in the morning," Frank said.

"You all take care and I'll see you around the City," then to Joe, Hal added,
"Especially you, little fella."

"I beg to differ with this title," Joe said, looking over the top of Hals head
with an odd little smile, "Unless of course you mean it as a term of affection."

Hal grinned back, a low, jerking, grating noise rattled deep in his throat;
Cecie realized this was Hal's way of laughing.

"I like your style, silicon boy: you picked the right fella, Cecie."

With that, Hal headed out into the night. They heard his whistle receding up the
street.

"How fortunate we are he has gone," Joe said, with something like relief.

"I'd better get back myself: I've got a mountain of copy to write tomorrow and I
want to get an early start," Cecie said. "I'm just waiting for the creep to get
a goodly distance ahead of me."

"Yeah, he's a little slowed down there with that cropful he's lugging," Frank
said.

"I cant help agreeing with Joe: what an unpleasant little man," Phila said,
shuddering.

"I guess I was a little short on warning you all about Hal," Frank said. "He's
definitely got his rough edges."

"And that man is your friend since college?" Bernie asked, somewhat suspicious.

"Hey, someone had to do it," Frank said.

"Just don't invite him to dinner again," Phila said.

"Don't worry: I won't force you all to endure him like that again."

* * * * *
 
Hal kicked off his shoes and eased himself onto the bed in his hotel room. He
estimated four hours to digest his feed and get it moving, which would mean hed
be heading out after midnight. Oh well, the night would still be young.

He cradled his engorged belly with the insides of his wrists and closed his
eyes.

The phone rang. He cursed and heaved himself upright. He thought hed told the
front desk to hold his calls till the morning.

He reached for the phone on the desk and picked it up.

"Hullo?"

"I have what you need, boss. I have what you asked of me."

"Whozis Jay?"

"Yes, it is I."

"Jack off, will you? I need a snooze and a roll in the hay before I see daylight
again in this town. Ill talk to you tomorrow night."

"I only wished to ask you but one thing: do you require another?"

"F--- off! No, waityeah, yeah, that sounds good. Do one more and then bring me
the results. Ill see what I can make of it."

"So it must be one more?"

"One more's good enough for a story."

"As you want it done."

The line cut out. Hal dropped the receiver onto the cradle. On his second
thought, he took the receiver off and threw it across the top of the desk,
letting it dangle off the edge. He plopped back on the pillow with a sigh
that ended as a belch.

Not a good move: the force jolted a mouthful of bile up into his throat. He
gulped it back; at least it beat paying for the same amount of eats. He pulled a
newspaper over his face and closed his eyes as the phone started peeping off the
hook.

* * * * *
 
The rain cleared out by morning. Cecie stepped outside for her morning walk to
find the sky a clear, scoured blue.

On the way back to the Graceley with her weeks shopping, Cecie met up with
Raymond Flyte. Since she had met him the year before after her disastrous trip
to Westhillston, Flyte had taken an odd interest in her, more than friendly, but
utterly free from romantic interest.

"Hiya, Flyte."

"Hello, Ms. Martin.

"Have you been following the murders?" she asked.

"I have to follow them: the police in Omaha and Nova Francisco have wondered
these destructions might not be related to the violence there."

"What, it might be the work of the same malfunctioning Mecha?"

"No, they might be ARM retaliation. The culprit there was a
malfunctioning male lover-Mecha, and so far all the victims have been male
lover-Mechas."

"The guards have me under suspicion."

Flyte knit his dark brows together. "They do? They're crazy."

"That's what I thought. The only way theyre connecting me is because I
discovered both bodies, which the guards found a little odd. I'd expect them to
suspect Joe, he was there both times as well."

"They'd hold Joe in less suspicion. They know his nature and I'm known for
taking good care of my own."

"Were any of them yours?"

"No, fortunately."

"You have any trouble?"

"Not in that respect. I've just had difficulty in other areas."

"It wouldn't happen to be named Halloran McGeever, would it?"

"Yes, why, you know him?"

"Better than I care to."

"I cant blame you."

"Why, has he busted one of your Mechas already?"

"He came close. Provider-client privilege prevents me from telling you the
particulars."

"If I were Phila Langier or Bernie Sweitz, I wouldnt want to know 'em."

"Why do I have the impression that your eyes have gone 'pretty please?' behind
your mirror shades?"

"Thats privileged information, too."

"All right, you diddled me enough: early this morning, he sent for Calla, one of
my lower-budget models. She came back reeling like she was drunk. The bastard
had whacked her around so that her conductors had tangled every which way inside
her. Natterson's still detangling her insides."

"Oh dear!" Calla was a petite blonde Cecie had spotted several times; she mostly
worked the Lower Deck, like most of the older models in the City. "Is there any
way you can get payback?"

"There is: jack up his fee the next time he calls for one of mine."

"Good idea: hit 'um in the pocketbook; i's the only spot that hurts as bad, if
not worse than the nuts." A thought crossed her mind. "You got any dominatrix
types?"

"As a matter of fact, I have one: Xarga, she's six foot three, weighs
two-hundred pounds, a brunette built like a lady linebacker. Why?"

"Oh, maybe next time Halloran McGeever asks for a smaller model, send him Xarga
instead. Mind you, this is only a suggestion."

"I guessed that from the not-wholly serious lilt in your voice. It's not a bad
idea, as an idea."

"My way of venting. I had supper with him and the Langiers and the Sweitzes last
night."

"Isn't he a newspaper writer or something like that? Finkelsteen from the
Broadsheet came up to my digs last night, said he'd just done an interview with
McGeever."

"He's a photographer, or a photojournalist." She glanced over her shoulder.
"Speak of the devil, here he comes."

Flyte peered over her shoulder. "The tall one's Frank Sweitz, so I guess the
short one must be said devil. Hell, girl, he looks like a devil; fitting choice
of word."

"You speak for yourself, Flyte."

"Excuse the curse, must have been process of association. Oy, McGeever's got a
face that would stop a clock. At least I know now what to look for if ever I
have to slap him with property damage charges."

Flyte went on his way on his rounds through the city; Cecie turned as Frank and
Hal approached.

"Here comes the dynamic duo now," she said. I was just talking to Mr. Flyte
about you two."

"Trying to raise prejudice against the media, eh?" Hal grated.

"Too bad Flyte skipped off, we've been interviewing a few locals about the two
Mecha murders," Frank said.

"What's the verdict?" Cecie asked.

"Most people are concerned, but things like this have happened before," Frank
said. "They're worried it may happen again, but life is still going on."

"They needn't worry too much till it happens a third time," Hal said, adjusting
the settings on the digital camera slung from a black webbed strap around his
neck.

"What makes you say that?" Cecie asked.

"I covered a serial kill in Des Moines my first year of real work: it ain't
serial till three bodies have piled up. Second one may have been copycatting."

"That stands to reason," Cecie said.

"So what about you? Whats on your mind?" Frank asked as he pulled his pocket
scriber from his breast pocket.

"Oh boy, is this going into the Broadsheet?" she asked.

"It might," Frank said.

"Well...I'm concerned; I'm worried about Joe. Is he going to be next? We can only
hope these incidents were unrelated happenings and there wont be a sequel. I
don't want anything like this to happen to anyone, Orga or Mecha."

"Thanks," Frank said, pocketing the scriber. "I'll get you a free copy."

"I already subscribe, silly," Cecie said.

"So you lookin' for your dark light o' love?" Hal asked, adjusting the camera.

"Watch it, Hal," Frank said, only half serious.

Cecie regarded Hal half over her glasses. "That's privileged information."

Hal peered through the viewfinder of the camera and snapped a photo of her.

"I hope I didn't look too bad," she said.

Hal shrugged one shoulder. "You're not a bad-looker, but I may not be able to
use it anyway. See what happens."

* * * * *
 
The 'Net connection was still fouled up on Cecie's scriber, and Derek the 'Net
wonk still hadnt returned her calls, so she had to head out later that
afternoon to Chatters, on the Lower Deck.

As she headed out, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned around,
half-hoping to glance up into Joes green-gold eyes.

Instead, she looked dead on a level into a pair of too-shiny gray-blue eyes
peering out from under a straw-like shock of blonde hair.

"Hey, Alex, who's next?" she asked coldly. His tagline was actually "Hey, Alex,
how's the sex?", but she could never bring herself to say that. She didn't want
him to get ideas about her.

"Everyone says it will be me, but not the way I prefer," the young Mecha said in
a husky countertenor that yearned to be a baritone.

"What are you talking about?" she said.

He blocked her as she tried to walk away, his hands in the pockets of his tight
gray trousers, tucked into calf-high riding boots. "You know what I mean." He
slashed his hand from his groin to his throat.

She almost laughed, but she knew from experience that laughing at Alex would
cause an undesirable scene, with him following her and taunting her viciously.

"Do you really think I'm the one who killed those two Mechas, or are you just
repeating the bats' chatter you heard on the street?"

He took this quietly but smoldering even as he processed it. "I don't know about
bats, but I heard some of the Orga hookers over on Concubine Street talking
about it. They said you did in both Mechas. Who are you going for next? Me? I
specialize in rough stuff for those who like boisterous young boys, but being on
the receiving end is another matter."

"I didn't kill either of those Mechas."

"Who can say you did not? Have you ever really proved how much we lover Mechas
mean to you?" he paced around her, his hips cocked in what looked like a bad
imitation of Joes stance in seduction mode. It was probably meant to look
awkward: if Alex were real, he would probably be just at the age of consent: his
face had that too-thin look of most teenage boys, stripped of the puppy fat, but
not quite matured.

"What do you mean?" she knew, but she was testing him.

He stepped closer to her, putting his knee between her thighs and rubbing it
slightly. He looked her in the eye.

"Stop saving yourself and give in to your own cravings," he said in a lusty
drawl.

She kneed him in the groin, not hard, just enough to deter him.

He jumped back, letting out the too high-pitched pain yelp common to all male
Mechas. Recovering, he glowered at her, then a leering grin crossed his face.
"Ahhh, you do want it rough, eh?"

She walked away, her back straight as a board. "Forget it, Alex."

"Go on, go find the softie! Go find your wimp!" Alex taunted, stalking off in
the other direction.

* * * * *
 
Once in the cybercafé, she signed into the guest computer and found herself a
terminal. When she got onto the 'Net, the very first page, the city's home page,
carried a news item:

Local Copywriter Possible Suspect in Recent Mecha Destructions.

She ignored it and checked her email, sent a few messages, uploaded a few files
to her publisher and the businesses she copywroter for. On her IM, she
noticed Frank was online but he had his "Away" notice up:

AutoResponse from: Heroic Reporter23:
Just got the scoop on a breaking story.

Later, in the early evening, she got herself a sandwich while another file was
uploading; as she munched on the sandwich, she watched the brief sunset through
the front windows of the café.

Larry passed by her terminal a little while later. "I know you didn't do any of
that stuff," he said.

She turned her swivel char around. How do you know?

"You're too gentle with Joe. I've seen you with him: you treat him like he was
your own flesh and blood. The guards came around here yesterday asking me when
you'd logged out the night of the first murder. I showed them the cache on the
sign up, showed them your sign in and sign out times. I'm afraid they're going
to keep an eye on you the next few days.'

She shrugged. "I should be used to it: one of the perks of being a misfit. They
did the same to me back home in Westhillston, Mass."

"You? I figured youd fit in there."

She shook her head. "I was the loner girl who wore black all the time in high
school: all the adults figured I was sawing off my own shotguns at home, but all
was doing was writing poetry and short stories."

"If you need someone to vouch for your character, I'll stick up for you: I've
already got a posting up on the 'Net trying to clear your name."

She reached out and clasped his wrist. "Thanks, Larry."

When he had moved on, she jotted a note on her pocket scriber: base tech
character on Larry: he knows Chanelle isnt the cyberpire.

* * * * *
 
She signed out at 19.30 when twilight had long since given way to darkness, and
stopped by the Langiers to say hello.

She showed up as Bernie was starting to wash the dishes. "I figured the Hollow
Leg would be back for another handout," Cecie said. Frank and Phila were
clearing the table, while Kip was fixing the faucet in the bathroom.

"He knows enough not to show up uninvited: theres a method to his madness,"
Frank said.

"Have you heard about the rumors flying around about you?" Phila asked.

"Tell me about it!" Cecie groaned. "I got pested by Alex the insufferable on my
way out earlier. You know there's trouble ahead when even the Mechas are holding
you in suspicion."

"I dont know why people have to be so mean-spirited; you wouldn't do that! You
wouldnt hurt a fly, let alone...a Mecha, not that it's the same thing," Phila
said.

"I've started figuring a few things out about people: they suspect you of stuff
just because you're different from them," Bernie said, rummaging in the sink.

"Maybe Westhillston and Rouge City are closer cousins than everyone thinks,"
Frank said. "I suppose people are people wherever you go."

As he finished saying this, the square pager clipped to his belt let out a high,
electronic warble, very like Joe's medallion pager.

"Okay, whoziss?" Frank asked, turning it up. The display read in green script on
black: ShutterCock to HeroicReporter23: Got Mecha at Harlot Square.

"ShutterCock?" Cecie asked.

"Hal: that's his screen name," Frank said, replacing the pager and going to the
other room. "He thinks it's funny."

"I don't," Phila interjected.

"I guess it's supposed to be a gross pun on 'shuttle-cock', the thing they use
in badminton," Cecie said. "I don't mind double entendres as long as they're
more discreet, like Shakespeare's."

Do you have to go so soon? Bernie said as Frank came back, shoving his pocket
scriber into the breast pocket of his trench coat.

"I'll be back before midnight, please God," Frank said, hugging her with one arm
and kissing her cheek.

"Maybe you'd better stay here, Cecie; they might get suspicious," Phila said.

"If they do, maybe it would be better if they got suspicious up there than down
here," Cecie said.

Frank spread his hands. "Okay, I'll do what I can if they give you trouble."

* * * * *
 
The wind rose when they headed out. Frank flipped up the collar of his trench
coat as they quick-walked to the escalator hub.

"Is it always this windy this time of year?" he asked.

"It can get windy in the fall, but this has been exceptional," she said.

"So where were you before you came to call?"

"I was at Chatters; Larry the tech can vouch for me."

"Gathering a cloud of alibis, eh?"

"Mine are for real."

The wind whipped up under their coats as they stepped off the escalator onto
Main Plaza. Frank walked slightly ahead of Cecie as they went up Concubine
Street to Harlot Square.

The square was more crowded than usual, most of it onlookers trying to figure
out what the guards had discovered over near the alleyway between a nightclub
and a pawnshop.

In the midst of the milling group of techs and guards, Hals small black shadow
moved, stooped, like some wizard in a dark ritual. Flashes emitted from his
camera as he got every shot he could. Frank stepped in to get a few quotes on
the situation.

Cecie ducked through the crowd of Orgas and Mechas, trying to get a glimpse of
the victim.

The guards had covered the body with a tarp, but at Frank's and Hal's
insistence, they lifted it off.

A gasp rose from the rubbernecking Orgas. On the ground lay the body of a
red-headed, well-"muscled" male Mecha, clad in what remained of a black leather
jacket over a gray muscle shirt and tight-fitting black jeans. It lay with its
arms bent back over its head at strange angles, as if it had tried to fight off
its attacker. The green license tag on its chest had been half-cut off and it
had lost its luminescence, but she could read the serial number and name under
the bar code: RP-622 "Ralphie". Something had ripped open the Mecha's abdomen
from the base of his "breastbone" to what paralleled the Orga pubic bone. The
tubes and pumps inside its groin lay scattered on the ground between its spread
thighs. The lubricating and hydraulic fluids from its body had congealed with
the dirt, forming gritty clots clinging to its silicon flesh. Other smaller cuts
and slashes showed through rends in its clothing. Could these things fight back?
Maybe it depended on the Mecha.

Looking at the unfortunate with its electronic viscerae torn out, she was nearly
sick.

Stang, the grizzle-headed guard who had scrutinized her before, looked up at
her.

"Ms. Martin, could you come here a minute?" he asked.

She stepped forward. Her father, before his death, had taught her to always
comply (within reason) with a cop of any sort: it made things easier in the long
run and made them a lot less suspicious.

"Yes?" she asked innocently.

"Where were you about nineteen-thirty?"

"I was downstairs, signing out of Chatters."

"Where'd you go after that?"

"I went to the Langiers' apartment to say hello before I went home."

"I walked up here with her, after McGeever paged me," Frank said.

Stanger looked from Frank to Cecie and back again. "All right, we'll see if this
checks out."

Hal snapped photo after photo, finding the right position, the right angle for
each with almost Mecha-like precision. He worked quickly, efficiently. Not the
slightest wrinkle of disgust or twitch of nerves contorted his thin face, but
from Franks tales of him, the little creep was an old hand at this brand of
photojournalism.

"Hal, you wanna come downstairs to develop those?" Frank asked when the guards
started dispersing the crowd.

"Thanks, but I got my digital darkroom set up in my tempo digs," Hal said,
checking the battery on the camera.

Stang caught up with Cecie as she started back to her hotel. "You might not
want to leave your apartment tonight: we may be up to call."

Cecie walked back to the Graceley on legs numbed by the wind and more than the
cold. She almost didnt notice Joe when he stepped up to her as he came out the
front door of the Graceley. When she caught sight of him before her, she tried
to step around him, but he ran his hand caressingly along her arm. She looked
up.

"You seem troubled, Cecie. You seem distraught. What has brought you such
unhappiness?" he put his hand to her face, brushing his fingertips across her
cheek. He held up his hand. "I've found a tear."

"The guards just found another murdered Mecha," she said, breathless.

He looked into her eyes as if he could heal her throbbing soul just by looking
into her eyes. "And they still hold you in scrutiny?"

She could only nod, trying to force back the tears from her eyes.

"Come inside before the cold wind freezes those tears upon your cheeks."

She let him lead her inside, through the hotel lobby to the den just off it,
where a gas fire burned on the wide hearth. He helped her onto a low sofa and
sat down beside her. He drew close to her, hemming her into the corner where she
sat, letting her lean her head on his shoulder. She caught herself wondering how
many other women had wept here with their heads nestled into the synthetic flesh
at the angle of his neck. Had he just come from the arms of one?

Her chilled body warmed to the heat from the fire and the growing warmth from
inside his torso. She sensed movement, and she realized he had drawn her onto
his knees, into his lap. She tried to draw back but he had wedged her between
himself and the arm of the couch.

She looked him in the eye. "Thus far and no further," she said. He merely smiled
with smoldering suggestion.

* * * * *
 
His skin pulsed with jabs of pain, which made every step along the alleyway
painful. The RP-622 had been tougher to take out; its defense chips must have
been set high: it took more than a few pokes at him before he could slip his
shiv into its belly and even then it had still fought till its synthetic
synapses misfired and it crumpled to the ground.

He had what he needed and he could tape himself up once he'd delivered the goods
to the boss. Maybe he wouldd get lucky and the boss would render him a reward

To be continued
 
Literary Easter Eggs:
(If youve been wondering where they are)

Derek the Net wonkI borrowed this from the book" ChaseR", a young adult Novel
in E-mails: in the first chapter the fifteen-year-old hero is describing how
he finally got his computer reconnected after a long move out to the country,
but only after a looong call to Isaac the Internet wonk. Art builds from life:
my computer is off the Net because of a software screw up (which is why my fics
always appear like clockwork on Tuesday because that is the day I go to the
cybercafé.). Larry the tech is based somewhat on Wally Zabierek, the tech at the
cybercafé.

Hals broken teethEither he got them busted somehow in his wild life, or this
might be part of having had a syphilitic mother. I suspect the latter, since
kids born under these circumstances often have bad teeth; I learned this from
the short-lived, slightly gruesome but fascinating (in a Goth kind of way; they
had an excellently chilling main title theme that sounded like something by
Enigma) PBS series "Secrets of the Dead".

so what would you say to a little poke?This is based on an urban legend of
somewhat dubious origin involving the SF writer Harlan Ellison. It seems Ellison
and Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein were in a bar somewhere when this happened:
Ellison, who like Hal was a very short guy, went up to this very tall,
well-built woman and said (supposedly), Hey, gorgeous, what would you say to a
little f---? To which the big woman looked DOWN at him and replied Hi, little f---. Cecie is, if I havent made it clear elsewhere, about five-eight in her bare feet (almost five
ten with her boots on, which puts her almost eye to eye with Joe), so I can
imagine shed blow off a nasty little runt like Hal with this bon mot.

"Do As You Like Hotel" --This is the name of the hotel in Kurt Weills opera "Rise and
Fall of the City of Mahagonny" (the last word is pronounced something like
ma-ha-GUN-ee NOT muh-HOG-uhn-ee), which takes place in a semi-mythical
pleasure city, something like Rouge City without the sex Mechas, and with just
as vague a location.