JXR

"What do you think?" asked Detective Pete Miller. The slender, dark-haired man leaned far back in the passenger's seat as if the miniature diseased body floating beside him might be contagious.

"I don't know what to think yet," said Carl Bayton. He toggled the holo-image to the next picture: a young woman lying in bed, her face ashen, her eyes ringed by circles so dark it looked as if someone had drawn them with grease paint.

"How many died of this?" he asked.

"Forty-two."

"And their CATs were destroyed?"

"Every byte. Cold Cat storage was wiped down below base programming: no subroutines, no consciousness left. Nothing survived for clone-load."

The image switched to a child -- a young boy no more than three. From the background Carl figured he had died on a living room carpet surrounded by toys and his own vomit.

"The kid's parents have already cloned him and inseminated the wife, so that's at least some good news."

Won't be the same kid though, thought Carl. He swallowed the lump in his throat before it could form and switched off the display.

"Andy got any ideas?" asked Miller.

Carl shook his head. "Not enough to go on." Thankfully, his voice did not quaver.

"Well, it's all we've got. Forty-two bodies in central New York and not one damn clue. Every neuron in their brains turned to mush and all their implant software wiped."

"Nothing in the bodies? No toxins or viral agents?"

"Their blood was clean, except one of the women had a VD."

"What's Big Blue make of it?"

The Department's central AI was dated, but served the force well in projecting crime patterns. Its percentage of crimes solved, however, was abysmal.

Miller shook his head. "It thought about the case for five hours then came back with the suggestion that a human virus had evolved the ability to cross the tech barrier -- killing flesh and hardwiring alike. Piece of shit."

That is a stupid bit of logic, said Andy inside Bayton's head.

"I was hoping your AI might give us a better suggestion," said Miller.

I suggest he work a little rather than expecting me to do all the investigating.

Be nice, thought Carl.

"Andy says he needs more time and more facts," Carl said aloud.

Miller smiled, sensing the deal to come.

"You want to do a little city work, Bayton? Regular rates plus expenses."

"Maybe."

Don't play coy. We need the funds. Your account has less than --

Quiet. Let me handle it.

"I'm very busy, Miller. I don't have time to go tracking after some illness that didn't leave a trail."

"We could use your help."

"Then pay better. I make more money that that taking pictures of cheating wives."

Miller fixed Bayton with a stare that bordered on contempt, but said, "Add another quarter, but that's it. If you ask for more you're too expensive."

I advise we take it

"Add one half."

"Bayton, you're good, but you're not that good. We could nearly hire that Berkeley AI, Hugh, for that kind of money."

"If you think a machine can solve crimes better than me, go right ahead."

"Regular plus a quarter. I'm not authorized to give you more."

You're cutting it too close. If they hire Hugh, it will solve the case

Don't be so certain

I could give you statistics.

Please don't.

"Fine, I'll take it. How long is the initial retainer?"

"Two weeks. If you find out more than the Department in that time, we'll extend you another two."

"And I'll have access to all the evidence?"

"Everything we've got."

"And warrants?"

"I'll personally load your name on every one of them."

Carl nodded. "All right, I'll do it."

Miller pulled a thumb scanner from his uniform pocket and held it out.

Carl swiped his thumb, giving the City's AI a sample of his DNA as a contractual signature.

"So how has Sharon been? You two talk much lately?"

Carl shook his head. "We haven't spoken since the divorce."

"Ahh." Miller nodded. "I didn't mean to dredge up old memories. Just asked ‘cause I saw her on the cover of one of those techno-geek magazines. Said she's been crossing over into gene programming. Guess she's doing well for herself."

"Yeah," said Carl, his voice flat.

Miller waited as if he expected more. The man couldn't take a hint if it was wrapped round a crowbar.

Finally he noticed the unpleasant silence, opened the passenger door and slid out of the car. Before closing it, he stuck his head back inside.

"You know how to reach me. Call if you find out anything."

"I will," said Carl as he started the car.

Once they were airborne, Andy said, I noticed something about the bodies

Why didn't you tell me when Miller was here?

I'm not certain of the significance

What is it?

The blood samples Miller provided showed extremely subtle changes in the victims' DNA, producing a series of numbers that repeat throughout the body

What numbers?

4403JXR1

It wasn't just some coincidence?

The pattern was produced using only three acid states. By sheer number of repetitions I must conclude that it was not coincidence. This pattern was arranged by intent."

Do those numbers mean anything to you?

Nothing

Well, it's a start

"Had Rodney been doing anything new lately, Mrs. West?" asked Carl.

Mrs. West, an elderly resident of a crumbling slum house called Park Place, shook her head. Her large, faded blue eyes, which never quite found Carl's face, made her look lost.

"You’re not police, are you?" she asked.

"No ma'am. As I said when I came in, I'm a private investigator working with the Department."

"Police didn't ask much. Just if Rodney ever went to whore houses." The old woman's eyes welled with tears and she looked away. After a moment she said, "Roddy was a good boy. He didn't do things like that. Just worked and came home to help me. A good boy."

Carl nodded. A picture of "Roddy" stood on the counter of Mrs. West's galley-sized kitchen. He had been a gangly thirty-something, all parched white skin and hard-angled bones except for the gut that sagged over his brown jeans and bulged his T-shirt like a melon.

Midnight cowboy said Andy in his mind.

Yep. I can see the cord-shunt plug behind his ear in that picture

No need for whorehouses when you can have virtual anytime you like

And no worries about catching something you'd have to tell mom about when the insurance bill came in

This apartment is substandard, but the web nodes and access ports are first line. Rodney knew how to ride the web

"Mrs. West, did Rodney spend much time crawling the web?"

She looked nervous . . . no, embarrassed. Her wrinkled hands came together, one wringing the other.

"No more than other boys his age," she said. "We've all overused the web at one time or another. I used to play games for days on end when I was young."

Carl nodded, feeding her reassurance like cheese on a trap.

"So he accessed often."

She shrugged. "Six hours a day. Maybe, more. But he always made time for me. Always unplugged to make me dinner." The tears started again and she wiped them away with a paper handkerchief.

"Had he mentioned anything new about his access? Any new places he had seen? New friends? That sort of thing."

She started to say no -- Carl could see the word forming on her lips -- then stopped and sat silent for a moment.

"He did say he had met a girl in one of his games. The police didn't ask about the web, and with Rodney dying and . . . and everything, I didn't remember to tell them."

"This was a girl he met in virtual?"

"Yes. All they asked about was whorehouses and drugs. It makes me so --"

"Mrs. West, did he tell you the girl's name?"

"Let me think. It started with a J -- Janet or Jennifer." She brightened. "Jennifer, that was it. I remember because that was my grandmother's name."

"Just Jennifer? Anything else?"

"No."

"What game did he meet this Jennifer in, Mrs. West?"

"I don't know."

"Did Rodney play a lot of games on the web?"

She was quiet a moment, then said, "Rodney fairly lived on the web."

Andy remote accessed Rodney's web node even before Carl had left the apartment. The Department's warrant was still in effect, giving him access to Rodney's entire virtual life.

Mrs. West didn't downgrade the service since Rodney's death. It's Sans-Optic, off the local government grid -- probably spliced, but well done

Carl handed Mrs. West a holo-card with his logo flashing an inch off the faux vellum surface and made his way down the hall, his senses taunt, ready for the would-be mugger or petracaine junky. You could never be too careful in a place like this.

How many games was he accessing?

Eighteen and he paid for none of them

So he was a good cowboy

I've already vetted five. He had contact with three different people called Jennifer. But there's bound to be more. I'll let you know when I finish. Should only take another ten minutes

Carl made it to the car without incident. The day was cold and wet. The rain made this part of the city smell like a sick animal -- a dog maybe.

I've completed the vetting. Rodney had dealings with seventeen people called Jennifer over the past year. Of those, six were male, eight female and two accessed the web through shadowed accounts. I have broken one of the shadows. It belonged to Jennifer Hong of Sydney Australia: a Communications student and part-time virtual prostitute

Gotta pay for school somehow thought Carl. What about the other shadow?

I have followed it through forty-two individual nodes, most of university and corporate proprietorship. After that the leads die. It is impossible to backtrack the feed any further and I have no idea where it originated

"Okay. For now the others don't matter. We're only concerned with this one that didn't follow." Carl started the car and joined a slow line of traffic scuttling north along the low ghetto rooftops. "If the trail is shadowed and it is linked to another of the victims, then we'll have a suspect."

Carl thought the address he wanted and confirmed it in the car's computer with a series of blinks. Then he reclined in his plush seat to stare at the roof liner.

Show me the pictures we got from Miller -- the kid first

A tiny image appeared in the lower right periphery of Carl's vision. He looked at it, blinked to latch it, then dragged it to the fore where it filled his vision like a stained glass window, one he could focus on or not at his leisure.

As before, the boy lay in a pool of his own vomit, a wooden train -- all primary colors -- gripped in one chubby hand. Sunlight dappled his blonde hair -- something the photographer should have cut out, but maybe he didn't have the heart -- and though his skin was pale, his cheeks sunken, the child looked beatific, like a cherub.

"Like he's sleeping," said Carl in a quiet voice, feeling his own mind dozing.

What you're doing is not healthy

Carl came fully awake.

"What are you talking about?"

You miss your wife and son. Staring at pictures like this cannot help that situation

"The hell you know about it?"

I know all the details. And I know the human preoccupation with death, especially as it pertains to loved ones

Carl blinked the kill pattern and the image vanished.

"Mind your own business, Andy."

As always, the program in his brain silenced, and Carl felt not a hint of him inside or outside his head.

Stupid psychiatric automaton. What did he know about "the human preoccupation with death"? He would never die, not really. His SpearCast downloaded an updated version of his consciousness to a central databank every forty-eight hours.

Chimera Systems, the monster conglomerate that created Andy, said this was to protect the client. According to corporate dogma, the sentient program could be checked for malfunctions in its core routines, updated so that if it was ever damaged the user could download the newest version within one business day, and generally vetted by a powerful central AI that understood its every nuance.

Andy knew death the way fish know flight. He would never taste it -- could never understand it. His virtual existence would go on long after Carl's real one ended.

The image of the dead boy crept into Carl's mind again, not reverse projected onto his retina this time, but cast in the murky shades of memory.

"What was that boy's name?

Asa Blackman

Would Asa's parents name his clone Asa? No doubt they would. He had only been two -- not old enough to make an indelible impression on his parents; not if they didn't want to see it anyway. In a year they would be saying how the new Asa was just like the old.

The original would not be missed.

It took twenty minutes to fly eight blocks in the congested airways.

Carl parked, armed the car for lethal -- such measures were legal in this part of the city -- and rang an old-fashioned door buzzer on an ancient brownstone.

"Who is it?" asked a tentative female voice through a tiny speaker.

"Carl Bayton with the Department. I spoke with you on the phone. May I --"

The front door buzzed open.

Asa's mother was short, no more than five foot one, and sickeningly slim. She sat on a threadbare recliner. Carl sat opposite her on a sofa that, by the smell, served mostly as a cat box. Between them stretched a tattered brown and yellow carpet, alternately stained and bald in widening spots. Carl recognized it from the Asa Blackman holo.

How the hell did these people afford cloning the kid?

Death benefit paid for by the mother's parents

"Mrs. Blackman, I'm sorry for your loss," said Carl, by way of getting the conversation started.

The woman nodded and several strands of black hair fell across her dark eyes. She might have been beautiful once, with her high cheekbones, full lips and well-formed nose. But her eyes were bloodshot, her lips cracked to bleeding and dark circles painted the sagging pale-white skin on her cheeks.

Has this woman got the virus do you think? asked Carl. Any sign of it?

None

But she looks ill. Show me her vitals --

I will, if you wish, but I don't think this woman is sick from a viral infection

Oh, that's right, pregnancy. She's carrying Asa's clone

I do not believe pregnancy is the primary cause. By her vitals I suspect this woman is a petracaine user. She has sprayed within the last hour and is still moderately high

With an effort, Carl kept his face blank, though his lip wanted to curl into a sneer.

The baby?

No heart rate, but the pregnancy is still in its early stages

Carl's own heart rate elevated. A soft envelope of anger slid over him. He did nothing to quell it.

May I suggest you take a moment to calm yourself? A bathroom is just down the hall on the --

"Mrs. Blackman, did you shoot petracaine when you were pregnant with the first Asa?" asked Carl, his voice surprisingly conversational. "Or do you just not care about the new baby since it's just a clone?"

For a moment the slack-eyed woman seemed oblivious to Carl's stinging question and then an uncomfortable knit furrowed its way across her brow, as if she had just tasted something unpleasant.

"What?" she asked, her eyes scrabbling for focus on his face.

"You're spraying. I should have known it soon as I saw your face, but no matter how long I do this stuff I just never expect a mother junkie."

"You can't come in my house accusing me of spraying." She said the words, but her heart wasn't in them. By her demeanor, her tone, Carl figured he wasn't the first person to make that accusation. In fact, she probably relied on the system; he had seen it before. A couple of nights in lock-up would probably get her clean and give her a free checkup on the baby.

All this he saw in her dead eyes.

This woman needs help said Andy.

She needs a wakeup call

I should think you of all people would have more compassion than most

Andy, no one hates a junkie more than a former junkie

"Is your husband here?" said Carl.

She swallowed. "No."

Someone is moving in the bedroom. Possibly male

Although Carl heard nothing Andy could process the minutest sound, scent, or vibration and interpret it into useable data, using Carl's human senses far beyond human capacity.

"Is he spraying in the back?"

Her eyes flitted away from Carl's face to the bedroom door then back again.

"No."

Carl didn't give her a second to react. He sprang to the door and flung it open.

Mr. Blackman sat on the edge of a yellowed mattress on the floor, a small slide-sprayer in one hand. He was naked to the waist with only a pair of gray, hole-ridden boxers to cover his loins. With the fingers of his free hand he spread open one eyelid -- not even bothering to look around when Carl came through the door -- and squirted three misty hits of petracaine into his exposed eye. The little cloud was red as blood. It colored his eyeball pink.

Only when it was done did Blackman bother to look at Carl. The junkie looked dead.

"The hell are you?"

Carl kicked the sprayer from Blackman's hand then took a greasy fistful of hair and dragged him from the mattress.

"What are you doing?" screamed Mrs. Blackman, though Carl had already begun to think of the couple as Junkie and Mrs. Junkie.

"You gave it to Asa, didn't you fuckhead? You gave him petra!"

Carl, you are making irrational assumptions. You cannot --

Carl put a knee high on Mr. Junkie's back and pulled his hair. Mr. Junkie yelped but was too stoned to offer any real resistance.

Mrs. Junkie slapped ineffectually at Carl's shoulder.

"Get off him!"

"Tell me what you did," said Carl. He had bent down and spit the words into Mr. Junkie's ear.

"Don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Tell me!" Carl wrenched Mr. Junkie's head back and felt the tiny, satisfying pops as many hundreds of hairs ripped from the man's scalp.

Mr. Junkie screamed. "I gave it to him. Just a little, 'cause he asked me for it when he saw me spray. He liked it."

"And when he died, you knew better than to take a spray off that batch, right?"

Mr. Junkie said nothing.

Mrs. Junkie stopped hitting Carl, backed away a step and fell to her knees.

"Oh, Bobby, no."

"It's okay babe. We're getting him back anyhow. So it's okay."

Carl let go of Mr. Junkie and left the apartment.

How did you know? asked Andy as Carl made his way down the stairs.

I didn't

That confession was given under duress. No chemical agents were found in Asa's blood. If he had taken petracaine before he died, the tests would have found it

Penny cleansers can wash petra out of your system in hours, Andy. Just because the Department didn't find any doesn't mean it wasn't there earlier

Do you believe the agent that killed Asa Blackman and the others was spread through petracaine?

I don't know. Maybe. Was there any indication that Rodney was a user?

No arrest record. His checking account fluctuated daily, but never emptied

We'll need to check out a few more of the victims. For now, call Detective Miller and tell him about Mr. Blackman's games with Asa

Carl's house stood nestled in three acres of green forestland. No driveway led to it, only several pedestrian single-tracks that meandered towards the lake or a larger footpath connecting to the national forest ten miles west.

The house AI had the lights on and a pre-selected dinner ready by the time Carl landed. Warm electric light glowed behind the living room shades, attracting bugs.

You should sell this house and move closer to the city

"Why?"

It makes you sad

"You can't read my inner thoughts, Andy."

No. But I can read your body. You exhibit classic signs of depression every time you see this house

Carl slipped off his shoes and coat, letting them drop to the floor, then collapsed onto the soft-cushioned sofa Sharon had picked out five Christmases ago.

"Carl, I have dinner prepared for you in the kitchen," said the sultry, feminine voice of the house AI.

"Trash it. I'm not hungry tonight."

He lay still for a time, listening to the crickets chirruping away their lives. After a while he said, "I'll never sell this house, Andy."

Why not?

"Everything that was ever good about my life happened here. I know you can't understand that, or won't anyway. But it's how I feel."

Many bad things happened here as well

"Go to sleep, Andy."

Carl was frantic. Even through the thick haze of petracaine his head buzzed with fear and his heart beat a ragged percussion in his chest.

His boy was missing. He had searched everywhere. Upstairs and down, across and around.

The room tilted and jived, threatening to dump him on the carpet, but he kept his feet. Somewhere a bird was singing too loudly, too loudly like a little drill in Carl's head.

Andy said be still -- listen, smell, feel. Carl did his best. It wasn't easy with the room weaving around him like coarse thread, no one part connected to another.

Not inside. Andy said his boy was not inside and that meant outside. That meant the air, the water and the woods.

Sunlight stung him, but not just his eyes, his inside self, like hot sauce on the brain. Andy made him stand still again and listen, listen, listen.

Nothing.

Sharon could help. But she was on the net. She hated disturbance. Words were too slow when she was surfing -- she had no time for that type of nonsense.

Andy called the police. The police. Carl was police, but Andy said they needed more.

Where was John?

Outside. Sunlight still stinging and lake water bouncing it around like . . . like sunlight on water.

Sharon screamed and Carl's heart renewed its drumming -- not much faster now, but powers of ten stronger.

God that scream.

Look, there's Jonathan Xavier. Right there in mommy's arms, dripping, drooping, limp.

Sharon's eyes red with terror -- red with rage.

The dream swirled away, taking Sharon's screams with it -- taking Sharon and their son too.

Carl woke with the dawn, his bedroom windows colored blue with morning light. He felt like he hadn't slept though he remembered dreaming.

We should get an early start; we have a case said Andy inside Carl's muzzy head.

"You get an early start," said Carl, his voice deep from lack of use. "I'm sleeping."

He awoke hours later, the afternoon sun bathing his room in hot yellow light. He felt rested, but disoriented. Sleeping late always did that. It caused him to lose track of little things like meals and days. With an effort, Carl made himself shave and shower and dress in his usual working suit: brown creased slacks, short-sleeved shirt, and comfortable leather shoes. Sometimes, when the dream came, it helped to follow a routine. But not today.

The dream shadowed him, always on the periphery of his conscious thoughts. Now and again he heard Sharon screaming far in the distance, saw the lake, smelled the musty shore.

You're very quiet this morning said Andy as they flew into the city.

"You know I had the dream again."

You don't like for me to mention it

Carl switched to autopilot and downloaded the morning edition of the Times on a flimsy. Rape, murder, government and corporate corruption -- nothing new.

He dropped the flimsy into the passenger's seat.

"What do we have on this case? The Jennifer shadow that touches Rodney and petracaine that touches Asa Blackman, right?"

Finding a link between the two would help

"Then we need to shake some petracaine out of Roddy, because I'm not going back to see the Blackmans."

There are forty other victims to consider

Carl nodded. "Any of them have links to petracaine?"

Twenty-six were convicted on charges related to petracaine use or sale

"Well, surely the Department saw this. Big Blue, clueless as it may be, didn't miss that kind of correlation."

It used that specific correlation to derive its theory of human viruses mutating to attack bio-tech components

"So, we won't go down that road. But I agree with Big Blue, the drugs had something to do with the deaths."

That does seem likely

"What about the shadow? Can you find a link to any of the other victims?"

I ran an all night search of every victim's cyber life

"And?"

Sixteen have had contact with a shadowed account in the last two years

"The same account Roddy's Jennifer used?"

Impossible to know. This account never uses the same path twice and its encryption is based on phase frequency shifting. I cannot isolate any identifying resonance to follow

"Think there could be an AI behind it?"

Possibly. But it would have to be one developed outside government oversight. Approved programs would not be capable of such duplicity

"A homemade AI? Seems unlikely anybody could build that without getting caught. They'd need resources you can't buy off the shelf."

Exactly

"You know I love puzzles.”

Yes

“Well this is a good one.”

The car slowed and dropped out of highway traffic into a residential airway. The houses here were small, but well maintained. Nothing like the two slum buildings Carl had visited the day before.

They landed in front of a house built according to the same design as every house in the neighborhood: a small white façade of plastic brick, a vinyl picket fence, and a narrow gravel path leading to the door.

A sallow-faced man dressed in wrinkled brown slacks and a stained white shirt answered the door at Carl's knock.

"You the P.I. that called?"

"Yes."

He waved Carl inside, kicking assorted pizza boxes and piles of dirty laundry out of the way. They sat at the kitchen table on hardwood chairs, the debris of a long ago eaten dinner between them. The food caked on the dishes smelled rancid.

"Mr. Shriver, I have a few questions about your wife's death."

"Of course you do, why else would you be here?"

"Did your wife use the web often?"

"Not much. Just for talking with her sister in Kansas City and maybe searching for designs."

"How many hours a day did she spend working on the web?"

"Maybe three. Most of her work was local, so she didn't have to design on the web very often. It was all real world work, redesigning storefronts, that sort of thing. Respectable."

"So she didn't have a cortical implant?"

"Hell no. You know how much those things cost? And I don't care how much you spend, they can't make them invisible. Looks like a damn tick under your ear."

"Did your wife ever use drugs?"

Shriver flinched, but it wasn't the kind of movement that telegraphed guilt. This was shock and instant anger.

"I don't have to listen to this," he said, his voice barely controlled. "You get out of my house."

"I'm not trying to offend you, Mr. Shriver. I'm just trying to --"

"Get out!" The small man came around the table and made to grab Carl's arm, but Carl moved too fast. He spun away and stood over Shriver who seemed not at all intimidated by Carl's superior size.

"I didn't mean to offend you, sir. I'll go, but if you think of anything that might help in this case, anything your wife was doing in the last few months that seemed strange, please let me know."

He tried to give Shriver a card, but the little man flung it away.

The door slammed behind him the moment Carl passed through the frame.

He seemed very protective of his wife's honor

"That's normal."

You don't think he was hiding anything? Couldn't his rage be an indication that Mrs. Shriver had been taking drugs?

Carl started the car and rose to join traffic.

"I don't think so. I get the feeling he was just angry because I dared to ask."

So you don't believe Mrs. Shriver guilty?

"I didn't say that. I still believe our hunch about the petracaine is true: it was either that or the web that caused the illness. Maybe both. But regardless, whatever she had been doing, Mr. Shriver didn't know about it." Carl keyed in the address of the next victim and let the car take him there.

I have found no links to the Jennifer account in Mrs. Shriver's computers

"Then she was either a junkie, or we're following the wrong trail."

No arrests, but her personal checking account fluctuated greatly in a weekly pattern of withdrawals during the last six months before her death. Small hits that could have been used for petra deals

"Pull up her calls for the last six months. Did she call any irregular numbers outside her usual list? Her husband said she did mostly local work, so exclude any clients. Look for someone outside her normal pool of friends."

Only three calls fit that criteria in the last six months; none to the same number

"Okay then, who, outside of clients, did she call the most?"

A woman named Tara Zuckermann

"Call her. She's our next stop."

Sunlight had moved into New York for the afternoon, making an otherwise blustery February day comfortable. Carl landed on the street in front of Tara Zuckerman's upscale condo. It was a gray building festooned with black windows and decorated with green shrubs and cold weather flowers.

A real old fashioned doorman greeted Carl as he climbed the stone steps leading to the lobby. He wore a peaked cap, blue vest with matching pants, and thin white gloves.

"On whom are you calling tonight, sir?" he asked, his demeanor subservient, his eyes challenging.

"Ms. Tara Zuckerman."

"Is she expecting you?"

"Yes."

"One moment." The doorman pressed a finger to his lower jaw, his eyes downcast. Carl could see that he was sub vocalizing; probably accessing a building AI or maybe Ms. Zuckerman's apartment directly.

The elevator chimed -- a quaint sound to Carl -- and the doorman looked up, unsurprised.

"You may go up, sir," he said.

"Thanks."

The halls were carpeted in plush red shag, thick as a bear's hide. Carl took a moment to flatten his collar then rang the bell.

A beautiful woman wearing a pleated black skirt and a tight-buttoned cream top answered the door. Her blue eyes were dark as the Pacific, her shoulder length hair blonde and shining.

"Mr. Bayton."

"Ms. Zuckerman, nice to meet you."

She stepped aside and let him enter. Her condo was large as Carl's house and filled with wood furnishings, books and art.

She has a full web node in the study

"Would you like a drink?" she asked, pouring herself a glass of bourbon.

"No thank you."

"Have a seat."

Carl sat on the edge of a soft sofa that had never seen a cat. He was acutely aware of Tara Zuckerman's body, which her clothes showed to good effect.

"Ms. Zuckerman --"

"Tara."

Carl nodded, "Tara. I'd like to ask you about Mrs. Anna Shriver. You two were close friends?"

"The best of friends."

"Did you notice anything different about her behavior in the last six months? Anyone new she was speaking to on the web or perhaps a change in her normal routine?"

Tara Zuckerman sighed and looked into her glass. She took a sip and said, "I've already spoken with the police, Mr. Bayton."

"Yes, but the Department didn't solve your friend's murder. Perhaps if you speak with me, I can help bring some resolution to Mrs. Shriver's death."

"Murder? They said it was a virus."

"I have reason to believe the virus was manufactured. Anything you could tell me might help find who engineered it."

Tara was quiet a moment, still staring into her bourbon.

"I couldn't tell the police."

"Tell them what?"

She seemed to consider for a moment, then looked Carl in the eyes and said, "I don't want trouble."

"I'm investigating Mrs. Shriver's death, Tara, but I'm not a cop. If something happened, something germane to this case, you can tell me in confidence."

She nodded. "We were playing with petra these last few months."

Then it's the petracaine said Andy.

But Roddy didn't take it

We haven't found any clue that he did, but I can only conclude he must have been on the spray

Slow down. This begs the question, why did Anna die and not Tara

"How often?"

"Not often, really. Just once or twice a month. She was terrified Marty, that's her husband, would find out."

"We've met. Did Anna ever mention meeting anyone new on the web? Someone named Jennifer, perhaps?"

Tara shook her head, but her eyes widened and she looked afraid all over again.

"Ms. Zuckerman, where did you get the petracaine?"

"Am I'm going to jail?"

"No. I just want to find out what killed Anna Shriver."

"I got it from a woman." Tara paused, and then said, "She called herself, Jennifer."

Our link said Andy.

"Where did you meet her?"

"I don't really want to say."

"I understand your hesitancy, but if you don't help me there may be more deaths. I have a feeling you came very close to sharing your friend's fate, Ms. Zuckerman."

Tara brushed a few strands of white-blonde hair behind one delicate ear. Tears were forming in her eyes.

"I didn't mean for Anna to get sick. You don't think it was the petra that killed her, do you?"

"I don't know."

"It was at a plug bar on tenth called Shunter's."

"Thank you, Tara. I only have one more question. Do you think Mrs. Shriver ever sprayed alone?"

Tara swallowed. Two tears slid down her cheeks.

"We were only supposed to be experimenting, but Anna. . . she kept using, even when I wasn't around. I think she was addicted."

"Thank you, Tara. You've helped immensely."

The phone rang as Carl flew towards the west side of Manhattan, the Hudson slinking by like an enormous snake below him.

Detective Miller's face appeared.

"Hello, Carl."

"Pete."

"You were right about Blackman. He confessed giving the kid petra. But you might want to watch out for the next few weeks, he's still talking about getting a lawyer to take you to court."

"I have a feeling he'll have all the court he can handle for a while."

"Don't forget the missus. She's facing six years for her own abuse of a minor charge."

"Good."

"So, found anything new? Any leads?"

"Nothing solid. Just doing the legwork."

"I thought we already did that."

"Never hurts to retrace a few steps."

Silence from Miller's end, then, "Listen, Carl, I know the Blackmans probably dredged up some old memories. You know if you ever need to talk I'm here. And the captain wouldn't be adverse to you seeing the Department psych if --"

Carl shook his head. "I'm fine, Pete."

Miller nodded. "Alright. Well do let us know when you turn something up."

"I will." Carl deactivated the connection.

Speaking about Jonathan Xavier's death with the Department psychologist might be beneficial

"Running five miles a day might be beneficial too, but it hurts like hell, and I'm not going to do it."

Carl stared out the car window, wishing he could be alone.

Since Shunter's didn't open till 1800, Carl had dinner at a roof side bistro, savoring the strong Cantonese flavors with a cold beer while he reviewed the case facts with Andy.

Forty-two people died of some agent that is probably transferred through petracaine use. But not all of our victims have ties to petracaine. That about sum up our case so far? thought Carl as he stared out over the rundown sky scrapers on this side of the Hudson.

Yes, but at least the numbers match. Twenty-six were known petracaine users. The remaining sixteen either received the agent through undocumented petracaine use or by some other vehicle

Well, obviously. But what other vehicle? There was no pill or smoke form of the drug. And nothing else linked the two groups.

Carl froze, chopsticks filled with Si-my half raised to his mouth. Thoughts folded in upon thoughts, his mind racing, as some large part of the puzzle began to reveal itself like sand blown quickly away from a buried mirror.

Carl knew Andy could sense the rising level of brain activity inside his master's skull, but the sentient program knew enough to exercise patience.

Carl dropped his chopsticks back into his plate.

We've been staring at this from the wrong side, my friend

How so?

Was there excitement in Andy's silent voice? Or was Carl simply anthropomorphizing his wise parasite?

We were looking for one cause -- like standing at the point of a fork in the road and staring down the single track running off to the horizon. You think it's just one road, but it's three

I do not understand

The agent we're looking for didn't use a single mode of transport

The evidence indicates that it did not pass from victims to other human beings or computer systems. I don't see what you --

Shut up for a minute. Listen. We were trying to link the two disparate groups of victims: those linked to petracaine use and those who were not. But what about a link between the non-users? What commonality exists in that group?

Heavy web use

More than that. I bet all of them were playing the same game or participating in the same kind of virtual sex on the web, something like that

Andy was quiet a moment and Carl knew he was searching for data. The sound of traffic swishing by overhead filled the air like a distant waterfall.

Then Andy said, While I cannot find conclusive evidence for virtual sex practice for two of the sixteen non-petracaine users, I must agree with your theory. The other fourteen frequented virtual brothels and orgy houses

That must be how Roddy received the agent

But why only these select few? asked Andy. If this delivery system acted like normal malicious code, it would have infected millions, possibly billions, of web users

It was a test run. Our killer hates two kinds of junkie: drug and virtual sex. He wasn't looking to kill everyone on the web, just his chosen demographic

If this was a test, then what will the real attack look like?

Carl pushed his plate away and signaled the waiter for his check.

Andy, I don’t want to know

The sun sat low on the western horizon, casting this side of the city into the shadows of much higher buildings surrounding it as Carl headed down to street level.

Tech-verve music thrummed against the cool evening air, streaming from the surrounding bars, creating a dissonant wall of sound in the darkness that made Carl's ears buzz with feedback. He sidled his way through the crowds of young people dressed in black and purple. They gleamed with silver jewelry; most of it displayed in pierced flesh, and smoked contraband cigarettes while slouching in groups against the worn facades of bars and rundown restaurants. Many eyed Carl as he passed, but no one bothered him.

Shunter's had no bouncer, only a four-armed robot sentry that hung from the double door frame like a spider.

It extended a thumb reader as Carl approached. Carl touched the thing and the sentry launched into its preprogrammed pitch.

"Good evening Carl Bayton. You are new to our establishment. Would you like to hear our specials?" Its voice was male, deep and gravely.

"No thanks."

"Would you like --"

"I'm just going to the bar."

"Then please watch your step as you descend."

Carl walked down three glowing steps and found himself in a very dark room. Small, round tables dotted the floor, most of them occupied by two or three people. Carl could see the shunt-taps, most of them daisy chained, hooking everyone in the large room to the bar's virtual rooms through their cortical implants.

The access here was free, but only a certain kind of crowd would bother using it since it didn't connect to the larger web.

Despite the hard-edged music, which was quickly numbing Carl's ability to hear anything at all, the patrons of Shunter's were very quiet.

Carl took a stool at the bar. The bartender approached and said, "Care for a beer and tap?"

"Beer, no tap."

The bartender shrugged and put a beer and empty glass before him.

This is a thinly disguised virtual whorehouse said Andy in Carl's head.

So I gathered

Carl waved the bartender over.

"Who can I talk to about getting some petra?" he said, his voice as low as he could make it and still be heard over the music.

"I don't do petra man. Go find a junkie to ask."

That didn't work

It was worth a try. Anything interesting going on in the virtual rooms here?

Depends on what you mean by interesting. A lot of sex acts. Twenty-eight instances of virtual pedophilia. Sixteen acts of violence while performing sexual congress. Eight --

I mean any shadowed accounts you can't track. Any petracaine deals happening in virtual.

None

Carl sipped his beer half gone, watching the pluggers sit like corpses at their tables -- their eyes blank, their bodies frozen by electronic tranquilizers. Some drooled and some slumped onto the bar's black-clothed tables like sleepy school children.

Carl hailed the bartender again and stuck out his thumb in the universal sign of offering a bribe.

"I need some petra, man. Who do I talk to?"

The bartender looked at Carl's thumb for a second, then produced a credit scanner from the inside pocket of his white sport coat.

"Fifty," said Carl, activating the scanner with a commercial voice print that matched his DNA. The bartender ran the small device over Carl's thumb, taking the money.

"There's a girl, comes in every night. Calls herself Jennifer. She's a virtual maven -- has her own lot of boys and girls following her on the net like puppies. She can get your petra. I'll point her out when --"

The bartender's eyes flicked to the entranceway and he nodded.

"That's her."

Carl turned slowly until he saw the woman entering the bar and then his heart lurched painfully in his chest.

Sharon strode across the room to him, her face blank, as if she had not even recognized her ex-husband except that she looked directly into his eyes.

"What are you doing here, Carl?" she asked.

The bartender said nothing, but stayed nearby, surreptitiously arranging already arranged glasses behind the bar.

"I'm on a case. What are you doing here?"

"Field research. Seeing what the common people want in the next generation virtual."

"Around here all they want is sex. They probably aren't too concerned with little things like graphical detail."

"You'd be surprised."

Anne will not answer my calls

"How is Anne?" asked Carl.

"Fine. Are you staying here long?"

"Don't know. Are you dealing petracaine?"

Silence fell between them, filled with thrumming music, but Carl couldn't hear it. Instead, he heard himself screaming how sorry he was, how goddamn sorry he was while Sharon stood over him, their dead son in her arms.

"Are you here to arrest me?" asked Sharon. "That'd be ironic don't you think?"

"I'm not here to arrest anyone. I just need to know. Are you selling petra?"

"I thought you had kicked the habit, Carl."

"Sharon."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here doing research on SimPsych's beta room. That's all."

"So I heard. You're a maven."

Sharon smiled, and Carl hated the look of it. It was a smarmy, self-satisfied expression.

"It's not amino acid chain programming, but I go where the company sends me. They turn a heavy profit on proprietorship of these virtuals. Besides, there's no law against prostitution on the web."

There are laws against at least ten acts being performed in this establishment right now

"So I guess nothing much has changed for you since we divorced -- you're still screwing other men on the internet." Carl couldn't resist saying it just to see that ugly smile melt off Sharon's face. Color rose high on her cheeks and her lips tightened against her teeth.

"You never seemed to mind when we were married," she said, her jaw nearly clenched. "But maybe that's because you were too stoned to satisfy me in our real bed."

She didn't wait for him to respond, but turned away and joined a young couple already plugged into Shunter's network at a plush booth. With Anne, Andy's AI twin, Sharon had no need of a tap cord. Within seconds her eyes were shifting behind their lids, following an electronic dream.

Anne has never ignored my call before; not even during the divorce

People change

She is not a person

Sharon probably rewrote portions of Anne's programming

I registered a node in use a moment ago near where Sharon is sitting, but I can detect only scattered activity on it now

It's shadowed? asked Carl.

Yes

Carl finished his beer, watching his ex-wife play host to what he could only imagine was a virtual orgy.

After ten minutes he paid the bartender and left Shunter's. He sat in his car, watching the bar's front door from several blocks away.

Sharon didn't kill those people he thought.

All clues point to her

She is not a murderer

She, with Anne's help, is one of the world's top five programming minds: computer and biological. She works for a company that provides her cutting edge technology. And circumstantial evidence points to her trafficking in petracaine. I can find no one more qualified to produce and deliver the agent we are looking for

"My wife is not a murderer."

She is not your wife

Andy woke Carl at 0637.

"Has she already left?"

No. She just exited Shunter's and is walking to her car

As Sharon's car started and then rose into the air, Carl realized he didn't know where she lived. It just hadn't mattered in the last three years. She was with him in his dreams -- accusing him, railing at his failure -- he had had no use for her in real life.

Sharon flew across the river towards the city proper and landed atop a new hotel standing amid several older buildings. She parked on a small pad reserved for the penthouse suite.

Carl dipped to street level and paid for public parking.

"Can you access the hotel's security and tell me what room she's in?"

You know I can't do that. The Department's warrants don't extend to this hotel

"Never hurts to ask. Any suggestions on how to find out?"

Detective work?

"Funny."

The hotel was called The Alta. It wasn't tall, only two hundred stories, but its interior was well lit and ritzy.

The lobby offered public access so Carl faced no obstacles at the door. He entered, took a deep breath of stale, recycled air, and approached the reservations desk.

A very attractive, very young woman flashed him a polite smile.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"I was wondering if this hotel has a penthouse suite?"

"Yes, but it's occupied."

"Oh, a shame. I ended up in the city unexpectedly and I was hoping to find something available. What's just below that? Large rooms I hope."

Again the girl smiled, only this time it seemed more sincere. Apparently she liked big spenders.

"You're in luck, sir. The presidential suite is available tonight. If you want to know the truth, it's almost as big as the penthouse and you save a bundle. But it's booked for tomorrow, will that be a problem?"

Carl smiled. "No problem at all."

You're going to use the Department's expense account?

Is there a threshold? It'll cover it, right?

It will cover it until someone notices tomorrow

By tomorrow they won't care how much I spent

Carl sat at a small fiberboard table in the plush presidential suite of the hotel Alta. The telephone lay close at hand on the tabletop.

I have the penthouse phone number

"I thought you couldn't do that."

The number is public access

"I can't call her."

Why not?

"She'll run. I need to see her face-to-face again. This time I'll be ready. If Sharon committed these killings -- God I can't believe I'm even considering that option -- but if she did, I'll make her tell me. I just need a way into that penthouse."

The hotel's AI will not allow it. Every square centimeter of this building is under surveillance. Visual, sonic, heat and electromagnetic readings tell it where every guest is at any given moment. I can think of no way to subvert those systems without being detected

"I'm not -- "

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

Sharon's disembodied head appeared above the table. Her light blonde hair looked disheveled as if she had just awoken from a deep sleep. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Her compressed lips made a thin line of her mouth.

"Why are you following me, Carl?"

"I told you why."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I'm a detective. How did you know I was here?"

"You might as well come up if you're so determined to see me," she said, ignoring his question.

"Fine."

She broke the connection.

"So much for grand schemes," said Carl.

The penthouse elevator whirred into life as soon as Carl stepped in front of it.

Shall I alert the department?

No

I think it would be prudent to have --

She knew we were here, Andy

I do not understand the significance of your statement

She couldn't have known we were here unless someone or some AI, told her

Anne

Yes

The doors swished open and Carl boarded the car.

But Anne functions under the same inhibitor programs that guide my moral algorithms. She could not hack the hotel AI without a warrant

Then how do you explain Sharon's phone call? How did she know we were in the building -- in the presidential suite?

Several seconds of silence passed as the elevator started climbing quietly upward, then, Perhaps she assumed you would follow her home from Shunter's. Perhaps she watched us enter the hotel and take a room

It looked like she had been sleeping, Andy. And your theory doesn't explain how she knew what room we were in

She could have followed --

Drop it. Anne is no longer inhibited from committing crimes. That's the only logical explanation for everything that has been going on. I just hope illegal surveillance is the least of what they've done

Don't forget trafficking petracaine

"Right."

The elevator opened onto a large living area adorned with frescos of some conceptualized beach. The colors were light: orange, avocado, peach and soft yellow. Despite the hotel Alta's pretensions, this room looked like it belonged in a second-rate motel in a rundown coastal city. Its stab at Caribbean chic fell short of the mark, achieving only a gaudy, cheap feel with its plastic-coated walls made to look like pink stucco and sea foam-colored couch. On the far wall rose a burgundy sun festooned with sharp-angled rays that spread onto the ceiling. It looked garish in contrast to the conservative white carpet.

Sharon sat on a high wooden stool beneath the painted sun. She wore gray sweat pants with a matching shirt and no shoes or socks. Her bare feet entwined a wooden footrest attached to the stool. Chipped and fading red polish adorned her toenails. In one hand she held a long, fluted wineglass filled with what looked like orange juice.

The elevator door slid shut behind Carl and he walked slowly into the huge room.

"Want a mimosa?" asked Sharon. She nodded towards the suite's full kitchen.

"No."

She waited, silent. Sharon could always suffer a silence. She was never one to fill the void with unnecessary talk.

Carl crossed the room and took a seat on the back of her ugly couch.

"Will you talk to me now?" he asked.

"I didn't invite you up here for an old time's sakes lay."

Who is this woman? Sharon would never say something like that. But the Sharon he knew would never take a job as a maven either. Nor deal in petra.

Is Anne doing anything? asked Carl, silently.

I can find no nodal activity. And she still refuses to answer my calls

"What's Anne up to, Sharon? Why won't she answer Andy?"

"Ask me something worthwhile, Carl. Ask me if I'm a petra dealer again?"

"Are you?"

Sharon dropped her mimosa. She didn't fling or throw the drink, simply let it fall from her fingertips, as inconsequential as a tennis ball. It thumped on the floor, toppled over, and spread a large, yellow stain on the carpet.

She slid off the stool and moved to the room's long bar to retrieve her purse. From within she produced a fine petracaine sprayer housed in an ivory case.

The smile on Sharon's lips when she turned back to Carl was maniacal.

"Want a hit? Ex-husbands spray free."

"Sharon, what's wrong with you? Why are you --"

"What's wrong with me? You kill my baby and you ask what's wrong with me?"

"I didn't know you still thought that way." Carl kept his voice even and held her gaze, but the blood was rushing in his ears. He felt like she had slapped him.

Anne is tapping into the local node. I'll let you know what she does if I can follow it

"Losing a child isn't something you just get over, Carl. But maybe you wouldn't know about grief. Nothing moves you. You're Mr. Icewall. What do you care if your son died while you sprayed your brains out? A little slap on the wrist from your beloved Department, and you’re out playing investigator again. You probably don't even think about Jonathan, do you?"

"I think about him every day. I loved him just as --" Emotion robbed Carl's voice. He glared at her, trying to force down a sob. How dare she question his love for their son? She knew nothing of his grief. She left the day Jonathan drowned and never came back.

By force of will, Carl mastered the tears that blurred his vision. He wiped them away savagely with the back of one hand and focused on his ex-wife. He couldn't allow her to control the conversation.

"How does it kill? This virus of yours," he asked, expecting to throw her off balance.

Instead, Sharon giggled like a little girl. "It's not a virus. It's code in God's own programming language. It moves through blood and hardwiring, adapting itself to whatever it finds in a person: blood, tissue, cortical implants."

Anne must have control of the hotel AI. I cannot follow her activities through the shadowed account, but all monitoring devices in the penthouse just shut off

Carl's eyes widened.

She's going to kill me he thought.

I believe she is going to kill us both, Carl

Sharon must have read his expression. Like an old time pistoleer she swung the sprayer up from her hip, aiming for Carl's face. But he was already moving.

Sharon activated the sprayer, ejecting a stream of red that arched downward as her hand rose. Carl, who had lurched backwards and sideways the moment she started to lift the bottle, fell over the couch, rolled onto the floor and crawled away holding his breath.

He reached the couch's corner and rose to his knees. Sharon came running forward, sprayer outstretched, screaming.

Carl stood and captured her wrists.

"Sharon, stop this."

She growled and spit at him.

Anger and adrenaline made Sharon strong. She jerked her arms back and forth and managed to free one hand. With it she clawed viciously at Carl's face, digging four shallow furrows in his cheek below his left eye. For an instant he lost his grip, and Sharon positioned her fingers to activate the sprayer.

By force of fear, Carl reacted with all his strength and speed, driving the ivory bottle downward until the nozzle stood level with his ex-wife's face.

A red plume of petracaine sprayed out.

While Sharon had the foresight to squeeze her eyes shut, she was still screaming, her mouth open wide to the sprayer. The red haze colored her pearly teeth pink.

The fight went out of Sharon then. Her hands lost their strength, and Carl seized the sprayer. She fell back two steps and collapsed onto the carpet.

"Andy, call the Department."

I cannot connect to the node. Anne is blocking my connection

"Sharon, let Andy call for help."

"No point."

Carl flung the sprayer across the gaudy penthouse and crouched next to his ex-wife.

"Why did you kill all those people? Why did you murder them? That's not you, Sharon."

She regarded him with a look of purest loathing.

"To punish them," she said, as if the answer were obvious to those who would only take the time to look.

"For what? What did they do to you?"

"They were junkies."

Fear and surprise seized Carl. Though he had guessed the killer's hatred for cyber and drug addicts, a new realization made the skin on the back of his neck tighten.

"Like us," he whispered.

"Someone had to scare them -- had to show them that life is out here, not in a sprayer -- not in a computer. Other people suffered because of their addictions."

Sharon fell silent. She held a palm close to her eyes, staring at it for a long moment. She looked like a sidewalk mystic trying to tell her own fortune. Then that mad smile returned.

"My calling card will be showing up soon," she said.

The number sequence

"What's does it mean, Sharon?"

"You're the detective."

Show me the number thought Carl.

In the right corner of Carl's vision the sequence appeared in orange lettering.

4403JXR1

"I was forty-four when. . . when --"

"You can say it, Carl. Didn't your therapist make you say it? Mine did."

"And Jonathan was three. So those are his first two initials, Jonathan Xavier. What is the R1?"

"He was never really yours, Carl. He was my son. You spent all your time with your precious Department, chasing crooks and stealing petra from dealers you busted. I was with him. Me. Everyday from morning till night he knew mommy was there for him."

Carl realized she was baiting him, and he wanted to challenge her. He wanted to ask her where she was when John drowned. What man or woman or group of both was she having virtual with? And out of all those hours she supposedly spent caring for their son, how many did she spend in virtual flesh houses?

But Carl said nothing, just stood and let her words ring in his head. Jonathan never really belonged to him? What did she mean? Had she had a real life affair? Was Jonathan illegitimate?

No, she wouldn't have -- not the girl he had first married. Besides, John had looked more like Carl than Sharon --

"Reynolds. You gave him your maiden name."

Sharon began to shiver. Her teeth chattered loudly, but still she smiled.

"And the one, Carl? It's the closest to your heart. You should be able to guess the one."

"The one is him. It's Jonathan Xavier. He was our only one, and no clone could ever be the same child."

Sharon sunk to the carpet like a blow up toy losing air. Her eyes rolled up to whites in her head, and a long, white stream of spittle issued from the corner of her mouth. Her body began to convulse, her back arching with every wave of pain that passed through her.

I've contacted the Department and an ambulance service. They are dispatching the closest units now said Andy in Carl's head.

Anne?

No response to my calls. No nodal activity

Should I touch her?

I wouldn't advise it

Carl knelt beside his ex-wife. He wanted to reach for her, comfort her now at last. But there was no way.

She screamed, a sound that was muffled and wet sounding.

"Sharon. Sharon! Listen to me. Is there no way to reverse it? A way to save you?"

At first he thought her too far gone to hear, but after a moment she managed to shake her heard.

No cure.

Sirens echoed from somewhere far off; too far off to do any good.

Sharon finally stopped convulsing. She was still breathing, but it was raspy and too quick, as if she had just ran sprints. Sweat drenched her body, plastering strands of hair to her forehead and coating her face and neck.

Anne has finally answered my call, but her responses are erratic. I believe the virus has crossed over from Sharon's body and is now attacking the cortical implants. Anne's link to the web is losing cohesion

Sharon's lips moved as if she were struggling to create speech. Carl leaned closer, careful not to touch her or move within range of her spittle.

"Use. . . the spray, Carl," said Sharon. Her breath came in little puffs, as if she were struggling to say more. Finally she opened her mouth and said, "You deserve it much as me."

Carl rocked back on his haunches. Sharon lay still before him, her life gone. It took him only a second to decide.

"Andy, Spearcast a copy of your current program to Chimera."

What are you planning to --

"Do as I say."

I cannot allow you to harm yourself without protest

"It's a shame you can't stay my hands."

Why would you do this, Carl? There are therapists who can help

"Spearcast now or lose your chance."

A pause and then, Done

Sharon was right -- misguided, but right. The virus she invented solved both their problems: the weak flesh and the addictive mind.

Neither of them deserved life in a world denied to their son. His death belonged to them. It was paid for by their carelessness. Looking at it from that perspective, it made sense that they should share the sentence -- equal partners in folly.

Carl spread open one eyelid, lifted the sprayer over his face, and dosed himself with the tainted petracaine. His hands hadn't forgotten the ritual. The movements were as familiar as a holy rite.

THE END

Bio: David Alan Jones is a husband, father of 3 great kids, and writer. He lives, works and writes in Augusta, GA. He is a frequent contributor to Aphelion; most recently, he crushed the competition (in a jolly way, of course) in the December Forum Flash Challenge. Part 1 of his novella Plan appeared in the September, 2007 edition, with Part 2 following in the October issue.

E-mail: David Alan Jones

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