Chimera (22 page)

Clovis said, "It was with your belongings."

I turned the computer off and slipped it into my pocket. "It's mine. I had a DigiPal until recently."

"They say the PowerPad's great."

"Yeah. It's nice to have." I nodded to the dogman and got onto the elevator.

I opened the PowerPad again, searched for messages, and didn't find any. If Zoe was on the run, why had she given up her computer? It made sense that she had to leave the earring in the Pocket, but there was no reason to abandon the PowerPad.

The Engelberg Center's pink marble lobby was like the rest of the building: a little dulled by time and lack of funds, but still impressive. The line at the main desk consisted mostly of chimeras and humans in worn or cheap clothes. The prevailing attitude seemed to be gratitude, which softened my impatience. A tiny ratgirl ran up to me, stared at my face, laughed delightedly, and ran away.

When I reached the desk, a stocky young woman in datashades smiled at me. Her name tag identified her as C. Herrera. I said, "I understand you can get me a refund. The name's Chase Maxwell."

"Of course." Her face went blank. Scrolling through screens that only she could see, she waggled her fingers as if remembering the beat of a tune, then said, "You're the Lazarus!"

I shrugged. "All I did was die. The doctors did the hard work."

"What was it like?"

"Better than taxes."

She smiled, looked vacant again, then said, "Chase Maxwell. Two nights. You have one hundred eleven K and two C coming to you."

"Isn't that supposed to be one hundred seventeen?"

"Local calls are two and a half K."

"Do many patients see their bill and have to check right back in?"

She nodded solemnly. "Half of our organ donors come from this very room. How would you like your refund?"

"Just transfer it to my account."

"Certainly." She put an ID pad on the counter, I thumbed it, and she handed me a slip of paper. "Your receipt."

"Thanks." I gave it the quick scan. The list of services was long. Most of them were marked "donated." The rest were fairly cheap, generally under a hundred K, except for "Room and board, 5 nights—$250 K," and "Cryonics stabilization chamber, rental: 3 hrs.—$4,500 K."

At the bottom of the sheet, two listings were under "Deposit: $7 meg." The first was "Allied Charities Matching Fund—$3.5 meg." The surprise was the second: "Zoe Domingo—$3.5 meg."

Ms. Herrera said, "Is something wrong?"

"Is there someone here who was working when they brought me in?"

"No one from third shift's around. But almost everyone in the Center has heard about it."

"About what?"

"The only cryo chamber in South California was in Beverly Hills, and they never lend us anything. If that cat hadn't given them a lien on her income—" She stopped, probably trying to find a nice way to say that I would be spread out on a table for first year med students right now. That didn't bother me. What bothered me was that Zoe had tied up her bank account and her inheritance to save my life.

Telling myself that so long as she was on the run, she couldn't access any of her monies anyway, I asked, "Did she leave a message for me?"

Ms. Herrera shook her head. "She didn't have time. The police took her away as soon as she finished your paperwork. Luckily for you." My face must've done something extreme then. She brought her hand toward her mouth to cover a gasp of surprise or sympathy. "You didn't know? It was a big story on the news."

Vallejo had been playing his cards closer than I'd thought. "Did you hear when her trial is?"

Ms. Herrera nodded. "Yesterday. She got thirty years for killing a doctor."

Chapter Thirteen

Since I was at that moment, by my standards if not my mother's, rich, I almost hopped into the back of an Electricab waiting in front of the Center for wealthy patients. But in L.A., money just buys you a more comfortable seat for sitting in traffic. I was in a hurry; I caught a pert.

On the way downtown, I took out the PowerPad. Your lady love's supposed to give you a scarf or a garter. The computer was a lot more useful. I hesitated before going online, but I couldn't think of a reason why it would matter if someone managed to track me. If the powerful enemies that only Zoe and I thought might exist did exist, I suppose they might've been able to arrange for a disaster to befall the pert, but that would be hard to cover up, even for them, and would make it harder for them to find the earring, if they thought I had it. And, to be honest, none of that occurred to me. I just wanted to check my messages.

Which consisted of several invitations to join porno sites and a joke forwarded by my ex which wouldn't have been funny even if I'd been in a good mood—if men are the ones who tie self-worth to the size of body parts, why do body shops make more money from women?

There was nothing from Zoe. My disappointment showed me that I had hoped for something, even though I knew the cops wouldn't let her on the net. I suppose the knight in tarnished armor expected email along the lines of, "Dearest Max, Fought my way free. Meet me in Canada. Undying love, Z."

I checked several news sites and got the official account. Zoe Domingo, feline chimera, was found guilty of the death of Dr. Janna Gold and sentenced to thirty years' hard labor at an unspecified indenture camp, with all her earnings to go to the government of South California. The theory for the murder was essentially Vallejo's: she killed the human who adopted her in order to get her inheritance. She was also under suspicion as an accomplice in the death of Amos Tauber, but the state had yet to decide whether there was sufficient evidence to try her. There was no mention of the earring.

Her trial took an hour and thirty-five minutes, which was long for a case in chimera court. The judge had asked why she shouldn't get death for killing a human. Her court-appointed lawyer had pointed out that she had saved the life another one, me.

I came out as well-meaning and a little stupid in the accounts, which is probably accurate enough: Ex-UNSEC agent who took chimera's case was killed saving her from bounty hunters, but was expected to make a full recovery.

If she hadn't given the lien to save me, she could've hired a better lawyer. I took a little comfort in knowing that a better lawyer might've prolonged the trial, but probably wouldn't have changed its result. Yet I couldn't take much comfort from that. She was caught because she stopped to save me.

There was no message from the elusive Mycroft. I sent him another note:

"Mycroft, Since I wrote you, whoever killed Janna Gold has killed Amos Tauber. I believe the next victim will be Gold's daughter, Oberon Chain, or you. For their sake and yours, call me. Chase Maxwell."

Including Chain in that list was accurate, so far as I knew. If someone had kidnapped him, his life was in constant danger. Even if he had been using a bot or an AI double innocently, to escape boredom or to do two jobs at once, his prominence in the community and his concerns with AI rights made him a more likely target than the elusive Mycroft.

Then I saw that the absence of innocence did not imply guilt. My first fear had been that the AI impersonating Chain was a rogue, like Blake and Doyle. But what if Chain knew his life was in danger and therefore sent a double to the party?

I wished the questions could go away, because there was no way to answer them without telling Chain I knew more than I should. I put away the computer and failed to enjoy the rest of the ride.

Prosperity Indenture Services had an exclusive contract for the state's able-bodied prisoners, which may have accounted for as much as thirty percent of their business. Their nearest location was a large suite on the 24th floor of a highrise in Westwood along Wilshire Blvd—they keep building them, even after the Big One knocked 'em all down. At one end of the hall was a talent agency; at the other, a lawyer. They all looked the same: expensive. Their decor only told you they had hired someone to make them look like a place where successful, powerful people did very important things, to make you think that, if you were lucky, they would do those things for you.

The difference in the three businesses was that though they all served desperate people, the indenture service served the most desperate, the ones who knew that if they could not sell the only thing remaining to them, they would join the secret city of the homeless or the silent army of the dead.

A few chimeras and humans waited in an antiseptically tasteful lobby. Behind a wide, curved desk was a young man who looked like he wished the world ran like the marines. He wore a dark, conservative suit that must've cost as much as a good used car. His hair had been buzzcut, but only a fool would bet that he had cut it himself. His tan and his physique probably came from a body shop, but his supercilious smile was entirely his own. "May I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to speak to your boss."

"Ms. Agosto doesn't see clients."

"I'm not a client." I flashed my ID. "Chase Maxwell of Maxwell Investigations. I might be able to keep her from being a party in a wrongful indenture suit."

"She may not be available—"

"That'd be a shame. I'd like to keep this out of the news, but I doubt I can, without her help. The media will lap it up. Woman wrongfully indentured, Prosperity Agency stonewalls instead of helps." I grimaced. "Could get ugly."

Mr. Military's tan faded a couple of shades. "I'll see if she can see you."

"There's a good chap."

He gave me a glance that said I hadn't made a new friend, then went down a softly-lit hall to a door that looked like a steel and slate sculpture. I leaned against the desk and breathed deeply. The nurse at the Engelberg Center wouldn't have approved. If I killed myself, I wouldn't be helping Zoe. But I was ready for another sprint by the time Army Boy returned.

"Ms. Agosto will see you now."

"Thanks." I made that as polite as I could. The danger with acting like an asshole to deal with assholes is no one else can tell you apart. There was a time when I wouldn't have cared.

My escort opened the steel and slate door. The office that he revealed would be a sound recorder's nightmare—if they were concerned about corporate security, that might've been part of the point. Most surfaces were hard and slick: a floor of intricate wooden inlays, two walls of brushed aluminum and two of glass windows that ran from floor to ceiling, a small pool in one corner with a fountain flowing incessantly. The only concessions to softness were two paintings of crows flying through a blizzard and a Navajo rug on the floor.

The woman behind the desk had the ageless, plastic quality of a body shop addict. She could've been twenty-five or seventy-five. Her skin was dark brown, her copper hair was pulled back from her face, her body was so slender that if she swallowed a pea, you could probably watch it make its way to her stomach. She wore a well-tailored green suit with a Nehru collar. As she stood and walked around the desk, her smile seemed sincere.

"I'm Simone Agosto. You are Mr. Maxwell?"

"Guilty." I might not have noticed her handshake if I had closed my eyes. Her birdlike fingers touched mine like a breeze, then withdrew.

Military Boy said, "If there's anything else—"

"That'll be all, Frederick."

He nodded and left. Agosto indicated the brown leather chairs by the fountain. As we sat, she said, "There's a problem with one of our clients?"

"Zoe Domingo."

She frowned, brought the fingers and thumb of her left hand together like the Italian gesture of praise, then waggled her fingers slightly as she glanced in the corner of the room. I was impressed at the same time as I realized how easy it would be to fake being hardwired. She looked back at me and said, "I'm sorry. I can't confirm or deny anything about a Zoe Domingo."

"She's a convict. You have the monopoly on indenturing prisoners."

"True. But the terms of some indentures don't allow us to give out any information. Not without a court order."

Which meant someone in the legal system thought Zoe's life could be in danger—or someone didn't want her found by anyone who could help her. I said, "That's awkward. Some people might think you were colluding with a judge to indenture innocent people."

Agosto raised an eyebrow. "Everything we do is perfectly legal."

"I'm sure it is. But I need your help to convince my client."

"I don't see what I can do. The terms of this case are sealed."

"Domingo was sentenced to thirty years' hard labor. That's on the public record. What would that entail?"

Agosto shrugged. "Indenture work in an agriculture or recycling camp, twelve hour days, six days a week. If she's reasonably attractive—"

"She is."

"Then she'd be given the option of sex work. If she accepted it, she'd be available six hours a day and receive a medical exam every week."

I didn't want to think about that choice. "Suppose someone offered to buy her contract."

"Convict sentences dictate that they serve their time at a standard indenture camp. You would have to go to a judge for an exception."

I leaned forward in my chair. "If there was some way to get a message to her—"

"Not legally. I'm a Libertarian, Mr. Maxwell. Nothing is more sacred to me than a contract."

"An innocent woman may spend the rest of her life trapped with criminals and desperate people."

Agosto smiled tolerantly. "And saints. Many people indenture themselves for admirable reasons. Just last month, a young man bought his mother a new liver, and a woman bought her niece a university education, including medical school."

"In exchange for selling themselves for years."

Agosto nodded.

"Don't you feel—" I checked myself, because I needed her help.

"Blessed? Yes. We're able to help so many."

There were many things I could've said, but I knew she had heard them all. I'd been about to open with the "exploiting the unfortunate" argument, which she had already countered with the "helping the helpless" response. My next attempt would've been to ask whether it was right to let people sell themselves. She would've answered that we own ourselves—how could anyone take away our right to do what we want with our own bodies? I would've asked whether it was right to see everything in terms of property, and she would've told me that the fall of the Soviet Union proved communism had failed. At which point I would've said I didn't care about politics, I only wanted an innocent woman freed. And Agosto had made it quite clear to me that she was more concerned with what was legal than with what was right.