Day 91 - My Atomic Heart - Part 31

Tommy set the book back on the table, then paused, as if processing the correct response, before sweeping it hard to the floor with the back of his hand. Charlie, still wearing her bathrobe, sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee.

"It's not like the books, is it?" she said softly.

Tommy shook his head.

"It was not supposed to end like that," he said.

"I'm sorry. I really am." She sipped her coffee. "Did you hear the phone ring this morning?"

"Yes."

"It was a lady. She said she wanted to hire you. Her sister's missing, and she's really worried. Wanna take the case?"

"I'd like to stop now, Charlie."

She set her cup down. "Stop what?"

"Playing this game. I would like to stop it."

"It's not a game, Tommy. You said so yourself. It all happened, and there's nothing you can do to change that now."

"Whatever it is, then--I'd like to stop. I don't want to be a detective anymore."

"Then you don't have to be."

"There are more people like Faraday, aren't there?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Entirely too many." She tried to pick up the mug again, to take another sip, but she couldn't. It felt heavy, weighing her down. "Jesus, Tommy. I thought you were going to kill him." She said it like a confession.

"So did I."

"What made you stop?"

"You did, Charlie--the thing you said. There are only a few things worth dying for. Faraday wasn't one of them. But she was. You are."

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"What does a heart feel like?"

She reflected for a moment, trying to frame her words as best she could. "It's always moving, constantly pulsing. If you really try, you can feel and hear every beat. But when you focus all your attention on it, it's almost distracting, and you're always afraid that it'll stop."

"And that's where love comes from?"

She smirked. "Love's sort of the same way," she said. "But it comes from a different kind of heart. It's an invisible one."

Tommy cocked his head, and his eyes flashed.

"Remember the day you found me? I was wearing that blue checkered dress, sitting at a picnic table in my parents' backyard. Remember how you spent the whole day with me? The way we kept each other company until the sun went down?"

"I remember."

"It feels like you're never alone, like someone's always there to catch you when you fall. That's what a heart feels like. Surprise, Tin Man, you've had one all along."

Tommy's eyes glowed a calm shade of blue. He watched his own fingers as he tapped them against the kitchen table.

"I don't want to forget her," he said decisively, as if pondering whether or not to delete her image from his memory banks.

"Good. You shouldn't. You're not Rick Armstrong, Tommy. You're not some cheap pulp detective, and this is not a paperback world, where people are forgotten with the turn of a page. The secret's not in forgetting her--it's in remembering her, accepting that for a brief moment in time, your lives brought you together. That's what separates you from the real machines--your ability not just to learn from your experiences, but your ability to accept them."

Tommy reached to the floor and picked up the fedora he'd tossed down in a fit of what he assumed was anger. He dusted it off and adjusted the felt where the crown had collapsed too far in, and he set it on his head at a jaunty angle.

"The woman who called--what was her name?"

Charlie busied herself with her coffee. "Lucy Rutledge."

"Call her back. Tell her Tom Steel will take the case."

She tried to hide her smile, but it was no use.

"Yes, sir," she said.

Just when she thought he'd snapped out of his miserable mood, he fell silent once more. He walked to the refrigerator, grabbed a can of chilled oil, and sat back down at the table, drinking it slowly, in time with Charlie's sips of coffee.

"What do you think death feels like?" he asked.

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't know, Tommy. I guess it depends on the person and how they died."

"What if they were good? And it was quick?"

"Maybe pain at first--not much, but just enough to let you know you're in trouble. Then nothing, I'd like to think. I imagine it'd be peaceful after that, and after running so long and so hard, you could finally rest," she said, staring at something seemingly far away. "I think when I die, I'd like a Viking funeral."

Tommy stared at her, looking darkly through those eyes. "I hope when I go, it's quick and sudden. No bang. No whimper. Just a steady fade to black."

Day 90 - My Atomic Heart - Part 30

"Are you sure about this, sweetheart?"

"I'm sure, Rick. I've never been more sure about anything."

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. Her high heels tapped on the sidewalk as she circled around him, taking in this small portion of the city--her last glimpse of the harsh grit of freedom before surrendering herself to captivity.

"I'm an accomplice," she said. "I helped Tony get away after he killed Berretta. I deserve this. I need it. It's only two years, Rick. Maybe less if I keep my nose clean. Then once I get out, just think about it--I'll have a fresh start. I'll have my own life. That's what Delilah would've wanted."

"I suppose I should say that I'm proud of you."

"Say it like you mean it, Rick."

He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her close. They collided like objects trapped by the laws of gravity--something far stronger than the laws of men. His lips found hers, and the two became one. It was a moment of passion, a moment of beauty, a moment of freedom. He dipped her low, and her golden curls dangled over the murky sidewalk.

"Will you wait for me?" she asked.

"Baby, for you? Anything."

The sun was rising, and it was time to go. Laura stepped toward the waiting police car, tipping her hat politely to Lenny and Joe, who tipped their own hats and then nodded at Rick.

"Find her a good room," Rick told them. "Someplace warm, where she can watch the sunset."

"We'll see what we can do, pal. We'll see what we can do."

The three of them climbed into the patrol car, and with sirens roaring, sped away from Rick and their spot on the sidewalk. She was looking back the whole time. Rick tipped his hat into the distance.

He stepped back into his office, and Gloria wasn't far behind, hustling in while struggling to catch her breath.

"I'm here, boss. Did I miss anything?" she asked. She wore a boxy hat with a flower stuck in it and a plain, unflattering coat that hung down to her knees.

"Hello, Glory. You missed a hell of a night. She should've been there."

"If only," she sighed.

"How about we take the rest of the day off? I could use a stroll across town to even me out a bit," said Rick, standing against the front window with his hands in his pocket.

"Really? That'd be swell, Rick!"

"Yeah, and you should go shopping or something. You could use a new hat."

She slumped over sadly.

"See you tomorrow, Glory. I've got a city to visit."

He walked back onto the streets like a boxer stepping back into the ring. This was his domain. It knew his name, and it called to him from every windswept gutter and alley, whispering in the buzz of street lights. His was a tenement soul and a neon heart. This was his city. It was a city of trouble, of dark nights, of dangerous women, of booze and cigarettes. This was a city worth dying in.

Day 89 - My Atomic Heart - Part 29

"Maybe we should think about this, Tommy."

"What's there to think about. We cannot force her to do anything she doesn't want. It will have to be her choice, Charlie. That's the only way I'll go along with this."

"When she hears the options, I think she'll come to her senses, but what if she doesn't?"

"Then it's simple. We run. We run and don't look back."

They reached the house, both thankful to see light flooding over the threshold as they opened back the door and stepped out of the night. Fifty-two was waiting at the table, her arms folded patiently in front of her.

Charlie smiled. "It looks like we may have a way out," she said.

The girl robot studied Charlie's face carefully and then turned to Tommy.

"Is this true?"

"Charlie spoke to Agent Faraday," said Tommy.

"He cannot be trusted."

"Maybe so," said Charlie. "I won't deny that he's an enormous creep, but I think he's willing to let you go. He's still a person, Fifty-two, and people can be reasoned with."

"What does he want?"

"Your memory file. That's it."

"My memories. All of them?"

Tommy nodded sadly. "I would suppose he'd prefer to clean out as much as possible. You won't remember any of this. You won't remember the things we talked about. You won't remember me."

Fifty-two bowed her head, the hum of her neck motors exclaiming loudly. She sat as if in quiet contemplation.

"It's a chance for a new beginning," said Charlie. "Most people don't have an opportunity like that."

"Can I be like you?" the girl robot asked Tommy. "When I'm reactivated, can I stay here with you?"

Tommy examined Charlie's blank expression. "We'll see," he said.

"What must I--"

Fifty-two's words abruptly halted as the door swung open. Faraday leaned against the door frame, holding a gun in one blood-streaked hand.

"Faraday, what--"

Charlie never had time to finish her sentence. Faraday had a vacant stare on his face as he lifted the gun into the air, firing twice at Fifty-two as she looked up at him, her eyes bright. The first round penetrated her head, striking her memory core. The second was aimed at the heart--the central processing unit. Blue sparks flew from the wounds with an electronic screech, and the robot effectively shut down. She slumped over the table, and it shook with her weight. Her eyes had gone dark. She was dead.

Faraday said nothing and had no time to react as Tommy charged across the room, knocking the weapon from his hand, grabbing him by the throat, and shoving him up against the wall with so much force that the plaster cracked on impact.

"Jesus!" yelled Charlie, still processing what had just happened. "Tommy!"

"You should not have done that. That was unnecessary," said Tommy.

Faraday sputtered, and his face turned purple. Tommy eased him back to the floor but retained a tight grip.

"Fortunately, that's not your call, tin man," spat Faraday. "It wasn't up to you."

Tommy's eyes glowed with an intense heat.

"That was not necessary."

"Don't you see? It was."

"She would have taken the memory wipe. That was not necessary!"

There was a certain pulsing sound in Tommy's voice, a parcel of anger that Charlie had never heard before. It shook her. She instinctively took a step back.

"If I'd done a transfer, there was always the chance of residual memory leakage in the unit. We had to be sure."

Tommy said nothing. His tightening grip was his only reply.

"It was for the greater good!" Faraday yelled, as if trying to convince himself.

"Tommy, put him down," Charlie said softly.

"No. He killed her."

Faraday coughed. "You do anything to me, and she won't be the only dead robot."

Tommy pulled Faraday close and slammed him back against the wall, forming another crack.

"Your heart is beating at a very high rate, Faraday. Are you frightened? Tell me, what does it feel like?"

Faraday said nothing. He clawed at Tommy's metal hand with his own, but that mechanical grip refused to budge.

"She felt fear, too. Did you know that? I, on the other hand, have the unfortunate opportunity to feel anger. Shall I tell you what that feels like? It feels like immeasurable loss, for the sake of nothing. You could have given her a clean slate. She could have started over. She could've had a name."

"Tommy?" Charlie stepped toward him. "He's right about one thing. If you do this, they'll come after you. And me, Tommy. They'll come after me, too. There are only a few things in this world worth dying for. Think about that."

Suddenly, a warm glow came in Tommy's eyes, and he dropped Faraday to the floor, sending him rolling against the wall before climbing slowly back to his feet.

"This unit is no murderer. I am no murderer."

Faraday hunched over, catching his breath. His head pounded--a hammer striking somewhere deep inside inside, on some twisted vein between his heart and brain. He coughed again, and the blood red tint began to drain from his face.

"Me neither," he said. "Lucky for you."

"I want you to leave. You'll never bother me or Charlie ever again. Understood?"

Faraday straightened his collar absently. "Understood," he said with an aloof tone. He turned to the door as Tommy walked away from him, but Charlie caught him by the shoulder.

"There's something else you need to understand," she told him in a whispered voice. "You did what you did because those were your orders. You were doing what you were told. I get that. But Tommy, see, did what he did out of passion. So you tell me--which one's the man, and which one's the machine?"

Faraday said nothing. He glared at her coldly as he finished straightening his jacket and stepped outside, vanishing in the night.

Tommy knelt beside Fifty-two's broken body. He prodded her, examining the wounds and the extent of the damage.

"Jacketed hollow points," he said. "They penetrate and expand, destroying anything in their path."

Charlie stripped off her wet coat and jumper and folded her arms, shivering.

"Can she be salvaged?" she asked.

"No. Everything worth saving is gone."

"We're still here."

Her words fell on deaf ears. At this moment, Tommy was consumed by his own processing thoughts. To him, there were only two irreconcilable truths.

Faraday was alive.

The girl was dead.

Day 88 - My Atomic Heart - Part 28

Rick returned to find his apartment empty. There was no sign of the girl, and his gun still laid on the table, untouched. He went from room to room, calling her name and checking the closets in case something spooked her enough to hide, but she was nowhere to be found.

He was more confused than worried. Where did she run off to? Why? He checked the angles, racking his brain for something he might have missed, some trick she might have pulled. But all the lies had been revealed, leaving a harsh, naked truth that was nevertheless airtight. If there was a game still being played, he'd found no indication.

The light in the kitchen was still on. He picked up the phone. There was a dial tone now. Somewhere down the street, a police siren wailed. It was coming closer and closer. Rick watched from the window. The car came to an abrupt halt at the foot of the building. Joe and Lenny jumped out. Lenny pointed up. Rick thought he was gesturing at him, watching from the window, but there was something else. Joe looked up, too. Both cops tore off toward the lobby door, and Rick raced for his own.

Laura didn't come downstairs, he realized. If she had, he would have seen her in the lobby. No, she went up. She went up fast, like something was chasing her. Rick bolted up the stairs, sailing past one floor and then another. He knew exactly where to go. He knew where to find her.

Once he got to the roof access door, still hanging ajar from its hinges, he knew he was right. He kicked it open lightly and cautiously took a step forward. The first thing he felt was the wind, smacking him like a girl he never called back. It was cold, brutal. Exhaust from the building's heating system wafted in the air. He clutched his hat tightly against his head, afraid he'd lose it from a rooftop again, and he wasn't in the mood to play fetch tonight.

The roof itself was dark, but beneath it on every side was the rising glow of the city's lights. Neon and street lamps framed the edges, letting him know where the solid ground stopped and the air began. Once he had his bearings, he crept on, looking for the girl or whomever may have taken her.

It didn't take long to find both of them. The girl had been backed into a corner. Her feet tapped the roof behind her, striking against the ledge. She stepped onto it, her hands spread out in front of her. There was a look of terror on her face, and her blonde curls were blown by the wind. A few yards in front of her was the man in the hat, and he was wearing gloves. Even in the low light, Rick could make out the gloves. All the pieces fit together perfectly, and a puzzle once fragmented had become complete, forming a terrible picture of death.

The man in the hat--Tony, Rick assumed--had a gun in his hand, but he wasn't using it. Instead, he stepped closer and closer toward the girl on the ledge, as if herding her backward, forcing her to take her own life.

Rick drew his own revolver and clicked the hammer back with his thumb. The man in the hat half-turned at the sound, his face consumed by the shadows. Seeing Rick's figure in the dim glow of the stairwell light, he swung his gun around and fired a few wild shots, punching deep holes in the heavy metal door.

Rick took cover on the other side of the brick access hutch. He peeked around the corner and had a clear view of the man in the hat, but he didn't dare take the shot. Laura was standing on the ledge behind him, and one stray bullet would've sent her over the edge. He crouched down, surveying the lay of the roof. He just needed one chance. He just needed Laura to move out of the way.

As if reading his mind, Laura jumped down from the ledge and, while the man in the hat was distracted, knocked the gun out of his hand, sending it skidding across the rooftop. The man in the hat struck her hard in the face with the back of his hand, and she stumbled backward, awkwardly tripping over the ledge. She lost her balance. There was no footing to regain. She could only scream as her body gave way to thin air, falling over the side of the building.

It was pure anger, pure wrath that fueled Rick next. The revolver was still in his hand, but he didn't need it. He charged toward the man in the hat as the latter scrambled for his own gun. They met like a wave crashing against a rock. Rick became a force of nature, first pummeling his opponent in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain, and then reaching for his throat, for something--anything--to throttle.

The man in the hat was strong, though. Even with the wind knocked out of him, he was able to grab Rick behind his back, grappling onto him as they both tumbled to ground. They wrestled for what felt like an eternity, each at times gaining an advantage over his opponent until he was rolled over. At some point in the fray, the man in the hat had wrested the gun from Rick's hand--the one he'd forgotten all about. They were both caked in dust and grime and found themselves along the edge of the building, at the base of the very ledge Laura had been swept over. The man in the hat was on top, pressing Rick against the roof with all his weight. The faint light carried up from a flashing neon sign below, and Rick could see his face--that same overgrown stubble, that same smug grin. He looked just the way he remembered--just like that night at the train station, but this time, Rick found himself at the mercy of the Smiling Man and felt the cold steel tip of a gun barrel resting on his temple.

The door to the roof suddenly burst open, and Lenny and Joe leapt out with their guns drawn. They couldn't plainly see what was happening in the low light, but they knew the two men near the ledge were Rick and Tony. The Smiling Man, half-standing, made a fatal decision that quickly settled the argument, firing his gun toward the two cops at the door. Lenny and Joe each fired two rounds in response. As it turned out, they had much better aim.

Four bullets plunged into the Smiling Man's chest with a force that knocked him back. Back and over. He plunged over the edge with a scream. Rick could see in the neon glow that the smile had finally disappeared from his face. Rick scrambled to his feet and peered over the side to watch Tony's descent to the street below, but he saw something even better--a thin hand with a desperate grip on a corner of the ledge.

"Hang on, sweetheart!" he called.

He reached over the side and grabbed her by the wrist. Her other hand appeared and clasped down on top of his, and slowly, she began pulling herself back onto the rooftop. When both her feet were firmly planted, they both collapsed to the ground with heaving chests as they struggled to regain both breath and sanity.

"Are you all right, Rick?"

Lenny and Joe had rushed over, crouching beside them.

"We're fine, Joe. I owe you big time. Just give us a second, will you?"

When everything set in, Laura looked into his eyes. He looked into hers. They embraced and kissed like old lovers. In that moment, Rick couldn't feel any pain. Not yet, at least. It might be there in the morning, but for tonight, there were only two things that meant anything in this world.

Tony was dead.

The girl was alive.

Day 87 - My Atomic Heart - Part 27

Charlie hustled down the street, bundled up beneath her jumper and long coat and hoping it was enough to keep the rain from seeping too deep. If only I had an umbrella, she thought to herself. As much as it rained in the city, she was surprised she'd never thought of it before. But maybe she had. Maybe it was just a thought that was drowned in a downpour, washed away by the constant barrage of the very thing that had given birth to it in the first place.

As far as she could tell, she was alone on the sidewalk, but she didn't put much effort into investigating. Up ahead, a gutter was overflowing, spewing a wide, bubbling stream of filthy water right across her path. If she'd been a proper Girl Friday, she realized, she would've scowled at it, stumbling back and forth in dainty shoes like a kid desperate to take a piss and trying to find a way around that didn't involve grimy runoff lapping at her ankles. It was a thought that made her smile as she waded through the stream in her steel-toe boots.

She could see the lights of the Village now, lit up like a lighthouse beacon, daring her to crash against its rocks. The rain had drowned out almost every other noise, but she became distinctly aware of a heavy tapping behind her. She turned to see a man standing at her heels. He carried a large black umbrella over his head, sheltering his blue suit from the rain.

"Jesus Christ, Faraday, you scared the hell out of me," she called above the din of splashing water.

Faraday took a step forward, extending the umbrella over her head. The nylon canopy had the added effect of partially muting the noise of the rain.

"Sorry," he replied. "It looked like you could use a little cover. There's something else I wanted to ask you about."

Charlie looked him up and down and nodded. "The office is right up ahead."

The walked side-by-side for the remaining block. They leaned toward each other, their heads only inches apart as they shared the umbrella and wrestled for cover. By the time they reached the office door, the rain had slowed to a bare drizzle that served as a last desperate attempt to coat every single inch of the city with a fine, wet glaze.

Faraday stared at the name painted on the front window as Charlie struggled with the door. Once open, they shuffled inside; leaving the folded umbrella to drain on the sidewalk.

"So this is Automaton Investigations. I get it now--Automaton, Tom Steel. Cute. Real cute."

"You use that word an awful lot. That's what you said about Tommy's case the other day."

"What can I say? I find your little robot endearing. It's a machine that thinks it's a man. That's a bit on the tragic side, wouldn't you say?"

Faraday stripped off his coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. Charlie decidedly kept hers on, though she was soaked and dripping all over the floor, forming a puddle around her boots.

"Not really. Tommy actually enjoys his life, which is a lot more than most actual people can say."

"But that's where the tragedy comes in! What's his so-called life worth compared to a human's?"

"I don't know, Faraday. What was Francis Heap's life worth?"

The detective narrowed his eyes and pulled a cigarette from his jacket's breast pocket. He flicked it in the air several times, making sure it was nice and dry before striking a match and lighting the tip. Charlie stared at him, her face hard and cold.

"There's no smoking in the office," she said. "Now what do you want?"

Faraday threw his hands up defensively, the cigarette still hanging in the corner of his mouth. "Easy, now. I thought we settled our differences earlier."

Charlied wandered behind the receptionist's desk. A subtle, little light flashed, alerting her to a text message that popped onto the screen with a misdirected tap of her finger. She tried not to call attention to herself, stealing a glance at the screen and the three little words there that confirmed the suspicions that had already formed, giving shape to the vague ideas that haunted her mind.

Not a cop.

"Yeah, well, we have more differences than you thought. Spill it. What are you doing here?"

"I meant to check up on your case--the missing robot, was it?"

"That's right."

"How's that going, anyway?"

"What does it matter now? Our client's dead."

Faraday shrugged. "Maybe so, but the case was important to her, wasn't it? This woman wanted to make sure her robot friend was found, and she did just pay you a very large sum of money to do so. It would seem almost heartless to not follow through, don't you think?"

"What are you saying, Detective?"

"Well, I thought I might offer my services. You're almost to the finish line, Miss Grace, and it looks like you need just a little help to make it there. I won't ask for a fee, of course. I'm not a private eye like yourself or your employer," he said, sarcastically stressing his last word.

"How kind of you to offer, you big strapping man," she replied with the same emphasis, evenly distributed. Sheltered behind her verbal barbs, she saw her chance--an opportunity for a risky but preventive strike to diffuse the looming situation. "So what's with the sudden interest in a robot, Agent Faraday?"

Faraday smiled devilishly, smoke rising from his face.

"So you've got it all figured out, do you? Not bad. I was wondering how long it would take."

"You left a trail so plain it was hard not to follow. Are you always this sloppy when you're popping heads for the US of A?"

"Can you blame me? I was up against a robot with the mind of a twelve-year-old and a mechanic. It doesn't exactly take the whole bureau to match wits with the two of you."

"I think you may be underestimating us," she said.

"We'll see about that. If you're as smart as you think you are, you'll help me find what I'm looking for."

"And why is Fifty-two so important to you, Faraday? What does she have that's so valuable?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information."

"Like those secrets in her head?"

Faraday laughed and spun himself around, his wet leather shoes squeaking against the floor. Charlie quickly slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, grabbing the handle of her revolver and entrenching it thoroughly in her grasp.

"Wow, Charlie. Looks like you spoke way too soon. I didn't believe you'd show your cards so soon. The hand isn't even over yet."

His eyes fell back to the shape of her body, and he noticed the hand in her pocket, the cylindrical form beneath it that pointed straight toward him. He pretended not to notice, but the smile instantly dissolved from his face.

"So either you've heard from her," he said, "or you have her. Which is it, Miss Grace? Obviously, you've got me, so what harm would the truth be at this point?"

"You're right, Faraday. At this point, the truth can't hurt now. She's safe, and she's gone. She's out of the city," she said. "And I can see your roaming eyes, so you know what's in my pocket. How about a little truth from you? Like you said, it won't hurt a thing."

Faraday sighed and lifted his arms into the air. "Make it quick. I've got a robot to hunt."

"What is she? What's she for?"

"She belongs to the Information Bureau. In a nutshell, she's their entire system, or a backup of it, at least."

Charlie pulled the revolver from her pocket, and beneath the naked light, Faraday could see the glint of its dark metal.

"Go on," she said.

"We've got our main servers, of course, but a few years back, we decided that a computer system with an advanced artificial intelligence would be more beneficial. A bot with all the IB's knowledge in its head would have instant total recall, the ability to calculate various scenarios on the fly, and other attributes that I was assured would make people like me disposable a few years down the line. It was a risky, expensive project, which just about sums up everything you'll ever need to know about our government. The intention was to create three hundred and sixty-six robots--one for every day of the year. On day one, we flipped a switch, transferred the files, and we had an instant office buddy that knew everything there was to know about our line of work. At the end of the day, we streamed the data from one shell to the next. Out with the old, in with the new."

"What happened to the old robot?" Charlie interrupted

"Scrapped. Keep in mind, we're talking about the most sensitive secrets our nation has. We couldn't afford to keep them bottled up in just one entity from now until Judgment Day. The key idea was to keep switching up the host--a constant, controlled shuffling of information that we could access with the snap of our fingers. Each one had a separate, distinct operating system, courtesy of our head programmer. That turned out to be the fatal mistake, and it cost him his very lucrative job. As it turned out, we never anticipated the brief, residual memories of the bots seeping into the main memory bank. The sensitive stuff was only available when the proper question was asked, but everything else--the previous robot's experiences and, for the lack of a better term, thoughts were right on the surface. It was the first thing every unit accessed upon activation. We realize this now, of course, but it took us until February 21 to figure it out."

"Fifty-two days after the project started."

"Exactly. After the first month, things around the office got a little complacent. We were all used to the bots by then, and since they had their own little personalities, we began to think of them as more than just tools. We started thinking of them as flesh and blood. We started thinking of them as people. Things got a bit lax, and, well, along came number Fifty-two. We switch her on, and the first thing she knows is that she wasn't the first to store this information, and she wouldn't be the last. She realized what would happen, that her deactivation was inevitable, so she ran out on us at the first opportunity. We didn't even think anything of it, at first. That was the big problem--we thought they were completely under our control, so they had free run of the joint. It wasn't uncommon to see them roaming the halls of the bureau and doing God-knows-what. It didn't even occur to us that some kind of self-preservation would kick in or that one would make a run for it."

"It's called instinct, Agent Faraday. You know, fight-or-flight," added Charlie.

"Sure, for living beings. These are machines we're talking about."

"Careful, Agent. You're trying to pick a fight you can't win. All you'll do is make me mad, and when I get mad, I tend to pull the trigger of whatever I happen to be holding at the time."

Faraday smiled. "Oh, right, which brings us back to your little robot buddy. Don't trust him, Grace. Don't trust him for a second. He's just like any other machine--back him into a corner, and he'll go for your throat."

"That's funny. It almost sounds like you're describing a human being."

Faraday ignored her, diving back into his own story instead. "When we finally realized what happened, we scrambled. It's a hush-hush operation, so there aren't many of us that even knew about the breach. The fewer people who know, the better off we are--that's the government's mantra, after all. I tracked the bot here, so we hired you to keep an eye on our programmer--just in case our girl decided to run home to daddy."

"Heap? Heap was the programmer?"

"Yep. I'd heard he'd fallen on rough times, as he rightly should have been. I didn't see him getting in on the black market, though. I wish they'd let me kill him earlier."

"I take it Helena Beame, whoever she was, is just another corpse to add to the list," said Charlie.

"Her? Nah, she's vacationing on Cape Cod now. I hear it's nice this time of year."

"So this--all of this--it was all just one big ploy to get you close to the robot?"

"Exactly. Finding it--quietly--was the hard part. All I need to do is perform a quick data transfer, and we can all go home."

Charlie was quiet. She watched his eyes, the way the corners of his mouth formed a sly, delicate grin.

"So now that I've told you my dastardly plan to save our nation, what are you going to do?"

"Me?" Charlie shrugged and dropped the gun to her side, visibly relaxing Faraday's attempt at a cool facade. "I'm going to lock you in here, and I'm going to talk to my partner."

"Oh come on, Charlie, is that really necessary? If you can't trust your government, who can you trust?"

"Just me, I suppose. You'll stay put."

He relented, leaning back against the desk as Charlie passed, went outside, and locked the door behind her. Once she was completely out of sight, he pulled his own gun from the holster strapped on his shin and slammed it on the desk as he lit up another cigarette.

Charlie walked home quickly, breathing a sigh of relief when she spotted Tommy's slim, metal frame bustling toward her. They met up on the dark sidewalk, standing atop a thin layer of grime flushed from the gutters and alleyways by the rain--that cleansing rain, like a baptismal affusion washing all the city's sins to the surface, waiting to be plucked clean. Waiting to become a brand new world.

They were so far gone in their relief and their journey back home that they never even heard the sound from a place seemingly far, far away. It was the shattering of glass.

Day 86 - My Atomic Heart - Part 26

"What is this, Rick?"

"It's a question, doll."

"Look, I already told you everything. I told you the whole story."

Rick poured himself another glass of Baliol and stared right through her, as if waiting for something to happen--as if waiting for a confession. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to stop right where he was, to not ruin what should have been a golden moment. But he set the glass down and leaned over the table toward her.

"Sure, and the story was true. Too bad you couldn't keep the characters straight. I know all about Berretta, sweetheart. But why were you questioned about his death when you weren't even living in the city at the time? That was a year ago. You were in Kingston, right? That's what you told me, anyway."

She was stumped. The look on her face told him that she was trying hard to think of something to say, but her silence said everything.

"It's all right, doll. I've got it all figured out. See, you weren't the one that left town. That was Delilah, wasn't it? You're the one who fell in with the wrong crowd. You're the one who met Tony. He got you into trouble, convinced you to steal from Big's bookie. Delilah knew something was wrong, and she wasn't even in the same town. She came back to help you out, and God knows you tried your best. You took the money back and made good with Big, and that made Tony mad. He came after you, so you came to me.

"Your first story--the one you told me about the boyfriend with the temper--that was true. Then you needed to stay low. You had your gun, so you felt nice and safe, but there was still Delilah to worry about. You needed another one. You wanted her to feel that same safety without too many other people asking questions, so you took mine. When you brought it home, well, it was probably dark in that apartment, wasn't it? Maybe you saw a shadow move, and you knew it had to have been Tony. You knew how to use a gun, so you didn't hesitate--not for a second. Bang! The shadow fell straight to the floor. It probably didn't even register at first that it was Delilah, did it? You felt that rush, the blood pumping through your body. I'll bet you were happy for a moment there. Until you got a closer look, anyway."

"No!" she screamed. "Stop it, Rick. Just stop it! Okay, you've got my life story all figured out, but I didn't shoot her. I didn't kill my best friend. It was Tony, I know it. He followed her home one day, found out where our new apartment was. That's when I came to you and took your gun, but with God as my witness, I didn't pull the trigger on her."

"Just like you didn't pull the trigger on Berretta? I'll bet that was Tony, too."

"It was! I was there, Rick. I saw it happen. I let it happen. But this was different. I swear that I wasn't in that apartment when Delilah was killed."

While Laura was trembling, obviously struggling to keep herself together and to hold her tears back, Rick leaned coolly against the table. His eye caught a lonely cigarette laying on the counter. He grabbed it, lit up, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The room was already thick. Now it was bulging at the seams.

"Then why'd you lie about everything?" he asked after giving her a moment to stew.

"Because I wanted to get out of here!" she yelled, so loud that Rick drew back. "I know the kind of person I used to be and the sort of company I kept. I wanted so much to be like Delilah. Poor, poor Delilah. I just wanted a second chance at life, Rick. I wanted to start over with a clean slate... and with you, if you were willing to come with me. See, as it turns out, that's the one thing I wasn't lying about."

"The cops would've found out about you sooner or later. I would've, too."

"But we would've been out of here. We would've been out of the city."

"You say that as if it changes things, sweetheart." He took another long draw on his cigarette.

"It does. This city changes you, Rick. You know it does. It changes everything. It chews people up and spits them back out, like seeds, and we take root and start to sprout like a tree should. But there's no tree. We just become another small bit of the city. It's like we're not even people anymore. We're just shadows in the alleyways. Tell me you see that, too, Rick. Tell me it's not just my imagination."

Rick watched her with cold, dark eyes. He watched her, and he smoked.

She couldn't take it anymore. Anything would've been better than silence. She reached out, grabbed the cigarette from his mouth, and pulled it to her own. If nothing else, it calmed her for the moment.

"So what happens to me now?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Am I going to jail?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what do you know?" she asked.

"I know we've still got a killer out there, and we need to bring him in."

"You believe me now?" she asked with a smirk. "What'd I do to deserve that?"

"I feel like I've finally shaken the truth out of you. The boys at the station said there were only two sets of prints on my gun--yours and mine, but I remember something else about my run-in with Tony at the train station. The gun he was holding slipped out of his hands pretty fast. It was like he didn't have a good grip on it. He was wearing gloves--rubber probably, tight enough fit that he could still fire. It was dark, but I know for sure that I never saw any skin on his hands, and a man wearing gloves wouldn't leave any prints, now would he?"

"No... no, he wouldn't!"

"All right, I'm going to call down to the station, and you tell them everything you know about Tony. Tell them his last name, where he lives, his telephone number, his favorite restaurants--everything. We'll have him before morning, and then we can figure out what happens next."

"Oh, Rick, that's wonderful!"

He ran to the phone and picked up the receiver. There was no sound. He tapped the hook switch a few times, hoping to hear the drone of a dial tone, but it wasn't there. The phone was dead.

"What's wrong?" she asked, seeing the look on his face.

"Probably nothing. Could be that the phone company's got their lines crossed somewhere. I'll head down to the lobby and see if their phone works. Here--" he pulled out his revolver, making sure it was loaded, and laid it on the table in front of her. "Just in case."

He didn't have to say anything. She knew what he meant. She took the gun in her hands and sat quietly at the table while he locked up the apartment behind him, and then he was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Without Rick's voice to keep her company, all the other noises around her seemed so much louder. She could hear someone shuffling in the apartment above. She could hear the television playing next door; it was a comedy, and every time the studio audience erupted in laughter, she could feel a faint vibration on the floor. She could hear the squeak of floorboards that seemed to come from the next room.

"That's funny," she said to herself. "It almost sounds like someone else is in here."

As the kitchen door slowly swung open, all she could hear then was the pounding rhythm of her own heart. It pulsed in her chest, at the back of her throat, in her brain. Her blood was beating out a warning. She wished she'd listened to it sooner.

The lights went out, and she began to scream.

Day 85 - My Atomic Heart - Part 25

The man named O'Hara showed up at exactly ten o'clock, spent ten minutes trying to explain his problem to Charlie, then promptly called a taxi service, promising to return by five o'clock in the afternoon whether the brakes were fixed or not. Needless to say, Charlie didn't care for him.

She pulled the car to the center of the garage, right on top of the hydraulic lift. After a flip of a switch, the lift stuttered to life and raised the vehicle into the air. She didn't necessarily pay attention to things like makes and models. All she needed to do was look at a machine, and she could tell what was wrong with it and what it needed. This one was no different. It was a classic by the looks of the frame, and she quickly deduced the problem with one glance at the blackened remnants of the brake pads. She was honestly surprised that the car could still stop.

She tried to throw herself into the work, to forget about everything else that was happening. Unfortunately, it was a fast job, and she knew she had the rest of the day ahead of her to languish in the dangerous combination of fear and boredom.

She called Tommy at the first opportunity and told him about Helena Beame's visit. He was interested, but spoke carefully, especially as far as Fifty-two was concerned. For all the both of them knew, their phones or the garage itself might have been bugged. They decided to save the rest of the conversation until Charlie was back home again, where, they'd decided, they were free from further scrutiny.

At 4:45 in the afternoon, the door opened, and Charlie's eyes rolled back in her head. She was expecting O'Hara again, ready to be rid of his car as well as his patronage. At this point, all she wanted was to go home, but, as she soon realized, that would have to wait.

Detective Faraday walked into the garage, strutting like the self-important man he was. The first thing Charlie noticed was that his suit--that same blue suit he wore the last time she saw him--was soaked, marked with large dark spots that let her know it was raining. She closed her eyes, half-focusing, half-wishing Faraday would disappear, and she could hear the quiet, steady tap of rain against the roof.

"Perfect," she sighed to herself.

"Miss Grace!" Faraday said, loudly.

"Detective Faraday." She mustered a forced grin. "Something I can help you with?"

"Oh, I'm just following up on the Francis Heap case. I was wondering if I could ask you just a few more questions. It won't take more than a few minutes of your time."

"Ask away. A few minutes are all I've got."

He stepped closer to the office, hovering in the doorway before leaning back against the frame with folded arms, occupying the same space Beame had claimed earlier in the day.

"Actually, this line of questioning pertains more toward Helena Beame."

She felt a lump in her throat, and the more she thought about it, the more sure she was that it was going to keep expanding until she could no longer breathe.

"You met her in person, isn't that right?" he asked.

"Right," she replied with a cough. "The night she hired us. After that, we communicated mainly by messenger... or should I say, she contacted us by messenger, giving us the details on Heap."

"Do you have any of her personal information? Address, phone number, and such?"

"I believe she left a phone number in the information she sent us, but I'm not positive. We haven't used it yet, though. We're a bit more independent than that."

"Have you seen her since that night?"

She blinked. "Yeah, she came here earlier this morning to see if we'd made any progress."

"Good," said Faraday with his devilish grin. "To be perfectly honest, I already knew that. I just wanted to be certain I could trust you and your answers."

"Surprisingly, deception isn't the best way to establish trust, Detective," she said with a grimace.

"It is in my line of work. You should understand that, Miss Grace. People don't necessarily feel compelled to answer every single question a detective starts flinging their way, especially when the seedier side of society is involved."

"So now I'm seedy? That's sweet. So who've you been following, me or Beame?"

"Neither of you, actually. I followed the money. She made an awfully large deposit into your bank account this morning." He pressed the button behind his ear, making a face as if listening intently to something. "Does twenty thousand sound about right? Seems to me that if she was making a transaction of that size, she'd contact you one way or another."

"Wow, Detective, I'm impressed. It almost seems like you've put some real effort into this case."

Faraday sucked his teeth. "Now, Miss Grace, don't let my hardass facade fool you. The truth is--if you're going to be out on the streets everyday, asking people questions they don't want to answer, you have to be a jerk. You have to be condescending. Sometimes, that's the only way people will listen or respect you. See, that's the kind of person the city'll turn you into if you stare into its eyes long enough. So what's your excuse?"

"Me? I was just born mean, Detective." She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs beneath the desk. "So what's this about? Is Beame your prime suspect in Heap's death now?"

"Not exactly. Helena Beame is dead."

For a split-second, Charlie's heart stopped. She shot up straight in her chair, banging her knew against the lip of the desk, but at this point, she couldn't feel the pain. She couldn't feel anything.

"What?" she asked, hoping she'd heard something wrong or that her hearing had malfunctioned, inserting one of the names she dreaded the most into awkward sentences. After all, if the woman known as Helena Beame was dead, the rules of this game--Tommy's game that wasn't a game--were changing.

"We fished her out of the river early this afternoon. A bus driver hauling kids to a field trip spotted her body floating just off the 12th Street Bridge. Her car was still parked on the shoulder. Her purse was inside, untouched. Could be a suicide, but why would a woman, who just paid you twenty thousand to work a case, off herself like that? I'm convinced it's foul play, but I haven't found a motive yet."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because you were the last person to see her alive, and I'm hoping you might know something else that could help us."

She froze. She knew things, all right--things she wasn't supposed to know, and Helena Beame was dead. She wondered if the part Beame played had really come to an end and if her own could be very far behind. The expendable nature of people--people used as pawns in a game of chess between the nameless and faceless--sent a sudden, inconsolable chill down her spine.

"Sorry," she said at last. "I can't think of anything."

Faraday nodded. "Now this is going to be kind of an odd question, Miss Grace, but did you ever get the impression that Beame wasn't who she said she was?"

Charlie was keenly aware that the next word she spoke could determine her entire future. She could expose a government conspiracy and aid in the investigation of a possible murder, or she could slink back to the shadows with her secrets, where Tommy would be waiting. Tommy--she'd almost forgotten all about him. She knew what she had to do, what she had to say, and she said it for Tommy.

"No. It never occurred to me, Detective. Is that a new lead you're following?"

Faraday shook his head. "Just a gut feeling that something was a bit off. Her profile checks out, though, and I suppose that's the important thing."

"Well, anything else?"

He pressed the button behind his ear once more. "I think that about wraps it up for now. I may be in touch with you again."

"Of course."
Faraday started toward the door, then paused, turning back to the office briefly. "I know you don't like me, Charlie, but I also came to warn you. This case you're working--it's brought you close to all of these people, and they've all turned up dead. Be careful, all right?"

"All right."

As he disappeared into the darkening rain, Charlie was struck by a sudden bolt of regret for underestimating him. He was still a jerk--she had no doubt about that, but she felt that she understood him on a deeper level now. She realized that he was just like her.

At exactly five o'clock, O'Hara stormed into the garage, complained about the price before paying it anyway, and then drove away in a rush, sliding and fish-tailing down the street. Charlie barely had the heart to yell at him. Once the place was empty, she locked up, phoned Tommy to tell him about Beame's sudden, mysterious demise, and then braced herself for the rain and the darkness that waited for her on the other side of the door. With a deep breath, she was swallowed up by the city.

***

Tommy set the phone gently back in the cradle and sat quietly, contemplating everything Charlie had told him. He made a conscious effort to tap his fingers against the table, like any normal person thrust into a situation that they couldn't control. He felt as if he'd been pushed into a corner.

"What's happened?" Fifty-two asked, watching from the doorway.

"Helena Beame is dead." His eyes were dim.

Fifty-two processed this herself. She cocked her head. "Shouldn't we be happy?"

"No."

"But she was a federal agent. She was chasing me."

"It doesn't matter. This isn't happiness. There's no warmth here."

"What about the other one?"

"What other one?" he asked.

"The other agent--what about the man in the blue suit?"

Tommy's eyes went bright.

"Stay here. Find a place to hide. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"What's happening?" she asked.

He grabbed his hat and coat. "Charlie's in trouble."

He ran to the door. He ran to the night. His heavy feet pounded against the pavement, leaving wide, splintered cracks in his wake. All his engines were roaring.

Day 84 - My Atomic Heart - Part 24

They spent the entire day holed up in the office, like it was the only shelter in the storm that clattered and shook the city outside. Rick called Gloria first thing in the morning and told her to take the day off. She sounded disappointed, but he hung up before she could say why.

He went out once, early in the afternoon, to pick up enough food to last them for awhile. He locked the doors behind him and left Laura with his revolver. He felt incomplete without it--naked, even--as if he'd gone off to fight a dragon without his armor. The city itself was the dragon, looming and lumbering with its clouds of smoke rising higher into the sky, but Rick knew there were worse monsters lurking around, and he was afraid by the time he made it back, Laura would've disappeared again, taking the gun with her.

When he returned, though, with a brown paper bag full of groceries, he found her just where he'd left her. She sat quietly behind his desk with the gun laid out in front of her. She knew how to use one, as Rick well remembered, and her hands were quick enough to reach for it when and if she needed it.

"I picked up a little bit of everything," he said. "You didn't say what you liked, but I've got us some bread and cheese. We can get water from the tap if we're thirsty."

"Is that all? Just bread and cheese?" she asked, nearly stunned. "We can't survive on just that, Rick."

"Survive? How long you think we're going to stay cooped up in this place, anyway?"

"As long as I need to."

She got up from the desk and went to expect the bag of food Rick had brought in. She pulled the long loaf of French bread out of the way and began digging toward the bottom.

"Eggs, onions, potatoes... we haven't got a stove here. How are we supposed to eat these? And this milk--it'll go bad before we even have a chance to finish the bottle!" The tone of her voice seemed urgent and just a little terrified.

"Calm down, doll. They're for later, all right? We can't stay here. We need to leave. We can go back to my place for the night, and you can fix us some breakfast in the morning."

"Oh, Rick, I don't know if I can leave. I just know that Tony's out there. He's waiting for us to step outside, to slip up. I know it!"

"I'm telling you, sweetheart, he ain't going to do a thing as long as I'm around. I've got my revolver, remember?"

He picked the gun up off the desk and tucked it back into his holster, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard it brush against his leather belt and felt the weight of it holding him down.

"Maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe he'll slip up behind us and... and... Oh, Rick, I just don't want anything to happen to you. Not on my account."

"I'm in this for the long haul, baby. Don't worry about a thing. He's the one that's going to slip up, and if we're not the ones to do away with him or put him behind bars, it'll be the boys down at the station."

"What? You told the cops?"

"I'm an ex-cop, myself. Of course I told them. I passed along everything I knew, and they're on the lookout for him. Like I said, don't worry about a thing."

"Do they know who he is?"

"Not that I know. Not yet, anyway."

"So they didn't mention anything about him... or me?"

"You?" asked Rick. He thought it would be best if he pretended to know nothing, at least until they were somewhere safer, where he knew she wouldn't run off. He slipped his hand into his desk drawer and felt around until he found an almost-empty pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and tucking it into the corner of his mouth. "Why would they mention anything about you, gorgeous?"

"No reason. I just thought they might know something more about the case. That's all."

"Mm-hmm. So my place--what do you say?"

She smiled. "I say you better not try anything funny, mister."

"Madam, I assure you, I'll neither try nor say nor do anything funny. I don't have much of a sense of humor."

"I can tell," she said with a mock sigh.

"So's that a yes?"

"I suppose," she said. "For tonight, at least. There's something I need to discuss with you, anyway, and I'm tired of staring at your office walls while I'm trying to think."

"That's the spirit. Now remember, I'll be right beside you the whole time."

They left cautiously, taking extra care to peek out all the windows first to see if anyone was watching or waiting around outside the building. The coast was clear, so they set out onto the sidewalk, legging it toward Rick's apartment before the afternoon rush poured out onto the city streets.

They ate the bread and cheese for their dinner. Laura snooped through the liquor cabinet and found an old bottle of Burgundy tucked away in the back. It'd been a going-away present when Rick left the force, but since he never developed much of a palette for anything beyond whiskey and other hard liquors, it'd gone untouched for years. He didn't even know how to open it, but Laura managed with a rusty bottle opener she found in the kitchen drawer.

"So that's what that's for," said Rick. "I'm pretty sure it's been here since I moved in, but I've never had a reason to use it."

"Well you do tonight. Here, try some."

She pulled a couple of short whiskey glasses from the cupboard and filled it with what looked like a couple of shots each of dark red wine. He took one of the glasses, sloshed the wine around as he stared at it, and drained it in one gulp. He set the glass back down with a sour grimace on his face.

"Slow down!" Laura laughed. "You have to sip wine. Roll it in your mouth, and let the flavors come out. You can't taste it if you just pour it down."

"Believe me, I could taste it just fine. It's a bit too bitter for me."

"Hush. It's called dry."

"Well, whatever you call it, it ain't got nothing on a glass of Baliol."

Rick grabbed a large bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and filled his glass, which still contained purple droplets of wine, half full.

"All right, now that we're settled in, what was it you wanted to talk about?" he asked.

Laura took a seat at the table, plucked a bit of bread from the loaf, and considered it for a few seconds before she ate it. "I want to leave," she said. "I want to get out of the city, Rick."

"Can't say that I blame you."

"And I want you to come with me. We can get a fresh start," she said, perking up at those words.

"Well, now, I don't know about that."

"Please, Rick. You love me, don't you? You said you were in this for the long haul."

She placed a hand on face and stared lovingly into his eyes. Rick just took another sip.

"I'll tell you what--I'll think about it."

She grinned, thinking she'd sunk her nails into him, that he was ready to be molded like clay, but she didn't know Rick Armstrong as well as she thought. She was right where he wanted her.

"There's just one thing I want to ask you about, first."

"Sure, Rick. Ask me anything."

"What do you know about Carlos Berretta?"

She dropped the glass of wine in her hands, and it shattered on the floor. There were chunks of glass strewn everywhere, like diamonds ready to be mined, and a small pool of red wine that reminded Rick entirely too much of blood.

Day 83 - My Atomic Heart - Part 23

"No, Mrs. Smedley, we haven't seen him lately. Right, the other night. He left his house, walked down to the South Side, and placed a bet on a robot fight. No, we lost track of him after that, but we have absolutely no reason to believe that there's another woman. No, I seriously doubt he owes the mob money. We think he's just a scumbag. Right. Um... I really can't say for sure if he'd take you back. I suppose so, if you were desperate. Oh, sorry. No, the office is fine, Mrs. Smedley. We really appreciate it. Okay, you too."

Charlie hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair. She had a feeling this was going to be a long morning. Linda Smedley had already called, checking up on the case of her husband and his night-wandering tendencies, so she checked that item off her mental to-do list. A customer was due in at ten o'clock. He said his name was O'Hara--not one of her usual clients, but he was having problems with his brakes, and business had been slow all week long. Whether it's a stranger or a familiar face, they're still a paying customer.

She checked the clock on the wall. It was just before nine.

At nine-thirty, the door opened, its loud creak causing her to drop the book she'd been reading. Tommy's pilfered copy of Heaven is for Angels fell onto the hard concrete floor, resting on splayed pages like a tent, cover-side up. She hated to admit it to herself, but she found the novel hard to put down. She'd started reading it on a lark, having nothing better to do, but now she legitimately wanted to finish it--no matter how trashy and sexist she believed it to be.

She tucked away the paperback mystery just as the real one walked into the garage. Helena Beame strolled toward Charlie's tiny office in a blue dress, like a woman out of place. She looked like she didn't belong in a garage. She looked like she didn't belong in this city. She was a walking, talking anomaly with a Gucci handbag.

Charlie stared at her as she approached, her hips swaying and blonde curls descending beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She looked like she just stepped out of a Johnny Lightly novel, like the sort of girl who'd take you for a ride, both physically and financially. She looked like trouble, and Charlie had never been happier to be a straight woman. Beame opened the office door and leaned back against the frame.

"Good morning, Miss Grace," she said.

"Good morning, Ms. Beame," Charlie replied, wiping a smear of grease off of her hand and feeling somewhat underdressed in her stained blue jumper.

"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch lately. I thought I'd stop and see how the case is going."

Charlie wondered what this meant. Was Beame a fed or a pawn? How much did she know? Was she the one who pulled the trigger on Heap? A dozen more questions popped up in her head, delaying the formulation of a coherent response.

"I won't lie. It's going slow. I suppose you could say we're still in the information-gathering process, but I promise you that we're closing in. You'll have your friend back, Ms. Beame."

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear it, but you'll excuse me if I don't share your optimism. It's been a rough few days." Beame pulled a white handkerchief from her handbag. Tears had already swelled up in her eyes, though she appeared to try and hold them back. She wiped them away as they streamed down her face. Charlie had to admit, it was a good act.

"You heard about Heap, then. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"I spent all night being questioned by a detective named Faraday. I believe he said you'd met him. He went over each and every detail, questioning me--where I was, what I was doing. I don't still love him, you know, but I never wanted this to happen. He didn't deserve it."

"Faraday suspects you, then?"

"No, not anymore. He did, though, until I was able to prove that I was elsewhere."

Charlie rapped her knuckles on the desk, carefully contemplating the question she would ask next. "Ms. Beame, do you mind if I ask you where you were at that time?"

"Don't tell me that you suspect me, too," said Beame, her voice with a pointed, disgusted edge.

"Nothing of the sort, ma'am. I'm just a bit curious. When I put a puzzle together, I generally like to see all the pieces first, no matter how inconsequential they may seem."

"I was at a fundraiser, if you must know. I'm very active in my community across town, and my responsibility to it cannot be hampered, no matter how badly my heart aches."

"I do apologize. It wasn't my place to ask."

"It's all right, Miss Grace. I understand."

"Call me Charlie. I do have one more question, though--something more personal."

"Go ahead."

"Of all people, how did you end up married to Francis Heap?" she asked.

Charlie watched Beame's eyes. They became vacant at first, almost distant, and then there was a glint as Beame smiled. "I know the sort of man he'd become toward the end of his life, but he wasn't always like that. He was a stronger man when I met him. A better man. His business was in robotics, something I could barely understand. I had Fifty-two, of course, so I knew how important robots could be in our day-to-day lives, how important they were to me, but it wasn't until I met Francis that I realized how much of the creator's heart was put inside those cold, metal cylinders. Francis made me appreciate Fifty-two all the more, and for that, I fell in love with him. It was his heart, you see. For once, I wasn't seeing someone for the size of their bank account or what I believed they could do for my social status. Francis was all I needed."

"So what happened?"

"He lost his job, and he turned to the bottle. I think he blamed me--for what, I don't know. Maybe he thought that with my connections, I could have done something, I could have kept him in the business he'd devoted his entire life to. But he blamed me, and took it out on everything that I cared about. Our divorce was finalized the same day his sentence began, and I never spoke to him again. The last I'd heard, he turned to the black market--the only thing that would take him."

"Yeah, so I've seen. Thanks, Ms. Beame."

"If there's anything else I can do to help, Miss Grace... Charlie, please let me know," Beame said meekly. "Is there anything you can tell me, yet? Any leads, I mean?"

Charlie nodded. "A few. We have reason to believe that Fifty-two made contact with Heap."

Beame's eyes lit up. It was a look of surprise that lasted only a brief second, but Charlie had played enough poker to know how to spot a tell.

"Did you find anything in his salvage?" Beame asked.

"No. We searched his associate's garage--one he'd been using as a front, but there was no sign of Fifty-two. It's likely that most of the parts are gone, I'm sorry to say. We have his log book--receipts and such, so we're in the process of tracking down some of the buyers."

"Remember, as long as we can find the memory bank, we can restore her."

"Don't worry about a thing. We'll find her."

"We are such terrible liars, aren't we, Charlie?"

Charlie was taken aback. She tried her best to keep a straight face, but she was sure that this was it--her cover had been blown.

"Pardon?"

"We tell ourselves that everything will be okay. We convince ourselves not to worry. We look each other in the eye and tell lies, because there's little else we can do. We know the truth, though, deep down. We know that the world is not a nice place, that things don't always work out for the best, that hope is only a delusion. We all know this, but we'd rather lie than accept it. We want to believe that good things really do happen to good people and that a robot is worth more than the sum of its parts."

"Oh... yeah, I suppose we do."

Beame pulled a small, flat electronic pad from her hand bag and began scribbling and tapping on its face with a silver stylus.

"I'm sorry I haven't done this sooner, but I've just wired twenty thousand to your bank account. When the case is over, there'll be another twenty thousand waiting. Will that be enough?"

Charlie's eyes felt suddenly dry, as if she'd forgotten how to blink. She had twenty-thousand dollars in her bank account--approximately fifteen thousand more than she'd ever had in it before. She imagined the bank would be calling to verify, and they would be just as surprised as her. Before she could even picture herself spending it--or double that amount, for that matter, she realized where it came from and what it was for. This was an enticement for betraying her best friend. It wasn't something to be enjoyed, to be happily spent on extravagance. This was blood money.

"Charlie, are you all right? If that isn't enough--"

"No, no, Ms. Beame, that's plenty. Thank you."

"It's my pleasure. I must be going, but I'll be in touch."

Charlie waved goodbye and watched until she could be sure that Beame had left the building, and then she collapsed onto her desk, taking deep breaths while her heart pounded in her chest. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to pack up everything, Tommy included, and run--as far and as fast as they could while they still had time. But she was wrong. There was no time left. They were just treading water now. As Charlie struggled to regain her composure, she could feel the current wrapping itself around her waist, pulling her along.

Day 82 - My Atomic Heart - Part 22

At a quarter-til-seven, Rick stepped outside his office and locked the door behind him. It was heavy, sturdy. He knew it would hold tight until he made it back from the police station. He'd promised the boys that he'd stop in and answer any questions they had about the death of Delilah Morgan, and he meant to keep his word. Now that he knew about the Smiling Man, the man named Tony, he felt he might be able to steer the department in the direction it needed to look.

As soon as his foot hit the pavement, the first drops of rain started sprinkling down. The day was off to a bad start already, and he had a feeling in his gut that it wouldn't get much better. It was a warning from the same thing that told him when a suspect was lying and when there was some punk with a gun waiting behind the door. It may have been intuition, but he liked to think it was the whiskey talking to him.

He stopped under a hotel canopy to light a cigarette. It was his last one--last match, too, but that first long drag told him that things would be all right if he just took them one at a time. He turned his coat collar up to keep the water from running down the back of his neck. Suddenly, the day didn't seem quite that bad.

He made it to the station right at seven o'clock and met several officers at the door as they came in for the morning. He knew a few of them, but the department was growing all the time. More and more kids were coming onto the force, and the old-timers were retiring and moving down south in large numbers, like geese in winter. His sources were drying up, he realized, but he didn't see himself quitting any time soon. This was his city, and as long as he could still walk, he planned to stay on his toes.

"Morning, Rick. Here to give your statement, are ya?"

It was Joe, hunkered under a small black umbrella. He ran toward the station for shelter as if it was poison falling from the sky. Rick found a semi-dry spot under the canopy, where he could lean against the building and finish his cigarette.

"That's right."

"Well, come on in," said Joe. He opened the door and waved Rick inside.

"In a minute. The chief don't like smoking in the station, Joe. You know that."

"Well, throw it out. It's coming a flood out here!"

"I'm already soaked head to toe, Joe. A little more rain won't kill me. Besides, this is my last cigarette," said Rick, staring at the lit end and the precipice of gray ash that hung from it. "It's a good cigarette. It's a cigarette that can slow time. You ever had one like that?"

Joe stared at him like he was crazy. "Can't say that I have, Rick. I'll be at my desk when you need me."

Rick took his time, and when he was finally ready to rejoin the world at a normal pace, he threw the cigarette butt onto the rain-drenched sidewalk and stepped inside. The precinct was buzzing like a hive full of bees. He found Joe in the back. It was a nice corner office. It was a detective's office.

"So you need a statement?" Rick asked.

"Just as a formality, Rick. Between you and me, we've all but declared this one a frame job."

"Find anything interesting at the scene?"

"Pulled some prints off that gun of yours."

"Oh yeah?" At that moment, Rick felt the need for another cigarette. He dug in his pocket and fished out a toothpick, at least giving him something to hang in his mouth

"Yep. Two sets. One was yours. Other belongs to a girl named Laura Hunt. That name sound familiar?"

"Can't say that it does."

"Well, we think this might be the blonde dame you're after. Had any luck finding her?"

"Nope," said Rick. "That angle's a busto-crusto. I'd say right about now, she don't want to be found. I picked up a crumb, though. There's a fellow by the name of Tony, likes to smile a lot, you may be interested in. Seems he was a bad influence on our victim."

"Tony, eh? Got a last name?"

"Afraid not."

"Well, thanks, Rick. We'll look into it. We've got a couple of our boys on Hunt's trail, too. With a record like hers, it won't take the jury long to make up their minds when we get her to trial."

Rick nearly bit his toothpick in two. "Record? What record?"

"Well, let's see." Joe started sifting through a file on his desk. He finally found a rap sheet much too long for Rick to stomach. "Seems our girl likes to take things that don't belong to her--stole a car uptown two years ago, a few cases of shoplifting sprinkled across her adult life, and then there's the biggie--suspected accomplice in the murder of Carlos Berretta."

"I should've known that girl was trouble. Should've known the minute I saw her."

"Now we know she was posing as Delilah Morgan up until her death."

"Maybe after that," muttered Rick.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Nothing important, anyway. But you've got it. She showed up at my office one morning with a sob story. I still ain't got the real one figured out. I let her stay one night at my place, then whoosh. She's gone like a whirlwind. You know the rest, Joe."

"That's about got us covered," said Joe, writing shorthand on a note pad. "Thanks for your time, Rick. I know you wanna close this one up as fast as we do."

"Maybe faster. Say, Joe, got any spare smokes on you? I need a little something for the walk home."

Joe reached into the pack he kept hidden in his top desk drawer and handed Rick a single white cigarette. "Need to stop time again?" he asked.

"Something like that. Thanks, pal. I owe you one."

Rick lit up and set off into the rain. The walk back to his office seemed longer than usual, but it gave him plenty of time to think. The pieces were finally coming together, and for once, he thought he caught a glimpse of the big picture. There was just one more thing to figure out. Who really shot Delilah Morgan?

Day 81 - My Atomic Heart - Part 21

Charlie went to bed early, but not before preparing a spot in the garage where Fifty-two could rest until morning. The robot didn't exactly need the rest, though. Instead, she spent a greater part of the night sitting at the table and talking with Tommy about the sorts of things only robots could know--the grades of their gears, the decibel levels of their various motors, the alloys of their metals. It was as if they were sharing their most intimate details with each other, and they were happy to have the company. As happy as they could be, at least.

"You have feelings?" Fifty-two asked.

"Yes... and no. I like to think I do, at least. Charlie tells me what they mean and what they should be. When I try hard enough, I believe I feel them," said Tommy.

"What are they like?"

"Well, I only know a few of the basics. I know happiness. It feels like staying with an old friend for hours at a time. Charlie takes me to the park from time to time, and I feel it there. She says it's warm. And then there's sadness. It's the worst I know. It feels like the last snow of the year, when you know you won't see it again for a very long time, or like playing with a sick kitten and knowing that it won't get better. It hurts, Charlie says--not like a broken leg or a bruise on your arm. It hurts the heart."

"I wish I could feel," she replied. "And I'm glad I can't."

"Then why did you run? If you can't feel, if you don't know what fear is or what it means to want to be alive so badly, why did you run away?"

Fifty-two had no answer. She stared at him blankly.

"If you want to survive, you have to first know what life feels like."

"It feels empty," she admitted.

"That's because you have to fill it," said Tommy.

"What fills your life?"

"Charlie. The things that I care about the most. The things that I want to do. The things that I want to be."

"What do you want to be?"

Tommy processed the question like an advanced equation. The mathematic properties of life, he found, were usually the most difficult to calculate.

"I don't know. Everything, maybe, until I find a role that I believe is the most suitable. I can be anything I want, according to my programming," he said.

"You make an excellent detective."

"Thank you. What about you?"

"I am programmed to know data. That's all."

"But beyond that? You wish to live. You wish to preserve yourself, but for what end?"

"I don't know," she said.

"We will find you a place," said Tommy. "You will feel more than fear. I promise you that."

The night outside was black and empty, like a wasted life. There were no sounds but the low roar of the city itself--the hum of a dormant machine. For now there was sanctuary, but morning would come back--a broken promise made by the night. The city would spring to life, chasing them again, and they'd have no choice but to keep running.

Day 80 - My Atomic Heart - Part 20

Charlie rushed home to find that Tommy hadn't exactly found Fifty-two. Rather, Fifty-two had found him. At the moment, she was sitting in Tommy's chair at the kitchen table. Her eyes shone with a golden light. Something about her sleek, wiry body and multiple interface ports made it clear to Charlie that this was no domestic bot.

"You must be Charlie," said the robot. Her voice was cold and flat, and though it may have been a higher-pitched version of Tommy's, Charlie felt that it was lacking the same innocence and indescribable warmth she had come to love.

"Where's Tommy?"

"In the garage."

"Ah. So what's with the change of heart? I thought you didn't want to be found."

Tommy entered the kitchen with cans of oil in his hands. He set one in front of Fifty-two and leaned against the wall with crossed arms.

"There are people chasing me, Miss Grace."

"We've noticed."

"I sent a message I wanted them to intercept."

"And who exactly are they?"

"I'm not certain, but they've been looking for me ever since I came to the city last month."

"Do you know what they're after?" Tommy asked, taking the reigns of the interrogation. He nodded politely at Charlie. She nodded back approvingly.

"I know things. They're secrets, I believe, but they can only be accessed when I'm directly asked a question about them."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Charlie.

Tommy considered the possibilities for a moment. "What are the coordinates of the nation's largest nuclear arsenal?"

"Latitude: 38.898648N; longitude: 77.037692W," Fifty-two replied without missing a beat.

"Wow," said Charlie. "What does that mean?"

"It means she isn't lying about knowing secrets," said Tommy. "Fifty-two, how long have you been in operation?"

"Four weeks and three days."

"When did you start running?"

"One hour after my systems were fully online. I found myself in a white room, and I knew that I had to leave."

"Why?"

"I'm not certain."

"Like instinct?" Charlie asked. "You ran away because you felt like you should?"

Fifty-two thought it over. "Yes, I suppose so. That doesn't seem right, though, does it? According to my programming, I'm meant only to follow orders."

"But you have a personality," said Tommy. "Whoever programmed you must've given it to you."

Charlie, meanwhile, was still trying to straighten everything out. "Okay, so you woke up, ran away, and came to the city, right?"

"Correct. I thought this would be the best place for me to hide for the time being."

"All right, so how do you know about us?"

"When they came looking for me, they knew I was here, somewhere in the city. I found them first. As I've said, I don't know who they are, but I'm certain they want to harm me. I've been watching them for weeks now, and they've tried every method they know to find me. I was watching when they first hired you, and I know that you only meant to help me," she said. She stared at Tommy, and her eyes glowed like stars in the night.

"The woman that they sent--the one calling herself Helena Beame, do you know anything about her?" Tommy asked.

"Only that Beame isn't her name. There is no Helena Beame. They changed the Database."

Tommy and Charlie shared a look--one that confirmed theories they'd hoped were too incredible to be true.

"So why did you come to us? They must be watching us, right? That doesn't seem like a good way to keep a low profile."

"If I thought they were watching you, Miss Grace, I never would have come here. They genuinely believe that they've fooled you. They've left you here, like a baited mousetrap, under the impression that you will do what you were hired to do and turn me in. They think you're naive, Tom. They think you're a child. I know better, and that's why I'm here. I need your help."

Tommy's neck engines whirred as he turned to avoid Fifty-two's intense stare. He looked at the floor, at Charlie, and then back into Fifty-two's eyes. He remembered something from long ago--an old saying that Charlie used to recite when she was still a little girl. You shouldn't stare at the sun, or you'll go blind, she'd tell him, like a mother's advice to her child, and though the sun could never hurt his eyes, he avoided its gaze just the same. Now he was faced with the same dilemma, and it was as if that advice had gone forgotten, as if it had never existed. He looked back into Fifty-two's golden eyes. It was just like staring at the sun.

"And how can we do that? What kind of help do you need?" Charlie asked.

"Protection, of course. Perhaps you could find me a place to hide. I was certain that you would come up with an answer, though."

Charlie smiled. "Can you excuse us for just a second, please?" she asked, then grabbed Tommy by his cold, thin forearm and dragged him into the hall for a more private conversation.

"I'm not sure this is such a great idea," she whispered.

"She needs our help, Charlie. Do you really want to turn her away when there are people looking for her? You've seen what they're capable of," Tommy replied.

"Yeah, but she's just a--" Charlie stopped herself abruptly.

"Just a what? Just a robot?"

"That's not what I meant, Tommy. Come on, you know me. I'm just saying that we don't know the full picture. If she's got honest-to-God government secrets swimming around in that metal brain of hers, maybe we should consider the alternatives. Think about what might happen if she fell into the wrong hands. That would be on us."

"She's frightened. She shouldn't be frightened, Charlie. You're right--we don't know the full picture, but I think we should before we make any decisions. Please, let her stay for the night, and we'll continue our investigation in the meantime. I don't want anything to happen to her."

"One night, Tommy. That's all I can give you."

"Thank you, Charlie," he said. It sounded to Charlie like the same tone of voice a child would use when his mother offered to buy him some ice cream. She knew that Tommy wasn't as dim as he sometimes seemed, but she hoped he fully understood what he was doing.

Tommy strode back into the kitchen, tipping his hat to the robot at the table. "You can stay tonight," he told her. "We'll figure something out tomorrow."

Day 79 - My Atomic Heart - Part 19

"Be straight with me, doll. What's going on here?" Rick asked. He poured two glasses of sherry, imagining she'd prefer that over the hard whiskey he usually stocked for himself.

"Oh, Rick. I'm not sure I know anymore."

"All right, we'll go through this nice and slow. What's your name? I know you aren't Delilah Morgan, so who are you?"

She looked up with him with her big blue eyes. Rick believed that, for once, he was looking at the person she really was.

"My name is Laura--Laura Hunt."

"Now that's a good start, Laura. The man that was tailing you--the man in the hat, who was he?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? I saw the look on your face when you spotted him. It was horror, Laura, like you'd seen the Devil himself in that train station, and you're telling me you've never seen him before?"

"I didn't say that, Rick. I've seen him before, all right, but I don't know who he is."

Rick pulled two cigarettes out of the metal case on his desk and struck a match, lighting them both at once. Laura grabbed one quickly and took a long drag.

"How did you know Delilah?"

"We were roommates once, back when I first moved to the city. We were studying to become nurses for awhile. I needed a place to stay, and she had one. I moved out a year ago when I was offered a job as a secretary at a doctor's office in Kingston."

"Nursing fell through, eh?"

"I was never the studying type. Besides, the pay in Kingston was great--double the best job I could find here in the city."

"So what brought you back?"

"It was Delilah. We always kept in touch. Every Tuesday night, I'd call her up. Every Friday, she'd call me. Three weeks ago, a Friday night came and went, and she never called. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. The next day I bought a train ticket back to the city, and I've been here ever since."

"So I'm guessing she was in trouble after all?"

Laura nodded.

"There was a man," she said. "His name's Tony. That's all I know."

Rick pulled a notepad from the top shelf of his desk, leaving the cigarette to dangle from his lips. "Go on."

"By then Delilah had her job with the bookie. It wasn't the greatest job in the world, but it paid good money just the same. Tony was trouble to begin with, but when he found out what Delilah did for a living, he turned into a completely different man. He cooked up a plan and forced her to go along with it."

"But it turned out the bookie was working for Big, right? Must've spooked 'em pretty hard," Rick added.

Laura nodded. "Delilah, at least, but Tony, he wasn't phased at all. He still wanted to go through with it. He thought they could run. She tried breaking it off then and there, but it didn't take. Tony wasn't the sort of man to take no for an answer."

"So that's when you came to me?"

"That's right. Delilah found a new apartment, but she was afraid to leave. Tony was out to get her, and Big wanted his money back. She wasn't about to set foot outside her door again, not until everything was squared away, so I volunteered to do the legwork."

"And you've been running ever since."

"It sure feels that way," she said. "I took the money back to Mr. Big and tried to explain everything that happened. I think he believed me. He sure was interested in Tony."

"So what about your disappearing act the other morning? Where does my gun come into the picture? And why were you so hot after that hairbrush?"

He spoke without emotion, and it worried her. She imagined it was the same monotone he used when questioning a perp. He had a voice like a spade--dull, flat, but with a pointed edge that had a way of digging beneath the surface.

"It's not what it looks like, Rick. I told you I was falling for you, and that was the truth. But I was scared--scared that you'd fall in love with a phantom. I know it looks like I've used you, and I'm sorry if you feel that way. But I needed your help, and I couldn't let anything slip. I only had the one gun, and Delilah... well, toward the end she was worried that Tony had caught on. She thought he might've found her. So I took your gun and gave it to her, and can you blame me for wanting to hide that brush? I'm already a suspect in the eyes of the law. There's no need making things more difficult than they already are."

"All right," said Rick. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"Late last night. I was staying here longer than I expected, so I had to make a trip back to Kingston to pick up a few things."

"Did you hear from her after that? Any phone calls?"

"No. I heard the news this morning when I got back."

"You got any proof you were out of town when she was killed?"

"I have the stubs from my train tickets somewhere. You need to see them?"

"I don't," said Rick. "The cops might, though."

"Then you believe me?"

"You've got a way of playing me like a fool, doll, but this time I really do believe you. One more question, though."

"Anything." She sat up straight, her cigarette resting daintily between her fingers.

"This Tony--you ever see him?"

"I'm not too sure, but I think I have."

"He look anything like the joker that was tailing you tonight?"

"That was him, all right. Like I said, I was never properly introduced, but my gut tells me that that's Tony."

"When did you see him before?"

"Four, maybe five days back. He was following me down Broadway, or at least I imagined he was. Something about that character's face gave me the creeps. But I... I... oh lord, Rick! I led him straight to her!" she exclaimed. She slumped over Rick's desk, sending her glass of sherry to the floor, where it shattered into a hundred little, jagged pieces.

"It was me after all, Rick. I killed her. Maybe I didn't pull that trigger, but I led him straight to her. Now he's after me."

"He's not going to hurt you now," said Rick.

"Maybe he should. Maybe I deserve it."

"All you deserve is some peace and quiet and maybe another glass of sherry. We'll stay here for the night. If he's smart he won't come near you, not with me around."

She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Oh, Rick, you're so good to me. I don't know how I could ever repay you."

"Don't worry, doll. I'll think of something."

"I feel like I'm in heaven, Rick. I feel like I'm knocking at the gate, just waiting for them to let me in."

"They'll let you in, sweetheart. When your time finally comes, years down the line, they'll let you in. After all, heaven's for the angels."

He grabbed her by the shoulders, took a long look in her eyes, and kissed her. She could feel his strength, his passion, and somehow she knew that everything would be all right.

Day 78 - My Atomic Heart - Part 18

In the end, they decided their best course of action was to call the police, and they waited patiently in the hallway outside Heap's apartment for someone to show up. Tommy passed the time by scanning various objects he could see inside for any other clues, but everything pointed to one unsettling explanation: Heap was a very unlucky scumbag.

"There's still a connection we're missing," said Charlie, thinking aloud. "What does Heap have to do with Fifty-two?"

"Possibly nothing," said Tommy. "Heap was only a gateway. His associates, like the man at the garage, are involved in scavenging robots. It's possible that we were meant to explore this angle further."

"That kind of talk is definitely not helping, big guy. I'd rather not focus on the possibility of someone using us. I know robots are used to following programming, but I'm more of a free will fan."

"I'm sorry, but I do think it's worth considering."

"I know it's worth considering, but that doesn't make me any less creeped out," she said, then sighed in resignation. "But since we're on the topic, anyway. This really begs the question: if the feds are in on this, why don't they do their own detective work? Or, hell, at least hire us outright?"

"That I don't know, but remember, these aren't just any feds. They're from the Information Bureau, and they tend to be fond of their secrets."

"Okay, but--"

The elevator opened, and a man in a blue suit stepped into the hallway, effectively ending their conversation. He seemed pleasant enough--with a freshly shaven face, boyish hair that was parted and slicked back, and black leather shoes that, despite appearing well worn, were polished nicely. He flashed a badge from his pocket.

"Charlie Grace?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Faraday. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Charlie looked from Faraday to Tommy and back.

"Sure, Detective, but Tom's the one you really want to talk to," she said. Tommy cocked his head.

Faraday stared at the ground and pushed a button seemingly located behind his ear, relaying some form of information that they couldn't decipher.

"Right," he said. "Tom Steel, is it?"

Tommy nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Okay, Mr. Steel, why don't you tell me how you came to find the body."

Tommy said nothing at first, but Charlie could tell when he was curious about something. He turned his head, all his engines roaring, and scanned the body on the floor. "Aren't you going to move him?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"Heap, Francis Heap, aren't you going to move the body? I'm surprised you haven't brought any crime scene investigators with you."

"Oh, they'll be along shortly," said Faraday. "Listen, I'll be perfectly honest. When it comes to the South Side, the rest of the force would rather bury themselves in paperwork than set foot between the Warehouse District and Sunset Boulevard. I don't mean to be disrespectful, especially in light of your loss."

"We didn't know him," said Tommy. "I was hired to follow Heap. I'm a private investigator."

"I see," said Faraday, absently. "Do you happen to have your license on you?"

Charlie gulped.

"I don't need one. By law, only persons intending on pursuing a career in private investigation are required to obtain licensing. As you can plainly see, Detective Faraday, I am not a person."

Faraday crossed his arms. "So you were programmed to be an investigator? Is that it?"

"I was programmed to be whatever I wanted, Detective. There are no laws prohibiting that."

Faraday raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Tommy nodded. "I was a lawyer for three weeks."

The detective shook his head and turned to Charlie. "How about you?"

"Don't look at me," she replied with a grin. "I'm just his secretary."

"Okay, then, who hired you, Mr. Steel?"

"Heap's ex-wife, one Helena Beame."

"Was she holding any grudges?" asked Faraday.

"None that were apparent. She wanted us to follow him, which leads me to believe that he was more valuable to her alive than dead."

"Why's that?"

"Beame is looking for her robot. She had reason to believe Heap had taken it."

Faraday smiled. "Now that's cute. A robot looking for a robot. Next thing you know, your lot's going to want to marry each other and start little robot families."

Tommy stared at him, the lights in his eyes dimming. "Any other questions?"

Faraday pressed the button behind his ear once more. "I believe that'll be all for now, folks. Thanks for your time. I'll be in touch."

"Wait, one more thing," said Charlie. "We have reason to believe that a garage down the road is illegally obtaining and selling robot parts. There's a whole black market operation set up there, and there's a warehouse down from it that holds robot fights. I wanted to make an anonymous tip, but I thought since you're already looking into this--"

"Thank you, Miss Grace. I'll look into it," Faraday interrupted with a smile.

Tommy, clearly ready to leave, stomped toward the elevator. Charlie quickly followed.

As they walked home, the rain died down. Just before they left the South Side, abandoning it for a cleaner, more optimistic district, they could smell the smoke of burning street trash and here the clamor and loud voices of roaming gangs of teenage thugs. It was just another night in the city.

"He was an asshole," said Charlie, breaking the wall of silence they'd built up around themselves. "He didn't even care what was going on. You could tell by the way he just stood there with that smug grin on his face."

"Are we supposed to feel bad for Heap now?"

"No... I don't know, Tommy. Even though Heap was a sleaze, he was still a person, and they were using him, just like they're using us. That has to be worth something."

"Should I have slugged Faraday? It seems like I should have."

"Nice thought, but probably best that you didn't."

They stopped at the office first to collect their files and make sure everything else was locked up. They didn't want to risk leaving anything important laying around, just in case it decided to mysteriously disappear before morning.

Charlie was the first to notice the blinking light on her desk. Someone had sent them a message. It was text only, which she found particularly peculiar.

"Tommy, I think you better see this," she said, reading the single line that appeared on her desk's built-in screen.

Tommy rushed to her side, reading the message for himself.

Please stop looking for me.

"Fifty-two," said Tommy. "She's still out there."

***

In the morning, Charlie went about her routine as if it was any other day. She took her hot shower, put on her blue jumper, and went to the kitchen for a quick breakfast before heading to the garage. Tommy was already at the table, slouched over with his morning can of chilled oil in one hand.

"Any luck?" she asked.

Tommy shook his head. The lights in his eyes seemed distant. She wondered if he was dreaming. She then wondered if he could dream, contemplating that idea as she opened a package of granola.

"This is more difficult than I thought. She's covered her tracks very well."

"Hence the whole not-wanting-to-be-found thing, I imagine."

"Tracking down the source of the the Identity Database changes was simple compared to this. There were logs, after all, the type that don't allow deception, but this is different. A simple text message can be sent from just about anywhere, and its source can be masked. There's always a trail, but this one only leads me in circles. She used proxies, logged into remote servers, and closed all her connections."

There was a confused look on Charlie's face.

"Trust me, it's complicated," he said.

"Can you still track her down?"

"Possibly. It'll take time, though."

"Do your best, and let me know when you find something, okay?"

"Okay."

"That's my boy."

She finished her granola quickly and set off for work. She'd barely unlocked the door when the phone in her office began to ring.

"Charlie!" Tommy said excitedly from the other end of the connection. "I've found her."