Deadstock

the second floor, and the cabin began rising. 'You'd best take us to your apartment, Mr. Fukuda, or things may become ugly.'

'Really? I thought you already were ugly.'

Jones drew back his arm and struck Fukuda on the ear with the pistol's butt. Fukuda yelped and fell back against the rear of the cabin, clutching his ear with one hand and raising his other arm to ward off a second blow. 'All right! All right!' he cried.

The clone holstered the handgun and nodded politely. 'Thank you, Mr. Fukuda.'

Jeremy Stake was pinned under Janice Poole when his phone rang through his wrist comp. He strained to reach it on her bedside table. For a moment, playfully, she took hold of his arm in both hands to stop him, but when he looked up at her hotly she let go of him right away. He almost dropped the device, fumbling it into his hands.

But it was not her. Not Thi Gonh. The screen showed only darkness. There was sound, however:

'You asked if we were visiting someone. The answer is yes. We're here to visit you.'

'Get inside.'

'There's a camera in here, you know.'

Stake could see that the call was coming from John Fukuda's hand phone. He didn't know that the darkness of the screen was the darkness inside Fukuda's suit jacket pocket, or that Fukuda had covered up the beeps of the buttons as he punched in Stake's number by talking loudly to his neighbor Iris. But Stake could at least figure out that his employer had called him so that he might overhear this conversation.

'What…' Janice started to say, but he gave her another fiery look, this time with a finger to his lips. He activated the MUTE key so he and Janice wouldn't be heard on the other end. The voices continued:

'Push the key for your floor.'

'Push it yourself.'

'We don't know the precise floor or number. So would you kindly accommodate us? '

Stake scrambled out from beneath Janice, almost toppling her off the bed. 'Tableau's men are at Fukuda's apartment.'

'Maybe you should call the forcers.'

'He didn't phone the forcers. He phoned me.'

Stake began to dress hurriedly. As he did so, he only hoped that since his employer was being clever, he would also have the foresight to leave his apartment door unlocked.

It was fortunate that Janice's apartment was much closer to Fukuda's than was his own. By the time he reached Fukuda's place on his hoverbike, better able to negotiate the tight evening traffic than his hovercar, Stake figured he would have lost his physical resemblance to Yuki's biology teacher-who watched him from the bed as he gathered up his holstered Darwin .55.

'What is that?' John Fukuda asked warily. He had been placed in a chair in the center of his living room's sea of expensive carpeting, his hands cuffed behind his back. 'Truth serum?'

Mr. Jones had removed his bowler hat, exposing his hairless head, which looked like a blue planet of many continents as seen from space. He was making an adjustment to a syringe-like instrument. In a pleasant, conversational tone, he said, 'Recently I read an article about truth serums and truth scans. It said more and more corporate types are having firewall chips implanted in their brains to block the effects of such serums, I suppose in case an ambitious coworker wants to loosen their tongue by spiking their coffee. Mainly, though, the chips are to prevent scans from reading their minds. Apparently they're afraid that business rivals engaging in espionage might try to access their thoughts through phone calls or other remote means, or even by putting telepathic mutants on their payrolls.'

'That's all very interesting, but I don't have a chip like that.'

'No? Well, would you tell me if you did? So you see, I don't trust truth serums and truth scans.' He held the syringe up to the light, squinting one eye at the transparent cartridge. A silvery glitter writhed within. 'What I trust is pain.'

'What are you talking about?'

'These are nanomites. You ought to recognize them, huh? You produce similar creatures yourself. I used this type with a lot of success in the Blue War, on Ha Jiin prisoners. Oh, it was against the code. The nanomites were for emergency surgical procedures in the field. But their programming is adaptable.' He held the instrument ready, and then moved toward his prisoner.

Fukuda stiffened. He had to force himself not to get up and bolt. Lounging back on a love seat nearby was Doe, aiming a handgun in his direction. Fukuda knew it was a type that fired beams instead of solid projectiles. He said, 'Look, I told you the truth! I swear it on my daughter's life! I don't know what happened to Krimson Tableau!' Jones pressed the syringe's tip against the side of his neck. 'Please, don't!'

There was no pain. Was it his imagination, though, or did he feel the rustle of thousands of microscopic clawed feet as the machine-like insects scurried into his system?

Jones pocketed the syringe, and in its place produced a little remote control device. He held it up for Fukuda to see. 'It's simple, really-like a toy. One button will make the nanomites go to work on your nerves to bring about excruciating pain. And this button, here, will make them repair the damage they cause. They're very good at doing either.' He smiled. 'We're just waiting now, giving them a little time to spread around and make themselves at home.'

From the love seat, Doe snickered.

'Please, listen, you know I'm a wealthy man. I can pay you men a great deal of money to stop this.'

'We have a sense of loyalty, Mr. Fukuda, do you know that?' Jones's amicable demeanor began to crumble away. His eyes shone, and he spoke through clenched teeth. 'It might seem hard for you to believe that factory- produced mannequins like us could have such principles. You might even believe that we're merely following our robotic programming, by substituting a corporate commander for a military one. But I'll tell you something-most vet clones like us are breaking their backs right now in asteroid mines, or constructing space stations, or some other slave labor work. Mr. Tableau gave the three of us a job we could be proud of. A job that lets us walk the street with birthers like you!'

'I didn't make you men, did I? I don't manufacture human clones!'

'What I'm saying is, you can't buy our loyalty. It's about more than the blasting money.' Jones was so animated now that as he spoke he sprayed spittle in Fukuda's face. Had his skin tone been natural, he might have been flushed deep red. But he calmed himself enough to glance at a clock on one wall. Regaining his composure, he found his smile again. 'I think that's enough time.'

Mr. Jones pointed the remote at Fukuda, who yelled, 'Don't, don't, don't!'

He started to shoot up from the chair but the pain slammed him back down hard. It was difficult to tell exactly where it was coming from- seemingly everywhere at once, like electricity crackling along every nerve. Fire up and down his arms and legs. Fire in his neck, making the cords stand out, fire across his back, in his fingertips and in the sensitive nerves at the head of his penis. He screamed. Tears bubbled up in his eyes.

Jones thumbed another button. The nanomites went to work fast to repair the gnawed nerves, but to Fukuda the process was agonizingly slow. He slumped in his chair nearly unconscious, drooling onto his shirtfront. He felt like he must be bleeding from every pore, though there wasn't a mark on him. It would have been hard to prove a military prisoner had been tortured, should someone investigate. Fukuda was a man possessed, but the tormenting demon inside him had receded. For the moment.

'They're like us,' Jones went on. 'Like soldiers. We were programmed with martial arts training, to break and tear another person to pieces. But we were also trained in ways to heal the body with just our hands. Set a broken bone. Get kicked-in balls to come down into the scrotum again. Stuff an eye back in a socket, if it was still attached.'

'I don't know,' Fukuda mumbled, still drooling. 'I don't know where she is.'

'I'd be afraid to admit it, too, if I'd killed her.'

'I didn't kill her, you fu-'