Harriet laughs. “Okay, you’re on. Pretty sure we can find plenty to amuse ourselves with around here.” Already Zayan has his sights on one of the games shops. Abel thinks they might have wandered off even without Virginia’s suggestion.
Now he can discuss the advent of the next generation of mechs—without having to hide the fact that he’s a mech.
The Razers’ new secret hideout looks very much like the old one, with the same hodgepodge of computing equipment, inflatable furniture, multicolored string lights, and makeshift ashtrays that smell strongly of controlled substances. “This location, though?” Virginia scoops some abandoned clothing from a chair and motions for Abel to take a seat. “They’ll never find us here, unless Mansfield sends more crazy mechs after you.”
Abel sits in the inflatable chair with as much dignity as he can muster. “I don’t think we have to worry about that right now. My creator seems to have turned to new concerns. I followed up on the research you sent to the Persephone. Mansfield is creating a new kind of mech—one almost entirely organic.”
Virginia’s eyes light up. Other humans react this way when offered sexual intercourse or perhaps that endangered rarity, chocolate. “Jupiter Optimus Maximus! That’s gigantic, Abel! How come it’s not on every news feed in the galaxy?”
“The information is being kept secret, except from a select few wealthy individuals I suspect to be investors.”
“This is amazing. We need specs. We need their data! So we’re going to have to break into Mansfield Cybernetics.” Virginia ticks that off on her finger as if it were any ordinary errand.
“No.” Then he considers the question. “Not yet. Most of the work is only theoretical at this point.”
“Theoretical work is data. Data is our friend. C’mon, man.”
“I understand this, of course,” Abel says. “What I mean is that I think the specifics of Mansfield’s plans are less important at this point. I’m as curious as you are about organic mechs, but another aspect of this is harder to understand. We also need to investigate what he’s finding investors for.”
“For the project with the new organic mechs… which will make him a kajillion dollars, and he already has ten kajillion dollars, so yeah, why does he need investors?” She taps her desk. “You suspect shenanigans.”
“…For lack of a better term, yes.”
“This is ultimate.” Virginia spins her office chair around, then rolls it halfway across the room, her red-streaked hair streaming behind her. She catches herself at the chosen desk and presses a panel that brings up the preliminary data she “skimmed” from Mansfield Cybernetics a few months ago. The holographic blueprint of a mech skeleton hovers in the air, Abel’s own version of the Vitruvian Man. “They’ve probably begun construction—or growth, whatever they’re going to call it with the organics—at least on a limited number. Where do you think they’re doing this?”
“I’m uncertain,” Abel admits as he rises from the inflatable chair, gratefully, to join her across the room. “Not at one of the main laboratories or factories. Otherwise word would already have spread, despite Mansfield Cybernetics’ best efforts to keep it quiet.”
Virginia’s grin widens. A Razer likes nothing better than a puzzle, and he’s presented her with an excellent one. “So we need to find a secret lab. And we’re working in a secret lab. How great is that?”
He judges this question to be theoretical and says only, “They revealed no specific locations to the investors.”
“Where was this fancy clambake you went to?”
Clambake appears to be the current slang for party, for reasons Abel has not attempted to fathom. “Earth, off the coast of China.”
“That’s pretty far from Mansfield Cybernetics’ main HQ. Pretty far from Mansfield himself, and from the sound of it, he’s in no shape to go traveling these days.”
“True.” And odd—Virginia’s right to point this out. It’s unlike Mansfield to place himself so far from the central action. “But his daughter, Gillian, was in control. He would have perfect faith in her if in no one else.”
“And speaking of Dr. Gillian Shearer…” Virginia brings up yet more data. “Since you told me she’s the boss’s daughter, I’ve been following up on her. Mansfield Cybernetics’ corporate dealings remain as hidden as data gets—like, no one will ever trace their money—but Shearer’s not as careful. Got some bank account info, plus a few personal shipping records. Divorce decree about three years old. The only thing I couldn’t track down was any school record for her son, Simon, age seven, but maybe she’s having a Nan or an Uncle teach him?”
“No doubt.” A memory flickers in Abel’s mind: a holo of Simon as a baby, displayed for him by Mansfield the last time they were together. Mansfield wanted to show him off to Abel only moments before wiping Abel’s memory forever. Mansfield demonstrates his pride in strange ways. Pulling himself back into the moment, Abel adds, “The amount of data you’ve collected—it’s impressive.”
“Yeah, I’m awesome.” She kicks back, folding her lanky arms behind her head. “I’m bad at false modesty, so I figure, why bother?”
“Entirely rational.” Abel’s never seen the point of modesty either.
“Here’s the kicker,” Virginia says, pointing to a glowing column of data. “Shearer’s part of a small group of neo-transhumanists.”
Abel frowns. Transhumanism—the belief that humans can adapt chemical and/or biomechanical additions to their bodies to become superhuman—was largely abandoned in the mid-twenty-first century. While the philosophy is an understandable development from the human ego, the reality fell far short due to tissue rejection, spiking cancer rates, and unpredictable results. By the time the technology had caught up, cybernetics had taken hold, and humans no longer wished to manipulate their bodies to do what a mech could simply do for them. “Perhaps Mansfield Cybernetics
