Em nodded. Far below, the sea fluoresced. The sky behind them was graying; they were facing the wrong way for sunrise. She tossed another pebble. “You died, and that broke up the Shock Sisters. And I’m sitting on my ass and drinking myself to death because Seth broke my fucking heart and I never got over it. You could just say it.”
“Do you want me to say things you already know?”
“Hell. Nobody could ever tell me shit. Why should anything change now?”
“It’s because you already know everything,” Ange said.
Em laughed.
Family. Damned if they didn’t know you.
Ange sighed and plucked a stone from Em’s pile. The first one she selected glistened silver; she placed it back atop the pyramid. The second she kept, rolling it between her fingers. “Hell, Robert Plant made a comeback.”
“Yeah, but it’s easier to live off your fucking royalties forever.”
And that got Ange to laugh. “You don’t want to be the girl who sang ‘Rose Madder’ forever, do you?”
“No,” Em said. “I don’t. And that’s pretty much it. And if I die now that’s all I’ll ever be.”
“You have a legacy. So does Graham. It’s more than me.”
The ring had found its way into Em’s hand, this time. And Em held it up to the light. “Fuck me. Do you make art or do you make life?”
“You opted out of both already. Which is more important?”
“Art,” Em said. Then she shook her head. “Life. It’s not an easy fucking question.”
“If it was,” Ange said, “somebody would have answered it by now.” She tossed another rock. “You only get asked once, Em. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I don’t want to lose me either,” Em said. “Look, there’s always chemo.”
Ange snaked a long arm out and stroked Em’s shaven head. “Well, then the hard part’s done already.”
Em wandered down the long hallway to the music room, accompanied by toenail-clicking dogs. The door was keypad-locked; it took a minute to remember that the code was Seth’s birthday, then a longer minute to remember what that birthday was.
Dim gray light, filtered through the June gloom, soaked through big windows. To Em’s dark-adapted eyes it was enough. She found the old maple and mahogany Gibson Black Beauty by touch and let her fingers curl around the neck, lifting it into her arms like a sleeping child. Slowly, she ducked over the guitar, smelling skin oil soaked into the fingerboard, and lay her cheek against the glossy black-lacquered surface.
She had strings, somewhere. She’d probably need to turn on a light to find them. She closed her eyes, imagining she inhaled the acetone and cherry scent of Finger-Ease. The blood blisters on her left hand throbbed. She was hungry.
Her oncologist’s office didn’t open until nine. She had time before she called.
It would take at least a month to grow her calluses back.
On Sunday when Dolly awakened, she had olive skin and black-brown hair that fell in waves to her hips. On Tuesday when Dolly awakened, she was a redhead, and fair. But on Thursday—on Thursday her eyes were blue, her hair was as black as a crow’s-wing, and her hands were red with blood.
In her black French maid’s outfit, she was the only thing in the expensively appointed drawing room that was not winter-white or antiqued gold. It was the sort of room you hired somebody else to clean. It was as immaculate as it was white.
Immaculate and white, that is, except for the dead body of billionaire industrialist Clive Steele—and try to say that without sounding like a comic book—which lay at Dolly’s feet, his viscera blossoming from him like macabre petals.
That was how she looked when Rosamund Kirkbride found her, standing in a red stain in a white room like a thorn in a rose.
Dolly had locked in position where her program ran out. As Roz dropped to one knee outside the border of the blood-saturated carpet, Dolly did not move.
The room smelled like meat and bowels. Flies clustered thickly on the windows, but none had yet managed to get inside. No matter how hermetically sealed the house, it was only a matter of time. Like love, the flies found a way.
Grunting with effort, Roz planted both green-gloved hands on winter white wool-and-silk fibers and leaned over, getting her head between the dead guy and the doll. Blood spattered Dolly’s silk stockings and her kitten-heeled boots: both the spray-can dots of impact projection and the soaking arcs of a breached artery.
More than one, given that Steele’s heart lay, trailing connective tissue, beside his left hip. The crusted blood on Dolly’s hands had twisted in ribbons down the underside of her forearms to her elbows and from there dripped into the puddle on the floor.
The android was not wearing undergarments.
“You staring up that girl’s skirt, Detective?”
Roz was a big, plain woman, and out of shape in her forties. It took her a minute to heave herself back to her feet, careful not to touch the victim or the murder weapon yet. She’d tied her straight light brown hair back before entering the scene, the ends tucked up in a net. The severity of the style made her square jaw into a lantern. Her eyes were almost as blue as the doll’s.
“Is it a girl, Peter?” Putting her hands on her knees, she pushed fully upright. She shoved a fist into her back and turned to the door.
Peter King paused just inside, taking in the scene with a few critical sweeps of eyes so dark they didn’t catch any light from the sunlight or the chandelier. His irises seemed to bleed pigment into the whites, warming them with swirls of ivory. In his black suit, his skin tanned almost to match, he might have been a heroically sized construction paper cutout against the white walls, white carpet, the white-and-gold marble-topped table that looked both antique and French.
His blue paper booties rustled as he crossed the floor. “Suicide, you think?”
“Maybe if it was strangulation.” Roz stepped aside so Peter could get a look at the body.
He whistled, which was pretty much what she had done.
“Somebody hated him a lot. Hey, that’s one of the new Dollies, isn’t it? Man, nice.” He shook his head. “Bet it cost more than my house.”
“Imagine spending half a mil on a sex toy,” Roz said, “only to have it rip your liver out.” She stepped back, arms folded.
“He probably didn’t spend that much on her. His company makes accessory programs for them.”
“Industry courtesy?” Roz asked.
“Tax writeoff. Test model.” Peter was the department expert on Home companions. He circled the room, taking it in from all angles. Soon the scene techs would be here with their cameras and their tweezers and their 3D scanner, turning the crime scene into a permanent virtual reality. In his capacity of soft forensics, Peter would go over Dolly’s program, and the medical examiner would most likely confirm that Steele’s cause of death was exactly what it looked like: something had punched through his abdominal wall and clawed his innards out.
“Doors were locked?”
Roz pursed her lips. “Nobody heard the screaming.”
“How long you think you’d scream without any lungs?” He sighed. “You know, it never fails. The poor folks, nobody ever heard no screaming. And the rich folks, they’ve got no neighbors to hear ’em scream. Everybody in this modern world lives alone.”
It was a beautiful Birmingham day behind the long silk draperies, the kind of mild and bright that spring mornings in Alabama excelled at. Peter craned his head back and looked up at the chandelier glistening in the dustless light. Its ornate curls had been spotlessly clean before aerosolized blood on Steele’s last breath misted them.
“Steele lived alone,” she said. “Except for the robot. His cook found the body this morning. Last person to see him before that was his P.A., as he left the office last night.”
“Lights on seems to confirm that he was killed after dark.”
“After dinner,” Roz said.
“After the cook went home for the night.” Peter kept prowling the room, peering behind draperies and furniture, looking in corners and crouching to lift up the dust-ruffle on the couch. “Well, I guess there won’t be any question about the stomach contents.”
Roz went through the pockets of the dead man’s suit jacket, which was draped over the arm of a chair. Pocket computer and a folding knife, wallet with an RFID chip. His house was on palmprint, his car on voice rec. He carried no keys. “Assuming the ME can find the stomach.”
“Touché. He’s got a cook, but no housekeeper?”
“I guess he trusts the android to clean but not cook?”
“No tastebuds.” Peter straightened up, shaking his head. “They can follow a recipe, but—”
“You won’t get high art,” Roz agreed, licking her lips. Outside, a car door slammed. “Scene team?”
“ME,” Peter said, leaning over to peer out. “Come on, let’s get back to the house and pull the codes for this model.”’
“All right,” Roz said. “But I’m interrogating it. I know better than to leave you alone with a pretty girl.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he followed her towards the door. “I like ’em with a little more spunk than all that.”
“So the new dolls,” Roz said in Peter’s car, carefully casual. “What’s so special about ’em?”
“Man,” Peter answered, brow furrowing. “Gimme a sec.” Roz’s car followed as they pulled away from the house on Balmoral Road, maintaining a careful distance from the bumper. Peter drove until they reached the parkway. Once they’d joined a caravan downtown, noseto-bumper on the car ahead, he folded his hands in his lap and let the lead car’s autopilot take over.
He said, “What isn’t? Real-time online editing—personality and physical, appearance, ethnicity, hair—all kinds of behavior protocols, you name the kink they’ve got a hack for it.”
“So if you knew somebody’s kink,” she said thoughtfully. “Knew it in particular. You could write an app for that—”
“One that would appeal to your guy in specific.” Peter’s hands dropped to his lap, his head bobbing up and down enthusiastically. “With a—pardon the expression—backdoor.”
“Trojan horse. Don’t jilt a programmer for a sex machine.”
“There’s an ap for that,” he said, and she snorted. “Two cases last year, worldwide. Not common, but—”
Roz looked down at her hands. “Some of these guys,” she said. “They program the dolls to scream.”
Peter had sensuous lips. When something upset him, those lips thinned and writhed like salted worms. “I guess maybe it’s a good thing they have a robot to take that out on.”
“Unless the fantasy stops being enough.” Roz’s voice was flat, without judgment. Sunlight fell warm through the windshield. “What do you know about the larval stage of serial rapists, serial killers?”
“You mean, what if pretend pain stops doing it for them? What if the appearance of pain is no longer enough?”
She nodded, worrying a hangnail on her thumb. The nitrile gloves dried out your hands.
“They used to cut up paper porn magazines.” His broad shoulders rose and fell, his suit catching wrinkles against the car seat when they came back down. “They’ll get their fantasies somewhere.”
“I guess so.” She put her thumb in her mouth to stop the bleeding, a thick red bead that welled up where she’d torn the cuticle.
Her own saliva stung.
Sitting in the cheap office chair Roz had docked along the short edge of her desk, Dolly slowly lifted her chin. She blinked. She smiled.
“Law enforcement override code accepted.” She had a little-girl Marilyn voice. “How may I help you, Detective Kirkbride?”
“We are investigating the murder of Clive Steele,” Roz said, with a glance up to Peter’s round face. He stood behind Dolly with a wireless scanner and an air of concentration. “Your contract-holder of record.”
“I am at your service.”
If Dolly were a real girl, the bare skin of her thighs would have been sticking to the recycled upholstery of that office chair. But her realisticallyengineered skin was breathable polymer. She didn’t sweat unless you told her to, and she probably didn’t stick to cheap chairs.
“Evidence suggests that you were used as the murder weapon.” Roz steepled her hands on her blotter. “We will need access to your software update records and your memory files.”
“Do you have a warrant?” Her voice was not stiff or robotic at all, but warm, human. Even in disposing of legal niceties, it had a warm, confiding quality.
Silently, Peter transmitted it. Dolly blinked twice while processing the data, a sort of status bar. Something to let you know the thing wasn’t hung.
“We also have a warrant to examine you for DNA trace evidence,” Roz said.
Dolly smiled, her raven hair breaking perfectly around her narrow shoulders. “You may be assured of my cooperation.”
Peter led her into one of the interrogation rooms, where the operation could be recorded. With the help of an evidence tech, he undressed Dolly, bagged her clothes as evidence, brushed her down onto a sheet of paper, combed her polymer hair and swabbed her polymer skin. He swabbed her orifices and scraped under her nails.
Roz stood by, arms folded, a necessary witness. Dolly accepted it all impassively, moving as directed and otherwise standing like a caryatid. Her engineered body was frankly sexless in its perfection—belly flat, hips and ass like an inverted heart, breasts floating cartoonishly beside a defined rib cage. Apparently, Steele had liked them skinny.
“So much for pulchritudinousness,” Roz muttered to Peter when their backs were to the doll.
He glanced over his shoulder. The doll didn’t have feelings to hurt, but she looked so much like a person it was hard to remember to treat her as something else. “I think you mean voluptuousness,” he said. “It is a little too good to be true, isn’t it?”
“If you would prefer different proportions,” Dolly said, “My chassis is adaptable to a range of forms—”
“Thank you,” Peter said. “That won’t be necessary.”
Otherwise immobile, Dolly smiled. “Are you interested in science, Detective King? There is an article in Nature this week on advances in the polymerase chain reaction used for replicating DNA. It’s possible that within five years, forensic and medical DNA analysis will become significantly cheaper and faster.”
Her face remained stoic, but Dolly’s voice grew animated as she spoke. Even enthusiastic. It was an utterly convincing—and engaging—effect.