Date: 2170.10.10

Nova's Lux Sector

The inkjob opening the front door was a first edition, with repair marks scouring whatever skin its butler uniform didn't cover. Only one ownership tatt peeked out from under the collar—a falcon. Gibs knew better than to force his way into the mansion, badge or not, especially after the last time Butler had tossed him out on his ass. The landing platform was larger than normal but still without a railing. Thankfully, Gibs hadn't tumbled off the side and into the abyss.

He grimaced at the image of himself sprawled in the compacted litter beneath Nova. Recognizable amid the bits of him smeared and saturating the ground would be his cybernetic eyes and carbon-printed femur. He'd look worse than the inkjob they found this morning.

"Detective Gibson Shaw." Butler stepped aside with such gravitas that Gibs expected it to sweep an arm out in welcome.

The foyer hadn't changed since his last visit. White marble and bronze met imported wood, reminiscent of a hotel in the 2020s. Not the look Gibs would have gone with.

"Well, well, it's been a while!" Lawrence Walker strode into the ostentatious foyer, offering his hand in greeting. His crisp suit in steel gray whispered as he moved.

Gibs stared at the hand but didn't accept it. Doing so would mean all was forgiven, and that wasn't the case. He scowled, placing the blame for Dad's mental state on this Walker, and rightly so. Lawrence had aged well. Fine wine and old money had minimized the toll of living. Dad had never looked this good, especially with a blaster hole through his temple.

Best friends since kindergarten, Dad and Lawrence had supported each other through the rollercoaster of life. Lawrence had been there when Gibs's paternal grandmother had died, and Dad had fallen into a morass of sorrow. Hoping to keep him busy, Lawrence had used his influence to assign Dad to the most controversial case in the precinct—the kidnapping of a diplomat's daughter.

Finding her tortured body—very much like the inkjob's this morning—was more than Dad could take. He'd found his absolution in whisky and a fully charged blaster.

Gibs leveled a glare at the man, resenting the role he'd played, no matter his good intentions. The cut of Lawrence's gray hair was sharp and stylish. Gibs scrubbed his unshaven jaw.

Pulling his hand back, Lawrence shoved up his tailored sleeves and gestured to his home. "What brings you here?"

"Thomas Walker's mutilated inkjob." Gibs studied Lawrence's facial cues. There was no reaction like looking at a tranquil lake with no ripples visible from above or beneath the surface. "We found the X10 entertainment model this morning."

Lawrence dismissed his words with a brief pout and a furrowed brow. "How's this your problem?"

"I'm doing Montgomery a favor." Gibs smothered a snort at the lie.

Doing his captain a favor? By not quitting? By not freeing Montgomery from the tight grip Tamara had on his balls? The poor bastard would learn soon enough. Or maybe, the ass liked Tamara's kinks. Gibs hadn't and saw it as a depravity of something intimate. Doggy style was as wild as he went.

"This way, Detective Gibson Shaw." Butler's baritone had a metallic twang, indicative of its age. The vintage inkjob opened a door leading off the foyer.

One glimpse painted the image of an extravagant, well-stocked library. Books lined the walls. They were antiques, made invaluable since the traditional publishing and printing industries collapsed a century ago.

As the door sealed Gibs in the dusty silence, he traced the spines of a row of stacked erotica—if he judged them by the bare-chested bodybuilders clasping distressed damsels.

"Gibs, this is a wonderful surprise." Thomas bounded into the library with his usual boisterousness, dressed in pale camel slacks and a periwinkle-blue buttoned shirt. Gleaming of wealth and prestige, his champagne-gold hair flopped across his tanned forehead with perfect nonchalance.

In his crisp uniform, unshaven jaw, and unwashed hair, Gibs felt like an unkempt intruder... Inferior, but this wasn't on Thomas, who'd never treated the Shaws as anything other than family. Gibs scowled, needing this meeting to end soon. It was too much of a trip down memory lane for him, one he hadn't asked for and didn't appreciate.

"This is business."

Thomas's demeanor didn't mimic Lawrence's poker face. He'd never been one to hide his emotions. "You found her?"

"If by her, you mean, your missing inkjob, then yes."

Thomas scanned the room as if searching for her, the hope on his face sincere. He'd worn the same expression every Christmas.

Realizing she wasn't with Gibs, his shoulders stiffened as if Gibs kept her hostage in the back of his chaser. "Where is she?" He clipped his words. Anger and desperation peeled through his pseudo-serenity.

"At Renovare awaiting incineration. Expect a call from their sales department." Gibs didn't pull his punches. He needed to see honest reactions with nothing masked by civility.

Thomas winced. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, his breathing irregular. "She's dead?"

Gibs pursed his lips at Thomas's word choice. Dead? As in not living? Yes, all inkjobs were. He twisted his forearm and activated his holo-wrist. Holographics reflected off his skin, showing the law enforcement's details of Thomas standing before him. He pressed the record button.

"This recording is for quality purposes and can be used against you in a court of law." He felt like an idiot speaking into his arm, but the department had rejected his request for an old-school cell phone.

"You've got to be kidding me," Thomas grumbled under his breath as he paced the length of the Persian carpet.

"Mr. Thomas K. Walker, do you agree to this recording?" Gibs waited and watched. To say no might mean Thomas had something to hide. He hoped his old friend agreed. This interview need not be a difficult one.

"Yes, I waive my rights. Just tell me, what happened to Olivia?"

Gibs arched a brow. He'd heard of nutjobs marrying their inkjobs or forming a romantic attachment, but he never expected a Walker to fall into either category.

"For the record, let it be known that Olivia is the X10 entertainment model found in Deadzone this morning."

Thomas stopped pacing to grip Gibs's biceps. "Do they have to incinerate her, Gibs? How bad is it?"

Pain he recognized—that of a broken heart—crawled across Thomas's face. What was this? Was he grieving? No. Not Thomas: the charmer, playboy, and renowned philanthropist.

"Your ownership tatt was barely discernible." Gibs didn't offer further details. He doubted his old friend could handle it in the condition he was in.

Thomas's shoulders slumped, and he stumbled back, collapsing into the bulky faux-leather couch, a sob escaping him as he dropped his head into his hands.

"When last was she off her charge?"

"At the mayor's ball last night." Thomas's fingers muffled his words, but he lowered his hands before Gibs could ask him to. "I took her as my date."

Gibs's brow hitched another notch. "What? No scatterbrained debutantes available?" He forced a teasing tone into his voice, hoping to calm his overly emotional ex-friend and prime suspect. There had always been a long string of idiots lapping up Thomas's superficial sincerity and short-spanned interest.

Come to think of it, Tamara had been one of them. She must have taken one look at the queue of eager women, and instead, targeted Gibs, his best friend. He was a fool not to have seen through her conniving tactics.

"You know how small our circles are, Gibs. I've dated all the debutantes in Nova. Olivia was a refreshing change." He flashed his old smile before letting it dissolve with a tremor. "When we returned last night, we made love, then I instructed her to recharge."

Made love? Gibs grimaced. No one made love to a sex toy, but it meant the DNA would point to Thomas. There went that lead. He'd hoped the vandal had used the inkjob before mutilating it. Still possible. There could be more than one deposit. He'd call Davis later.

"I don't know what Renovare has been doing, Gibs, but she's so lifelike. Her voice soft, enticing, and natural. I feel..." His cheeks trembled. "...Felt a connection as if she understood me and reciprocated my affections."

Thomas leaped up, shaking his wrist to call up an email on his holographics. "There, I asked for Renovare to install a charging station in my bed so we could sleep together." He shoved his forearm in Gibs's face, too close for him to read the glowing letters.

Gibs smothered a chuckle, fighting for professionalism. Had Thomas fallen in love with his sex toy? Perhaps he should invest in one, especially if she gave good head.

He dismissed the fleeting temptation as foolhardy. Sticking any part of his body inside a machine horrified him, no matter how enticingly feminine they looked on the outside. What if it clamped its jaw and severed his dick? He shuddered, revulsion and fear sliding down his spine like a rivulet of ice.

"This morning when I awoke for my usual...treat, she wasn't beside me."

"Treat?" Gibs gestured to his wrist, reminding Thomas he was being recorded.

"Blowjob—she's rather good at it. But she wasn't here or in her other station. Butler has no recollection of visitors or intruders, nor does the security surveillance show any unusual movements. There should be something of her leaving the station or house. Or someone breaking in to take her."

"Since she managed to leave, the footage had to be tampered with. I'll need a copy," Gibs said.

"Of course, whatever you need." Thomas punched commands into his holo-wrist. He chewed on his lip, hesitant to speak. Gibs had never seen his self-confidence this affected.

"Can you tell me what happened to her...when you find out?"

Gibs nodded, but for the benefit of the recording, he said, "No. The investigation security protocol is tight. You'll know when I solve and close the case." He dropped his hand on Thomas's shoulder and gave it an awkward squeeze.

Thomas leaned closer to Gibs's wrist. "Yes, of course." He pulled back and mouthed 'thank you,' then hurried to fill the silence. "Solve it first. I'll wait to hear your findings." He flashed Gibs a relieved smile.

"Interview concluded." Gibs tapped the red square, ending the recording. "I suggest you go for a psyche analysis."

Thomas stiffened at the implication that he'd lost his mind.

"Hear me out. It's only a matter of time before the media blows this out of proportion. Go for the assessment to prove your sanity. Prove you weren't drugged or hypnotized."

Thomas grimaced. "You're right to suggest it, Gibs. The Rights-4-Synths activists have been vocal and violent lately." He chewed on his lip again before saying, "Sorry about your dad."

"Thanks for attending his memorial." Gibs forced those words past clenched teeth.

The change of subject to something personal startled him, and he hadn't prepared his responses. Despite the manner of his father's death, many had attended and offered their respects. Thomas had stood beside Gibs in silence, sharing his strength. Without it, Gibs didn't think he'd have made it through the day.

"He was a good man, Gibs." Thomas grabbed a book off the shelf and pressed it to Gibs's chest. "This was Olivia's favorite. Take it. Read it."

"Inkjobs read?" Gibs couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"She said that she'd read it electronically, but it wasn't the same as the printed version."

With the ancient book clasped in his meaty fist, Gibs left the library. His mind spun, dazed, alarmed. He released a shuddering breath, fighting for something to ground him. Could Thomas have lost his fracken mind?

"Butler, show me the X10's charging station."

In a narrow closet, the nodules and power cords of an inkjob were mounted to the back wall. A small alcove in the sidewall held a few books, proving she read for pleasure. The concept was so surreal—like his toaster painted landscapes because it enjoyed the hobby. Two primary cables as thick as his arm snagged his attention—one for power and the other a data extension. He assumed Renovare scanned their products for diagnostics, but what if they downloaded video footage, as well?

"The security surveillance." Butler offered the data crystal on a silver tray.

With the memory device in hand, Gibs strode out of the Walker residence with more questions than answers. Something heavy pressed down on his soul, dampening his emotions. With agonizing spasms in his stomach a possible prelude to an ulcer, his whole world tilted on its axis.