"Morgan, the fuck is wrong with you that you called the whole weekend? Plus a shitload of messages?"

Travers' round face graced Ian's kitchen in full 3D. Typical, calling without having listened to or read a single message. But Ian didn't have it in him to resent the man when he was the first to return his calls at 9:05 on a Monday.

"I need Tracking codes. My—"

"We gave you codes! What did you do, lose them?"

"Travers—"

"Weren't you one of the responsible ones?"

"Travers." Too in love with the sound of his own voice, it was doubtful Travers would listen to a word Ian was saying before he reached the end of his prescriptive diatribe. The perfect blend of corporate drone and government employee, and that included the swearing. He was all about his speeches. Little wonder he headed the Tracker Liaison office.

"— and if you suddenly decide to start misplacing codes, fuck if I can see how we can keep contracting you."

Ian took the opening. "Wrong Syn. I need codes for a different Syn."

"You're done with your last assignment already?" Now he just sounded like a smug bastard. "Send it in. If you didn't go around biting more than you can chew buying fancy houses, you wouldn't be in this position. I can try to find you another contract, but lay off the weekend calls or you'll get fuck-all."

He almost told Travers he'd completed the mission. Almost. But he didn't. His gut feeling had never steered him wrong yet, and right now having access to a Syn was Ian's only information source. Travers had the codes for the Syn in the garage, yes, but not seeing them blinking on the Tracking app meant nothing, even if the man thought to check. Tracking chips slept when Syns did, or when they were turned off; BioSynths became undetectable. Not to mention Syns managed to have their chips removed with disturbing frequency, according to other Trackers.

Funny how that'd never happened to Ian or Kaya.

"I haven't finished the last one yet, but I need—"

"The fuck you calling me for, then? You know—"

"MY HUSBAND'S BEEN TAKEN!"

Silence. Blessed silence, and Travers gaping like a fish.

"There was an accident. Friday night. Quentin wouldn't have survived it, but it wasn't Quentin. Someone replaced him with a Syn, and I don't know how long he's been missing." Ian's voice cracked. He hated letting this much vulnerability show to a man who could exploit it, but it wasn't as if it were a secret, how much he loved Quentin. How he'd do anything for his husband. "I have the footage, I can forward it to you, but I need help. I need to find the Syn so I can find Quentin. I need codes. Please."

Travers could be a lot of things, depending on nothing in particular. Smarmy, sanctimonious, smug. 'Mercurial' was the only constant in his ever-shifting mood. But he wasn't completely devoid of empathy.

"Fuck, Morgan. Yeah, okay. Put a freeze on the current contract for now. Send me the accident vid. I'll fast track this, send you the codes as soon as I have them." Translucent beady eyes looked at Ian with something resembling compassion. "I'll put some feelers out too. See if any unclaimed bodies look like a match for your man. Hope I turn up empty, there."

It didn't soften the blow threatening to drag Ian to his knees. He swallowed, telling himself it was the omnipresent migraine making his eyes water. "Thanks, Travers. I owe you."

"Don't worry about it."

☵☲☵

The fact that he paid for this set of purchases in person with one of his traceless cards had less to do with the fear Syns might hack his nexus and more to do with how he didn't want himself associated with any of these items.

Several hacking tools. An additional power supply. An empty battery. A taser. Handcuffs. A gag. Scalpels. Drilling tools. Portable nexus sound boosters, far more powerful than their size implied, to drown out any suspicious sounds. Needles, epinephrine shots, sodium thiopental. These were all available over the counter — even the sodium thiopental — if one knew where to look. Ian had never wanted to look, but that didn't mean he lacked the knowledge. Finished with his more conventional purchases, he headed for a different part of the city.

Wave Plaza wasn't a place he visited unless he was Tracking, and never to interact with the human locals. This was where people went to store things they didn't want found, to purchase what they weren't meant to have, to contract those who would Track human beings instead of Syns. Just being here made Ian's skin crawl.

Right now he was looking for a drug, an experimental cocktail that was all the rage these days. Dare, they called it on the streets. Truth being the intended effect, but it didn't always work that way. Ian considered it a last resource, but didn't flinch from having it in his arsenal. Luckily for him, the way he carried himself, allied to the gun in one holster, side by side with the Nuller in the other, meant the dealer never questioned his legitimacy to be there.

It wouldn't matter who the programmer turned out to be. Gender, age, family or not, those were all inconsequential. They'd taken Quentin. Their only hope would be to release him.

He slotted everything in his backpack, each item in a specific compartment, its ultralight tech allowing him to carry it with him at all times. The next item on his list was Syn restraints. He'd never turned a Syn back on after capture; once turned off, he stored them in a biomaglock hovercase for transport and then, if needed, left them powered down in the garage. It would have been an unnecessary purchase.

But he knew where the perverts got their gear.

Some Trackers couldn't help but boast of things that made Ian's insides turn. Trackers who should have been locked up, either in prison or in a psych ward, not given a licence and a Nuller. The system didn't care. They got the less profitable, lower priority contracts, the 75s and under, where it made no difference what aesthetic condition a Syn was in, provided it was functional enough to operate.

Those weren't the kind of Trackers in it to protect people, but neither were they in it for the credits or the glory.

If one of those ever decided to graduate from Syns to people, maybe they'd revise the licencing process, but by then it'd be too late for whatever unfortunate person had been left maimed and traumatised. Ian had never expected to be shopping at a place like that.

He was almost at the door when something made him turn. A flash of dark hair, a specific gait, something so achingly familiar his heart skipped a beat.

Quentin.

Except it couldn't be him because, had it been the real Quentin, Ian would have gotten a call by now to say he'd been released.

For whatever ill-programmed reason, the Syn hadn't altered its appearance. And it was right across the street from Ian.

He took his Nuller out on the lowest setting, despite knowing he couldn't use it here. There were too many people out, civilians. Some would even qualify as innocent bystanders — it wasn't as if Wave Plaza didn't have its fair share of those who simply couldn't afford to move somewhere better — although Ian would never have hit even a criminal with the Nuller. And he didn't have a clean shot.

Calm descended over him. This was the chance he'd hoped for, sooner than he could have reasonably expected; slipping into mission mode was as natural as breathing. If he got close enough to press the Nuller right against the Syn, he wouldn't need to worry about collateral damage. With a cursory glance left and right, he crossed the street and followed, maintaining a safe distance.

The Syn turned right and Ian sped only the slightest bit, slowing back down before he turned the corner. It wouldn't do to make himself noticed. Four blocks in a straight line, all through densely populated areas.

The Syn spun around with no warning, its eyes — exactly like Quentin's — zooming in on Ian in an instant that had him freeze.

All pretence of stealth abandoned, Ian broke into a run just as the Syn did the same. It was fast — faster than the real Quentin, faster than any human would be — but Quentin's life was on the line; Ian found the strength to keep up, somehow. The Syn kept to populated areas, zigzagging through people, never once veering to an alley or an empty street. This was why Ian had always relied on Tracking codes; without them he couldn't anticipate and, without anticipating, he was always at a disadvantage.

People parted in front of the Syn, no doubt recognising it for what it was. Or maybe they thought it was a human, so jacked up with enhancing implants it was more synthetic than organic. But that still didn't give Ian a clear line of sight.

He pulled up the city zone map on his nexus as he ran. If he could get a sense of the area's layout, he might gain a small advantage. His headache was threatening to become incapacitating, but it hadn't yet. It hadn't yet. He had to do this for Quentin. The odds of spontaneously running into this Syn in a city this big were astronomical. He couldn't let that go to waste.

The Syn was faltering too, much to Ian's surprise. It clutched its chest as if it hurt, its speed diminishing.

Then it took a left.

Ian's map said that'd be a dead end. Buildings on all sides except the guardrail at the end, overlooking the train tracks below. He gripped his Nuller tighter and raced left after it. The Syn had stopped on the sidewalk at the end, right before the guardrail. Far too many people leaned on the guardrail, drinking coffee and chatting, unaware or unwilling to notice shady dealings happening right next to them, as they gazed at the horizon.

This was one of the few places in the city where you could see more than buildings, if you looked straight ahead and were prepared to ignore the noise and vibration of the speeding trains below. It made it a prime spot for dealing.

Too many people for Ian to get a shot, but nowhere for the Syn to run. Ian raced towards it, hoping it didn't have hidden inbuilt weapons. It was stock still — was it aiming? Was Ian racing towards his own death? Its gaze darted between Ian's approaching form and the train tracks below. Surely it couldn't be considering—

It vaulted over the guardrail half a second before Ian got there. His fingers still grazed its jacket.

Ian almost considered it. It wasn't too high, and he was wearing boots that could be magnetised at will — he wouldn't fall off the train. That didn't mean a gust of wind couldn't tear him in half, considering the speed at which the train was going, especially if his lower half were magnetically fixed to the car's roof. He wasn't a thing like the Syn, now lying flat and undoubtedly fully magnetised for safety.

If he died, there'd be no one to rescue Quentin.

He watched the Syn lay flat on the train's car and disappear into the distance as a staggering wave of nausea hit. The abuse he'd put his body through was extracting its toll now that the adrenaline had passed. Helpless to prevent it, Ian vomited on the tracks below, spots of light dancing in his vision. It took him a long time to be in any condition to walk back to the main street, so he could hail a cab.

He'd failed Quentin.

It was time for Plan B.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

To no one's surprise, votes and comments make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

If you want to know what BioSynth!Quentin was doing in Wave Plaza, tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile). There will be spoilers, but I personally thing the experience is made fuller by it.