S Hunter: Longevity

“I’m neither cowed nor fickle,” Livvy said. “Now, where are we going so fast, and why?”

“According to the IA there’s a woman in Marlboro who shot her husband and is now holding her husband’s lover hostage. The wife has asked for me and I wanted to see if we had any history that might suggest why.”

He seemed lost in thought, and whatever he was remembering was making him look even flintier than usual.

“What?” she finally asked.

He shifted his gaze back to her. “What do you know about the Pheromone Fiasco?”

“You mean from the 50’s? Before my time. If I remember my history, there were a few chem-enhancements licensed, and many more done on the black market, that claimed to be either natural or engineered pheromones that were linked to sweat glands. The real problems surfaced when there were some court cases, some murders even, where lost impulse control was blamed on some nebulous “compulsion.” I think some of the defense attorneys succeeded, and there was a public outcry. The whole matter was big deal at the time.

“Seriously,” Livvy asked with mild irony, “are we insects? Anyway, I don’t remember whether it was ever proven pheromones could really influence human behavior but in the end it was decided that as a class they didn’t meet the Herrnstein Criterion: no enhancements granting unfair advantage. So now the whole concept of pheromone enhancement is illegal. If an enhancement can be classified as a pheromone, it’s a felony. Can’t even evade it by some kind of soft claim that it’s therapy. Seems like a lot of risk just to be a little more seductive. Potentially seductive.”

Chris sat with his arms folded across his chest and his head tilted and turned towards her, his eyes hooded. He didn’t say anything, and plainly wasn’t going to.

“Look, I can guess what you’re thinking at me,” Livvy said when he had waited her out. “Give me some credit. I wouldn’t let a neuro- or chem-enhancement, especially an illegal one, near my personal molecules.

“As for appearances… good looks do confer an advantage, but there’ve always been naturally beautiful people, which is one reason enhancements for looks have been exempt from the Right of Equal Opportunity Law. Beauty is way too subjective to even begin to contemplate quantifying, much less accounting for individual preferences. The advantages conferred are usually also available by using old-fashioned techniques to achieve similar changes in appearance. I can afford the enhancements. It helps me in my work. And actually, other than some coloration, most of it is the real me,” she couldn’t help adding.

Chris made a sound that wasn’t quite a snort of derision. “And let’s not forget that being able to look at beauty by definition gives the rest of us pleasure. No one wants to legislate against that ,” he said.

Livvy relaxed, grinning. “There is that, yes. Wait, you’ll see. Like I said, think of it as a kind of armor.”

“All right. I get it. I can’t imagine a man on the planet who won’t be giving you some edge at least initially, even if unintentionally. But surely the women, most of them, hate you a little?”

“You’d be surprised. I take my looks for granted and I treat the women like rational beings. Women have been wearing makeup and getting plastic surgery for generations. I might as well be carrying around a Monet on a sandwich board as far as they’re concerned. At least most of them, the ones who aren’t looking for a reason to hate someone anyway,” she added scrupulously, then hesitated. “At a certain level of confidence looks largely stop being meaningful for women. Anyway, it’s never been a problem.”

“Hmm,” Chris said. He didn’t sound convinced. “Sandwich board?”

Livvy smiled. “Sorry. Bad habit of mine. I collect archaic references and sometimes I end up using them.”

“Don’t mind me,” Chris said. “I might even remember that one. ‘Sandwich board.’”

“Autodrive zone ending. Right turn in 500 meters,” the car said, and as Chris took hold of the wheel they slowed down to make the first turn.

“Listen. Here’s the situation. This woman, Marcy Caster, has a gun. A real, lethal, 21 stcentury handgun that she’s already used once to shoot someone. They think her husband is dead, and she’s apparently holding the other woman hostage. This isn’t even an LLE case.

“If I need to go in to get her to talk to me, I want you to stay out of this one, to wait for me outside. She asked for me because I helped her out once over fifty years ago. There’s no reason for you to come in.”

Livvy considered him for a few seconds and finally decided that she was going to have to be stubborn on this issue from day one. “No. The way I see it, there’s no reason for me not to come in. I’ve faced guns before. Hell, I’ve been shot before. Besides, this woman, Marcy, used it to kill her husband, not the other woman. She may have asked for you, but who do you think she’s going to see as more sympathetic to her situation?”

“Destination on left,” said the car. Chris pulled over to the curb.

It was a mid-century house, small and well fortified, with a few mature trees and a well-tended lawn. The area all around the house was swarming with a variety of Enforcement cars and personnel; Livvy could see logos for Special Tactical, Psych Intervention, and most prominently, Homicide. The media, with their own logos, equipment and personnel, occupied an outer perimeter. In every city, murders outside the major ghettos always got a lot of attention, but Livvy suspected it was the hostage situation that was fueling most of the interest.

“They’re all here, and most of them aren’t going to like it that we are,” Chris said. He paused and continued to survey the scene until he spotted a Commander in a Special Tactical uniform.

“All right, Hutchins. I get your point. You come in with me if I need to go in,” he finally said, turning to look at her again. He paused, and then steadily met her eyes. “I come from a generation that remembers when someone who looked 21 was 21. Maybe you never fully get over that.”

Livvy was used to men who chose not to try to frame thoughts while looking at her, so she gave him points for that, and she figured his admission was as close to an apology as she’d ever get for his earlier condescension.

“Just remember that you had your chance,” he said, climbing out of the car and heading for the trunk. “But we’re going in with armored tunics. We can keep the faceplates up.” They stayed at the back of the car while they got into their gear, and Chris continued to survey the impressively armored gathering.

“You’d think she has an arsenal in there,” Livvy said.

“Yeah, well,” Chris said, “fortunately, Bruno’s here with Tactical.”

“Louie, stay,” he said through the open window as they passed by the car on their way to the front of the house.

Chris headed straight for the Special Tactical Commander, a very large man with dark eyes and a shock of black hair. Livvy recognized him from her early morning study of the pictures on the Fifty Year wall at City Central. It had been on the wall for over ten years, several down from Chris’, along with long lists of their major medals and commendations.

“Bruno,” Chris said, nodding briskly. “My new partner, Detective Hutchins. Bruno Morelli.”

On Livvy the tunic, which should have hung shapelessly, looked tailored and did nothing to dim the overall effect of her curves. She gave Bruno a lambent smile, demonstrating just how effective her natural armor could be, and offered her hand, which he took and shook for longer than necessary. Her new partner was watching the interaction.

“C’mon, Bruno, your mouth is hanging open. During the last riots you faced down a trio of CCS fanatics determined to beat down a cop. You were weaponless, to their clubs. Don’t go all speechless on me now,” Chris said after a moment. He was smiling slightly.