F. Wilson - Dydeetown World

Knew the kid wouldn't be alone. Looked around for his guards and found them — three ten-year-olds standing off to the side, eying the passers-by. The urchingangs liked to use the little ones for begging. Guess it was a kind of symbiosis. Illegal live births — those over and above the self-replacement quota — get left in the undergrounds. The urchingangs take them in, raise them, teach them begging, and train them in the care of the next infants to come along. A self-perpetuating cycle.

Wondered what the toddler's guardians would have done if they'd known he was holding hands with a clone. "The clones'll getcha!" was my mother's favorite threat when I'd act up as a kid. Scared me for a long time. It's common knowledge how all clones get sterilized as soon as they're deincubated. Mandatory. So it made sense for clones to steal children because they can't have any of their own. Never heard of a real case of child-stealing, but the myth persists.

The older kids spotted me crossing toward the clone and the toddler. Must have thought I looked like trouble because they swept the little guy from the clone's grasp and spirited him away before I got within ten meters.

The clone watched them run down the street, a look of such longing on her face that I stopped in my tracks. Maybe it's not a myth — maybe clones do want kids bad enough to steal them.

We entered the Park Complex together. Good to get out of the October chill and the groundlevel dampness. As we walked along the central mall, I noticed her face contorting, like spasms.

"What's wrong with you?"

Her expression immediately reverted to normal. "Nothing."

"Don't give me that. You had your face all twisted up."

She smiled — sheepishly, I thought. "Just a little game I play." She pointed ahead of her. "See this lady over on the left here? Look at her expression: like she just bit into a lemon."

Looked. True enough, the middler in question did have a puckered face. Glanced at the clone. Her face was set in an excellent lemon-sucking imitation of the lady's.

"You working at trying to pass as Realpeople?"

"No. It's just fun. What do you do for fun, Mr. Dreyer?"

Opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. None of her business. And realized with a spiky kind of disquiet that I couldn't think of an answer. Had to be something I did for fun.

"Don't go to Dydeetown, I can tell you that," I said finally. Sounded lame. Was glad we came to the upchute to Bodine's subsection then.

We got off at the twenty-seventh level and went to Bodine's door. The clone keyed it open with her palm. She stepped in but stopped dead so abruptly that I stumbled against her back.

Was ready to swear at her but a glimpse of the automatically lighted room cut me off.

The place had been torn apart.

"Well, isn't this bloaty," I said.

Left the clone at the door and wandered through the apartment. Lighting fixtures, cushions, furniture, the rug — any possible hiding place had been ripped open and gutted. Thorough job. Very thorough. Whatever the searchers wanted, they wanted bad.

"You said he was in the import-export business?"

Still mute, she nodded.

"Import-exporting what?"

"I–I don't know."

She was a rotten liar.

"Somebody else is looking for your friend."

"Why would they…?"

"You tell me."

She shook her head. "If I could, I would."

Didn't believe that, either.

"Let's get out of here," I said. "The folks who did this may come back. We don't want to be here when they do."

Hurried her out to the hall, letting the door slide closed behind us.

"You could handle them, couldn't you?"

"Of course, but it gets so messy explaining all the bodies."

Hoped that sounded sufficiently tough. Actually, I was more than a little uneasy about this whole affair. One look at that apartment and I knew there was more to this than a missing boyfriend. Didn't have a clue as to what else was going on, but wanted to a few quick klicks between myself and this complex and not run into anyone unfriendly in the process.

As usual, I was unarmed. Not that it would have made much difference if I was carrying — I'm not a great shot. Lousy, in fact. Lousy at hand-to-hand stuff, too. Haven't found what I'm really good at yet, but know it's not shooting and punching.

We stepped off the edge into the downchute and drifted dutifully to the center lane as the draft sank us toward the lobby. We were passing the 15th floor when two roguey types, big and burly in loose-fitting jumpsuits, caught up to us by pulling themselves down to our level using the hand rungs. Noticed a slight bulge in the left armpit area of each jump. The pair could have been brothers except that the fellow on the right had a big red nose and the one directly to my left was missing the little finger on his right hand. Takes a certain kind of person to refuse a transplant or a prosthesis for a missing piece. Not the kind of person I’d want to argue with.

Didn't like this at all. Touched the clone's arm and spoke in as conversational a tone as I could manage.

"Let's get off at the fifth and see if your mother's in."

She gave me a startled look but before she could reply, a meaty four-fingered hand clasped my left shoulder and a gravelly voice said in my ear: "Your next stop's Ground Level."

"Filamentous," I said. "Never did like your mother, anyway."

"What's wrong with you?" the clone said.

"Nothing. Just do what these nice men tell you."

She glanced right and left and suddenly looked frightened rather than curious. Which confirmed my suspicion that she knew a lot more than she was telling.

Duped by a clone! Set up, maybe. Bad enough to have to work for one, but to be fooled by one. What a jog I was.

As we swung out of the chute at mall level and gravity took hold again, I took her arm like she was Realpeople. Couldn't see how anyone knowing she was a clone would help me.

"Where we going?" I said to our new escorts.

"Not far," Fourfingers replied.

They guided us across the mall toward the express upchute to the roof parking lot. We glided up in silence for eighty floors. A luxury model Ortega Scarlet Breeze idled a half meter off the roof, waiting. A third fellow sat at the controls. We settled in and zoomed off toward where the late afternoon sun was sinking in the haze.

"Who wants to see us?" I said in a nice relaxed tone.

Fourfingers must have been the spokesman for the trio. He gave one of his involved, long-winded answers.

"Yokomata."

"Ah," I said through a suddenly tight throat. "Yokomata. How perfectly bloaty."

Yokomata. Big name in the Bosyorkington megalops underworld. Not superbig like Esterwin or Lutus, but she ran a glossy operation that was a long way from ground level.

Glanced pointedly at the clone as I spoke. "All this comes as a big dregging shock to you, I suppose."

The clone said nothing, but her frightened eyes spoke volumes.

I gathered from the medium-size Tyrannosaurus rex running loose in her yard that Yokomata discouraged drop-in company.

The house itself was a miniature Taj Mahal — holographic, of course. Could see a slight shimmer around the edges. No telling what the actual building looked like. Probably a steel box.

As the pilot came in low and slow over the wall, the ten-meter-long dinosaur came for us, its powerful hind legs kicking up clumps of grass as it charged. When it was almost on us, its big red wet mouth open and salivating, six-inch teeth glinting in the reddening sun, the driver kicked up the altitude in a stomach-tugging lurch. The snap of those jaws closing on air was audible through the insulated walls of the flitter.

Rednose gave the driver a none-too-gentle tap on the back of his head.