JEFFREY THOMAS - DEADSTOCK

However casually he was dressed, though, under his coat he still wore his favorite pistol in a shoulder holster. It was a Darwin .55, "the height of firearms evolution" as the ads proclaimed. On the job or not, this was still Punktown.

Coasting astride the bike, he again remembered being stationed in the city of Di Noon, with its streets flooded in bikes. And he remembered gaping up at Thi, riding astride him but leaning back with her smooth blue belly pumping fast, her own face composed with strength and control as she looked down at a more helpless likeness of herself, watching his transmuted face sadistically for the pleasure she was inflicting, and asking him, "Ga Noh like? Ga Noh like?"

Lizard atop lizard. It was the most primal of all impulses. The need of cells to lie alongside other cells. And he ached for her, even now. As if some vital part of him had been severed. Or never attached in the first place.

He arrived at his little tenement house at the end of the infamous street, jutting at its very corner like the prow of a ship pushing on through a glittering sea of vehicles. Rather than leave his hoverbike on the sidewalk, he got off to glide it into the lobby and store it under the stairs. He took the elevator to his top floor flat.

As he let himself into his apartment, Stake instantly took in how its air was heavy with a high-priced cologne, such as someone might overindulge in just to show that they could afford to do so on their salary.

A hand appeared from around the door to seize him by the lapel, almost dragging him off his feet. This person's other hand jammed the barrel of a snub-nosed Decimator revolver under Stake's jaw painfully. A second man closed and locked the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Stake saw that this man had a pump-action shotgun in his hands. He recognized it as his own, in fact. The man had found it in the corner between his computer desk and the wall.

Both men wore pricey and priggish black suits, bowler hats on their heads. And the flesh of their faces and hands was leopard-spotted in a camouflage of blue-on-blue.

The first man let go of Stake's jacket, instead slipped his hand inside it to relieve him of the Darwin .55. "Nice," he said, smiling and tucking it into his own waistband.

As Stake stood there between the two clones, a third one stepped into view from the bedroom. He was of course identical to the other two, but somehow Stake could tell that this one was Mr. Jones. The clone nodded courteously. "Mr. Stake."

"How did you get in here?" he demanded.

"That would be me," said the man with his shotgun. Was this one Mr. Doe, the clone who had driven him back to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children after his meeting with Adrian Tableau? "Skeleton card," he explained.

"So what do you want?"

"You're a Blue War vet," observed Jones, strolling about the room now, and pointing to a case containing several medals that Stake had mounted on one of its walls. They were largely barren otherwise, and he particularly refrained from hanging photos or paintings of people, lest he begin to look like them. In his private lair, he wanted only to be himself. Whoever that was. To that end, there was only that one photograph of himself, should he need to stare at it upon his arrival home.

"Why do you ask?" Stake joked drily. As if, from the clones' appearance, it wasn't apparent.

"Very funny," said the one with the shotgun.

Stake smiled, feeling a bit smug. These men didn't remember him from his visit to Tableau's company; he was sure of it. But then, that returned him to his question. "I asked you what you're doing breaking into my apartment?"

"We work for Adrian Tableau, Mr. Stake," Jones explained. "He's the owner of Tableau Meats."

"I see. And?"

"And, you apparently work for John Fukuda. Owner of Fukuda Bioforms. A business competitor of Mr. Tableau's."

"How do you know that?"

"We have our sources," purred the one with the revolver barrel prodding his throat. Its blade sight was scraping his skin.

"It's come to our attention," Jones went on, still pacing, "that Mr. Fukuda suspects Mr. Tableau's daughter Krimson of stealing his daughter's expensive kawaii-doll. And its value seems to be increased by the fact that the doll was created using unconventional research that Mr. Fukuda obtained after he took over the former Alvine Products. It's possible Fukuda even suspects Mr. Tableau of coveting that research, and hence encouraging his daughter to steal the doll for him."

Stake's mind was racing. He could see that this information had come through his own lips, in the guise of caseworker Simon McMartinez. But still, how had they learned of him-Jeremy Stake, the private investigator hired by Fukuda? They had their "sources," the one with the Decimator had said. Who would that be? He doubted Janice would have betrayed him. Had Caren Bistro overcome her fear of Tableau? But then, she hadn't known that Stake worked for Fukuda. Was the source someone who worked under Fukuda, then? Stake could envision Tableau paying for the eyes and ears of such a person.

"What's your point?" he asked Jones.

"Our concern is that Krimson Tableau has been missing now for about two weeks. Our employer is worried that John Fukuda, suspecting Krimson of this crime, may be responsible for her disappearance."

"What? No… no. Fukuda hasn't done anything to her."

"And you wouldn't do anything to her, on Mr. Fukuda's behalf? Kidnap her, perhaps? Or something even worse?"

"Don't be crazy! Yes, okay, Fukuda hired me to find that doll. And yes, he thinks Krimson might have something to do with it, because Krimson hates Yuki Fukuda the way her father hates John Fukuda. But Fukuda did not kidnap Krimson Tableau. And I would never do something like that for any client, or for any money."

Would they go so far as to torture him? Though strictly forbidden, torture had not been unknown in the interrogation of Ha Jiin prisoners, by soldiers cloned or otherwise. Might they even intend to kill him? Stake gauged his chances of surprising the three clones. Brushing that revolver away from his neck with his left arm. Grabbing his Darwin out of the man's waistband and bringing it up to take out the shotgun man. Then back to blast the first man. Then wheeling and plugging Jones before he could jerk out whatever iron he carried. Maybe. Maybe he could pull it off. But Stake dreaded the scenario. As strong and fast and skillful as he was, these men were designed to be even stronger, faster, more skillful. Three of them. And one of him, with guns only inches away.

"And we're just to take your word on that?" said the shotgun man. "Put our trust in your professional ethics?"

"Hey, bring me down to the nearest forcer precinct. I'll submit to a truth scan in a minute. Yes, Mr. Fukuda would like to know if Krimson took the doll. So yes, I've tried to find her myself. In that regard, I'm actually helping Tableau, aren't I? The more people looking for his daughter, for whatever reason, the better."

"You're more and more the saint by the minute," said shotgun man.

"If Fukuda took Krimson, then why doesn't Yuki have her doll back?"

"Because Krimson never took it," Jones said, stopping opposite Stake a few paces away. As if he might strike him. Whip out his gun to execute him. "He may have her in custody to use in bargaining for the doll if he can establish that Mr. Tableau possesses it. Or even, realizing his error in kidnapping her, Fukuda might have murdered Krimson Tableau and disposed of her to hide the fact that he captured her."

"That's all nonsense. Paranoid nonsense your boss is feeding you. You guys should know better."

"It's your blasting boss who's the paranoid one, corporal," said the Decimator man. He had studied Stake's medals, too, obviously.