Iapetus Shift

Chapter 3

Two hours later Olan stood outside the Olympus City Prison a free man. Free except for the lack of access to the majority of his bank balance. It was the CEO's insurance that Olan would do the job and not simply vanish. Tarmor had a controlling interest in many of Mars's banks and assured Olan that with a word he could unlock the accounts—or shut them down completely and confiscate the funds. A man with that kind of pull was not one you wanted to screw over.

Though Artemis could have given him a data chip, or simply uploaded the job info to Olan's personal drive, he'd chosen to just hand him a top-of-the-line tablet instead. Tarmor was either incredibly lazy, or eager to make a point that he could throw around such expensive things.

The tablet's info included the place he was supposed to gain entry to, the DNA of the person he was supposed to impersonate, and the woman he was supposed to remove. Olan had yet to read through any of it; he had other things on his mind, mainly, not dying in the next few days. With his accounts locked, there wasn't much of a chance he'd be able to afford his next dose of medication in time. Thankfully, he'd planned for situations like this.

The taxi glided up next to him and honked. Olan climbed in the back. "Kepler Street," he said.

Minutes later, the cab pulled onto the crowded street, and people ran across to get out of the way. "What's the address?" asked the cabby, clearly eager to get out of the area.

"Here's fine," said Olan. He cringed at the cost for the first time he could remember. The small amount he'd been allowed for expenses was going to be hard to live on. The cabby sighed with annoyance at the wait as Olan keyed in his account number instead of using a fingerprint or retina scan for payment. Due to his constantly shifting DNA, Olan had to use the old-fashioned methods.

Olan hopped out, and the cabby took off, leaving him alone in the most dangerous part of the biggest city on Mars. Olan strode confidently, knocking shoulders with people who didn't move out of his way.

Most of the people of Olympus, even the poor parts like this, had some kind of mechanical enhancement visible on their bodies. Eyes were most common and useful, and the models that looked like normal human eyes were more expensive. Hands and arms were mounted with tools he could not identify, and legs were mechanized for higher speeds and longer distances jumped. In order to be able to shift into any person, Olan could have no visible mechanical adaptations; everything had to be beneath the surface. This made him stand out as either incredibly rich, incredibly poor, or android—and none of those meshed with his confident gait. So they stared, but left him alone simply for the fact that he was an unknown, and unknowns were risky.

He saw the soot-stained patch of sidewalk ahead and hoped no one had been hurt. He was confident that he'd fireproofed his walls well enough, but if someone had opened the door . . . . He pushed those worries aside; there was nothing he could do about it now.

The door was gone, likely pulled off its hinges to be used as scrap. Inside had been cleaned out as well. Anything not bolted down had been taken, no matter how badly the fire must have damaged it. Everything was charred black and reeked of melted plastic and burnt electronics. He saw no sign of Estha's body, but that could have been taken as well. The law was fairly lax around here, and any firefighting or arson investigation would happen well after the vultures had their take.

Vultures were not professionals, though.

Olan knelt on a patch of floor noticeably less blackened than the rest. It had been covered by a flame-retardant rug that someone had snagged without stopping to think why anyone would have a flame-retardant rug.

He found the plank of faux wood with a swirl that looked like the Great Red Spot, and slipped the knife in his thumb between the cracks to pry it up. Beneath, the dull, metal surface of a common safe looked up at him, an old-fashioned combination dial in the center.

With a steady hand, he spun the dial left, right, then left again, stopping on the number one. He gripped the handle and tingled at the thought of the ten thousand volts that would slam into him if he'd input the wrong combination. He pulled the latch, and it fell into place with a satisfying thunk. He opened the safe.

His face went cold. A sheen of sweat formed on his hand as he squeezed the handle. Instead of the life-saving syringe with the comforting blue liquid, there was nothing. The safe was empty.

Olan sat back and closed his eyes, letting out a short laugh. He'd escaped prison only to be robbed of life by some clever scavenger. What a way to go.

He looked again, giving in to the urge that he might have been wrong. The syringe was still not there, but the safe was not empty. A data chip rested where he'd last seen the syringe. He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger; it was barely the size of his little fingernail. He slipped it into a slot in his thumb and played it through his lenses.

A translucent, three-dimensional image of Estha appeared a few feet in front of his face, moving to keep centered in his vision wherever he looked. She waved and flashed her huge grin, then ran a hand through her thick, red curls.

"Well, if you've found this, then I guess things are in less dire straits than I thought. Hooray!" She waved her hands in mock celebration. "Now, I'm sure you're worried about your, um, well, your thing that's not here. I've taken care of that. I'm trying to find where you are and get it to you. But, just in case you find this, I'll be in that place where that guy did that thing that one time, and you broke his nose." She gave a wink. "I'll be there every night for an hour between eight and nine PM until—well, until you're dead, I guess. Please don't die!"

The recording ended, and Olan let out a long sigh. She was alright—crazy, but alright. And he was alright.

He knew the place, Electric Sheep, an android bar just a few miles from here. She must have disabled her network, blocking all incoming mail as they'd agreed on, to avoid the risk of being fooled by fake messages. He'd have to meet her there, tonight.