Decoherence (21 page)

Landon nodded. “Everything's hyperregulated here. Makes all those old communist governments look like Little League soccer games. Down in the tunnels, things are . . .” He laughed. “They're worse. Much worse. No running water or food allotments or medicine. But we're free.”

“I read a book once that said true freedom was the freedom to die alone.”

“Sounds like a terrible book.”

“I think it was meant to be satire.”

Landon stopped and leaned against a section of the cement wall that looked no different than the rest. It swung open in silence to show a squalid room illuminated by tallow lamplight. “Welcome to my little piece of hell.
Mi cuchitril es su casucha
.” He must have seen despair on her face because he shrugged with an apologetic grimace. “It's temporary. All tunnel homes are, but this one is really temporary. Soon as Senturi gets back, we're leaving for the new world. Big fields, small towns, lots of food, quiet women.”

Sam gave him a look of feminist disgust. “Quiet women?”

Landon raised a shoulder. “The only women around here would kill you as soon as look at you! Quiet sounds less fatal is all. I'm not judging. Just saying.”

“In my experience, quiet women tend to be better at hiding the bodies. You sure they aren't the reason there's such a gender imbalance there?”

He grimaced. “You are full of nightmares. Cupboard over there has a bit of water and some antiseptic wipes. Better take care of the dog first. I'll go see if I can find a spare bit of rations.” There was a quiet pause, then he shook his head. “Hide their bodies,” he muttered as he stomped down a narrow hall. “Flaming praying mantis woman.”

Sam stroked Bosco's head and looked around the hovel. The first winter in Australia, Mac and Sam had driven to Coober Pedy in South Australia and spent a week in the famous underground town. In Coober Pedy, the walls were carved and smoothed by years of wear. Bright lights and colorful characters had made it a fun, vivid, and very memorable place.

This was Coober Pedy's depressed, goth cousin. The walls were covered in soot. Every single item in the room from the three-­legged chair to the leaning shelf was in disrepair. It was DIY upcycled trash without the upcycling or joy.

Grimacing, she patted Bosco in apology and led him to the cupboard Landon had indicated. “Sorry, puppy.” Gingerly, she reached for the cupboard door, ready to jump back if it fell off. Instead it stuck, the faux wood warped by the abuse it had suffered. She tugged hard, and it opened to reveal a hodgepodge of half-­empty bottles and a yellowing piece of gauze.

“I hope you weren't expecting something fancy,” Landon said from behind her.

Sam spun, hand dropping to the truncheon she carried concealed in her pocket.

Landon was holding a chipped ceramic bowl with muddy water and a rectangle covered in green plastic that might be a granola bar. “For the dog,” he said, lifting the bowl. “For you.” He held out the green rectangle. “It's city rations. Senturi brought us two boxes a week back. Should be enough to get us through another four days, even with you around. Fifteen hundred calories and all your daily nutrients.”

Sam turned it over in her hand. “This is what ­people eat?”

“Mostly.”

It was awful. She hadn't even opened the package yet, and she knew it was awful. In her mind, she started calculating how many ­people she could smuggle back to her reality without risking overpopulation. There was the whole duplicate problem she and Mac faced with their younger selves. And, of course, there was the risk of insanity like Gant had suffered when he was cut off from the Federated States of Mexico.

But if she established a little colony?

In Australia, or maybe New Zealand? There was lots of land in New Zealand. Or Kansas, even. Practically no one lived in Kansas.

Landon raised his eyebrows. “You okay? You zoned out there for a moment.”

“I was trying to calculate the grocery bill if I invited you and all your friends over for a proper meal. Maybe a seafood pasta with squid.”

He shook his head. “I don't eat things that might try to eat me back. Besides, this is coming to an end. We've seen pictures of the new place. I've got a house picked out.”

“This”—­she held the ration bar up to eye level—­“is an abomination. This can't be healthy.”

“Vat-­grown seaweed is the only thing that grows anymore. There's too much dust in the atmosphere for plants. Too many toxins in the oceans. They say it's because of overpopulation, but me? I think we just got greedy.” He pulled out a wobbly, three-­legged stool and sat down. “Your place is better than this, is it?”

She shrugged. “Every place has its problems, but it's better looking than this. We don't have the overpopulation problem. There was a plague.”

Landon sat and watched her while she cleaned off Bosco.

Sam looked up at him. “Are you expecting me to do something interesting?”

“Was wondering what to do with you, is all. How were you planning to find this husband of yours?”

“Well, that plan hinged on me having access to computers and mass transit. I thought I'd call around, find Emir, and go harass him until I found Mac. But, since I'm guessing you didn't see a surly guy with a weird accent and a good tan come through”—­she looked at Landon, who shook his head—­“I'm guessing Mac came in at the other jump point you mentioned. So I'll go there.”

“That's in Central Command. The Ministry of Defense has soldiers and trainees in two buildings, and there's sixteen towers for civilians. Maybe a quarter of a million ­people when I lived there. Maybe a bit more.”

“In sixteen buildings?”

“Eighteen.” His smile was bitter. “Security is tight. Everything's gene locked, so you either bribe someone who has access or you threaten them.” Landon leaned forward. “You're not very threatening.”

Sam leaned forward. “But I have great genes.”

 

CHAPTER 36

“All the world is a stage, and someone just stole my spotlight.”

~ Comedian Willado Shakesbeer at the Florida Renaissance Festival I2—­2068

Wednesday March 19, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

I
vy stepped in front of the poster of Agent Rose as she lined up her gear. The Hello Kitty pocketknife, her flashlight, that she was thinking of naming Skullcrusher, and the semi-­illegal phone Miss MacKenzie had given to her when she went back to California. In case she needed to call, Miss MacKenzie had said. She wasn't comfortable taking the gun with her. It was hidden behind her nightstand, and if she had it her way, it would stay there until she grew old and died.

Technically, the Caye Law allowed her to own a phone just like it allowed her to own an apartment. But most of the major phone providers required a gene scan for their accounts, and clones—­being the duplicate of someone else's priority genetic code–couldn't have a gene scan unless their genetic donor created and controlled an account with them.

Jenna Mills, Ivy's original owner, was dead, but her genetic code was on file with all the good carriers. The one Miss MacKenzie had provided was some rugged-­looking knockoff of a designer brand. It was heavy as a half brick and probably counted as a lethal weapon in most of the country. She fixed a lanyard around it and stuck it in her pocket.

Miss MacKenzie wasn't likely to ever call, no one called Ivy, but she'd take any improvised weapon she could find.

Her work phone rang, and she turned on the speaker as she tied her boots. “This is Officer Clemens.”

“This is Dispatch Operator Bogomil. We have a report of a dead body floating in the water south of Twenty-­seventh Avenue Park.”

“That's great . . . why aren't you calling a patrol car?”

“I did, they told me to have a drone take care of it. A drunk swimming into a riptide is a waste of an officer's time. That's a direct quote.”

Drone.
Of course. She ground her teeth together. Taking a deep breath, she looked at the angry-­eyed poster. What would Agent Rose do? Silly question. Agent Rose would handle it. Agent Rose could handle anything. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Better make it ten,” Bogomil said. “The news crews got a tip-­off, too, and we want a sheet over the drunk before they get there.”

“Is there an ambulance on its way?”

“Yes, ma'am. I told them you'd meet them there.”

She took the “ma'am” with a smile. At least some ­people were willing to treat her like a human being. “On my way.”

The park at the corner of 27th and A1A was nothing more than a parking lot with a few amenities, so the locals had a place to pee between building sand castles and being chased by sharks. At least that's what the locals liked to tell the tourists. New Smyrna Beach enjoyed a relatively idiot-­free existence.

She parked next to the tennis courts and the ambulance before hiking up over the boardwalk protecting the dunes. A red flag waved in the breeze, warning everyone to stay out of the water because of riptides.

Apparently, someone hadn't gotten that message.

Two EMTs were carrying a covered body while a nervous retiree and his tiny dog looked on.

“Are you the one who called the police?” Ivy asked.

“Oh.” He startled, and the tiny fuzzball on a leash yapped. “Yes. Sorry. John Watson. I live over there.” He gestured across the street to a set of apartments undergoing renovation. “Sherlock and I were out for our morning constitutional.”

The dog yapped.

“John Watson . . . and Sherlock the dog?”

He shrugged with an apologetic little smile. “I can't help what my parents named me, and playing to type doesn't hurt when I'm looking to meet new gentlemen friends. A little tea and polish impresses boys who've ever only known overly muscled surfers.”

Watson was wearing stained khaki shorts with an equally stained shirt from the Riptide Surf Shop that had a bright pink silhouette of a woman surfing over their motto:
CURLS AND GIRLS
! Far be it from her to say that mismatched socks with flip-­flops and a hole in the pocket didn't look polished.

Sherlock stepped forward and sniffed her shoe.

“Right,” Ivy said, nudging the dog aside. “You were out for your morning walk, and you saw the person on the beach.”

He shrugged. “Sherlock and I usually walk down to The Wind Chaser for breakfast. They've got a very nice staff, and the kitchen boy always brings Sherlock his own sausage and water.”

“What time do you usually have breakfast?” Ivy asked as she pulled out her pen.

“We leave at seven, and toast and tea is served at quarter after promptly. Earl Grey. Hot.” He smiled as if he were anticipating a laugh.

Ivy raised her eyebrows.

Watson rolled his eyes dramatically and folded hairy arms over his stained surf shirt. He huffed.

“I'm sorry,” Ivy said.

“You need to catch up on your classics, young lady.”

“Officer.” Her smile dropped a few degrees of warmth. “Breakfast at seven fifteen. When did you start walking back?”

He gave her a pouty little frown. “Sherlock and I walk along the avenue to see Shakespeare at eight every morning. He's Mrs. Hawkins parrot.” Again, he waited as if she should know who he was talking about. “Jamie Hawkins? She runs the Treasure Chest. On Orange Street.” Brown eyes bored into her. “Do you not shop? At all?”

“No. I really don't. At all.” She dropped her smile entirely. The city didn't pay her enough to go shopping unless she ran out of socks. “At eight you talked to Shakespeare.”

“Mrs. Hawkins is doing inventory this week, so he has to stay home. I talked to him through the window. Then we continued on our way home.”

“How long did you talk to the parrot?” She hated herself for asking that question.

Watson shrugged. “Maybe five minutes. He's not a very eloquent old bird. Then Sherlock and I wandered onto the beach.”

“That's illegal,” Sam said. “The whole coast is pet-­free.”

“We were chasing a plastic bag!”

Which sounded unlikely. New Smyrna businesses didn't offer plastic bags anymore, except for the recycled ones that felt like satin and cost half her day's wages. “Right, you chased the bag.”

“And saved a turtle!” Watson said vehemently. “The poor idiots will eat anything. Not the brightest crackers in the drawer.”

“Uh-­huh. And then?”

“Since we were already there, I decided to collect the rest of the trash that washed up with the tide. I blame the cruise ships, personally. Full of tourists, and where does their trash go? Straight overboard! Every time! Like a drag queen on Halloween!”

Since tourists were the major cause of every problem in New Smyrna, from pollution to the lack of school funding, Ivy zoned out while Watson ranted. When he said “body,” she tuned back in.

“I thought it was a sea turtle,” he said. “It's a little early in the season for them to arrive, but with the way the weather's been the past few years, who could blame them for arriving early. I blame—­”

“Tourists,” Ivy said. “Back to the body.”

“It was rolled up in some sea grass. We went over, and there he is. Dressed and everything!” Watson sounded offended that the deceased was dressed.

Ivy's shoulders slumped in defeat. “Did you check for a pulse?”

Watson's eyes went wide. “Ewww! His neck was sliced open! I wasn't touching that.”

“Sliced?” Ivy stared at him, trying to process the information. “I thought he was drunk.”

“He might have been,” Watson said placidly, “but that's not what killed him. Someone took a chain saw to that boy's throat.”

A
s it turned out, it wasn't a chain saw. Something thin had choked him, then the crabs and fish had helped muddy the crime scene by trying to eat the deceased. Ivy followed the ambulance to the CBI building and escorted the victim up the public elevator in full view of the local WIC office, where a little boy watched with wide eyes. The poor kid would probably grow up to write cheesy horror movies.

The CBI morgue was usually locked down when they dropped someone off—­District 8 didn't have its own ME–but there was someone there today. He was a handsome man, slightly older than she preferred, but with an easy smile. It didn't quite reach his hazel eyes.

“Officer Clemens,” she said by way of introduction.

“Agent MacKenzie.”

She couldn't hide the surprise. “MacKenzie?”

He froze and looked a little wary. “Whatever you heard, it's not that bad.”

“No, it was just that I met a Miss Mackenzie a few months ago. Missus, technically. From California. Her name was Rose . . .” She trailed off, realizing she sounded like an idiot. “Oh, I'm sorry. It's just not the most common name here. It's funny running into two MacKenzies in such a short time. Rose was real nice.”

His frown wasn't encouraging. “You mean Agent Rose?”

“Oh! No.” Ivy smiled and told herself not to fangirl like Rosie Girl. “Rose MacKenzie. She came out to work a case, and I helped her.”
Time to shut up.
She'd been in a very gray area verging on illegal with Miss MacKenzie. Half those records were Eyes Only, and her security clearance was still lower than a meter maid's.

He laughed. “Right. Sorry. My partner is Agent Rose and . . .” He shook his head and laughed again. “I'll have to tell her that one. She'll get a kick out of it. Last August, she introduced us as MacKenzie Rose. Took half the day before the clerk helping us out realized her name was Sam Rose.”

Ivy pressed her lips together and rocked back on her heels.
Agent Samantha L. Rose!
She felt light-­headed.

“Hey, the phones aren't hooked up here, and my cell battery is low. Would you mind running to the CBI office and grabbing Sam?”

“Sure!” Ivy said in a squeaky voice that sounded like she'd swallowed helium. “No problem.” She stepped backward. “Not a problem at all.”

She was going to meet Agent Rose!

In the hall, she stopped to check her reflection in the glass of a Realtor's office. Her hair was pinned back neatly, just like Agent Rose's. She'd never figured out makeup, or how or why she was supposed to hide her freckles, and now she was suddenly conscious of them in a way she'd never been before.

Touching her nose, she wondered if Agent Rose liked freckles.

No.

Deep breath.

Agent Rose was a clone. Like her. She would understand.

By the time she reached the CBI office, she had her game face on. Calm, composed, and utterly in control. Exactly like her hero. She stepped into the room, swept it with a haughty glance, and caught on the eager smile of a ginger giant perched behind a ridiculously small desk.

“Hello, ma'am. I'm Junior Agent Dan Edwin. Can I help you today?” He reminded Ivy of the Irish setter that had gotten loose at last year's dog show: energetic, eager to please, and too large for Ivy's safety.

She had an insane urge to throw a ball to see if the junior agent would chase after it. She shook the image of a large red-­haired puppy running down the hall from her head.

“I'm Officer Clemens from the local precinct. I rode in with a murder victim we found down on the beach. Agent MacKenzie upstairs asked if I could see if Agent Rose was available.” There, cool and calm as the Pacific.

“Oh! We haven't fixed the phone since the rats got into it.” He stood up and towered over the room. Everything around him shrunk.

Ivy sat down from the shock, bouncing on the little office chair.

Edwin smiled, sidled across the room with an apologetic hunch, and knocked on the door.

A voice Ivy had only ever heard in news recordings came from the other room. “Yes?”

Edwin ducked inside and closed the door behind him.

Ivy's hands started to sweat. Her face was going numb. She started counting breaths, five in, six out. Agent Rose was only one room away!

The door opened, and Ivy popped to her feet.

“Next of kin?” Agent Rose said as she stepped out of the office.

She looked exactly like her poster: crisp white blouse, navy blazer and skirt, black hair in a flawless, shining bun, and just enough mascara to capture the attention while maintaining a I-­Woke-­Up-­Like-­This freshness.

Ivy's knees wobbled.

Agent Rose looked at her expectantly.

“This is Officer Clemens, ma'am,” Edwin said with a cheerful smile.

Agent Rose nodded. “You have a corpse for us?”

“Yes, ma'am. He washed up with the tide this morning, and I escorted him to the morgue. An Agent MacKenzie asked me to come ask if you'd be available to view it.”

Her smile was humorless but patient. “Well, if I didn't find him a body to play with soon, he'd get bored. Edwin, I'm going to go see our new customer.” She turned to Ivy with a much friendlier smile. “Can you fill me in on the details as we walk to the morgue, or is the chief expecting you back before lunch?”

“No one will miss me,” Ivy said. She hurried after Agent Rose, almost stepping on her heels.

Agent Rose paused at the elevator and turned with another polite smile.

Ivy made a note to practice her smiles so she could put so much meaning into the look.

“First DOA case, Officer?”

“Yes, ma'am! My first real case.” She was hyperventilating.

They stepped into the elevator, and Ivy could smell her soap. She was going to faint from happiness.

“And they're letting you handle it alone?”

“Oh, yes. I've been with the force for ten years now, as a drone. I'm a clone.” Ivy squeezed her hands together. They were clones together. Doing something important.
Together.
It was the happiest moment of her life. “I've always wanted to meet you,” she blurted out. “You're amazing. A clone in the CBI. That's amazing. All of us look up to you.”