MINUS NINETEEN
"Don't get me wrong." Lauro de Sica swirled his near-empty glass, making the ice inside spin and cast off little sparkles of light in the dim illumination of the bar. "They're useful, definitely. But I'm never going to fawn all over mine the way some of you guys do. Buying them gifts and taking them on little holiday trips like they're real. Like they mean something to you." He brought the glass to his lips for a final swallow. "I just can't think of them like that."
Beside him, Victor Hilshire gripped his glass, letting the drink warm in his hand while he listened. He'd been a police investigator for years before he'd come to the Social Welfare Agency, and had conducted his share of interrogations. Hilshire knew when a man was reciting an alibi or some other speech he'd made more than once.
He'd also heard plenty of unintended confessions, and lies that told far more truth than the speaker had intended. Sometimes a man who had trouble admitting the truth even to himself would offer a confession couched in a bad lie. Hilshire's cop ears took in his colleague's statement, and automatically translated I just can't think of them like that into I can't help thinking of them like that.
Hilshire wondered, not for the first time, what Lauro was doing here: in this bar with him, in the cyborg program, in Section Two, even. Lauro was a former Section One field agent who'd injured his back in a fall and was no longer fit for such duty. Hilshire didn't know why Lorenzo would offer the man a job, but he could make a few cynical guesses.
First, it served as a sort of goodwill gesture to Draghi, chief of Section One and a vocal opponent of the cyborg program, showing that, however their opinions differed on tactics, they were on the same side, and took care of their own; second, it stifled some of the contempt expressed by the Section One agents towards the 'puppeteers' who handled the cyborgs. Some of the handlers, like Marco and Raballo, had been washouts from other agencies, outfits for which they could no longer pass the physicals. Comments among the Section One agents about the 'walking wounded' at Section Two letting the 'puppets' do the heavy work had dwindled away after Lauro's transfer.
Hilshire wasn't entirely sure why Lauro had accepted the offer, though. Certainly the pay was an inducement; a fellow couldn't afford a new Land Rover on disability pension. But the man had brought his damnable Section One prejudices with him and hadn't really lost them in all the time he'd been here. He and Elsa worked mostly alone, scarcely cooperating or interacting with the other teams, and, in public at least, he treated his girl like a robot that responded to voice commands.
Lauro was cordial to his Section Two colleagues, but didn't mix with them socially. To Hilshire's knowledge, this was the first time Lauro had ever invited one of them out for a drink. Something in Lauro's demeanor and conversation told him the man was fishing for information of some sort.
As Hilshire lifted his glass, he said, "Question. How did you come up with a name for Elsa?"
Lauro refilled his glass before answering. "My neighbor had a dog named Elsa once. A golden retriever. The hair sort of reminded me."
Well, Hilshire thought, you've gone Jean and Raballo one better. Both men had given their cyborgs boys' names: Raballo, to salve his conscience – as if the Agency's treatment of these kids was more palatable if it was done to little boys instead of girls; and Jean, to show that Rico's gender, like all her other humanizing characteristics, was irrelevant. All of the handlers dealt differently, and with different degrees of success, with the knowledge that their little partners were fatally injured or terminally ill girl-children resurrected and 'improved' to make them perfect soldiers and assassins.
He hadn't expected Lauro to reciprocate the question, but apparently the man was trying to be polite. "And yours?"
"Triela? It's Tunisian. For all I know, it could be the one she was born with. We don't know for sure where she came from, but we found her in Amsterdam, and that's where many of the children kidnapped in Tunisia for the slave trade end up; it's an established conduit. She's got the look – skin color, anyway, and there's a small percentage of blonde-blues there, at least. And young girls with her looks are much in demand. Since we know the monsters who tortured her bought her from - " He stopped when he realized his companion was no longer listening. In fact, the way Lauro had turned his back and belted down his drink, he wanted very much not to hear what Hilshire was saying. "Lauro. Have you ever looked through Elsa's file?"
"There's nothing in there for me."
Which doesn't exactly answer my question, does it?
Lauro slid off his seat and headed for the bathroom without a word. The barman drew close. "Are you all right for now? Need anything?"
Hilshire eyed the bottle of red he and Lauro were sharing: half full. It was getting late; good sense would suggest they turn in soon. Lauro seemed a little chattier than a quarter bottle would account for; Hilshire wondered if the man was taking painkillers for his back, and how they mixed with alcohol. "Fine, thanks." As the barman began to move away, Hilshire said, "Wait." He glanced around at the little ten-seat bar, occupied by only the three of them after ten at the beginning of the week. A place like this, clean and comfortable and quiet, where they could drink and talk in peace, should have taken some time to find, but Lauro had suggested it as though he knew it well. "Tell me. My friend, does he come here often?"
"Just a few times before," the man said. "He usually meets with another man, though not always the same one." The barman leveled a look at him. "You all work together, I think. The conversations all sound the same, though I won't pretend to understand what your business is, and I'm sure I don't want to. Will that be all?"
A prudent attitude, Hilshire thought, in a country famous for its organized criminals and presently on the verge of civil war besides. "Yes, thank you. Make sure the check comes to me." Hilshire had a feeling Lauro was a lousy tipper.
The man nodded and left. A minute later, Lauro returned from the bathroom. He must have done a lot of thinking in there, Hilshire thought, because as soon as his butt was settled on the seat, he began talking. "They're not kids. They're little Frankensteins. They're mostly plastic and carbon fiber and exotic alloys. Hell, you can't even get one through airport security without flashing your ID. Whatever's in them that's human, it's just components, raw material. They're tools." He refilled his glass.
Hilshire lifted his glass to hide his frown at the thought of Triela being told she wasn't a real person, no matter what she was made of. "How's the operation in Tuscany going?" He said, to change the subject.
"Not bad. I have a lead on a Padania safehouse in Siena the local police pretend they can't find, except when they have guns to sell to the terrorists. I have a feeling the rot may go all the way to the top. I'll stake it out for a few days and decide what to do then."
"You'll be taking Elsa?"
"Of course. Couldn't do it without her."
Hilshire set his glass down. "You ever tell her that?"
Lauro studied him a moment. "I told you, I don't get into that. If you feel the urge to pat yours on the head all the time, go ahead." He took a swallow. "She's easy on the eyes, I grant you. I can see where a man might be tempted. Live and let live."
Hilshire looked him in the eye. "Lauro, when did you last clean your gun?"
The other man frowned. "What?"
"It's a simple question. When was the last time you cleaned your gun?"
"I cleaned it the last time I came back from the pistol range. Maybe a week ago."
"Is that the only time you get out the oil and brushes?"
"No," the man said, a little indignant. "My life might depend on my piece. If it's been awhile since the last cleaning, I'll break it down, just to be sure. What are -"
The ex-Europol cop tossed back his drink. "What does the gun care if it's dirty? It's just a thing." He watched Lauro's face cloud, but before the man could speak, he went on. "You say your cyborg is just a tool. A whole lot more useful than a pistol, but still a tool. Fine. But a cyborg is a lot more complex than a gun, too. They have requirements that need to be satisfied in order for them to function properly. And I'm not talking about food and water, or bullets for their guns."
He brought the glass down to the bar's surface with a crack that made the ice inside jump above the rim. The startled barman looked his way. "They don't have keypads in the backs of their heads for you to type in instructions, man. What motivates them to obey, to learn, to fight and risk their lives?" He took a breath, calmed himself, and reached for the bottle. He poured another, and topped off Lauro's glass, then pushed the bottle down the bar, out of the other agent's reach. He stared into Lauro's sullen face. "Nothing but their handlers' approval. The doctors stole their memories of anyone else they might ever have loved, just so they'd imprint on us like puppies, so they'd do what we asked. But a dog learns obedience from soft words more than harsh ones. If that was all you were working for, how long do you think you'd go on without it, eh?" He beckoned to the barman and reached for his money clip. "You're neglecting your equipment, Lauro. Your living weapon. How long do you think you can keep using it without maintenance before it jams up or explodes in your face?"
