TITLE: "Along a Knife's Blade" An "A.I." / "Blade Runner" crossover -- Chapter Two

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: PG-13

ARCHIVE: Permission granted

FEEDBACK: Please? Please? Please?

SUMMARY: Diane starts to discover some of Merrot's secrets...

DISCLAIMER: I do not own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, Amblin Entertainment, et al. Nor do I own "Blade Runner", it's characters, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late Philip K. Dick, Ridley Scott, Warner Brothers, et al.

NOTES: I actually wrote this out first, then divided it up into chapters, which explains why this chapter is really, really short (and why a later one will be long by contrast...)

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Chapter Two -- Suspect

So far, Merrot was checking out as a legitimate immigrant, until INS sent over his DNA analysis and Diane examined it.

The record started off with Merrot's ID photos, front and side, as well as the usual identifying data, plus several found only on DNA reports

Dexterity: Ambidextrous, primarly left-handed

Sexual Orientation: Bi/Pansexual

Ethnic Profile: Gallo-Hibernian, perdominantly Gallic

And then a paragraph at the bottom, just before the columns of micro-print listing Merrot's chromosome summary:

Strong evidence of genetic manipulation/engineering. Sample contained traces of MetaFlesh. Subject appears to have MetaFlesh bone marrow implants, which could cause him to be medically mistaken for a bio-mechanoid.

MetaFlesh. She knew companies like the Tyrell Corporation had been using this material, a synthetic substitute for carbon-based flesh, for decades, first for medical implants and prostheses, now to manufacture bio-mechanoids or Replicants, or OrMechas, as some people in the android civil rights movement called them. Cybertronics had recently started using the substance to manufacture synthetic organs for transplants. If Merrot was wealthy enough, he might have these kind of implants, for whatever medical reason.

Or he might be made out of the substance, like a Replicant.

"Bryant?" she called, as she heard her boss pass by the open door of her office.

"Yeah?" he called back, and turning, stepped into the room. "You found something?"

"Yes... I'm suspecting Merrot may be a passer. Take a look at this."

Bryant studied the data on the screen, his brow furrowing. "Damn. And he got past you? Must be a custom job -- a hell of a custom job."

She closed the window and removed the disk from the drive in her desk. "I'm picking him up, bringing him in for a VK."

"Let's hope you haven't spooked him," Bryant said. "Though I doubt he'd spook over one little girl."

"No, I was careful not to give him cause for alarm."

"Don't tell me he's startin' to get something for yah," Bryant asked, trying not to tease, and failing.

"He might: he practically has 'ladykiller' imprinted in his skin," Diane said, with a trace of polite humor.

Bryant's face relaxed, growing solemn. "In that case, you be careful he doesn't turn out to be a real killer."

"Even if he's genetically enhanced, I can handle him: I'm genetically enhanced myself," Diane replied, replacing the disk into the dossier and reaching for her leather jacket, hanging on a coat rack behind the door.

"And you figure since you're younger and had better fittings, you can take on an old guy in his forties like Merrot," Bryant said.

"If I keep my wits about me, I can handle this," she said, stepping out. But not before she noticed a quietly suspicious pucker in the corners of Bryant's eyes.

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Merrot didn't return her calls, but on the third call, which Diane made from a vidphone in the dash of the skimmer, Teresa, his security AI picked up. "I'm afraid the master isn't taking visitors right now, Ms. Fletcher: he would say he's out making some visits of his own," the voice replied, with a slight Spanish accent.

"Did he tell you where he was going?" Diane asked.

"Not specifically, but you might find him in one of the gothic clubs on the surrounding city-blocks," the security AI replied.

The closest one to Merrot's building she knew of was the HelFyre. "Thank you," Diane replied and hung up the phone.

It didn't take Diane long to find the HelFyre Club: she had only to look for the largest crowd of people -- some decidedly Orgas, the shinier-skinned ones decidedly Mecha, some even her keen eye couldn't tag right away -- waiting in line in front of a basement-level club, clad in incredible amounts of black or red or violet or silver PVC and simuleather, or precious little of if as the case may be. Some of the bystanders had more metal pierced through their faces and ears than some Mechas had in their frames. She scanned the crowd, looking for Merrot, but she didn't see anyone who looked like him. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, showing her Rogue Retrieval ID to any objectors. The doorman, a tall bulky, bald-headed man, glowered down at her: the light, hip-length jacket she wore over a plain plum-colored blouse and black simuleather pants didn't mark her as a party-goer. A pair of young people of indeterminate gender, one white dressed in a long black leather coat, the other black dressed in a long silver coat, looked like they wanted to help the doorman send her away.

Diane held up her ID: "I'm with Rogue Retrieval. I'm looking for Harlen Merrot: do you know if he's here?"

"Whut's 'ee look like?" the big man rumbled.

She took a copy of Merrot's phot out of her breast pocket, showing it to him."He's six feet-three inches tall, weighs about 170 pounds, he has reddish-brown hair and green eyes; he also speaks with a slight French accent."

The big guy nodded. "Yeah, we had a French guy come in here tonight. Might be busy, y' know..." He said this with a slightly suggestive tone.

"Thank you," she said, slipping her ID into her breast pocket, as the doorman stepped aside and let her enter.

"Hey, Miss Rogue Retrieval, he tryin' to sneak any Mecha in here? We don't cater to those types," the big guy asked.

"He might be a Mecha himself," Diane said.

She entered the dimly-lit interior, threading her way through the crowd gyrating to the ear-splitting industrial music blaring. She scanned every male face she could see, looking for Merrot. Not seeing him, she made her way to the bar area at the back, away from the thick of the crowd.

She didn't see him seated at the bar, where a lot of people dressed like Victorian vampires had perched themselves on the stools, peering at her as if trying to decide she looked like a 'bloodless one' or a 'living wight'. Finding a clear space, she leaned across the bar, signalling to a tall, thin, bald man behind the counter, who looked eerily like Nosferatu's cousin.

"Good evening, my good woman. How may I assist you?" he asked.

"I'm with Rogue Retrieval," she said, laying down Merrot's photo. "Has this man come in tonight?"

Nosferatu's cousin studied the photo. "Yes, he came in here not long ago this evening... Why, has he caused some bloodless one to go astray from its master?" The words were pure Dracula, but the Rumanian accent the barkeep tried to affect sounded as phony as a paper NewBuck.

"He's had something to do with that kind of act," she said.

Nosferatu's cousin peered over her shoulder and pointed out one of the booths at the back with a long-nailed finger. "He is gazing at you."

Diane slid the photo into her pocket and slid a five NB note across the counter to the barkeep. "Thanks."

Harlen Merrot sat in a booth in the near corner. The black silk frock-coat jacket he wore helped him blend in, but compared to the rest of the patrons, he looked almost normal.

"Ah, Madame Fletcher, good evening," he said, rising and extending his hand to her as she approached the booth, where he sat with two dark-haired female companions, identically clad in violet gowns.

Diane kept her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "Good evening, Mr. Merrot," she said. "There's something come up on your file: would you mind stepping outside for a minute? It's a little too noisy in here."

"Not at all, once I pay my bill," he said. He signalled to a waitress passing by. Diane waited while Merrot paid the bill, chatting with the waitress, then bade his twin companions good evening, leaning down to kiss each of them in turn before following Diane out onto the sidewalk.

"We checked your DNA record," she said. "There's some traces of MetaFlesh on it: the INS finds that suspicious, so they're requesting that you come in to headquarters for a Voight-Kampff test."

"Ah, a test involving a number of questions describing emotional situations in which the subject's verbal responses are compared to iris diallation and contraction as well as maxiofacial capillation, better known as the 'blush response' measured via a Voight-Kampff device?" Merrot asked. "...I studied AI science before I went into photography; I like keeping up with the new trends in design."

She was tempted to ask, right then and there, 'What are you?' when someone coughed nearby them. She turned.

A small man in a too-long topcoat stood at their side, looking up and down Diane's face and form. "Miss, you the blade runner?"

"Excuse me?" Diane replied.

"Then that makes you a war criminal," the small man said, drawing a blaster pistol from under his coat and aiming at her.

Merrot lunged at the man, pinning his shoulders to the wall. "Do I have to make you say ouch, or will you leave this woman alone?" Merrot asked, in a deadly calm voice.

Merrot only had his hands pressed to the flats of the man's shoulder; Diane expected him to try twisting out from under Merrot's hands or throwing a punch at the taller man's head. Then she noticed why he didn't:

Three black metallic blades almost six inches long protruded from the back of Merrot's hand: two emerging over the phalanges of the flat of his hand, the third jutting over his thumb. She'd seen Yakuza assassins with inch-long implants under their nails, but she'd never seen implants like this.

The pistol dropped from the small man's nerveless hand. Merrot kicked it across the damp sidewalk to Diane, who'd dialled the precinct. Merrot let the would-be killer go, but Diane covered the small man with her own pistol. Which was almost unneccessary once he'd slid to the ground in fright.

"I didn't know agents in your department carried weapons," Merrot said.

"This is just in case we need it," she said.

Bryant showed up with the unit that arrived to arrest the assassin. He personally drove Diane back to headquarters.

"So, he checked out?" Bryant asked.

"I wasn't able to get an answer," Diane admitted.

"I'll pull you from the case, let Resch and Gaff handle it."

"No, Resch gets patronizing with the suspects: he'd annoy Merrot or scare him off. I'm getting close."

"All right, VK him as soon as possible."

"He'd probably pass it."

"Why, you think he's just a GMH?"

She looked Bryant in the face. "I'm not sure exactly yet, but I'm on to something."

"You'd better be: INS is lightin' fires under me."

"I'll have the report on your desk tomorrow at noon."

"You'd better: I wouldn't want to hafta pull you: you're too damn good at what you do."

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To be continued...