Cyberpunk

you,” she said.
    “By the way,” the room continued, “the tower has informed me there’s a parcel addressed to you. I’m having someone fetch it.”
    In a few moments, a gangly steve with the package from General Genius tapped on her door. “Bug,” she said, “tip the man.” The steve bowed and exited. Inside the package was the complimentary Diplomat Deluxe valet. Ted had outdone himself, for not only had he sent the valet system—itself worth a month’s income—but he had included a slim Gucci leather belt to house it.
    “Well, I guess this is good-bye,” Zoranna said, walking to the shipping chute and unbuckling her own belt. “Too bad, Bug, you were just getting interesting.” She searched the belt for the storage grommet that held the memory wafer. She had to destroy it; Bug knew too much about her. Ted would be more interested in the processors anyway. “I was hoping you’d convert by now. I’m dying to know what kind of a big, bad wolf you’re supposed to become.” As she unscrewed the grommet, she heard the sound of running water in the bathroom. “What’s that?” she said.
    “A belt valet named Bug has asked me to draw your bath,” said the room.
    She went to the spacious bathroom and saw the tub filling with cranberry-colored aqueous gel. The towels were cranberry, too, and the robe a kind of salmon. “Well, well,” she said. “Bug makes a play for longevity.” She undressed and eased herself into the warm solution where she floated in darkness for an hour and let her mind drift aimlessly. She felt like talking to someone, discussing this whole thing about her sister. Victor she could handle—he was at worst a lovable louse, and she could crush him anytime she decided. But Nancy’s problems were beyond her ken. Feelings were never her strong suit. And depression, if that’s what it was, well—she wished there were someone she could consult. But though she scrolled down a mental list of everyone she knew, there was no one she cared—or dared—to call.
    In the morning Zoranna tried again to ship Bug to GG, but discovered that during the night Bug had rewritten Hounder’s subroutines to fit its own architecture (a handy talent for a valet to possess) and had run credit traces. But it had come back empty-handed. The proceeds of the Hospicers of Camillus de Lellis went to a coded account in Liberia that not even Hounder would be able to crack. And the name Victor Vole—Zoranna wasn’t surprised to learn—was a relatively common alias. Thus she would require prints and specimens, and she needed Bug’s help to obtain them. So she sent Ted a message saying she wanted to keep Bug another day or so pending an ongoing investigation.
    Zoranna hired a pricey, private elevator for a quick ride to the subfloors. “Bug,” she said as she threaded her way through the Sub40 corridors, “I want you to integrate Hounder’s subroutines keyed ‘forensics.’”
    “Bug has already integrated all of the applications in all of your libraries.”
    “Why am I not surprised?”
    Something was different in Nancy’s apartment. The gentleman through whose bed she had been forced to walk was gone, replaced by a skeletal woman with glassy, pink-rimmed eyes. Zoranna supposed that high client turnover was normal in a business like this.
    Breakfast was superlative but strained. She sat at the counter, Nancy was set up in the recliner, and Victor served them both. Although the coffee and most of the food was derived from soybimi, Victor’s preparation was so skillful, Zoranna could easily imagine she was eating real wheat cakes, maple syrup, and whipped dairy butter. But Nancy didn’t touch her food, and Victor fussed too much. Zoranna, meanwhile, instructed Bug to capture as complete a set of fingerprints as possible from the cups and plates Victor handed her, as well as a 360-degree holograph of him, a voice print, and retinal prints.
    There are Jacob’s mirrors within Victor’s eyes , Bug reported, that defeat accurate retinal scanning.
    This was not unexpected. Victor probably also grew epipads on his fingers to alter his prints. Technology had reduced the cost of anonymity to fit the means of even petty criminals. Zoranna excused herself and went to the bathroom where she plucked a few strands of silver curls from his hairbrush and placed them in a specimen bag, figuring he was too vain to reseed his follicles with someone else’s hair. Emerging from the bathroom, she overheard them