Dead and Alive

said, and did something more spectacular to Helene than anything Bucky could have imagined.
    In fact, it was so spectacular that he stood dumb-founded, the camera forgotten, and missed getting a shot of the best of it.
    Janet was a runaway locomotive of rage, a log-cutting buzz saw of hatred, a jackhammer of envy-driven cruelty. Fortunately, she did not kill Helene instantly, and some of the subsequent things she did to the woman, while spectacular in themselves, were sufficiently less shocking that Bucky was able to get some cool pictures.
    When she finished, Janet said, “I think I’ve dropped a few more lines of code from my program.”
    “It sure looked that way,” Bucky said. “You know how I said I thought I’d enjoy watching? Well, I really did.”
    “You want Yancy for yourself?” Janet asked.
    “No. I’m not that far along yet. But you better let me get him inside from the porch. If he’s out there and he sees you like this, he’ll be through the porch door and gone.”
    Janet was still drenched but now not only with rain.
    Comfortable rattan furniture with yellow cushions and rattan tables with glass tops furnished the spacious screened porch. The lights were lower than the music.
    In a white linen shirt, tan slacks, and sandals, Yancy Bennet sat at a table on which were two glasses of what was most likely Cabernet as well as a cut-glass decanter in which more wine breathed and mellowed.
    When he saw Bucky Guitreau, Yancy lowered the volume on Etta James. “Hey, neighbor, isn’t this past your bedtime?”
    “A terrible thing has happened,” Bucky said as he approached Yancy. “A terrible, terrible thing.”
    Pushing his chair away from the table, getting to his feet, Yancy Bennet said, “What? What happened?”
    “I can’t even talk about it,” Bucky said. “I don’t know how to talk about it.”
    Putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, Yancy said, “Hey, pal, whatever it is, we’re here for you.”
    “Yes. I know. You’re here for us. I’d rather Janet told you about it. I just can’t be specific. She can be specific. She’s inside. With Helene.”
    Yancy tried to usher Bucky ahead of him, but Bucky let him lead the way. “Give me some prep, Bucky.”
    “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s too terrible. It’s a spectacular kind of terrible.”
    “Whatever it is, I hope Janet’s holding up better than you.”
    “She is,” Bucky said. “She’s holding up really well.”
    Entering the kitchen behind Yancy, Bucky closed the door to the porch.
    “Where are they?” Yancy asked.
    “In the living room.”
    As Yancy started toward the darkened hallway leading to the front of the house, Janet stepped into the lighted kitchen.
    She was the crimson bride of Death.
    Shocked, Yancy halted. “Oh, God, what happened to you?”
    “Nothing happened to
me,”
Janet said. “
I
happened to Helene.”
    An instant later, she happened to Yancy. He was a big man, and she was a woman of average size. But he was Old Race, and she was New, and the outcome was as inevitable as the result of a contest between a wood-chipper and a woodchuck.
    Most amazing of all: Janet did not once repeat herself. Her vicious hatred of the Old Race was expressed in unique cruelties.
    In Bucky’s hands, the camera flashed and flashed.

CHAPTER 5
    WITHOUT THE LASH OF WIND , rain did not whip the streets but fell in a heavy dispiriting drizzle, painting blacktop blacker, oiling the pavement.
    Homicide detective Carson O’Connor and her partner, Michael Maddison, had abandoned their unmarked sedan because it would be easily spotted by other members of the police department. They no longer trusted their fellow officers.
    Victor Helios had replaced numerous officials in city government with replicants. Perhaps only ten percent of the police were Victor’s creations, but then again … maybe ninety percent. Prudence required Carson to assume the worst.
    She was driving a car that she had borrowed from her friend Vicky Chou. The five-year-old Honda seemed reliable, but it was a lot less powerful than the Batmobile.
    Every time Carson turned a corner sharp and fast, the sedan groaned, creaked, shuddered. On the flat streets, when she tramped on the accelerator, the car responded but as grudgingly as a dray horse that had spent its working life pulling a wagon at an easy pace.
    “How can Vicky drive this crate?” Carson fumed. “It’s arthritic, it’s sclerotic, it’s a dead car rolling. Doesn’t she ever give it