The Genehunter

1. The Wrong Tom Jacks-3

Standard trawls through the archives turned up nothing. Inevitably. With only a few hours to go before their meeting, unable to think of anything else, Simms decided to try Devi. Devi knew everyone.

Devi was another hunter, and hunters usually didn't mix. They were competitors. If you had a job another hunter knew something about they became your best friend. But if they decided to kill you and take the job themselves, they became your worst enemy. Devi had tried to kill Simms on at least three occasions.

Simms' ping went nowhere. Either she was offline or dead. He tried every ID he had but got a no response on all of them. OK. There were other ways to track down genehunters. None of them could stand to be unavailable for long in case a dream job came along, transporting them to a life of thrills and riches. Einstein's brain or the DNA of The Beatles. There was always a way to get in touch. You just had to know whom to ask.

He strode back to Euston, no overlays, still raining, and jumped half-way around the world to San Francisco. The Double Helix bar on Fisherman's Wharf was the closest thing genehunters had to home. It was an actual bar, a place people went to hang out, sit in shadowy corners, consume intoxicants and cut deals with each other. Like in the old days. Now such places were rare, old-fashioned, weird. For some reason, most hunters liked it. Perhaps for the same reason Simms preferred real acid. Nostalgia for the past, the good old days.

Inside it was quiet, the smoky air thick with murmuring. Glasses made of real glass clinked on tables that had once been living trees. People glanced up at him, looked away. He was known, welcome. Anyone could come into the Double Helix, sure, and sometimes tourists did wander in. But they left quickly, aware they weren't meant to be there.

Simms crossed to the bar. He felt relaxed. The Double Helix was, by common consent, neutral territory.

“What can I get you?”

Mac stood behind the old-fashioned bar, upturned bottles lined up behind him full of coloured liquids. Mac was always there, all wild hair and devil tattoos. His name wasn't really Mac. It just seemed like it should be, so everyone called him that. The joke was there were lots of Macs, clones taking turns to man the place. Day or night, there he was, never getting any older.

“The usual.”

Most barmen would use a plug-in to work out what that meant. Facial recognition and a quick database lookup. Mac didn't need to bother with any of that.

“Quiet tonight,” said Simms while Mac poured the Scotch.

Mac shrugged, unconcerned. Quiet was good. They all liked quiet.

“I'm after Devi,” said Simms. “Heard from her?”

Mac looked into his eyes, assessing. He wouldn't want it too quiet. Bad for business to have his customers killing each other.

“Don't worry, just need her help,” said Simms. “A few questions.”

“This time.”

“You know where she is?”

“I know where most of her is. The bits that are left.”

“She's dead?”

“Oh no, she's alive. Amazing what they can do these days, huh?”

Details on Devi cost three more doubles, finest Scotch. Simms saw it as a win/win. Before he left he transferred more money, double what he'd already spent, then hit Mac with his final question.

“You heard of someone called Boneyard?”

Mac's eyes narrowed. He'd heard something.

“Sure.”

“Who is it?”

“Don't know. Why you asking?”

“Because our old friend Ballard asked me, and I don't like to know less than a GMAn about anything. It's embarrassing.”

Mac shrugged, like it was none of his problem. Which it probably wasn't.

“So, what?” said Simms. “What do you know?”

“That it's a thing, not a person.”

“What else?”

“Only that it's something heavy. Bad for business.”

“Ours or yours?”

“Same thing, ain't it, Simms?”

With the leads Mac had provided, Simms tracked Devi down to a hospital in Cairo where the medics were cultivating her a new set of internal organs. Seems her last job had gone badly wrong.

The roar of the great city hummed through the white walls. A thousand tubes and wires snaked from under Devi's covers to a silver box, where an array of lights blinked rhythmically. A box that more-or-less was Devi while her new body parts matured up from stem-cells. Devi looked deflated, her face more grey than olive. Her brown eyes were blurry and indistinct but she grinned her familiar, pained grin when Simms entered.

“How did you get in here?” she croaked.

“Told them I was a friend.”

“Always were a convincing liar.”

She shut her eyes, like she was drifting off to sleep already. He didn't have long to explain his situation. When he finished she nodded, as if everything made sense.

“What is it?” said Simms. “What do you know?”

“You got a voiceprint of this Mann of yours?”

“Sure.”

Her plug-ins were fried so he had to relay the recording orally, letting his brain hardware control his mouth to make him sound like Mann. Wasn't perfect, but close enough. Sure felt weird, though.

“Yeah, that's him,” she said.

“What do you know?” Simms asked in his own sweet voice once more.

“Remember Sanchez?”

“Sure.”

“Your Mann was her Smith. She hooked up with them for some big deal about five years back.”

“She's MIA, now. You're saying these people were responsible?”

It wasn't unknown for clients to dispense with their genehunters once they'd got the DNA they wanted. Dispense with them permanently. Cheaper than paying and it covered their tracks. The secret was to be indispensable. A rich client with a private zoo would always need more DNA. If they trusted you they would keep you on and everyone would be happy.

“No,” Devi replied after a moment's thought. “I think you're good. Things went crazy for Sanchez after that. These people were straight. Kept quiet, paid their bills. You'll be OK as long as you don't f**k them around.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes. You.”

“She say anything else about them?”

“They're zookeepers, sure. A private menagerie of dead rock stars somewhere in the Caribbean. Word is they have more than that, too. A dark zoo of dictators and mass-murderers.”

“And you're not telling me this to get me killed?”

“When that happens I want to be there.”

Simms smiled, although Devi couldn't see it. “Thanks. You've been helpful. I owe you.”

“Yeah.”

Simms turned to leave. At the door he stopped.

“Oh, and Devi, get yourself fixed, OK? Shooting you in this state would be no fun at all.”

She waved him away with a single finger.

“Mr. Simms.”

“Mann.”

Simms stood in an office, well-furnished but with no windows, no way of knowing where in the world he was. A room at the end of a jump address.

Mann looked like he sounded: a smart, highly-paid lawyer, dressed in expensive clothes, someone used to the finer things in life. He had no fear of Simms. On his own patch, protected by who-knew-what tech, he would be untouchable.

“So,” said Simms. “Where's your master?”

“They may join us soon.”

“Once you've checked me out.”

“I'm sure they'll value my assessment of you.”

“And, of course, they're watching everything that happens right now.”

“No comment. But, if this situation is not to your liking, feel free to leave and we'll say no more about it. No harm, no foul.”

“Sure, sure. Go on. The situation is to my liking. So long as you can talk for them?”

“I have full executive authority in this regard.”

“Yeah, like I said. So, what's the issue?”

“Tom Jacks.”

“Tom Jacks.”

“Tell me, did you think it odd you were employed to acquire the gene sequence of, how should I put it, the wrong Tom Jacks?”

That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. Had they paid him just to lure him here? What was this, some twisted revenge set-up because the code wasn't to their liking?

“Now hang on. I established all that very clearly. The Jacks you wanted was most definitely not the Tom Jacks. What are you trying to pull here?”

“Mr. Simms, please. There is no need for anxiety. You completed the job we requested most capably and efficiently.”

“Pleased to hear it.”

“So, I'll ask you again. Did you think it odd?”

“It's not my place to question.”

“Very well. Let me put it this way. If we had requested you retrieve the DNA sequence of the real Tom Jacks, the famous Tom Jacks, would your reaction have been any different?”

“I'd have wanted more money for one thing.”

Mann smiled at that. “Understood. But, for the moment, recompense is not the issue here. The question is one of attitude. You have proved yourself a competent and discreet DNA Detective. I ask you again. If we had asked you to hunt the gene sequence of the real Tom Jacks, perhaps without anyone else knowing you were so employed, would you have been amenable?”

“Are you asking me to hunt the gene sequence of the real Tom Jacks? Or is this an interesting hypothetical conversation we're having?”

“That's what we're asking you, Mr. Simms.”

The third voice came from behind him. Simms turned to see a woman stepping out of the jump node. He didn't know her voice although, when Simms turned to face her, a look of surprise flashed across her features. Something about his appearance had thrown her. Had they met once? He scanned her - face, plug-in aura - but got nothing. He also kicked off a jump network probe. Retrieving a source address could be useful. People tended to forget to cover things like that. While he waited for a response from the system he studied her. She was obviously rich. Super-rich. Everything about her made that clear. Not just the clothes and the jewellery. The rich could pick and choose metabolisms too, and this woman looked fabulous. Her eyes were old, wise, but she appeared to be no more than twenty.

The probe returned with her source address. It meant nothing to him, but he stored it away for possible later use and replied with a smile. “Then I'd take the job. Presuming we could agree terms and presuming you understood that retrieving the real Tom Jacks will be much, much harder. Perhaps impossible.”

The woman crossed the room and sat down behind the desk. She seemed amused by something now as she looked at Simms. She nodded at Mann, instructing him to continue.

“We understand the difficulties you would face,” said Mann. “For instance, there is the constant need to comply with the many and varied regulations governing the retrieval of deceased DNA sequences.”

Simms had to stop himself from grinning. Rarely had someone asked him to break the law in such a polite way.

“We all have our burdens,” said Simms. “But you learn how best to, ah, accommodate the law.”

“Quite so.”

It was Mann's turn to smile now. There was the briefest pause in the conversation. Mann and his employer communicating brain-to-brain.

“Mr. Simms, you recently spoke to an officer of the GMA. Can you tell us why?”

How had they known? Couldn't you at least trust government security agencies to be secure? Still, the question gave him hope. They were worried about him, worried he was GMA. Either that or they were very, very good actors.

Whichever, all he could do was tell them straight. “A corrupt agent called Ballard extorted money from me.”

“Indeed?” said Mann. The lawyer studied him for a moment, forehead furrowing. Communicating again. They were debating him, assessing him. Damn shame he couldn't eavesdrop on them, but he didn't dare try.

“It must be difficult working with the GMA breathing down your neck all the time,” said Mann. “Tell me, if we wanted you to work for us without them knowing you were so engaged, how would you feel?”

There it was. He should act horrified, walk out. But there were times you had to take a punt, trust your instincts. If you didn't, you stayed safe, legal - and poor. And he saw how clever they'd been. It hadn't been a test job. By registering a completely legal search for the wrong Tom Jacks they'd provided him the perfect cover in the hunt for the DNA they really wanted. No need to tell the GMA about the new arrangement. So far as they knew, the old job was still on the books. Simms had every right to pursue all possible means of acquiring that DNA, even if it meant excluding other individuals sharing, say, the same name. IDs got mixed up sometimes.

The woman and her advisor watched him intently. There was also the possibility he might not leave this room alive if he gave them the wrong answer.

“I'd feel cheerful about it,” he said.

The rest of the meeting was detail. Some of the details were important: the money for one thing. The sum they agreed made it clear how serious they were. Anyone who could afford that much was not going to take being f****d around. At all. As they negotiated, Simms had to rely on plug-in overrides to keep himself from grinning like a child. This was good. Very good. Presuming he could find Tom Jacks - the real Tom Jacks - and presuming he could do so without the authorities knowing a damn thing, then he was set up. Some of those retirement schemes could finally become reality.