The door slid open and Agent Tanner pushed Ibe into the apartment without so much as the grunt of a good night Ibrahim had come to expect. Asshole, thought Ibe, as he caught himself on the console. Where’s that care for my safety now, huh? What if I’d fallen? I could have broken my neck just then.

Ibrahim Heinemann, Deputy Director of the Urban Regulation Authority and Head of the Neural Forensics Division, had just had a perfectly infuriating capper to a truly frustrating day.

Ibe caught whispered chatter in the hall as the remainder of his detail joined Rebekka’s in the hall and Tanner began assigning the share for the night. The door slid shut. “Hi, h--” was all Ibe managed before Rebekka, his wife of nearly 10 years, turned the corner at a run and threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him over again.

They’d met at University, in post grad. Well, he was post-grad. She was post-doc and extending research on her most recent PhD. He had heard of her, of course, and it made sense for him to work as her grad assist while he got his grant proposals submitted. Her work -- first in Human Neurophysiology, utilizing newly available real-time imaging (and developing some of her own) to pinpoint the exact types of data in the various parts of the memory network of the brain, and then her own Biological Nanoscience research, proving that those data could be extracted from the brain in a discernable form -- had been the bases for his own PhD proposal utilizing a computed tomography of sorts to layer the various memory snippets, thereby automating the process that reached her discernable form.

She’d been intrigued with his ideas and, honestly, had the better brain for working out the particulars. Together they’d devised a way to utilize the ubiquitous (and until then irritatingly obstructive) bionanobots to advantage. The Time of Death program, and Neural Forensics, was born. They’d published, gaining his BioNanSci PhD and revolutionizing criminal investigation. The Urban Regulation Authority had contracted to use the program that same year. They’d celebrated with a wedding.

Ibrahim had joined the URA as their expert in residence (Rebekka had no interest in law enforcement), helping to set up the first labs, and worked his way up the ranks to his current position running the Urban Neural Forensics Laboratory. Rebekka had been awarded an endowed chair at the Michaelson Institute of Nanotechnology. Five years later, completely skewing the standard bell curve for award delay, they’d won the Nobel.

Rebekka’s lab, being more theoretical than practical, continued to advance the science, earning her yet another PhD when she invented Nanocryonics, a new and better means for sustaining corpses, once again using the pervasive nanobots in ways previously unheard of. She now held a patent on the technology. Ibrahim’s lab – and, indeed, all the copies’ neural forensics labs and morgues - used the Time of Death program and Nanocryonics exclusively.

“Thank God!” she cried out. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” he said before her grip on his neck became vice like, and her shoulder pressed hard against his windpipe, threatening - it felt - to crush it. He tried to push her away a little, tried to pull his neck back and squeaked, “Just…” but she redoubled her squeezing, and his larynx insisted. He pushed harder. “…some stupid…” he managed to whisper and suddenly she released him. He grabbed at her to steady himself, since the abruptly unmatched resistance toppled him back, but she’d taken a step away, shaking her head, searching his eyes. Was that surprise he saw? He caught the console again. “…threat,” he finished. Why would she be surprised? Tanner did this kind of stuff all the time. Well, that conversation would have to wait.

He dropped his bag and moved around her, heading to the bathroom. “Tanner actually stopped the Zig and sent it back down to some floor in the teens. The bounce got me. Gimme a sec. House, mute main display,” Ibe ordered. Rebekka, as always, had the news on, and he didn’t want to compete with it. The chatter disappeared. As he entered the bathroom, he saw she had followed into the living room, but no further. She looked so concerned he felt the need to elaborate, so he left the door open, speaking over the sound of his release. “I’ve been dancing in my seat for nearly half an hour. My guess is we dropped because he thought it was somehow safer, but why? All the floors between bottom and top should be equally safe, right? I mean, none of them have doors.”

Emptied, he exited to find her rooted to the middle of the living room, wringing the kitchen towel she’d had thrown over her shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy. She’d been crying. Sometimes he hated having security. “I wish they’d leave you out of this, honey,” he said as he went to her. He wrapped her in a hug, reveled in the feel of her against him, the smell of her hair. “Tanner has a paranoid fit and you have to worry?” She pushed him away, shaking her head again. Her curls shimmered as they swayed.

“They didn’t tell you anything?” she asked.

“No, they didn’t tell me,” he replied and spun away to hide his face, sure she didn’t mean to point out Tanner once again treating him like a child, but feeling the sting nonetheless, and then he noticed the bar. Ibe quickly decided that alcohol was just what he needed. “You know they never do,” he muttered as he crossed to it. “You want something?”

“I have wine. Ibe--”

“That sounds good.” Ibe slid a stem from the rack and turned back to ask after the bottle when he saw it poking up into the pass-through from the kitchen. He headed that way. “And honestly, I’m not sure I want insight into the bizarre workings of Tanner’s mind.”

“Ibrahim--” She reached out for him as he passed.

“I’m fine, Bek, really.” He paused to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Just Tanner being his gung-ho self is all.”

“No.”

“Let me get some wine, and we’ll talk it out.” He had to wrest his sleeve from her grip before continuing on.

“Wait--”

“Get this:” he called when he realized she hadn’t followed, “We’re dropping and Tanner just reaches over, without so much as a glance in my direction, and locks my seatbelt!” He grabbed the wine bottle and began worrying the cork. “Did you even know the belts could be locked?”

“Ibrahim, stop,” she said as she arrived in the doorway.

“And what am I? An unTeller? Like I might have jumped out of my seat for no reason? For that matter, we were in an elevator! Where was I going to go?”

“Ibrahim--”

“Then we get down there and the two of them leap up to form a shield in front of the door.” He began to pour. “It was ridiculous! I mean, it’s an arcfoam box inside another arcfoam box. What’s getting in--?”

“Ibrahim Heinemann!” she bellowed, stomping her foot for good measure. He startled at the force of it. The wine sloshed on the counter.

“Jesus, Bek! Look what you made me do!” He grabbed for the towel in her hands, but she pulled it away. Violently. And smacked him on the head with it. He ducked despite himself. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into me?” she yelled, brandishing the fist-clenched towel and took a step forward. He felt compelled to step away, and the heat from the stove seeped up his back: no more steps. Not that he was worried, really. It was a towel she wielded, after all, and it wasn’t like she was in a habit of beating him with, well, with anything. That may well be the first time she’s ever struck me, he thought. Boy, is she mad. But why? “Well, if I could’ve managed more than a word in edgewise while you ranted about every little slight you think you’ve suffered today, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

What could have made her so mad? And so quickly? She was worried and crying when I came in the door, but now her color’s high and her eyes are blazing and her curls are bouncing. God, she’s gorgeous when her ire is up. She’s gorgeous always, but when she’s excited… He realized how his face must look and quickly calmed it, sure that the expression wouldn’t be received well. He chose a still posture, hands at his sides, trying hard to pretend the wine slowly dripping onto the floor wasn’t driving him to distraction. “I’m sor--”

“No!” She yelled, punctuating with the flapping towel. “You don’t get to talk now!” The towel flapped again. He nodded. “I talk; you listen.” Towel flap. Nod. And vigorously. Whatever he’d done, he needed to fix it, and if not talking and nodding would do it, then not talking and nodding was what he’d do. “I mean, I know you think, at turns, that Tanner’s sees threats around every corner, or that he invents them to feel more important or to simply mess with your life, Ibrahim, like he’s got some vendetta against you being happy, but you have a detail for a very real reason. Stop!” He’d been ready to assure her he didn’t. She knows me so well. He nodded again and raised his hands in acquiescence for good measure. “And they do what they do for a very real reason.”

She was calming down now, and she took another step forward. Into his personal space. He could smell the clean scent of her, even above the deliciousness simmering behind him on the stove, could pick out the barest of freckles peppering her nose and cheeks, the tiny mole she had on the tragus of her right ear, peeking out between her curls. Curls that were now sparkling in the bright, directional lighting of the kitchen. “This wasn’t some stupid, made-up threat, Ibrahim. This was a real threat,” she said and laid her hands on his chest, setting off little sparks where she touched him. How remarkable that she can to do that still, after all these years, he thought, frowning at the little frown lines between her eyebrows, noticing the stray hairs encroaching there, catching the shimmer of light on her eyelashes, still wet and spiky from her crying. “And one of your men died today,” she almost whispered.

“What?” he asked, sure he’d heard her incorrectly. He’d been delighting in the curve of her perfect, plump lips, not really paying attention to the sounds coming out of them. “Did you say…?” he began, not trusting his recall. Because what he thought she’d said just didn’t make sense. “What did you say?”

She nodded and tears jumped into her eyes. “In the Zig lobby. While you were coming up. Melanie told me.”

Ibe felt like he was swaying. And there was a curious whining sound forming in his ears. He turned aside to lean against the counter, seeking something sturdier than his legs, and became immediately aware of a cool wetness against his butt. I’ve leaned into the wine spill. Not that it matters. Not now.

“Who?” he asked, suddenly aware of the tightness in his throat. He swallowed, but it didn’t go away. “How?”

“Billings. It was an ambush. They were waiting when they got out of the half. Corghan is okay,” she quickly added, stopping the question forming in his mind. “He wrestled the guy to the floor, and got stabbed by one of the guy’s buddies, but Jerry –- they obviously didn’t expect my guys to be there –- got both of them.” Ibe cleared his throat, still feeling the tightness there, sure that anything he tried to say would merely catch. “There were others, too, but when they saw the rest of my ‘tail -– they heard the comm call and went running -- they jumped into the half and got away on 250.”

Ibe was still processing. He managed nothing more than, “Wow.”

“There’s no assignment down there,” she explained.

“Wait. So your guys just ran off and left you?" He’d only just realized what she’d implied.

“Ibrahim, don’t be ridiculous,” she chided. “I had Mel and Howard. And a locked door. I was never in danger.” Rebekka motioned for him to move and reached around him to begin mopping up the wine spill. Ibe moved away from the counter to give her room, feeling the seat of his pants for the wet damage there. These pants will have to go, he thought. No way is that wine coming out.

“And what’re the guys they caught saying?” Ibe asked as he rescued his wine glass from her cleaning and took a swig, watching a drip form on the foot. He wiped the bottom with his hand and then wiped his hand on his pants. They’re little more than a rag now anyway.

“Oh, no. They didn’t catch them, Ibe. He killed them. Jerry, I mean.” She set the towel aside (That will have to go, too.) and reached for a potato and the knife.

“And Corghan’s okay, you said?”

She nodded. “He’s at Our Lady now. Mel told me it caught on his vest, so it didn’t go too deep. He should be fine.”

“On his vest? Where’d they get him?”

“In his back.”

“His back? Jesus. Really good it didn’t go too deep then. This smells delicious, by the way,” he added, gesturing toward the pot.

“Thanks. It’s pretty much done. Potatoes are precooked. Just have to warm them up. Didn’t want to put them in earlier.” She reached for another potato. He handed it to her.

“Beef?”

“Lamb.”

“Even better.” He leaned in and she paused long enough to take a kiss. “Be right back,” he said and strode purposefully to the door, squaring up with its face to signal his intent to leave. It slid open.

The largest back Ibe had ever seen barred his way. The agent to whom it belonged spun in place, putting the largest chest Ibe had ever seen in the back’s place. Look at those shoulders, thought Ibe. He’d have to turn sideways to get in the door. And duck. No way that’s not ’hance.

“I’ll have to ask you to close the door, Dr. Heinemann,” the owner of the chest stated.

“There isn’t usually someone standing here, is there, Agent…?”

“Miller, sir. I’m on your wife’s detail. And this is an unusual night, sir. You really should close the door.”

“Is Agent Tanner about?”

“He’s gone to Our Lady. Please, sir,” Miller implored.

“Any news on Corghan?”

“No, sir. Now—“

“Of course, but could you do me a favor?”

“I’m not allowed to leave my post, sir.”

“No, no. No need. I was hoping to get contact information for Billings’ family. I’d like to send condolences.”

“That can be arranged, sir. Now if you please…”

“Sure. Good night, Agent Miller.” Ibe stepped back and the door began to close. “Oh!” Ibe grunted and stepped forward again. The door jostled to a stop. Agent Miller sighed. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Just doing our job, sir.”

“Well, I appreciate it.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night again, Agent Miller.” Ibe stood back and the door finally slid shut. He turned to find Rebekka standing right behind him. “Rebekka, there’s a giant standing in front of our door. Is he real?”

She chuckled. “That’s Johnny. And he’s all real. Not a ’hance on him. And he’s a teddy bear. Just looks intimidating. Which is the point.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, keeping her potato-ey hands away from him, and kissed him. Her hair tickled his cheek. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Then she pulled back. “That was very nice, Ibe. We’ll be sure to send a large bouquet.”

“Well, that too, but I want to write a letter.”

Those perfectly bowed lips broke into a beautiful smile. “Ibrahim Heinemann, you can still surprise me.” She reached up for another kiss and he reveled in that quick breast press again, before she released him to return to the kitchen. He lingered in the hall, trying to be nonchalant about it.

“So what was Jerry doing in the lobby?” he asked and tapped the console awake.

“Oh, he and Mike always go down if I’m already in and locked. Your guys do it for me, too. Haven’t you ever noticed?”

“I’m hustled up the stairs so quickly, Rebekka, I doubt if I’d notice a clown juggling fire on a unicycle.” He tapped the ‘broom’ icon to order an Ear sweep as quickly as he could.

“Well, you should be more aware of your surroundings.” She scolded. “Trained agents were caught off guard, after all. You really need to take this stuff more seriously, Ibe.”

“I know. I know,” he called, adding, “I will. But you have to admit, it doesn’t help that Tanner doesn’t clue me in.”

“So you don’t think dropping the Zig in mid-climb was a clue?” she asked as she poked her head around the corner. Her eyes were reprimanding at first but quickly turned to questioning when she saw him at the console.

“Just thought I’d see if it was on the feeds yet,” he lied.

“You should check my show. Bet they’ve got it on the crawl,” she offered before ducking back into the kitchen.

“I suppose it was a pretty good clue," he admitted. Flip faster, he silently urged the display, tapping the desired parameters as the panes asked for them, "but all he had to say was ‘Billings has been attacked up top,’ or even just ‘there’s been an incident,’ or something. I mean, Mel told you, right?” He checked the kitchen doorway with each tap. Why does it take three panes and four taps to do this on the console when all I have to do is tell the house to run it and it does?

“Well, I was right there in the doorway discussing tomorrow’s schedule when the comm came in. She had to tell me something.”

“See? Tanner would just shove me in and close the door. I’d get no explanation whatsoever,” he said. The approval question finally popped up and he jabbed at it before hurriedly stepping over and leaning against the kitchen doorway as casually as he could. He needn’t have minded. Rebekka was scooping up potato cubes and dropping them into the pot, her back to him.

“It’s something to talk about,’ she said. “Maybe if you start taking an interest in it, he’ll be more amenable to telling you what’s going on.” Yeah, right, thought Ibe. He’ll just sit right down and have a heart to heart with me.

“I still don’t understand why anyone would want to go after me in the first place.”

“Ibrahim!” She spun toward him, no doubt to make sure he saw the look of stern rebuke on her face. “Seriously!”

“Seriously,” he countered. “I’m just a lab guy.”

“Not just any lab guy,” she said and reached for a clump of parsley. “The lab guy.” She began chopping. “Probably retaliation for putting someone down under. A gang thing, maybe. Who knows? I’m sure lots of people blame you for getting caught.”

“But that isn’t me! It’s the lab!”

“And you are the face of the lab.”

“But what I mean is, the lab will still keep doing what it’s doing whether I’m there or not.”

She shrugged as she chopped. “People are like that, Ibe. They make it personal.”

“I suppose.”

“No ‘suppose’ about it. Did you find anything?” she asked. It took Ibe a second to realize she was talking about the feed and not the sweep.

“No,” he lied again, though technically it wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t actually looked, of course, but that didn’t change the truth of his answer. “They must be suppressing it.” This could also be true. He took another sip of the wine.

“I’m almost done here,” she stated, dropping a handful of parsley. “Why don’t you go have a seat?”

He nodded and returned to the living room, heading for his favorite chair. “This wine is really nice,” he offered as he sat down in the recliner. It molded to him immediately. I love this chair, he thought. I’m so glad we kept it when we moved.

“Right? I found it in that little shop on One. A soil vineyard in the warehouse district of Francis. Label says they only have one floor.”

“Wow. That’s a tiny outfit,” he replied, kicking himself for even bringing it up and wondering how he could steer the conversation off of grapes now. I should never have mentioned the wine.

“Yep. They’re using a lineage vine, so it makes sense the flavor’s there, but it’s a soil operation. So many variables, even if you can control humidity and UV. I don’t know how they maintain consistency.” Best to just jump back in. She won’t think it odd that I don’t want to hear about grapes. I never want to hear about grapes.

“So how was your day?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your day?” he repeated. “Hope it was less eventful than mine.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Still thinking of the vineyard,” she explained. He could hear her chopping something else. “I got two new subjects for Five Layer today.”

“Well, that’s good.”

While Ibe worked on the practical application of extraction, Rebecca’s research worked to improve on Time of Death, to get better and better data from extraction. The second version, labeled “Overlay,” had not only improved image clarity and added language capture, but expanded the available timeframe, since the reasons behind a death weren’t always apparent at the moment someone died. In order to get all that, though, an additional extraction pass was needed, and to be able to do that, she’d had to completely reconstruct the energy requirements.

Extraction damaged tissue. Three passes was the maximum with ToD, and each with diminishing returns, before the tissue was completely destroyed. Overlay –- or to be more precise, the reduction of energy needed for an single Extraction pass, which she’d devised to accommodate Overlay –- had been nearly as revolutionary to neural forensics as ToD had been to forensics in general. It had not, however, been as well-received as it should have been by the URA command, mostly because it required more time per subject, and the NF labs were backlogged as it was.

Undaunted, Rebekka had continued lessening energy requirements, recognizing that increasing the number of passes available, and therefore the timeline, was the true star. Really though, that was just a means to an end for her, and that end was more detailed data. Last year, she’d finally entered trials with what she was calling “Five Layer.” That could only mean she was looking at four more layers of detail beyond Overlay’s extra one.

“Yeah. First Scans were really promising. No neuron loss, considering, though I expect huge bias.”

“You know, the differences in generational memory biases could make an interesting anthropological study.”

“For someone else,” she stated flatly.

Ibe saw through the pass-through that she was dropping more handfuls into the pot. Something else bright green. I hope it isn’t peppers. She knows I hate spicy food. “Of course for someone else.”

“Anyway, I’m all set up for full Tracts with the new sub tomorrow. How was your day? Before the trip home, I mean? You were in the lab today, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“You always enjoy that.”

“It was nice,” he lied again and asked, “So I take it they’re ancient?” Worry about neuron loss was usually a clue that the subjects were old. And neuron loss was where he needed to be. Now if he could just make it sound casual. And the sweep would finish. He took another sip of his wine. It really was good.

“Yeah. Both of them.” She turned the water on and began washing her hands.

“So, speaking of neuron loss—“

“I’m sorry. Can’t hear. Wait one, please,” she asked. Ibe waited, deciding he wanted her full attention for the question, anyway. The clean tone sounded just as she turned the water off. She looked toward the hall and the main console. One second, Ibe thought. One second earlier and she’d have missed it altogether.

“Did I hear a ping?”

“Probably a notice. Maybe even a headline about all this. I’ll check it later,” he tried to dismiss.

“So what did you say before?” she asked, drying her hands.

“I said, ‘Speaking of neuron loss,’ Essie and I were tossing scenarios around today. You know, trying to think of what would be the hardest Tract to get? And she came up with a doozy.”

“Like what?” She joined him in the living room, her wine glass in hand.

“Well, what do you think could make a well-included subject completely dark to a First?”

First Scan was a physiologic-level electrical scan that scrutinized feedback from the brain, paying particular attention to retention and recall areas, to make sure data extraction was even possible. It saved time otherwise wasted on useless tissue.

Inclusion did much the same thing, but utilized certain physical parameters impacting the body, such as mechanism of injury (MOI) and time since expiration (TSE) among others, to provide a “Degradation Grade.” Bodies found outside a useable DeG score were not going to house brains worth doing even a First on.

“Completely dark? That’s equipment failure.” She sat down on the sofa and curled her feet up underneath her. Her shift slipped up her thigh.

“Say two separate diagnostics prove normal operation. And it’s a null scan to usable stuff, but the rest loops well.”

“Well, decomp, of course.”

“Of course decomp, Rebekka, but our subject cleared Inclusion, remember? DeG was just 14,” he said. At her surprise, he quickly added, “We said a BARD to CaDS of 1.5.”

“That’s unrealistic,” she stated, shaking her head. Her curls bounced. “Too fresh. They’d have to have died practically right in front of you.” She took a sip of her wine.

“TSE of 3 hours,” he announced, and she nearly choked. And looked askance. Too Specific! Idiot! He attached, “…could still give those numbers,” but she still looked incredulous. Maybe even a little accusatory. You better own this Ibe, he thought. “Maybe even 4. I think.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes, I do,” he stated, trying to sound assured. She made a little grunting sound and hid her smile behind her wine glass.

“Bekka, it’s a thought experiment. All we were saying is that foundations don’t play a part.”

“Right.” She just stared at him over her wine glass, her eyes sparking. She had it. She knows. Damn her, he thought. Still, maybe she’ll play along. “Unless you think something other than decomp -– something we don’t routinely look for in Inclusion -- could have done it.” She just continued to stare, that satisfied smile still playing on her lips. I should have known I couldn’t pull it off. I suck at this kind of thing. And look who I tried it on. Still, she has to know I can’t talk about everything. She could just play along. “What do you want from me, Bek?”

“‘It was ’nice’, huh?”

“The whole lab is classified, and you know it.”

“I do. And I get it. I just think it’s ridiculous that you actually worry about this stuff. You know I have a higher clearance than you.” He opened his mouth to counter and she raised her hand in submission. “Alright, alright! We’ve been over it before. You’re cautious.” Then it hit her. He saw it on her face. She pointed back toward the console. “Was that a sweep, earlier?”

“Yes,” he confessed.

“You could have just told me when it cleared, Ibe. You proved no one is listening.”

“I know. I should have,” he said and dropped his head in apology, preparing for a dressing down from her, but she let it go.

“Still, I am intrigued. Did you really have a TSE of 3 hours?”

“3:12”

“Wow.”

“Found at the Ject and brought straight to us.”

“Lucky,” she added and leaned back into the cushions.

“There wasn’t really any reason for her to be Federal, but we were the closest to clear when she arrived and Inclusion realized the opportunity we had with that DeG…” His voice trailed off as he realized Rebekka wasn’t listening. Her beautiful, deep brown eyes were fixed on a point some miles outside the windows. Her eyelashes brushed her cheeks as she took a slow blink. God, they are so long, he thought. It has to be like having a permanent visor on. Then it hit him: This girl is exactly what she needs for her trials. I’ve just thrown it in her face. And right after she finished telling me about the ancients she is forced to make do with. Oh, Bek. Then he noticed that little lateral nystagmic bounce her eyes did when her mind was racing. He could practically see the synapses firing in there. “What are you thinking?” he asked. She startled and looked up at him, as if she only just realized he was still there.

“Sorry,” she offered, sitting up and re-situating on the cushion. “I was just doing the math.” She looked almost embarrassed.

“The math?”

“The TSE. It could be as high as…” she absently lifted a finger from the rim of her glass and her focus left again. “…4:27,” she announced. “With all the others near pristine,” she clarified.

“Oh.” That math, Ibe thought. Of course, she’d done that math. Why not? Never mind it was math that hadn’t existed a minute ago, since there was no practical reason to reverse a DeG to its component parts and account for all the other variables. No. Never mind that, because she’d done it. “Well. There you go, then.”

“You were right,” she offered.

“I suppose I was, though I guessed.” No math for him. The only way he could have done that was with the assistance of Angela, the massive supercomputer 2 clicks below them, and a couple test runs with a new series. She, on the other hand, had done it all in her head. While she sat on the sofa. And drank wine. He’d lived with her for nearly 13 years and it still astonished him every time.

“Well, you just knew.”

“Because I had a body that fit the parameters.” So sweet, trying to appease me, Bek.

“Still.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t be. It’s what you do. Just disconcerting sometimes.” Now it was his turn to smile at her discomfort, even as he marveled at her. “But that giant brain of yours is one of the reasons I love you,” he added, and now she smiled back. Oh, those lips! I should just jump up from this chair and carry you off to the bedroom right now. But no. This is important. I only hope that giant brain of yours could come up with something. “So, as I was saying, maybe something we don’t routinely look for in Inclusion could have done it?”

“Well, sometimes I think the physicals have more to do with it than we can account for. Submersion, for instance. I know it’s counted, but I don’t think the measures tell the whole tale.”

“Still, submersion just scatters First feedback. We still get something. And our subject wasn’t submerged.”

She uncurled and sat forward. “How about blocking? Metal deposition. Remember that guy we had way back who tattooed his whole scalp with leaded ink? Trying to keep the Arcs from talking to him?” She chuckled as she settled back again and let the sofa cradle her.

“Yeah, I do. But remember, too, that the First told us it was blocked and we just opened and applied directly. Took the scalp out of the equation.”

“I think I remember the magnet took the scalp out of the equation,” she quipped.

“And the scalp took the magnet out for half a day. What a mess that was.”

“Yeah. But it got us to shield the equipment better, so there’s that.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. It was not a memory either of them wished to relive for long, however, and Rebekka jumped right back in.

“So you opened and applied directly.”

“And we still got a bust from the applied First.”

“Right.” She thought a moment. “So it’s brain damage,” she stated. She set her wine down and stood up, headed toward the kitchen. “You ready for a bowl?”

“Please,” he replied, and then continued, “but we’ve scanned stroke victims before -- even traumatic injuries -- and gotten good reads, too.” In the frame of the pass-through, he watched as the lid came off the stew and steam rose in a cloud around her. She dipped the ladle.

“Well, the damage would have to be in the R&R system. Could anyone still have dementia?” she mused as she stirred.

“I can’t imagine. And she was just 32. And even with R&R damage, we can usually tell what they’re missing by the scan.”

“True, but the reads are pretty worthless,” she added as she balanced the bowls and came around to the living room again, the recorked wine bottle tucked under her arm.

“I’m not talking about worthless, Bek,” he noted, jumping up to take the precarious bottle and his bowl from her. “Thanks. I’m talking dark. No readings. No scatter. No feedback. Nothing.”

“Hmm…” She tucked in on the sofa again and dipped her spoon, blowing across it as her eyes bounced for a moment.

“Anything?” he prompted just as she put the spoon in her mouth. He waited as she comically and laboriously chewed as fast as she could. “Well, let’s go over it again,” she finally said, followed by one more gulp. “The equipment went through two levels of diagnostics and was in perfect working order.”

“I even scanned the subject behind her in the queue, just to be sure.”

“And what was their DeG?”

“I don’t remember, but not as low. And I got great numbers.”

“So then you tried this one again…”

“…and still nothing.”

“And this one’s DeG is absurdly low.”

“Right. It should have been a great scan.”

“And there aren’t any odd Physicals that might affect outcome.” Ibe nodded. “And the brain is perfectly intact?”

“Well, there was this minute parenchymal damage - adherent subarachnoid and the like – at the placement points. It didn’t look electrical. And it wasn’t duped on the scalp. I didn’t even notice it, really; Emily did. We placed for side-scans on the Dilpifics and the POCs, but we still got nothing. I wish you could have seen it, Bek. It seemed familiar, you know? Like I’d seen before, but I just can’t remember where.”

“Hmm.” She shifted in her seat and took another bite of her stew, reminding Ibe that his was sitting on the endtable. He reached for it.

“I know it couldn’t have been a scenario like this," he added. "That I would have remembered.” He drew a spoonful himself and blew on it for good measure, even though it had been cooling on its own.

Then she gasped and sat forward so quickly, she nearly dropped her bowl. “Did you say ‘Dilpifics and POCs’?”

“Yeah.” He put the spoon back into his bowl. She’d thought of something.

“Plural?” She set her stew down. He did the same.

“Yeah.”

“So bilateral?” Her eyes were wide. She was definitely on to something.

“Yes. What are you thinking?” Ibe leaned forward now.

“But you got readings elsewhere in the brain?”

“Non R&R loop was optimal,” he reiterated, and she smiled. She absolutely had something. “What is it?”

“Work with me here,” she asked. “So just the R&R functions were affected?”

“Yes, yes.”

“PMCs?”

“And all the speech centers, and the whole OC-PPC visual system, even the limbic structures, all dark.”

“The entire memory schemata.”

“Yes. But what could do that? I mean, without injury to anything else?”

“We could!” she said and jumped up, moving to step toward him but stopping, her eyes bouncing. “We could,” she said again, as she threw her hands up and slumped back into the sofa, then added, “I’m an idiot. I should have seen it straightaway.”

“What?” he urged. What the hell is she talking about? What should she have seen? And by extension, what should I have seen?

“It’s us!” she announced, and leaned forward again, her eyes urging him to understand. Well, that just makes no sense, he thought. “Ibe, I think it’s us,” she said again. Like repeating it will force it to make sense. Well, it doesn’t, Bekka.

At the expectant look on her face, searching for any bit of understanding, he felt wholly and completely stupid. Whatever you are seeing, Bek, I’m not getting it. And we certainly had not had anything to do with this girl’s death. He shook his head, defeated.

“Extraction!” she finally said, sounding excited and exasperated at the same time.

And the realization hit him. It was them! “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, his surprise bringing him out of his seat and sending his skin crawling. “It’s an extracted brain!”

She sat back, triumphant. “So mystery solved.”

“What do you mean, ‘mystery solved’?” How can you sit there so calm? This is some sort of horror show! “How could a fresh body have an extracted brain?”

“No,” she scoffed.

“What else, then?”

“She somehow got mixed up in the queue again after Processing. That’s all.”

That possibility hadn’t occurred to Ibe and it gave him pause, but only for a moment. “No. No, that was a fresh body, Bekka.”

“Ibe.”

“Don’t ‘Ibe’ me, Bek. It was a fresh body. I know what I saw. Even Inclusion said so. They brought her straight in, remember?”

“But how could… whoever, have done it? It’s not like every processor in Urb isn’t in 24/7 use. She had to have been mixed back in.”

“But she wasn’t.”

“She had to be.”

“But she wasn’t, I tell you.”

“I’m not dismissing you, Ibe,” she began. Which meant that she was about to dismiss him. “But Occam’s razor says--”

“Yeah, yeah. But he’s not always right,” he interjected. Occam’s razor. Really, Bek?

“More often than not,” she countered and leaned back again.

“Tell me Five Layer adheres to Occam’s,” he challenged.

“Point taken,” she admitted. “But it would be impossible for someone to extract her without their own processor, and there’s no way anyone built a home version of it in their apartment.”

“That’s true,” he confessed. That makes a lot of sense, but no. It has to be something else. “You didn’t see the body, Bek. It didn’t look like it had spent more than an hour in cryo. No way it could go through extraction and then back into the queue in such a short time.”

“Well, check her parameters in Angela tomorrow. I bet you find her in yesterday’s logs under another number.”

“She looked so fresh, Bek,” he said again, as he took his own seat again.

“She probably was. Just not as fresh as you thought.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 3