Zendyne | Page 8

end of a good day.
A lot of Stranger’s clients looked that way, up to the point where he introduced himself.
According to Back Office, this guy had been on duty when his employer was gravely
inconvenienced by a Zendyne love doll. In Stranger’s world, allowing such a thing to
happen would have counted as an inexcusable breach of professional propriety, but the
rentacop was mainstream and completely unembarrassed. On the contrary, he seemed
pleased and proud, which made sense once you knew that Zendyne had bought his
discretion with a place on the gravy train — right up there in the first class section, with
all the trimmings.

Stranger had risen from the mainstream long ago, and his human memories were mostly
faded and burnt out. A few raw scraps remained, though. Enough to tell him how golden
a deal like this would be: a slice of real luck, and an end to crawling between faux-glitzy
lottery booths and squalid drug dens, scrabbling for a dream ticket or a hit of shard.
Shame the dream is only temporary, Stranger thought. Tough. Shit happens.
Tonight, his job was to interview the rentacop about some lost property and a remarkable
doll, and then to make sure that the rest of the man’s day turned out to be very unlucky
indeed.
He watched the client enter the elevator and then zoomed in for a closer, horribly
pixelated view of the floor indicator. The elevator ascended smoothly and stopped at
thirteen.
The client lived in apartment 134.
Stranger waited for thirty precisely judged seconds before entering the lobby.
He’d already scoped out the defenses. There was a security scanner blocking access to
the elevators, and two female guards with Slavic features and helmet-linked autoguns. If
things went smoothly, he wouldn’t have to deal with these ladies, but it was all in the
day’s work to Stranger. A client could hide inside as many Russian Doll security layers
as he liked; none of it would help. Nothing ever helped, not against Stranger, not once
you were on his list.
He slid an artfully scuffed Zendyne ID across the front desk. "Personal document
delivery for Mr. Kelly. Could you tell him I’m here, please?"
The lobbybobby glanced at the card, taking in the fake name that was printed alongside
the authentic barcode. "Certainly, Mr. Mottram." He turned away and spoke softly into
his headvox before turning back to Stranger. "Could you let him know what’s it’s
concerning?"
"He was supposed to sign some papers before he left work." Stranger patted the courier
bag that was slung from his shoulder. "Today’s the deadline for this quarter’s stock
allocation. The company likes everyone to participate. I need to get it filled and back to
the office ASAP."
"Just a moment." The flunky whispered into the headvox again, then looked up at
Stranger. "Apartment 134." He nodded towards the guards. "You’ll need to go through
security clearance first, if you don’t mind."
"Not at all."
The scanner stayed politely silent as he walked between its sensors, but one of the
Russian Dolls decided to frisk him anyway. Stranger often had that effect on her kind.
His bulk and his buzzed hair probably didn’t help. The sightfold made him look odd, too,

but he had no choice about that: the artificial eyes it concealed were too distinctive —
and too costly — to plausibly belong to a company messenger.
In the meantime, the low-res prosthetic did a good enough job, and even the most
flinty-hearted security guard would think twice before asking a visually impaired visitor
to remove his ‘fold.
"Sorry to have troubled you," the woman said.
Stranger nodded courteously as he walked past her to the elevator.
Once safely inside, he took off the ‘fold and initiated the other changes, watching himself
in the mirror as the elevator ascended. By the time he reached the thirteenth floor, his
body had transformed itself: he’d lost several kilos of body fat, which made him feel
good, because being overweight always took the spring out of his step. In return, he’d
gained a form-following layer of concealed body armor and a long, black blade, which
made him feel even better.
For the moment, the knife was inactive, gripped in his right palm and concealed behind
his forearm.
The door to apartment 134 was already open. The client stood just inside the threshold,
his face lit with a welcoming smile that faded into embarrassment as he failed to ignore
the strangeness of his visitor’s eyes. "Mottram?"
Stranger nodded, once.
"It’s so nice of you to come all this way just for this stock option thing. Makes me really
appreciate starting at Zendyne." The client reached forward, offering his hand.
Stranger held the other man’s gaze as he stroked the blade across the proffered