Name's M.I.C.A.I.N. Stands for Mobile, Independently Cognate and Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory. Droll, eh? Friends call me Mic. I'm a string resonance computer running A.I. software, so I'm microscopic. Twelve angstroms long, built on six nano-tube platforms, including one detachable pick and place car. I grew up attached to all that, so the whole thing is me. Got the whole mind/body thing going on.

I'm just a contractor actually; Special Dimensions Agency rents me out as a sort of private investigator and fixer for electronics. Yeah, like everybody else, I have to earn a living. Even have my own Blog. Online, I'm Big_Boy1272.

Anyway, I was vegging out on my gel slab, reading a thriller online. The lady came through the office door glancing over her shoulder, like a porno addict entering an adult theater. Sally, my trainer, looked up and oriented my desk cam, so I got a better look at her long gams and tight skirt. The customer looked about thirty-ish, liked red a lot, judging by her handbag and jacket. The lady seemed edgy. Not so edgy that she forgot to turn and close the door behind her though. I liked that. Motivated, but not witless. Classy, well tailored. Moneyed. I bet myself 70-30 Sally would have me on contract before the dame left the office.

Sally stood and smiled. "You must be Angie Piedmont. The front desk said you were on your way up. Have a chair. Can I get you a coffee?"

The girl pressed flesh lightly with Sally, shook her head and dropped like a stone into the seat in front of the desk. She clutched her purse in her lap with both hands and crossed those legs. I wished, not for the first time, that Sally would agree to mount a second camera at a better angle, if you get my drift.

I tried to get her to have a holographic security scanner installed once. The scanners process views via a hardwired interpreter into a three dimensional image. Details of anything or anybody in the room, from any angle, all in living color. Now that's living high, buddy.

Sally said she'd see me in hell before I'd get the opportunity to check out her undies any time I felt like it. I pointed out the systems were perfectly secure. The image info gets burned to a locked, removable chip, a week's worth per. Foolproof, that's why the cops love 'em.

But Sally told me to do something biological, and that was that.

The dame was well settled now, and started talking business.

"I heard you were the investigative specialist for micro miniature engineering problems. I might have some work for you."

Sally went into her spiel. "I am part of a group that handles such matters, yes. I'm the project contact and agent trainer. I don't do the work myself; we have a staff of A.I. and support people who can handle almost anything. You talk to me though."

The client nodded. "I was told that downstairs."

"The service isn't cheap. If all you have is a straight repair problem, I need to warn you right off we won't be competitive. Now, would you like to describe your problem, Miss Piedmont?"

The lady collected herself and opened her purse. "Is your office secure? I was told that anything said would be confidential, yes?"

Now this started to get interesting. I closed the text file I was reading, dropped off-line, and gave my undivided attention to the office audio/video pick-ups.

Sally nodded and gave her a serious look. "Miss Piedmont, may I call you Angie? Nothing about a job proposal itself leaves the office. The investigative team is told what they need to know, of course. But we're not doctors or lawyers here, so if the police or a judge asks for our records, well, they get them. However, we don't respond to casual inquires, and yes, the office is soundproof. Good enough?"

Angie looked to be debating this, but after a small inner tussle, nodded."Alright."

The dame slid her red, manicured fingers into a pocket on the side of her purse and and pulled out a small plastic box.

It was a standard anti-static case; inside, a surveillance holography chip.

I lost interest. Chip repairs were standard D.R. work. She could have that done at any data repair center on the cheap. Sally would smile and of course proffer a price; the Leg Lady would get her back up and leave. This was going to end with Sally beating up the front desk about vetting customers again.

"My brother, John, disappeared two days ago. We sometimes work together on his commissions, so I'm familiar with his work schedule. I wasn't worried at first, he sometimes gets tied up at client sites, when it happens, he calls. But not this time. I received no word from him."

Angie passed her hands over her forehead, and closed her eyes for a moment.

"I went to his office, begged the superintendent to let me in. There wasn't even a note, nothing. I even checked the AI system, and to see if there was any record to indicate where he went. It was blank. No images for the entire week. I pushed the test button on the service box, to see if it might be faulty, but the system said it passed diagnostics. I called the police, they took a report. I told them about the chip. They ran a system check too, said it was okay, probably got turned off, and no one caught it. I asked for the week's surveillance chip, since there was nothing on it, the super let me have it... This," she nudged the box on the desk, "is it."

"So the police found nothing?"

Angie shook her head "The security box is only good enough to capture a record and run simple diagnostics. The police said time stamps were written to the chip, but no images – Why would it be blank?"

Sally just shook her head and gave the dame a sympathetic look.

"The police told me they would put out a missing person bulletin after a week if he failed to show up, but not before, unless there was some some evidence of abduction or a crime. I would like you to look into the chip and the office system to see if it has been erased, or tampered with. Anything that looks unusual would help."

I rolled forward a couple of angstroms, and perked up. This snagged my interest. I texted Sally on her desk monitor, which she could see and the client couldn't.

Tell her we will check the memory chip and will need to invade the office recorder. Ask if that will be OK. Quote her an hourly rate, minimum seven hours. I think this is going to be more investigative than repair oriented.

I lensed the camera to bubble view, so I could see Sally too. She glared at the monitor, then picked up a pen and jotted some numbers down.

As she slid the pad across the desk, she said, "I can put the full services of the team at your disposal for 2000 Cr up front, which gets you the chip inspected down to the nanometer scale, and have the office recorder investigated from inside. That's up to four hours of initial work and a written report on all findings, including holo-reconstruction, if we find anything. If there is any need or interest in taking the matter further than that, we will bill you at flat rate, 220 Cr per hour, and expenses for whatever you authorize. Would that be OK?"

I telexed the monitor. I said seven hours.

Sally ran her delicate digits over the keyboard while Angie inspected the numbers on the note pad. Four hours investigative, at least an hour for reports, we bear the costs for data recovery, no charges for transporting your ass around town. Shut up, Mic.

Angie nodded her head. "I think that's fair. The superintendent was certainly no help with the chip. Said I'd have to talk to my brother when he got back. I had to make him give me a copy of the office key. I have the key now. As long as my brother's rent is paid up, the Super can go whistle. He got mad and stormed off. I think for a moment he even started to follow me, after I left the building. Its got me nervous, this whole business. I'm sure  something's happened to him - my brother, I mean."

She passed Sally a credit card, and I was officially on the job.

"Do you have any idea why someone would want to waylay your brother? What does he do, exactly?"

"He's an estate broker. No enemies that I ever heard of. He just brokers estates, that's all. I freelance from home, sometimes I can find buyers for special items for him. He just got his big break, a contract to sell the Stoddard estate for the family trust. Stoddard Senior died, and the trust fund is being liquidated – his son owns the office building; that's how my brother fell into the commission."

My logic banks heated up, and I tried to get a handle on the deal.

I sent another message to the monitor.

The cops won't take any real interest for a week, and the guy is innocuous, no enemies. Ask her what happens to the commission if the estate isn't liquidated this week.

Sally asked for the details, and Angie sat back and thought for a moment. "I suppose he would lose the sale. Either the family would have to do a direct property transfer somehow, or find another buyer. Wouldn't be quick. John was lucky, he found a client right away. This was going to be an easy job for him. An estate that size usually takes months, maybe years, to find a buyer for, unless you dump it."

Follow the money, Sally. Anyone stand to gain from the sale's delay?

Sally asked, "Would there be anyone connected with the estate that might have had reason to want its sale postponed?"

"I wouldn't know. I can't think of a reason. The sooner the place is sold, the sooner the family splits the trust."

Sally took the transport box and said, "We'll get started on this right away. If you can wait, I will arrange to have Paul, our transport man, go back with you to the office, so you can get Mic inside to look at the security box."

"Mic?"

"Oh, our micro repair bot, an A.I."

The dame nodded and said, "I can wait. The sooner I can get the police interested the better."

I texted Sally. Have the chip benched, and let me know if you find anything. Or even if you don't find anything. I still think the sale timing is the important thing here somehow. Sally rolled her eyes, like maybe she had a lash caught in there, or something.

I got back on the net while waiting for Paul. Paul was our field tech.He saw to it I got in where I needed to go, and back out when I needed to leave. He was also a dab hand at moving stuff too massive for me, which is like, most everything.

I downloaded what I could find out about the estate property from the county records and all the dirt on file for the Stoddards in the probate court's database. The quick sale was going to cost the Stoddards. They were settling for less than its evaluated worth, but that was often the case with estate liquidations. While I was at it, I checked the police files for anything on the family and employment records for the building's Super. Once I had the Super's records, I rechecked the police files on him, too. Never hurts to be thorough.

This didn't take long. I might not think any faster than a human, but I'm lightning personified with routine stuff like data downloads and scanning. Goes with the A.I. and being a computer. Yeah, there are trade-offs involved in my programming; get over it.

So Paul finally showed up. Lumpy, dumpy, and stumpy. He pushed his coke-bottle glasses back up that big nose of his and stood there, transport kit under one arm, x-raying Angie's back, a big sloppy grin on his puss. At least he had a clean shirt on today, must have spent the weekend at his mom's...again.

"Ready, Miss Holt!"

Paul's been with us for two years, and he still calls Sally Miss Holt. Get the picture?

We left the office. Angie rode with us. She had cabbed it to our building, because, she said, she wasn't familiar with downtown district streets, and hated prowling around looking for addresses. I can sympathize with that. On a micro scale, of course.

I was packed in the transport bag, and all three of us were at the mercy of Paul's driving, which is definitely not one of his skills. The journey uptown was quiet, since women weren't one of Paul's skills either. I used the time to go over the records I had pulled off the net.

There were a few things. The son that owned the office building had a whopping unpaid tax lien on it. It wasn't due for a while yet, but it was more than his share of the estate would likely cover. The Super had spent some time in the pokey. B&E, accessory to this and that. Had done his time and been out a while. Nothing recent.Went to work for the son about three years ago. I didn't see anything that a holdup of the estate sale would benefit, but I wouldn't leave my car keys with either of them, if I owned a car. Anyway, I was hired to look at what and how, not why.

I opened the link to the transport kit's optics, and spent the rest of the ride watching Angie's skirt ride up and down from about four inches above seat height. Very pleasant. Hey, so I'm A.I. Everybody has a hobby.

We pulled up to the office building, and Paul grabbed me up, and even remembered to open the door for Angie. I was impressed.

The office was a typical two-story. Block construction, one set of double doors in front, one single to the rear, stairs leading up in front of both.

The Super stomped up the stairs from the basement as we entered.

"What're ya up to now?" he demanded. "I'm not saposta let people just run around in here! Where's yer brother?"

From my position, swinging from the end of Paul's hams, I vided a great shot of the guy's flaring nostrils. The dark brown trousers below were in need of a wash and press, and the over- bleached white shirt could have been cleaner.

Angie eyed the man coldly. "Something funny is going on around here, and I mean to find out just what it is. I hired these people to check into my brother's office equipment."

"Yeah? Lessee some I.D. then."

Paul fished out a business card, and passed it to the Super.

The man wiped his hands on the only slightly less dirty trousers and took the card, squinting at it. "Awright, awright. Just be quick about it. A.I. eh? I knows sumthun' about that."

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Yes, it was true; he could say A.I. The super turned and retreated to the basement shaking his head, and we continued upstairs.

One flight up, she keyed an office door, and we went inside.

I scanned the room while Paul opened up the security panel. The room was only about 12 by 18 feet, all concrete block walls, window to the street opposite the doorway. Maybe fourteen feet above sidewalk level and made of non-opening plex.

The monitor's lens and pickup module were bolted to the ceiling about a third of the way into the room.

No storage areas or closets, just a work space. Grey short carpet completed it. It was decorated with a desk, phone, short bookcase, two chairs and a painting of some flowers on the wall across from the security panel, which put it about a third of the way into the room.The flower painting could have been ripped off an old lady's Sunday dress. I didn't see how anyone could have gotten in here with out being recorded, especially with a 3D security camera. The cop's reaction had been predictable, far as I could see.

Paul got the system service panel opened up, so he unlatched the transporter and flooded my gel pad. I floated up in the liqui-sil, and he sucked me into the injector.

I really don't want to get into the uncomfortable details, so let us just say that he used the injector to "deposit" me near the graphical input chip.

I settled down through the silicon and got my wheels under me. I rolled over to the massive input harness that went to the camera, and decoupled Junior, my mobile pick and place unit. While that was going on, I swung out a few of the factory armatures and had them snag up some metallic atoms off the PC Board. I needed to assemble a simple resistance checker, so while I scavenged and built, Junior could scout the section's layout. Junior has its own eyeballs, and I needed to compare the circuit layout here to the build plans.

By now, you're asking yourself, why doesn't this moke just carry his tools with him? The short answer is I carry what I need to carry.There's always plenty of molecular stuff just lying around loose at my scale of things. Being partly a nano-factory, I've got build plans filed away for more tools than a thousand of me could cart around.

The section specs matched up with the print, so I had Junior come back around to pick up the resistance probe I had just finished assembling.

I sent Junior with the probe fitted over to the nearest big tin solder mountain and got busy checking stuff out. Got an infinite resistance reading, so I rechecked the probe on Junior to make sure it was OK. It passed. So there must be a break in the cable. I reviewed the installation plans for the security monitor. That was interesting.

The service cable ran up the wall from the security box then back along the ceiling to right in front of the office entrance, but then it made a sharp left along the central beam to the middle of the ceiling, where it attached to the camera module. Looked like the original plan was to mount something above the door. A different system, maybe.

I had junior check all the other globs of tin, all showed infinite resistance, but two. Checking the schematics, the two that were okay were the circuit test lines. Huh.

I retrieved Junior, and rolled on along to the image module.

The image chip was one big mother of a Large Scale Integrated Circuit.

I hate these things. The big guy was responsible for generating the holograph frames. It was also where the A.I. (such as it was) got stored and ran.

I don't particularly like talking to low-level A.I. They are sub-sentient and stupid, usually tricked out with some cute micro-personality. It was like talking to your dog about philosophy. Creeps me out.

The chip itself looked all right, but the output to the temporary image storage was hacked. The main line was cut, and a crude path had been laid from storage to elsewhere. Not some hand-soldered trace either. Molecules from the chip's output line had been ripped out and used to assemble a new one.

I was not alone.

I opened a com channel.

Paul, you still with me?

A bunch of bumps and scratchy sounds taxed my auditory circuits. Oh well, at least I got him out of the "testing 1, 2, 3, testing..." routine he used to annoy me with. I had got tired of it and started feeding the non-information back to him at high volume. A little runny earwax later, he finally got the point.

"Right here, Mic. What's up?"

I may have company. There's evidence of some fooling around with the traces in here. Looks like a nanobot's been at work on the circuitry. I want you to go over to the door and check the ceiling right above the lintel, bump the ceiling tile up, if you have to. There's a coax line up there running to the video pickup. Tell me what you see.

"Sure thing, Mic."

Don't wander off

"I won't Mic."

And don't pester Angie.

"OK, Mic."

I fired up Junior again and sent it ahead of me, to follow the new circuit. I'm cautious with my main modules. If they get hurt badly, I could short out. That's bumped off to you.

I was a little surprised to see evidence of nano-tampering. Not that nanobots are rare. A.I. software isn't dirt cheap, but it's not all about the cost of the software. We have to be grown up, matured, just like you do. The training takes time.

Now me, I'm an expensive piece of work. My modules are custom, and I got three years of Cambridge E-tech engineering school under my belt, plus a long careful childhood. I still get weekly updates from Sally, my trainer. Continuing education, kids, that's where it's at.

Anyway, it just seemed overkill for a security recorder. Most burglars would just have bashed it with a baseball bat and stolen the chip.

I trundled along about 26 Angstroms behind, letting junior round all the corners before I did.The culprit sat squatting on the trace end, guarding a slapped together wafer-circuit. Some more patchwork traces meandered off towards temporary storage, to await being copied to the memory chip.

The nanobot looked agitated and started towards Junior, so I backed him out of there. The bot kept coming, trailing a hot wire it had fixed to a power point on the board. Its one insulated picker arm glowed red enough to agitate the atoms that formed it. Trouble.

I wasted no time circling the wagons and put all twelve of my factory arms to work picking up any metallic debris I could pry loose. If the thing touched me with its arm, I would fry. I lost sight of the bot when Junior rounded the L.S.I.C, eh, the holo-chip, all four buckyball tires blurring. I kept it moving and headed it to a safe spot behind me. The other bot came into sight hell bent in pursuit, still trailing the hot lead behind it.

It slowed for a second as it took me in. Good. It was a juvenile then, still had to pattern match to figure out what it was looking at. Cheap, inexperienced repair grade A.I. for sure. Someone had set it to defend its turf. A nano-mechanical form of system defense popular since guys like me came online. Yeah, make something beautiful, and someone will use it to do something ugly. I hate hackers.

It revved up and came straight at me. I started throwing all the metal I had collected at it. The metal hit the electrified arm, fused to it,and started building up. Not good enough. More flinging. It came on dodging and clicking its fattening arm. If I were human, I would have been filling my pants.

Finally, just in time to save my skin, the fused metal dripped down and contacted the trace below it. Suddenly all the molecules that made the thing began to dance as it grounded out. The hot wire lead glowed and dissolved. Whew.

I gave it a wide birth, and went on towards the temporary storage, analyzing the circuit it had made as I went.

"Mic, Mic you there? Testing, one, two, Ow!"

I turned the gain back down and responded. Warned you about that before, Paul. Just spill it.

"Yeah, well the cable was cut into right above the door. There was access above the ceiling tile. Looks like someone lifted it and reached across from outside and snipped the coax. There was a red and green wire wound outside the coax, but they weren't touched. The optics test leads, I think. No one would have seen it unless they lifted the tiles."

Fancy that. Anything else?

"Nope."

I'm about done in here. I want to download the contents of the temporary memory storage from the pre-burner chip. I'll give you a holler when I'm ready, then you capture it, and get me out of here. OK?

"OK Mic, standing by."

I switched off the com, and put my attention on the bot's work.

It had cut the connection to the processor, and erased the memory chip for the week. Real quick and dirty. Then it reset the burner to re-date the blanks on the chip, so that it would look like it had been initiated, but the system turned off afterward.

Cute. And a lot of trouble just to fool the cops. They would have pushed the test button, the test leads to the camera would have reported a sound connection, a proper chip initiation, absolutely nothing on the chip, and a locked and tidy office. Conclusion, the camera had been turned off early in the week. Only the renter, Angie's brother, would have the key to turn it on and off. Ergo, no investigation, and Angie's need for our services. The evidence of tampering would start things rolling again.

This on - off feature was a pedestrian problem the cops ran into a lot.Some shirt wants a private conference or a little office action, so he keys it off and forgets to reset it. Happens all the time.

It bothered me that the nanobot had been left to rot in the box. Outside of personal reasons, it made no sense in terms of economics, and avoiding an evidence trail. Also, why cut the recorder's cable at all?

Then I remembered something else that made no sense. I went back on line and researched a few more backgrounds.

Sally called.

Hey Sally, find anything?

"Nope. A complete blank, except for the unit serial number and date. So it was initialized, it did come from your machine, and it's this week's chip. That's all I got for you."

OK Sally, thanks. We should be back in an hour or two. Did Angie's credit go through?

"Money's transferred, Mic. What's the problem? Think I'd let us get stiffed?"

I'm just a trusting soul - eh, machine, Sally. Talk later. Thanks.

I dialed the cops and had a little chat. There was plenty here to indicate some kind of monkey business, a B&E at the very least. The cops would take a while to make an appearance though, and I still had a few nails to drive home.

Paul, you still with me?

"Right here, Mic. You want out?"

Not yet. I need you to do a couple things first. I need you to talk nice to Angie. Tell her I want you to fetch the Super. Don't bother going on about why. Just ask her for directions to the Maintenance office.Pay attention to what she says then come talk to me again. OK?

"OK Mic."

Just the Directions.

"Got it."

I had more for Paul to do, but I found it paid to ask him to do one thing at a time. Like, chew gum. Or walk. Not both at once. I heard him start off, but then he popped his ear-bud free to do this task, which was annoying because the bone conduction earpiece he wore was both my audio pickup and speaker when I'm outside the transporter. I spent the wait reattaching Junior.

"Hey Mic."

Still here Paul, miss me?

"She says the office is downstairs in the basement."

Where in the basement? What directions did she give you?

"Oh. Down the stairs, third door on the left, through the storage area, all the way back. Uh, a small office behind that."

OK, Now scoot to the office next door and bang on it, see if anyone answers. And leave the earpiece in this time so I can hear what's going on.

"Sorry Mic, it itches my ear sometimes, you know?"

S'okay Paul, happy it wasn't your feet. Go do.

"OK."

I waited while my herd of one migrated next door. A rapid thumping ensued, but went unanswered.

"I don't think anyone's in."

Alright, try the next office down the line.

Indue time, I heard the rapping of hesitant techie hands, and this time, a response. Not wanting the occupant to be faced with a bewildered stare, I had Paul ask the same question he asked Angie. A nice young man, by the sound, and eager to be helpful. Paul got the response, and dutifully reported back.

"He says he doesn't know. In the basement someplace, He just calls down when he needs something."

Yeah, that's what I heard too. Go ahead and follow Angie's directions and get into the Super's office. Look and see if he has a nano-loader like mine. don't be to obvious about it. If it's as small an office as Angie says, it should stick out like an old-timey barber pole. If you see one, ask if he can bring his nanobot up - tell him the chip-loader seems jammed, or something. Smile and agree with anything he says, don't ask for any trouble, OK?

"On my way."

Theory one said my burned up buddy was the Super's property. This was the quickest way to probe that wound.

Interesting,that Angie knew so much about the building maintenance office,specially since she didn't rent here. Obviously not even all the lease holders knew the setup, or cared.

I returned to poke carefully at the still quite hot remains of the repair-bot. There was a Ident mark picked out on its frame. I made note of it.

"Hey Mic."

You found the Super?

"He's Right here, but he's pissed. Says his repair-bot won't load off its gel pad. When he keys the loader, nothing happens. The syringe light stays red. Won't be able to look at the recorder till he gets the bot serviced."

That threw me for a second. I was expecting to be turned down flat. Why would the Super bother? The evidence pile was tipping toward a whole other place.

Yeah, no doubt. That's okay, Paul. Ask him what the serial number for the unit is, maybe I can pull some strings, tell him.

For grins, I matched the ID Paul came up with to the number etched on my melty-armed adversary. The Super's loader couldn't green light because the bot wasn't there to load. It was here with me. But I had expected that.

Look, Paul, get the super's key to the Recorder, and get back up here.

There was some scuffling and mumbling I couldn't make out, boy wonder probably popped his earpiece again. Finally after some scrumbling noise, Paul's voice returned.

"He doesn't have any key - the in-office security features are the renters business, he says."

Oh? Who has the key then?

This time I could hear the Superintendent cultivating the dandruff on his head as he answered. "That'd be John Piedmont, O' course. You'll have to get it from him, when ya find 'em."

Or,I thought, from his sister, who must have it, since she had removed the chip in the first place! Bingo!

I called the cops back, and made some suggestions, mentioning what I had learned.

The perp was Angie.

Now, there is a difference between even the best A.I. and animal intelligence, called premonition. In my experience, even cats have it. It is the true bane of my existence, and today was not coupon day for Mic.

Angie began to fidget, biting her lower lip. She knew, somehow, that not all was kosher at the Deli. I may not be psychic, but I'm not stupid. I can spot trouble when it starts growling and chewing on my leg. So here we were, alone in her brother's office, Paul making his leisurely way up from the basement. I could see her through the vid in the transport box rummaging through that red handbag.

Oh God, I thought, here it comes...

I fired up and spun off, racing through the unit plans. In the vid, Angie extracted a rather large heavy pipe wrench from her bag. What the hell! What a thing to find in a woman's purse!

The power supply! It was all I could think of.

Paul!

Huffing and puffing, then a breathy "Yeah Mic?"

Put a nickel in it! Angie is about to go medieval on my ass!

"Wh– What?"

Just hurry!

This was going to take something bigger than a few molecules. I pulled up next to the defunct repair-bot and jerked on it with my loader arms. Oops. Its manipulator was still welded to the trace! In the vid, Angie, big red wrench in hand, was crossing the room towards me, a determined look on her silky puss.

Paul!

More huffing. "Com'in Mic!"

I rocked the corpse vigorously, and it finally broke free.

The main power lead entered the recorder case through a slit rubber grommet. I dragged the ex-bot to the cord and started pulling at the insulation near the split in the grommet.

OhShitOhShitOhShit!

I dug furiously at the thinnest spot I could find, and with a few tore up shreds of insulation, manhandled the 'bot into position. In the vid, Angie towered over the transport box, which was right under the recorder, giant wrench held high. Think looking up at the Statue of Liberty here, only mad and scary.

PAUL!

If I could ground the case... I jammed a sharp bit of the 'bot deep into the insulation, armatures working clumsily with the bits of insulation; all that separated me from the great beyond.

A flash like a lightning strike whited out my oculars.

My second manufacturing module melted out.

Angie's arm came down. The room lights went out, then so did I.

Paul finished extracting me from the surveillance box just as the cops arrived. My secondaries had just brought me around, and by knee-jerk reflex, I took a catalog of my damages. Not good. Expensive.

Angie was sitting on the floor, rubbing her wrench hand, barking very unladylike nouns.

You probably have the case all figured out by now, right?

She confessed when the cops found traces of body hair and such in the trunk of her car. Checking the car, that was my suggestion when I called the cops back. I was convinced her not driving this afternoon was part of the swindle.

Only her brother, the cops, or the factory would have had the key to open the recorder and get at the chip. The cops didn't hand it to her. They just tested the box, shrugged and left.

The intent had been to throw suspicion on the building owner. Angie figured that the cops, after she showed them the chip evidence, would make a connection between the Stoddard scion, his financial problems and the ex-con Super, who maintained an A.I. in his maintenance office, for repairs.

The cop's investigation would have found the system damage and missing bot. So, opportunity, possible motive and method.

But her brother wasn't the only one with a potential client. Angie's business end of things was finding buyers for estate items. She had found a client for the whole estate too, but her client needed a week to get the money together.

Her brother scheduled the first offer he got for the estate, about two hundred grand less than market, to complete the sale quickly and get his ten percent.

Angie knew she needed a week, and her brother's commission, pressed by the Stoddard's own hurry to liquidate, wouldn't allow for the needed time. She needed a scam to hold up the estate sale, like a police investigation. Once all the excitement was over she'd present a bigger offer to the estate, and net a sweet pile of cash.

She cut the cable the night before, so there would be no record of her entry, just in case the 'bot screwed up. Then she filched the super's juvenile A.I. repair-bot, clobbered her brother, and used the 'bot to fiddle the recorder. The corpse got stuffed in her trunk and carted off.

The nanobot would trace to the super's office, from where she had copped it.

Vexed by the cop's lack of interest, she hired us to "uncover the evidence." If I got destroyed in the process, tough. The 'bot would still be there, right?

Of course, none of this was any of my contracted business with the woman.

Angie expected to get the report first. Take the evening to finish her clean-up, then run to the cops, all incensed and worried, showing a righteous investment in finding her missing brother, and would have bought the time she needed. Oops, guess I jumped the gun calling in the B&E.

Yeah, fratricide. Sally should have billed her the seven hours, like I said. Payment in advance is a wonderful thing.

####