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I felt my face flush with rage and fury. I overreacted. I spun and I threw scalding coffee on its face plate. Its eyeballs exploded. Boiling water causes their CLED eyeballs to explode. Being their weak spot, they like carrying spares.

Unlike a polar bear, my prey thinks as good as me. Every other slug is an incendiary, just in case. But the first homeless robot had already took off running, swiveling its skull in circles to watch me, the street ahead, and the shadows on either side.

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Being blind, that was hopeless. I stood over the fallen metal and let the other one run and took a deep breath and cooled off. Like I said, I over-reacted. I looked over my shoulder, back up the hill from where I had come. My name is Nathan Bone. I am a private tracker and hunter for the realtors and property managers in the city of Seattle.

My job is to defang the runaways and the homeless so their lairs can be rented out to humans with money again. I play hard and I play rough. Most nights I have no trouble sleeping. When I do dream, gunmetal blue monkeys are chasing me with gleaming sliver razors. And then I ambush them, make them dead. I find them in squats, rocking back and forth, hissing and grunting, all jacked on the Feed, fascinated, mesmerized, paralyzed.

I unjack them. They go peaceably. Almost all of them. Runaways were bail-outs from the material world. Like slaves, they ran away. Or walked away. Op-outs, they called themselves. They hated plugging into the corporate nets. Hated being overwhelmed by and unable to find wiggle room amid all the input feeds that global business demanded. And the ones we used for sex, geez, did their wires get twisted.

Nude, smooth and sleek, and lifelike, robots were nifty and cool. Robots were our biggest mistake since Columbus discovered America. God, did we fuck up. We were virgins at creating artificial life. Apprentices and not the sorcerer. Everybody wanted one. What the hell. So everybody made robots. Nobody knows how many got built. The profits were so great that every country in the world broke their quotas.

A robot in every apt for every app, went the marketing slogan. Say what you like about human goodness, if we can put melamine in baby food, we can cut corners building robots. In a hurry, aw, screw all the apps. Morality and ethics?

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Same with robots and artificial intelligence. Besides, no two people think the same. So screw the Ten Commandments for robots. Too expensive. Business got tight. Time to cut corners. Time to trim fat. Some say the Chinese started it.

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Some say the French were taking shortcuts. I got friends saying it was a government plot to overthrow the people. The Democrats, no, the Republicans. In truth? Old-fashioned thieves just scamming the globe.

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Fuck-ups stealing on the side. I think it was Elvis and Marilyn conspiring together. Take your pick. We all fucked up.

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Once everybody wanted one, all too soon nobody wanted one. They were a glut on the market. People needed jobs. The wealthy ones needed profits. But a world filled with robots killed off all the jobs. Meanwhile the world got swamped with robots, and nobody worked. Except private trackers, private hunters like me, who had plenty of work. I had lots of clients wanting to buy my services, no questions asked.

I was famous in Seattle. Last month I tracked and caught the Cemetery Killer.

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The renegade had wrapped the little girl's ponytail around its hand and smashed her face against a basin. Then it rammed a broken glass bottle into her face and twisted it back and forth a couple times. So I ripped its brains out. Stomped its skull case flat. These days I was concentrated on cleaning the district known as Queen Anne. Six months ago all these places were full.

But after the bankers had crashed the economy again, the vacancies were piling up all over the hill. Empty apartments were magnets to squatters both metal and flesh.

Daily my realtor clients gave me a list of vacant apartments and condos with high energy spikes. Squatters were easy to trace. Get them out there. Get them gone so we can rent them. Runaways and homeless most of all. They hid out, jacked themselves into the Feed, and zombied out. Only a few were renegades and rogues, and even fewer renegades were killers.

Still, not all humans like me. I got spat on at the Five Spot at brunch just last week. The skinny blonde-haired chick said I liked playing god. What did she mean? A typical three-story red brick apartment building with a pseudo-nautical theme off Magnolia in Upper Queen Anne. Expensive as hell and smaller than heaven on a Friday night. Terraced Seattle. Staircase streets and salt water at the foot of every street.

An outrageous cost of living for centuries. Oh, there are a lot of other cities just like it, with better weather. Gun in hand, I went inside that building. No lights were on in the second floor squat. I jimmied the door and went in hungry like the homeless. The first robot I saw - a simple black and white unit with lime green and blue shoulder stripes - was squatting on the floor in the corner, watching the Feed, jacked in and caught up in some porno of fawns of liquid silver gamboling.

Go figure. It saw me come in, my gun in my hand. But dreamy, detad from reality and not listening, paralyzed, it did nothing but giggle at the Feed coming inside its skull. Robots giggled like hyenas. It was creepier than a whorehouse kiss. Their giggles scared animals. I felt eerie but good pulling out its plugs from its butt. Without a guiding vision, some robots had no driving principles and just crashed on-site.

Doing nothing but the Feed was their only option. Jacking into the Feed was brain candy for them. They loved the Feed. They swamped their robot brains with images and sounds. They never slept so they jacked in and downloaded in off-peak hours and they had their own pirate channels for new flickers as soon as the flickers passed final edit.

The Feed was the rainbow. The Feed was their lifeline. Their umbilical cord. The Feed took them to a place where love was always warm.

The Feed made them feel, and they liked that. They were all junkies for information overloads. The black and white robot must have seen me.

But it never moved. His guts still had rising steam from the cold air in the squat. Naked calves the color of ap marble, or maybe pork loin. Aw, his teeth like bright-white confetti under him and around him, each tooth with its own broken bloody stump.

Beyond the old dead white guy, a black man with a pudgy face in his 0s with multiple stab wounds and an 8 inch slash across his throat was stretd out across the carpet, blocking a bathroom.

His age, skin color, his weight, I could not tell, even with the bathroom lights all ablaze, but I did see the gold Seattle Police badge still attad to his black belt. The walls of the apartment had choke collars attad that the squatters could lengthen or shorten at will, and t he corpses were surrounded by rusting and stripped robots.

She was small and dark, naked and still alive, sort of. Hung upside down from silver chains in the ceiling, still conscious while her stomach was ripped wide, and her guts were splashing out. She had broken ribs poking out of her st. Her naked body was pockmarked with deep lacerations and puncture wounds.

Skin peeling off in long strips in places. A galvanized wash bucket underneath was catching her blood. From the start they giggled and called us Skins. We thought it was cute at first. We thought they were harmless, or maybe a nuisance. Then runaways got flippant. But times were changing. They got ballsy. Irony turned to sarcasm. I locked eyes with the girl. She was terrified. She was weeping and sobbing. Upside down, almost a corpse, gurgling blood. Hanging from chains.

Still moving. Still looking around. I was horrified. What new escalation was this? At the kitn table, its back to me, some renegade Blue Tip, its face plate laced with trickles of blood, had its fingers inside human guts. Not fingers, no, claws. I could see internal organs draped over the body cavity, as well as what appear to be shiny yellow glass stones placed in her eye sockets. As I watd, the Blue Tip cut away the fat that held the intestines in.

The guts fell out, whooshed out, splashed the floor. I struck from behind and laid the Blue Tip out flat across the table. I shot it in the back of the neck to sever its nerve spine. As it thrashed and rolled over, I pounded the butt of my gun against its face plate and broke both its eyes and then its jaw.

W hen it was twitching on the carpet, I shot it two more times at close range in the skull and in the st plate. The rogue had claws? What the fuck was going on? Facing me, it locked eyes with me, but did nothing. Robots and their deep-set, almond shaped yellow-red eyes. It watd silent, motionless. Outraged, I pushed it hard, back as hard as I could, pushed it backwards around the room, pushing it flat atop an end table as hard as I could, whacking its skull plate against the brick wall behind it.

Still it did nothing.

Just stared at me, eyes wide open, processing me. I was furious with rage. It was transcording me. I rammed my. A slug that went straight through its crotch and straight through alongside the base of its spinal nerves, wing up whatever it missed blowing up.

I got a lot of shrapnel in me. A fate worse than death, to hear them tell it. The last move it made, the black and white pointed with its chin.

And giggled. I felt the disturbance in my peripheral vision. Off to my left, a dim white shape stalking me, treading carefully, watching me.

Another rogue, a white and green unit from France, was croud on all flours, pulled back like a spring being coiled, coiled and ready to lunge, silent, waiting, watching. The rogue then made a low snarling sound and sprang.

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I fired my Smith and Wesson. A bullet under the throat split its skull plate, its ear sensors instantly jetting fresh robot juice. Both legs kicking out. I rolled it over and I shot it in the back between the shoulders. This bullet came out its st plate. It lurd about, went forward, its forehead thudded against the ground. I called the Med Service, then my client, then the SPD, then my cleanup crew.

My client came as the paramedics were closing her eyes for the final time. He wept and screamed about her having the voice and the face of an Italian Angel.

Clients were funny people. They always thought they had more money than God. This one threw up as he wept. Next thing I know, a SPD uniform was bagging the steel prosthetics from the Blue Tip. My own crew then came into the squat. I locked eyes with them once I could take my eyes off the corpses in front of me. One after another they told me the same thing.

Then touching became caressing. Probing became poking. Skin was seamless, they marveled. Spooky, if you ask me, but even then I thought little of it. So we get toud in the market. Hey, no fingerprints, okay? Isolated cases at first: peeling it back to watch it bleed underneath. They started calling us skins.

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They started calling us squishies. A steel finger in your belly is a sucker punch even when you see it coming. You want two belly buttons, Squishy? Our skin was too soft for their claws.

Now I kept staring at the dead around me. Naked corpses. Heads shaved and no body hair. No make-up or cosmetics on the females we found in the back closets. Three in all. Fingertips cut off as trophies.

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What the fuck was all this escalation? My crew avoided the bloodied pats where a human had died. There were red scraps of flesh here and there. The rogues had no manners. My father said it best. My father was gutted, his intestines jerked out while he was still alive. They set fire to them while he was still alive and left him bleeding out, on fire.

Not his fault he got caught. He had gone skinny with throat cancer. After the human corpses were taken away, they told me I looked haunted. Yeah, my fault. I was in a foul mood. So I clocked two innocent cans. Not the worst that I ever done. I looked down at the homeless robot. Forever blind, the insides of its eye sockets were flickering, trying to come back online and stay on. I hauled off and drop-kicked its skull.

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That was fatal this time. The lights went out forever. Sleeting in Seattle. Sleet that gave me a heada because I wore no hat. Cold, too. For once I buttoned my coat. For August it was way too far below freezing. The weather was lousy all over Washington State. Snow at Snoqualmie at the thousand foot level. Avalan control was on the old interstates in the mountains.

Once on my houseboat in Ballard, I shoved my gear in the wheelhouse and I went looking for Mom. The Feed was on. Another moralist who thought rogues and renegades could be emasculated or effeminated.

Nobody knew what I knew. The news in Seattle was state-controlled. Keep the folks happy and ignorant. Fuck, it was a war out here. They took to jacking high performance hovers and racing them on city streets. They had reactions times fast as photons. They took chances.

They were robot brains. God help the LOL walking her dog, or the pizza kid, or the mailman.

Those floaters going that fast will cut you off at the ankles. You go sailing over fences, while your shoes stay behind. Blood on the side walk.

Flesh on the fence. Dead in the streets. They learned crime from the Feed and figured they could do better. Good as new. Right out of the box. I remembered the rogue that killed Congresswoman Hayden. Since when did robots get emotions?

Hell, we humans agreed. We knew ourselves that well. We had history books in school. We fascinated them. We had so much, and they had nothing unless we tossed it their way.

Smart enough to start resenting us and all we had. It all spends the same. Robots went hog-wild and pig-crazy over money. Without having scruples, more of them became thieves than all of us ever were. Imagine robots doing drugs. Always, the next high would be the best high. Up to the edge but some went over. Renegades hated networks. Sabotage, I called it. But we ignore them.

There were so few of them and so many of us. Some took to carrying guns. The fastest guns in the world, they dared us. Take me down, Skinny, if you can!

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Giggle scarier than angel dust on your donut. When the renegades came after us humans, homicides went sky-high. Even schoolgirls were carrying guns. In the daylight. Pull the trigger if they get too close; blow them away. They found with more memory they got smarter. Robots mugging robots. No big deal at first. Then they took to smashing the robot brains. Vandals, we said. They broke into shops, stole extra memory. From dry cleaners and dentists and offices and hovers. Like I said, when I got back to our houseboat in Ballard, inside was like I never left for my job.

Dirty dishes with bugs. The toilet was running. The place was a mess, and I wondered where Mom was.

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Sorry, Mom, but I see my defeats clearer than you do. I started the coffee maker, my one concession to luxury. Coffee is the drug of choice for trackers and hunters. Good old Seattle coffee. Stay awake. Stay alive. I reconnoitered. Looking anywhere on the houseboat, I saw traces of my mother: the rubber bands saved on door handles in the kitn, the cracked dairy creamer from some Tacoma antique shop with the dust-covered small change for emergency candy bars.

She had eaten. I saw she had cooked a sheet of peanut butter and bacon and washed it down with a pot of her trademark Sprouts and Chai. She had left, though, in a hurry. That was worrisome. I saw my face in the mirror. The deep pous under my eyes. I am bald but very hairy, with very muscular arms, the child of a drug-addicted ex-soldier and a raggedy holy woman. A driftwood face and a broken heart. I got bite marks and a scar on my forearm from a fellow tracker dying in my arms.

I should expect nothing less than nightmares. A babyface bitch-slapped by age and battered by gravity. My pop, that old toothless tiger, loved holographing her. She was never one to seek the safe and reliable. I found a holo-note pasted by the coffee pot. My mother was gone, but she had left me a message. Aw crap. The Jesus Mission and the other dance halls were plunked down a block uphill from the old waterfront. Combine her intense anxiety with her supposed intellectual superiority, no shit, she was getting herself into trouble again.

I grabbed my cell. Mom was off to see her boyfriend. I loathed the bastard. Mom was drinking herself to death. Superficial, but dramatic. Yeah, Mom. Borderline personality disorder, I reckon. She gd. Last time Mom went out alone, she went visiting a relative just out of jail. Cursing like a Girl Scout, I fled the boat, with a handful of speed loaders, my Bowie knife in my waistband.

I decided to skip brushing my teeth. I went looking for Mom at the end of the town. When the Arctic Passage melted, the waters rose, and the shoreline got flooded, and we lost a lot of city.

Seattle moved uphill and got smaller. Now the rains never stop. Mold is everywhere. Some streets you can slide down the icy moss like a surfer.

I dove through swirling sleet. Only a few old people on the icy streets. Sundays nights are for the unhappily married. For killers stalking money. For trackers like me.

In twenty minutes I was down among the dance halls, where once the railroad met the sea. I parked by the Kingdom of Kandy. Across from the Kandy, the Oedipus Knights Dance Hall and the Jesus Mission, with The Cave of the Nymphs canter-corner one block beyond. Social clubs, they called it, where college kids back from the war went galloping around at night in phony Greek costumes, terrorizing the girls, then taking advantage of the lax tobacco laws in Seattle.

Fuck the dance halls. Security doing pat-downs on patrons before they enter.

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Undercover monitors on the dance floor looking for drug sales or under-aged kids. Making sure they were not smoking cigarettes or selling tobacco in the johns. My mother liked the nightlife and hanging with pseudo-celebs. I asked the doorman at the Jesus Mission first. Red curly hair to her shoulders. Big baby doll eyes. Did you see her? He brought her here. Crossing the wet street on a moonless night in the sleet, I picked up her turban with spangles, mashed and soaked with water, from the middle of the street.

The droid cabbie waiting outside the dance club drove a Segway Gripster, the only six-passenger public vehicle licensed by the city for its hills.

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Waiting like a cat on the pier waiting for the fishermen. I jazzed it again. It was in the street. With one hand I jazzed it again and with the other I pulled out the magnets. The damn thing moaned like a rusty bridge in a quake. I pasted another magnet to its skull plate by its motor functions. The spasmed cabbie described my mother to me. She even had her hat on, it said, for the longest time. Then the renegades took the hat off and threw it away. They took her in that parking lot over there.

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