It was a place to start.

Cutter nudged Celia behind him as he plowed through shoulder to shoulder supporters. A two by four darted past his ear, nearly hitting him in the head. He ducked another sign that read: EQUAL RIGHTS FOR SYNTHETIC AMERICANS! and thought twice about dropping the lady vigorously waving ROBOTS ARE PEOPLE TOO! without regard for those around her.

Sanders & Ollander headquarters was based in the old Hustler building on Wilshire and La Cienaga. Rumor had it from a bird’s eye view the building possessed a certain feminine quality that a sly architect smuggled past city planning. Or maybe Larry Flynt, in the flesh, was responsible. Either way, it was progressive design for a building a year shy of a hundred.

A megaphone toting hipster in ironically unfashionable threads stood on the lip of an abstract corporate statue, inciting the growing mob into chants that proclaimed S&O as the anti-Christ or Hitler 2.0 or something.

The crowd was assembled from all walks of humanity, but few were drawn from the synthetic variety. Cutter snorted at the obvious absence. Synthetics probably had better things to do with their time.

These movements, for peace, for equality, echoed the essence of century old Hippies, only like an echo, somehow hollow and distantly removed from the original source.

The crowd was a hodge podge, belonging to no set class structure. There were those that looked like they rolled off the street and hadn’t needed to travel more than a few feet to join the body heat of the cause. Others seemed to fit into a picturesque view of modern life. A mother in a tennis outfit jammed two fingers into her mouth whistling a catcall of support. A man in a business suit raised his fist, and joined the chanting. He was likely on his way to work, heading into the very building they were protesting. A few of the supporters wore synth-face. Others were merely present, belonging to the crowd with no real enthusiasm, but a desperate need to show their support and solidarity for the cause.

“Pinkerton would love it here,” said Celia.

Cutter was thinking the same thing. Only, his version had a lot more stank on it.

Then Cutter heard it, barely audible.

“That’s her.”

At first, the comments were so quiet that it was unclear who they were directed at. As they flooded in with increasing frequency and volume, their target was unmistakable.

Cutter grabbed Celia’s hand and pulled her through a sea of pointing fingers and hushed whispers.

“That’s her!”

Someone yanked Celia’s arm whipping her around.

“Hey!” Cutter barked. He pushed the supporter, sending him staggering back a few paces. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A man in a speckled grey overcoat, mid-fifties, with a few weeks’ worth of stubble, pointed at Celia. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about.”

The unshaven man bounced with excitement.

Was he on drugs?

Or just batshit crazy?

“That’s Celia.” The man drunkenly staggered toward her. “The child synthetic the police are using to investigate crimes.”

“She’s my partner. If you don’t mind—” Cutter pushed him back a few more steps for good measure. “—hands off!”

The crowd rushed like water from a breaking dam. A flock of onlookers and gawkers muttered amongst themselves, arms extended, fingers crooked.

A woman with matted dark hair pointed. “She single handedly stopped the mod at the television station.”

“Hey,” said Cutter. “I was there.”

He wasn’t sure if he was more upset that they were harassing Celia or that he wasn’t mentioned in the same breath.

The chatter grew in decibel. Statements that all started with, “She’s the one. She’s the one.”

Yes. She was. She had accomplished the same tasks any Black and White dealt with on a day to day basis. They seemed to love her simply because of her outer shell. That six year old girl facade.

“All right people,” said Mr. Megaphone. “Let them through. Let them through.”

Still the onlookers, swarmed. Cracks of humanity peeking through grease painted faces.

A bombardment of questions aimed at Celia.

“How do you feel?”

“Are they treating you fairly?”

“Have you ever wanted to do something else?”

Cutter positioned himself between Celia and the crowd. The crowd kept oozing forward, a living, breathing wall of arms and legs, poking and prodding, reaching out to grab hold of the little girl.

Mr. Megaphone’s shrill voice cracked, booming through the megaphone and echoing off the building into passing traffic.

“I said that’s enough!”

Thankful as he was for the interruption, Cutter had a suspicion that Mr. Megaphone, in all his hipster glory, was less interested in supporting the cause than reacquiring his stolen spotlight.

A cushion of space opened up. Several backward steps, but not much more. Onlookers hovered, intrigued by the little girl accompanying the detective.

Keeping Celia positioned safely behind him, Cutter inched toward S&O’s tinted glass entrance.

The crowd stopped ten feet from the building maintaining their line of protest, watching Cutter and Celia slip into the building.

“That was something,” said Cutter. He straightened, tugging his weather worn leather jacket, readjusting the fit on his shoulders.

Celia playfully nodded. “They all liked me.”

“I wouldn’t get too used to it, Ceil.”

“What do you mean?”

“They like you one minute. Hate you the next.”

Cutter could see her thoughts in her falling expression.

“Don’t want to see you hurt or surprised is all.”

He hated being the bad guy, presenting the harsh reality of the world to her. He wanted to be her hero, but his words rarely reflected his intentions.

He sounded critical, when he meant to be caring.

Same old story, Cutter thought.

He took her hand, hoping that simple touch was enough to let her know he cared, and marched into the main floor of S&O. Floor to ceiling marble decorated triple high ceilings. A Zen garden wound through the floor in intentionally organic arrangements contrasting the flat stone, steel beams, and tinted glass construction surrounding it. A wooden gazebo was at its center, a place of calm inside the echo chamber of the lobby.

Haphazardly spaced every few meters, square stone tiles were missing from the floor. As Cutter passed a nearby opening, he saw a pit of sand a few inches deep, raked into decorative patterns.

Most companies that dabbled in synthetics went after larger contracts. Government contracts—which meant military tech, not consumer goods. But S&O’s main business was with the commercial market.

The majority of S&O’s physical production took place offsite, but the building was large enough to house a sizable amount of S&O’s initial research and development.

At the kiosk, a security guard chuckled to himself looking down at a monitor. Cutter couldn’t imagine that their presence went by unnoticed. It was impossible to miss their footsteps echoing off the high ceilings, filling the lobby.

It was only when they reached the kiosk that the security guard acknowledged their presence. His eyes remained locked on the screen, but he slid a ledger and a pen across the surface to Cutter.

“Sign in, please.”

Cutter flopped open his badge.

The security guard jabbed his finger in the dead center of the ledger. “Gonna need you to sign in, just the same.”

As if he could read Cutter’s mind, he said, “Sorry ‘bout the hassle. Never know what kind of nutjobs you’re gonna get.”

“Can only imagine.” Cutter signed, ‘Cory Stetler.’

“Last week, some guy snuck up to the top floor. I barely had time to open the damn lobby. Guy went about waving a gun around demanding to talk to someone in charge. Something about how he was the perfect candidate for some job and all that. How they had overlooked him or whatnot.”

Cutter slid the ledger back to the security guard.

“Joke was on him, though. No one important shows up before ten o’clock. Hell, noon if you’re lucky. And by then, they’re already out to lunch.”

Cutter nodded. “Seems about right.”

The security guard pointed them in the direction of the elevators. Farthest one on the right.

Inside the elevator, Cutter absent-mindedly bobbed his head to a melody his subconscious recognized. A sedate muzac version of a rage metal song from his youth.

Doors parted, and the elevator opened directly into S&O’s reception area. There was no hiding. A receptionist with hair the color of burnt cedar styled in an asymmetrical pixie cut greeted them with an easy smile.

The company logo, an angular S inside a circle, hung over the receptionist’s station, large and imposing. It blocked the view into the back of the building, but the pieces that Cutter could see were mostly glass looking out on the city below. Daylight flooded in, illuminating the interior.

The walls were near white colored stone, speckled with greys and an occasional light brown. A constant sheet of water flowed over them feeding koi ponds on the right and left. In the middle, a walkway tapered to a thin strip across the reflecting pools.

Plants of some sort—Cutter wasn’t very good at identifying foliage—lined the water features. They had long stalks and broad flat leaves. Real plants, but sprayed dark green making them look like plastic.

“Fucking A,” said Cutter.

Celia nodded and chirped agreement. “Fucking A.”

Pearly whites gleamed through the receptionist’s practiced smile. “Can I help you?”

Cutter caught her eye, giving her a friendly smile of his own. “Nah. I got it.” And kept walking.

“Sir!”

Lots of suits, expensive looking as far as Cutter could tell, sat at a long conference table made from the same dark koa as the heavy doors he barged through.

Celia clomped to his side.

The receptionist stumbled in a few steps behind, clawing at the oversized door handle, trying to maintain poise and balance.

Twenty pairs of eyes turned, silently locked on Cutter. Eyes begging questions. But no one uttered a word.

“Hope, I’m not interrupting,” said Cutter.

At the far end of the conference table, Herbert Ollander rose, propping himself up on his cane. He extended a shaking finger and pointed. “You are. If you don’t mind—”

“Yeah,” said Cutter. “That’s just something you say like ‘Hi’ or ‘Good day.’ Hate to break your heart, but I don’t care if I’m interrupting. We have some questions. It’s also customary to ask for your time, but that’s just a formality as well.”

Color drained from Ollander, leaving the pale man skeletal. He cocked his head at Cutter.

Even the receptionist, who had been pawing at Cutter since he entered was now silent. Gazes swept from Cutter to Ollander in anticipation of the blowout.

No one barged into these meetings uninvited. Especially not some man in a weather worn leather jacket, stained undershirt peeking through, the butt of a Zero Twelve swinging, a man looking as though he could barely scrape himself together most mornings.

The muscles in Ollander’s temple flexed. Hard to miss on the skinny old codger. Could practically hear the old man grinding his teeth. Thin veins decorated his nose in scattered patches.

A wheezing breath cut through the silence. The whistle from the old man’s used flesh rattled in his throat, setting Cutter’s arm hairs on end.

Ollander never looked away. His eyes, like the rest of him, hung in loose folds.

“Very well.” Ollander waved at the board members like so many annoying houseflies. “Leave us.”

At his gesture, six board members immediately rose and headed for the door. The stragglers exchanged glances, various looks ranging from worried to ‘What the fuck?’

“Now,” demanded Ollander, thumping his cane on the floor.

Despite his insistence, many dawdled, unsure what to think of this interruption. Unsure of what to make of Cutter and the little girl at his side.

Eventually, the room cleared out. The receptionist made a somewhat polite, but submissive gesture, somewhere between a bow and a curtsy, before shutting the door leaving Ollander alone with Cutter and Celia.

Ollander hobbled toward Cutter using his cane and the edge of the table for support. Stopping a step outside of arm’s reach, he horked up phlegm, chewed, and swallowed.

“Nobody talks to me like that.”

“Yeah, well—”

A blur flashed. Cutter felt something land on his shoulder. Ollander’s cane. The cold steel tip pressed into his neck.

“Feels good,” Ollander cackled. “You don’t know how irritating it is to be surrounded by lackeys and yes men.”

Cutter swallowed. Or tried to. His Adam’s apple was a lump, lost somewhere in the pit of his stomach. In a hushed whisper, he managed to spit out, “First world problems, for sure.”

“This must be Celia.” Ollander placed both hands on his cane and leaned his full weight into it.

“Great,” said Cutter. “So you’ve heard of her.”

Celia perked and stepped out from behind Cutter. “You are Herbert Ollander, CEO, cofounder, and namesake of Sanders and Ollander Robotics, LLC.”

Ollander scowled at Cutter. “You’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard of her. Is it true? Are authorities using her in place of a Black and White?”

“Yeah, well, not really my choice on that one.”

“But Jack…” Celia bunched her brows together. “Without me you would not have a partner at all.”

Cutter caught the glimmer of youthful rebellion in the old man’s eyes. “Don’t say it,” said Cutter. “Don’t even think it.”

“Ah, the innocence of youth, aye, Detective.”

“Something like that.”

“Do you mind if I sit?” Ollander didn’t wait for permission. He lowered himself into the nearest chair as if he were delicate china, the slightest bump able to break him. “The bones aren’t what they used to be. Believe it or not, but I’m getting old.”

“Getting? Might want to try a mirror, pal. You’re there.”

Settling into his seat, Ollander adjusted his cane, resting both hands on top of it. “You obviously aren’t here for my good looks. What can I help you with, Detective?”

“Pushy, aren’t you?”

“Ever heard the expression, you catch more flies with honey, Detective?”

“It’s been my experience that shit works just as well.”

Ollander cut loose a phlegmy guffaw. “Yes. Perhaps that’s true.”

Celia’s eyes lit up. She tugged on Cutter’s sleeve and whispered, “Ask him about the contractions.”

“Not now, Ceil.”

Ollander hunched forward, face to face with Celia. “Ah, yes. You’re an older model, aren’t you? The contractions problem. We can fix that, you know?”

Celia swelled. “You can?”

The old man winked at her. “We can.”

“Jack…” Celia jumped up, but her expression fell when she met Cutter’s gaze.

Placing one hand over the next, Ollander climbed his cane, easing back into the chair. “Well, some other time perhaps.”

Cutter said, “Have you been following the news, lately?”

“As you have so astutely pointed out, I’m not getting any younger, my dear boy. Would you care to cut to the chase?”

“You’re aware of the string of vandalism involving synthetics?”

“The Von Medveys? Yes. I am aware.”

“There’s been more than just the Von Medveys.”

“So I’ve read.”

“They’ve all been S&O models.”

“And that surprises you? We are the biggest manufacturer of commercial synthetics in North America. Odds favor that being the case.”

“The old TM models aren’t that outdated. There’s still plenty around.”

Ollander turned three shades of green. “I’m not big on talking about the dead. Competitors or otherwise. TM is gone. We’re here. That’s what’s important. They simply made an inferior machine. It’s only a matter of time before there are no more TMs on the street.”

“There’s always Avery Dennison.”

“Avery Dennison,” Ollander scoffed. “They’re a bit of a novelty act, aren’t they?” He wafted a hand toward Celia. “No offense, dear. But it’s like digging up a fossil.”

He pointed with his cane, eyeing Cutter down its length. “Don’t misunderstand me, boy. I have no malice toward Avery Dennison, or any of my competitors for that matter. It’s just, Avery Dennsion started off in adhesives. Mostly decals on plastics. Labeling. Things easy to overlook that are on every widget mankind has ever produced. Remarkable work there and a smart business. However, getting lucky and accidentally creating lifelike skin out of plastic doesn’t qualify you to build the underlying machines.”

“Didn’t stop them, either.”

Ollander hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the conference room floor. “Let’s just say, I pride myself on S&O’s high standards for synthetics. Our competitors did not always hold their product to the same ideal.”

Celia squeaked, “But, I am an Avery Dennison model.”

Ollander went momentarily rigid.

Cutter smiled, as Celia cut through his businessman’s facade, hitting on the reality of what it meant to build thinking synthetics. She had a knack for prying information away from the tight lipped.

“You my dear, are somewhat of an anomaly.”

Ollander repositioned himself in his seat. He took her in, her entire presence. “I do have to say, their work into the surrogate programs was interesting. No one builds synthetics one at a time. It’s simply not cost effective. Yet, Avery Dennison did. Quite the high variance in quality too, I should say.”

Celia pushed out her lower lip. “Variance in quality?”

“Putting each model together by hand, using recombinant DNA of hosts that didn’t need to pass any sort of quality check—” Ollander waved his hand and his line of thought away with it. “There’s far too many variables for my liking. The process should be one that is easily repeatable. And Avery Dennison’s was not.”

Celia looked down, tracing an imaginary figure-eight with a pigeon-toed foot. “Which side of the variance am I on?”

Ollander softened. He reached out with his cane, delicately lifting Celia’s chin. “You tell me. The fact that you can ask me that question—what do you think?”

Celia’s expression lit up. She spread her arms wide and lunged into Ollander, wrapping the old man in her embrace. When their bodies collided, Ollander let out a rush of air. Oomph.

Cutter pursed his lips. He wanted Celia to soften Ollander, but this was too much. They were investigating a crime that the department wanted to call murder. They weren’t here to get cuddly.

“This is great and all, but you want to tell me why someone would single out S&O models for a little crime spree?”

Ollander snorted. “The board and I were just discussing such matters. If you hadn’t so rudely interrupted, maybe you would have learned a thing or two.”

“And what would that be?”

“Automation, my dear boy, is the future. You may have noticed my six animatronic friends sitting at the board when you entered. They were the more polite, well-mannered ones of the bunch.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I want them to run my company when I am gone.”

Cutter could practically see the old man turning to dust before his eyes. The idea of retirement wasn’t far-fetched. Not at all.

If the old man was stepping down, wanting to hand the reins of a multinational corporation over to synthetics, there was bound to be dissenters.

Cutter tried to remember the faces of the board members he had passed when he entered. He had probably unknowingly seen the face of the man responsible for the attack on Valerie Von Medvey. Likely, every member of the board had motive.

“So you think someone is sending a message?”

“That I do.”

“Don’t you run this place?” Cutter pointed at the company emblem. “Isn’t that your name, that great big ‘O’ on your logos.”

Ollander nodded. “It is.”

“Sanders not see eye to eye? Not a big fan of leaving the company in the hands of synthetics?”

“She. And we did. See eye to eye, that is. While she was alive, anyway. Maybe since her passing she has changed her mind. I wouldn’t know. No, I’m afraid it’s the board. The board doesn’t want to hand control over to synthetics.”

“Afraid they’ll go all end of humanity if you put synthetics in charge of manufacturing synthetics.”

“That’s what they say. The singularity and all that rubbish.”

“But that’s not your take.”

“Well, for starters, synthetics have no drive to reproduce. On top of that, maintaining hardware and software indefinitely is no easy feat. We’re organic, and we can’t even do that. But, in all honesty, those are the least of my concerns. Truth be told, mine are more selfish.”

Ollander climbed out of his chair, every bone in his body making a disturbing crackling noise of some sort. He hobbled to the window and looked down on the crowd below.

“My motives are about my legacy. My company. Not simply what I leave to future generations, but whom I leave it to. Let’s just say, I know where my money is. I know my books. And some board members like dipping their fingers in and grabbing a little extra for themselves. Maybe it’s the thrill. Maybe it’s sheer greed. I don’t know. But what I do know is not a single synthetic on my board has sticky fingers.

“And it’s not like they’re incapable. It’s simply that stealing from the company doesn’t make any logical sense. I mean, if anyone on the board wanted more money we could bring up the issue and vote on it in our meetings. And we do. Let me tell you, we’ve yet to turn ourselves down for a raise.”

“Go figure.”

“No, Detective. I’ve made my motives crystal clear to the board. I want the board’s synthetics to run S&O when I am gone. They are more efficient and frankly, more imaginative than any of the flesh and blood imbeciles leeching away a fortune from the company coffers. I want to leave this company in hands I can trust.”

“And you trust synths over man.”

“Frankly, humanity has done quite a bit to shake my faith. If there is someone out there singling out synths, I do very much hope you catch him. Don’t get me wrong, I am no sympathizer like our friends out front, but synthetics are sentient beings. I am also not some old fool. I know very well that they are not human.”

Ollander’s eyes glimmered with life. “They are better than us. The very least we could do is offer the same protections of law, the same rights.”

Cutter bit his tongue. He wanted to disagree, but really what was the point? The times, they were changing. If people wanted to give rights to their appliances, who was he to judge?

If nothing else, the board members of Sanders & Ollander gave him a place to start. Every flesh and blood member of the board had motive.

“My board is afraid of the future,” said Ollander. “Sanders & Ollander is already run by machines. It should be no surprise to have them at the head of it as well.”