I’ll give Ganymede's admin credit; the alert went out fast. Well, my ID and profile have been tagged as a security threat. It means I can't use the admin system without triggering an alert, and my access will be cut off if I'm traced. Still, I can use any of the private virts and substrates, so just need to find a med shop running on a private network. Some pain relief too. Ugh, and fast.

  Running in low gravity is a funny thing; my bouncing, loping stride lacks elegance, but still the impact makes me wince. My jacket is gone, and I'm just wearing a shirt, sports bra and pants. I fumble at the pockets. Crap, nothing... wait, there's a small disk. Ah, the signal dampener. Not very helpful unless I need to hide from synths or bots. And nothing else but the clothes on my back.

  Should I contact Code Enforcement? Ugh, they'll have the alert, they'll assume I'm a criminal and arrest me. Still, I might be able to turn myself in, give my side, hope they'll actually investigate. Depending on if they're on the take. How could I find out? Focus, Mel. Medical treatment first.

  I come to a junction in the corridors that offers a variety of options. Higher, lower? Towards Aquila, or away? Crap, I'll need to pay to link into the local network here. I hope the nodes I'm linking through won't automatically report my ID to Codes. It wouldn't seem fair. I mean, nobody ever volunteered leads to me when I was a cop. Well, aside from Sparrow. And Rabi, technically. Ugh, I feel dizzy.

  I flick through the silver text in my overlay, trying to ignore the cold sweat soaking my shirt and my racing pulse. Let's see... a pharmacy, a cosmetic surgery suite, a genesplicing clinic... at least I have options.

  The pharmacy was my first choice, but apparently, they won't do 'clandestine' transactions. Which means I'm turning to the cosmetic surgery suite. My ping was answered immediately with a location. No other data, which is either reassuring or terrifying. But I'm out of options. It was a quarter mile trek through a warren of tunnels, some polymer-lined, some carbon-fiber skinned, most ferrocrete. There's got to be extensive camera systems, but hopefully not ones controlled by admin.

  I memorize the route, then reach into my pocket. I spin the disk and turn on my dampener. My link fails, and the silver route fades out, but hopefully it'll keep my ID from popping up on any handshake checks, if someone has sniffers out. Thankfully, there's sparse foot traffic; the locals seem to be keeping to themselves. Come to think of it, it's not even noon.

  I get a few looks, but nothing indicating anyone recognizes me. Still, the pain is making me shiver, and I'm sweaty and panting by the time I arrive at the surgical suite. It's a simple alcove and door set into a tunnel without label or sign. Seeing no other options, I pound on the shuttered metal door.

  The shutter slides up, showing... an exaggerated caricature of femininity. My mouth falls open. A pencil waist, ample bottom, and... buxom top. An hourglass figure in simple scrubs that hide nothing. And a pale face with too-full red lips and pristine curly auburn hair- the sort of symmetrical and flawless perfection no biological material could actually achieve. I'm staring up at a tall synth woman built like some holo-porn addicted wirehead's adolescent fantasy.

  "You're the patient who pinged me, I presume?" The synth asks in a breathy voice.

  I start, realizing I'm staring. "Yes, for emergency treatment. I've been shot," I say, turning and showing my shoulder.

  She rolls a pair of clear blue eyes. "I can see that. I'd say by a low-caliber magnetically confined plasma discharge."

  My eyes widen a bit. "You can tell that?"

  She puts a hand on her impossibly formed hip. "There's a toroidal burn in your epidermis; I can see the vortex ring from the shot. I'm guessing an oblong strike from less than twenty meters."

  I close my mouth. "Good eye."

  "Eyes. I've got twelve," she says, motioning past her shoulder to a packed, cramped medical suite with a number of tools and cameras. "I assume you can pay? In advance?"

  I swallow hard. "Yes, but there's a hitch. There's a security alert-"

  She snaps her fingers. "I saw the admin notice, I know. That's definitely going to be factored into the price. I assume you want dermal generation, nerve stem-cell threading, vascular regrowth, the works?"

  I nod. "I'm not sure how long it'll take for you to get everything, but time is a factor-"

  "Then let's skip the small talk," she says. "Turn off the dampener first, no EM devices in my suite. I do elective cosmetic procedures off the books, mostly those that don't involve gene-splicing. Flesh regeneration is doable. If you want it to look pretty, then we're talking extra. And do you want a new face to evade Codes?"

  "What? No!" I say, trying to ignore the pain, instinctively touching my cheek. "I like my face! And I don't care about a scar, just as long as it doesn't impede my movement," I say, hissing as I roll my shoulder. Bad move.

  The synth leans close, examining the wound. I can't see it myself, but it must be ugly. "Got it. I can do it outpatient; the procedure will take about three hours, and I can start immediately. Two hundred thousand credits."

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  "Two- what?" I lean back from her, eyes bulging. "That's triple what I'd pay to have a licensed surgeon do it, without insurance! More than a year's salary. Are you crazy?"

  The synth raises a perfect eyebrow. "No, you're desperate, and you're compensating me for the risk I'm taking in working with you."

  I grind my teeth. "So, I'm getting fucked by a sexbot?"

  Her synthetic lips quirk up in a smile. "I've been called worse things by better people."

  I feel my heart pounding. I don't even have half that. I bite my tongue. "This is a negotiation tactic, right? I refuse, and you tell me good luck finding someone else to do it, and I cave and counteroffer, we meet in the middle-"

  She snaps her fingers. "Nope, I don't haggle, and I don't accept favors or trades. I have bills too, so pay up or walk away."

  "I can't... actually afford that much," I admit, flushing pink.

  She shrugs. "Then I'm not performing surgery."

  I chew my cheek. "What can I get for fifty thousand?"

  The synth raises her other eyebrow. "Nothing. For eighty, I'll slap some generic nerve-growth gel and a dermal patch on it and roll you out into the corridor ten minutes later."

  I bare my teeth. "I assume you also don't kiss on the lips?

  Her smile vanishes. "Five minutes later."

  The fingers of my left-hand dig into my palm. "Fine. But only half in advance."

  She shakes her head. "Nope. All up front or eat silicon," the synth replies, crossing her arms.

  I growl, but nod bitterly. "I better not end up missing a kidney."

  I turn off my dampener and lay on my left side on the table. To her credit, the synth does a little more than just slap a patch on me. She sprays the burn with an icy disinfectant and local anesthetic that make me gasp and debrides it as I clench my teeth and hiss. "I'm… ah, Mel, by the way..." I say, after she finishes. And after I can speak without whimpering.

  "I know, I read your profile. I'm TooBee," she says, pouring nerve gel onto the burned flesh.

  I squeak, biting my tongue, before replying. "Ah, 2B? I don't... nnngh, recognize the designation."

  She shakes her head. "It's not a serial number, it's a name. As in, 'TooBee or not TooBee, that is the question.'"

  I blink and turn my head. "Sorry, your name is a Shakespear pun?"

  She gives a one-armed shrug. "It's a synth joke; it works better in binary because there's a double homophone nested within the 'or' statement, so it's a quintuple pun. It loses something in the translation," she says, pushing my head back down.

  "Hah. If you weren't robbing me blind, I think we'd get along- ah!" I yelp as the gel begins to sear my back.

  "The pain is good; the gel is going to burn nearly as bad as the plasma; it means the nerves are active," she says, patting my arm.

  I swallow, suppressing the urge to scream. "So, the chassis... I have to ask..."

  She throws a hand up. "You know how it is. A high-dexterity chassis isn't cheap, and certified surgical-grade sensory suites are a pipe dream for an Indy synth," she says smoothly, not tripping over the alliteration.

  I look her up and down. "But the... uh, body is a... pleasure model?"

  "You can call it a sexbot," she says with a sigh. "If you think about it, it's another type of chassis where customers demand high degrees of dexterity and fine motor control. And, generally, prefer real-time sensory feedback."

  I blink. "I guess that makes sense. They're cheaper?"

  She laughs. "By an order of magnitude; different manufacturing standards and tolerances. After all, a busted sexbot leaves someone unsatisfied. A busted surgeon leaves someone dead," she says with a one-armed shrug. "Plus, there's a discount for these kinds of models if you're buying used."

  "Used?" My mouth falls open. "Oh. Eww."

  "I sanitized it thoroughly, in addition to modding the hell out of the hands and visual software," she says, as she pulls out a dermal patch and strips the packing from it.

  I look at her ample chest. "And you didn't want to... reduce the assets?"

  She shrugs again. "Why bother? It'll just depreciate the value of the chassis further. Plus, if I'm having trouble paying rent on my computational substrate and dataplan, I can always moonlight and use those assets as per the manufacturer's intended operations," she says, shaking the bot's booty.

  I snort. "And they say feminism is dead."

  She scoffs. "Who says I'm a woman? You should have seen my male chassis. I was a hunk."

  That's hard to picture. "Really? Swapping your gender along with your chassis? Sorry, what pronouns should I use?"

  She waves her off hand. "Whatever you like. I don't really identify with a gender; one chassis is much the same as another, aside from its utility. And hold still, I need to set the dermal patch," she warns me, as she lays it against my shoulder.

  I tense, feeling the micro-sutures in the patch thread into my dermis, the quick sting fading. "Ah, does my five minutes start now?"

  She chuckles. "I'll give you ten. I just wanted to make a point. But some free advice? If you have local security on your ass, you should leave the moon; Codes won't be any help."

  I lick my lips, sitting up slowly and gently moving the arm. "You're not gonna sell me out, I hope?"

  TooBee shakes her head. "That's not a sustainable business model, selling out patients," she says with a flat look. "Besides, I'd sell more than just the info," she says, giving me a wicked grin. "I'm a synth, and you're an augment; I could get so deep in your wetware I could give you the clap. Or just knock you out and sell you for parts," she says, folding her arms.

  I get chills at that. "But you aren't going to?" I hope.

  She shakes her head. "I don't play politics or power games. Keep me out of it. I get paid, we have no issues," she says, as she begins to spray the table down with antispetic. "And not that it's any business of mine, but do you know where you're going next?"

  "I..." My voice trails off. "I hadn't thought that far. I'll find somewhere to hold up, I suppose. Know any good hotels?"

  She tilts her head. "Pick a flophouse down on the third level. Cash, up front, pay day to day. And be careful; there's plenty out there who will be happy to sell out a former cop."

  I throw up my hands, ignoring the tightness and pain in my shoulder. "Grah! Void-spawned hell, can everyone tell?"

  TooBee gave me a few recommendations, but honestly? I'm not sure what to do. Booking a ride off the moon is looking more attractive, but that's hard to do when I'm labelled a security threat. I might have to charter a ship or wait for Sparrow to make the round trip. Crap, no. I don't have that kind of time.

  There's only one person who might help. One person who I know will at least hear me out. And won't sell me to terrorists. Someone who might just be on this moon. Who might believe that I'm being set up.

  I take a deep breath and pull my overlay up, sending out a ping. "Alex? Please answer. I've been shot, and I need help."