Snapshot

No, Maria admitted. Those corpses haven’t led to anything so far. Really, there’s nothing you can do.

He believed her, at least on the facts about the corpses. Maria didn’t lie. She withheld information all the time, but would just stare at you if you tried to pry something out of her. She’d never lied to him about anything important.

That was far more than he could say about some people.

He showed the screen to Chaz, who nodded. “You ever wonder if the thing that powers this whole operation can see what we’re doing?”

“I think it’s supposed to be unconscious,” Davis said, pocketing the phone. “It dreams up a re-creation of the day, and we slip in.”

“So we’re in its dreams.” Chaz shifted, uncomfortable. “We pretend this is all technological, like we’re in some simulation. But . . . I mean . . .”

“Close enough,” Davis said. “Powered down with a button, powered on with some computer code. What’s the difference?”

“Feels different. When I think about it. Maybe the thing is watching us.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think so. The way this all plays out . . . it doesn’t feel like anything is watching. Otherwise, why the Deviations? Feels like the code instructs the thing to create an exact representation of the day, then just lets it play out naturally.”

So far as they could tell, Snapshots proceeded exactly as the original day had, so long as nothing interfered. But that was hard to prove, as they couldn’t monitor it. It had been tried before—they had let it run all day on its own, then checked at the end of the day by sending some drones in to look things over. But even that was suspect, as entering or leaving the Snapshot at any time except when it was just created tended to cause huge Deviations.

The best they could do was send two cops into the system, live it through and try to muddle along, hoping they didn’t accidentally send the Snapshot running in the wrong direction. Of course, that plan didn’t take into account the two of them shooting anyone or sending scores of people into chaos.

Davis sighed as the autocab pulled to a stop. He’d chosen a place a block or two from the run-down apartment building. He climbed out, taking a bottle of water from the cab’s mini fridge—his account would be charged, but it was a fake version of his account. Outside the cab, he fished in his pocket for the nickel. His fingers touched crumpled paper—the woman’s number, from the diner. He pulled out both, then shook his head and stuffed the paper back in his pocket.

“What’s that?” Chaz asked.

“I found a nickel I don’t have IRL,” Davis said, washing off the nickel. Then he tried to swallow it. That wasn’t as easy to do as he’d thought. He ended up on hands and knees, coughing the nickel onto the sidewalk, where it rested defiantly on the pavement.

“Damn,” Chaz said. “Never thought you’d actually try that.”

“Maybe,” Davis said, swallowing a gulp of water, “I’ll just ask the IRL Maria if I can trade for the one in her coin jar.”

“Yeah,” Chaz said, sounding amused. “Might be easier.” He paused. “You’re a weird little dude, Davis.”

Once Davis had recovered himself, Chaz started off toward the apartment building. Davis took him by the arm, shook his head, and pointed the other direction.

His search took some time—the cops showing up had scared off his targets. Still, after fifteen minutes he spotted a likely candidate: a kid standing on a street corner with hands shoved in the pockets of his longball jersey. He was wearing a ball cap and combat boots, the latest irrational fashion choice of kids on the street.

Davis wagged his phone at the kid, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Davis jogged over, Chaz following, curious.

“How much?” the kid said.

“Ten hits?” Davis said. “Stiff.”

“I got five,” the kid said, sizing him up.

Davis nodded. “You a Primero?”

“What’s it to you?” the kid asked, getting the drugs from his pocket.

Davis stepped backward, raising his hands. “Look, I know what the Primeros do to people who sell on their turf. I’ll find someone else.”

“Settle your boots,” the kid said. “I’m Primero.” He flashed the proper sign. “Damn chippers. You shouldn’t care who you buy from.”

“I just don’t want to get into trouble,” Davis said, tapping his phone against the kid’s, holding his thumb over the authenticator and transferring fake money for fake drugs to a fake person. “There’s an apartment building three streets over,” Davis added. “Old beat-up place. Has Primero tags sprayed all over it. Who’ve you guys been renting it to?”

The kid froze, five large white pills clutched in his hand.

“You cleared out the homeless people living there,” Davis said. “Let someone else in. Kept everyone else away for him, right? Who is he?”

“You’re a cop?” the kid said.

Davis took the pills, then popped one in his mouth and washed it down. “Would a cop do that?”

The kid stepped backward, then frowned.

“This guy,” Davis said. “He’s trouble. Big trouble. You don’t need to know why we’re hunting him, but I’m willing to buy information. Go tell your narco what I’ve said. I’ll wait here for you to come back with him. He’ll want to talk to us.”

The kid bolted, and Davis looked back at Chaz.

“Damn,” Chaz said softly. “Did you just take a full hit of stiff?”

In response, Davis popped the pill from his cheek and spat it out. He dropped all five pills and ground them beneath his shoe. He then took a long pull on his water bottle, hoping that he hadn’t gotten too much of the stimulant into his system.

Chaz laughed. “So, you think the gang will actually come talk to us? I think that kid will just bolt.”