The V.I.C.I. Diaries: A Criminal Mind Part 2

[DukeNukem 2417]

Encore Hotel - Las Vegas Strip - August 19, 2011, 01:15 PM

The flight to Las Vegas had been uneventful, except for two idiots getting in a fight in the lobby at McCarran Airport and conveniently letting go of a bunch of balloons that just so happened to block a security camera above them. Funny how I notice all the little details like that, Vicki mused, nodding her approval at the rather opulent suite she’d been booked into. Must be that new software Dad put in me after…

Her teeth clenched, as a crystal-clear memory---a black-clad figure kneeling before her, with two blades in his back---shot to the forefront of her mind, juxtaposed with another, more painful memory. Stop it….you were able to move on from this before Dagestan, and you can move on from it now…he’s in ALPA custody, for scrap’s sake! Both images faded quickly…only to be replaced by an even more horrifying image of Jamie---

“Ah, Miss…Lawson?”

A knock at the door, accompanied by a mildly concerned voice, snapped the brunette gynoid out of her morbid reverie. “Just…give me a minute,” she called, hating the fact that her voice sounded shaky. Get it together, Lawson…like Shawn would say---in this town, they kill the weak and deranged…and I really hope that the source material he got that from was just exaggerating. With a last deep breath, Vicki composed herself and headed for the door, the image of Jamie’s mutilated form fading just as quick as the last had…

…which was helped more than a bit by the sight of a ruggedly-handsome older gentleman glancing at his watch as the door open. Just as Vicki noticed him, the man looked up, smiling. “I found this in the lobby,” he informed her. “Had your name and room number on it…thought I might return it to you.”

“Thanks,” Vicki replied, giving the fakest smile she’d ever had to give. The bag wasn’t hers, nor did it have her name on it; I’m here for 90 minutes, she mentally growled, and someone’s already trying to---

A hmph cut into her chain of thought. “I’ll be on my way now.” With that, the man turned on his heel…

“You’re not going to ask for a finder’s fee or anything?” Vicki half-drawled, wanting to kick herself for even thinking that.

Surprisingly, the man chuckled. “Do I look like a first-timer?” he replied, without even looking back.

“No, but you do look like George…Cloo---oh, the hell with it.” Vicki groaned and slammed the door, already dreading what she’d find in the bag (which, in all probability, had most likely been stolen). With an annoyed sigh, she set the oversized duffel bag down on the bed, unzipped it…

…and stared, too stunned to speak, at the equipment contained within.

$100,000 in “gambling money”. A complete set of papers identifying her as a Research and Development staff member from Lawson Robotics. Three complete changes of clothes (including swimwear). A full kit to detect and remove any and all covert surveilance equipment from her hotel room. Backstage passes for every floor show in every casino on the Las Vegas Strip. An iPhone and iPad, both with a secure WiFi connection built in…and, most amazingly of all, two spare ES-9950s, coded to her own thumbprint. Above all the gear was a card, with “V. Lawson” scrawled on it in elegant pencil. Vicki opened it and read:

Miss Lawson: it’s come to my attention that your…handlers, for lack of a better word, have sent you out here to Las Vegas in order to derail the scheme of a certain Matthew E. Hannsen. To be quite honest, my crew and I have been trying to do just that ever since the shyster conned a good friend of mine out of his life savings two years ago, and your people---being the upstanding defenders of justice they are---allowed us to help. I’m told that this bag contains everything you need to get the job done, so good luck, and kick Hannsen’s ass once for me. Actually, kick it fourteen times…once for me, and once for each of my crew.

Her eyes widened as she read the signature: See you when I see you, D. Ocean.
---------------------------
LadyKiller Casino - Las Vegas Strip - August 19, 2011, 7:00 PM

It took Vicki only two hours to finish the necessary research on Hannsen’s previous jaunt to Vegas (including the incident that pissed off her unexpected benefactor), and even less time to figure out why he’d targeted her next destination---the LadyKiller Casino. Back in 2009, Hannsen had made some dodgy investments in the up-and-coming establishment known as The Harmon, which culminated in the place being scheduled for a controlled demolition sometime in 2013….except Hannsen, not wanting to let anyone else in on the action, had a few of his cronies nuke the site without the necessary safety precautions, then attempted to pin it on the wrong people. One of those people just so happened to be a relic of the “Old Vegas” days---a man by the name of Saul Bloom, and a good friend of the guy who’d dropped off Vicki’s gear.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Except Hannsen wasn’t finished, Vicki reminded herself as the shuttle pulled up to the LadyKiller. He still had a few more things to do before the ALPA caught up with him…

All thoughts of Hannsen’s slight against Bloom were shuffled aside as the shuttle made its way down the Vegas Strip. Vicki had never been to Las Vegas before---at least, not to the Strip; she’d accompanied Ted to a tech convention back in the 90s, but that had been a “sheltered” experience compared to this. She’d spent most of the day at a hotel and the rest of it at the convention center, politely smiling for photos (she wasn’t the tech on display, thankfully; Ted and a few United Robotronics co-workers had made the trip to demo the security system for the Crystal City project…later to be known as Shrapnel City thanks to one Demetrius Blunderwitz) and never even getting to see any casinos.

But this…

This was surreal.

Seeing all these sights---a massive onyx pyramid, a full-scale castle, a replica of the Eiffel Tower and the New York City skyline---all jammed into one, lit up like some massive, garish carnival, was a sight to behold. There was a definite feeling of….was it hope? Or maybe desperation? Whatever it was, Vicki could almost feel it like a stiff breeze across the face, even inside the shuttle bus. Fortunes had been built and squandered in Las Vegas; careers were made and broken, lives were changed…and sometimes ended.

The phrase “I’m not in Kansas anymore” comes to mind in times like these…

Vicki tried to shake off the feeling that she’d made a mistake coming to Vegas, chalking it up to nerves or some other imagined jitters. In reality, even with the years of living amongst flesh-and-blood homo sapiens, all the time spent interacting with them….she’d never experienced anything like Las Vegas. I bet Franklin’s fembots never felt like this, she assured herself. The Franklin incident---and others like it---had been the trying point for the already-rocky partnership between the ALPA and the Coalition, and it would take an even worse incident, in a little under a decade later, to fully sever the ties between the two groups…but that was another story for another day.

Right now, Vicki Lawson was about to get her first real taste of Las Vegas.

As she exited the shuttle bus, the brunette gynoid let out a whistle; she’d seen concept art of the LadyKiller from the game she’d mentioned to Oberon, but seeing it up close made it---like the rest of the Strip---all the more surreal. Thanks to Hannsen’s use of unauthorized explosives and “other methods”, the demolition of The Harmon had been…rough; even so, one could be forgiven for not remembering that The Harmon had ever existed to begin with, just from looking at the LadyKiller. The massive, double-arched entrance was held up by four columns in three places, with an ornate fountain---sporting a tastefully-robed statue posing seductively over a nuclear symbol---in the center of the curving driveway. Golden circles with “LK” emblazoned within marked the arches, and gold piping adorned each of the columns holding them up. The one in the game wasn’t nearly as detailed as this, the brunette gynoid mused, waving “hello” at a few random staff members.

The “controlled decadence” continued inside---the place looked a lot more like a high-class, high-cost casino than a testosterone-fueled gaming joint. Every statue in the building depicted curvaceous females, just like the fictional equivalent---but these were sculpted to look as if they were clad in robes that clung to their curves without billowing, a far cry from the game’s topless (and possibly bottomless) golden girls arching their backs and bending over. Even more amazing, the staff wasn’t all women---and those women who were employed at the LadyKiller were actually dressed…well, like casino employees should be dressed. Granted, their dress shirts were short-sleeved, and their skirts were…shorter than the length Vicki was used to wearing, but they were actually wearing clothes, not just strips of fabric connected with a few bits of string---

“Miss Lawson?”

Vicki turned to find a blonde woman patiently glancing at her. “Your seat at the blackjack table is available, if you’re ready.”

“Ah, thanks…” When the hell did I ever arrange to meet anyone at the blackjack table?!

The blonde nodded and led Vicki over to the gaming floor. “Your sponsor called ahead before you arrived,” she explained, “and our manager was more than happy to reserve your spot until you showed up…he sends his regards.” She smiled and handed over a plastic case full of gold- and silver-plated chips.

“Let me guess,” Vicki mused. “These are to get me started?”

“Precisely. Good luck!” The blonde winked and headed off to another table, leaving Vicki to wonder---

A hand on her shoulder cut off all thoughts of who her “sponsor” might be. With a flash, the gynoid whirled around, grabbing the wrist of her potential attacker---and getting three Desert Eagles pointed at her in quick succession.

“Easy, gentlemen…Miss Lawson was simply taken aback by my casual gesture.” The man whose wrist was currently in Vicki’s death grip smiled reassuringly. “My apologies for not announcing my presence sooner, Miss Lawson,” he stated. “I’m Darien Tavares, your, ah, sponsor for the upcoming game…my original player had to drop out due to family issues, and a good friend of mine suggested I book you as a replacement player…if you’re not otherwise engaged, of course.” Tavares glanced at the bodyguards; “She’s not going to rip my arm off!” he assured them, laughing. “Put the guns away, please…people are beginning to stare.” He nodded his approval as the guards holstered their weapons, still scowling at Vicki. “No hard feelings, right?”

“Trust me,” Vicki replied, “my feelings would be a lot harder if your men hadn’t showed self-restraint.” “My feelings would’ve been a lot harder”….really, Lawson?! Even as she chafed at the stupidity of her response, Vicki had a feeling that Tavares’ “good friend” was the same one who’d dropped off her gear earlier. Let’s test the waters, then… “So, about this whole sponsorship thing,” she mused. “Do I get to keep my winnings, or do they go to your favorite charity?”

At this, Tavares laughed again. “I think my bank account will be enough to explain why I chose to not play this game personally,” he replied, “and anything you win at the table is yours to keep…provided you don’t have any of your own prior commitments to attend to.” He nearly winked. “The game starts in three minutes, so---“

“Just point me to the table, and I’ll do the rest.” Note to self: Call home after the game.

With Darien and the three bodyguards leading the way, Vicki headed over to the table where she’d been signed up to play a “Best of Seven” series…of Blackjack. Seven rounds of a card game where the winning hand is twenty-one, she reflected, fighting the urge to groan at the irony. If Psycho McCrazyMask wasn’t in the hospital, I’d swear he had something to do with this setup…still, I’ve got time for a few rounds, and at least I know the rules of this game---seeing as I still don’t get baccarat, and I suck at poker!

The brunette gynoid took her seat, glancing around the table and sizing up her competition.

A young, mid-to-late 20s/early 30s woman sat to her immediate left, her tanned-brown suit looking rather crisp in comparison to the dealer’s aged-leather vest. Her black hair was done up in a manner that was far too severe for someone so young, and while everyone else at the table tended to survey the dealer with a wary eye, the woman in the brown suit looked almost…bored. Vicki made a mental note to scan her after the game, assuming she didn’t drop out early from losing.

Nobody could mistake the figure sitting to the raven-haired woman as looking bored. Even if he hadn’t been sporting a 3-inch long scar over his clouded-over left eye, there was no doubt that Anders Stahl was as far from bored as possible. Thanks to a number of “unethical practices” attributed to his European banking guild, Stahl was right up there in the Hall of Shame alongside Ponzi, Gordon Gekko, Bernie Madoff and hosts of others as a symbol of corruption and greed in the banking world…except Stahl had managed to avoid the fates each of his predecessors had suffered and gotten away relatively clean.

Vicki had to think for a while before she recognized the girl to her right---and the realization was more than a bit surreal. Like the LadyKiller itself, the brunette gynoid had only seen/heard of Mary Holsom in the video game she’d discussed with Oberon…except in that game, Mary and her twin sister had both met a rather…messy demise thanks to questionable alien breeding practices. Here, however, she was 100% alive, cheerful and (thankfully) wearing jeans and a “Las Vegas Detonators” T-shirt (the Detonators were apparently an arena football team sponsored by the LadyKiller’s owner) as opposed to her in-game counterpart’s “slutty schoolgirl” uniform. The passive scans built into Vicki’s optical sensors ID’d Mary as human, confirmed seconds later when Vicki activated the detailed scan (by blinking three times); it helped that the other Holsom twin was at the slot machines nearby, shouting encouragement.

The final player at the table was almost the textbook definition of “nondescript”: bland shirt, retail-brand jeans and shoes, cheap sunglasses and a five’o’clock shadow. He could easily have been just another one of the nameless rabble risking their fortune, or a trained con artist waiting to fleece everyone out of their hard-earned savings…or even just a professional card shark, idly passing the time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dealer declared, snapping Vicki out of her observing reverie, “the name of the game tonight is Blackjack. Rules are simple: Aces are low, face cards high. Each player gets two cards to start with; just say ‘hit me’ for more cards or ‘stay’ to keep your hand. First player to 21 wins; anyone who goes over 21 busts. If all players bust, the house wins and the pot stays here.” Even the rapid-fire delivery of the words didn’t distract Vicki from the dealer’s hands…though she was careful enough to glance at the other players around the table, just to make sure none of them tried to accuse her of counting the cards before the game even started.

Anders Stahl casually flicked two $50 chips down on the table, looking almost bored. Mary Holsom set down her own pair of $50 chips; the man sitting to her right laid down a $50 chip, followed soon after by a $100. The woman in the brown suit set down a single $100 chip, and Vicki decided to lay down a $200 chip to start off.

“All bets are in, let the game begin.” The dealer shuffled the deck a final time before dealing the cards.

Silence settled over the table as Vicki regarded her hand: a pair of aces. After a few seconds of deliberation, she nodded. “Hit me.” The dealer slid her another card---a six---and waited for her (or anyone else) to either hit or stay. Anders Stahl muttered something under his breath before nodding towards the dealer; Mary Holsom chose to keep the hand she had. The woman in brown nodded silently, and the man sitting next to Mary said nothing.

Vicki decided to play it dangerously. “Hit me.” Another card…a nine. “Again.” The dealer slid her a card…

…an ace.

Anders Stahl set down his hand, scowling at the dealer. Mary simply glanced at the slots and gave a quick thumbs-up to her sister; the woman in brown stared at the dealer patiently, as if waiting for a phone call. Even the guy next to Mary didn’t seem all too concerned as he set his cards on the table….

…until the dealer revealed his own hand---a ten and four twos. “Miss Lawson wins.”

Vicki couldn’t help but grin at her good fortune as the dealer pushed the stack of chips her way. The cards were collected, the deck reshuffled, and the dealer began again.

Within seconds, Vicki had attained another hand of 20---a pair of threes and a pair of sevens. She once again chose not to hit, as Anders and the others laid their cards down. Yet again, the dealer broke; surprisingly, Mary Holsom and the woman in brown had avoided going over as well. Either someone here is doing a really good job at holding back, the brunette gynoid mused, or I’m just really lucky…

Somewhat ironically, Vicki didn’t win the next hand (she had a total of 22, whereas the woman in brown, Mary Holsom and the guy next to her all managed to avoid breaking). By that point, Anders Stahl rose from his seat, gave everyone a glare and walked off. Guess some people just don’t have the patience for blackjack, Vicki noted. Either that, or he’s playing with someone else’s money… She ignored all thoughts of who Stahl might be in debt to (she was there to investigate Hannsen’s crimes, after all…though she already had plans for a possible midnight jaunt in mind) and turned in her cards for the next hand.

The fourth hand saw Vicki returning to form, getting twenty-one after just two more deals. To the surprise of absolutely nobody, Mary Holsom chose to drop out at that point and go play the slots with her sister. The guy who’d been sitting next to her didn’t watch her leave; either she’s not his type, Vicki noted, or he’s got a damn good poker face…well, blackjack face, really…oh, screw it.

Regardless of whether or not his poker face was sufficient, the guy dropped out after the next hand, which Vicki and the black-haired woman both won. Either he’s tired of playing, or he’s nearly broke…

Out of the corner of her eye, Vicki saw the black-haried woman’s eye twitch imperceptibly.

In what could only be considered a stroke of perfect fortune, the dealer’s cellphone went off; after two casino security guards sauntered over to watch the table and make sure neither of the remaining players tried to mess with the deck, he turned his back on the two and took the call. Vicki didn’t pay the guards any mind; she was too busy running a scan on the woman in brown. Let’s see what makes you tick…

Seconds later, a box in her HUD pinged: the woman was, in fact, a gynoid.

The fact itself wasn’t surprising---Vicki had expected to encounter at least one other android or gynoid at the gaming tables during her time in Las Vegas---but the actual surprise was…nothing. Or, to put it bluntly, a great big mess of nothing…at least, as far as the ALPA and Coalition databases were concerned (the truce between both groups had been extended to cover the remainder of the year, in the event of any “sudden developments” that might otherwise be unmanagable). Other than the name “Miss Campbell” (she doesn’t even have a first name?) and a personality software package that was too vanilla even for the word “vanilla”, the raven-haired gynoid was almost completely…blank. No maker’s marks, no identifying signatures for her internal OS…it was as if she existed outside the realms of the ALPA and the Coalition altogether. Even checks for parts and software from unaffiliated companies came back empty-handed.

Oh, scrap.

For a few brief moments, Vicki reflected on the case of Rachel, the gynoid she’d encountered at the halfway house in December. Like “Miss Campbell”, Rachel had almost no identifying data within her systems…but the difference between the two cases was pretty simple: Rachel had started out not knowing what she was.

As for what Miss Campbell was…

The click of the dealer’s cellphone closing cut into Vicki’s thoughts. “Ladies, this is the final hand of the game,” he informed the two gynoids. “You both have the chance to double down and win the entire pot, or walk away with what you have…what’ll it be?”

Miss Campbell stared silently at the dealer, her face bearing the textbook definition of “blank expression”.

The hell with this. “I’m in,” Vicki declared, putting the last of her chips on the table. A sizeable crowd had gathered to watch the game, with murmurs of approval (most of them coming from Darien Tavares) rippling through the masses.

As he accepted the chips, the dealer gave Vicki a knowing smirk. Don’t tell me he’s in on this….

Within seconds, Vicki and Miss Campbell were dealt the last hand of the game---Vicki, a pair of aces; Miss Campbell, a pair of sixes. Both stated “Hit me”---Vicki with defiant calm, Miss Campbell without emotion---and received their next cards. Again, the two simultaneously declared “Hit me”, and again, the dealer complied without hesitation. For a third---and, in Vicki’s hopes, final---time, the two gynoids said “Hit me” (thougn Vicki nearly shouted it) and were given their cards.

Immediately, Vicki nearly felt like throwing her hand.

Through what could only be considered a cosmic twist of fate, she’d been dealt a pair of eights and three aces, also known as the infamous Dead Man’s Hand. The “aces low” rule---which, now that she realized, was almost a complete paradox within the game of blackjack---was the only reason the notorious hand hadn’t ended the game for her at that moment; if she asked for one more card, she could either get twenty-one and win…or get anything that would put her over that number, and walk away with nothing.

Predictably, Miss Campbell was the picture of calm.

Steeling her nerves, Vicki took a deep breath (out of habit)….

“Hit me.”

Slowly, almost methodically, the dealer slid another card her way. She turned it over….

…and nearly cried as the Two of Spades was revealed.

Miss Campbell arched an eyebrow, but said nothing else as she laid down her hand---two sixes, two tens and the Queen of Spades. The crowd behind the table held its collective breath, waiting for the dealer to reveal his own hand…

…and cheering their heads off as he flipped over two tens, the King of Spades and a five.

“That was brilliant!” Tavares beamed, clapping Vicki on the shoulders. “Absolutely brilliant…I was worried you’d lost it in the third, but this was just amazing…” His comments only held half of the brunette gynoid’s attention; she was more focused on Miss Campbell’s reaction…or lack thereof. As the crowd parted and returned to their games of chance (or whatever else they’d been doing), Campbell simply rose from her seat, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d blown well over $10,000 in less than an hour, and walked away.

Note to self: follow her later… Vicki allowed Tavares and his entourage to lead her away from the blackjack tables, already planning her next move against Miss Campbell. Of course, there was the small matter of cashing in all those chips she’d just won…

Ten minutes later, Vicki---now several thousand dollars richer than she’d been before entering the LadyKiller Casino---took in the surreal sights of the Vegas Strip once again, marvelling at the juxtaposition of architectural types against a night sky lit up with neon. It was still somewhat bizarre to see icons like the Eiffel Tower, the Sphinx and a New York City-style skyline against such a garish background, but that was just another part of the Las Vegas experience: buy the ticket, take the ride.

Unfortunately for Vicki, the ride would soon be getting a bit…bumpier.
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Containment Facility codenamed “DragonTown” - Location Classified - August 19, 2011, 8:40 PM

“You get kicked in the leg one time by an enemy fembot,” Major Tom growled, “and they put you on guard duty for the rest of the year…this is just stupid.” He glanced down at his left leg; “I even got a myogel knee brace,” he added, “fresh off the assembly line, and they tell me that I’m on ‘foot patrols’ for the rest of the year…this truly sucks.”

Kylie Lyndon sighed. “It could be worse---“

“How?” the Major snapped. “How in the hell….never mind. I just want this to be over with before I get the urge to break someone’s face.” Without another word, he gestured for Kylie to follow him down the corridor.

Out of the two of them, only one had been to the facility known as DragonTown before---the Major had pulled guard duty on a few of the more notorious inmates back in the 90s---and neither of them had known exactly where it was located. This was the highest-security prison on the planet; things like contraband, prison gangs, guard assaults and problems that plagued other penitentiaries were pretty much nonexistant behind the walls of DragonTown. Even tattoos were forbidden---if you were caught with any, you had them removed, without the benefit of anesthetics or sedatives to ease the pain. The entire facility was under 24-hour surveilance, and even the bathrooms were monitored. The necessary facilities for seven different forms of execution were on hand in the event of “extreme circumstances”, and no prisoner transferred to DragonTown had, thus far in its long and sordid history, been paroled or spared by an eleventh-hour call from the governor.

The only failing the place had was its inmate escape record: three extremely lucky individuals had managed to break out so far, with one of them being William J. Rengold III…otherwise known, feared (by many) and hated (by more) as Faceless.

“Every minute I’m in here,” Major Tom muttered, “it feels like I might lose part of my soul.”

She didn’t say it out loud, but Kylie felt all too inclined to agree with him.

After a few more minutes of walking, the pair found themselves in a room with a monitor bank, two headsets and two chairs. “They don’t let anyone get anywhere near the inmates physically,” the Major explained to a somewhat confused Kylie. “Last time that happened, a guy lost an arm.”

“What’d they do to the inmate?”

“Not much they could do---other than get his arm back from the idiot who’d smuggled a ceramic hatchet in.”

Kylie’s eyes went wide, but any and all stunned statements she could’ve made died on her tongue as the bank of monitors clicked on. “So,” the voice of Matthew Hannsen drawled, “who exactly did you two piss off to get stuck on monitor duty, eh?” As per usual, his orange prison denims were pristine, whereas his facial hair now bordered on wino trim, and his voice bore the petulant arrogance of a spoiled brat…albiet one who could easily rig up an entire city’s traffic lights to turn every intersection into a potential pile-up.

“Save the speeches, Hannsen,” the Major ordered. “We’re here---“

“You’re here because your higher-ups want to know what I did in Vegas during my vacation two years ago,” Hannsen drawled. “I’m not an idiot, spaceboy…any news about me eventually gets back to me.” He grinned lazily, stretching out on the bed. “Unless the lovely Miss Lyndon would like to…correct me?”

The Major had to bodily hold Kylie back before she could damage any of the monitors. “Keep talking.”

“What’s in it for me if I tell you anything?” Hannsen inquired. “Free satellite TV, new books…”

“What’s in it for you is the continued use of your limbs due to me not ripping them off with my bare hands---“

At this, Hannsen nearly fell off the bed laughing. “That’s…that’s too much. You actually threatened me just now…that is really hilarious…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Unfortunately for you,” he continued, his voice now positively brimming with hatred, “the only one getting their limbs ripped off will be you, if you make another crack like that.” He ran over to a desk in one corner of the admittedly spacious cell and stood on top of it, his face mere inches away from the camera; “All I have to do is say five words,” he hissed, “and neither of you will be leaving this place intact…”

“Except you won’t need to say those words,” the Major replied calmly, “because nobody’s going to be doing any limb-removal for the foreseeable future.”

Hannsen nodded, chuckling as he got off of the desk. “There’s a good dog,” he crooned. “Seeing as how I’m fresh out of snacky tweats, I’ll give you what you came here for---provided you do something for me that has nothing to do with me getting threats from that new idiot in Block 19. “ He sat down on the bed, staring at the camera in the other corner of the room. “I want to know what Vicki Lawson is doing right now.”

Kylie nearly said something, but the Major spoke up first: “She’s at the LadyKiller in Las Vegas. Won $75,000 at the blackjack table---“

A cough that sounded suspiciously like “More like $77,520” sounded from one of the speakers.

“He just said something,” Kylie murmured. “Hannsen just said---“

“I’ve told you what you wanted to know,” the Major continued, ignoring the Field Agent’s outburst, “so you live up to your end of the bargain: Why the hell were you in Vegas after you slipped the leash? What were you trying to---“

“Do you find it odd,” Hannsen interjected, “that out of all the people who saw me in Vegas after I escaped, not a single one of them ever tried to report me? I posed as a pirate in ‘The Sirens of Treasure Island’ for two nights in a row---and had my picture taken with at least fifty complete strangers! I won a thousand dollars at the poker room in the MGM Grand, spent half of it at the shops in the Stratosphere Tower and stowed the rest somewhere in the desert…I even got a quickie marriage at a drive-through chapel! Granted, I had to trade the wife at the border for a passport to Cabo that I never ended up using, but it was still pretty hilarious!” A sigh escaped his lips; “In spite of all that,” he concluded, “none of ‘your people’ were able to catch me…”

To Kylie’s surprise, the Major nodded. “We were having problems of our own at the time,” he admitted.

Again, Hannsen laughed. “So you were too busy making sure nobody threw water bottles at Sophia Starlet during her mall tours to do anything about the little old Maestro, were you?” He laid back on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head. “How utterly sad---“

“Screw this,” Kylie growled, putting on one of the headsets before the Major could even stop her. “Listen to me, you prick: you either---“ Her sentence ended in a pained gasp---seconds before the Major grabbed the headset off of her. “What….the hell?! All I did was---“

“All you did,” Hannsen spat, “was put on a headset rigged with an ultrasonic transmitter that, by all means, should’ve been enough to fry your pathetic grey matter into a congealed lump of fat. You’re lucky they don’t let unshielded gynoids in here anymore….if you’d been a bargain-bin coppertop, that headset would’ve crisped every processor in your plastic skull within a matter of seconds.” He chuckled darkly; “One of the few advantages human beings still have,” he muttered. “The mundane can easily save our lives…”

The Major let out an annoyed breath. “Enough faffing around, Hannsen. Tell us---“

“Here’s what I’m going to tell you,” Hannsen cut in. “Vicki Lawson won more money than she knows what to do with at that blackjack table…but there’s a very high chance that she won’t live long enough to spend a dime of it. That relevant enough for you, rocketman?!”

Again, Kylie was surprised to hear the Major’s reply---and even more surprised to see him give the Maestro a cheerful smile. “That’ll be all for now. Thanks.” He pushed a button on the nearest monitor, muting the sound from the Maestro’s cell. “He’ll be more chatty tomorrow,” he informed the stunned Field Agent. “They’re letting him watch Malaysian MMA on the internal PPV system, in exchange for him giving us the info we need---“

“How the hell did he know how much Vicki won at blackjack?!” Kylie demanded.

“He’s got people on the outside,” the Major replied. “Seeing as how all access to his criminal activities beyond these prison walls has been cut off, he’s allowed to receive ‘mundane’ news from outside sources…after it’s been carefully screened, of course. There’s no way he can do anything to attack Vicki while she’s in Vegas, so anything he says---“

A burst of static emanated through the speakers. “Ah, to be honest,” Hannsen called out, “there is someone in Vegas right now who may actually pose a significant threat to Miss Lawson…”

Ignoring Kylie’s protests, Major Tom turned his attention to the monitors. “And that someone is…?”

“Anders Stahl. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Head of a major European banking guild…not exactly one of the most trustworthy individuals to have looking after your life savings…bit of a sore loser as well---especially when the one who beat him happens to be a female. Supposedly, he’s one of the players from Vicki’s little game of blackjack who dropped out before she won the pot…I hear tell that he’s more than a bit ticked off at her for winning all of his money.” He gave a bored sigh; “Then again,” he mused, “this is none of my business, after all, so if you want to handle it---“

Major Tom pushed the button again, silencing the Maestro’s gloating.

“You’re not buying that, are you?” Kylie groaned. “There’s no way---“

“ALPA shadowing teams spotted Stahl at the LadyKiller earlier today,” the Major quietly replied, “and a man matching his profile was seen leaving the building less than an hour ago. All that stuff Hannsen said about Stahl hating to lose to women is true, by the way…” He stared at the monitors, frowning. “He probably knows we’re short-staffed, too,” he muttered, turning away from the images of Hannsen doing exaggerated Yoga poses. “Kylie, get to the comm room and call HQ; tell them we need a---“

“You can’t tell me you actually bought Hannsen’s story!” Kylie protested. “He---“

“Matthew Hannsen,” the Major reminded her, “has been known to keep informants in multiple countries, just to make sure that no news ever gets past him during his incarceration. We’re sending a team to Vegas on the off chance that Stahl tries something, and if it proves out to be a fool’s errand, I’ll take the blame for it.”

Despite the fact that she hated Hannsen’s guts (and, by proxy, hated the idea of following any intel given by him), Kylie nodded in agreement. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered. “If he’s stringing us along here…”

“I’ll tell DuBraul that he strung me along, and that you were doing your job.”

The intended encouragement only gave Kylie a reason to frown. “I don’t need you protecting me---“

“Except for now,” the Major cut in. “Otherwise, you’ll be another notch on Hannsen’s belt.” Without another word, he turned away from the bank of monitors and headed for the door, leaving Kylie to ponder what she’d just been told. Hannsen was a master manipulator, a habitual liar and---worst of all---a convicted criminal, but the ALPA was effectively being forced to follow his advice for the time being…to stop whatever plans he’d set up two years ago from coming to fruition.

Why do I get the feeling that this whole thing is going to end badly?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Encore Hotel - Las Vegas Strip - August 20, 2011, 5:50 AM

Wake-up cycle initiated.
Loading V.I.C.I. BIOS……….BIOS loaded.
Activating V.I.C.I. ………. all systems activated.
RAM: OK ROM: OK
Testing Neural Network Settings…Neural Network Settings OK
Bubble Memory Processors: Activated
Running full system scan……………………….
Scan complete. All systems functioning at 100% efficiency.
Reserve Battery charge level: 99.2%
Good morning, V.I.C.I.; today is Saturday, August 20, 2011.

Vicki didn’t bother stifling the yawn that emerged from her lips as she rose from the insanely-plush bed; it was just another one of those “human things” she never got tired of. Funny how it’s the little gestures like blinking, yawning and every other random thing people do when they’re just waiting that always get taken for granted by everyone, she mused, yet the people working on Actroids are still trying to get them “just right”… As ironic as it was that other roboticists had, indeed, gotten those little gestures (and many more besides) “just right”, the brunette gynoid couldn’t tell whether or not to think it was funny or sad; those working on the Actroid and other such projects had spent the better part of a decade on what they thought was the cutting edge in robotics, yet many of them had no idea that the true bleeding edge of the field had been discovered long before---and was constantly being refined.

Still, at least I know where I stand on the technological food chain…

Another yawn fought its way out of her throat (at least, she liked to think it did---yet another “human thing” she couldn’t help but enjoy) as she made her way to the bathroom. Most people in Las Vegas were either sleeping in or too hung over to care---and for anyone who did get up this early on a Saturday morning, there was very little (if anything) to do. Of course, most people weren’t able to hear a roving argument coming down the hall…

With a somewhat annoyed sigh, Vicki headed for the door---then thought better of it and decided to head for the kitchenette instead, going for the Keurig coffeemaker (Ted had nearly trashed a prototype Keurig machine at Lawson Robotics by pouring milk into it, necessitating the use of vinegar to clean it out) and absentmindedly shuffling through the sampler coffee pod pack that had been provided by the hotel. One of the voices in the hall was that of Darien Tavares, who (for reasons unknown, especially considering Vicki’s win at the blackjack table the previous night) sounded pissed. The other was an as-yet unknown Asian male (I can’t quite place his accent…Korean? Maybe Vietnamese?), who alternated between agreeing with Tavares and barking orders (in Mandarin---stick to one language, for Jobs’ sake!) to the two guards (or two guys of equal height and build) from the previous night. Ten seconds before Tavares’ reached the door to her room, the brunette gynoid plugged a coffee pod into the Keurig machine and rapidly keyed the button sequence to turn the thing on; just as someone knocked on the door, the machine sputtered to life.

“Who is it?” Vicki called out, giving her voice a slightly tired-sounding undertone.

“Please open the door, Miss Lawson.” The Koreietnamese guy? “Mr. Tavares needs to speak with you.”

“Okay, just…give me a minute…” Vicki shuffled to the door (again, for the sake of appearing tired) and opened it slowly. “Ah, is this about the blackjack thing?” she murmured, the barest hint of apology in her voice. “I didn’t think I was going to win as much as I did…”

To her relief (and mild annoyance), Tavares---still clad in a tuxedo for some reason, smiled. “Trust me, it’s not about your winning the game,” he assured her. “Well…not about you winning, but about someone else losing to you…it’s all a bit complicated, actually.” He glanced at his entourage; “Mind if we come in?”

Vicki gave her best “sleepy grin”. “No problem; I’m just making some coffee right now…”

Tavares entered, followed by a tallish, somewhat-athletic Asian man who looked to be either Korean-American or Japanese-American---either way, his ridiculously expensive suit was custom tailored, and had probably cost more than the combined salaries of Tavares’ two bodyguards. “I’ll get right to the point,” Tavares began, glancing around the room for a moment. “It seems that your victory last night has, ah, upset one of the other players---“

“Don’t tell me the Holsem twins want a rematch,” Vicki muttered. “The one sitting next to me was probably just there because she was bored.”

“The Holsem twins aren’t the issue, Miss Lawson,” the Asian guy stated, handing her a folder. “How well do you know this man?” Vicki skimmed the pictures inside; “Enough to know that I wouldn’t trust him with my money,” she replied. “Anyone who doesn’t think ‘permanently on the naughty list’ when they hear ‘Anders Stahl’ must be living under a rock…though why does he have anything to do with---“

“He doesn’t take too kindly to being defeated by women,” Tavares sighed. “It’s…a rather strange character flaw of his, and, ah…” He cleared his throat. “We think he may want to kill you.

To the surprise of her “guests”, Vicki laughed.

“Sorry,” she apologized, “I just…give me a minute.” She composed herself. “I get the whole ‘corrupt banker’ thing, but…why would he want to kill me?! I’m just---“

“Looking for information on one Matthew Emmerich Hannsen,” Tavares finished, arching an eyebrow. “You didn’t think that ‘sponsorship’ was a random act of generosity, did you?” He gave the gynoid a sly grin; “Even if your superiors hadn’t called ahead and asked for my support,” he admitted, “news would’ve reached me eventually---rumors travel fast, especially in Las Vegas---and any number of Hannsen’s former victims would probably have leant their support…except for Stahl, of course.”

That prompted Vicki to quit giggling. “Hannsen conned Stahl?! When did that happen?”

“Back in the 90s, when Hannsen was part of that stupid ‘Great Dirty World Wide Web’ group with that…oh, what the hell was his name…never mind. In any case, Hannsen ended up scamming one of Stahl’s banks out of a pretty large sum by way of computer trickery…then exposed his affair with his neice to the press.”

“They were the ones who leaked that story?” Vicki gasped, genuinely surprised. She’d remembered hearing about it on most of the major channels---namely because the news broke into a marathon of the Sophia Starlet cartoon she’d been watching. “I can see why he’d be mad at Hannsen for that,” she acquiesced, “but why me? Other than the beating him at blackjack thing, I mean…”

Tavares sighed. “Lu,” he muttered, “tell her.”

After a few seconds’ worth of hesitation, Lu---the man Vicki had previously ID’d as “the Asian guy”---nodded and took a seat on the couch. “Stahl’s personal view is that women are…naturally…inferior to men in matters concerning money,” he explained. “Many believe that the gas explosion that nearly killed his first wife was orchestrated after she tried to give him advice on how to settle an important account at his banking guild; the authorities also believe that Stahl arranged the ‘accidental’ deaths of his second and third wives, and tampered with the breaks on his fourth wife’s car to cause the accident that put her in an assisted living facility.”

Vicki’s eyes widened in shock. “He did all that just because they tried to talk business?” she gasped.

“The first did,” Lu replied. “Some believe the second never paid back a small debt to the construction crew that had build their house, and the third racked up a substantial tab at one particular bar and lied about it…which explains why one was found in a cement mixer and the other drowned in the fish tank at her favorite bar.”

“Their families disappeared after the funerals as well,” Tavares added. “Most people think he killed them, too.”

“Or had them killed,” Lu suggested. “Stahl himself was never found to be connected to any of the cases---at least, not in any way that could get him sent to prison---but given the rampant corruption in his banking guild…”

And I thought Hannsen was bad… “So he wants me dead because I won all his money?”

Tavares shook his head. “He most likely wants you out of the way because you’re the newest name on his least favorite females list---in his mind, a girl your age would be better suited to hawking cigarettes and beer on the gaming floor, instead of winning at the blackjack table. To put it bluntly, it’s a very specific---and very stupid---kind of misogynistic mindset: women can’t know more than he does about money, and if they do, then they deserve to be eradicated.” He sighed sadly; “He presents such a ‘noble’ persona to the world, while playing fast and loose with the life savings of hard working people…all of it, just a defense mechanism to hide a veritable typhoon of crushing inadequacies.”

“I get the picture,” Vicki yawned, drawing annoyed looks from Lu and the bodyguards---and an amused stare from Tavares. “Sorry,” she apologized, “I just got up a few minutes ago…last night was more of a power nap than actual sleep…” She gave a sheepish grin. “Anyways…what do I need to do to get him off my case?”

Lu and Tavares exchanged glances.

“Ah, all I asked was how I could keep Stahl from trying to get rid of me,” Vicki murmured. “What’s---“

“The problem isn’t whether or not Stahl wants to get rid of you,” Tavares cut in, “at least, not entirely…it’s more about what he intends to do to your sponsor---aka, me. Don’t take that the wrong way---your safety is, of course a major concern between myself, Mr. Lu and my associates---but if Stahl thinks I brought you onboard in some convoluted scheme to bankrupt him and drive him out of Las Vegas…”

Vicki nodded. “So how do you intend to get him off your case?”

“Mr. Tavares has arranged to have a meeting with Mr. Stahl tonight at the LadyKiller,” Lu replied. “If all goes well, the situation can be resolved amicably.”

Somehow, Vicki reflected, I doubt it’ll be that easy… “Maybe you could just let me talk to him,” she offered, “or at least let me give him some of my winnings---if it’ll keep him from doing anything stupid, I’m all for it. I mean, I’m not saying that I don’t want any of what I won anymore…I just don’t want anyone else getting hurt because Stahl can’t take losing to a girl, or anything…”

Lu shook his head. “He’ll think you’re patronizing him if you try to hand over your winnings.”

“What?!”

“It’s sad, but true,” Tavares sighed. “Stahl absolutely refuses to be made to look the fool by any member of the fairer sex…if they manage to outthink him in the corporate world, or outplay him at the gaming tables, then he’ll do whatever it takes to make their lives hell.” He shrugged; “He’s probably got some maternal issues he needs to work out,” he suggested. “Either that, or he’s just a very strange---and stupid---kind of misogynist, and if that is, indeed, the case---“

“I get it,” Vicki replied. “So….you two want me to come along just in case things get too stupid?”

Tavares thought about it. “Tell you what,” he offered. “At around…let’s say 7:50 PM, take the service elevator in the back of the LadyKiller up to the 15th floor, and try to get to room 610 before 8:30. If anything starts going pear-shaped, feel free to intervene.” He grinned and handed Vicki a passkey for the service elevator.

“I’ll be there,” Vicki assured him. “By the way,” she added, looking at the keycard, “how’d you get this?”

Again, Tavares smiled. “Simple,” he replied. “I never bet against the manager.”
---------------------------

[DukeNukem 2417]

LadyKiller Casino - Las Vegas Strip - August 20, 2011, 7:40 PM

Despite the fact that Tavares had suggested she wait until 7:50 PM, Vicki chose to head for the LadyKiller ten minutes early---after all, she reasoned, if Stahl is planning something, he’s not going to stick to anyone else’s schedule…

Tavares’ keycard got the brunette gynoid into the “service area” of the building without problems---and allowed her to see that the LadyKiller was a lot more intricate (and interesting) than she’d initially realized. Rolling racks housing identical, bikini-clad female forms lined the walls, and a few branching rooms had some of the bikini girls getting different hairstyles applied (in the form of wigs), being dressed in the uniforms of dealers and cigarette girls, or even getting prepped for an old-school chorus line routine. One room in particular had at least half a dozen of the female figures getting new faces and---as far as Vicki could tell---having chassis modifications added to change their body sizes. Nice to see at least one casino on the strip employing gynoids for something other than call-girl services, she mused.

The service elevator was attended by one such gynoid, a polite blonde in a crisp red jacket and shirt over dusky stockings (Vicki thought back to Joan “tsk tsking” at her for not wanting to call the things pantyhose) and black high heels. After showing the keycard and requesting to be brought to Floor 15, Vicki stepped into the elevator car and waited…

…and just a few short minutes later, immediately regretted ever having shown up at the LadyKiller to begin with.

From the looks of things, someone had either had a running fight in the hallway or gone completely off the deep end---whatever the truth was, it did little to calm the brunette gynoid’s nerves. The small chandeliers over each door had been shattered, with some of the fragments embedded in the floor (and a few in the ceiling); a few other light fixtures had been knocked out of the walls entirely, leaving sparking wires and gaping holes where they’d once been. The doors on either side of the hall were closed and locked---except for the door leading into Room 610, which had been left ajar for whatever reason.

Already dreading what she’d find, Vicki made her way into the room…and froze.

Tavares’ two bodyguards lay slumped against the wall, knocked unconcious by blunt force trauma to the back of the head (thank you, medical imaging software); a quiet moan from the bathroom alerted Vicki to the fact that Lu was still alive…and bleeding from the rather sizeable gash on his forehead.

As for Tavares himself….

Had an ordinary human being walked in on “Miss Campbell” strangling Darien Tavares with his own belt (and tie), they probably would’ve chalked it up to an unbelievably kinky night gone awry and left it at that. Seeing as how Vicki had a stunning array of audio-visual sensors to detect changes in Tavares’ heartbeat, breathing and other “small things” that indicated he wasn’t enjoying the experience---alongside a little thing called common sense---she could instantly recognize an assassination attempt when she saw one.

“Drop the belt and step away from him,” she ordered.

Campbell didn’t move an inch.

“I said, drop the belt and move away from Mr. Tavares---“

Even as she tightened the belt around Darien’s throat, Campbell’s head seemed to lift half a centimeter off her neck---and then 180 degrees until it was staring directly at Vicki. “Dar-Dar-Darien Tavares is not in right-right now,” she calmly intoned, her voice at odds with the blood-red glow in her ocular sensors.

Oh, scrap….

Before Vicki could even move to stop her, the raven-haired gynoid dropped the belt---just in time for her entire upper body to turn towards the other gynoid and fire a series of flechete needles from her fingertips. A few months ago, Vicki noted, I might have been worried… She grinned at the thought, quickly angling her arm up to deflect the hail of needles directed at her. “Don’t do that again,” she warned the assassin gynoid, “or I may have to---“

Any and all potential threats she could’ve come up with died on her tongue as Campbell charged towards her, still wearing a calm expression on her face. Vicki half-fell sideways just trying to get out of the way, wincing as Campbell collided with the “foyer” walls before staggering into the hallway.

That’ll keep her out of my hair for a few more minutes…now to check on my “sponsor”.

Even as she eased him into a sitting position, Vicki could tell that Tavares would’ve blacked out if she’d been just a few seconds late. “What…happened?” he groaned. “That…Campbell woman….where did she…” He paused, noticing his belt on the floor---and the conspicuous absence of his pants. “What the hell---“

“The Campbell woman tried to strangle you with your own belt...and your tie,” Vicki explained. “She was probably going to leave you in the closet after she finished…the guards are still out cold, and Lu’s got a pretty bad cut on his forehead, so you may want to get them to the hospital…” She helped Tavares to the bed. “I think Stahl hired Campbell to lose the game and scope out any worthy opponents,” she suggested, “which just so happened to describe me perfectly….”

“And he wanted me dead for sponsoring you,” Tavares finished, shaking his head in disgust. “That cretinous little---“

“Save the insults for later,” Vicki advised. “You’re lucky I got here when I did, otherwise your obituary would’ve looked more than a bit…unflattering.” She handed Tavares his belt (and his pants); “Call hotel security and tell them we’ve got an assassin in the building,” she continued. “And while you’re at it…leave out the part where she took your pants off.”

“But what about---“

Vicki grinned. “I’m not just a hot chick who happens to be really good at blackjack,” she teased.

Despite an overwhelming urge to pass out, Tavares managed a chuckle. “That Lawson girl is really something else,” he mused, nodding his approval as Vicki headed out into the hallway.

Outside, Vicki was doing her best to make sure that “something else” didn’t turn into “sliced into ribbons by razor-sharp playing cards”---the current weapon of choice hurled at her by Miss Campbell. For reasons as-yet unknown, the assassin gynoid had decided not to head for the elevator and make a clean getaway---she’d chosen instead to simply wait for Vicki to emerge from Room 610 and attack her once she stepped through the door. Stupid move on her part, the brunette gynoid mused. I could’ve put an SCEMP round right between her eyes…if I’d remembered to bring my freaking ES9950!

After a quick round of mentally kicking herself, Vicki decided to abandon all ideas that centered around a one-sided shootout, choosing instead to run at the would-be assassin and tackle her to the floor. A flurry of elbows to the head once again reminded her of how much easier an ES9950-assisted takedown would’ve been…but she willed herself into ignoring such thoughts, choosing instead to return the favor and bash Campbell in the face with a few elbow strikes of her own. Annoyingly, the tactic didn’t work as well as she’d hoped it would; her efforts seemed to be doing little other than pissing off the assassin gynoid, and there was also the small matter of the flechete needles poking through her fingertips. The hell with this…

Without waiting for Campbell to fire another round of needles, Vicki hooked one finger under the gynoid’s left eyelid and another in her left nostril---and pulled. “Let’s see if you’re as bland on the inside as you are on the outside,” she quipped---immediately hating the line as soon as it left her lips. I seriously need to learn a few---

Her mental note ended rather abruptly as Miss Campbell threw her into the wall, knocking a fire extinguisher loose and rattling a nearby painting hard enough to knock it off its fixtures on the wall. Before the brunette gynoid could even get to her feet, Campbell took off for a run---towards the window. Vicki felt a flood of data enter her mind---she’s going to destroy herself to keep anyone from finding out who sent her after Tavares, she realized. Nice try…but….

“If you really want to reach the ground floor,” she called out, smirking, “you may need a bit of help…”

Five seconds before Campbell reached the window, a red-white blur slammed into her back---and slammed her through the window, and towards the ground below.

Note to self: work on making “spontaneous plans” less…spontaneously.

Even as she and her opponent fell, Vicki’s HUD lit up with information---wind speed, angles of descent, and a veritable onslaught of ways to keep herself from hitting the ground and shattering. One of the more promising ones happened to be a bus---a bus, she realized, that was approaching the intersection of Harmon Avenue and the main road of the Strip. Please brake, please brake…

The bus rolled to a stop at the end of Harmon Avenue.

Yes….and now, for my next trick…

Thanks to her shifting just a bit to the left, Vicki managed to control her rate of descent (as well as that of the assassin gynoid) just enough to hit the roof of the bus without denting it---quite a feat, considering their fall from the 15th floor of the LadyKiller. Ignoring the startled gasps from within the bus, Vicki rose unsteadily to her feet; All I have to do now is get to the elevator at the Encore, she mused, trick Fifty Shades Barbie here into following me, and---

A roundhouse kick to the side of her head ended that particular line of thought.

“Vick-Vick-Vicki-Vicki-Vicki LawLawLawLawLawLaw---“ Campbell’s head twitched to the right as servos in her neck rizzed; a thin ribbon of smoke was trailing out from between the gleaming metallic cheekbones on the left side of her face. “Vicki Lawson,” she repeated, “you wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii---“

The thunderous uppercut that smashed into her abdomen ended the glitching threat.

“I wiiiiiiiill not sit here and listen to you going on like a busted See’n’Say all night,” the brunette gynoid replied, cracking her knuckles for extra effect. “Who gave you the order to kill Darien Tavares and make it look like a suicide?”

Campbell’s head was now twitching to the left every three seconds. “That---information---is---classified,” she droned, her voice alternating in pitch with every syllable. “You---do not---have---access---“ Something within the left side of her head shorted out, followed by electrical smoke wafting out of her left ear. “Error---this unit is---Error----Error----“ The stricken gynoid reared back for a punch with her right hand, only for her left hand to suddenly start tearing at her shirt of its own accord. “This---unit---is----undergoing---“

“Would you please shut the Hell up?!” Vicki groaned, kicking the assassin gynoid in the shin.

To her annoyance, the gesture did little (if anything) to silence the malfunctioning gynoid---a fact made even worse by the sudden onset of seductive moans issuing from the raven-haired ‘bot. Her face (at least, the half of it that was left) was now frozen in a blissful moan as she staggered backwards.

You have got to be kidding me…

“Command…line…not…accepted,” Campbell moaned. “Oooh, YES! YESYESYESYES---brzt---ERROR---“

She doesn’t even rank an E on the Andrews Scale, Vicki realized. And here, I was worried about having to hold back… As Campbell continued spewing out a string of half-erotic nonsense punctuated by declarations of system errors, the brunette gynoid grabbed her around the waist (ignoring the shouts of apparent pleasure from her malfunctioning opponent) and hoisted her overhead in a version of the Fireman’s Carry. “Seeing as I don’t have to worry about standards and practices,” she called out, “here’s a little something---“

Campbell’s left hand blindly shot out, raking Vicki across the eyes.

“GAAAH!” The brunette gynoid fell to her knees, pitching Campbell onto her back. “Damnit,” Vicki angrily shouted, “do you have any idea how much my ocular sensors cost?! I mean---“ Her tirade faded into silence; the assassin gynoid was now flailing about, her hands ripping and tearing at her clothes (and flesh) with every spasming motion of her arms. Dark, viscous fluids were trailing from her eyes, nose, ears and mouth, as well as from behind what was left of her shirt (as evidenced by the two dark stains growing beneath the fabric). To Vicki’s disgust, a trail of the stuff was snaking down the assassin’s thighs and pooling on the metal roof beneath her---

Wait a minute.

A quick runthrough of her memories from the last year confirmed the worst: this was looking eerily similar to the Stylo-induced infection of the Coalition gynoid known only as Denise! If Stahl did this to her… It took every ounce of her resolve for Vicki to not think of beating Stahl’s face in with her bare hands; the bus was on its way to Caesars Palace, and unless Campbell was neutralized soon…

No. This ends now.

The bus rolled to a stop in front of Caesar’s Palace, and Vicki wasted no time in throwing Campbell off. Even as the passengers disembarked, staring in awe (and trepidation) at the scene before them, Vicki jumped down from the roof and slung the still-twitching assassin gynoid’s body over her shoulders. A quick glance in the direction of the tourists allowed the brunette gynoid to target---and disable---their cameras; I don’t need anyone posting about this on FaceBook, she noted, otherwise I’ll be in a world of trouble. The crowd was silent, for some strange reason---but to Vicki, that was all the better.

After what felt like half an hour, she reached the fountain. “Time to talk,” she droned, throwing Campbell off of her shoulders and into the water. “Who sent you to the LadyKiller to murder Darien Tavares?” she demanded. “ANSWER ME!”

The only reply she received was more twitching from the broken assassin.

“Who sent you to kill Darien Tavares?” Vicki growled, lifting Campbell by the hair. “TALK!”

Silence.

“One last time,” Vicki whispered. “Who sent you to the LadyKiller---“

Something inside Campbell’s torso pinged, and Vicki immediately dropped her. The pinging inside Campbell quickly turned into a loud rizzing noise---just as something burned a hole through the broken gynoid’s back with the intensity of a cutting torch. A smaller---but just as devastating fire---erupted within the raven-haired robot’s head, frying her processors and completely obliterating any and all files that could potentially lead to her employer/owner.

Damnit…

A few seconds after the pinging had begun, Campbell’s body stopped thrashing in the water. There goes my only lead for this whole thing, Vicki sulked. If I run, I can probably make it back to the hotel, change clothes and get on a plane before anyone from the ALPA---

“And CUT! PERFECT take, everyone, that’s definitely going in! Somebody get those two out of the fountain, okay?”

Before Vicki could even ask what the hell was going on, six guys in Universal Studios jackets walked out and grabbed the inert assassin gynoid’s body, zipping it up into a large tote bag. “And can we please get her dried off and ready for wardrobe? I do not want the DP yelling at me for delaying the shoot by even five minutes for the rest of the night..” Someone flung a towel around Vicki’s shoulders and guided her away from the fountain; seeing as how nobody has a gun to my head, she reasoned, I guess this isn’t as bad as it could be…

When she realized she was being led towards a van, that thought evaporated. WHY didn’t I take the ES9950?!

Thoughts of Jimmy Hoffa, Bugsy Seigel and others who “went for a ride” and never came back flooded through the brunette gynoid’s bubble memory processor as she was shoved into the van (it was actually a Hummer, but she could barely focus on the details at a time like this). She tensed, waiting for the feel of a pistol against her temple…

…and instead heard an all-too familiar chuckle. “So this is how you choose to enjoy the nightlife….”

“Anton?!” Vicki threw the towel off of herself, feeling equal measures of relief and annoyance; given what had just transpired, the presence of Professor Anton Malvineous was as unexpected as it was welcome. “How did you even---what the hell was all that movie stuff back there?!”

“Well,” Anton admitted, “we had to think of a logical reason for two women to be fighting on top of a moving bus and eventually getting into a wrestling match in the Caesars Palace fountain…so as soon as the manager of the LadyKiller called HQ and told them that someone broke one of his windows and left Darien Tavares dazed, confused and pants-less in his own room…we figured you could probably use a hand getting rid of Miss Campbell back there.”

“You knew?!”

“We had our suspicions. She was with Stahl last week, scoping out the Tropicana---supposedly, he had plans to get into a Mah-Johng tournament and win the entire pot---and she’s been spotted at airports with him for the past few months…we knew there was some connection, just not like this.”

Vicki sighed; “I came here to get intel on Hannsen, “ she muttered, “and I rip half of an assassin gynoid’s face off and leave her in the Caesars Palace fountain…I suck at this.” She propped her chin up on her hands and blew out an annoyed breath. “When does Oberon want me back in San Jose?”

Anton’s response was more than a bit surprising---he laughed.

“What’s so funny?!” Vicki demanded. “I screwed up---“

“Actually,” Anton admitted, “you did exactly what we needed you to do.” His laugh degraded into a chuckle, but the smile remained on his face. “Hannsen’s stopover in Vegas only amounted to a few scams against some high-rollers and an attempt to buy the land that the LadyKiller ended up being built on; judging from the hotel records and a few eyewitness reports, he didn’t bring his ‘work’ with him---and before you yell at me, you may be interested in the fact that Anders Stahl is currently on the ALPA blacklist for some, shall we say, not too pleasant dealings with ALPA and Coalition companies. Seems he has a nasty habit of using their cash to pay for his vacations in the Hamptons…”

“…and Campbell had his room key?” Vicki offered. “So you could get at Stahl’s computer---“

“More like Campbell was Stahl’s computer,” Anton corrected. “Three portable hard drives---one TB each---in her abdomen, with enough financial records and other assorted documents to connect Stahl to Hannsen’s little jaunt from two years ago…among other things.” He grinned. “Feel better about it now?”

Vicki returned Anton’s grin with one of her own. “Definitely. Now, then…where am I headed next?”

“Miami, Florida,” the famed roboticist replied. “Specifically, to track down one Björn Aaberg, a known associate of Anders Stahl….and, if the rumors are correct, Stahl’s premiere ‘cleanup man’.”

The grin that had crossed Vicki’s face earlier faded rapidly. “You mean ‘hitman’, right?” she murmured.

“Unfortunately, yes. According to the last count, Aaberg has ‘cleaned up’ after at least twelve different messes for Stahl over the past few months…and he’s considered the worst of the bunch. He’s got a whole cadre of them out at his Austrian estate…and if Aaberg is on the hunt, then that can only mean that Stahl’s getting paranoid again…and when Stahl gets paranoid, people disappear.”

Something about the name “Björn Aaberg” struck a chord with Vicki. “That name sounds familiar…has he been on the ALPA’s radar before now?”

“There was that incident at MIT earlier this year---not the one Faceless was involved with, obviously---and it’s believed that he also had something to do with rioting at a few of the Australian tour dates for the Starlet Dolls’ last tour…specifically, the one where one of the sponsors ended up dead. There’s been speculation that the riot was started to cover for Aaberg…but that’s beside the point. The fact of the matter is, he’s been on Stahl’s payroll for a good long while, and if he’s headed to Miami, then you need to get there before him and find out what, exactly, he intends to accomplish while he’s soaking up the sun.”

“And I’m guessing I also have to look into anything the Maestro may have been doing in Miami, while I’m at it?” Vicki inquired.

To her absolute lack of surprise, Anton nodded. “Aaberg may be retrieving Hannsen’s research while he’s in town,” he added, “so you’ll need to move fast---and avoid attracting his attention. If we can get to whatever it was that Hannsen was trying to work on in Miami, we might be able to figure out his next move…and before you ask how we know that he actually did anything in Miami, he left a single notebook in his hotel room.”

“So you’re just going to accept that notebook as proof?” Vicki frowned. “It could’ve been a false clue---“

“Trust me,” Anton assured her, “this notebook wasn’t a red herring. At least 30 pages in it correspond with the notes Ash Wakefield gave us on Project Epsilon---and if Hannsen was doing his own work on Epsilon, then we need to find out what else he might’ve been working on.”

If it’ll help restore Tony Sanderson to some degree of normal sanity… “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Excellent.” Anton smiled. “Oh, and no need to worry about the whole ‘fake movie’ thing, by the way---HQ is putting together an in-house project to explain the whole thing.” The familiar glint in his eye cued Vicki into the fact that she was probably going to groan at Anton’s next statement: “We were able to get Steven Segal out to the Chirkey Dam to film a few scenes for it,” he added, “and so far everything’s coming along swimmingly…we just need a convincing title, and the whole thing---“

Vicki’s overly-annoyed groan ended Anton’s spiel.

“Okay, okay! No more about the fake movie…in all seriousness, though, your flight for Miami leaves tomorrow morning at 6 AM. If you want---“

“A room at a hotel that’s as close as possible to the airport. And a change of clothes.”

“Done. And all of your belongings from the Encore are already being brought to the airport---by a few of our own ‘connections’.” Anton grinned. “Still think you ‘suck at this’?”

The brunette gynoid couldn’t help but grin. “Not at all, Professor,” she replied. “Not at all.”
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PART THREE COMING TOMORROW AFTERNOON

[DollSpace]

And so continues the adventures of our favourite gynoid! With the plot getting more complex, I look forward to reading the next chapter. I feel something is a little off about the pacing but I can't put my finger on it, so I'll wait till we get more of the story.

[LongTimeLurker]

Have you considered putting together a "who's who" for your stories, along with a glossary to cover things like Stylo and ALPA? I know you covered that in your history story, but I still get lost sometimes, and it'd be nice for a "reference" guide. A V.I.C.I.pedia of sorts

[DollSpace]

Have you considered putting together a "who's who" for your stories, along with a glossary to cover things like Stylo and ALPA? I know you covered that in your history story, but I still get lost sometimes, and it'd be nice for a "reference" guide. A V.I.C.I.pedia of sorts

That's a *bad* pun, bur those are the best!

And it's really odd cos I had the *samel* idea as I was going into standby! Go figure!