The Woman Who Died a Lot

“We’ve got to be home at three,” I said. “Finisterre is taking me up to the Sisterhood to view the contents of their scriptorium.”

Then something occurred to me.

“Wait a moment,” I said. “That Synthetic wouldn’t have been activated without help, and she was barely two hours old.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Landen. “A cobwebby basement with ancient electrical equipment and a mad scientist? Or just a really large jar?”

“She’d certainly have been sealed in something. Hang on.”

I delved through my pockets—I was wearing her clothes, after all—and found a key card from the Finis Hotel.

15. Tuesday: The Finis

The Finis Hotel remains not the most luxurious or stylish of Swindon’s many hotels, but it is certainly the most notorious, with the ballroom and guest rooms host to more attempted coups, murders, formations of political splinter groups and subject to police raids than any other. It had become so notorious, in fact, that people came to holiday here simply to witness what management refers to as “the Finis’s diverse clientele and their antics.”

Swindon Tourist Board leaflet

The receptionist greeted me cheerily as we walked into the lobby.

“Welcome back,” she said brightly. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“In a manner of speaking. How long am I booked in?”

“Let’s see,” she said, looking at the screen set into the desk. “Two nights.”

“Did I arrive with anyone?”

Her eyes flicked to Landen. We were a recognizable couple in the city, and the Finis prided itself on its discretion.

“I’m a very understanding husband,” said Landen.

The receptionist said that someone named Mr. Krantz checked us both in, but we didn’t arrive together. I asked for a photocopy they had made of his ID, and she added that she had seen me only once recently—just before midday.

“Is Mr. Krantz okay?” she asked anxiously.

“Did he appear unwell?”

“A little. I offered to call a doctor, but he said it wasn’t necessary. Do you not remember any of this?”

“I’ve been having memory lapses. Which room am I in?”

“Jacob Z. Krantz,” I read from the copy of his ID as we took the lift to the top floor, “Laddernumber 673, based in Goliathopolis.” Anyone under a thousand was way up high in the upper echelons of the Goliath corporate structure. Last I heard of my old adversary Jack Schitt, he had entered the Goliath Top One Hundred at eighty-eight.

“Krantz is easily high enough to be involved in the Synthetic Human Project,” I murmured thoughtfully. “We’re here.”

The Formby was the largest and most luxurious suite in the hotel, right on the top floor. The room didn’t contain a large jar as Landen had suggested, but rather a human-size sarcophagus made out of Tupperware to ensure freshness. There was a large quantity of cellophane wrapping, an empty wooden crate that had once contained the sarcophagus, and several items of medical equipment. All the towels were sodden, and almost everything was covered with splashes of thick, fetid-smelling slime, the bathroom especially.

“This has a very military feel about it, don’t you think?” said Landen, rummaging among the bric-a-brac.

“I think even an idiot like me could bring one of these to life,” I replied, referring to a pictorial instruction card.

“If neanderthals were designed by Goliath as experimental medical-test vessels,” he said, “why not a disposable soldier? Volume trumps longevity if you’re thinking of a quick conflict.”

“It doesn’t explain what a corporate highflier like Krantz is doing in Swindon with a Synthetic,” I said. “What is Goliath up to?”

Landen said he had no idea, then opined that we shouldn’t be found here, to which I agreed. We took the elevator back to the lobby, but it was too late. The doors to the lift opened to reveal six Goliath operatives, all dressed in the signature navy suits and sunglasses of Goliath’s Internal Security Service. The one in front was holding a clipboard, and he would have been the boss.

We stopped and stared at one another. They knew who I was, that much was certain, but I think they were wondering which I was. I felt Landen’s hand move in the pocket where he kept his pistol. The man with the clipboard took off his sunglasses and looked at Landen. He’d seen him move, too. They’d all be armed. I thought the world of Landen but didn’t see how he could outshoot six highly trained Goliath security officers. I shifted my weight and might have winced. The Goliath agent looked at my stick, then smiled.