Mitchell Smith lived in one of those pseudo-organic communal living spaces that some called “revived” suburban housing. Century-old static houses stood in a state of disrepair worse than her childhood home, their roofs missing tiles like gaps in teeth. Dynamic, blox-based rooms stuck out in odd places. Fences that used to separate the properties lay in pieces. Windows had been replaced in haphazard fashion with solar glass or left open to the elements. People called it outside-in living. Maximum nature, minimal privacy.

Bots were everywhere—moving with purpose, parked, or standing in half-broken states. Signposts proclaimed the area a “bot sanctuary” and laid out terms that prohibited any violence against the machines. They drove past a two-story house whose sprawling yard was covered with first-generation kitchens and obsolete single-purpose units—floor cleaners, clothes folders, washers, dryers—as well as broken-winged drones, and even some rusted vehicles.

“What the hell do you think they’re saving these for?” Welga said. “Memorabilia?”

Olafson snorted. “I don’t know, but they must love the Machinehood’s manifesto if this is how they treat bots.”

“Seems like a waste not to recycle them into functional units.”

They approached the house where Smith lived. A small group of children played on the weedy lawn, getting an early start to beat the day’s heat. They stopped to stare at her and Olafson when they exited the car, the only powered vehicle in sight. A dog barked, its tail wagging, as an older child held it by the collar. The front doorway stood empty of an actual door.

A lean man wearing pants and shirt in basic beige, with graying blond hair and blue eyes, approached them when they entered.

“Please be welcome. I’m Mitchell Smith. We have some seating in the kitchen, if you’ll follow me, and a privacy threshold there.” He ushered them with a pale, age-spotted hand.

The entryway to the kitchen had a zapper, but the tray held only a few microdrones. This neighborhood had little attraction for the tipping public. A kitchen unit had replaced the old appliances, and the cabinets had been converted into open hydroponic trays. Piped sunlight shone from fiber-optic tubes and filled the room with natural color. Mint, oregano, and thyme scented the air.

Welga sat and slipped off her shoes. The soles of her feet cooled as they rested on the grass floor. Olafson deployed their privacy measures—bug detectors, signal jammers, and voice cancellers. Smith raised an eyebrow but kept silent as Olafson worked. They’d advised the doctor on when to expect them and what agency they represented, but not their reason for coming.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, Dr. Smith,” Olafson began. “This conversation will be recorded and held confidential. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Did you treat Jun-ha Park?”

“I did.”

“And as part of that, did you collect his genetic information?”