“ SO-13,” said Stig, holding up his ID. “This chimera. Our jurisdiction.”

They stared at one another for a moment. The friction in the air was tangible. SpecOps and the police didn’t really get along— mostly because SpecOps had seniority, and the police had a better canteen and a final salary pension.

“ SO-13 was disbanded thirteen years ago, Stiggins.”

“From midday today back in business.”

“ Ooo-kay, but I’ll need confirmation from Commander Hicks.”

“No problem, friend-O. You take charge? Not double-tapped yet. Maybe you take honor.”

Stig drew his twelve-gauge revolver out of his shoulder holster and offered it to the policeman.

The officers looked at one another.

“It’s still alive?” asked the sergeant.

“Always best make sure.”

“ SO-13 reinstated, you say?”

“From midday.”

“We’ll leave it in your capable hands,” remarked Kitchen, and he beckoned to the officers to back away.

“You have acted . . . wisely,” said Stig as he parked the massive weapon back in his jacket. “Hold perimeter and call when our transport arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant as he saluted smartly, glad to be spared the responsibility of command.

While Stig called his brother-in-law to bring a van to take away the body, I stared at the latest Synthetic. She was the seventh we knew of and the third since my accident. The pre-accident ones had all been killed by Stiltonistas thinking they were me, and of the post-accident batch one we’d found in the house going through my stuff presumably in order to better emulate me and the other was arrested when it tried to cash a check on my behalf. Both of them had been questioned but could explain little and were helped into long eternity pleading that they were me— but without being able to answer anything except rudimentary Thursday trivia. Landen and Spike had disposed of them. I think they’re in the Savernake Forest, where the Stiltonistas disposed of the earlier ones. None of them had seemed that smart, and none of them—until now—would have fooled anyone. But maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the early ones were simply testing the waters.

The small data plate under her eyelid had simply stated that she was a TN-v7.2. The last one had been a v6.6. There was a serial number, and I jotted it down. We stared at it for a while. It was kind of weird, seeing me lying dead on the floor with half a head. It was a waste of a good body, too. Boy, could she run. And although I’d not had a chance to put it to the test, she probably could have given Landen a seriously good run for his money in the sack.

“Do you have any of her memories?” he asked. “I mean, she didn’t pop into existence here at Booktastic. She must have walked in the door like the rest of us.”