Page 16 of Artificial Moon

“The billionaire?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you need my help with this one, Sam.”

“Ya think?”

“No matter how smart or clever the robot man is, he shouldn’t be able to hide from me—but he might know you might be using a distant viewer.”

“How would he know that?”

“Because it’s within the realm of possibility. Even police use us.”

“Okay, fine. How would he combat it, then?”

“Mask his energy signature?”

I shake my head, marveling all over again at the kinds of conversations I find myself in these days. “And how would he do that?”

“By shutting down those parts of the body not needed. In short, switching off cells that aren’t being used. That would effectively—and temporarily—unalive parts of his body and decrease his energy output enough that I can’t track him.”

I shake my head. “I seriously doubt the AI will take things to such extremes.”

“Well, it might, if it wants to stay in control of its host, but we don’t have to worry about any of that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m already seeing him.”

“Based on the picture I showed you?”

“Yeah. He’s in a work room of sorts, under the city streets. He’s a shell of his former self, if I had to guess. He’s cold, but he’s fighting it. He’s scared, but he’s fighting that, too.”

“Maybe we should go back to your place and do a more controlled reading,” I suggest. “I may want to leap straight to him if we can zero in on where he’s hiding.”

“Sounds good. Might be the easiest case you’ve ever had.”

“Famous last words,” I say, standing and snatching my purse. I drop my phone in it and reach inside for my keys. “You ready?”

“Yeah, but I may need you to drive me home. I’m feeling a little tipsy.”

“I’ll do you one better,” I say.

“Bathroom?” she suggests.

“Yup.”

Which is where we head to next, cramming our way into a narrow stall. With the chatter of other women at the sink—along with the sounds of flushing and the clacking of heels on tiles—I take my friend’s hand and summon the single flame. I see within it her simple living room—and we make the leap to her apartment.

Chapter Seven

Shortly, we’re in Allison’s bedroom, where she just settles in to what she calls her ‘Spirit Chair,’ which is really just an overstuffed, suede recliner that looks comfy as hell.

“I’m ready, Sam. Are you locked in?”

She’s talking about being locked into her mind, where we share a special telepathic link.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

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