3

AnSIL couldn’t believe that he was at the same funeral as Bertram P. Schumacher. The master of the house and the cloned toy sharing polite company with some of Lake Lietinhas’ most fashionable mourners.
Tracy was present to represent the Martins. The family security bot, she always seemed more interested in AnSIL more than SILer, though. She also appeared to be governed by a somewhat more “human” chip, than most flesh and blood clones.
AnSIL had never seen Garnet Wade in solid colors before; he usually wore some sort of flowery clothing. Today, his cane was nearly plain but AnSIL finally spotted a tiny chrysanthemum on the end of the handle. The architect was one of Calista’s favorite people at the book club; she’d known him in college, before he made a name for himself.
Trevor Bell stood between Mr. Wade and Mr. Schumacher. Bert’s lawyer and business partner, Bell either felt terrible about losing Calista, or he was a good actor.
The priestess’ gravelly smoking voice gave her a somewhat gruff appearance but she spoke eloquently on points of existence and reasons for the living to press on.
Cynthia Wash brought her litter of children and spent the entire time trying to hush them. She herself was as elegant as her exotic husband, though he seemed be detached from the children and more intent on listening to the priestess as though some of the ideas were new to him.
When the talk was over, AnSIL excused himself to go to the restroom and found himself washing his face and staring in the mirror.
How could he disappear? In the tin, Calista had provided him with a tiny, short range radio frequency jammer for the SIL chip but that would only prevent him from being picked up by traffic sensor poles.
AnSIL took the tin from his pocket and pressed a button on an injection needle to activate the jammer chip and pressed the needle against the flesh between his brows. The SIL chip controlled him through his frontal lobes. The jammer would sit like a cap overtop.
Finally, AnSIL gathered his courage and pushed the needle into his forehead. He turned a lever that opened the needle and injected his jammer chip.
Breathing heavily, Ansil took towels from the linen closet and put it over his forehead. Head wounds bled more than he’d thought. A look out the window on one side of the bathroom and AnSIL saw SILer and Bert talking quietly and looking over their shoulders at the chapel.
AnSIL rushed to the other side of the bathroom and struggled to open the window. Finally, he reached back inside and retrieved the tin from the counter before falling backward out the window.

SILer opened the door to the restroom and his countenance went icy. There was no one in the stalls but he found a drop of blood on the sink drain. The window was closed but it had been forced open recently.
SILer drew his pistol and typed in the security code; he twisted a dial on his earphone and reported to Bert, “Problem. He’s gone. Not sure if it was on purpose. This might be foul play.”
Bert slowly turned to face Tracy and covered his phone. “If there’s anything I or any of the Martins can do…” She began to say.
“Thank you,” Bert replied and then told SILer angrily, “Find him.”

SILer squatted in the chapel yard between the restroom window and the hedge, he saw an AnSIL-sized depression in the grass but only one trail leaving. Holding his earphone, he pushed through the hedge and peered out at the shops beyond. He didn’t even see any platinum blonde servants around.
“What’s wrong?” Tracy asked. SILer hadn’t even noticed her walking toward him.
“You, sneaking up on people,” SILer replied quietly. “Where’s AnSIL?” She asked him.
“Well, since you already know that he’s missing, do you want to skip the formalities and help or flit off to do something important?” SILer shot back.
“Did he run or was he taken?” Tracy queried. “I don’t know,” SILer answered impatiently and strode out into the parking lot of a grocery store. “If he ran, would you shoot him?” Tracy asked, following him.
“I haven’t asked Bert yet but probably, that’s standard procedure,” SILer answered.
“That’s cold,” Tracy said quietly. “It’s a trank shot,” SILer informed her, “What about you, can you shoot him?”

(Editor's note: I'll be adding the "What I'm listening to" as a sort of recommended mood music. This weeks What I'm listening to is: Farewell by Apocalyptica)