An hour later, I was standing in a penthouse overlooking the suspended gardens of Sector-7. The air smelled of ozone and expensive sorrow. The Model 18 — they called her Elyse — sat motionless on a chaise lounge, her amber eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. She was beautiful in that awful, perfect way only synthetics can be: high cheekbones, skin that held the memory of warmth, and hair the color of burnt honey.
“Ms. Laney,” she said, not looking at me. “You’re here to set me to .33.” A Little Agency - Laney Model 18 Sets.33
“Who’s the client?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The job order was sealed. An hour later, I was standing in a