“That wasn’t a great print,” ROM said of the original image. “The computer cleaned it up, but there was some guesswork.”
Orbis nodded. “Ok. How old would you say he is? Say, seven?”
“Eh. Give or take. Sure.”
“Cool. Can you age him by, say, 20 years?”
“No problem,” ROM mused. Her fingers flew over the keys. Tikka-tikka-tikka… “But it ain’t going to be exactly like what this kid looks like now. And he’ll still be smilin’, since he was in the original. There was guesswork before, and there’ll be even more now. I mean, don’t they compare the kid with the parents and go from there?”
The man nodded. “I’ll deal. Go for it.”
“OK, Mista Man. This’ll take a few seconds.” ROM replied, and hit “Return.” Lines of light passed over the child’s head, and it began to spin and blur, as it aged and “grew” larger to the head of a young man. “OK,” ROM mused, looking at her screen. “Approximate age is 27.” She glanced over at the image and did an instant double take, her eyes wide. “You are shittin’ me.”
Orbis was already staring, his face an inhuman mix of satisfaction and rage.
“And, hey,” she said, “what’s say we grew his hair out and dye it black?”
“And let’s assume he looks as if he’s done a few rounds of steroids to bulk up,” Orbis added, his voice dangerously chipper.
With measured, deliberate strokes, ROM quietly set the new parameters.
It was Vagabond. Even with all the compu-guesswork. It was Vagabond.
The two were utterly silent for several seconds before ROM spoke. “Never saw him smilin’ befo’.”
“That son of a bitch,” Orbis whispered. He paused. “THAT SON OF A BITCH!” He grabbed the photo off the scanner, practically breaking it. ROM wanted, very much, to be just about anywhere else—now. “Can you burn that to a CD?”
“Uh. Sure. What—“
“That asshole has been lying by omission from the start!” Orbis raged. “And we fell for it! And for what? To ‘psychically shield’ us from kidnappings or attacks that never came? Bastard!”
“Orbis, get a grip…”
The man focused such a baleful glare on her that ROM’s voice curled up and blew away in her throat. “Hit Missing Persons. I can’t. I’ll be watched. I had to get all sanctimonious on my sarge about burying this. He’ll have eyes on me. ‘Young Vagabond’ has to be in some database somewhere. Then, hack into Paul Merryman’s bank account records. And assume something is being hid or has been covered up. I don’t care what you have to do. Pull up everything about that man.”
ROM whirled around to the computer. “But what am I lookin’ for?”
“A large monetary purchase.”
“How big?”
“Anything over 10 grand.”
“Why?”
Photo in hand, Orbis turned to leave. “Because I’m betting Merryman wasn’t his lover. He was his owner.”
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