Mid-January, on the helipad of Boston's Central Hospital: Jane Rizzoli was freezing, even in her parka, and it looked like snow was rolling in, clouds darkening the already somber late afternoon sky. She hugged herself, hunched her shoulders, and stamped her feet, trying to keep warm. She couldn't believe she was up here, but that was the job, right? She sighed, thinking of what her job used to consist of: the thrill of the chase, the rush of catching a murderer. The conviction of being on the right side. Diplomacy, with its duplicitous smiles and complicated social dances, was just not for her. But then, when the mayor of the city asks you to be robot-human liaison, you don't really turn her down. Jane thought back ruefully to the day two weeks ago when an envelope plump with important forms and encrusted with the city's crest had landed on her desk, as though that were the moment it had begun. As if the path to standing alone on the room of the hospital had started in the moment when she opened the envelope. As if it hadn't been in the works ever since the Screwtape Incident a month ago.

It's not that she distrusts the mayor, or is unaware of the honor; Jane just really doesn't like robots. Doesn't trust them. Thinks it's weird that they've taken over a country for their own use. She's young enough that she doesn't really remember Integration, or the war that swept the continent when she was two years old. During that war, the first to truly divide robots from their human creators, a treaty had been signed that allowed robots the run of what is still pretty much known as Canada. Not much blood had been shed then, but the robots made it clear: they were separate, equal, and deserved their own society. The potential remained for violence between robots and humans, Jane suspected darkly, and that was why she'd been appointed. The higher-ups wanted someone with experience in this position, someone who didn't trust the robots, not one bit. For as long as Jane can remember, robots have been the dark side, the shadow world. Those who remained in America after Disintigration were officially registered as Rogue Robots, resident aliens with a twist. It was rare that they stayed for any constructive purpose; in her former job as homicide detective (Jane thought with a bit of nostalgia) Jane's main interaction with robots had been as perps. There was no executing robots; they were put in deep freeze and sent back to Canada, where the robot government did god-knows-what with them. The robots hated America, and Jane Rizzoli hated the robots.

It was ironic, in a way, that she'd been chosen for this job. Kind of showed you that robot-human interactions weren't really the government's top priority at the moment, but there you were: Jane was possibly the least diplomatic person she knew, and she had a fierce temper. She was sure to screw this mission up. It almost made her wish for reinforcements, for other humans alongside her on the helipad, waiting for the mysterious robot doctor to arrive, but they were all inside. Curing the disease.

That was another thing that made her nervous. This virus wasn't of human origin, of that she was pretty much certain, although she knew less than nothing (she had to admit) about virology, plagues, biological warfare, whatever this was. All she knew was that suspicious deaths had started popping up on her radar a couple weeks back, deaths that, when she went to investigate, weren't human in origin. The victims looked like they'd been abused: some had fractured bones; many had nosebleeds, or blood in their ears, as if they'd suffered head trauma. But when the reports came back from the lab, they described a strange virus that liquified human bones, that ultimately went for the brain. Victims went mad, basically, from the pain; their bones fractured and disintegrated while they were still alive, and their soft tissues tore themselves apart. It was unlike anything human doctors had encountered before. Worse still, it was an unfocused killer; it seemed to go through periods of dormancy, where almost no new victims were infected, but there was the odd case that was so infectious it could take out an entire city block in under a week. There was no human who would have engineered this unless they themselves had a serious death wish. Robots, of course, were immune to it, and they had motive: a century of resentment against their human overlords had not quite dissipated even now that they had their own country.

Thinking about it now, Jane shivered herself. If there was anything she hated, it was something she couldn't control. This virus might not have a human form, but it was a killer for sure, one that Jane couldn't lock up and put away forever. It reduced her to trusting on another person to find the answers. Not just another person: a robot. A cold, untrustworthy, mechanical creep who was surely just being sent to cover up for the robot government's war against their human enemies. It was a Trojan horse, and not one they could refuse, not with the dead piling up and the human scientists still at a loss for a cure.

But this sort of rumination was not helpful, Jane chastised herself, tilting her head back once again and searching the skies for any sign of a helicopter. In preparation for the doctor's landing, she should try to focus, center herself, think positive things about the robots. She was going to have to work with one, after all. Her boss had explicitly told her that her job for the next week, month, whatever it took, was to watch this doctor: to make sure he was comfortable, and that he had everything she needed to make his job run smoothly. This task would be much easier if she were in the right frame of mind, Jane knew, and so she rehearsed again how she wanted this first meeting to go: the greetings she would use, the carefully neutral-yet-welcoming face she would put on. All she had to do today was to take the doctor to his hotel; that wasn't so hard. She could give a whirlwind tour of Boston on the way, despite the fact that her home city had been ravished by the plague, its streets emptied and its buildings neglected. She felt a flush of pride at her city as it once had been, and then the slow boil of resentment. The robots wouldn't appreciate the beauty of Boston, even if it were restored to its former glory. They were cold things, Jane thought, just cold pieces of metal and plastic and silicone. Not people. Not something she could negotiate with, or ever understand.

It was worse that she didn't know anything about the doctor who was coming, not even his name. Jane cursed the higher-ups who had rushed her briefing, telling her where and when to show up but not much else. Then again, it was possible that they didn't know either; the robot government had always been rather reticent with details. Not telling the human government the name of an important robot visitor seemed like just the kind of tomfoolery they would get up to: keep them off-balance, so they're even less prepared to deal with the robots. "I'll just look like an idiot," Jane muttered to herself. What was she supposed to say? "Hi, they didn't tell me who you were." It felt like she was being punished for crimes she hadn't committed, and the weather was co-operating, the cold biting through her parka with the sharpness of a thousand knives. She'd grown up in Boston, she should be used to the weather, but today was the coldest she could remember Boston ever being.

It was almost dark by now. Jane gave in and stripped her glove off, flexing her fingers to keep them from freezing while pushing her sleeve back so she could see her watch. It was nearly four o'clock; the doctor was over an hour late. (Weren't robots supposed to be exact and scientific?) She amused herself by thinking up potential names for the doctor. Albert? George? How did robots even get names, anyway? Were they assigned at birth―as they were pushed off a conveyor belt? By whom? Were robots born adult-sized? How many robots were assembled a year in order to replace those who broke or wore out? Jane didn't know the answers to any of these questions, she realized. She was remarkably ill-equipped to act as robot-human liaison.

Her reverie―the swirl of storm clouds on the horizon was almost hypnotizing at this point―was broken by the faint sound of an approaching motor. She squinted; out of the clouds was emerging a black dot that looked like it might be a helicopter. Jane straightened up, brushed some ice crystals from her hair, and was grateful that it hadn't quite started snowing yet. The racket of the helicopter increased until it drowned out the howl of the wind.

The helicopter touched down, and Jane braced herself against the draft, squinting to see who would emerge. All she could see was the pilot, bundled up and talking into his headset; she couldn't tell if he was robot or human, although there was no reason for his muffler and down jacket if he was a robot. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the slowly spinning blades of the helicopter, and then the door opened and a ladder was dropped out. A leg descended, clothed in impeccably tailored trousers and concluding in a stiletto-heeled, leather boot, and connected with the first rung. There was a pause as its owner re-calibrated its balance, and then a body followed, clad in a light jacket belted at the waist, and a head crowned with perfect, dirty-blonde hair. The doctor was in the shape of a woman, and a very attractive woman. Jane found herself swallowing nervously before crossing the tarmac to extend her hand. At the last minute she decided to take her glove off, which made her a second late to meet the hand the doctor extended in response. A tiny, pained smile appeared on that preternaturally flawless skin (it's not skin, she reminded herself, it's some kind of composite plastic thing), and Jane broke out in a flop sweat despite the cold.

"Jane Rizzoli," she said, trying to recover. Flashing a smile of her own. "Nice to meet you." (She hoped the robot couldn't tell it was a total lie.) "And you are?"

The woman took her sunglasses off, fixed Jane in her intense gaze. "They did not tell you my name? Very well. I am Doctor Maura Isles." Her handshake was firm, precise, her speech quiet but focused. She didn't seem to pick up on the fact that Jane loathed her on principle; in fact, she didn't seem to pick up on anything about Jane at all. She might as well be a lump of ice for all Doctor Isles cared, Jane grumped to herself, but she forced herself to be polite.

"Do you have a bag I can take, Dr. Isles?"

Again there was a flash of those eyes. "All I need is in this briefcase."

"I'm sorry, I was given to understand that you were undertaking extremely sophisticated inquiry into the nature of this disease," Jane said, a little bitterly. If this is all the robots could think to send, why even bother?

"Your point being?" Doctor Isles' voice was level.

"I thought you'd bring a little more equipment."

The doctor smiled quietly again, but avoided Jane's question. "Your hand is extremely cold; we should go inside as quickly as possible." Only then did she drop Jane's hand and turn to go inside, looking regal. Jane hurried ahead of her to open the door; she could feel the helicopter starting up again behind her, leaving her alone with this...robot. She followed Doctor Isles into the warmth of the hospital.