Read Cretaceous Clay and The Black Dwarf Page 14

  ~~~~~~

  It took a little more than ten minutes, before he guided the Andromeda onto the street. He enjoyed driving with the autopilot and navigation system off.

  On the ground, traffic streamed to and fro in Nodlon’s morning rush. Jack steered the flyer towards the low altitude flight lanes to escape the traffic. He pulled back on the controls, and the flyer climbed into the free flight space above the city.

  Breaking free of the controlled flight zones, Jack flew up over the mountains. Dawn unfolded over the eastern flanks of the Rockies. It was a magnificent view, the mountains gently rolled west into the vanishing twilight. Snow capped the higher peaks. Homes, apartment towers, and shops and businesses covered the foothills, and climbed up the southern side. Rising high over the peaks, they had a view of deep valleys full of pines, cottonwoods, and sequoias clutching the ridges. Little rivers glittered in the early morning light. Spring snow melt fell from the glaciers, and collected in tiny mountain lakes.

  He steered towards the New Swan, staying in the civilian flight area around the castle. The flyer’s monitor guided him away from the castle’s restricted zone.

  “Andromeda, this is Air Control,” a flight controller announced from his dashboard. “You are about to enter restricted airspace. Please acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledged, Cretaceous Clay here, my monitor shows us in civilian space, Ground Control. Please advise.” A transparent bubble shaded red surrounded the New Swan, the Crown, and the Octagon. His monitor displayed limited access corridors for space, high speed and commuter flights.

  “Understood Mr. Clay, please state your destination.” The map on the monitor dissolved. In its place, red bubbles mushroomed over the city.

  “Our destination is Blueberry Lake recreation area. A murder victim’s body was found in the lake this morning, and Nodlon Yard has asked me to act as a consultant. I didn’t realize the air map had changed.”

  “Understood, sir, please proceed west to the northeast commuter corridor. Follow the corridor back towards Collins field, and take the chute to Blueberry Lake. I will clear you from here. Please acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledged,” Clay shared a silent moment of dismay with Shotgun as the controller rattled off some perfunctory closing remarks and instructions. Jack flew west in silence.

  “Are we at war already?” asked Shotgun.

  “Hope not.” Jack searched the sky for signs of Martian ships. “Don’t see anything wrong.”

  Air buoys with beacons and signs directed traffic in the corridor. They saw nothing unusual in the clear, morning sky, other than the heavy traffic. Frightened Nodlons headed northeast to the sanctuary of distant villages and towns. Waiting for an opening, a few flyers and an air cargo carrier the size of a barge passed them.

  Seeing an opening, Clay joined the traffic. He followed the air buoys to the chute marked, “Blueberry Lake.” He turned towards the lake. The lake waited for the dawn in the shadow of the Matterhorn. Egg shaped on one end, and the shape of a lobster’s claw on the other end, the lake’s two lobes joined in a narrow strait at the end of a promontory jutting from the Balmhorn. The flyer dropped quickly to avoid the restricted zone, and he leveled off in a graceful curve around the Balmhorn.

  Flying over the Balmhorn’s summit, they saw the sun crest on the Matterhorn. Atop the Matterhorn, the New Swan glittered in the rising sun. Following the chute of anti-gravity buoys to the lake, they flew over the forest on the Balmhorn’s ridges.

  “Awesome,” muttered Shotgun. Clay twisted the little flyer so they took in more of the view. Individual trees stood out on the ridges, challenging the ice for dominion of the mountain. Over the ridge, the buoys followed the slope to the lake’s beach and stopped.

  Clay drove the flyer over the lobster’s claw through the strait and around the Balmhorn. A lodge nestled against the foot of the Balmhorn hiding in the trees on the west side of the lake. The ridge jutting into the lake protected the lodge from avalanches.

  A few dozen boats were still moored in the lake’s small marina. The marina divided the park, which continued to the lake’s small end. Just yards from the shore behind a clump of trees, an industrial plant of some kind was visible from the air, but not the ground.

  At the end of the lake, the shore turned and hugged the foot of the Matterhorn. The shore ran the length of the mountain past the promontory to the ridge of the Balmhorn. A smattering of spruce, larch and pine struggled up the mountain from the pebble beach to the tree line. Above the trees, a seven story tiara of black glass jutted from the side of the mountain. The western Crown nearly encircled the mountain with overhanging restaurants, and a graceful observation deck, before burying itself into the mountain’s core. Just beyond the Crown’s southern edge, and below the deck was a curtain of bird netting over the cooling vents.

  Flying above the lake, it required no effort to see where they needed to go. Between the lodge and the marina, a cluster of emergency vehicles beckoned with their all too familiar lights.

  Jack sailed the flyer down to the water, and parked well beyond the last police cruiser. Not far away, a water cycle waited to be taken for a ride.

  In the crisp morning air, the placid lake tangibly expressed tranquility. Over the lake, ducks flew towards a destination chosen before the time of man. Birds of prey circled lazily, watched by scavengers. Far across the lake a loon called. A family of grebes swam among the round stones at the end of the beach.

  Fire engines, ambulances, and police interceptors surrounded a half circle of tape holding back a crowd of early birds. Emergency lights cast macabre colors over the lake. The crime scene disturbed the tranquility.

  Jack briefly noted the eerie resemblance to the scenes in some of his shows, and then pushed the thought aside. A girl died here last night. The reality sobered him.

  Walking up to the tape, no one challenged them. Curiosity about the unexpected appearance of so much commotion consumed the few onlookers gathered on the quiet recreation spot. Elderly yachtsmen, retired government servants, troubadours and gold diggers, mingled in shared concern.

  Shocked by discovering violence on the placid lake, fear united the knot of onlookers. Idling by the knot, Jack approached a young elf wearing a Crime Scene Investigation uniform.

  The elf stopped him, “Sorry, Mr. Clay, authorized personnel only.”

  He started to say something, when he overheard Gumshoe.

  “There you are Jack.” The elf turned to the Inspector. “Let him through Gomer, let him through. I sent for him.”

  “Yes sir,” said the elf. Gomer stood aside and let Jack and Shotgun approach.

  Passing the tape, they closed on a knot of emergency personnel clustered around a stretcher. An ambulance shielded the body from a bevy of broadcasting vans. Reporters recorded the untimely passage of the maiden.

  Jack flipped up the hood of his cloak, hiding his face. Avoiding attention, he starred down at his soft leather boots crunching on gray pebbles. He heard his butler grouse, “Step on it boss, the vultures haven’t seen us yet.” Speeding up, they reached cover behind a huddle of police and firemen.

  Crime scene techs worked diligently while the remaining personnel stood by gawking. Uniformed officers, firemen, and medics chatted with each other. Clay overheard wild speculation. If Nodlon’s finest believed such nonsense and spread rumors and fear, how much more would the public react? The fear of a panic throughout the city took on a reality for Clay he had heretofore not considered. Who knew what would happen if the city’s biots feared slaughter? Limited in prospects and exploited for labor, nonetheless, they were safe from crime and illness. What would they do if they thought the police were powerless to stop a sociopathic lunatic hell bent on murdering them?

  “Good to see you, Jack. What took so long?”

  “All the air space over Nodlon is restricted. We had to fly twenty miles out of the way and catch the Northeast corridor, and come down the chute over the Balmhorn. It would ha
ve been faster following you up the California tunnel and taking the Old Road.”

  Gumshoe’s face darkened. “War’s afoot. It’s a nasty business.”

  “What are our chances?”

  The Inspector shrugged. “Don’t know.” Worry worked its way over his jowls.

  Jack studied the detective. He knew Gumshoe had served in the military, but that was before Jack was born. Standing on the shore, Gumshoe’s his girth spill over his belt. He had hard time imaging the detective humping it over an infantry course.

  “What happened?”

  “We won’t know the full story until the coroner finishes his autopsy. She’s been in the lake for several hours. She didn’t drown. She was dead when her killer threw her into the lake. We’re searching the shore line for any sign of where the killer dumped her. The couple who called us found her on the beach.”

  “Dumped?” interjected Clay.

  “Yes, dumped Jack. Filthy swine probably takes more care with his trash. I assure you, I’m doing everything I can to stop this fiend, that’s why I’ve asked you two to help. If we can find justice on this side, I mean to find it.”

  “How can someone abuse her, kill her, and dump her?” Shotgun asked. “I see it, but I just don’t understand it.”

  “What do we know about the victim?” asked Jack.

  “It’s Anna McCarthy all right. We’ve confirmed she worked for an engineer named Khan, a Colonel. Anna was seen at your show on Sunday.”

  “My show?”

  “Yeah, they sent her up to the Crown to fill in for a handmaid who was sick.”

  “Oh no, I bet Princess Virginia doesn’t know.”

  “Great, just what I need. A tie-in to the Crown.”

  “What about the Colonel?”

  “No, we haven’t been able to reach him for an interview. He’s sharp. His bio says he’s been a department head for years, and he holds a doctorate in physics. No reason to think he has any idea why his secretary may have suffered foul play.” Gumshoe looked at the body on the stretcher. “And there’s one very odd clue I’m hoping you can shed light upon.”

  “What?”

  “All of her blood’s gone. No sign of a needle, an IV, cuts or any other source of bleeding. It’s as though the killer used magic.”

  Jack pondered this information, “Have you checked the nose, or her mouth or throat for signs of hemorrhaging?”

  “No, but I’ll let the crime scene technicians know. Want to look at the body?”

  “No, but I suppose I must.” He girded himself for the ordeal.

  One tech was packing physical and chemical samples, and another was carefully uploading their findings.

  “Zach,” said Gumshoe, “let us see the remains.”

  “Yes sir,” said the tech. He stopped packing and opened the white bag containing Anna’s remains.

  “Gumshoe, I have seen her before,” Stunned, Jack teetered.

  “Steady, Jack,” Gumshoe took his arm.

  “She was at my last show.”

  “Can you tell me anything?”

  “Yeah, she showed up with Princess Virginia’s entourage. She was the Princess’s handmaiden. She was paired off with a dwarf boy named Nicholas. They didn’t seem to be together. It was hard to tell, the dwarves both seemed pretty nervous.”

  “Great, Jack, so now I’m going to have to tell the Princess her handmaiden was found floating in Blueberry Lake.”

  They quickly surveyed her body head to toe and front and back. Jack restrained revulsion.

  “It gets worse than that. The Princess saw me in confidence. I’m violating my oath to her by telling you. We can’t let anyone know the Princess came to me that night.”

  “Fear not, Jack, discretion is my middle name. But the Princess may be in danger.”

  “What would the connection be?” Jack grimaced, and his brow furrowed. “Martian agents trying to infiltrate the palace? The King could be in danger too.”

  “Yes, it’s a possibility. We’re all worried about a war with Mars. And Mars certainly wants a war with us. But don’t forget, Jack, biots are people, too. Anna’s pretty, and no bigger than a teenager. On the street, she’s just another black dwarf. Some sick monster may have picked Anna at random. Keep all your theories open until the evidence falsifies one of them.”

  “Why her, Gumshoe? I don’t believe in coincidences either.”

  “Suit yourself, I don’t go in for mumbo-jumbo, but then I don’t presume to know what’s going on. The universe is too big for me. Maybe mother earth or some other god just wants to help us out – and bring the fiend to bar. It wouldn’t be the first time a higher power gave me a hand.”

  “I hope you’re right, Gumshoe, I think we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  A golf-ball sized black spot marred Anna’s forehead. Clay knelt beside the stretcher and bent over her to study the mark. The bruise surrounded a small scar.

  “Shotgun, see that scar on her forehead?”

  Shotgun examined the wound on Anna’s forehead. “Are you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “It’s blown out from the inside, as if the killer ripped the chip out of her,” said Jack. “Excuse me, Zach; did you see this scar on Anna’s forehead?”

  “I’ve got the small contusion on her forehead catalogued,” said Zach. “Whoever killed her must have pulled her microchip. She wasn’t wearing it when we found her, and we haven’t found it yet.”

  “Did you find any other cuts or abrasions, Zach?”

  “No sir, perhaps the coroner will find something to explain the missing blood, but I’ve checked everything I can here in the field. The wound on her forehead is too small to account for the blood loss.” The tech shifted uneasily.

  “Course you have,” reassured the older man trying to calm the nervous dwarf.

  Seeing nothing else obvious to the layman’s eye, they made short work of their examination and beat a hasty retreat. They huddled together at the edge of the lake. Gumshoe contemplated the dark blue water of the lake. “Well sports fans, can you tell me anything?”

  “Other than what you know?” asked Jack. “Have you found any boyfriends?”

  “I’ve got uniforms working on checking out possible boyfriends. So many biots are missing; it’s hard to tell if any of them has a connection to McCarthy.”

  “Give it some thought Jack,” said Gumshoe.

  “If he’s a magician, he has powers I don’t have. That or powers I don’t understand. Gumshoe, please remember, everything I know, I taught myself. I’ve never sucked out anyone’s blood before. I’m not sure how to do it or even if it can be done.”

  “We can rule out vampires,” said Gumshoe, “both supernatural and mortal. We’ve found no marks on or near major arteries. Many psychopaths drain their victim’s blood for bizarre rituals. But, I’m stumped as to how the blood could be taken. Now, you know someone is able to do it. I need to know if it’s magic.”

  “It’s beyond me. I have no idea how the blood was taken. Sucking all the blood out of innocent maidens isn’t a part of my show.”

  “Jack, I’m thinking is that you’re not alone.”

  “Thanks, at least I’m not a suspect.”

  “Fortunately, you have an excellent alibi. You were home all night. I took the liberty of checking Babel Tower’s security cameras, and the garage lock down. Your flyer never left its parking space.”

  Jack’s hair prickled.

  “Don’t let it bother you Jack, I’m not just doing my job. I’m making sure I have all the exculpatory material a young magician needs for a long and full life.”

  “Thanks, Gumshoe; do have any other suspects besides your consultant?”

  Gumshoe put his hands in his pockets, shook his coat, and studied his wingtips. “No, I’m stumped.”

  Stop Before We Run Out of Biots

  Clay studied his reflection in the lake. “If we don’t find the answer and stop this soon, there may
be a panic. Biots may be classified as property but they still fear for their lives. The rumors have begun of magic, aliens, or monsters being behind the disappearances. We overheard the dwarves talking. Someone suggested it might be Noddie.”

  “What will happen if the dwarves start thinking a crypto-zoological dragon lives in the mines under the city, and comes up to eat dwarves?”

  “They’re already thinking it, Gumshoe.”

  Gumshoe gazed wistfully over the water watching the ducks dive. “I’ll have to have remote surveillance bring up a robot submersible to check the lake.” Stepping away from Shotgun, he took Jack’s elbow. “Worse, what happens if they think we can’t stop it? They may flee in terror. And if the public believes we’re not trying, there could be a revolt. The royal family, a couple of opposition parties, and some celebrities such as you care about biots. Parliament, the bankers, and least of all the agencies don’t.”

  Taken aback by the Inspector’s intensity, Jack felt numb. “If it comes to that, I’ll support you. You’re a good man, Gumshoe, and I know you’re doing your best.” He looked at the ambulance with the remains of the late Anna McCarthy.

  “Dozens of dwarves are unaccounted for, all young. Over half are boys. If the biots think we don’t care, I’m not sure what they’ll do.” The Inspector swung his arms and bounced on his toes, driving away the chill on the lake.

  “Zodiac signs,” said Jack, “nothing on camera. No record of her chip in the security system. No witnesses other than two elderly citizens of feeble constitution and a tenuous grasp on reality. And now Anna’s turned up without any blood. The supernatural stirs the imagination, and we cannot keep these facts secret for long. The biots are scared for themselves and for those they love. We’ve got to stop this before we run out of biots.”

  “Only one murder,” said Gumshoe. “The rest of the missing dwarves may still be alive. Biots are over half the population. If fear grips the biots too, we’ll lose it. The city will panic for sure.”

  “Keep it under wraps,” Clay suggested. “Don’t let anyone know.”

  “How? It’s all over the net. The biots are scared. Even if we pull the plug, they tell their dorm mates. It’s easy on normal cases to ask for confidentiality, but this is no normal case. All of Nodlon will know in a few days. If I try keeping it a secret, everyone will know before lunch.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you any more than this,” Jack said. “The only thing I can think of is finding out how Anna came to be here.”

  “Not sure, snow melt feeds the Lake, and it drains into the Manna coolers. The whole park is under the Ministry’s jurisdiction, and I’ve asked them for a schematic of the drains, but it doesn’t make any sense. No sewer drains into the Lake, not even from the Crown or the palace.”

  “Magic? Could there be any magical connection to the Lake?”

  “You’re the expert there Jack. You’re the only known magician in these parts. If the killer can use magic, then you’re not alone. If the killer isn’t a magician, he’s got new technology we haven’t heard of. I’m not sure which is worse. One more thing, Jack, if the killer is a magician, he’s bound to know you’re on his trail. It’s all over the vid and the net. And that means he knows you know about magic.”

  “Maybe, I’m in danger?”

  “It’s no secret you’re working with the Yard.”

  Pebbles grinding under foot interrupted their conversation, and Shotgun rejoined them.

  “Gentlemen,” said Gumshoe, “thank you for your time. Keep in touch, developments may happen at any time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a mountain of paperwork. Later.” Gumshoe left them on the pebble beach.

  Emergency vehicles pulled away from the shore, and down the park road. Without the deceased to attract a crowd, the onlookers drifted away, and returned to their vacations. Life continued, reflected Jack.

  Jack and Shotgun walked down the beach, and crouched under the tape strung to a pole hammered into the beach. They passed a water bike and a canoe, and reached the Andromeda. The sporty little flyer resembled a miniature spacecraft, and seemed particularly strange sitting on a grassy knoll just a few feet from the Lake.

  They enjoyed the cool spring breeze off the Lake. Nearing the flyer, they watched people wander by. Retirees and families with children joined the crowd asking the onlookers what had happened.

  A young boy ran down the road from the lodge shouting his name. “Mr. Clay, wait.”

  They waited for the boy to close the few yards still separating them. The boy stuck out his hand, and grinned ear to ear. “Wow, you’ve made my day!”

  “Put her there pal.” He shook the boy’s hand.

  A lithe woman in a white sailing outfit joined them. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clay.” She spoke in the nasal tone of Nodlon’s upper crust. “We didn’t expect to see you here.” She tried to excuse the breach of decorum. “He loves your shows, and when he saw your flyer, he bolted.”

  Ignoring her embarrassment, he held out his hand, and she took his. Before letting her shake, he gripped her fingers, and kissed her hand with a peck. “My pleasure, mum.” He added a hint of the same nasally tone, hoping she would take it as a complement rather than mocking. “Always ready to greet a fan.”

  Catching Shotgun’s eye, he winked. Shotgun pulled a tee-shirt out of the back of the flyer, and handed it to him.

  He knelt, and crouched on his heels. “Would you like it autographed?” The boy’s face brightened, his eyes widened and he flashed a toothy grin. “Oh yes, please Mr. Clay.”

  Following the boy’s look, he milked the scene for all the sap he could manage. “That is if your mother approves?”

  “Mommy, may I have a tee-shirt?” To pitch his case, the kid added, “It’s autographed!”

  Defeated by his logic, she sighed. “Yes, but how much does it cost?”

  The boy looked at him. “How much is it Mr. Clay? Mommy has lots of money.”

  “For you, I’m running a special today. It’s free. What’s your name?”

  “Ray,” the boy said, “Ray Hubris.”

  Jack pulled a black marker from his cloak. “To Ray Hubris, a big fan, Blueberry Lake,” he wrote. He signed the missive, and handed the shirt to the boy. “Don’t be afraid to wear it. It’s stain proof and washable.”

  “Thank you!” Ray gushed.

  “You’re welcome. You’re very polite.” He held out his hand again to the woman in white.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clay.” Ray’s mother sounded pleasant, but her eyes darted to the crime scene.

  “Pleasure ma’am and here’s a token for you as well.” Jack smiled, ever the happy warrior, and handed her the pen. She gave him a thin smile and dropped the pen in her satchel.

  They climbed into the Andromeda before any other fans cornered them. Shotgun gazed wistfully over Blueberry Lake. “Too early to pick any blueberries.”

  “Yes, but as we are here, let’s take a spin across the lake, there’s something I want to look at.”

  Firing up the flyer, they lifted off and turned towards the end of the Lake. Just inches above the water, the flyer churned the placid water. Jack steered the flyer towards the cooling vents. In minutes, they reached the opposite shore, and he switched to flight mode and lifted off.

  Carefully hugging the trees, he watched his altimeter and the restricted zone altitude closely.

  The cooling vents covered the lower third of the cliff. Above the vents, the southwest face rose to the Crown’s southern anchorage. Up close, a mesh protected the cooling vents.

  Shotgun broke the silence. “What are we looking for?”

  “Nothing in particular, curiosity I suppose. I’ve been to Blueberry Lake many times, but I want a closer look today. Nodlon’s engineers hid the manna generator’s cooling towers by building them into the backside of the Matterhorn. Since the mountain is artificial, I wonder if the cliff is part of the mountain’s original shape, or if that’s artificial too?”

>   Quickly, Shotgun fired up his tablet, and called up Nodlon’s original designs. “The original cliff was a guide. The towers ran up to the top of the mountain. They built the Crown using the original mountains as foundation stones.”

  Jack pulled the controls, and the flyer peeled away from the vents. They sailed over the tops of the thin spruce. Straggly pines struggled to survive at the foot of the cliff. Jack guided it back towards the water.

  From tree height, they flew over the plant at the tip of the lake. Men and machines moved on mysterious errands under the trees. The men disappeared again as he flew down to the beach. Steering the flyer back to the road, he reset the flyer to ground effect and turned towards Nodlon.

  “Chalk one up to the Ancients. When they dreamed big, they meant big.”

  “No point in flying, we might as well take the mountain road.” They took the park road down the west side of the Balmhorn to catch the Old Road.

  The park road ended at the Old Road. The Old Road ran from Blueberry Lake through the mountains to the sea. To the west, a fence blocked the ancient highway.

  Jack felt a chill seeing the fence. A band of teens in a rented ground-car had challenged the Wild West a few years previously. They had told friends they were just going on a picnic at Blueberry Lake to see how the humans live. The Nodlon Defense Force had found the car abandoned just a dozen miles west. An exhaustive search never turned up any sign of the missing teenagers.

  “The road of bandits, backwoodsmen, and Sasquatch,” muttered Shotgun.

  Jack turned east, towards home. “Tales told in the bars in Deep Nodlon, Shotgun, by ne’er do wells who fancy themselves in the likes of Stanley and Livingston.”

  “I wouldn’t take that road,” said Shotgun, “if the only other choice was the road to hell.”

  The cracked pavement was no obstacle to a flyer, but Jack would never drive the Old Road to the west.

  “Not without a military escort,” said Jack. Turning the other way, they plunged into the tunnel under the Matterhorn.

  Café Des Moulin

  Jack parked the flyer under the mall, and soon he and Shotgun emerged into the middle of the morning bustle on the streets of Nodlon. Dashing through an opening in the traffic, they crossed half of Jackson Boulevard. Hesitating a moment on the median for another break, they darted across the other half to the sidewalk on the other side.

  Shotgun shielded his face as a ground car sped by. “Couldn’t we just follow the traffic signals?”

  Striding through busy shoppers, Jack said, “Where would be the fun in that? Don’t you want to live dangerously, my man?”

  “Boss,” Shotgun ran to keep up with the long legged mage. “Keep the danger, and I’ll keep the living.” Breathless, he nearly bowled into his employer when Clay stopped abruptly. Stepping around the elf, Shotgun spied the Café des Moulin, Jack’s favorite spot for imbibing a rich, creamy repast and a beverage of aromatic stimulants.

  Louis appeared in short order, gushing at their arrival. The maître d’ seated them at a sidewalk table.

  “Thank you, Louis,” said Jack, palming a tip.

  Louis effused, “Oui, oui, Monsieur Clay, ‘tis our honor to host a most magical one.”

  “Ever colorful,” whispered Shotgun.

  “At least his fake accent is consistent.”

  A matron took their order, and soon she served them chocolate torte and rich espresso topped with whipped cream. Sipping their coffee, they watched Nodlon pass by.

  “Just days, Shotgun, since Anna went missing, and she’s found floating in Blueberry Lake. We’re no closer to our quarry than when we began.” Dejected, he pulled down his hat, masking his face, and pondered what they had seen.

  “Why was she dumped in Blueberry Lake? She worked for the Ministry of Manna. Is there any connection?”

  “Blueberry Lake is out of the way,” said Shotgun. “No one saw anything.”

  “Yeah, but we found Anna pretty darn quick. Like her killer wanted us to find her.”

  “Why would he want us to find her?” Shotgun stirred his coffee.

  “How should I know, but if he wanted to hide the body, why did he leave it in the lake? He didn’t even weigh her down. Why not bury her in the woods, or leave her in a dumpster?”

  “Maybe Anna’s killer is a copycat, and her case is not connected to the other missing dwarves. If the cases are connected, where are the other victims?”

  “What if we weren’t meant to find Anna? What if we just got lucky?” Jack swirled his coffee, watching the creamy berg melt into the steamy liquid.

  “How did we get so lucky? If the other missing dwarves were murdered, it must have been the work of a professional.”

  “We haven’t found anyone else. Maybe all the other cases were professional.”

  “A professional working for Mars?”

  “Yes, but if a professional working for Mars was responsible, why haven’t we found the bodies yet? If they want to panic Nodlon, wouldn’t we find the bodies?” Clay contemplated the possibilities.

  ”Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Could be, but I just have a feeling there are no coincidences.”

  “So he made a mistake with Anna, or he wants Nodlon to panic. I’m inclined to think the latter. We found the body to increase the tension.”

  “We don’t need any more bodies to make Nodlon panic.” Clay indicated the traffic. “It’s worse than rush hour. If that’s not panic, I’m blind. Someone should notify the eggheads up at Crown immediately.”

  Jack’s caster buzzed. “It’s the Inspector,” he said.

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

  “What have you got for us?” Jack asked.

  On the tiny screen the Inspector pushed his fedora back.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “We’re at the Café des Moulin having breakfast.”

  “Great coffee, order me a Grande, Arabic, and meet me on the corner of Montmartre. I’ll be there in five.” Gumshoe broke the connection.

  “He’s upset, boss. It doesn’t seem like the Inspector to ask us to buy him a coffee and wait on him.”

  “No, it doesn’t, and I’ve known Gumshoe for a few years. He’s upset. Bet they’ve found another victim.”

  “Are you sick, boss?”

  Clay composed himself and left the matron a tip. “Frustrated. Let’s get out of here.”

  Gumshoe steered his cruiser up to the curb with his lights flashing. They piled in, and strapped on their harnesses. Clay dropped two steaming coffees into the cruiser’s cup holders. “Thanks for the coffee, Jack. What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house, Gumshoe. You know, I know cops never buy their own coffee.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  New Gem

  The autopilot guided Gumshoe’s police cruiser off the level way and through Under Nodlon. Turning onto Spenard Boulevard, the cruiser drove itself through the Blues District, while Gumshoe worked on his paperwork, and filed for a warrant.

  Shotgun checked his tablet. “Goldie says her friends are all a twitter about New Gem.”

  Clay watched the reflections of the blue shadow lamps in the cruiser’s windows. Derelicts hugged the jambs of vacant edifices, and other less savory denizens loitered on the street. Spying the police cruiser, the ne’er do wells feigned nonchalance.

  “New Gem runs infomercials on late night vid,” said Shotgun, tapping on his computer. “All that rot is snake oil. For a few dollars, they promise to solve all your problems using gene therapy. But they offer basic services for a discount price. They’re legit according to the financial and medical channels. They started on Mars twelve years ago, and opened an office on Elysium three years ago. Dr. Balaam franchised the Nodlon office, and they opened last November.”

  “Legit?” asked Jack. “That’s what the channels are saying?”

  The cruiser passed coffee houses, palmists, and masseurs. Littl
e shops offering sandwiches, and sweet meats flashed past.

  “Yes,” answered Shotgun. “That’s the buzz. Quality work at a discount. Mind you, it’s still a bit pricey for biots. The reviews are too good to be true, and the testimonials are probably whole cloth.”

  Spenard Boulevard curved gently through Deep Nodlon. They passed Brownstones, bed and breakfasts, and dilapidated hotels offering weekly rates.

  “Yeah, makes sense,” said Gumshoe, “if you needed a front, it wouldn’t take much to set up a legitimate gene therapy clinic. The only real hassle is finding a crooked doc.”

  The dwarf stuck his head between the front seats. “Go to New Gem and get miraculous results. For a small sum, they can cure a biot of whatever ails him. Dwarves are all buzzing about the results. It’s a wonder.”

  “It’s a wonder,” Jack said, “unless they kidnap you.” The cruiser slowed and stopped at a traffic crossing. An old man played a mournful tune on a banjo, singing lyrics he couldn’t make out. Next to him was a sandwich board reading, “Moloch drinks innocent blood.”

  Sensing his gaze, the old man looked up and glared at Jack. He had a hot tingle run up his back.

  “Hard to believe,” said Gumshoe. “Doctors have better things to do than join criminal conspiracies. Maybe a mole working for one of the mobs in town infiltrated the clinic.”

  “Our gift to the Martians?” asked Jack. The street curved with the mountain, and passed the Salome club. The elf on the Salome club’s marquee resembles Jasmine.

  “We have no beef with the Martians. And they have none with us. Their government wants a war, and our leaders are determined to fall into their trap.”

  As the cruiser left the Blues District, ordinary streetlights replaced the blue shadow lights. They drove through a block of trade shops and past a dry cleaner. A tall woman in a black cloak stepped out of a store. The woman stared at him as they drove by. Farther on, the cruiser slid through a quiet residential neighborhood and down a block of dentist and doctor’s offices.

  The cruiser pulled over opposite a dentist’s office with a large molar hanging in front of a wooden façade.

  “New Gem is a block ahead of us,” said Gumshoe. “I’m trying to pull a warrant to raid the place, but they’re taking forever getting back to me.”

  “What do you need a warrant for?” asked Jack. “Don’t you have enough cause?”

  “Enough cause of what?” said Gumshoe. “We don’t even know if New Gem is involved. There may be a connection, but we have no idea what it is. I can get the office to subpoena Evan’s records, but I can’t just waltz in and question them about their other cases. If there’s a connection, it will alert them, and they’ll delete their files faster than you can say barracuda.”

  “What if New Gem is involved?” Jack asked. “It makes no sense to murder your customers. What’s their motive?”

  “We need to compare their client rolls to my database of missing persons. If there’s no overlap, the brochure is probably just a coincidence.”

  “What of the missing dwarves?” Shotgun worked on his tablet. “If they all used New Gem, isn’t that a connection?”

  “If all of the missing dwarves used New Gem, we can arrest their staff, seize their records, and interrogate everyone properly. So far, Evan is the only missing dwarf who may have used New Gem. We don’t know for sure. All we have is a brochure. That’s quite a few ifs, and if this were just an everyday runaway case, I’d blow off the suggestion that any doctor had anything to do with it.”

  “Who wants so many dwarves?” said Shotgun. “A serial killer? Where would a pervert get the money?”

  “Shotgun,” said Gumshoe, “you of all people should know we can’t predict motives. Your own motives were entirely innocent and you nearly triggered a crisis that shook the Crown.”

  “Yeah, thanks for reminding me Inspector.”

  “Shotgun, I learned long ago not to obsess about motives. True, all criminals have motives, but those motives may not be rational. A suspect with a motive may be just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Many of the subscribers to Jack-net are doctors,” said Jack, “not that I suspect my fans, but we are one of the top hubs on the net for biot emancipation.” Gumshoe and Shotgun gave him blank stares, and Shotgun shrugged.

  “What are you thinking Jack?” asked Gumshoe.

  “Doctors are sympathetic. Once in a while you get a pervert, but most of doctors support the biots. A doctor might be helping them runaway.”

  “Ah, yeah, Jack, I agree. That’s why I don’t suspect them. Anyone who helps biots run away isn’t going to murder a dwarf maiden under bizarre circumstances.”

  “Knowingly,” said Jack, “is open to interpretation. Doctors are smart but naïve. They can be fooled into playing along with someone with less than honorable intentions.”

  “Touché,” said Gumshoe. “I see your point. Under false pretenses, they might be selling clients with an interest in running to a nefarious mob, thinking they’re helping them runaway.”

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “So what are we doing sitting here while the killer drains Evan’s blood the way he drained Anna?”

  “Without a warrant, we can’t use the evidence we find, and if we catch the beast we may not get a conviction on the accomplices at New Gem if they’re involved.”

  “What if you can save Evan’s life? What then?”

  “Sure, Jack, there’s an exception, but we don’t know enough. Saving lives excuses procedural errors and deliberate violations, if it’s sufficiently obvious. But what do we know? All we know is their brochure was in the home of a Zodiac victim. Remember McCarthy’s Clay posters? By that logic Jack, you’d be the prime suspect in her case.”

  “What about Molly and Festus? They gave us a reason to suspect a gene therapist? Didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, and do you want to show my vid record of their statements to a judge? The Missus and I’d be eating beans in a soup kitchen in Deep Nodlon.”

  “Nonsense, Gumshoe. You’re connected, and you’ve got friends in high places. If it came to it, I’d make you Chief of Security for Clay Players. I know rent-a-cop isn’t your gig, but it’s better than beans.” Clay craned around to look at the dwarf in the back seat. “Shotgun, do you think you could case the joint?”

  “What are you thinking, boss?”

  “Quiet,” said Gumshoe. Methodically, Gumshoe stabbed a number of buttons on the cruiser’s console. Indicator lights darkened, and displays went blank. “Now, go on. If you’re thinking of anything outside the bounds of good honest police work, I’ve got the cruiser’s vid monitors shut down.”

  “If Shotgun can get in there,” said Jack, “maybe he can crack their firewall and get a data dump off their servers. Somehow I don’t think the Crown would be too eager to find out where a private citizen got a hot tip.”

  “We have no authorization for this, which is why I didn’t hear it,” said Gumshoe. “Shotgun, are you game? If you go in just to look, it’s likely safe enough. If they recognize you, they probably won’t do anything.”

  “Glad to hear I have a say in it,” said Shotgun. “As it happens, I’m happy to volunteer since you’re asking.”

  “Technically, I’m asking,” said Jack. “I can’t do it, obviously, and a police officer would be way too suspicious, so that leaves you. It’s your choice. I wouldn’t ask if I thought it was dangerous, but if it could save lives, I think we should do something.”

  The dwarf swallowed hard, and grinned. “What, boss? If a celebrity wanted to keep a secret, you don’t think he’d be seen in a discount chop shop for biots with dating issues?”

  “I’m not in the meat-market,” quipped Clay, “and they will recognize me from the newscasts.”

  “They won’t recognize me. All dwarves look alike, I know. If they still have an appointment open this afternoon maybe they’ll see me.”

  Gumshoe motioned for them to hold their tongues, and drove
the cruiser into an alley. A hobo glanced up when the cruiser passed, and promptly pulled the string of his collar tight, and lowered his hood. Slowing the machine to a stop, Gumshoe cut the power. Furtively searching windows and doorways, they checked for anyone spying them.

  “Better get moving,” said Gumshoe, “it’s getting late.”

  “Nice neighborhood you’ve found Inspector.” Shotgun set up his tablet. “If I get a chance, I’ll pull everything on their servers. I doubt I can get in it while I’m waiting for a doctor. I’ll have to crack their firewall. That’s easy, but slow. If they’re involved, everything may be encrypted, and I may need more time to break in.”

  “Here’s a bug.” Gumshoe handed Shotgun a device the size of a button. “We’ll be listening for trouble. If you think you’re in danger, just say ‘Jack Hammer’ and I’ll be there if I have to blow their doors off with a lightning blaster.”

  “You’ve got a blaster?”

  “It’s in the trunk. I know, it is not much use there. But the Yard’s got rules.”

  Shotgun pinned the bug to his cuff. Shotgun shouldered his backpack, and stepped out of the cruiser. “Thanks Inspector.” Seeing no room on the driver’s side, he sidled between the police car and a couple of trash cans on the passenger’s side.

  Clay lowered his window, “Shotgun.”

  “Boss?” The dwarf stopped in front of the cruiser.

  Clay rubbed his lapel, “Your uniform.” Shotgun remembered his Cretaceous Clay logo on his jacket. Working for celebrity was more than simply working for an aristocrat or serving as a domestic for hire. He slipped his coat off, folded it, and handed it to Jack, and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “No getting kidnapped on the job.”

  “Do I get a bonus if I catch the murderer?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Walking casually, Shotgun picked his way through the trash in the alley, and gingerly bypassed potholes until he reached the sidewalk. Selecting a direction, he turned down the sidewalk, and left the alley and the security of the cruiser behind. Biting his lip, he watched the windows and doors for trouble. Townhomes with brick sides lined both sides of the tunnels. Small gates on brass posts guarded basement entrances under the porches. High above the street the artificial clouds burned with the blue light of Nodlon.

  The neighborhood had fallen on hard times and many doors sported signs offering rooms for rent. Where gardens had bloomed between the facades and the sidewalk, rocks and weeds grew.

  On the corner was a shelter converted from a one-time bank. The cult’s banner celebrated recycling forgotten men. Dispassionately, Shotgun walked passed ignoring the glares from the vagabonds loitering outside the shelter. Crossing the tunnel, he passed a deli, and a dentist’s office, and saw his destination.

  Sporty neon letters arranged vertically on a tall sign proclaimed, “New Gem.” Underneath it was a marquee reading, “All your dreams come true!”

  He opened a sleek door in a façade of brick, and found a clean, attractive waiting room with nappy chairs, and plastic tables. Unused magazines on cooking, interior decorating and celebrities were neatly arranged on the tables. His boots clicked, and he lingered. Fear crossed his mind, and he breathed deeply. Briefly, he wondered if he should bolt out the front door or knock on the reception window.

  While he wondered what to do next, the reception window slid open, and a goblin said, “New genes, New Gem! May I help you?” She filled a black dress, stretching it tight in all the right places.

  Averting his eyes, he avoided staring, “Yes, I, uh, don’t have an appointment.”

  “I’m Sally.” The goblin rolled her chair around to face him. “You’re in luck. We had a cancellation, and I’ve got one available right now. Would you like to take it?”

  “Two questions though, will it hurt, and how much will it cost?”

  “Treatments are painless. Usually there are three treatments, but there may be more. Today we’ll take samples to determine suitability, and those will go to a lab. During the next visit, the doctor will go over the results of the testing and determine a course of treatment you can afford.

  “As for the cost, I’ll need a hundred quid as a deposit. If you decide to go ahead, today’s visit and the lab testing are included in our fee. The total cost depends on what you and the doctor decide. If you can’t afford the whole fee all at once, we offer payment plans at no interest.” She flashed a perfect set of pearly whites. “Want to go for it?”

  “I think so.”

  Picking up an intake tablet, she turned it on and completed a few perfunctory entries. She handed him the device. “Please answer the questions and I’ll get you started.”

  He heard a maiden through the reception window, beyond the patient’s entrance. The maiden said, “Sally.”

  “All done today?” said the receptionist. “I need sixty quid. Can I use the same card?”

  “Yes, thanks.” The maiden opened the patient entrance, and a vivacious red dwarf stepped into the waiting room. Spying Shotgun, she smiled. “Hi, my name’s Joann.” She held out her hand, and Shotgun shook it.

  “Hello, I’m Patrick.”

  “You won’t regret it,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile of snow-white teeth.

  “Joann, can you show him your pictures? I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure Sally,” she said, reaching over the bar and taking a thin folder from the goblin girl. She opened the folder and held it for him to see. A picture of Joann was clipped to the folder. Joann resembled the version standing before him, but she stared out of the photo with a weak smile. She flipped the picture aside to a different shot in her overalls. She had a pixie cut, and she could have passed for a boy.

  “You’re really making the right choice. When I walked in, no one even noticed me. I was waiting right here, and a boy walked in, and he wouldn’t even look at me. It was like I didn’t exist, huh, what’s with that? Right?” She closed the folder, and said, “Now look at me.” She posed. Gone was the goofy grin, replaced by sumptuous lips curled in an alluring smile. Full hips stretched a tight dress. Long voluptuous legs stretched forever and a day to toes stuffed into shiny platforms teetering on ludicrous heels. Never again would anyone mistake her for a boy.

  “Stunning,” he said. “You could stop the moon.”

  Joann closed the folder, and handed it back to Sally. She took a hold on his collar, and rubbed his neck. “After you get started, call me, if you want a good time.” She breathed on him.

  Shotgun gulped. His pulse quickened, and his face grew hot.

  She turned on her heels, and sashayed out of the office. Spellbound, Shotgun watched her jiggle out, turn onto the sidewalk, and she was gone. The vision of the vixen stayed with him until he heard the receptionist’s chair creak.

  “Want to give me your card, and we can get this show on the road?”

  He handed Sally his card, and she handed him a tablet to fill out his patient information. He tried to forget Joann. He searched the office nervously. Is anyone watching, he wondered? He thought of Goldie in high heels. Worried he might be discovered as a spy; he loosened his collar, and breathed. He thought of his daughters, Faith and Hope, and the spell snapped. Quickly, he answered the questions on the tablet, using a minimum of truth, and handed it back to the receptionist.

  Sally took it with a smile, and glanced over it. “Are you with Biot Staffing?”

  “Yes,” he said, hoping she would not call the agency. “I’m a high-end domestic. Money is no problem.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Sorry, Sally, my client’s identities are confidential, and I keep secrets. That’s how I earn my tips.”

  She laughed, accepting his story. “Bet you can tell some good stories.”

  “Yes, I know some real doozies. Too bad, I can’t share the tales.”

  “Yeah, and I was looking forward to some juicy gossip too. Come on in, then.??
?

  He opened the patient’s entrance and stepped into a small alcove. Sally left her chair and circled the inner counter enclosing her desk. She dwarfed Shotgun in her high heels.

  “You’ll be seeing Dr. Jerry Balaam.” She led him down the corridor to an examination room. “He completed his residencies here in Nodlon at Moab Charity.”

  Framed testimonials and pictures of satisfied patients gazed down from the walls. The receptionist casually repeated a spiel she must have repeated dozens of times before. He listened for the tell-tale sound of servers.

  Sally showed him into an examination room. “The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

  He perched on the examination table. Trying to seem casual, he searched for cameras. He twisted on the examination table to conceal his satchel from the door. He pulled his tablet out, and flipped it open. He bypassed his tablet’s operating system, and opened a virtual machine on his private system.

  A hint of pride welled in him, as the computer displayed, “Welcome to Gun Way.” Opening the application, he found the link the network had given his tablet to exchange passcodes. Identifying friend from foe depended on establishing communication, and that was the weak link.

  He submitted an order to copy any database files into Gun Way. He let the application rip. He found his copy of Rip Van Winkle, and clicked. The tablet screen blanked, and the indicator lights died. Until he unlocked the machine, the tablet appeared to be off.

  He glanced at the door. It was still closed. Sighing, he set his tablet under his satchel, slipped off the table, and stuck his head out.

  On one end of the corridor he could see the edge of the reception desk. At the other end was a nurse in pink scrubs with her back to him. An alcove with a phlebotomy chair and a sink was in the center of the hall, and three doors down was a cross-hall.

  Leaving the door open, he quietly walked to the cross-hall, and turned the corner without being seen. He passed a utility closet and a room marked “Radiation.” The next room was a break room no larger than the examination room. A zapper and an espresso machine crowded a tiny counter squeezed between a refrigerator and a sink. Two chairs faced a round table with an open box of donuts. A few stale donuts waited for takers.

  He continued his search, and approached an exit. The soft roar of fan motors came from an unmarked door. The mother lode. He turned about-face, and headed back to the main corridor.

  The nurse in pink scrubs caught him in the corner of her eye. She stopped and crossed her arms.

  “May I help you?” The goblin’s looked down at him and her eyes narrowed.

  “Wash room?” He smiled.

  “End of the hall, turn right then left.”

  “Thanks.” He sauntered casually down the hall.

  “Next time, ask before you go wandering around.”

  He felt her eyes boring into his back as he followed her directions. He walked into the washroom to maintain his ruse. He felt the hair tingle on his neck.

  When he returned to the examination room, he resumed his place on the table, and waited. Shortly, a goblin in a white coat appeared in the doorway with a stethoscope around his neck.

  “Good morning, Patrick, I’m Dr. Balaam.” Jet black hair, black eyes, and his grey frame contrasted sharply against his white coat. The doctor’s dour expression lacked enthusiasm.

  Is he suspicious or is he a natural sour puss?

  “Doctor, can you help me with my little problem? I can’t get a date.”

  “Certainly, we have the cure for what ails you.”

  “If not, can you steer me to the ale that cures?”

  “A wit sharper than a blade, and coarser than a rogue, swiftly sifts one’s friends from foes.”

  “Good one, doc. Is that Nelson?”

  “No, it’s Moon Tea, the favorite poet of President Nogora.” The doctor visibly brightened.

  “What can you do for me?”

  “The basic package includes the buff. I call it the beef-o-matic. We build the Atlas figure which attracts the ladies. It turns a pathetic weakling into a chick magnet. Mental abilities will be amplified. We cannot make you a genius or teach you a language, but we can enhance your natural mental capacity. You’ll be more handsome, more attractive, and more confident, and as a side-effect, you’ll be healthier and enjoy longer stamina. If you have any congenital chromosome defects from the synthesis, we’ll fix that too. Even if you’ve never excelled at sports, you will excel at all of them.”

  “Sounds great doc, how does it work? Will I be the same?”

  “Don’t worry, Patrick. Gene therapy is the same technology used to cure cancer nowadays. Over the last thirty years though, there have been major advances in correcting errors in synthetic gene expression. Retro-gene expression therapy corrects gestational insults and over a thousand known genetic errors in synthetic code. These side benefits are actually necessary. Trying to jack your natural steroid expression without balancing the errors in your code may cause unintended side effects.”

  “A bit over my head doc. I’m a domestic. I do etiquette and protocol and I make a mean quiche. How come we need all these repairs in the first place? If I’m synthetic, what went wrong? Am I not under warranty? Should I sue my designer for product liability?”

  “Hard to answer that question, Patrick. First, are you natural born or first generation synthetic?”

  “Synthetic, I’m a Bio-Soft model. I gave my medical code to your secretary.”

  Balaam bent over the workstation mounted on the counter, searched a menu and opened a folder marked “Morgan, Patrick.” He smiled with a smarmy grin, “Ah, yes, we have you right here.”

  The doctor’s mood lifted a little, and he leaned against the sink counter, enjoying the discussion of his chosen field. “We’ll do some suitability testing. Really it’s a variety of tests for compatibility, stability, and synthetic markers which will tell us what we can and cannot do. Don’t be too concerned. Most biots cannot accept several upgrades due to an incompatibility. Out of several thousand changes, most of our clients would be unaware of the exceptions if we didn’t point them out.”

  A touch of sympathy crossed his face, and he gazed at the wall staring at some scene lost in time. “It’s hard to explain. Biots, including myself, are not really human nor animal nor completely synthetic. Our makers can deny our humanity, and yet we fall in love. Nature takes its course and our children have unforeseen errors. The congenital defects led to monsters, and the mothers would become unsuitable for their purpose. Originally, biots were sterilized to avoid responsibility for those consequences. Over time, pressure arose to let biots have children. The designers optimized reproduction for breeding and surrogate motherhood, and the market for first generation biots collapsed. Today most biots are naturally born, which is what keeps New Gem in business. Most of our work is repairing the damage caused by uncontrolled combinations. Still, Cybernetics Corporation and Bio-Soft produce many artificial biots in Nodlon. And like you, they deliberately short-change your code. Small of them really, your body is the only thing they let you have, and then they go and build in limits just to keep you in your place.”

  Falling silent, the doctor’s gaze stared through the wall at some unseen world inside his head. Just as Shotgun began to wonder, Balaam refocused on him, and straightened up. His smile faded to a professional slit. An eyebrow rose, and he said, “Still others would outlaw humans, and biots would inherit the earth.”

  Slapping his knees, the doctor stood up and grinned at him oozing the smarmy optimism of a used ground-car salesman. “So, would you like the basic package?”

  “Guess I’ll take it.”

  Balaam leered at him, and smirked. “Good.” Asking Shotgun to disrobe, he began a perfunctory exam. Removing his shirt and pants, Shotgun breathed, coughed, and endured the doctor’s probing and prodding.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” said Balaam. He pressed a call button, and packed away the tools of his trade. “The phlebotomist
will scan you, and take samples. Just follow her instructions. She may give you a pill to prevent you from fainting. We’re done for the day.”

  “Thanks doc.”

  The nurse in pink scrubs appeared. “What do you think of this one?”

  “Basic package. Take his samples, and run him through the scope. Make sure Sally gets him an appointment.”

  “Right away.”

  The doctor flashed a smile of the kind a salesman offers after closing a deal. “Wait here.”

  In the stark examination room, Shotgun saw none of the usual posters offering advice or suggesting new treatments or medications.

  One advertising poster hung over the examination table. A sunrise crested over Earth, and a slogan read, “A New World Just for You! New Genes, New Gem!” The orbital ring of Elysium girdled the planet. The sunrise glinted off the space station.

  He resisted an urge to check his tablet. He patted his satchel, and tried to relax.

  A nurse in teal scrubs in a slightly better humor than the one in pink appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Patrick, I’m Samantha. Follow me, honey, and we’ll get you out of here.” Soon, she scanned him, collected samples, and led him back to the alcove with the phlebotomist’s chair.

  She rolled up his sleeve above his elbow. “I’m going to give you a pill so you won’t faint.” She tied a rubber strap around his arm, and rubbed the crook of his elbow. “You have good veins.”

  She handed him a tiny blue pill and a cup of water.

  He swallowed the pill. Holding his shoulder, she asked him to count backwards from ten slowly. Wondering why she asked, he tried recalling if he had ever heard such a question before when giving a blood sample.

  Not wanting to blow his cover, he counted, “Ten, nine, eight,” and he felt woozy. The room tilted, and nausea welled within him. Wooziness turned to alarm, as he stopped counting, and tried to hold himself up.

  Feeling faint, he willed his head towards his sleeve and urged his mouth to yell for help. Nothing happened. His muscles would not respond and he slumped in his chair.

  Sleepiness overwhelmed him, and he shut his eyes. He felt himself fall, and then everything went black.

  Tipping Your Hand

  “This has never happened to me before,” he heard a feminine voice say.

  “Patients sometimes faint when blood is drawn,” said Samantha. “I’ve had many patients collapse. But Mr. Morgan here must be incredibly sensitive. He fainted before I even stuck him with a needle.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Balaam hissed, “is how you arrived so quickly?”

  Gradually, reality came back to Shotgun.

  “Patrick is my butler. He left me a voice mail telling me he’d be out for a few hours. When he wouldn’t answer his caster, naturally I was concerned. After all we’ve heard in the news about missing dwarves, I was worried.”

  He opened one eye and saw a wall with a poster of Earth. Memories flooded back to him. He was in a chop shop – a gene therapy clinic. They were going to upgrade him, and then he fainted. Had they drugged him?

  Balaam asked, “How were you able to find him?”

  Clay huffed, acting put off. “Patrick’s a big boy, and I try to stay out of his business. But he is my butler, and I have a right to keep track of him. When I didn’t get a hold of him, I followed his locator to your clinic.”

  “We live in strange times, Cretaceous Clay. Odd that you should appear so soon when your butler suffers a minor fainting spell.”

  “Maybe I overreacted.” Clay gushed with such sincerity Shotgun would have believed him if he had not known better. “Or maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “There are no coincidences.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed with the cold certainty of illumination.

  Fearing the interrogation would continue, Shotgun forced open his eyes, and tried speaking. He moaned unintelligibly, and caught their attention.

  “Good, he’s coming to. Nurse, get him some water.”

  Weakly he rolled over onto his back, and saw Jack and Balaam facing each other.

  The doctor scowled. “Feeling better, Patrick?”

  His throat was dry and he croaked, “Yeah, much better now.” He pushed himself up with his elbows, and Clay helped him sit up. The nurse handed him a cup of water.

  “You fainted,” said Balaam. “Hard. You fell out of the phlebotomy chair and very nearly cracked your skull open.” The doctor gestured towards the comely goblin. “Samantha here caught you. She had a heck of a time helping you up. I carried you back to the examination room myself to let you sleep it off. And then your employer shows up wondering if you’re all right.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” said Shotgun. “He wanted me to get him some tickets. I left them on the key rack, but I forgot to leave a note.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Balaam with naked sarcasm. “I’m sure Cretaceous Clay has difficulty finding his tickets.” The doctor sneered without a hint of amusement.

  “Now that that’s solved,” Clay rubbed his hands. “We’ll be going. I’ve got a hot date, and I need my man here to get my place ready.”

  “Likely as not, that may be true,” said Balaam.

  Clay shouldered Shotgun’s satchel, and felt the tablet in the pouch. Satisfied, he put an arm under Shotgun’s arm and helped the dwarf to his feet. The dwarf’s shoulder just reached his elbow. They stumbled out of the examination room awkwardly.

  The doctor crossed his arms and gripped his elbows. “Sam, help Mr. Clay and his man-servant out.” The nurse took Shotgun’s other arm. “That’s a good girl, thanks.”

  They walked Shotgun down the hall, through the patient’s entrance, and into the waiting room. Balaam followed them.

  Clay sidled through the front door with Shotgun and Sam in tow. On the sidewalk, an elderly elf veered around the odd looking trio.

  “Patrick, can you walk now?” asked Samantha.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sam,” barked Balaam. “Get back to work.”

  Her shoulders drooped, and she glanced back at Jack and Shotgun. With a vivacious sashay, the shapely nurse disappeared into the waiting room. “Yes, doctor.”

  As she passed the doctor, he kicked the door forcing its tractor arm to hiss. Balaam glared at Jack.

  “If there are any charges,” said Jack, “send me the bill.”

  “No charges, Mr. Clay, your money’s no good here. Just go and don’t bother returning.” The doctor threw the door closed. The tractor arm squealed under the strain, and closed with a wheezy pop.

  “That went well,” said Jack, “let’s get you out of here.” Wandering back through the run-down neighborhood, Jack felt hostile eyes following him as he and Shotgun limped along the sidewalk. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no one following them. Only a few pedestrians shared the sidewalk. The only ground-cars on the street were parked.

  Breathing deeply, he focused on supporting Shotgun. He cast a little levitation to help him. Should I fly? No, he thought better of it. I need to remain incognito. It would not do for Cretaceous Clay to be seen leaving a chop shop in Deep Nodlon.

  Approaching a corner, a couple of rough looking tramps sitting in front of a shelter rose to their feet. Alarmed, Jack looked for an alternative route, but the blocks were long, and he was unsure he could walk Shotgun back to the alley. If they intend to cause trouble, I can’t evade them burdened with Shotgun. I’ll have to break my cover.

  Thinking of a few spells, fire balls, lightning bolts, and ice sprays, he reassured himself. He was far better armed than a police officer carrying only a lightning gun.

  Still, a blaster would deter unwanted attention.

  Fortunately, the farther they walked, the less Shotgun wobbled. They crossed the street, and narrowed the distance to the tramps.

  One old man wore a blue blazer and a straw hat. He broke away from the brickwork, and stepped out from under the shelter’s awning. The other man gripped the lapel o
f his tattered trench coat, and hugged himself as if he were cold.

  “Evenin’ Guv’nor,” said the blue blazer. “Can you spare a penny?”

  Jack paused and studied the two for a moment. Up close, wrinkles added character to the man. Sallow skin stretched over his bones, and a hook nose sported pince-nez spectacles. His companion was in hardly better shape, and his face was marred by a diagonal scar.

  They were merely panhandlers.

  Uncertainty plagued him. The shelter sustained their needs, but they depended on the kindness of strangers to support their habits. Trading on their condition, they begged for spending money. On the other hand, who was he to judge their wants, and the one in the blue blazer had asked politely enough.

  “Sure, old timer, I’ll give you enough to buy yourself and your friend a steak if you’ll promise me you’ll eat it.”

  “Guv’nor,” said the blue blazer, “a piece of blueberry pie would be most welcome, if’n you can afford it?” Silently his companion grinned a toothy grin, and tipped his fedora.

  Awkwardly using his one free hand, he pulled two large bills from his pouch, one for each of them. Glancing at them, he made sure they were the same denomination. He did not want to start a squabble between the two hobos there on the sidewalk.

  The blue blazer snatched one of the bills and ogled it. “Bless you, sir.” He tipped his hat. “Yes, that’ll get me something to eat and coffee too.”

  His companion, still silent, took off his fedora, and pushed the proffered bill into the lap of the brim. He bowed slightly, and smiled.

  The blue blazer nodded at the trench coat. “Charley thanks you too. He don’t like talkin’ since the doc’s cut his throat.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Excuse me, I have to help my dwarf here.”

  “Hey, Guv’nor, ye look a lot like that thar’ Cretinism Clay fellar. Seen his posters in the robo-car station, and you’s looks a lot like him.”

  “Yes, I get that reaction all the time.”

  “What’s wrong there with your dwarf, Guv’nor, had too much o’ the hair o’ the dog that bit him?”

  “No, he saw a doctor and fainted.”

  “What? Down at that chop shop?” The blue blazer cocked his head down the street. “Saw the dwarf goin’ that way earlier, then you’s goes flyin’ by like you’re on fire, and you’s comes back with a dwarf sick as a dog. Don’t take much to see what’s happened Guv’nor.”

  The old man’s eyes shifted, and he pulled back from Clay. “Mark my word, Guv’nor, don’t let him go back. He’s a voodoo doctor he is. Dwarves go in, and they puts a spell on ‘em. Turns ‘em into zombies. They ain’t right when they’s comes out, if they’s comes out at all!”

  Clay struggled with Shotgun’s weight. “We’ll heed your advice.”

  The old derelict in the blazer saluted him and Charley tipped his fedora. “Thanks ag’in, Guv’nor. A good man you are.”

  “You’re welcome, old-timer.” Jack and Shotgun shuffled off down the sidewalk.

  The tramps shrank back against the brick, and resumed their repose in front of the shelter.

  A quick look over his shoulder confirmed no one was following them, and Clay sighed with relief.

  Shotgun lurched, and his knees wobbled. “That old rogue knows something.”

  “The old timers don’t know anything. They’re just suspicious, and our presence confirmed their suspicion, that’s all.”

  “He said dwarves go in, and they don’t come out, right?”

  “Yeah, Shotgun, but we can’t prove anything from that. The dwarves may have taken a robo-cab, or just gone a different way. What the old man saw can be explained away too easily.”

  Shotgun stumbled.

  “Can you make it?” asked Jack.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll make it.” His butler’s legs jerked.

  Jack levitated the dwarf to keep him from falling. “We need to get you to a doctor, and find an antidote for this poison.” He looked around to see if anyone noticed the magic.

  Falling silent, Jack conserved his strength and helped Shotgun back to the cruiser. They turned into the alley. Jack staggered as Shotgun nearly tripped him.

  Gumshoe pulled the cruiser out of the back alley. Throwing open his door, he climbed out, and circled the cruiser to help Jack lift Shotgun.

  “What happened?” asked the detective.

  Gingerly, they loaded the dwarf into the cruiser.

  “Poison! Let’s get Shotgun to a doctor. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  “I’m fine, I don’t need a doctor,” protested Shotgun.

  “Quiet,” said Gumshoe, “you’ll do as you’re told.” Climbing back into the driver’s seat, Gumshoe reached into his console and pulled out a bottle of water. “Drink this.” Next, he handed Shotgun a bag. “And use this if you feel sick.”

  Gumshoe checked for any signs of surveillance, and turned onto the street. He drove a block, turned a corner, and engaged the autopilot. He punched the medical emergency call on his console. The autopilot lit the emergency lights. The autopilot accelerated, and slung them against their harnesses. The cruiser cornered hard in the direction of the nearest level-way.

  His dashboard screen lit up, and the dispatcher appeared, “Gumshoe, what do you want honey?” Red hair in a shoulder length reversed curl framed a handsome woman in her prime. A map of Nodlon glowed behind her. Her buxom figure stretched a crisp blue bodice, and threatened to pop her buttons. Despite her sporty uniform, she sat attentively before a bank of vid monitors wearing a headset.

  “Hi Marcie, I’ve got a dwarf who may have been poisoned. Give me clearance to Nodlon Memorial, and ask them for a poison alert. We’ll be there faster than you can get an ambulance crew out.”

  “You got it, babe. All green from your location to Nodlon Memorial. I’ll give the hospital a head’s up. Hold onto your lunch.”

  “Thanks, Marcie, out.” The cruiser’s speed pushed the limits of safety through the tunnels of Under Nodlon, and flung them against their harnesses as it rounded the corners. They entered the entrance to the west-bound level-way. The siren wailed making conversation nearly impossible.

  As traffic cleared in front of them, the cruiser accelerated to dizzying speeds, and the blue lights of Nodlon flashed strobe-like. Clutching the butterfly bars, Jack’s knuckle’s whitened as the cruiser zipped past commuters. Decelerating hard, the cruiser exited the level-way onto the hospital’s entrance, and swerved up the ramp to the Under Nodlon emergency entrance. Approaching the emergency entrance, the cruiser’s autopilot muted the siren, and signaled the hospital’s dispatch unit.

  Halting behind an ambulance, the cruiser opened its doors. A goblin medic and nurse jogged up to the cruiser with a gurney carrying a black bag. Gumshoe and Jack jumped out of the cruiser, and Jack opened the back door for the medic.

  “There’s your patient,” shouted Gumshoe.

  Kneeling beside Shotgun, the medic strapped a monitor on his wrist. “Are you the patient, sir?” The goblin pulled a torch pen out of his shirt pocket and flashed the light in Shotgun’s eyes.

  Shotgun’s head lolled and he moaned. “I’m fine.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Shotgun.”

  Checking the readout on the dwarf’s wrist monitor, the medic lifted the dwarf gently out of the cruiser. Shotgun’s head lolled forward narrowly missing the door jamb.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “March 18th.”

  The medic strapped the dwarf down to the stretcher. “We’ll take care of you.”

  Shotgun’s head flopped again, “I’m fine, I don’t need a doctor.” The medic pushed the gurney into the emergency room.

  They started to follow Shotgun, but the nurse blocked their way. “He’s in good hands. I’m Nurse Casket, and I’ll help you with the intake forms.” She was short for a goblin, and a bit heavy. On her flats, she looked up at Jack, and she glared at him skeptically. “The aler
t said he was poisoned. When did he first display any symptoms?”

  “Less than an hour ago,” said Jack, “he fainted at a gene therapy clinic just before a phlebotomist attempted to take a blood sample.”

  Folding her tablet and holding it against her breast, the nurse huffed. “People faint at the sight of needles all the time. What makes you believe he was poisoned?”

  Jack glanced at Gumshoe. “We know he was given a pill just before we lost, uh, just before he fainted.” He swallowed, and added, “he stumbled all the way back to the car as if his legs couldn’t hold him, and he wasn’t able to speak clearly for several minutes. At the clinic, they say he might have fallen.”

  Immediately her ire faded to concern, and her eyes widened. Flipping open her tablet, she asked, “Why didn’t you say that? He might have a concussion.” She tapped on the tablet. “I’ve alerted the emergency room physician we may have a concussion. They’ll want a pressure reading now, and we’ll scan him.

  “How are you related to the patient?”

  “I’m his employer,” said Jack. “He’s my butler. A good man he is too.” Jack pulled his insurance card for Clay-Players out of his wallet and handed it to her.

  “If he’s a domestic dwarf, isn’t he under contract with an agency?”

  “Look, Shotgun works for me, and I’m responsible. I want the best care money can buy.”

  “If he’s a Biot Staffing Biot, he’s insured through them,” she said, “don’t worry about it, they cover everything.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jack, “he’s under contract to Biot Staffing, but Clay-Players hired him, and he’s worked for me for nearly a year.”

  “Honey, he’ll get as good a care as you, and better even. If we make a mistake with your butler, what would you do? Send us a bill for dry cleaning? If we damage an agency’s biot, they’d put a hit out on the hospital staff. Those people are serious. We’d never work again.”

  “Point taken Nurse Casket, but he’s more than my butler; he’s a friend.” Jack paused, “He’s practically family.”

  “Honey, I understand. My nanny was a maid, and she worked for the same family for almost her whole life. She still lives with them. Nice folks, too. I’m just saying it makes no difference. He’s getting the best care we got, and no more and no less. Insurance just tells us who gets the damage.” She asked a few more routine questions, and then stalked off, apparently too busy for a brief conversation with the beleaguered mage.

  “Guess I’ll just have to wait. We can get some dinner. It’s pricey for cafeteria food, but not bad, and we won’t be poisoned. Maybe I’ll have a chance to see Jazz.”

  “After we see the doctor,” said Gumshoe. “I need to call the missus. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get some dinner, I’m famished. You can see Jazz, and I can get caught up on my paperwork.”

  “What are we seeing the doctor for?”

  “Make sure they’re working on the right problem, I didn’t want to slow the works arguing with Nurse Casket, but they drugged him, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Do you think they poisoned him?”

  “Yeah,” said Gumshoe. “They probably slipped him a mickey just to put him to sleep for a couple of hours. I want a full spectrum run for all the recreational chemicals and date rape drugs.” He tapped his own tablet with his index finger, and stalked after the nurse at a speed belying his age. The emergency entrance slid open and he passed through before Jack caught up.

  No one was in the triage bay. They ignored the signs and plunged into the emergency room wing. Avoiding the nurses’ stares, they searched the bays and found Shotgun lying on a bed unconscious. Monitors beeped, and pumps clicked and wheezed.

  An elf in scrubs left the nurse’s station and walked over to ask their business. “Are you family?”

  “No,” said Gumshoe, flashing his badge. “Inspector Lestrayed, Nodlon Yard, homicide, we need to see the doctor responsible for this man’s care.”

  The elf’s eyes widened. “He’s been called away for another emergency. I’ll let him know immediately though.” She returned to her station, and picked up her desk caster.

  “That reminds me, I need to call Goldie, and reassure her,” said Jack.

  “Better make that call now,” said Gumshoe, “while we’re waiting on the doctor. I’ll call the missus and let her know I’m not going to be home for dinner.”

  Pacing around the bay, Jack thought about how to break the news to Goldie. Stopping beside Shotgun, he put a hand on the bed, and wrung the rail. His features were boyish, and he had a clever brow and smart lips. The black chip on his forehead was inscrutable, signaling nothing.

  The monitors buzzed and beeped recording Shotgun’s breathing and pulse, pressures and temperatures and serum levels. Studying the monitors, he saw nothing out of place. More than half the instrument readings were meaningless to him. He stared at the intravenous feed pumping liquid into Shotgun’s arm. What have I gotten you into? Jack wondered.

  Contemplating the frailty of life, he remembered Melissa. He hoped she was doing well.

  The nurse returned and checked the intravenous bag, and snapping a quick-connect she disconnected the bag, and replaced it with a fresh one. “Nurse, is there any sign of a concussion?”

  “The doctor will have to answer your questions, sir.” She scrutinized him. “Are you Jack Clay?”

  “The one and only, and this fellow is my butler, Shotgun.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Clay. We’ll take good care of him though, don’t you worry.” She hurried off about her business.

  He flipped his caster open, and called Goldie. She answered with a look of surprise and worry.

  “Hi! Mr. Clay, I’m so glad you called,” she prattled. “The girls and I are at your condo and Shotgun’s not here. He won’t answer his phone.” Her voice rising to near hysteria, she wailed, “His locator says he’s at Nodlon Memorial. Oh, Mr. Clay, do you know what’s happened?” She bounced on his couch, and he saw his dining room and a lamp behind her. She searched his ceiling for answers and ran her hands through her hair.

  “Goldie, please calm down and sit back down.”

  She cupped her hand over her mouth, and moaned, “Oh no.”

  He had not counted on her reaction, and he felt like a heel for not calling her sooner. “Goldie, can I have your attention?” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and sobs wracked her body. “Please get a tissue in the kitchen. Please, I need you to calm down.”

  Getting up she blew her nose, and sniffled. “I’m fine now.”

  “Shotgun is sleeping here in the hospital. He may have been poisoned or he may have had a fall. We’re not sure which and we haven’t seen the doctor yet. I’ll stay here with him until I know what’s going on.”

  Tears streamed down her face, and she daubed her eyes with her tunic. Through her tunic, she mumbled.

  “Goldie, what did you say, I couldn’t hear you?”

  Pulling her face out of her tunic, she asked, “What happened? Mr. Clay.”

  A pang of guilt wracked his heart, and he wondered if he should appeal to her better nature. He wanted to tell her Shotgun had risked his life to help them find Anna’s murderer and solve the Zodiac cases.

  Wisdom overcame compassion. She was not ready for the news, and he had no prognosis to offer. With a little information, she might draw the wrong conclusions. He recalled the plight of Romeo and Juliet, and he wanted no rash actions.

  “Goldie, we don’t know, if he fell, he might have a concussion. They’re going to run tests for poisons. In the meantime, he’s sleeping and resting. I promise I’ll let you know as soon as the doctor can tell me something.”

  “Thank you Mr. Clay, what about me and the girls? What do we do?”

  “Help yourself to anything you can find in the kitchen and make yourselves at home, please.” He smiled, trying to evoke an air of fatherly leadership. “Shotgun’s got some chocolate chip cookies in the jar. Go ahead, cho
colate and milk will help.”

  She nodded.

  “If you’re better, I’m going to see if I can find the doctor.”

  “The news said they may evacuate the city, and the agency ordered me to leave for Iron Mountain. All non-essential personnel, children, mothers, and the old are leaving. That’s what I wanted to tell Shotgun.” She kept her cool and daubed her eyes again.

  “I’m sure we’ll be home before then. I will ask Jazz if she can take you and the girls.”

  The young woman put her head between her knees. The caster view jiggled and refocused on his ceiling.

  “Goldie?”

  “How can I thank you?”

  “Goldie, just take care of Faith and Hope, and be brave. Can you do that for me? Since you’re evacuating, I need you to start packing. Clothes and necessities are the most important. Don’t forget your toiletries, and Jazz left Faith’s teddy bear in my room. Got all that?” She shook her head. “Good girl, get on it, now.”

  “Thank you Mr. Clay.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking care of Shotgun and me.”

  “You’re family, Goldie. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

  Closing his caster, he felt drained. Shotgun’s chest rose and fell calmly. Worrying won’t help. Gripping the bedrail, he wished he could do more. He wondered if he should return to New Gem and avenge the dwarf. Contemplating his moral dilemma, he rejected anything brash.

  A hand gripped the other bedrail, and started him out of his reverie. “The nurse said the doctor should be here any minute,” said Gumshoe. “She didn’t say, but he’s probably at lunch. They are talking about calling an evacuation on the news, and the missus is upset. Had a heck of time calming her down. I set her to packing. Anything to stop her worrying.”

  “Goldie is the same way. I just got off the caster with her, and I’m not ready to call Jazz. Goldie about wore me out. She’s in a terrible fright. She tried calling Shotgun to tell him Biot Staffing released her while they evacuate. When she didn’t get an answer, she checked his locator, and found out he’s here. She’s nearly crazy.”

  “What you fear is always worse than reality. It’s our nightmares that won’t give us peace. It’s like the weather. Whatever the weather is today, it will likely be the same tomorrow. Focus on today and tomorrow will take care of itself.”

  A young man in a white coat entered the bay wearing a stethoscope. “Inspector Lestrayed?” Both of them broke away from the bed.

  “Dr. Forest, good to see you again.”

  “Hi, Gumshoe. Excuse me for making you wait, we had a bleeder and I had to stabilize him. Mr. Clay, I’m glad to make your acquaintance too. I wish we had met under better circumstances. My girls are big fans, and we’ve seen most of your shows.”

  The doctor placed his hand on the bedrail. “Is this your man-servant?”

  “Yes, and he’s got two daughters and a fiancée, and he’s a good friend.”

  “Well, they’ll be happy to know he doesn’t have a concussion, and as near as I can tell, he’s just sleeping off whatever he ingested. Do you have any idea what it was?”

  “No,” said Jack. “I thought the nurse told you it was a concussion.”

  “Concussion or poisoning,” he said. “Don’t let Casket fool you, she knows her job. Don’t worry Inspector. I’ve already ordered a full chemical spectrum on all known mickeys and social chemicals. Been a routine since the first time you suggested it.”

  “Always prefer to double check, Forest,” said Gumshoe. “Never know who’s on duty and how long they’ve been riding without training wheels.”

  “Whatever you told the duty nurse, she was worried, and gave me a call. Helps keep us on our toes. It’ll be awhile before I know anymore. Until then, I cannot promise anything, but his prognosis is good based on his current vital signs.”

  “Could he be in a coma?” asked Jack. “Too much of some of those drugs I understand and you’ll never wake up.”

  “Can’t be sure what state he is in just yet, but he’s not in a coma. His scans are normal. The lab results will tell us more. My guess is, they knocked him out, and he’ll be fine once he sleeps it off. The lab knows these tests have the highest priority, but it’ll still be two or three hours. Chemistry is still chemistry, even today.” The doctor bid them farewell, and went about his duties.

  “Want something to eat?” asked Jack. “You said you were famished.”

  “Starved,” said Gumshoe, “let’s go.”

  The World Inside

  Gumshoe lifted his fedora, and combed his hair with his fingers. Replacing his fedora, he leaned backwards stretching his back. “Better call the missus again, before dinner.” He drew his caster from his trench coat. “Are you going to call Jazz?”

  “Yeah, do you mind if she joins us for dinner?”

  “No, not at all,” Gumshoe sidestepped a frantic woman scurrying through the lobby. “I welcome a repast with the lovely Jurassic Jasmine.”

  Pulling his own caster, Clay pressed the speed-dial for Jasmine, and let his caster connect. Jasmine appeared on his caster screen with a harried brow. She was typing feverishly on her workstation.

  “Hi sweetpea, I’m sorry to bother you at work.”

  “Oh, it’s you Jack.” She slouched and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “A shuttle brought in more patients from the Moon. They’re evacuees from a long-term care facility there, and we’re having trouble stabilizing the gravity field generators to lunar normal.”

  “We’re swamped. There are so many patients.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry, honey bear. What are you calling for?” Taking a tissue she daubed her eyes.

  “Shotgun’s in the emergency room and I’m downstairs with Gumshoe.” He wanted to rush to her aid, but he knew he would be in the way.

  “What happened to Shotgun?”

  “He tried to help us out with the investigation at a chop shop, and we think he was poisoned. Dr. Forest told us he’s sleeping off whatever ails him. We have to wait a few hours for test results before we know any more. So, Gumshoe and I are going to eat while we wait. I called to ask if you wanted to breakaway for dinner. But I see you’re tied up.”

  “No, honey bear, I can’t eat. I’m starving, but there’s too much work.” Out of the caster’s camera range someone spoke to Jasmine.

  “No,” Jazz said.

  The voice continued, and Clay could hear the tone become insistent. “No, who’s going to keep watch – oh, yes.” She nodded her assent and smiled weakly.

  “Maybe I can come up later if you get a free moment.”

  “No, I can make it. Looks like I’ve been spelled for dinner. I’ll be downstairs in a few.”

  “Great, see you.”

  A gnarring guitar riff ripped on Jack’s caster announcing an incoming call. Kicking himself inwardly, he jabbed the little device and silenced it. He checked the caller’s avatar. It was his director, Corman.

  “Jazz, Corman calling,” he smiled, “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

  “See you there,” she said.

  He blew her a kiss and closed the connection.