by DD Barant
Me, not so much.
It’s a nice illusion, sitting here and doing family-type things, but it’s not my family, it’s not my culture, it’s not my world. For every comforting detail I can identify with, there’s some bizarre off-kilter factor that makes the familiar horrible and strange. As if to underscore the point, a small child trots by, his mouth bloody, holding a dead rat between his teeth. His parents congratulate him, of course.
My phone rings, a number I don’t recognize. I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hello. It’s Kamakura Tanaka. I realize that it’s the weekend, but I was wondering if we could meet.”
“You have new information?”
“Not . . . exactly. I simply feel that it would be productive to discuss the case. To share our perspectives.”
He sounds sincere but a little hesitant. I realize he’s probably sitting in a hotel room, maybe nursing some too-expensive minifridge scotch and wondering what the hell to do with himself.
“I’m kind of busy at the moment, Tanaka. How about tomorrow?”
“That would be fine. Where should I meet you?”
I’m not that familiar with my neighborhood yet, so I just give him my address and tell him to ring the buzzer at noon. He thanks me and hangs up.
Dr. Pete finally returns, bearing two large glasses of iced tea.
He tells me he wants to show me something, and I excuse myself from the table. He leads me into the house and down to the basement, where I find . . .
Comic books.
“These are mine,” Dr. Pete says, opening up a cardboard box filled with them. “Had ’em since I was a kid. Worth a lot now—or would be, if they were in better condition—but I prefer to leave them here as a kind of library. Let the younger generation discover them, if they ever take a break from playing video games.”
“Here.” He pulls one out and hands it to me. “Check this out.”
The cover shows a woman in a skintight outfit and a pair of aviator goggles, striking a pose on a rooftop while lightning flashes behind her. She’s got a wicked-looking crossbow in one hand, and a curving scimitar in the other. The logo reads: “Amelia Earhart, Aviatrix.”
“You’re kidding. Amelia Earhart was a comic-book heroine?”
“Sure. They called human adventurers ‘underheroes.’ They fought all sorts of bad guys, could do things thropes or pires couldn’t—endure sunlight, ignore the effects of garlic or silver or the full moon. Me, I liked the fact that they usually had to use their brains to get out of trouble as opposed to brawn.”
I study the cover, note that it’s dated 1939. “In my world, Amelia Earhart went missing during an attempt to fly around the world, in 1937.”
“Not here. She succeeded, and it made her an even bigger celebrity than she was before. She died piloting a paratrooper transport over North Africa in 1941.”
Congratulations, I think to myself, staring at the blurred image of the woman in her heroic pose. You did something no one else had ever done—then died four years later in a war over the scraps of the human race.
“I guess these comics are where it started,” Dr. Pete says. “My interest in nonsupernatural humans.”
I know what he’s trying to do, and it’s sweet—showing me a piece of his childhood, trying to demonstrate that I have value in this world, no matter how outnumbered or outpowered I am. But it still feels a little too much like a veterinarian explaining to a particularly smart dog how proud he is of her.
I hand him back the comic and force a smile. “Yeah, lucky me—not only do I get to be your patient, I can do double-duty on weekends as your hobby, too.”
I can feel his hurt without even looking at his face. “Jace, that’s not true—”
“I know, I know,” I say, my voice tired. “I’m sorry. I think I’m just a little overwhelmed, okay? Thanks for inviting me out and everything, but I think I’m ready to go. Back to my apartment, I mean.”
“Of course. I’ll drive you.”
It takes a while to make the rounds and say good-bye to everyone. Most express sincere regret that I have to go and tell me I’m welcome back anytime. They mean it, too, and I start to feel like an ungrateful brat. Alexandra wanders out when I’m almost done, now using headphones to insulate herself from the party. She sits down on a lawn chair, nodding her head to whatever she’s listening to. It sounds like she’s really got it cranked, whatever it is—
No way.
I tap her on the shoulder. She jumps a little, then stares at me accusingly. “What?”
I sign for her to turn the music down, which she does grudgingly.
“What are you listening to?”
“It’s this Irish group, Sons of Vox. Why?”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“Well, duh. You’re from another world.”
“No, I mean I spent a couple of hours in a music store the other day and I don’t remember seeing them.”
She shrugs. “They’re kind of underground, I guess. I really like them, but they’re not big or anything.”
“Not big.” I blink. “Where I come from, they’re pretty well known—by a different name, though.”
“Really?” She sounds interested, now. “What?”
“U2.”
“Oh.” She thinks about it for a second. “I think I like Sons of Vox better.”
Dr. Pete interjects. “Sounds like you two have something in common.”
Alexandra rolls her eyes. “Please, Uncle Pete—not with the puns.”
I punch him on the shoulder. “Yeah! We’re trying to discuss serious music here.”
“Okay, okay. Are you ready to go?”
“Give me a minute, all right?”
He shrugs. “Sure, yeah. Come find me when you’re ready, okay?” He walks off, a little irritated by my sudden about-face but trying to hide it.
“So,” Alexandra says, “how many albums have they done on your world?”
We spend the next few minutes comparing notes. I give her my e-mail address and she promises to send me some music. I leave the party feeling a little better: not exactly cheerful, but not as depressed as I was. I don’t much feel like talking, though—I spend the trip back mostly in my own head, deflecting Dr. Pete’s attempts at conversation with mutters and noncommittal replies. I’ve got the opening riff to “Where the Streets Have No Name” running through my head, powerful but a little melancholy.
We pull up in front of my building and stop. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression—,” he starts, and I cut him off.
“Not your fault, Doc. I know you’re just trying to help—I’m full of Urthbone, remember? And I actually had a pretty good time.”
“You still feeling jittery?”
I stop and consider the question—I’d kind of forgotten about the reason Dr. Pete had asked me to come with him.
“No, not at all,” I say. “I feel a lot better. Thank you.”
“Well, that’s the main thing. Make sure that you—”
He stops, staring past me. I glance in the direction he’s looking, feeling a little surge of adrenaline, and see a pair of bright yellow eyes watching us from the shadows of the alley that runs beside my building.
“What?” I say.
“I’m not sure. Probably just a homeless lone wolf—but they can be dangerous, especially to humans on their own. Maybe I should escort you to the door.”
“That’s really not necessary—”
He’s already out of the car, though. I sigh and follow him; I’m in no mood to argue with the male protective reflex, no doubt magnified in this case by the doctor/patient relationship.
We’re halfway to the entrance when the wolf stalks out of the alley and cuts us off.
He’s gray, shaggy, and large, his head at least three feet off the ground. He’s in full wolf form, no evidence of humanity at all, and his lips curl back in a snarl of warning as we approach.
“Jace, stay back.” Dr. Pete doesn’t soun
d worried, just firm. Those are the last words he says to me as he quickly shifts to half-wolf form himself.
The wolf stares at me. I stare back. There’s something familiar about him. . . .
“Doc, hold it,” I blurt out as Dr. Pete lets out a menacing growl. “I know this guy.”
The gray wolf sits, transforming to half-were form as he does. When he has hands, he signs to me. Hello, Jace. Please forgive the intrusion.
I don’t bother signing back. “Tanaka. What the hell are you doing here?”
I came to make amends. And I was . . . His paws pause. . . . concerned for your safety.
“That’s not necessary. I can take care of myself—unless you know something I don’t?”
No. I have heard of no new threat. I was simply worried . . . and perhaps a little restless. I went out for a run and found myself in your neighborhood. I will leave. His ears droop, which make him look more like Eeyore than a vicious supernatural beast.
“No, hang on a second, okay?” I turn to Dr. Pete. “You can take off. Thanks for a great day, really.”
“You’re sure?” He eyes Tanaka with open mistrust and just a little hostility.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. I work with him. I’ll call you if I’m having problems, all right?”
“Well . . . all right. Good night.” He nods curtly at Tanaka, then goes back to his car.
I watch him drive away, then turn to Tanaka. He’s waiting, with that hangdog expression canines get when they know they’re in trouble, no doubt expecting another visit from Hurricane Jace.
I shake my head. “I’m not angry. Really. I appreciate the sentiment.”
He makes a single fluid gesture with one clawed hand. But?
“But this would have been a bad idea even if I had joined the Hair Club for Humans. You’re a great guy. Honestly. But long-distance relationships are tricky at the best of times, and the distance between me and you stretches from species to country to universe. The more invested in a case I am, the more focused on it I become, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to be any more invested in a case than I am right now. It’s just not going to happen, Tanaka. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong woman. I’m sorry. You should go home.”
I understand. I should not have come—not here, not to America. Thank you for your honesty. I wish you well.
He reverts back to full wolf mode, and pads off into the night.
I sleep a little better that night, so I guess Dr. Pete’s treatment has some merit. Even so, it takes me a while to drift off; I keep thinking about Tanaka. I mean, I know I did the right thing, but sometimes doing the wrong thing is more enjoyable.
From what I can remember, a lot more enjoyable.
But the idea’s ridiculous. Even forgetting about the whole man-into-beast aspect, I don’t think a man like Tanaka’s my style. He’s got the whole Japanese culture thing going, which doesn’t have a good track record as far as gender equality is concerned; the comments Isamu threw in my face, while insulting, didn’t really come as a surprise.
Which brings up the question of who my type actually is.
Roger? On the surface, he seemed to have it all: brains, ambitions, looks, charm. Great in bed. But let’s face it, that’s not a type—that’s a fantasy. Guys who have that much to offer up front tend to be self-centered and shallow underneath. Actually, I’m pretty sure that particular analysis isn’t limited to the male gender, or even the human race. The more desirable you are, the more power you have, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Of course, by that definition Marilyn Monroe must have been a cannibal, but who knows. Maybe she was from another universe, too.
I guess I’ve always been attracted to powerful men. I read somewhere that the two universal attractors in human beings, regardless of culture, are power and youth—specifically, power for women and youth for men. Which explains why aging rock stars date eighteen-year-old models but doesn’t answer my question at all. Isn’t there something less generic that I’m looking for in a man?
Well, how about Dr. Pete? Nice guy, doctor, clearly a family man. Compassionate, sense of humor, intelligent. The resemblance to a young Indiana Jones doesn’t hurt, either. Of course, he isn’t so much interested in raising a family as a litter—no, that’s not fair. Putting aside all questions of his wolfiness, would I date this guy if I’d met him in my other life?
Yes.
The answer surprises me, and my brain immediately goes to work building a viable defense. It would never work: doctors work even longer hours than agents, a family would be nice but there’s no way you’re having eight kids, the in-laws seem pleasant but your folks would eat them alive—
Shut up, brain.
As long as we’re on hypotheticals, how about Cassius? Fresh-faced California surfer-boy good looks with the experience and intelligence of a spymaster. James Bond as played by a young, bloodsucking Robert Redford.
I’m tempted to say Cassius is too much like Roger, but I can’t. Despite the surface similarities, there’s a depth to Cassius that makes Roger seem like a game-show host. Yes, Cassius probably gave Machiavelli lessons in manipulation; yes, he’s no doubt capable of utter ruthlessness—but he’s not heartless. Maybe it was just the high levels of Urthbone in my system at the time, but I could sense the kind of pain Cassius carries around. He’s one of those rare bosses, capable of making the hard decisions and willing to accept the emotional consequences of his actions. Conversations I’ve had with Gretchen since meeting him have confirmed this.
Still, it’s all moot. I’m not going to be sticking around long enough to get involved with any of these guys.
I’m not.
I spend Sunday doing laundry, shopping, mundane apartment things. One of the things I still find spooky is what I call daytimers—pires who, for whatever reason, are out and about while the sun is up. The outfits they wear cover every square inch of skin—hood, gloves, black bug-eyed goggles, mask—and white or red seems to be the color of choice, usually something smooth and gleamy. Pires don’t have to worry about heat or perspiration, so artificial fabrics like polyester or rubber work just fine. Some of the pires I see look like they’ve painted their entire bodies in liquid latex, wearing only shoes, gloves, and goggles. A lanky, crimson-skinned woman wearing a streamlined helmet zips past me on Rollerblades, sucking on a hemaccino through a straw.
Charlie calls me up to see how I’m doing on Sunday night, and hangs up after I tell him I’m fine. Straight and to the point, that’s my partner. I keep checking my e-mail, but that music Alexandra promised me never shows up. Ah, well—she’s a teenager, she probably just forgot.
By Monday morning I’m itching to get back to work. I arrive at the office a half hour early and plan to head for the intel division to see if Gretchen’s dug up anything new—but the receptionist tells me Cassius wants to see me as soon as I get in. Uh-oh.
Turns out he just wants to go over the case, see where we are and what we’re doing. This kind of general recap of events is pretty much SOP for most intelligence agencies, especially with cases that drag on for extended periods of time; it keeps details fresh in the agents’ minds and often stimulates a new insight or connection. Strangely, neither Gretchen nor Eisfanger is present—not even Charlie.
“—so that’s about it,” I say. “Aristotle Stoker knows we’re looking for him.”
Cassius nods. “And that’s all Tanaka had to tell you?”
I hesitate. “He also seems to feel that our investigation has either a leak or someone with a hidden agenda. No specifics.”
“A hidden agenda in a case involving national security agencies from more than one country? What a strange and unusual conclusion.”
“Yeah. Anything you can share with me?”
He raises an eyebrow and stares at me. I shrug. There’s a whole conversation right there, one that starts with: You realize I can’t even admit to knowing about such things, let alone discuss them, and ends with I know, but I had to ask.
&
nbsp; “Look, there’s something that’s been bothering me,” I say. “Why me?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Out of all the profilers you could have picked, why me?”
He hesitates just long enough to let me know he’s hiding something. “I’m afraid it’s both more technical and less personal than you might think. The number of variables involved in a cross-universe transfer are immense; it’s like hitting an orbital launch window. You just happened to be available—in a metaphysical sense—when that window was open.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel so much more valued now.”
“You’re very valuable, Jace. Tanaka certainly seems to think so, wouldn’t you say?”
Here’s where normally I’d brace myself for a reading of the Riot Act concerning interoffice romance and agent conduct—but as I made it abundantly clear to Cassius in a previous rant, I’m going to disregard little subtleties like that. Apparently it sank in, too, because the tone of his next question is cautious.
“Is this an . . . alliance you intend to pursue?”
“I think the word you’re groping for is ‘relationship.’ And no, I don’t intend to take things any further.” I’m deliberately vague, wondering just how much he knows.
“Ah.” He’s quiet for a moment, studying my expression. I look as neutral as I possibly can.
“I just wanted to let you know that I have no problem with that, myself. You’re in a difficult position, and I don’t intend to make things any harder for you than they already are. Isolation is an occupational hazard in intelligence work; I’m glad you’re making friends. And I hope you’re discovering that we’re really not that different from you.”
“And if you told me anything else, I’d ignore you anyway, right?”
He smiles. “Am I that transparent? Here I thought I was doing a pretty good job at finessing you.”
“Is that what you call it? You got the first letter right, anyway.”