Analog SFF, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Seems likely."

  "Awright, you lot! Don't be late for parade!” bellowed Staff Foster. “To the tower, lads. Let's see if those new feathers bounce or fly!"

  * * * *

  Part of the package in all ledge marshal bios is a flight program that does most of the work involved in knowing how to fly. On the roof the eleven of us were run up little ramps to the top of a tower and kicked off into the air until, instead of landing crumpled up at the foot of the tower, we flew down under our own power. I did it in three tries but it took Shad five.

  "Ducks don't fly the same as pigeons,” he explained. “I finally had to disable my duck program before I could work these pigeon wings."

  We flew circuits around the building, higher and higher, almost to the level of the air vectors, then circled back down. It was the most wonderful sensation I have ever experienced. Even in one of their old Hurricanes, the strength, the freedom, the thrill, combined with the incredible degree of control, was such I was certain DI Harrington Jaggers below was grinning in his stasis bed.

  One final ground parade and caution from Squadron Leader Haverill prohibiting flight formations and synchronous wing flapping: “Lads, our function is to keep the ledges of our clients clean and to do so in a natural-appearing manner. No one objects to pigeons. They are natural; they are beautiful. What our clients object to is filth. However, if we eliminate the filth but fly fighter and bomber formations, we no longer look natural. Instead, we look threatening. Flapping wings in unison, I would add, does not look natural. Report to your commands."

  Flight Sergeant Ponsonby and his two staffs barked us down to the ready room on the fifth floor where Shad, Mathilda, and I joined Puss in Boots Flight as the 712 Squadron of the Third Wing prepared to relieve 214 of the Second. We had a few minutes and Tommy Shay, Jock Munro, and Artie Krauthammer explained to the three of us what they called “the changes."

  "Years ago we used to flap in unison. Took great pride in it, we did,” said Shay. “The legs downstairs,"—legs appeared to be a term of derision—"The legs says they got complaints, so no more synchronous flappin'. Well, we still takes pride in our flyin', so we flies changes. Got it from the bell ringers what do change ringing. Now we up to full strength, we got six birds in the flight. We can do it proper.” And then Tommy explained the mysteries of the ‘Blue Line,’ otherwise known as ‘Plain Bob Minor.’ Tommy was Puss in Boots One, Jock was Two, Artie was Three, I was Four, Shad was Five, and Mathilda was Six. After going from One to Six in order, the variations began, 214365, then 241635, 426153, and so on. “I'll call ‘em out ‘til you get the hang of it. You flap down on your first number, raise on your next, then down on the next. I'll time my call to start once I see where Wolf Flight is in the pattern. You'll pick it up soon enough. Any questions?"

  "It doesn't look natural,” said Shad.

  "No, it don't,” said Flight Lieutenant Shay. “But the legs don't know why it don't."

  A buzzer buzzed and a red light began flashing. Shay led the way out of the ready room into an area ringed with open windows. There were hundreds of the Third Wing milling about. The forty or so “old wings” of the 712 introduced themselves to the five new “chicks” assigned to the squadron, stating first name then flight, as in “Percival, Wicked Stepmother,” and “Jenkins, Tom Thumb.” They all made Shad, Mathilda, and me feel quite welcome. On the sill of the southernmost facing window, a handsome Spit pigeon stood and called the 712 to attention. Other Spits on other windowsills addressed their squadrons. As we fell silent, a second Spit pigeon took the first one's place.

  "Mother Goose,” Shay whispered to us in the flight.

  "I am Squadron Leader Patricia Kwela, commanding officer of 712,” the pigeon said with a slight accent I couldn't place. “I am notified 712 has five spankin’ new pilot officers this mission. I welcome you. Your flight leaders will give you your orders. Do your most best to follow orders. You do that, we look good, keep ledges free of Jerry, go home safe, and all be most dandy. Now we going to have moment of silence for recently departed brother Flying Officer Darcy Flanagan of Puss in Boots Flight. I ask you all call down your juju and beg your wing brother Darcy get nothin’ but clear skies, soft breezes, cozy dovecotes, and the whole Peanut Mountain."

  Someone cooed a whistle and the entire wing fell silent as the piano mech far below softly played “Chariots of Fire.” Once that was concluded, the whistle cooed again followed by the buzzer and a green light.

  "Chocks away!” bellowed the wing adjutant, the squadrons lined up at their respective windows, and one after another flights flew from the windows. I managed to get Shad to stop laughing long enough not to miss our flight.

  As we took up our heading toward the cathedral, Shad, Mathilda, and I learned to flap changes, and to take a bit of pride in doing so. Learning “the rows,” as they were called. “Plain Bob Minor” began:

  123456

  214365

  241635

  426153

  462513

  645231

  654321

  563412

  536142

  351624

  through sixty-two variations, then was repeated from the beginning. As a “four,” I could watch the fours ripple though the entire squadron while other numbers rippled in nonparallel directions. Very neat. Once the 712 was at the cathedral, Puss in Boots and Wolf flights peeled away. Wolf banked left for the north side and Puss in Boots banked right for the south where we fell in with the lads we were to relieve—Jimmy Dorsey Flight of 264 Squadron—and did a circuit of the South Cathedral, Cloisters, Diocesan House, and Bishop's Palace. Jimmy One said to Tommy the area had been fairly quiet: only thirteen pigeons and one lone pigeon bio to discourage, and when his flight peeled off to join 264, he called, “Good hunting, chaps. Jimmy One out.” Then he called to “Big Band” and Jimmy Dorsey Flight ascended to join Tommy Dorsey Flight and 264 Squadron as it headed back to Castle Field.

  * * * *

  I suggested to Tommy that Shad and I take up Flanagan's old patrol area. Since Mathilda was in a Hurricane and couldn't keep up with the Spits, she came with us. The only experienced flyer among the three of us was Shad and Tommy made him our flight leader. We chased a few pigeons off the Bishop's Palace and had a brief encounter with a pigeon bio named McGee on the Diocesan House. McGee was probably the same bio Jimmy Dorsey Flight had run off during their patrol. We chased him off but an hour later had to chase him off again. This time the three of us escorted McGee down to the Quay and showed him the cliffs above the river where the “really in” pigeons lived. Shad issued some formidable audio taken I believe from the second King Kong remake: giant gorilla grunts, snorts, thumps, and bellows followed by Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator saying, “Don't come back,” which took care of the problem nicely.

  We took breaks around the Puss in Boots patrol area feeder installed by Pureledge on the roof above the cathedral tearoom. On the first break, Munro couldn't resist a tired working-for-peanuts reference. After feeding, it was off to the loo. Our patrol area's designated bombing area was in the Bishop's Garden, and it took several tries before Shad and I, on the wing, scored bulls eyes on the garden's compost heap. Then it was back to patrol.

  On the second break, Artie Krauthammer shared a useful reminiscence or two about Darcy Flanagan. It seemed that, prior to Pureledge, Darcy and Artie had spent much of their lives together in pubs. That continued until they found themselves in failing health, dire legal circumstances, and turning over more than half their pensions for rat poison blends from the offies. I had to explain to Shad that offies were shops, off-license package stores that sold alcohol.

  "It was a rum life,” said Artie. “Darcy's the one who discovered Pureledge. See, Darcy's old liver couldn't take much more and mine was even worse. ‘Another Old Coot Whiskey,’ the doc says to me, ‘and you'll be looking for a bunk down in the catacombs, me lad.’ Darcy and me both swore off, but it weren't never an easy oath to keep."

  "
Why the RPAF?” Shad asked.

  "'Pigeons,’ Darcy says to me, ‘young they are, livers is just fine, and no questions. How much single malt you think it takes to warm up a pigeon?’ he asks me. Couple of drops? It's a body weight and metabolism thing, right?"

  Shad and I exchanged glances. “Right,” we both said facing him.

  "Instead of more booze, we went for less body mass. Seemed like an answer to all our prayers. A single bottle could last a couple o’ pigeons a month or more. The day we was to show, though, Darcy didn't. He'd spent the night and morning seein’ how much scrumpy he could put down and they had him in hospital. By the time he got out, I was in my Spit flappin’ changes and kind of enjoying having health and a clear head. Wanted to keep it that way. Darcy still had his plan, though. Day he left hospital he was at Castle Street fitted out for wings. All they had left then was Hurricanes. Anyway, Darcy was in the 712. I coaxed him to stay off the stuff, and he did for a few weeks. Then I could smell it on him."

  "He was drinking on duty?” asked Shad.

  "I never saw him. Don't know where he kept his jug,” answered Artie. “I wanted to stay sober meself, see. Got into a program: Birds of a Feather. Well, Darcy and I drifted apart. Didn't exchange a word with him except to say hi for weeks. Then yesterday he goes missin’ and winds up dead.” Artie Krauthammer sadly shook his head. “Poor Darcy."

  After the second break, Mathilda was missing. Shad and I checked the Bishop's Garden and began running a search grid on the cathedral grounds when we both looked around and noticed she was right behind us. “Sorry, boys. Had to go powder my beak,” and then she cackled insanely and began sobbing and singing “Chariots of Fire.” I dropped back, took a sniff, and Pilot Officer Mathilda was flying a bit too close to the wind.

  "Darcy Flanagan was a good man,” she declared as Shad fell back, Mathilda flying between us. “Such a dear—urp—poor dearie, dearie poo. Can't believe he's gone!" More sobbing. Between us, Shad and I guided her to the central peak of a roof, the palace spread out below us. From her babbling monolog, apparently Mathilda knew Darcy from his pub days. Sober old Artie Krauthammer wasn't the only one with whom Darcy had shared his reduced body mass alcohol conservation proposal. She wept, she reminisced, she sang a tune or two, gave a sloppy eulogy for the departed, and sobbed some more. Shad and I were both trying to decide how to get Mathilda to reveal the location of Flanagan's jug when she quieted, thought a moment, then took off. We watched as she glided down toward the palace, landed on the crenellated top of a small octagonal tower, then disappeared between the crenellations. When we joined her we noted a trap door set into the roof of the tower and next to it a ceramic jug painted the same dark color as the roof. Set into the base of the jug was a push-button spigot that emptied into the upturned lid of a jar. Mathilda pushed the button with her beak, a dollop of single malt landed in the lid, and she guzzled more than a wee drop or two. I looked at Shad and he was looking along the roof of the Diocesan House to where it joined the Bishop's Palace. I knew he was thinking the same as I: The bishop's gas gun was still unaccounted for.

  At eleven that night, the 712 Squadron was relieved by the 132 “Big Toon” Squadron. We flew Yosemite Sam Flight around the south cathedral patrol area, then climbed to join Mother Goose and the 712 back to Castle Field, all of us cooing the old Vera Lynn song, “We'll Meet Again,” as we flapped changes back home, Mathilda's changes flapping to a different ringer.

  * * * *

  "I am getting considerable pressure from the Chief Constable's office to resolve this dead pigeon matter,” declared Detective Superintendent Matheson the next morning. Shad and I were in his office standing in front of his antique mahogany veneer desk. The rest of his office was unadorned save for the image of a gilt-framed painting of the Biograph Theater in Chicago centered in the liquid crystal wall facing the desk. The superintendent's hands were clasped behind his back and DC Parker was behind the image of the Biograph in the superintendent's WC. Between flushes and shouting through the door, Parker did an adequate summary of the progress thus far on the Darcy Flanagan case.

  Complete results on pigeon bio deaths and injuries weren't yet in, but what results there were appeared discouraging. Constabulary SOCOs had been called in regarding the Kumar matter, and had collected the feathers, but apparently the evidence collected at the scene had been misplaced. The report itself had been scrubbed in the Heavitree Tower computer meltdown that year, the file apparently never having been copied to the archive backup nor forwarded to ABCD. The detectives and SOCOs who worked on the Kumar case were scattered to the winds. They were being tracked down, but with little hope of success.

  I could see Matheson was struggling with reconsidering his decision to place Parker in charge of the case. At one point his eyes pleaded as his brows arched, wrinkling his forehead, probably hoping against hope I would insist on taking over. The image of John Dillinger begging Sherlock Holmes for a favor quite gave me pause. Nevertheless, as Shad would have put it, we continued with the starting line-up. Either we'd pull this lump out of the fire or we'd all be singing the Oscar Meyer wiener anthem.

  After concluding the briefing, Matheson turned to his WC and said, “Parker, I rang up DS Towson to hound him about his failure to show at work. Had quite a talk with him.” A long uncomfortable pause ensued. “I'm afraid Towson's put in for retirement. Sorry.” The superintendent hung his head for a moment, then turned and looked out of his window at the giant mirror-finished icicle advertising the Sport Centre Ski Slope on Gladstone.

  "There's something I need to say to all of you.” He glanced back at Shad and me, then glanced at his toilet door. “I have no one but myself to blame for all this. I went at this job by bits and bobs, always hoping to be called back to Greater Manchester, putting this—what I considered this silliness of AB Crimes—behind me. So many issues I let slide—pay, working conditions, the entire range of our special problems.” He glanced at the toilet door. “At the end of the day, I fear I've failed. I just hope I haven't ruined this office and the entire national and world ABCD offices neck and crop."

  He nodded to himself. “AB Crimes is important work because murder is still murder whatever suit carries the imprint. I hope you will all carry on, but I'll understand if anyone wants to bow out.” He stood there silently, the gloom in the office so heavy it ought to have posted health warnings. I felt the duck kick my ankle. I looked down at Shad, his nonexistent brows were furrowed, his beak was open, and his wings held out to his sides as he glared at me.

  I faced the superintendent. “Well, sir, thank you kindly for the offer, but these are early days. Despite being terribly understaffed and underpaid, and despite the media's current cant on AB Crimes, I've rather gone off the idea of packing it in just yet."

  He turned his head and looked at me. “Oh?"

  "Parker is doing an admirable job conducting this investigation, sir, we have good leads, excellent detectives to follow up the leads, and it's frankly only a matter of time until we have a suspect. I am confident that the three of us under your leadership will be more than equal to the task. If that's all, sir?"

  Matheson nodded, smiled, and nodded again. “Thank you, Jaggers.” He studied me for a moment and turned back to his window. “Thank you, gentlemen."

  Outside the superintendent's office, the door closed behind the three of us, Shad looked up at me. “You do know you're going to Hell."

  I glanced up at Parker and the gorilla nodded sadly. “If lying gets one Hell, inspector, you're in for it. I can smell the brimstone."

  "Well. Perhaps I'll be offered a position."

  * * * *

  While Parker chased down video archives, researched injured and killed pigeon inquiries, and attempted to reconstruct the casework on the Kumar matter, he followed up on the gas guns. I helped him until late afternoon when I was to meet with Dr. Reginald Koch, Bishop of Exeter. Since the lord bishop was something of an anti-amdroid fellow, Shad's presence would likely cripple the interview's
focus. Hence, Parker had Shad continue service in the RPAF to try to find out more about Flanagan's last patrol.

  As I entered the ornate vine-leafed gothic entrance to the palace, I could hear a strange ghostly choir singing high above me. I backed out of the entrance, looked up, and in line high upon the crenellated edge of a decorative battlement above the entrance were the lads—all of Puss in Boots Flight, including Shad and Mathilda. They were singing Vera Lynn's “When The Lights Go On Again."

  I made a rude gesture and pulled the chain. No one answered. Trying the latch, the door opened and inside the palace was a state of barely organized chaos. Carpenters, plasterers, plumbers, glaziers, decorators, architects, contractors, and bishop's minions appeared to be engaged in a shouting and dust generating competition accompanied by power tools of several kinds joined by chipberries playing at top volume several types of music and things that might be music. The choking haze of dust seemed to be settling out on acres of dropcloths while mechs carried stuff from here to there and from there to here.

  There was a fellow in dusty livery and I went over to him and waited for a break in the bellowing. He was of medium height, a slender human nat of about forty with black hair, dark gray eyes, and a mouth that looked as though he had been suckled by a lemon. When he noticed me, he smiled, cocked his head to one side, and said, “Yes?"

  "I'm Detective Inspector Jaggers here to see Dr. Koch,” I yelled and held out my identification. “I have an appointment."

  His puckered upper lip curled slightly at the sight of my ABCD card. “Artificial Beings,” he said as though he had just discovered a decomposed badger in his pudding. “Come this way, inspector. Dr. Koch is expecting you."

  I followed him around jack mechs, ladders, scaffolding, and stacks of building materials into a long hall, the walls draped to protect them from construction dust and debris. As I followed my guide, I watched as he brushed off his green and black coat. “Forgive me for not answering the door, inspector, and for not introducing myself. Inexcusable, but you see how things are. My name is Fedders."