Analog SFF, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Yeah. Bio Week and AI Times both had pieces. It was a big deal for about ten minutes.” Shad's pacing became a bit more frenzied. “To a man in a bug POV suit, it was supposed to seem as though he's crawling or buzzing around with everything on board, but the imprint really wouldn't be in the bug."

  I leaned forward, my headache temporarily forgotten. “But they never got it working."

  "No. Something to do with neural equivalency failure and remote transmission fidelity. Too much of the first and too little of the second.” He stopped pacing and faced me. “After it was dropped, Fantronics used the research they'd done to come up with a prototype master/slave unit that was put into trials to see if it would be effective and safe for implanting images for use in mental health treatment."

  "I don't remember that."

  "You wouldn't unless you'd been in one of the trials.” He held up a wing to preempt my next question. “They had gotten a portable imprinter down to the size of a Kaiser roll and were lining up amdroids under psychiatric care for clinical trials. After my wife dumped me, I was seeing someone because of a little depression I was going through. Anyway, before the trials even got started, the wheels came off the program and it was dropped. Then Fantronics unleashed an army of media molders to assure everyone in the world that there never had been any program, and if there had been a program, Fantronics didn't have anything to do with it, and if they did have something to do with it, no serious lasting effects had been suffered."

  "Big law suits?"

  Shad whistled and held his wingtips far apart. “Law firms were beating the law schools for recruits. See, what the Fantronics lab came up with was a brand new compact way to take perfectly sane individuals and turn them stark barking bonkers.” He lowered his wings. “If they could do that with a human, why not with a horse?"

  "Rather sophisticated, but that might be our murder weapon.” I drummed my fingertips on the arm of my chair. “For what possible reason? The success of Houndtor Down Hunts has been an enormous free advert for the corporation's fantasy amdroid lines. Killing Miles Bowman with a Fantronics amdroid horse—"

  "—could destroy the corporation,” Shad completed. “Disgruntled employee? Someone connected with the cancelled project?"

  "Fund my project or I'll take everyone in Fantronics down with me."

  "It could get us a trip to London, Jaggs. I love the parks there."

  "It's a little early for vacationing.” I pointed at my partner. “Get on the net and see how Fantronics's stock is doing."

  After a few moments of tail twitching, Shad looked at me. “No real changes: between three-ninety and four hundred a share, the same as it's been since the general market increase this past January. No layoffs at Fantronics. They're hiring.” He paused for a moment. “Want to supervise a recreational program for used bios that've been engram-scrubbed? Some housebreaking training involved, no experience necessary, bring your own mop."

  "I have another commitment."

  Shad whistled. “Want to know the starting salary?"

  "It would only discourage me.” I took a sip of tea and put my cup down on the coffee table. On the telly Claude Rains was shocked, shocked to find out there's gambling going on in Casablanca. I picked up the remote and paused the flick. “We're not getting anywhere with motive. Let's focus on means."

  "Okay.” With a flap and a hop, Shad was back on the end table. He took a slurp of his tea, sat down, and said, “We know the ability exists to remotely implant images that can trigger off a homicidal nightmare, and it's pretty clear something like that was done to Champion when the horse killed Bowman and when he tried to kill us.” Shad looked at me. “And?"

  "If we can find out where the image implant device was located when it triggered Champion in his stall, we might find a trail that we could follow to our killer. I haven't looked at your burrow map. Any of those burrows come near the stables?"

  "No burrows. Just a conduit carrying vid feeds to the studio wing. No access into the pipe. The actual fox burrows are pretty much limited to Old Bones Village, extending south and southwest from the ruins coming up at various places on Houndtor Down, Holwell Lawn, and Hedge Down on the other side of the road to Manaton. They have remote camera hookups throughout the whole area so they can continually vary the route of the chase. Only the burrows in the village are dirt and rock. The long ones that come up in the chase areas are forty-centimeter-diameter plastic pipe. Archie's hair is in the Old Bones Village burrows and throughout the pipes that come up in the chase areas.

  "If Houndtor Down Hunts put in all that pipe, the plans should be on file with the Dartmoor National Park Authority. There has to be a way to get at Champion's stall. When you have a minute, Shad, access the plans on file with the authority and see how they compare with your map."

  "Will do. Something to think about though, Jaggs.” Shad glanced at Val, noted she was sleeping, and said in a lower volume, “That horse is still a dangerous weapon. How's your head? Personally, I'm not eager to donate any more feathers."

  "Point taken.” I looked at Val. Often when she looked asleep she was only relaxing. Then a thought came to mind that chased away all caution. “What about us, Shad?"

  "Us?"

  "We both have bio receivers. If our killer has the means to make horse amdroids crazy, what about us?"

  He looked down and slowly shook his head. “The prototype made humans crazy. That's why the program was dumped. I think we have to assume whoever made Champion crazy can do the same for us, and will do it if we get in their way."

  "Even killers have to sleep sometime,” interrupted Val as she yawned and stretched her front legs.

  "I apologize for keeping you up, dear,” I said. “We'll be done in a minute."

  The duck jumped from the end table to the floor and waddled over to Val's end of the settee. “I believe Val was suggesting that right now might be an opportune time to sneak into the stable wing to take a peek."

  "Smart bird,” she responded as she rose, arched her back in a global stretch, turned around twice, and settled back into the same exact position.

  She was probably right, too. Unless the killer had accomplices, there was no way to stand guard on everything all of the time. I stood, petted Val's head and ran my hand down her back. “Thank you, dear. Don't wait up."

  "I never do,” she said with her eyes closed. “Harry?"

  "Yes, dear?"

  She looked at me. “It's good to see you after a killer again.” She glanced at Shad then back at me. “Both of you, take care."

  * * * *

  On the way from Exeter, Shad accessed the plans filed with the park authority, and the underground piping Quartermain used for long-distance burrows matched exactly the map Shad had generated, including a strange little cave near Old Bones Village Shad had mentioned. The burrow Quartermain had used to exit from Bones’ chamber led to the cave, but, although there were cracks in the upper part of the chamber, allowing a little light and more than a few bats to enter, Shad hadn't found any exit large enough for a fox. Judging by the number of bat wings he had found without bats between them, Shad concluded the cave was one of the places where the Quartermains dined.

  There was drainage piping from the stables, but it was a completely separate enclosed system with all wastes purified and recycled. No connection to the fox runs. While he was at it, Shad ran a search on anyone who ever had any connection with Fantronics's experimental insect imprint or mental health programs. The scientist who had been in charge of both programs, Beatrice Widdows, PhD, had moved to Florida three years before to join the faculty of the state university there as professor of applied biotronics. It was reputedly the only college course in the world taught by a manatee. Among the names of Dr. Widdows's assistants that Shad had listed, the name of one caught my attention. “Why does the name Shirley Wurple seem familiar?"

  "Dr. Wurple is the current bio amdroid assignment supervisor at Fantronics. Remember, she ducked my call?"

  "Is the
re any connection between her and Houndtor Down Hunts you can find?"

  "Working,” Shad announced as his tail twitched. As the cruiser came down from the Bovey Tracy Roundabout, the rain had stopped, but it was still overcast, making the night deadly dark, which was perfect for our purposes. Just as we came over the village of Leighon, Shad announced, “Back at the beginning of Houndtor Down Hunts, when Archie Quartermain imprinted onto his first fox bio, Dr. Wurple assisted Dr. Widdows with the imprint and supervised the transfer of Archie's human meat suit to its new owner. As far as my software knows, that's the only connection. Where do you want me to put down?"

  "Put us into a hover just east of the lodge grove below treetop level and run up both micros. If we find another way from Champion's stall out of the stables, we're going to follow it wherever it goes."

  * * * *

  Copied into our micros, we entered the stables through an air vent leaving open the hole we had made through the screen and air filter. Keeping above the cameras and motion detectors, we came to the horse stable wing and once there, aligned ourselves behind a vertical electrical conduit and descended until we could enter an open transom. Keeping beams, boxes, or bales of hay between us and the security sensors, we made our way to Champion's stall and slipped in undetected. The horse was lying down in the straw on its right side.

  "I thought horses slept standing up,” said Shad on our secure net.

  I hovered my micro just above the horse's head and extended my holo. “They may very well sleep standing up, Shad, but this one is as dead as Dillinger.” I did a quick neural activity scan and came up empty. “This bio has been dead long enough to zero out all recoverable neurological activity and data.” I initiated a full scan and Shad opened a channel to it and watched. We both noted the results at the same time: Champion's red blood cells were almost devoid of oxygen.

  "Chemical asphyxia?” said Shad.

  "Let's see.” I looked up horse anatomy, located a big artery, and shot an independent microanalyzer into the dead animal's blood stream. The rice-grain-sized laboratory reported its results within seconds: “Blood cyanide level: two-point-three milligrams per liter. Get a liver temp."

  Shad moved his micro around to the horse's flank and fired a sensor into the dead animal's liver. “Champ's been dead about two hours."

  "Perhaps our killer was neating up.” I looked back at the dead horse. “The poison still had to be administered. Do your wireless magic and see if you can access the stable security vids. Any and everything of Champion, his stall, and anyone going to or coming from the stall the past three or four hours. I'll check the horse's food and water and see if the poison was administered that way."

  "I'm on it, Jaggs."

  While Shad was busy accessing the security vids, I tested Champion's water and feed station for cyanide. Neither had even trace amounts. The feed was automatically mixed, apportioned, and transported to the stalls on overhead belts, and down through vertical chutes into the feeding stations.

  "Shad, while you're checking the surveillance vids, be a good fellow and run the schematics for the automated feeding and watering systems. See if there's any way for something or someone to get through them into the stalls."

  "Got it."

  On the other sides of the walls—both sides, the back, and back corners—were other stalls, all occupied. I checked the adjoining stalls and examined the walls. They were covered with white imitation wood planking made from a durable combination of poly and gypsum cement. Very well done. Until I actually put the holo to them, I thought them to be of genuine oak. The stall walls were solid down to the imitation concrete plastic foundation. The foundation was solid and one uninterrupted piece with the textured floor. I poked through the straw on the stall floor, as well as beneath lumps of horse poo, finding no opening large enough to allow even a micro to enter, much less something as large as a Kaiser roll.

  "I've run through the vids of all three cameras that have views of this section of the horse stables, Jaggs. Nothing."

  "The feed and watering systems?” I prompted.

  "The water goes through a series of filters and screens. The feed is run through larger mesh screens, but goes through foreign matter detectors designed to find and remove all ferrous and nonferrous metals, plastics, rocks, insects, rodents, contaminants—anything that isn't the intended feed. Find anything with the foundation or floor?"

  "What I found was that this building is tight and made of practically indestructible materials. The only place I haven't examined is beneath the horse."

  "We could put our power supplies in parallel and give Champ a zap,” Shad offered. “Maybe we could frog-twitch him off that spot."

  I aimed my lens at my partner. “Before resorting to measures that have equal chances of either crushing our micros or setting this straw on fire, Baron Frankenduck, let's do density and matrix continuity scans on the floor and foundation that we can reach."

  "Think someone pulled a plastic plug and put it back, Igor?” he said, I believe, with the voice of Colin Clive.

  "Let's see. And that's Detective Inspector Igor to you."

  Density and matrix continuity scans, originally adopted by forensics for restoring purposefully obliterated serial numbers from weapons, autos, and stolen goods, were, because of that, deadly slow if the area to be scanned was larger than a few square centimeters. The stall was approximately three meters wide and four deep. Fortunately, we both began scanning at the back of the stall, I on the right and Shad on the left. We hadn't been at it longer than twenty minutes when Shad said, “Got it."

  I glided over to his side of the stall, tuned in his scan, and saw in his corner of the stall an arc, the complete circle of which would be twenty-five centimeters in diameter and would include part of the floor and a bit of the back. I began scanning the back, and in minutes we had marked bits of arc the complete circle of which would, if the plug were removed, make a rather high-tech foxhole. “Are we back to Archie Quartermain?” asked Shad. “What motive?"

  "Perhaps he's a better actor than you thought. He originally got into that fox suit for money."

  "I don't buy it. Back when we were in New York, Archie liked money the same way I liked money. We both preferred eating to starving and sleeping with a roof over our heads to shivering beneath all the news that's fit to print out on a park bench. In the end, that's why I became a cop and Archie became a fox, but money wasn't what was driving us. Acting, getting a great role, hearing that laughter, that applause, getting a thousand men and women to play with you at the same time, leading them along into your game, and springing the surprise on them, collecting all those oohs and aahs. Applause. That's what drove us—that's what drove Archie. Judging by what he told you when I was out mapping the burrows, that's what's still driving him: the game, although I admit the appeal parameters seemed to have changed."

  "So, what else can fit through a fox hole?"

  "Fox terriers,” offered Shad. “Various mechs, squirrels, rats, all kinds of birds, weasels, badgers, monkeys—"

  "You said your package included thermal imaging,” I interrupted. “How sensitive is your system?"

  "I can track another bird through the air by the long heat trail it leaves and can determine which shotgun a duck hunter used five hours after it was fired by the heat differential between it and the hunter's unfired weapons, and that with a load of birdshot in my butt."

  "Shad, we have to get back up to the cruiser. When we get there, move into your feathers and do a scan around the lodge and stables for the underground route that was used to get in here. Whatever was used, it had to generate some heat to get through this foundation. My instruments, crude as they are, can detect a temperature differential between the inside of the arc we've been scanning and the surrounding material."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Perhaps I'll find a shovel to wield."

  Shad's micro hovered for a moment, then he said, “You're going to make me copy into the big mech and d
o the digging, aren't you?"

  "Unless your scan can find us another way in."

  * * * *

  While I downloaded my data into the cruiser's computer, Shad did one quick flap around the lodge and stables. Long before I managed to copy back into my meat suit, he was back with a report. “I found the underground tunnel coming out from beneath the northwest corner of the lodge. That was the end cut last. From there it runs around three meters deep northwest, then arcs until it heads southwest, arcs again until it's headed southeast, and then the thermal signature is so faint my equipment can't pick it up. The largest part of what I could follow was cut through mostly solid granite."

  My sync was complete and I sat up and pointed at the cruiser's data screen. “Show me."

  It was as he said. In addition, the trace was very regular, not a perceptible difference in diameter between any two parts of the machine-cut tube. Every detectable portion of the tunnel was three to four meters deep, most of it running through granite. If we were going to break into it, we'd need equipment, explosives, daylight, a crew, and to throw away any kind of edge surprise might lend us. I glanced over to the driver's seat, and Shad's tail was twitching. “What are you doing?"

  "Searching for small-diameter tunneling equipment. I've found three designed for putting in water and sewer lines, as well as running conduit through masonry, that can do the tunnel job we detected. The Euclid 750 Pipe Snake is what was used to put in all of the long-run tunnels Houndtor Down Hunts uses to run camera feeds along the different fox runs. I see it's pretty obsolete, too, as far as knowledgeable plumbing and sewerage dons are concerned."

  The image came up. The Euclid model resembled a horrible huge snake, the mouth on its fearsome head tipped with ghastly-looking circular grinding teeth. Just behind the teeth were high-pressure water jets and intake holes to float the stone dust and remove the slurry. Just behind the takeaway scoops was a gasket, and behind that were holes designed to inject and coat the interior of the tunnel behind the head with a smooth layer of chemical and weather-resistant plastic. The rattle on the tail of this snake was a huge piece of nuke-powered equipment that would be incredibly obvious wherever it was used. Shad pointed out that the Pipe Snake could have easily made the hole into Champion's stall, but all it could do after that is coat the inside of the opening with plastic. It couldn't have refilled the hole.