Shock Diamonds

by E. R. Mason

  R.J. and I pulled the cover from the Vette, and before letting him off, I gave a stern second lecture about searching the net for diamond skulls. It was certain Blackwell would have triggers set up for such things. R.J. scoffed and complained that was obvious. I watched him trudge toward his apartment, and resisted the urge to make any remarks about avoiding blue women.

  As I pulled into my hex-plex, something shocking made me stop short. There was a familiar-looking PAV parked outside. I crept around back, cursed at finding the back door unlocked, and peered inside warily. There was no one. Stealthing through the kitchen, I looked into the living room and found the good Doctor Catherine Adara sitting on the couch, her feet up, drink in hand, watching cartoons on the main video screen.

  With appropriate indignation, I stepped into the room and tried to sound displeased. “How did you get in here? Didn’t I lock the back door?”

  “I heard you sneaking around out there. I was afraid you’d get scared and leave. How’d I get in? Screw driver. Oh yeah, I broke a little piece of wood off the door. I’ll get it fixed.”

  “My god!”

  “Oh, don’t get your panties all in a wad again. I polished off your bottle of bourbon, and left dirty towels on the floor by the shower, too. What’re you going to do, spank me?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “Women’s college wrestling coach for three years. Take your best shot.”

  And with no further discussion I did, though no spankings were achieved.

  The next morning, we sat staring at each other across the kitchen table, scarfing down the eggs and sausage she had demanded I make.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to be back or something like that.”

  “Nobody was waiting again when you returned from this mission of yours. I thought this would be good remedial psychology.”

  “Like the PTSD treatment?”

  “Worked, didn’t it?”

  “So all that stuff about you needing to just get me out of your system so you wouldn’t have any doubts, that was all bull-crap.”

  “Nope. That was real.”

  “So now it’s safe to be around me, 'cause you’re comfortable that there’s no real attraction going on?”

  “How’s the wrist? I couldn’t get a look at it last night. You were banging around so. I see there’s no bandage. It should be completely healed by now.”

  “Did you just avoid my question?”

  “Did I? Or did I answer it?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I need another month. It’s highly unusual, just a technicality, actually.”

  “Is that because you were unsuccessful in killing me last time?”

  “As I recall, I was successful in everything I did last time, except for one thing.”

  “Dismissing me?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Maybe that’s your own special neurosis. If you can’t convince yourself someone’s unworthy of you, you kill them to take care of the uncertainty. You know, kind of like a black widow?”

  “I like the comparison, but no.”

  “By the way, I need to go rescue a woman.”

  “To what kind of woman are you referring?”

  “One who apparently already likes you, figure that.”

  “You’ve told your friends about me? How flattering.”

  “Yes. I’ve given them instructions in the event of my death.”

  “So where must we go to perform this rescue of a damsel in distress?”

  “The KSC Visitor Complex. It’s time to go, as a matter of fact.”

  “You have to go to the Kennedy Space Center Visitor Complex? Isn’t that like an airline pilot touring an airport?”

  “Can you be discreet when we get there? This is a clandestine operation.”

  “Let’s take my PAV, then. It’ll be slightly less conspicuous than a black ’95 Corvette.”

  We dropped into the PAV parking area at 10:15, just in time to catch the first VIP bus tour. I wore standard tourist clothing of loud Hawaiian design, a Yankees ball cap backwards, dark glasses above an unshaven face. It seemed an adequate deception. Christine wore the same beige silk blouse and light-blue stretch slacks that I had wrestled off of her the night before. She has the unusual talent of wearing makeup too heavy, and making it look as though it needs to be smeared by some virulent male.

  As the tour bus took us by the Spacecraft Processing Facility, a bit of uplift kicked in knowing the Griffin was in one of the center hangars. We blended in with the crowd for the foot tour inside the VAB, where they never fail to boast about how weather forming inside such a large structure requires special environmental control to prevent rain and even lightning.

  As our group passed by the far end of the open hangar, Catherine and I hesitated by a hallway door marked "NO ADMITTANCE" until Danica, wearing street clothes, a large sun hat of R.J.’s, and dark glasses emerged to join us. We reboarded the bus and quietly enjoyed the rest of our tour.

  In the good doctor’s PAV, our disguises were quickly shed.

  “My god, is that just one day’s beard stubble?” asked Danica with a smirk.

  Catherine tapped the side stick on the PAV, pointed us away from the Center, and responded, “It’s great for facial micro abrasion, but it can irritate the more sensitive areas.”

  “Well, how do you avoid that then?” asked Danica.

  “You just don’t,” said Catherine.

  “I guess the rest of him is just as coarse anyway,” said Danica.

  “How did you know?”

  “He doesn’t realize it, but I saw him naked in the spacecraft shower once.”

  “Oh my god,” I blurted out in protest.

  “We should exchange impressions sometime,” said Catherine.

  “I’m Danica, by the way.”

  “Catherine Donoro, Danica. I understand you like me.”

  “I’ve heard that men often find you intimidating. I like that.”

  “We must go shopping, Danica.”

  “Oh, I need to badly. What little I have with me had to be left aboard the Griffin.”

  “It’s settled then.”

  I sat silently with a look of helpless despair on my face, wondering how I would survive with these two women in my home.

  Chapter 8

  The return to my modest hex-plex brought a great deal more settling in than expected. There was even some unauthorized redecorating. Although I did not completely understand how it had occurred, I was suddenly living with two very independent women. After dropping us off, Catherine made a quick trip to the nearest Worldmart to “pick up a few things.” She returned with what seemed like the average load limit for any four-seat PAV. The unloading of it brought a celebration of women dividing things up. I was ordered out back to revive the barbeque grill.

  There is a strange social chemistry that occurs when a lone human male finds himself amid multiple associates of the opposite sex. Suddenly he is required to converse with far less frequency. In fact, in most cases he is cued as to when his input would be appropriate. Daring to make an offering to any particular subject matter without such cuing can be fraught with danger. Fortunately, when the male does throw caution to the wind and speaks, in most cases he receives a protective screen from the female nearest him, thereby avoiding any verbal transgressions that might otherwise upset the group.

  So, having ensured we were all stuffed with the barbeque of choice, and additionally contented with drinks of an intoxicating nature, I sat on my couch, head moving back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match, trying to keep up with the exchange from these two women who had somehow inherited my home. After a respectable amount of restraint, I was eventually able to find a rare pause long enough to assert myself and bring the topic of Danica’s problem to the floor. It sobered the mood, and when Danica had finished explaining it to Catherine, she gave the first expression of true concern I had ever seen from her. There was enough finality in the recounting t
hat it actually caused an extended moment of silence between us followed by a lingering sense of fear within the group. Faced with my first chance to take control of the conversation, I abruptly realized I had nothing to add.

  The doorbell rang, causing all of us to jump a few inches off our seats.

  No one was expected.

  I rose slowly, placed one finger against my lips, then went quickly to my bedroom and into the master bath. Long ago, I installed a false wall in the walk-in closet there, with a full length mirror as the access point. I pushed in on the mirror, leaned in and grabbed three small sidearms from the nearest shelf and made my way back to the women, handing each one of them a weapon. I wondered only for a second about Catherine’s ability to handle a gun. She took it with all the familiarity of a well-trained marksman, quickly dispelling any doubts.

  I tucked mine in behind and looked out each window. There were no unidentified vehicles parked anywhere nearby, no one with an engine running.

  At the front door, I stood to one side and called out. “Who is it?”

  There was a dull thump against the door and no response.

  Wrong answer.

  “Who’s there?”

  A mumbled reply came through, incomprehensible.

  “One more time, please. Who is it?”

  This time the mumble had a drunken slur to it, still not coherent.

  I opened the door a crack, still standing aside. Usually at that point they will crash the party, and open fire on everyone in sight.

  Nothing happened.

  I made a very quick check and backed away. A single person stood outside the door. He was not protecting himself. The flash glance suggested it was a homeless man looking for handouts.

  “You just needing a few credits, buddy?”

  “Pacshess, aa yur sersic.”

  He was too good a drunk to be an act. I slowly opened the door and shook my head at the sight of the dirty, unshaven, greasy-haired man braced with one hand against the door jam, still swaying at the edge of the envelope. Finally, one of the knees gave way and he started down.

  I caught him under the leading shoulder and winced at the thought of what I might be wiping on myself from the dirty tan scrub he was wearing. The thought that perhaps he was some medical assistant exposing me to unknown pathogens abruptly made me hurry and drag him inside. I sat him at the kitchen table. He slumped over, his head down against one dirty bare arm. I looked up to see both women peering around the door, wide-eyed, with their guns drawn. I blurted out a rude, hearty laugh. I couldn’t help it.

  Catherine responded with a "tsk" sound.

  “I don’t believe he’s a threat, ladies, except for the possibility of germ warfare.”

  The two lowered their weapons and came into the kitchen.

  “Did you relock the front door?” asked Danica.

  “Of course.”

  “Sorry. I had to ask.”

  “I agree.”

  Catherine plunked her weapon down on a counter and went to the unconscious man. Suddenly she was no longer the irreverent, rebellious she-devil. In an instant, she had metamorphosed into a doctor. She gently lifted the man’s dirty head, and with the touch of a surgeon pulled back one eyelid.

  “This is no joke, Adrian. This is serious. This man’s way past dehydrated. Alcohol poisoning to boot. We need to get him to an emergency room, right away.”

  Before I could offer, the man’s eyelids fluttered. “Nooo! No ergency room. No damn docters. I em a docker, for chist’s sake.” His head rolled around in Catherine’s grip. He managed to open his eyes wide enough to look me in mine. A spike of fear shot through me. I stepped back and stared in disbelief.

  “No way!”

  Catherine looked up at me in wonder. “What? What is it?”

  “Patrick?”

  His head continued to tilt to one side. “Adian?”

  “Oh my god! What the hell?”

  I hurried around the table and began lifting him. “Let’s get him on the couch. Danica, would you get some stuff to clean him up a little. Cath, what can we do for him, right now, right here?”

  “I have a kit in the PAV. I’ll get it.”

  We worked on the patient as furiously as any triage team would have. The clothes were too dirty for the inside trash. I had to stealthily take them outside, watching the shadows for Danica assassins. Danica had the patient in a pair of my golf pajamas by the time I returned, while Dr. Donoro was performing miracles I wouldn’t have thought possible. Somehow, she had fashioned an old-style intravenous tube and bag, and was giving the last of several injections as I arrived beside her.

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “We’ll need twenty or thirty minutes to know if this is life-threatening. You own a BP tester, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get it.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for it sooner?”

  “I can tell his BP with my fingers, dummy. But the tester’s a lot easier.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  When the situation began to settle, we gathered around, staring down at the sleeping patient, my newest tenant.

  “Okay, what’s it all about?” asked Catherine.

  “Ladies, let me introduce Doctor Patrick Pacell, chief medical officer from the Starship Electra. Most of the last few times I saw him, I was staring up at him, instead of down.”

  “So I take it he’s a close friend, someone we can trust?” asked Danica.

  “I’d have to say I owe my life to him several times over. R.J. can tell you.”

  “Adrian tends to have close relationships with his doctors,” mused Catherine.

  “From what I’ve seen, he probably has quite a few,” replied Danica.

  “Ladies, please! The patient! Cath, he didn’t want a hospital. Are we going to be okay with this?”

  “If he gets through the next hour or so, we’ll only have to worry about the detox effects. I have stuff for that, but there’s no way to know how long he’s been alcoholic.”

  “Should I like make some black coffee or something?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Let’s pour some acid into his stomach. That’ll help.”

  “Sorry! I don’t know about these things.”

  “It’s alright, Darling. We know you’re a professional patient, not a healer.”

  “You guys are cruel. I’m going and change my shirt.”

  On a previous mission, R.J. had worked with Dr. Pacell just as closely as I. When I phoned him and told him what was going on, the line went dead without a goodbye. Twenty minutes later, there was the sound of his trusty restored Corvair pulling into the driveway.

  The four of us milled around the living room, speaking in quiet tones, watching over our unexpected and troubled friend. Catherine hovered over him at regular intervals, causing the rest of us to stop whatever we were doing and watch. Her expressions of concern softened with each check, giving us all a reason for hope.

  Danica sat at the living room computer station, running a search engine. It worried me. I brought a stool over and sat beside her. “So back to your situation. When we last left our heroine, she had made Blackwell’s last test flight, then stole the test vehicle and took off for a nearby airport. She ditched Blackwell’s vehicle there, and made off in her own aircraft. Where’d she go from there, again?”

  “I flew in to Merritt Island and hid out in a Denny’s, where I read your email about the Enuro trip, which seemed like a blessing, the perfect way to hide. I got a taxi to Badge and ID, and you know the rest from there.”

  “Did you file a flight plan to Florida?”

  “Of course not. Not with him on my ass.”

  “So he’s probably filed charges against you for stealing his prototype, right? He’ll get the authorities to help track you down.”

  “That’s what I’ve been sitting here searching. I haven’t found any police reports or criminal justice references associated with Blackwell or his company. It doesn’t look like he’s filed anything a
t all.”

  “Then he must not want to call attention to himself. Plus, if he did file charges, and then something bad suddenly happened to you…”

  “All I know is, if he figures out his skull is a fake, he’ll go through the roof.”

  “What’s our liability here? Who can Blackwell reach out and touch to get control of you? Can he get to your family?”

  “Doubtful. My mother passed away several years ago. My father is in a full care facility for Alzheimer’s. Not much they can do to me there.”

  “Close friends?”

  “A few, but I’m in the air or space so much, I don’t see any of them often. He could try to leverage one of them, but he’d know it would be a weak play at best. All he would get is a whole lot of that unwanted attention.”

  “So he wants to silence you, and really the only way is to come find you.”

  “No charges filed for running off with his prototype PAV. He must have something in the works.”

  Before we could continue, Patrick Pacell finally began to stir. It was almost midnight. At first there was only the head turning with blurry-eyed stares of confusion. That was followed by cracked-voice, incoherent questions to no one in particular about what was going on, and where he was this time.

  I pulled a chair over to the couch and sat. Almost immediately, R.J. appeared next to me. Patrick squinted up at me. A shaky hand came up and wiped his unshaven face. “Adrian, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not, Patrick. What the hell is going on?”

  He tilted his head over and finally noticed R.J. “R.J., what are you doing here? Am I hallucinating again?”

  “No, Kemosabe. It is I, R.J. Smith, your trusty errand boy from days in space past.”

  Pacell tried to push himself up, but his arm strength failed him. “Water?”

  Catherine appeared next to me with a glass of cold water complete with straw. She handed it to him, but held it as he drank. He wiped his mouth once more and this time managed to push himself up just a bit. “Where am I?”