Copyright © 2009 Dr. Don Lincoln
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Novelette: THE BEAR WHO SANG OPERA by Scott William Carter
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Illustrated by John Allemand
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New technologies can lead to new crimes—and new motives.
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The bear wanted his voice back. That's what I thought he said, and I asked him to repeat it. The cochlear implant in my left ear had been acting up a lot lately—I blamed it on Targal's frequent lightning storms—and I assumed he must have said something else.
"My voice,” he said. “I think someone's stolen it."
I took my boots down from the desk and leaned a little closer. “Your voice?"
"Yes, that's right."
"But you're speaking right now."
"Yes.” He bobbed his big furry head. “Oh. No, I see the problem. Not my voice. My singing voice. I need your help getting it back. You do help people find things, don't you? That's what I heard."
His voice was deep and gruff, but he sounded sincere. Of course, I was no expert on bears, so how would I know? Maybe bears were good at lying. He was a grizzly, standing on two feet, the tips of his ears brushing against the ceiling lamp. His black tuxedo had obviously been tailor made for him, but still it seemed small, the buttons straining to hold in his girth, bits of brown fur showing in the gaps. His massive body completely blocked the window and blotted out Targal's fierce desert sunlight. The fringes of his fur looked golden, but with the light behind him, the rest of him was shrouded in darkness. He smelled like he spent most of his time in smoking rooms, and I noticed the bulge of a pipe in his left jacket pocket.
I was thankful he hadn't tried to squeeze himself into one of the two creaky metal folding chairs that sat across from my desk. I didn't want to buy new chairs. I couldn't afford to buy new chairs.
"I didn't know bears even had voices,” I said.
"Well, obviously I'm not a real bear."
"Obviously,” I said, nodding. Though it hadn't been obvious to me. You never knew these days.
"I'm a biological-robot hybrid."
"Ah."
"I really need your help."
"Mmm. And who, exactly, has stolen your voice?"
"Well, that's just it,” he said. “I said I think someone's stolen it. I'm not sure."
"You're not sure? How can you not be sure?"
He shrugged. Since grizzlies didn't have much shoulder to work with, it was more a flexing of massive muscles. “Well,” he said, “my memories have been tampered with, too. But it just seems too coincidental that my voice module would fail the very day I left the MGC. I think—I think it's more likely they replaced it with a faulty unit and then manipulated my memory circuits so I wouldn't remember the procedure. I know my memory cells were tampered with. I have a surgical engineer's report for you to prove it."
"Uh-huh. What's the MGC?"
"Mortagai Galactic Circus. I sang opera for them for over five years."
I'd heard of them. They were one of the biggest traveling circuses in the known universe, and one of the most eclectic. If there was one circus where you might find a bear who sang opera, it would be Mortagai. I once dated a girl on Realta who took me to a show when they were in town—fire-breathing penguins, tap-dancing cyborgs, shapeshifting clowns, they had it all. It wasn't my sort of thing, but at the time, I really liked this girl and I was willing to go the extra mile. Funny how I couldn't remember her name. Or whether going the extra mile paid off.
"Getting old,” I muttered.
"Mister Duff?” he said.
"Hmm?"
"My name is Karvo. Karvo Portano. Can you help me?"
I wanted to ask him why he thought they stole his voice, but I was already afraid he was crazy, and I didn't want to give him any encouragement. There usually was a surefire way to separate the crazies from the serious clients. “You realize I charge a pretty stiff fee?” I said.
"I understand,” he said. “And ... well, I'm afraid I don't have any money at the moment."
Bingo. “Kind of hard to hire me without any money,” I said.
"Yes. Yes, that would normally be the case. But you see, Dexter—may I call you Dexter?"
"No."
"Oh. Yes, well, Mr. Duff—"
"Just Duff. When someone calls me ‘mister,’ I always feel like I should be wearing a tie."
"Oh, yes. I see. Well, it's true I don't have any money. But if I get my voice back, I certainly will. You see, it was the reason I decided not to renew my contract. I'd gained a certain amount of fame for my opera, and it became apparent I had a lucrative solo career waiting for me if I decided to leave the circus. If I get my voice back, I promise you I'll not only pay your fee, I'll pay you double. I'm good on my word. Ask anyone.” He cleared his throat, a guttural roar that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “So you see, I will have money. You just have to trust me."
I drummed my fingers on the desk, my fingers bent so my fingernails clicked on the metal. Just trust me. It was a line that got me into trouble back on DKP, the last planet I'd called home, which was why I had to relocate my business in the middle of the night to the little piss pot of a planet, Targal. She'd said I should trust her. Of course, she'd said it while she was on top of me, which had given her quite the advantage.
"Your legs aren't as good,” I said.
"Excuse me?"
I shook my head. “Look, I'd like to help. It's just ... I'm booked. I can't take on more than I can chew.” I regretted my choice of words. Planting the word “chew” in the mind of a bear, hybrid or not, didn't seem like such a good idea.
"You don't seem so busy right now,” he said.
"I'm on lunch,” I said.
"I see. Have you been on lunch all day?"
"I'm sorry?"
Karvo hesitated. In the silence he seemed so much more menacing. “I've been standing out on the promenade the last couple of hours,” he said finally. “It ... took me a while to build up my courage to come in here. I didn't see anybody coming or going from your office."
"Oh,” I said. It seemed a stretch imagining him nervous about anything, but what he was saying was certainly true. I hadn't had a client in nearly a month. “Well, maybe you scared them off."
"What?"
"The clients. You know, seeing a bear out front would do that to most people."
He sighed. At least, I think it was a sigh. It came out as more of a snort. “Duff,” he said, “are we going to play this little game all day? If you don't think you can trust me to pay you, just say so. I went through a lot of stepdocks to get here. I had to avoid all the planets where my kind is considered property, which made it a pretty long trip. The least you could do is be honest with me."
"All right, all right,” I said. “Let's say I take the job. What if I can't get it back? Your voice, I mean."
"You'll get it back. I've heard you're very good at this sort of thing."
"But what if I don't? How will you pay me? I don't make guarantees, you know. I do my best, but I still have to be paid for my time."
"I will pay you,” he said.
"Yeah, but—"
"I will pay you,” he said again. “If I have to work in a Alkan crystal mine doing hard labor for the next ten years, then that's what I'll do, but I'll pay you back.” He learned forward, and for the first time I got a good look at his eyes. They were small and dark brown, and there was a nervousness there, an anxiousness, I hadn't expected. “But that won't happen if you take the case, Duff. I want to sing opera. It's the one thing I feared most, not being able to do what I love, and now it's happening. You've got to help me."
He was quite earnest, and I was sucker for earnestness. I was also a sucker for strong women, children in trouble, and any brandy more than fifty years old, but earnestness definitely topped the list. Helping earnest clients, when it went against my better judgment, was the reason I was broke. It was the reason I had an
implant in my left ear, two mechanical knees, and a medical file that would have filled a dozen binders if printed—all before my forty-fifth birthday.
It was also the reason I could live with myself.
"All right,” I sighed, “I'll take the job."
He looked relieved. “Well, that certainly—"
"I have one question, though."
"Oh?"
"Baritone or bass?"
It took him a moment to realize the nature of my question, and then he let loose with a growling chortle.
"It may surprise you,” he said, “but I'm actually a tenor."
* * * *
It took me two days to catch up with the Mortagai Galactic Circus—two days of hopscotching across the galaxy via stepdocks, battling my way through hordes of sweaty tourists and a half dozen immigration controls, further straining my already strained credit accounts, until finally I had to endure a six-hour shuttle ride to McNary Labs, the massive, one-million-worker space station that created the bulk of the military weapons for the Unity Worlds. The circus was the week's entertainment, and they were on their last night before heading out for some of the vacation planets.
I knew I'd found them as soon as the shuttle rounded the planet to the light side and I saw the station through my pea-sized window. The station itself was four connected cylinders with flat, mushroom-looking tops, thousands of square windows covering the sleek gray exterior like glowing postage stamps. There were dozens of ships docked along the tubes that connected the cylinders, but the ship I was looking for stood out like a stripper at an old woman's tea party—a massive tanker painted bright red, its hull decorated with paintings of all the circus acts and with the letters MGC glowing a tinsel-tinted silver in the center.
After we'd docked, and I'd taken a moment to get used to the one-quarter Earth standard gravity common on manufacturing stations, I rode the station's transport seeker until I reached the Performance Hall. I got off, but none of the green-uniformed workers did.
A big burly black guy with robotic arms stood in front of the closed double doors. One of his eyes was covered with a black eye patch. “Show's not for four hours, buddy,” he said.
"I'm not here for the show, buddy,” I said. “I'm here to see Hiptor Mortagai.” He was one of the owners, and the day-to-day manager from what I'd learned. “Tell him it's about the bear who sang opera for him. Name's Dexter Duff."
He raised an eyebrow, but he still pulled out a black com-com and relayed the message. A moment later, he led me into the hall. Up on the stage, one of two sleek vermillion dragons was scolding a skinny guy in a Middle Ages knight getup for not hitting his mark faster. The other dragon was smoking a cigarette, which looked as small as a needle in his big, clawed fingers.
We veered away from the stage, through a back door, and down a narrow hall with poor lighting. I heard voices behind the doors. The last door was open, and a small man with slicked-back hair, his back to me, was bent over a clear glass desk stacked high with pods and holoslips. He wore a dark suit with a flaring fish fin collar. The bald spot on the back of his head glistened under the fluorescents, and the harsh light made his olive skin seem slightly green.
"Come in and shut the door,” he said, without turning. “Carl, you can go."
I went inside, the thick metal walls muting the noise. Only then did he close the paper-thin holoslip he was looking at and face me. Hiptor Mortagai was an unremarkable middle-aged Chinese man except for one startling feature: he had a third eye right in the middle of his forehead.
"What's this about Karvo?” he asked.
He had a five o'clock shadow and all three eyes were bloodshot. The third eye wouldn't have been so distracting except that it wandered, looking at different things in the room and blinked at its own pace.
"He's lost his voice,” I said. “He thinks someone's stolen it."
"Stolen it?"
"I know what you're thinking,” I said. “But I contacted the surgical engineer he saw before seeing me. It's true that his memory cells were tampered with, and that the voicebox he has is different from the one he had at his last check-up."
Hiptor closed two of his eyes—the one on his forehead remaining open, staring at me intently—and slowly shook his head. “Poor Karvo,” he said. “I told him he shouldn't leave the circus. It was the best place for him. Then he got all those foolish ideas."
The third eye looking at me with the other two closed bothered me more than all three of them looking at me at the same time. “Foolish ideas?” I said.
"Yes,” he said. “It was that agent of his—Swendlehurst. Creepy man. Can't stand to even look at him—those shifty eyes of his. He told Karvo he could become a star if went solo, so obviously he found another way to make money off Karvo's voice. I told Karvo...” Hiptor trailed off, and then his two regular eyes fluttered open. “What a minute! You're not here because he thinks I stole his voice, are you?"
I stared at him. Sometimes silence could get people to tell you things much better than any words.
"That furry bastard!” he cried. “After all that I ... How dare he! Do you know the condition he was in when I found him on that mining colony? Do you have any idea how much money I put into him to get him put back to health? And I had no idea what kind of talents he had at the time. I did it all out of the goodness of my heart! Some gratitude!"
He seemed genuinely indignant. Still, he was in the circus business, which was the business of making things look genuine when they usually weren't. “You weren't mad he was leaving?” I said.
"Of course I was mad! I hate to see my friends do stupid things. He thought he was going to be a big star, and I just didn't want to see him hurt. And now, for all my concern, I get called a thief!” He glared at me, the pupils of all three eyes an intense black. “And who do you think you are, coming in here pointing the finger?"
"Nobody's pointing—"
"I looked you up, Duff,” he said. “You've got quite a criminal record."
I shrugged.
"And your license is expired,” he went on. “I could have you arrested for posing as a private investigator. It's a criminal offense."
"Oh, you wouldn't want to do that now, would you? That wouldn't be at all nice."
"I think you better go,” he huffed.
"Just a couple more questions,” I said.
Hiptor stabbed one of the buttons in the consol embedded in his desk. There was a beep. “Carl, please escort Mr. Duff to the door.” He let go of the button and shook his head at me. “Just because I'm in the circus doesn't mean you can come in here and toss around a lot of accusations. I'm an honorable man, Duff. I've always been good to my people. Ask any of them."
"Then why didn't you want him to leave?” I said.
"Don't put words in my mouth!” he said. “I never said I didn't want him to leave. I said I didn't want him hurt."
"You didn't think he could make it on his own?"
"No, I didn't! And before you get the wrong idea, it's not because he didn't have the talent. He had talent in abundance. But he also had the worst stage fright I've seen in the two decades I've been in his business. The worst! We had this whole routine we went through to get him calmed down enough to perform. And then afterwards!” He shook his head. “My god, if you didn't praise him to the stars, he assumed you hated it, and then he'd spend a week growling and snapping at everyone. I just didn't want him going out there and get eaten alive. If he stayed here, I could protect him."
The door banged opened and there was Carl and his two mechanical arms. He jabbed a silver gleaming thumb toward the door. “Let's go, pal."
"In a second, pal,” I said, focusing my attention on Hiptor. “How much money you lose when Karvo left?"
"Get out,” Hiptor said. His lips were trembling.
"You heard ‘im,” Carl said. He reached for me, his silver fingers bent like clamps in one of those arcade games where the goal is to pull out a stuffed animal.
"I'm guessing you like th
at fancy hand of yours, Carl,” I said. “I'd hate to see you lose it."
My tone caused him to hesitate, because even a frumpy guy in worn black leather on the backside of forty could sound menacing if the words were backed with genuine guile. But then he laughed and reached for my arm. Leaving meekly probably would have been the smartest thing to do, but the instinct to refuse to be bullied ran too deep.
I knew if he got those metal fingers of his on me, it would all be over, so I pivoted inside his reach, right up next to him so he wouldn't be able to do anything with those arms without stepping back, and I jabbed him hard in the gut with a swinging elbow. I knew if I missed by much he would have just pummeled me, but I didn't miss. He let out a loud groan and doubled over, gasping.
Then I turned back to Hiptor, whose three eyes gaped at me.
"Don't—don't hurt me,” he said in a small voice. “I'll—I'll answer any of your other questions. You can look in my books ... I'm an ... an honorable man..."
I smiled. “No more questions for now,” I said. “Have a nice day, Mr. Mortagai."
Then I turned and left. Carl was still moaning.
* * * *
I hadn't completely ruled out Mortagai being behind the voice theft, but my gut told me he was telling the truth. On my way out, I knocked on a few doors and nobody had a bad word to say about him. Everybody also confirmed what Mortagai told me about Karvo: a great talent who was scared to death to get in front of an audience.
It took a bit of searching, but I managed to locate Karvo's agent on Naj-Naj, a developing world once part of the Dulnari territory until the war ended a few years back. The Naj-Najs were dumb and hardworking, and their world was a gold mine of natural resources, so of course now that it was safe to invest there, all the money was pouring into the planet. The Naj-Naj music was also the latest rage across the Unity Worlds, so all the agents were swarming in like bloodsucking bats.
Fortunately, there were already several stepdocks, so I was able to arrive after less than a day of hopping and without any backbreaking shuttle rides. The biggest city was called, simply enough, Big City, because that was the translation from Naj-Naj. It was smack dab in the middle of a rain forest, the trees as tall as mountains, the air thick and humid and buzzing with millions of insects just above the field barrier poles lining the city streets.
Analog SFF, July-August 2009 Page 11