"Really. Well, Shad, I know why Hangingstone Hill carries such an ominous name."
"Oh?” He was silent for a beat. “You do?"
It does me good to stump the duck once in awhile. “It has to do with a natural phenomenon, Shad: a rather big plate of rock called a logan stone that hangs out over another rock on the side of the hill."
"That's disappointing,” Shad remarked. “With a name like Hangingstone Hill the place ought to be covered in ghosts left over from innumerable medieval neck stretchings. Turnkeys With Gibbets," imagined Shad aloud. “A Cranberry and Gravy Production. You can be the sheriff. Everyone expects British sheriffs to look like Basil Rathbone."
"Sorry?” I said. “Cranberries?"
"A Thanksgiving reference. U.S. holiday? Turkey and giblets? Forget it."
I glanced at Shad. “Legend has it that a seventeenth-century mayor of Okehampton was hanged on Hangingstone Hill."
"They must've brought their own gibbet with them,” said Shad as he changed heading a few degrees south. “Look at the hills around here. Not a tree in sight. Okay,” he relented, “why'd they hang him?"
"Stealing sheep."
"They gave him the rope on a mutton rap? Tough town."
"I'm certain the mayor represented the charges against him as being politically motivated."
"So that's where that came from."
"Indeed, but it wasn't only the mayor's body that was sentenced. His spirit was sentenced to empty with a sieve Cranmere Pool—that's at the west foot of Hangingstone."
"Now that's hard time."
"Not at all,” I said. “The clever fellow lined his sieve with sheepskin and proceeded to empty the thing. Cranmere Pool has no water in it."
"So he beat the rap?"
"Not quite. The punishment was altered to having to weave the sand at the bottom of the pool into a rope. Poor fellow's still at it, I imagine.” I again looked for the constabulary electric. “Shad, I still do not see a car."
"Nothing on the instruments,” he responded. “The scene analyzer beacon is located on the northwest side of the hill. What's that hut down there?"
Directly in front of us was a high hill with gentle slopes. On its north end were the remains of a stone shack, its shed roof partially collapsed. “That's an old artillery observation post. For centuries this end of the moor was an artillery range. Incidentally, ducks, the army still advises hikers not to pick up any curiosities they might find out here."
"Souvenir go boom; important safety tip."
"Very well, Shad, ring up Okehampton Station and find out where their missing constable is. Meanwhile, put us down near the prang."
While he did that I turned in my seat and ran up the mechs: vehicles of various sizes and configurations, big walking to micro flying, into which we could copy to get into difficult places allowing us to collect and analyze evidence. Shad put down the cruiser on the northwest slope of the hill about five meters above the aforementioned logan stone. The sunlight reflected from the polished metal Vader prang, cop slang for the pencil-thin scene analyzer mounted on the southwest edge of the rock plate. It would be facing the corpse. I looked in that direction but could see nothing among the heather. It was, at least, not a terribly large rat.
"Jaggs, guy on the phone says Okehampton cops can't find any Hangingstone Hill report. He says they didn't call in a dead bio to ABCD this morning."
"Rubbish."
"The call would have been automatically logged and recorded, according to their man PC Sudbury, and he can find no such record in the computer. Case closed."
"Tell him to pull his ruddy thumb out and try again."
The doors rotated up, and I held up a hand to Shad. “Before that, let's see if we even have a body. This is beginning to look suspiciously like a hoax."
"Local yokels having a little fun with ABCD?” suggested the duck.
"Perhaps the constabulary having a laugh.” I climbed out of the cruiser, stood, and took a few steps down toward the stone. Southwest of it, perhaps two meters distant, I could see in the heather what looked like the body of a rat with a body comparable in size to that of a gray squirrel. It was lying on its left side. Shad flew up next to me. “Okay,” he said as he landed, “at least we have a corpse."
"Yes. A bio. I can still read the receiver signal. Perhaps we can harvest the engrams before it zeroes out."
"I wonder why someone would copy into a rat bio?” said Shad. “Why would they want to? And what's a rat with a human engram imprint doing out here in the boonies—and with no cheese?"
"Perhaps he ate all his cheese and expired from despondency,” I suggested facetiously. “I'll sort the calls, Shad. After you make a try on the engrams, get a scan, temp, DNA, and ID."
"You got it."
I rang up Okehampton Camp army base, and reception was scratchy. Either my phone was having problems or not all government departments communicate via satellite. As the operator there began passing my call around from pillar to post by slowest means available, I climbed uphill in hopes of better reception. As I stood facing the direction of the army camp, High Willhays and Yes tors visible in the distant haze, a Sergeant Vickers of the military police came on. A rather long-winded bloke, he was about to do my head in explaining, with maximum words per bit of information, he had no notice, knowledge, or note of anything concerning dead bodies of any kind, type, condition, description, or designation, today or at any other time, and, moreover, even should it be discovered in some manner at some time in the future that he had—
As I tensed, waiting for the fellow to take a breath for interruption purposes, the earth was pulled from beneath my feet and an enormous hand of sound, force, and heat rose and swatted me like a mosquito sending me flying up into absolute blackness.
Splitting headache. Overpowering silence, my body numb. My eyes opened to a confusing smear of images. A strong chemical odor stung my nostrils. Gradually the images resolved into fuzzy clouds, fuzzy hills, fuzzy sky, and shadows, everything through a stinking gray mist. Pain began invading my right ankle, my legs, then my whole body. I tried to call Shad, but I couldn't hear my own voice. I gently rolled to my right and saw blood appearing on my right hand and sleeve. Managed to push against the ground until I was sitting upright, weaving, everything threatening to go black again. I couldn't see the cruiser.
My hand rested upon the edge of a very warm rock. I looked at the stone and it was a largish plate that could have been the twin of the hanging stone, but bottom side up. Then I saw a fuzzy gleam of silver and realized it was the self same hanging stone, the scene analyzer apparently none the worse for wear and still attached to its edge. The rock had landed just a few centimeters from me.
I looked for my phone and it was missing, probably somewhere beneath the rock. Tried shouting for Shad again, but still couldn't hear myself. Struggled to my feet, standing there feeling lightheaded, a sharp pain in my right ankle. I looked down and saw to my dismay both shoes and socks missing, my right ankle swollen, and my right foot at a funny angle. My trouser cuffs were shredded. While I was staring at that, blood spatter appeared on my feet. It was coming from my nose. Further exploration revealed blood coming from my ears as well. Principal flow, though, came from a cut on the left side of my neck. I held my hand over it and stumbled down slope toward the stone's original location, calling for Shad, still unable to hear.
Nothing was left where the rat had been. Hanging stone, heather, grass, soil, rodent, cruiser, and Shad were gone. Steaming hot granite and that insidious chemical odor were all that remained. I couldn't think of what to do.
I turned around slowly. Farther up-slope something was burning. I stumbled uphill far enough to see the cruiser's remains: twisted black metal pieces, flames still licking up from the few bits of remaining upholstery and combustible forensic supplies it had contained. The disembodied hand of the large walking mech was on the ground next to a few scorched feathers and charred bits of flesh. Thin piece of bone, something that looked like
the tail of a rat. I couldn't make out either the rat's or Shad's bio receivers. Just then the universe went as black as Newgate's knocker and I fell, wondering as I did so if I was going to die again.
* * * *
From later accounts I gather Sergeant Vickers grew concerned when, shortly after losing my signal, the sound of a great explosion came from the south. He had an air ambulance come immediately, and they managed to piece enough of me together to get me to camp hospital alive. When I first regained consciousness, however, it was night, and I was in Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital in the city. I knew I hadn't died because, unlike my original demise, I awakened in the same body replete with every broken bone and aching cell. Topping the pain inventory was a headache that could gobble steel ingots and blow off razor wire. Soon there was a fellow stabbing into my retinas with an intense light beam and asking my name, the year, and the name of the reigning monarch. When the spots cleared and I managed a look at the bleeder, he appeared as though he ought to be peddling used trusses: slicked black hair, widow's peak, pinched up dark eyes, a hand-painted tie, and a nose like a broken rudder. The nametag on his white coat was red, but I couldn't focus well enough to read it. The man's voice came through in tinny flat tones and only through my left ear. I pointed.
"Temporary hearing assistance patch attached to your left temple,” he said. “Can you tell me your name?"
"I believe I can."
He waited for a moment, then raised his evil-looking little eyebrows. “What is it?"
"Jaggers. Detective Inspector Harrington Jaggers, Devon ABCD.” I looked at my surroundings. The room was small, off-white and white, a screen to my right displaying my vital signs to anyone who might wander in. On the wall opposite my bed I could make out a framed photo of what appeared to be a Quay scene: Cricklepit Bridge from Waterside. Shad had loved it down at the Quay.
"I fancy they call you Harry, eh?"
I looked in the direction of the voice and apparently the truss monger had failed to remove himself. “My wife calls me Harry. However, sir, you may address me by my nickname."
"What's that?” he asked expectantly.
"Inspector."
His evilly peaked eyebrows arched, then lowered into grim mode. An unfriendly edge crept into his voice. “Can you tell me the year?"
"I don't wish to be more rude than necessary, fellow, but who are you?"
With the index finger of his right hand he tapped his nametag. “Dr. Truscott."
I had little time to consider the marketing possibilities in Truscott's Terrific Trusses, as he had more to say. From what he said I was made aware that I should consider myself a very lucky fellow. Aside from a few lacerations, a broken ankle, four broken ribs, a sewn together carotid artery, deafness, chronic headaches, slightly impaired vision, bruised organs, a dozen or more badly pulled muscles, a dead partner, a crime scene blown to bloody hell, and an unsolved case concerning a now missing corpse, I was going to be just fine.
He apparently decided to make another try at being conversational. “I worked on your model cop replacement bio back in medical school,” he said reminiscently. “A piece of history. ‘Bones’ we used to call them—for Basil Rathbone? The twentieth century movie actor?"
"Never heard of him."
"Really? Well, your model bio is very durable, infection resistant, and you look like a late-night Sherlock Holmes, eh?"
Mentally I almost expected Shad to be at my side remarking, "I say, Holmes, what medical school did this fellow attend?" to which I would reply, "Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary."
Truscott was still there and he continued: My right ankle was set, protected, and held in place with a balloon cast. The chip in the cast would monitor the swelling and adjust the cast accordingly. The ankle would heal. With assistance my hearing would be fully restored. Once my brain recovered from being thoroughly sloshed around in my brainpan, the headaches should subside and the fuzziness in my vision ought to clear. In addition, a grief therapist was waiting in the wings simply keen to deal with my roast duck problem, nudge nudge.
There are times when one hears something so coarse, vile, or outrageous one automatically assumes one has heard incorrectly. “Did you say ‘roast duck'?"
The man smugged up, apparently quite pleased at his little joke. “We understand when they sent an ambulance for you they sent the chef from a Chinese restaurant for the duck."
"That duck was a bio and my partner."
"It was a duck suit, however."
"He was named Guy Shad, he was carrying a human imprint, and he was a detective sergeant in Artificial Beings Crimes."
"No offense, Inspector. Just a little joke. Lighten the mood a bit? Just an amdroid suit, right? Not the end of the world, is it? Must've looked like that though when it happened, eh? Ah-hah-hah-hah."
If my head hadn't been aching so terribly, I would've throttled the wanker with his own stethoscope.
"One last item,” he said. “Your hearing implant: Do you prefer normal or wireless?"
"What?” I was still mentally occupied, contemplating murder while I could still reasonably pull off a diminished capacity plea.
"Your bio isn't equipped with wireless, but I wanted to let you know the option is available. The current hearing implants for your model all come with the latest wireless interface. If you prefer we can attempt to locate a pair of the old implants—wirelessless, eh?” He preened at his lame wordplay, making me reconsider the prohibition against ABCD detectives in Britain carrying guns.
All the forensic mechs come with wireless, which is how I knew I preferred normal. I abhorred even the idea of someone unbidden ringing me inside my own head. Shad, whose bio came with the latest of everything technical, always teased me about refusing to change. "In Artificial Beings Crimes," he once said, "we have John Dillinger, a gorilla, a bloodhound, a duck, and a dinosaur."
I was the dinosaur. I'm not certain why, but I chose the wireless implants. I could always disable the wireless function if my sanity was threatened.
A few marks on a chart, another deeply offensive attempt at apologizing for any of his possibly insensitive remarks concerning my “dead bird,” then trusses-for-less mercifully departed. Truscott was replaced by my boss, Detective Superintendent Marvin Matheson. Entering the room with him was a young constabulary detective who said he was from Okehampton Station. He introduced himself as D. C. Frank Storel.
As my dead-cop-replacement meat suit model resembled Nineteen forties actor Basil Rathbone, Matheson's even earlier replacement bio looked like old-time American gangster John Dillinger, which was much appreciated by his wife. Much appreciated by Shad, too, principally as a target for his humor. Couldn't recall Shad's jokes just then. Not much of anything seemed funny except the new face.
Storel was a human natural who resembled a twenty-first-century Middle Eastern historical figure whose name I hadn't managed to retain. He was short, thin, puny looking, his mousy brown hair brushed forward, his face displaying uncertain intentions of growing a beard and moustache. He wore a butternut colored windbreaker over a buttoned up necktie-barren white shirt. Raised eyebrows and a permanent simpleton's grin on his face completed the picture. Instead of evidence of brain damage, his facial configuration was, one hoped, merely a stab at putting me at ease. Matheson sat in a chair next to my left side. Storel remained standing at the foot of my bed.
The superintendent leaned toward me. “D. C. Storel has a few questions."
"Indeed."
Storel looked down into his chip pad. After ID formalities were concluded, he asked, “Do you know where the bird was standing when the dud went off?"
"His name is Detective Sergeant Guy Shad,” I said.
"Sorry, Inspector. No offense."
"Has that been determined?"
He looked up from his pad and grinned even more widely. “Sorry?"
"Indeed. Has it been determined that the explosion was an artillery shell? A dud?"
"Of course...” The grin fade
d and he looked confused. “Well, what else could it've been?"
"D. C. Storel, that explosion might have been an IED, a land mine, a booby trap, a bomb, a robotic missile, or movie set special effects for a British remake of No Time For Sergeants. Perhaps we're getting too bleeding close to making that first contact with alien lifeforms and this was some half-arsed Nebulan bugger-eyed monster's way of warning us the hell off!"
"Steady,” warned Matheson quietly as he placed a gentle hand on my forearm. It was silent in the room for a long moment, D. C. Storel's face a rosy hue. I was a little warm myself.
"What exactly caused the explosion, Inspector, has yet to be determined,” said Storel. Mercifully his grin was gone. Although not more intelligent, his frown made him appear less stupid.
"No,” I answered him.
"Sorry?” he said, frowning more deeply. From grin to grimace in five-point-three seconds: Welcome to Jaggers’ World.
"No,” I repeated. “I don't know where D.S. Shad was standing when the explosion happened. I wasn't looking in his direction."
"I see,” he said, looking once more into his palm. “And where were you?"
I answered him, and with additional questions from Storel I eventually came to realize he was filling out an accident report. I just wanted the ordeal over with as soon as possible. I answered the stupid questions, made no more comments, and closed my eyes when he finally left.
"Jaggers,” said Matheson at last, “are you all right?"
"Okehampton is treating it like a range accident."
"Forget Storel, Jaggers. ABCD is pulling out all the stops to investigate this tragedy. We'll get to the bottom of this."
"A four-key organ doesn't have all that many stops to pull, does it, Superintendent?” I opened my eyes, rolled my head gently to the left, and described what happened out at Hangingstone Hill as best I could and urged him to have my bio reader tapped to download my memory record of the event. “Then start the inquiry at this end by tracing the original call. No one out there in the north end of Dartmoor ever heard of a dead bio on Hangingstone Hill, Superintendent—not at Okehampton Station, nor at the army camp. Find out who rang us with the report and from where. Anything left of the cruiser's computers?"
Analog SFF, October 2007 Page 19