by J. S. Morin
# # #
Carl regained consciousness. Given the circumstances he last remembered, that was always a bonus. Those bikers could have killed him without half trying. Fortunately they’d only wanted to send a message, and Carl had gotten it loud and clear: no more stealing motorcycles until he learned how to drive one.
Taking stock of his surroundings, Carl found himself in an all-white room that smelled of antiseptics. He was lying in bed under starched linens, where he wore nothing but a cotton smock. The clothes he had worn the night before—or however long ago his encounter at Sharky’s had been—were folded and piled on the seat of a vinyl-cushioned armchair in the corner. His bedside table was barren except for a glass filled with water. Thirsty, he gave it a sniff to be sure it was just water and drank.
No sooner had he set the glass down when someone entered. She was dressed all in pristine white, blending perfectly with the decor. Her short-sleeved uniform top was covered by an apron-like dress that swished around her ankles as she walked. There was some sort of bonnet or hat on her head that didn’t seem to serve any clear purpose. She wasn’t young or particularly old.
“Good to see you awake,” she said. “I’m Dr. Singh. You’re in recovery room 2A at St. Luke Medical Center in Anaheim.”
“Prime?” Carl asked.
Dr. Singh smiled. “You’re not on Earth. This is still Peractorum, still New Cali. How are you feeling?”
Carl blinked. He hadn’t given the matter much thought. He wasn’t in pain, which should have been surprising. It was possible his veins were swimming in painkillers—the twentieth century’s stock answer for everything they couldn’t fix—but he felt lucid. Lucid enough to remember how he’d gotten himself beaten up in the first place.
He put a hand to his face, covering one eye and grimacing. “I… I think I’m OK. I don’t remember how I got here.”’
“You don’t have memory loss,” Dr. Singh replied. “You were admitted with six fractured ribs, a fractured jaw, two missing teeth with damage to four others, severe concussion, cranial hemorrhaging, and various lacerations and contusions. But despite the period ambiance, this is a Class 2 medical facility. You’re fine… whoever you are.”
Scowling at Dr. Singh, Carl felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “Which two aren’t mine?” He didn’t feel any missing teeth, or anything unusual about the ones he had.
“You’d never tell without a med scan,” Dr. Singh replied. “However, the subject of your identity is something the authorities are going to want to discuss with you. Normally I’d assume someone without a positive DNA match was born on-world and never left. Paperwork is sloppy around here, especially in some of the old-tech colonies. But you… you’ve got starship-grade impurities in your bloodstream. We did a blood scrub, but you’ve clearly spent a lot of time breathing re-processed air with a sub-par antibacterial and anti-viral agents added. And the DNA match we did make… it was to a dead man.”
It came out as a reflex. “I can explain—”
“That you are or are not Bradley Carlin Ramsey?” Dr. Singh asked. Carl knew he’d given himself away when he flinched. He hadn’t expected her to be so bold in confronting him. In Carl’s experience, that was usually the sort of thing that got deferred to gentlemen with stun batons.
“Would you even believe me if I said I wasn’t?” Carl asked.
“Depends. You’ve got blue hair, which shouldn’t be possible given your follicle biochemistry. It’s consistent with your bio and the promos from that holovid racing series.”
Carl was willing to work with that. He even had a story in place, much as he’d hoped to hold onto it longer. “I’ve been cloned.”
Dr. Singh folded her arms and fixed Carl with a stern look.
“Honest to God,” Carl replied, holding up a hand to swear an oath. “I’m not making this up. There is a company out there that—”
“Illegal human cloning,” Dr. Singh said. “It’s a quiet blight in the medical community. But they don’t go around cloning… how can I put this delicately—”
“Expert pilots?” Carl suggested. “Ex-Navy heroes?”
“Sub-optimal specimens,” Dr. Singh said, offering a brief, weak smile. “Most rescued clones end up enlisting in the marines, or going into advanced scientific fields. Minds and bodies at the zenith of human potential. I’ve even heard of them attempting to clone wizards, but nothing that bore fruit. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not the type.” With a shrug she turned to leave.
Carl lunged and grabbed the hem of her dress. “Please! Do me a favor, before you go turning me over to anyone,” Carl said. “Check the news feeds of the investigation. They know something’s up, but haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Phabian has the best forensics facilities outside of Earth,” Dr. Singh replied, yanking the hem of her dress free. “I’m sure they could tell cloned tissue from naturally grown. You certainly aren’t cloned.”
“I might be,” Carl said. “It was Harmony Bay that did it. If anyone could fool Phabian’s snoops, it’s them. I don’t know if it’s the dead guy or me that was the original.” Let her stew on that one.
Dr. Singh stared down at Carl, muscles tight in her jaw. “You stay put. I’ll check out your story and schedule you for more scans. If you sneak out, I’ll call the police.”
“Will there be sponge baths if I stay?” Carl asked with a twinkle in his eye. Dr. Singh wasn’t his type, exactly, but it never hurt to try the angle.
Dr. Singh stepped over to Carl’s bedside as he settled back after his lunge. She leaned down and put her lips by his ear. “Just in case you’re thinking of pulling a fast one…”
There was a sharp pressure against Carl’s shoulder and a quick hiss. A warm sensation spread from the spot, dispersing through his bloodstream. As Carl fought to keep his eyes open, he saw Dr. Singh slip a pencil-sized metal cylinder into her pocket. “You…” it was as far as he got before his voice failed him.
“Just sedated you,” Dr. Singh finished for him. “If your story is true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Carl drifted into drug-induced sleep quite worried.
# # #
Tanny sat on the common room couch, elbows on knees, chin on clasped hands, feet tapping. A late night’s fruitless planning had led her and Roddy to conclude that their best bet was sitting tight. If everyone’s stories held together, Phabian Investigative Service would have no reason to suspect any involvement by the Mobius crew. The ship’s alibi was unassailable. The crew had all made sure to be seen off-world well out of range of any normal ship’s best astral drive. If the authorities were suspicious of Carl’s apparent death—and by news-feed accounts, they were—then fine. If they thought Tanny and the rest of them were covering something up—also fine. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t always acted like they were trying to slip something past the watchdog. Just so long as nobody could put those two suspicions together with even circumstantial evidence, it would blow over.
Sitting tight. Tanny hated it.
There were times in the service when her detachment had been forced to wait for circumstances beyond their control to determine their fate. On Geronn Minor, her transport had been grounded while Earth Navy and an Eyndar battle group duked it out in orbit to see whose ground forces would get obliterated by the victor. After the battle of Tynar IV, the Supremacy had been left adrift with minimal life support for three days. An entire fleet carrier filled with sailors and marines, each secretly wondering whether killing some crew mates would mean fewer lungs sucking up the air. This time, only a prison term hung over her head, but that was scant comfort.
The groan of someone forcing open the cargo ramp hydraulics made her stiffen. Her first instinct told her someone was breaking into the ship. Her second was that Mort was the one who found it easier to force the mechanism than figure out the ramp controls. She rushed to the door leading down to the cargo bay, stopping at the last second to loosen her blaster pisto
l in its holster at her thigh. In case it wasn’t Mort.
“Hullo up there,” Mort’s voice echoed, muffled through the door. Tanny opened it with a sigh of relief. “Ah, there you are. Thought maybe everyone had gone out for Chinese.”
“No, still just Mriy,” Tanny replied. Mriy had enrolled in a course at one of the Shaolin temples in the Celestial Empire. It was a tourist trap with a sketchy VacationBlab rating, but it was how the azrin wanted to spend her time planetside. The thought of a clawed, 120-kilo felid with mystical martial arts training gave her the shudders. But it wasn’t like she’d get much more than a guided tour in the few days she’d be there.
Esper was with Mort. She looked up and made eye contact with Tanny briefly, but didn’t say anything. She followed Mort into the ship, not bothering with the controls to raise the ramp behind them. Something about the way her gaze wandered the cargo bay seemed off, like she was lost or looking for something.
“You find out what we needed to get Kubu back?” Tanny asked. She could have a talk with Esper later. Right now, she had a dog to get back. Or a son. Or some weird hybrid of the two. Kubu didn’t fit into a neat checkbox.
Mort patted a leather pouch tied to his belt. “Crystal thingamajiggy’s got it all, she said. I got the low-down on the down-low, so to speak though. That laaku witch has him. She’s been up to shit like this for years, ‘rescuing’ animals and sentients who’ve been treated like them. Zoos, labs, private collectors. If they don’t have good lawyers, she claims custody and takes possession. Nice scam if you can pull it off. The lawyers might even be cheaper than buying exotics.” By the time Mort finished talking, he’d reached the top of the stairs.
“But what about a rescue plan?” Tanny asked. “Security systems? Guards? Architectural schematics?”
“Keesha assured me everything we need is on this,” Mort said, pressing a datacrystal into Tanny’s hand. He stepped around her and into the common room, heading straight for the fridge. “Now what’ve we got to eat around here?”
Tanny caught Esper by the arm as she tried to follow Mort. “Are you all right? You look like hell.” Esper seemed to be in a daze. Her fairy-princess medieval getup was stained with sweat and dirty from the knees to the hem. It looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“It’s… just a little strange being back,” Esper replied. She shrugged free of Tanny’s grip.
“You were gone what… two days?” Tanny asked. It wasn’t as if she’d really been away. Then again, maybe mentally she had. Tanny lowered her voice as Mort settled onto the couch with a bag of insta-pop popcorn and a beer. “Did Mort… do anything to you? If you need to talk, you can trust me.”
The “what would we do if Mort went nuts on us” plan had always been a little iffy. Quietly, on the side, she and Carl had figured out how to handle it if any of the crew ever turned on them. For some, the precautions were trivial. When they first took on Mriy, it had involved taking on some additional blaster pistols with a human-lethal stun setting, just in case. But Mort they had no plan for. Hope, luck, and Mort’s conscience were their only protections.
But Esper’s snorting, suppressed laugh put Tanny’s mind at ease. “Not the way you’re suggesting. But I wouldn’t say no to a bit of sparring. I need to do something… real.”
Tanny shook her head. “Maybe later. I want to see what’s on that data crystal.”
“It won’t matter,” Esper said. “You’ll get a chance to look it over and come up with a plan. But Mort’s got two options he’s going to lay out. Once you’ve heard them, come find me.”
# # #
“Come on in,” Mort said through the door in reply to Tanny’s knock.
The door opened with a familiar creak—the only door on the ship Roddy didn’t keep lubricated. “Esper said you had something to talk about. Options?”
“Have a sit,” Mort said, patting the bed beside him. He had his shoes and socks off, stretching his toes. He looked all around. “Be it ever so humble, eh?”
Tanny joined him, wondering what had gone on over in Thunderglade. Mort seemed none the worse for wear, at least. “She said you had two competing suggestions.”
“Not much for the social niceties, are you?” Mort asked. He lowered his gaze and held up a hand in conciliation. “I’ll handle it for you. I had a wonderful time in Thunderglade. The peasants welcomed me back as a lost hero. Keesha missed me dearly, and it was nice to see her again, and I’ve taken Esper on as my apprentice.”
Tanny opened her mouth several times to cut off his smug little rant, but when he finished, her mind went momentarily off course, its autopilot unprepared to react to a wreck in her flight path. “Wait… what?”
“My apprentice,” Mort said. “Keesha’s putting the paperwork through, so it’ll be her name on record. But Esper’s getting an official Convocation sanction as an apprentice. Who gives a hoot if ARGO thinks she’s dead now? Convocation membership will keep them from even checking.”
“Is that why she seems different?”
Mort cocked his head. “Does she? I hadn’t noticed. Anyway, I’d like to suggest that you take her along to rescue Kubu—just the two of you.”
Tanny studied Mort’s features. He could keep a straight face as well as just about anyone, except maybe Carl. But she could detect no sign of a joke or any hint of sarcasm. “You’re serious.”
“It’ll be good for her,” Mort said. “Seasoning, I think they call it.”
“I don’t think this is the time—”
“That makes it the time. Can’t temper steel over a candle flame. Besides, Keesha seemed to think this wouldn’t be a big deal. That laaku witch, Inviu, isn’t a major threat.”
“If I’m bringing a wizard… nothing against Esper, but I’d take you eleven times out of ten,” Tanny said. “This isn’t a game.”
“Well, those are the two options Esper mentioned to you: her or me,” Mort said. “But think about this. If you take Esper, you’re get Esper, quirks and all. You’ll get Kubu back, and odds are no one’s going to get killed. If I come, there’s a good chance that you, me, and Kubu are the only ones who leave alive.”
Tanny gave Mort her best cynical smile. “Nice try, Mort. I know you can find ways around a wholesale slaughter.”
Mort crossed his arms. “I’d be ill inclined.”
Tanny swallowed and edged away until she was out of arm’s reach from the wizard. Easing to her feet, she glided over to the door. “OK, then. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Go see Esper,” Mort said. “I’ve taught her a trick or three. You won’t find her as much of a hindrance as you might imagine.”
# # #
Tanny slipped on the padded gloves and shoes that were part of her sparring gear, then stepped onto the mat. Esper stood at the far side in pads and workout gear, still proportioned all wrong for a fighter. Thin arms and legs; swollen chest. The opposite would have served her better in combat. Tanny glanced over her shoulder at the catwalk overlooking the cargo hold, to see whether they had an audience. With Carl off who-knows-where, the odds were lower than usual.
“Put a helmet on,” Esper said, talking around a mouthguard.
Tanny smirked. “Since when do I need one?” Esper was too slow to land a solid blow unless Tanny let her, and even if she did, between the padded gloves and scrawny arms, she wasn’t in any danger.
“Humor me,” Esper replied. “I’m planning on trying some things.”
“You better not try magicking me,” Tanny warned. “Or this’ll be the last time we spar.”
Esper held up a hand for an oath. “I swear. No magic on you. But Mort wanted me to try using it on myself.”
Tanny chuckled. “There’s a novel concept.”
“Hey,” Esper snapped. “You’re all hopped up on science drugs. Why not?”
“Should we have Mort standing by, in case you hurt yourself?”
Tanny found her padded training helmet at the bottom of the pile of sparring gear. She hadn’t worn it si
nce the last time she’s squared off against Mriy, which had been months ago. It stank of stale sweat as she buckled the strap under her chin. A twinge of worry struck her when she saw her own mouthguard in the pile. It was coated in dust, but a quick squirt from her water bottle rinsed it off, and she stuck it in her mouth.
Esper didn’t look any different, except for a calmer focus in her eyes. She still stood in a loose stance, hands up at ribcage level. Tanny approached as she often did, at a leisurely saunter. Esper shifted to face Tanny as she stalked around her. Still flat-footed, Tanny saw. She lunged forward with a punch, and Esper shied away, bringing her hands up.
“Sloppy,” Tanny said, shaking her head.
Esper responded by feinting a punch, then aiming a kick at Tanny’s midsection. Tanny stepped into the kick, caught Esper’s foot, and flipped her onto her back. “Whatever you’re trying isn’t working.”
Rolling to the side, Esper scrambled to her feet. “I wasn’t trying anything yet.” She slurred around the mouthguard, still new at trying to talk while competing. “Still warming up.”
This time Esper took up an unfamiliar stance, or at least one Tanny hadn’t taught her. It looked like something out of Roddy’s martial arts holovids. Standing upright, she had her legs stiff and straight, her hands outstretched in front of her, bobbing like the waves of a harbor.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt trying that holovid crap,” Tanny scolded.
Esper mumbled something incomprehensible in reply.
“What?”
Spitting the mouthguard onto the cargo bay floor, Esper repeated herself. “Try me.”
Tanny obliged, as much out of curiosity as anything. Closing the distance, she threw a probing punch, but Esper batted it aside. A second punch, and Esper tilted her head out of the way. A third never landed because suddenly Tanny’s feet weren’t under her anymore.
Staring up from the ground, she saw Esper lower the leg that had swept her to the mat. “OK. That worked.” She pushed herself to her hands and knees, never taking her eyes from Esper as the apprentice wizard settled back into her casual stance. “Maybe I don’t have to take it quite so easy on you. Go ahead and grab that mouthguard.”