Analog SFF, March 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  The next morning, I was building the dragon's “treatment” in my home workshop when Ellie burst in, panting.

  Ellie's a chubby girl with short legs who runs about as well as my centaur. So I knew something was wrong.

  "Bogey,” she said finally, once she'd caught her breath.

  I stood. “Where?"

  "At the front porch. Waiting for you. Surprise inspection."

  "Is the clinic clear?"

  "Yes."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes!” She paused. “Pretty sure."

  I shoved the hardware under my workbench and slipped into my lab coat. We hurried back to the clinic to greet the Bogey.

  When the special animals started appearing, their existence outraged certain moral segments of the population, many of whom were uncomfortable with cloned vat animals to begin with. A new government agency was formed, the Bureau of Genetic Enforcement, whose directive was to eradicate “unnatural” constructs.

  In my experience, the Bogey agents were all either FBI rejects or Cleansers with a badge. But this guy didn't look like either.

  He stood on the porch outside the clinic, dressed in jeans and an old fleece jacket. He was about forty—my age—with a round face, leathered skin, and a bushy beard. He carried a small hand computer and stylus, and nothing else. No cheap suit, no badge, no gun.

  "Are you Dr. Skenner?” he asked. I said yes, shook his hand. “I'm Agent Stanwick. We've been tracking a dangerous construct—special animal. We got a tip that it might be heading here."

  "What kind of construct?” I asked.

  "You wouldn't miss it."

  I paused, considering. “I'm sorry, Mr. Stanwick, but I can't help you."

  From inside, we heard a crash, and then Larry the Parrot's squawk. Ellie's eyes widened, and she edged away from us, slipping back inside.

  "Mind if I have a look around?” asked Stanwick. “Just so I can say that I did an inspection?"

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I led him up the porch—slowly—and pushed open the door.

  Ellie faced us from the opposite end of the clinic, in front of the rear door. She kicked something outside with her heel, then jammed the door closed with her butt.

  "Dr. Skenner's dog,” she said. “He's sometimes rude to guests."

  A long black feather fell from the crook of Ellie's arm, floating to the ground. She stepped on it and smiled.

  The harpy, of course. In for dental work. Must have been taunting the cats.

  "Would you like a tour, Agent Stanwick?” offered Ellie, in her chipper customer voice.

  "Yes, please."

  Ellie escorted Stanwick through every corner of the clinic—the lounge, exam room, operating theater, the crates and baths—opening drawers and cabinets, peppering him with friendly chatter about my practice. The legitimate part, at least. I stayed behind, pretending to work on Larry the Parrot's foot, muttering under my breath.

  After ten minutes of inspecting invoices for spayed cats and horse kidneys, I was certain he was good and bored and ready to leave, but I was wrong.

  Stanwick circled back to the lounge and spoke to me through Larry the Parrot's cage. “Mind if I check your other buildings?” he asked.

  Ellie flinched, but I couldn't tell if Stanwick noticed. “Of course,” I said. “I'll take you myself."

  I turned to Ellie. “Would you mind the clinic while we're gone?” She hesitated, uneasy about leaving me alone with the Bogey. “And make sure nothing catches fire?” I added pointedly. Ellie opened her mouth, then quickly shut it. She began backing toward the clinic's rear door, the one leading to the pasture.

  I ushered Stanwick down the porch steps, across the gravel circle at the head of the driveway, toward my cabin. The opposite direction of the special room.

  "Your father was Robert Skenner, the racehorse trainer,” he said, as we walked.

  I nodded. The guy had done his research.

  "Why didn't you follow his path?"

  I stayed silent.

  My father was the kind of trainer who flogged horses till they won or broke or both. He tried to teach me, but I spent my childhood with the rejects—the old studs, the stable mares, the “disappointments.” Glue bones, my father called them. I left when I was sixteen, borrowed my way through vet school. When he died, I inherited his compound—this land—and turned it into my clinic. The drug lab became my office, the racetrack my grazing pasture, and the feed storehouse my cabin home.

  I led Stanwick through my front door and gestured grandly. “Inspect away."

  My cabin had become an extension of the clinic. A ratty couch, empty dog crates, stacks of vet journals, and my workbench filled the living room. The smell of horse feed still permeated.

  I gave Stanwick the grand tour. He poked around, occasionally jotting a note on his hand computer. Mostly, he watched me and played Columbo.

  "Are you a member of PETSA?” he asked.

  People for the Ethical Treatment of Special Animals. I'd briefly joined the parent org, PETA, back in college, but quit after a feud with regional bureaucrats.

  "No."

  "Do you think people should be allowed build constructs? Special animals?"

  "No. I think it's cruel."

  He was standing next to my workbench, now, studying the hoses and lenses I'd been working on. I tried distracting him.

  "Tell me, Mr. Stanwick,” I said, “do you work with Cleansers?"

  Some of Virginia's moral folk thought the Bogeys weren't eradicating special animals quickly enough, and were taking matters into their own hands.

  "Villagers with torches,” said Stanwick. “I despise them."

  That surprised me. It must have showed.

  "I don't enjoy euthanizing animals any more than you do, doctor. And truth be told, I don't euthanize all of them. Just the dangerous ones."

  "And who decides that?"

  Stanwick knelt beside my workbench, took a photo of the hose cuttings with his hand computer.

  "Are you familiar with the Death Valley pupfish?"

  I stared at him.

  "Cyprinodon salinus. Found in a single salt creek in Death Valley. Evolved over millions of years as Lake Manly retreated. Amazing example of adaptive evolution."

  He stood, dusting off the knees on his jeans. “Last month, a swarm of wild pixies invaded Death Valley and devoured the remaining pupfish. A hundred years of preservation, lost in one afternoon."

  I pictured Tinkerbell, hovering over the salt marsh, fish bones in her hands, juices dribbling down her chin. I must have chuckled, which annoyed Stanwick.

  "Not all constructs are harmless, doctor. They escape, they breed, they attack natural species. Sometimes humans. They're like invasive plants, only mobile. That's what PETSA fails to understand."

  "Fascinating. What does this have to do with my living room?"

  Stanwick sighed. “Your assistant. Ellie. How did you find her?"

  I blinked. “Ellie? She was a referral.” A friend from my college days had given me her name. Said she was young, eager, and good with customers, that she'd “take the edge off” my personality.

  "How well do you know her?"

  "Enough to know that she's presumptuous and bossy, but good with animals. Now if you've finished your Dostoevsky routine, I'd like to get back to my patients."

  Stanwick studied his hand computer. He was silent for several moments. “There's one more building on your property. A barn. Please take me there."

  "Fine."

  I took Stanwick back through my kitchen to the rear door, opened it, then stopped dead. I could still see Ellie slowly leading the dragon across the pasture, down the hill toward the forest. She tossed a soccer ball in front of him, while urging him forward with yanks on his wing. Slowly. Her damn pudgy legs.

  I shifted my weight back and forth, blocking Stanwick's view until the dragon's bobbing head disappeared over the hill. I then walked him past my clinic to the entrance to the special roo
m.

  "This is it,” I said, pointing. “The barn."

  "Can we go inside?"

  "No."

  Stanwick pulled out his hand computer and stylus and stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

  "I keep horses in there. Sick horses. Many have surgically repaired legs and must remain still. If I take you inside, it might agitate them, and they might hurt themselves. Or you.” Stanwick scrawled notes onto his computer pad.

  From behind the barn door, I heard a snort, and then a familiar clop, scrape, clop, scrape. Uh oh.

  Stanwick stopped writing and stared at the door trying to make sense of the sound. A moment later: clop, scrape, clop, scrape ... CLOP CLOP CLOP CRASH! The door bowed outward, spraying dust, barely holding. Stanwick jumped backward and fell onto his rear.

  "See what I mean?” I said. “Horses are skittish."

  From behind the door, I heard a thud, followed by a long, mournful moo.

  Stanwick stood slowly, without taking his eyes off the door.

  "Are you denying me entrance to your ... horse barn?” he asked stiffly.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Ellie jogging slowly across the pasture toward the clinic, trying to keep her head low. “I'm afraid so. If you'd given me some advance notice, maybe a day or two, I could have moved the horses out and let you inspect all you want."

  Stanwick scrawled a final note and then pocketed his computer. I led him back to the front circle, keeping him pointed away from the lumbering Ellie.

  He climbed into his electric Hyundai and started the engine. Before driving off, though, he rolled down his window and faced me.

  "Doctor, there's something you should know. That construct I'm tracking—the large one from West Virginia. Its owners let it roam free at night to hunt livestock. It has already eaten three sheep, four calves, and a goat.” He paused. “And a pair of old horses."

  I stared at him, said nothing.

  "You can't keep this up,” said Stanwick. “It's not sustainable.” He powered up his window and backed slowly down the driveway.

  Once he'd gone, Ellie climbed down the porch steps and stood next to me.

  "Radar is going to need a new nose guard,” I said.

  "I'll take care of it.” She paused, wiping her brow. “You know, there is an alternative."

  "Don't start with that again.” At least once a month, Ellie would mention that she knew people who rescued special animals. Transported them to the Republic of Vermont, or Canada, or some other Bogey-free place. PETSA, no doubt, though Ellie would never admit it. She'd suggest we make “backup plans,” prepare to flee north in case the Bogeys or Cleansers found us.

  "Tell me, Ellie. How do these builders keep finding me? How do they know I'll treat their constructs?"

  Ellie shrugged, unconvincingly. “News of good deeds travels."

  "I'm a veterinarian, not a wizard. I specialize in horses."

  She patted my arm. “Yes, doctor, I know."

  * * * *

  The next morning, I dragged a wheelbarrow out to the pasture, filled with supplies for treating the dragon. I'd lured him back from the forest the night before using heaping piles of dog biscuits. He was lying on the ground now, tied to the stone fence, chewing lazily on Ellie's soccer ball.

  I emptied the contents of the wheelbarrow onto the ground, then turned it on its side, as a barricade. I put on a raincoat, bike helmet, and sunglasses. Not much protection if he truly fried me, but it was the best I could do.

  I uncoiled my hose and hooked it to a gallon-sized jar of spray-on foam insulation. I climbed behind the wheelbarrow, pointed the hose at the dragon's mouth and nose, and gave him a good squirt. The dragon jumped to his feet and blew a fireball at the ground. He yelped, but not as loud as before.

  Once he settled, I climbed out from behind the barricade. He watched me, appraisingly. After a moment, he lay down on the grass and licked his foamy lips. Do what you will, his puppy eyes said.

  I climbed onto his back, straddling the base of his neck. With a wet towel, I wiped off the excess foam, leaving a hardening layer around his nostrils and lips. Then I unrolled the goggles.

  I'd built the goggles from two large Plexiglas lenses, soundproofing foam, and two loops of rope. I strung one loop behind his neck and the other under his jaw, then placed the lenses over his eyes and drew the ropes taut.

  The dragon jumped back to his feet, knocking me off his back. He beat on the lenses with his claws, but couldn't dislodge them. He eventually calmed and sat back down.

  Unfortunately, though, I still had to test my treatment. I carefully lifted his flimsy wing and jabbed him hard with my fist in the soft, un-scaled tissue beneath, then dove behind the wheelbarrow. The dragon leapt back to his feet, roared, and blew another fireball.

  And then ... nothing. No yelp.

  Once he realized the pain was gone, the dragon hopped up and down, swinging his tail in a circle, and ... barked. I backed away, taking care to avoid the barbed tail, and began collecting my supplies.

  The dragon spotted me and stopped hopping. He bent down until his giant head loomed over me like the T. Rex in that old Spielberg movie, and opened his mouth, revealing nasty sharks’ teeth. I wondered momentarily if I'd misjudged him.

  He stuck out his scaly tongue and licked me from my chest to my forehead. The tongue was warm and scratchy, and his breath smelled faintly of intestine.

  I forced a smile, letting the dragon saliva drip down my cheek.

  "Do you really eat sheep?” I asked. “And horses?"

  The dragon rolled out his tongue, panting, and thumped his barbed tail against the ground.

  I shook my head, patted his neck. “I'll call you Rover,” I said. “Rover the Dragon.” He licked me once more and, content again, lay down and resumed chewing the soccer ball.

  As I pulled off my raincoat and loaded the wheelbarrow, Ellie walked toward us from the clinic.

  She started to say something, then saw the dragon's face and burst out laughing. “Your dragon,” she said, between snorts, “is wearing lip balm and sunglasses."

  "They shield his exposed dermis from the ignited methane,” I explained. She spotted my bike helmet and raincoat, crumpled in the wheelbarrow with the hoses, and laughed harder.

  "Did you come here to tell me something or just to mock me?"

  "There's a phone call for you. It's that Bogey who was here yesterday. You really should carry your phone."

  I pushed the wheelbarrow back to the clinic, Ellie trailing behind me, and picked up the telephone.

  "This is Dr. Skenner."

  "Look out your front door,” said Stanwick.

  Ellie and I peered through the porch door. Outside, Stanwick stood at the lip of the driveway circle, next to his Hyundai. Behind him were four police cars, their lights flashing, and a large BOGE animal control van. Ellie gasped. I shut the door and put the phone on speaker.

  "We took satellite photos of the construct in your back yard,” said Stanwick. “I have a warrant. Will you cooperate?"

  I lowered the phone to my lap. Ellie slumped against the wall, head in her hands, biting her lower lip. Behind me, the harpy squawked once.

  Stanwick spoke again, his voice softer. “Doctor, we passed some pickup trucks on Route 20, near Scottsville. They might have followed us. If you cooperate, I promise I'll only euthanize the dangerous constructs. We'll leave the others alone. And I'll help you keep your license. But if you don't, and the villagers arrive..."

  I let my eyes wander the clinic. Larry the Parrot waddled back and forth across his perch, muttering obscene nonsense. The harpy squatted on the floor nearby, trying to jam her human mouth into Larry's food tray. The dog and cat crates sat empty—no spays or neuters today. Radar's new mask sat on the check-in desk, half finished. The back door was locked, the shade pulled to hide the pasture, and what roamed it.

  Stanwick was right. This was not sustainable. I couldn't continue. I suppose I'd known that all along.

  I raised the
phone. “All right, Stanwick,” I said. “I'll cooperate. Give me twenty minutes to secure the animals."

  "Thank you, doctor. Twenty minutes.” He clicked off the phone.

  Ellie gaped at me. Tears welled. “You wouldn't,” she said. “Would you?"

  For once, the girl actually believed me.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I climbed onto Rover's back, Larry's cage on my lap. I held the rope from Rover's goggles in one hand and the soccer ball in the other.

  The pickup trucks had arrived a few minutes earlier—a dozen men, armed with everything from hunting crossbows to elephant guns. Stanwick's policemen were holding them back, at gunpoint.

  In the distance, I heard Stanwick shout a final warning through his bullhorn. Where were they?

  Then, above the forest, an enormous blue helicopter swept into view, flying low over the trees. It descended onto the far side of the pasture, swirling waves of grass. A cargo bay door fell open.

  I spoke into my phone. “All set?"

  "I guess so,” said Ellie.

  "Well go then!"

  The barn door flew open and out came Ellie, atop one of the unicorns, the mermaid on her lap, arms wrapped tightly around Ellie's neck. Behind Ellie, the rest of my rag-tag special animals followed: the centaur, plodding along, his dialysis bag taped to his chest; the other unicorns, swinging their horns in front of them like children playing with swords; the harpy, squawking like the Wicked Witch of the East; and finally, Radar, clopping along in the rear, sniffing the air for cows.

  The Cleansers watched the helicopter land, then spotted Ellie and the animals racing toward it. They charged. Stanwick's policemen turned and charged with them.

  My cue.

  I chucked the soccer ball around the side of the clinic. “Fetch!” I yelled, swatting Rover on the neck.

  Rover lay down, licked his foamed lips.

  I whacked him with the goggles’ rope. “Rover! Get the ball! Fetch! Fetch!"

  He sneezed, blowing puffs of smoke, and flapped his useless wings.

  Remembering how Ellie coaxed him across the pasture the day before, I grabbed the edge of his wing and yanked it, harshly. Rover hopped to his feet and ran forward, bouncing on his fat legs. He caught up with the soccer ball, scooped it into his mouth, and continued around the side of the clinic, into the path of the charging Cleansers and Bogeys.