"No. This Stokes fellow is certain he has his killer, nevertheless: Lady Iva Bowman, Miles Bowman's wife."
Lady Iva Bowman. The image of that stunning beauty was fixed in the nation's memory. Her marriage to Bowman had been little short of a media coronation.
"Their theory is Bowman and Lady Iva, along with the hunt staff and some eighty followers and club members, were in the middle of one of their smaller commercial runs when Miles was found dead along the route. Lady Iva inherits and I gather from DCI Stokes she had just learned that her husband was bonking the company's lead second horseman, one Sabrina Depp."
"Motive and opportunity,” I commented.
"They're up the wrong branch, Jaggers."
"You disagree, sir?"
"I knew Lady Iva years ago. For all her beauty, she is old school, very refined. I can't see her getting down into the muck and beating a grown man to death with what appears to have been a horseshoe, regardless of the provocation. In fact, I rather suspect Miles Bowman's horse."
"An amdroid?"
"Yes. The horse isn't running on a human imprint, though. It appears a year ago a favorite jumper of Bowman's was near death from an injury and Bowman spent a not inconsiderable fortune to have the mount's engrams copied and imprinted on an equestrian meat suit drawn from the mount's own DNA."
"That which Miles rides shall never die,” I dogmatized.
"Quite. I suspect Bowman's nag determined one lifetime under Miles Bowman's arse was sufficient."
"In which case, Superintendent, it wouldn't be a murder."
"All of which I imagine Lady Iva would very much like to have established as quickly as is feasible—oh. Swing by Heavitree Tower before you leave for Dartmoor. You have a new partner: DS Guy Shad."
"You're having a laugh, right, Superintendent?
"Not really."
"Guy Shad? Sounds like someone copied the name off an old action vid poster."
"That is his name, Jaggers. Shad is an American."
"Of course he is. Now, we agreed—"
"This isn't a negotiation, DI Jaggers. Shad has been assigned to this enquiry because of his prior association with two of the principals, as well as his familiarity with the artificial being end of the law enforcement spectrum. He'll be waiting at the skydock." That warning edge crept back into the superintendent's voice: "Grasp the nettle, Jaggers. It's up to you to make this work."
"Yes, Superintendent."
A significant pause and then the superintendent decided to lighten the mood. "Jaggers: Knock, knock."
"Ringing off, Superintendent. There appears to be someone at the door."
I quickly hung up the handset as I muttered, “Brilliant,” to no one in particular. After the dreadful experience I had partnered up with the ever-effervescent Ralph Parker, I thought Matheson and I had agreed I always work solo.
Guy Shad. American. He'll want to eat at Wendy McDonald's Kentucky Burger Hut and call me Bud, I mused. I certainly hoped Parker's meat suit was one of a kind. I'd go into retirement before I was made to work with another Parker.
I looked at Val and she was eyeing my bacon and eggs. “You may as well,” I said to her as I petted her head and went toward the hallway to get my raincoat and hat. “I have to get to work. I'm on the Miles Bowman matter."
"Is something wrong?” she asked.
"The superintendent's assigned me a new partner. An American named Guy Shad."
She looked at me with those stunning aqua eyes and said, “Give him a fair chance, Harry. I don't want to worry. Is Walter coming in this evening?"
"Yes."
Val looked at me for a moment then averted her gaze. “I'm sorry I can't cook for you, Harry."
"You catch mice. That's quite as important."
"You're a dear, but you know Walter keeps this place so clean, there hasn't been a mouse to catch in months.” She turned back to my plate and continued lapping at the yolk.
"Have a good day, dear,” I said and closed the door.
* * * *
As the division sky cruiser assigned to me headed south into the muck above the city, I ran up the mechs in case we'd have to copy into them. There probably wasn't going to be any need to get small; the animal android involved, after all, was a horse. Nevertheless, routine is its own reward, as the superintendent was wont to remark between knock-knock inanities. They were ugly little mechs, but useful for following assorted beings into places tight, high, or otherwise inaccessible to humans. While they went through their system scans, I checked InterNews on Miles Bowman's death. Indeed, Lady Iva had been taken into custody, Detective Chief Inspector Raymond Stokes of the Devon-Exmoor National Park Constabulary stated in his news conference, blah, blah, blah....
My mood was terrible, and it was time I faced up to it. I was having quite a bit of trouble letting go of having a new partner thrust upon me. I knew full well why ABC Division had human-imprinted animal androids as investigators. That's the criminal dimension that necessitated the creation of our component of Interpol. Still, almost every amdroid I ever worked with had such bizarre excuses for having wound up in a critter meat suit, I was convinced it couldn't help but have an effect on their work. It certainly had with Parker.
DC Parker had been the worst of a succession of amdroids assigned to work with me. It wasn't just the thick Estuary accent Parker affected, his odor, the incessant grunting, or that he had difficulty in controlling his bowels. It was Parker's effect on a subject during an interview. I don't think I'm being unfair when I say undergoing interrogation by a thirty-five-stone mountain gorilla puts some people off. Banana peels and fruit flies all over the cruiser, fleas. I mean, really.
As the cruiser descended out of the overcast above the new Consolidated Police Administration Tower on Heavitree Road, I could see that the only living being waiting for me on the skydock was a mallard duck complete with green head, white neck ring, chestnut breast, grayish-white feathers, yellow bill, and orange feet. “Showing at a crime scene with Daffy in tow; that'll put the yobs in a fright."
As the cruiser's computer control put the vehicle down in the center of the landing target, I declined a slot assignment, put the power on standby, and pressed the buttons to open both doors. I looked around briefly in waning hopes that this was some sort of practical joke, then resignedly got out of the driver's side and trudged over to where the duck was standing. “DS Shad?” I inquired.
"I'm Shad,” said the duck in a voice that sounded very much like—a duck.
"Detective Inspector Jaggers,” I introduced myself.
"I know just what you're thinking,” he said. “'My God, a duck! I sure feel safe now that poultry has my back. Where ever does he keep his handcuffs? What was that idiot Matheson thinking to saddle me with this fugitive from a Chinese restaurant! I ought to go down to the superintendent's office right this minute and put in for my walking papers! You've laid an egg this time, pigeon-brain. This is for the birds! Are you out of your bleeding mind? A duck!’”
"Sorry. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers."
He held out a wing. “Bird jokes? It's going to be bird jokes?"
"Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to drive."
Shad lowered his wing, gave me a bit of a look, then flew into the open driver's side of the cruiser. “That went rather well,” I muttered to myself.
I got into the passenger side, buckled in, and faced the duck. The power revved up, the doors closed, and the cruiser lifted off the landing target and headed southwest into the morning commuter traffic, the duck standing motionless on the seat. The GPS showed that our destination and control had somehow been given to the autopilot. “Wireless interface,” smugly explained Shad.
"Something you should know about me, as well, Shad."
"What's that?"
"I am a detective inspector, your senior as well as your superior, and if you should ever shoot off your bill to me like that again, me lad, I'll stuff and roast your goose proper."
"Ah, yes
, sir. I apologize, despite the additional gratuitous fowl references.” After an awkward moment of silence, he glanced at me. “Admit it, though: I am an improvement on Parker."
"You met him?” I asked.
"Back at the tower he mentioned something about having been your partner. Does Parker have a banana problem?"
"At least.” I glanced at Shad. “You do take up less space."
"And I don't crap in the cruiser."
"That is an asset.” We both laughed at that.
Later, visibility almost down to zero as we approached the Alphington vector roundabout, Shad said, “Matheson told me to fill you in on my connection to Houndtor Down."
"Please."
"Back in New York about ten years ago, I knew Miles Bowman's business partner, Archie Quartermain. I was a human, Archie was English, and we roomed together in a roach hotel in the Village. Back then we were both starving, taking acting lessons, and trying to get theater acting careers started. Archie waited tables and hustled vidgames, and I was a part-time police assistant at the local precinct, answering phones, filing, that sort of stuff. We were doing cattle calls and getting an occasional walk-on. Remember the Gladys Hudder case, when that DNA bio of Cary Grant sued his owner for emancipation?"
"The case that took the ‘slave’ out of ‘slavery’ for the human-imprinted and self-aware AI population."
"Yeah, what would you rather be: an eighty-year-old woman's boy toy or a filthy rich reincarnated Hollywood superstar covered with babes?"
"Decisions, decisions,” I added.
"Anyway, that case put Archie onto something,” Shad continued. “He wouldn't talk to me about it. Kept saying, ‘I'm not finished yet.’ Still, he had some kind of scheme cooking. Every now and then when he was out I'd sneak a peek at what he was doing, but it was all technical stuff on staging, theatrics, English history, artificial-being law, air transport, artificial intelligence, business, computers, and android-amdroid bios and mechs. Then, one day when I was particularly hungry, the New York PD called for recruits—"
"You saw how much police recruits were being paid,” I interjected.
"Yeah, well, my stomach and I had a talk, and I entered the police academy. Training took up all my time, the work was interesting, and they kept me running as a probie. I lost track of what Archie was doing. My police probationary period eventually ended, I was assigned to a precinct patrol unit, and then I met a girl."
My eyebrows went up.
"No. Her name wasn't Daisy,” Shad responded with a modicum of heat. “Her name was Shondelle.” The duck glanced out the side window at a break in the clouds which revealed still more clouds.
"Archie was my best man when I married her. When I moved out, Archie moved in with another starving actor, Miles Bowman. I got to know Miles a little, but a year later both of them moved back to England. By the time I made detective, Archie and I had lost touch altogether. A couple years later, right before I was killed, Houndtor Down Hunts hit the media, fox hunting was back, and Miles Bowman was big news, filthy rich, and married to the daughter of an earl. But no mention of Archie Quartermain."
I glanced at Shad. “You suspected something?"
"Sure. I sent a message to Archie and he eventually sent back his thanks but no thanks for the attempted rescue. According to him, everything was going according to plan. I did a little checking on my own and found out why Archie wasn't getting any billing. He's a really silent partner in Houndtor Down Hunts. Archie Quartermain is the fox."
"You're joking."
"No. See, he copies his engrams before each hunt. If he wins he wins, but if he gets killed, he's copied into a new bio cloned from his previous meat suit. It's really not as grim as you might think."
"Perhaps I'm making too much of being torn apart by a slavering pack of hounds."
"He never remembers getting killed, see? When he does get killed, the set of engrams copied before the hunt are imprinted into the new fox suit and the new fox inherits but doesn't remember."
"But he knows he's going to get killed."
"Archie told me it's like getting a knee operated on, except when he wakes up from his procedure it doesn't hurt."
"It still strikes me as rather a punishing way to make a living."
"You've never been an actor, have you?"
"No."
"Take my word for it, boss; there are roles to kill for and roles to die for.” He gave a duck shrug. “Besides, win or lose, Archie's take per hunt is close to three million."
"Per hunt?"
The duck nodded. “Each of the followers pays thirty thou or so to ride to the hounds, and there are eighty to a hundred or more per hunt, but that's not where the real money is. The big cash cows in the fox hunting racket are the tally-hovers: air hover pods that follow along the route of the hunt, giving their passengers all the thrill and excitement of the hunt without the need of learning how to ride or risking any jumps. Tally-hover seats run three thousand per, which includes the virtual of the hunt complete with the purchaser's face and body CGI substituted for the scarlet or black coat of his or her choice, and the entire ride experienced from the point of view of one of several riders."
"How many of those tally-hover seats do they fill on an average hunt?"
"Thousands."
"Astonishing. I find it difficult to believe that anyone would pay that much for a bit of a thrill ride that can be excelled by any number of virtual computer games."
"Ah, that's where you're wrong. See, inspector, it's not just the thrill of a dangerous horse ride and the challenge of ganging up with hundreds of hounds, nags, and snobs to chase down and kill a small dog. What you also get for your money is to be seen at the opening tea ceremony and other refreshment stops along the route, dabbing lips and raising pinkies with such luminaries as Lady Iva Bowman and Lord Peter Talmadge. Talmadge is the hunt's paid snob draw. There's also an old rock star and an old movie star as draws for the upwardly mobile Lumpenproletariat who crave an association with fame. Archie Quartermain has fifty percent of the company. I'm betting he's the richest fox in the world."
"And the dottiest.” I frowned as I thought of something. “Does Lady Iva inherit Miles Bowman's interest?"
"Unless she's found guilty of murdering Miles."
"If she doesn't inherit, who does?"
"They don't have any children, so Archie gets it all. Interesting, no?"
"To say the least.” I turned toward Shad. “None of which explains how a New York City cop wound up being a duck in Interpol's Artificial Beings Crimes Division."
"This is where I bare my soul, right?"
I held up a hand and dropped it to my lap. “Not a requirement. A desire to understand."
"In that case, I'll tell you. I think I said I was wounded in the line of duty."
"Actually, you said you were killed."
We began descending from the Bovey Tracy Roundabout. “I was backing up some guys taking down a perp. The next thing I knew all the bullets in the world were headed in my direction and I was fricassee. When I came to, my engrams were in memory, Shondelle was pounding on my keyboard demanding to know where the car keys were, and I get a call on my modem from my agent wanting to know if I'd be willing to have my engrams imprinted on a mechanical shark for a remake of Jaws that was going into production."
"You agreed?"
He faced me with an expression of astonishment. “It was Hollywood. Jaws. With a role like that in my credits, who knows what other roles I might've been offered? That was when my agent changed my name. He figured a shark named Donald Lipper would be hard to take seriously."
"Your given name is Donald?"
The duck leveled a rather menacing gaze at me. “Don't go there, man."
"What about your wife?” I asked, judiciously changing the subject.
"Shondelle,” muttered the duck. “Even though I explained what a huge break this would be for us, she took a walk. With the bread I could've made from a production like Jaws, I could've had
my engrams imprinted on a six-figure bio of anything or anyone she wanted. No dice, though. The first person she called after she left my terminal was a divorce shark."
"My sympathies. What happened regarding the remake?"
"What else? Jaws bit it. I was about ready for a karma transplant. A week later, though, my agent came through with a pretty good commercial gig. It was a role that before had been limited by computer-generated imaging and trained animals. They were finally ready to move up to a real actor."
"What was it?” I inquired.
"Spokesentity for an insurance company."
Shad saw my expression.
"Yeah. That's the one. Really. That's me."
I frowned at him. “That duck was white."
"Make-up,” Shad explained. He looked forward as our descent crossed the edge of Dartmoor, vast expanses of hilly bracken and grassland interrupted by rocky tors all beneath a gloomy sky. “Good years of really great physical comedy. I was on all the talk and game shows. I was the duck who turned the world on to disability insurance. But then the company was taken over by another insurance outfit. The new bunch wanted to use their own mascot: a creepy little computer-generated lizard, the same old animation they'd used for fifty years."
"Unfortunate. I really enjoyed your commercials, Shad. Very amusing."
Shad shook his head and angrily padded on the seat from one webbed foot to the other. “Treat me like some CGI that'd gone out of style. Me! I put life in that duck. I brought new dimensions to that role. I was the one who made that company a household name in every palace and hoodoo hutch on this planet. That's what dedication, hard work, and loyalty get you: No severance, no residuals, out with the old letterheads.” He took a breath and let it out. “Anyway, alone, out of work, and no prospects, I went to the International Police Benevolent Association and invoked the ‘still living and able’ employment clause. They either had to put me on pension or find me a job in law enforcement."
"So they sent you to ABCD."
"First I was with Northern New England Wildlife Protection investigating duck hunting violations. Lucky I had this connection with Archie Quartermain."
Analog SFF, November 2006 Page 2
