"Can you drive Val, Nadine, and me out to the north moor near Okehampton?"
"Indeed I can, sir. When would that be?” I'd urged him to call me Harry, but Walter said it just wouldn't do.
"Right now. It's rather urgent."
"Very well, sir. I'll bring my electric around, shall I?"
"Thank you."
I hobbled up the stairs to the guest room where Nadine had been staying since the news about Shad. It was smallish, a single window looking over the garden, pale peach walls, and a single bed with a powder blue coverlet. Val and her friend were both sitting on the bed. “Walter's going to drive us out to the moor,” I said to Val. “He's bringing his car around now."
"Thank you, Harry,” said Nadine. “It's a terrible imposition, I know."
"Not at all.” I debated offering my possible piece of news. False hope and such. However, it was either tell Nadine now or at Hangingstone Hill.
"Harry, what is it?” asked Val.
"There is a possibility,” I looked at Nadine, “just a possibility, mind you, that Guy is still alive.” As they started to speak all at once I held up my hands. “A slim chance, but a chance. I'll explain in the car. Let's get going."
As I stood aside, allowing the two cats to run out of the room ahead of me, I saw—my cautionary probabilities notwithstanding—Nadine and Val both had only heard that Shad was still alive.
* * * *
Walter's car was an MG ground electric, which would have been cramped had Val and Nadine not been cats. Once we were off the Alphington Spur headed west on the A 30, Walter and I up front and the cats on a blanket in back, I turned half around and explained. “It has to do with the Vader prang—the mounted scene analyzer—at the site. That particular model is about fifteen centimeters long and a bit more than half a centimeter thick."
"What about them?” asked Val. She knew as much about the purpose of prangs as I did, but she knew I was after something else.
I turned to Nadine. “This kind of scene analyzer is arguably the most indestructible instrument in the world, Nadine. The case is made from high-density ceramic composition titanium, and the power supply is designed to take and retain its scene forensic data indefinitely. Crime scenes sometimes need to be maintained for years—even decades. That's what the prang does: It records everything in place at a particular point in time, in detail, and can project that detail upon the scene long after the elements of that scene have changed. Hence scene analyzers must be able to withstand the elements, attempts at tampering, and efforts of miscreants to destroy them. In all my time in law enforcement I have never known a scene analyzer to fail."
"What does this have to do with Guy?” asked Nadine.
"The prang out at Hangingstone Hill failed."
"Surely, sir,” began Walter, “if an artillery shell went off next to one of those instruments ... well, doesn't that seem likely as a cause?"
"Certainly if it failed completely and right away, Walter. But Parker said that the prang's signal at Hangingstone declined in strength over two days, then suddenly died.” I looked at Nadine. “I believe Guy might have had time enough before the explosion to copy into one of the smaller mechs and has since been drawing power from the scene analyzer."
"If that's true,” said Val, “Guy must be able to move about. Why didn't he let Ralph Parker or the police know when they were out there?"
"I'm not certain. It might have to do with concerns about being observed."
"By the person or persons who planted the bomb?” asked Walter.
"Yes."
"Sir, if I may?"
I nodded permission.
"Thank you, sir. Given possible post-incident observation, is it likely that such an offender may have a continuing interest in any subsequent inquiry or activity concerning said hill, including ours?"
"Quite likely,” I answered.
"Might I suggest, then, we enter the moor farther to the east instead of taking the obvious route through Okehampton past the army camp?"
"Can you find the hill using another route?"
"Indeed I can, sir. As I was driving I downloaded the Ordinance Survey map of the area."
"Good thinking, Walter. Very well, we are in your capable hands."
"Very good, sir."
He got off the motorway at one of the South Zeal exits, went through the villages of Sticklepath and Belstone, where we came onto a brain-shattering unpaved track called Tarka Trail, which took us up onto the moor just as a light rain began falling. As we traveled the trail Walter identified the features we crossed: Scarey Tor which wasn't; East Okemont River ford, where we almost became mired; a boggy stretch between East Mill Tor and Oke Tor, where we forded the tributaries to the previously forded East Okemont River, climbed and crossed Okement Hill, then traveled down the hill to ford one of the River Taw tributaries. Following that, the car climbed the north end of Hangingstone Hill, where we at last came to a stop a few meters north of the old observation post where several other ground cars and two Air Rovers were parked. Walter parked his MG between a late model gray Ford Virgo and a burgundy Renault Festiva that had seen better days. The moment the MG stopped, Walter had a headache preparation ready for me. As I drank that, Walter exited the car, held his seat forward for Val and Nadine, and came around to the passenger side, umbrella in hand for me. Terribly efficient personnel at Rent-A-Mech. I cannot recommend them too highly.
The others on the hill, approximately twenty or so, appeared to be curiosity seekers from Okehampton and nearby villages. Families with children, individuals—no one appeared bothered yet by the developing rain as they eagerly searched for a telly star's signs of death. As I waited for the headache remedy to take effect, I noticed a boy of eleven or twelve, blondish and chunky, squatting down and examining the grass at his feet almost one blade at a time. Such concentration would have been the envy of any Scenes of Crime officer. “What are you looking for, lad?” I asked.
"Feathers, sir,” he answered, not looking up. “White ones."
I was about to point out that Shad hadn't been a white duck when a little girl with dark hair, big eyes, wearing a blue rain jacket and little blue wellies, saw Nadine and called out to her parent, “Oh, Mummy, may I play with kitty?"
"Ask the gentleman, Pearl,” said a large woman in her forties, quite disturbingly dressed the same as her offspring.
Pearl approached me. “Sir, may I play with your kitty?"
"Ask her,” I answered.
The girl frowned as she turned toward Nadine. Val, however, intercepted the girl's inquiry and said to her, “Perhaps later, dear."
Pearl ran off to her mother's side declaiming frightening things said to her by those horrible bio cats, Pearl's mum glared at me, and mercifully it began raining in earnest. Several souvenir hunters made for their vehicles. “Into each life some rain must fall,” observed Walter.
I glanced at him. “Shakespeare?"
"No sir. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow."
"Let's see if we can find Shad."
* * * *
After half an hour of steadily increasing rain, an unpleasantly chilly wind from the west encouraging the appreciation of warmer climes and more sheltered endeavors, all of the other seekers had departed. It was curious watching as the rain seemed to heal the place where the explosion occurred. The stone dust washed from the blasted granite bedrock, clumps of earth eroded, a muddy pool began forming in the bottom of the small crater.
"I wonder how long it will take, sir, before all signs of what happened here are swallowed,” said Walter, still holding the umbrella between me and the rain. My coat had water repellant pretensions that were also eroding as the rain continued.
"Months,” I guessed. “Perhaps only days.” I looked over the hilly expanses of the former artillery range. Heather, peat bogs, rocks, the view of the edges softened by the great solvent, rain. The only evidence that anything had ever exploded out here was at our feet and fading as we watched. “Existence is such a transitor
y thing, Walter, our marks of passing so slight. In the midst of living, though, life seems so enduring, our accomplishments gigantic and eternal. Yet when death touches us, this sense of permanence evaporates like the illusion it is. Perhaps that's why so many of us hang onto life so."
"Lingering in hopes of permanence, sir?"
"The return of its illusion, perhaps. Do you keep a backup copy of your engrams, Walter?"
"Indeed I do, sir. Rent-A-Mech insists on it. Perish the thought something should happen to me. Should it, however, my training, experience, and, most importantly, client preferences and requirements won't be lost. Neither will I. A new can, and at most I'd lose a day or two. It affords me a measure of security and protects the firm's client information.” He faced me. “Weren't D. S. Shad's engrams backed up?"
"No."
"Dear me, sir. Why is that, if I might know?"
"A half dozen excuses—it takes time, too bothersome, uses too much memory in the mainframe, and so on. Most bios don't do it, though, because it feels creepy."
"Creepy, sir?"
"That's Shad's word. An uneasiness. I think, because we're originally human naturals, we hold onto this illusion that we're unique irreproducible beings. Backing up engram imprints gives in to the fact, all this protoplasm notwithstanding, we are but machines. It's humbling."
"Are your engrams backed up, sir?"
"No. And, yes, the reasons for not doing it seem sillier with each passing moment.” I nodded toward the crater. “We'd best finish our search before the entire moor erodes into the sea. Walter, we could cover more ground if you'd agree to join in."
"I would be happy to, sir,” he responded lowering his voice, “However, Mrs. Jaggers told me she'd have my gears for garters if I allowed a single drop of rain to fall upon you."
"Since I'm already soaked through, dear boy, I'd say you're already doomed."
"Before my imminent disassembly, sir, shall I engage in a bit of exploration then?"
"The wages are the same in either case.” I pointed to the opposite side of the crater. “Go down slope until you run out of loose clumps of soil and other debris from the explosion. Go a couple meters beyond, then circle the edge of the debris field, moving toward the center with each circuit. I'll start in the center and work my way out. Look in, around, over, and beneath everything. And thank you."
We walked the coil for more than two hours, turning over rocks and clods of earth, not finding Shad or anything into which he might have copied himself. I reached the displaced hanging stone before Walter. When I examined the scene analyzer I could tell someone had tried prying the thing free of the rock, which showed crude tool marks. I suspected souvenir hunters. Our culprit would possess the tool necessary to remove the instrument from its site.
My wireless interface detected no signal at all from the prang. I stood and looked toward the northwest. The view took in vast distances, the boulder-pocked flanks of Yes Tor filling the far distance. But what I could see was but a small part of the moor. If Shad had copied into a mech and had gone for help he could be quite a ways from Hangingstone Hill. He could have run out of power before reaching help. He could have been caught in the open.
Suddenly I felt a chill and began shaking as I pulled my coat about me. I was soaked, my ankle hurt, and my head was splitting. I was very tired and possessed of an overwhelming desire to lie down in the wet heather, pull the rain up over my head, and let sleep take me.
"Sir, if I may?” said Walter.
I smelled hot tea. When I opened my eyes and looked, Walter was holding out a steaming cuppa. I took it in both hands, felt it warm my palms, then took a sip, the healing liquid heating my core.
"Thank you. Where on earth did you get this?"
"I had a few moments before your party made it to the car, sir, and packed a snack. I arranged a bit of shelter on the east side of that stone building at the top of the hill."
He helped me along, and by the time I had finished the tea, I was mobile again, my wits about me, but a terrible pain in my ankle. The wall on the east side of the observation shack was in severe disrepair, but Walter had taken a few rocks and boards and constructed a makeshift shelter off to the side of the shack, within which was a plank bench propped upon two flat stones. He helped me down upon the thing easing the pain in my ankle considerably. Before I could thank him, he held out a tray of small sandwiches with one hand and his carafe of tea in the other. I had three of the former and a refill from the latter as he warmed the enclosure with his wrinkle remover.
"By the way, sir, I found those electrical components and pieces of metal upon the bench beside you during my search."
As I was chewing on an absolutely delicious turkey and avocado sandwich, I examined what looked like pieces to a homemade remote detonator and fragments of bomb casing. Walter had placed them in sealed plastic envelopes, dated, site located, and signed. I chanced to look up and saw between the boards above. I was being protected from the rain by a plastic sheet decorated with images of hundreds of mice. I swallowed my mouthful and said, “Walter?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Where did you obtain that plastic sheet?"
"From the Marks & Spencer catalog, sir. I originally intended it to serve as a ground cloth for our picnic here. Because of the inclement weather, however, I thought this application more practical."
The mice on that sheet weren't Mickey or Minnie, or even Mighty. They were, instead, a quite realistic vermin infestation of Biblical proportions. “Mice, Walter?"
"Yes, sir. It was for Mrs. Jaggers and her guest. I hope you don't object."
"No. No, Walter. Not at all.” I looked away from the sheet. “Speaking of Val and Nadine, do you know where they are?"
Just then a strange distant voice sang out, “Nadine, honey is that you?"
From the other side of the little stone building I heard Nadine call out, “It's Chuck Berry!"
"Help me up, Walter. That's Shad!"
Before he could get me to my feet, Nadine ran into the shelter followed by Val. In Nadine's mouth she carried a small object that resembled a micro—the lipstick sized forensic mech we used for getting past reporters and into really tight places. She jumped up on the wooden plank and deposited the micro in my hand. “Guy is in this thing, Harry, isn't he? Guy sings that song to me. Because of my name. That's Chuck Berry's voice."
"Yes,” I said as I examined the tiny vehicle. All of the black paint was gone from the micro's port side, and one of the tiny claw grapples up front was broken off. The other forensic instruments, however, looked serviceable. The tiny flashing red power readout on its front end indicated an occupant coming off standby. “He's in there, Nadine,” I said.
The micro energized fully and rose into the air, its chipped lens aimed at my face. “Jaggs. It's about time you got here."
"I say, look what the cat dragged in,” I responded happily.
Hovering, the micro turned around. “Hi, Walter."
"Very good to see you, sir."
Aimed at my wife, Shad said, “Hi, Val."
"It's so good to find you alive, Guy. We were so worried."
"And therein lies a tale. But first,” he did a middling job of rubbing the micro's port side against Nadine's left whiskers and cheek. “I really missed you."
"Nadine's the one who suggested coming out here,” I said.
"In that case,” he said to Nadine, “you definitely pulled my engrams out of the fire."
"Guy,” said Nadine meekly, “your ducky suit. I'm afraid it's gone."
"Yeah. I've been finding pieces of myself scattered all over the north end of this hill. That rat, too.” He faced me. “All I found of yours, Jaggs, was a lot of blood.” He did a quick scan of me. “Busted ankle, ribs, ear implants, and a cut throat. You got off light. Which reminds me: Is there anyone else on the hill besides you four?"
"There were more than a dozen, but they all went home, Guy,” answered Nadine. “It's raining."
"Harry,” said Val
crossly. “You're soaked and you'll catch your death."
"Better I should catch death than it should catch me,” I answered with a smile.
"Walter—" she began.
"Stop fussing,” I said, “and you're not to reproach Walter. He did what he could to keep me dry within the bounds of my cooperation."
"If that's all settled,” said Shad as he rose slightly and faced Walter, “Brother mech, you got an AH8 port adapter in that can?"
Walter held up his left pinky finger. “I do indeed, sir."
"If you can spare a couple of electrons, I could use a boost."
"Certainly, sir."
Shad rotated up slightly, caught a view of Walter's special tablecloth, and shot down to the ground as he cried out. He studied it for a moment and slowly turned until he was looking at me.
"A little treat Walter purchased for Val and Nadine,” I explained. “A feline snack motif."
"Mice?"
The cats looked up at the improvised roof. “Why, Walter,” said Val. “It's very thoughtful."
"Ever so elegant,” Nadine joked amiably.
"Yeah, man,” Shad said as he warily moved toward Walter. “The bee's knees."
* * * *
After Shad's micro was fully charged and Val and Nadine were happily eating the mouse morsel stuffed pastries Walter provided, I tried a general wireless transmission. "They operated on my ears and I went wireless."
"And another dinosaur bites the dust,” Shad said out loud to me. Turning to Walter he said. “Do you have wireless?"
"I do indeed, sir."
"Would you send a little transmission to Jaggs telling him how great his new ears are?"
"Very good, sir.” To me he transmitted, "Your signal came in five-by-five, sir. Do you enjoy the feature?"
"Haven't quite gotten used to it," I answered. To Shad I said aloud, “What's afoot?"
"Nicely put,” rhymed Shad. Val and Nadine were both looking up from their mouse morsels sensing something amiss. “We're being observed,” Shad announced to us all. “It's electronic and optical surveillance. I don't think the guy staking out this location can pick up low level sound or bio or mech receivers at the range he's at, but wireless he gets."
Analog SFF, October 2007 Page 21
