Sparrowhawk

by Thomas A Easton

  With the Campana money, he had become one of Neoform’s founders. Not long after that, though still long before Emily’s tenure with the company had begun, he had been the gengineer behind the Hawks that cop had appreciated so much. If further rumor were right, the fact that the Campana money had gone into making police vehicles might make him feel even better. Most of their investments leaned toward the other side of the fence.

  Also present were Frank Janifer and two aides from marketing, an anonymous VP from financial, and two of the firm’s other gengineers, Ralph Chowdhury and Wilma Atkinson. A sharp edge of sweat overlaid the lime, Frank’s tobacco, Wilma’s floral perfume, and all the other less-distinctive scents. Emily supposed the sweat belonged to Ralph, for that odor seemed to accompany him everywhere. He was dark of both hue and temperament, a half Indian whose parents had escaped from South Africa after it went black. He wore flat-lensed spectacles that reflected the room’s lights and hid his eyes.

  Wilma was an asthenic blonde who specialized in decorative plant-animal hybrids. One of her products occupied a pot on a pedestal near the conference room’s one window. Its form was as natural, yet as abstract, as branching coral, it swayed gracefully, and from time to time it emitted a soft, tuneful moan. Her work provided Neoform with one of its most successful and profitable product lines.

  Everyone waited quietly while Emily straightened her notes to one side of the small keyboard and flat screen set flush in the table before her. She stalled a moment longer to plug her graphics disk into the drive slot next to the screen. When she was done at last, and her hands were folded atop her papers, Sean said, “I wish you had called last night, Emily. I wanted to know immediately.”

  Emily shrugged and opened her mouth. But before she could say anything, Frank interrupted: “I don’t believe she was thinking of anything to do with work, Sean. She was on the expressway when…”

  “Ah.” The other nodded his graying head. The beginnings of the bulldog jowls he would wear not much later in his life wobbled. He hadn’t known, he said, though he did not look surprised. He turned back to Emily. “But that’s over and done with. You’re safe, and we’re glad of it.” When the others had murmured their agreement, he added, “It would have been difficult, finding someone to take over your Bioblimp project.” He sighed. “I probably would have had to do it myself.”

  Emily thought that he did not look displeased at the thought. She knew that he had accepted such chores in the past, and somehow, his name had always wound up the only one on the project.

  “Do you feel up to giving us a report?” he said.

  “Of course.” She looked down at her papers, though she had little need to refresh her memory again. Then she told them what had gone on in Washington, adding some detail to what she had told her husband. The patent examiners had agreed that the Bioblimp indeed seemed original and patentable. But then had come the reason why the patent had not simply been issued, and a hearing had been called instead. A Pentagon general had appeared to claim that the Defense Department had already produced similar carriers for troops and cargo. To support the claim, he displayed a single sketch. Then he said that his office wished to classify both the patent application and Neoform’s Bioblimp.

  Wilma’s artwork softly echoed the audience’s groan. “Fortunately,” she went on, “the Hearing Board shot that down. They pointed out that the application had already been published, and besides, the press was present. And then we—I and our lawyers—pointed out that according to the general’s sketch…” She paused to touch the keyboard, and a screen at the end of the room lit up with a lifelike diagram. “According to the general’s sketch, the rootstock was a very different species of cnidarian and the result lacked our cargo-handling tentacles. It had only a rudimentary fringe.” A split-screen diagram emphasized the comparison. She shrugged as if to say that she had done her best. “The Board took everything ‘under advisement,’ and we’ll know their decision in a few days.”

  “Tell them about Mayflower,” said Alan Bryant. Ralph Chowdhury scowled, as if offended by the temerity of a mere technician—or a black—who dared to speak, but he said nothing.

  Emily looked at her boss, Sean, and activated her third computer graphic. “Alan is referring to a conversation I had with the Vice President for Purchasing of Mayflower Van Lines. He was at the hearing, and he thought the Bioblimps, especially with their tentacles, might make good moving vans. If we can equip them with cargo holds. He didn’t want strap-ons, he said, because the straps might break.” Someone snorted. “I know,” she added. “The airlines have no trouble. But we’ve already begun to look into marsupial genes.” Frank muttered to one of his aides, who produced a disk, inserted it in the drive before her, and copied the graphic.

  Sean held a single piece of paper in front of his bifocals. “I understand the Bioform Regulatory Administration posed an obstacle?”

  “BRA just wants a more extensive Environmental Impact Statement. But we can’t prepare it until we know who our customers will be.”

  “Hah!” Chowdhury was scowling at her now. “You won’t have any! Not if I know the military!” He didn’t, Emily thought. But he had never let the truth keep him from attacking everyone within reach, as if he hated them all. His colleagues put up with him because they sympathized with his history, and because, for all his abrasiveness, he was a more than competent gengineer. He was, in fact, one of the best in the industry. Even Emily had to admit that he could do things with a genome that she could never attempt.

  “If the decision goes against us,” Emily replied, “I think we’ll be able to get a military procurement contract. I have a feeling the general thought our design rather better than the one he had. The built-in cargo holds should only help.”

  Wilma changed the subject. “Have you heard the news, Emily?” When Emily shook her head, she went on, “They didn’t find any terrorists at all on that Sparrow. It just stopped responding to its controls.”

  Frank began to look worried. “Do you think there’s a defect in the gengineering? That could hurt sales.”

  “The station said the PLO, the Free Venezuelans, and the Boer Front have all called to claim the credit.”

  Frank laughed. So did Emily. The same thing happened every time there was a disaster that might have been caused by terrorists. Some of the more extreme groups had even been known to claim credit for earthquakes and tornadoes.

  The research head rapped a pencil on the table. When he had their attention, he said, “I don’t think that is our problem.”

  “But, Sean…”

  “Wait until they say there’s a defect. Or that the terrorists sabotaged the Sparrow in some way, which I think is more likely. Now we have a report from Dr. Chowdhury.”

  Chowdhury’s motions, as he shoved a disk into his own drive slot with a loud click, were aggressive. He glared at everyone impartially, though his gaze seemed to avoid Sean and to linger just a little on Emily and Alan. “Such problems,” he finally said, “certainly won’t affect the Bioblimp. That is a dead end. The true future of this company must lie with the armadillo-based vehicles I have been working on.” He gestured, and the screen showed his own first diagram.

  “The problem is the wheels,” said Chowdhury. “When General Bodies designed their Roachster, they had an immense advantage. An arthropod’s shell is laid down by an underlying membrane and is periodically replaced or molted. Once they had gengineered their hybrid to grow bumps in suitable places, beneath the legs…” Most of them knew what he was talking about with the speech and the diagram he displayed, but review was an essential part of the ritual of presentation. In most people’s hands, it was also a comforting rite; in his, it grated.

  He continued: “Then they could have the membrane secrete a second layer of shell inside those bumps, just within the first. It does this anyway at molting time. The difference comes in the shaping of the layers where the bumps neck down to join the body, so that the end result is a wheel mounted on a central
hub. The genimal’s legs run backward on top of the wheels.” Another diagram. “And when the wheel wears out, a molt replaces it.

  “Unfortunately…” A photo replaced the computer graphic. It showed Chowdhury standing beside an armadillo whose back bulged well above his head. Emily thought that the world had seen nothing like it since the South American glyptodont had died out millennia before, if then. The size was comparable. The glyptodont had even had a tail, as did armadillos. But the glyptodont’s shell had not swelled out beneath its legs in four rounded bosses that looked exactly like the wheels of a Roachster. He went on, “An armadillo’s shell is really a system of bony plates embedded in the skin. The plates are covered with horny scales, but the bone is what gives the shell its strength. That’s a more internal tissue, and it is never molted. It was therefore difficult, but I did succeed in producing an armadillo with wheels. However, once those wheels wear out, replacing them is a much more time-consuming process. We may have to fit them with rubber tires.”

  “Why bother?” asked Frank. “With their Roachster, General Bodies has a lock on the wheeled genimal market.”

  “Sure,” said Emily. “Why can’t your ‘Dillo Dillies’ run on legs, like a Tortoise?”

  Chowdhury, his voice taut with anger, said, “I prefer to call them…” but the group’s laughter drowned him out.

  In a moment, when quiet reigned once more, Emily said, “But seriously, have you considered the main drawback to using armadillos as your rootstock?”

  Chowdhury’s voice grew tight, and Emily thought she could detect a change in the odor of his sweat. “There are no problems with my armadillos!”

  Emily showed her teeth in an apparent smile. It was hard to keep her mouth from shifting the little bit that would make the expression an unabashed snarl. “I’ve lived in Texas, Ralph, where the roads are splattered with dead armadillos. The reason is simple: When they are startled, they leap straight upward, just to bumper height. It’s a reflex, as such it’s wired into their nervous systems, and into their genes, and it would be just wonderful for the reputation of your Dillies if the same reflex showed up under a highway overpass. Have you done anything about it?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Chowdhury scribbled quickly on one of the papers before him. Then he said smugly, “That is not necessary.” He tapped his keyboard, and the room’s screen wrote an equation beneath the photo. “Square-cube scaling turns the wild armadillo’s leap into the merest of hops for my ‘Armadons.’”

  Frank raised a hand, one finger jutting toward the screen: “How can it even hop, with the legs on top of the wheels like that? Wouldn’t it tear its wheels off?”

  Alan laughed out loud. Emily was delighted. Chowdhury was far less so. His face darkened, and his fingers mashed his keyboard murderously. The screen blinked out. He said, “That is not a problem. I will be ready to demonstrate my prototype soon, and then you will see. I hope that you will even applaud.”

  No one had a chance to say anything more. A discreet beep sounded from their chief’s, Sean Gelarean’s, place. He leaned over his screen to read some message, and then he said, “Emily? Miss Carol says there’s a police officer in the entry. She wants to interview you about the incident yesterday.” He grinned, and the flesh around his eyes wrinkled. “She says she’s disappointed that you didn’t say anything this morning.”

  Emily snorted and rose from her seat. “I was in a rush.” As she backed away from the table, she glimpsed Gelarean’s feet—almost as small as her own—in the shadows beneath. He had kicked off one shoe so he could use the toes to scratch the other ankle.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  BERNIE FISCHER’S PERSONAL vehicle was nothing so satisfying as a Hawk. That was an official police vehicle that must, at the end of each day, be put to bed in the official police Aerie. Despite its name, that structure was on ground level, a huge barn, a stable for all the department genimals. There official police handlers fed the Hawks and Roachsters and flicked their dormancy toggles to put them to bed for the night.

  Bernie didn’t even own a genimal. He had no Tortoise, no Roachster, no Hopper. And the reason was not expense. He could afford one, and there were public stables where he could keep it. But he didn’t need it, for his small apartment was not far from police headquarters. It was so close that sometimes he actually walked to work. Other times, he rode a bicycle and parked it in the Aerie’s broad yard. He chained it only elsewhere in the city; where he worked, it was safe.

  Despite a gray sky and the promise of rain to combat the summer heat, today was a bicycle day. He hadn’t, as he had expected, slept very well. He craved peace, and quiet, and the soft, floating sensation of a Hawk on the wing. The bicycle, when the streets were smooth, as they were by spells, and the litterbugs had been doing their duty, as they generally had, came as close, he was sure, as he would get today. There would be paperwork on both the rape-mutilation and the terrorist attack on the expressway. There might be some legwork to do. He would probably not need the Hawk’s speed or weaponry. They would instead delight some other member of the force.

  He could at least look in on the Aerie before he had to face his desk. He grinned as he pedaled, dodging traffic and pedestrians. If, he told himself, he could get there early enough, he could spend a little time staring at the sleek forms of the Hawks. Perhaps, if the Aerie’s grooms had not done their work as perfectly as usual, he could run a hand down a neck to straighten feathers.

  But he never had the chance. As he pulled into the Aerie’s yard and swung his right leg back and over the seat, standing on the left pedal while he coasted toward the bike rack, Connie Skoglund hailed him. She shouted, one arm upraised, her uniform blouse stretched tight across her torso, and once again he admired her. He changed course and stopped in front of her. Her scent, of soap and perfume, stood out against the earthier odors of the Aerie and made him think of other days, and nights.

  “The Count wants you,” she told him. “Right away.” Above them, a Hawk noisily departed one of the Aerie’s three launch platforms, small, circular decks set against the slanting roof. An elevator within the building carried the birds and their pilots up to what, in a barn, would have been the hayloft. From there, ramps led to arched doorways, each on a different level, stepping upward from the front of the building toward the back. The arches, their tops filled in with stained glass salvaged from some ancient mansion of the city, opened onto the platforms. The platforms themselves pivoted on central hubs, so that the blast shields erected along one edge would always be behind the Hawks when they took off into the wind. They reminded Bernie of the rotating gun platforms on naval warships in old movies.

  He grimaced to show his disappointment. The Hawks would have to wait, while he straightened feathers of another sort. “The Count” was Lieutenant Alexander, the chief of the department’s detectives, and the nickname was appropriate. His parents, presumably suffering from pretensions to glory, had given him the first name of Napoleon.

  “Any idea what for?”

  Connie shrugged. “Something to do with that airliner. All I know is, I’m on witness duty. I’ve got about twenty of ‘em to interview today.”

  “See you later?”

  She looked at him appraisingly. “Dinner?” When he nodded, she added, “Come over to my place, then.”

  Historians know that Napoleon Bonaparte was short and suspect that Alexander the Great was not much taller. The Count did better on that score, for he and his immediate ancestors had enjoyed the benefits of better nutrition. His more distant ancestors had been of taller stock, and he was as blond as only a Scandinavian, or one sprung from that region, can be.

  He also had strikingly red lips. Though one might think that a Napoleon Alexander would be called “General” or “Emperor,” and though he was fair, not dark, and was not given to long black capes, that feature was the one that had dictated the form of his nickname. If it failed to capture the flavor of his temper, no one seemed to mind.
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  “Fischer! How did those goddamn terrorists get away?”

  Bernie, standing in front of his superior’s desk, gave a deliberately sloppy imitation of a military salute. He had been in the army, and he wasn’t about to give the SOB the real thing. “Sir?” The Count insisted on the word.

  “The night shift checked the passengers. Three quarters of them dead, and every one of them absolutely innocent. Passports in order, no guns in their briefcases or purses. Nothing!” The Count slapped a hand on his desktop in emphasis.

  “The crew, sir?”

  “Dead, every one of them. No one’s talking. But their papers are in order, and…” He snarled. “They had to get away!”

  “I didn’t see anyone leave the Sparrow after it fell, sir.”

  The Count spun in his swivel chair to stare out his office window at the front of the Aerie. A rack of bicycles, including Bernie’s, was visible in the yard below. He sighed gustily. Finally, he admitted, “We have the cockpit voice recorder. It actually looks like there weren’t any terrorists. That Sparrow simply stopped responding to the controls. It just went berserk.”

  “Sir? But how…?” Bernie didn’t own a genimal, but he knew they weren’t supposed to act independently. They were supposed to be totally obedient to their masters, except when left to their own devices. That was why he had had to switch off his Hawk on the expressway. Left alone, it might well have eaten the Sparrow, or some of it. But as long as he was at the controls, it had to obey him. That was the way the gengineers had designed them.

  “I have no idea,” muttered Lieutenant Alexander. More loudly, he added, “But they’ve got that thing in a hangar out at the airport, and they’re taking it apart. If they find anything, they’ll let us know. And then—even if they find litter!—you can get to work. I want the son of a bitch responsible!”

  So did Bernie.