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Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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she’d taken him fora walk. Charliebo was well trained, but his insides were no different from any other dog’s. He’d go with her. Dog and Designer
had grown close to each other this past week.
He knew she was worried about him. While he would have preferred to have spared her the concern, he was pleased. Been a long
time since anyone besides Charliebo had really cared about Angel Cardenas, and Hypatia had better legs than the shepherd.
Sure he was stressing himself, but he could take it. All part of the job. Experience compensated for the lack of youthful
resilience. He could handle any traps Crescent and Noschek had left behind, even if she didn’t think he could.
He stopped in the middle of the room. Concerned about him, yeah. About his ability to deal with another psychomorph or worse.
Under those circumstances what would a caring, compassionate woman do? What could she do, to spare him another dangerous,
possibly lethal confrontation? Couldn’t an experienced, younger Designer follow the path he’d already found and thus keep
him from possible danger?
Shit.
He was wide awake now; alert, attuned, and worried. He didn’t remember getting dressed, didn’t recall the short elevator ride
to the subterranean garage. Sure enough, her little three-wheeler was gone. She wasn’t out for an evening stroll with Charliebo,
then. His lungs heaved as he raced for the nearest induction station. It would be faster than trying to call for police backup.
Besides, he might be getting himself all upset over nothing. If he was wrong, he’d end up looking the prize fool. If he was
right, well, Hypatia was highly competent. But he’d much rather play the fool.
The only thing that saved him was his three decades on the force. Thirty years experience means you don’t go barging into
a room. Thirty years handling ninlocos and juice dealers and assorted flakes and whackos says you go in quietly. Go in fast
and loud and you might upset somebody, and they might react before you had time to size things up.
Thirty years says Hypatia would have secursealed the door to the office. When he discovered it wasn’t, he opened it as slowly
as possible.
The lights were on low. The wallscreen was alive with flaring symbols and muted verbal responses. In the center was the tunnel,
twisting and glowing like an electrified python. He picked out the desk, the muted holo portraits of Wallace Crescent’s abandoned,
innocent family.
Hypatia was on the floor. There was enough light to illuminate the figure bent over her. Enough light to show the still, motionless
lump of Charliebo lying not far away.
Quiet as he’d been, the figure still sensed his presence. It turned to face him. The blend suit melted into the background
but he recognized the triple lenses that formed a multicolored swath across the face instantly. All three primaries were down
and functioning now.
Cardenas saw that Hypatia’s jumpsuit was unzipped all the way to her thighs. A handful of secrylic had been slapped across
her mouth, muffling her as it hardened. More of the so-called police putty bound her ankles and wrists. She tried to roll
toward him but found it hard to move because the figure had one knee resting on her hip.
His gaze flicked to Charliebo. The shepherd’s chest was still, the eyes vacant. Cardenas’s vision blurred slightly and his
teeth moved against each other.
“Don’t,” said the flashman. He didn’t sound uncertain tonight. He glanced down at Hypatia, then smiled up at the federale.
“Worried about baby? No need to. Maybe. Come in, close the door behind you. If I’d sealed it you would’ve gone for help. This
way I only have to deal with you, right?” He leaned slightly to his left as if to see behind Cardenas.
“Right.” Cardenas kept his hands in view, his movements slow and unambiguous. Hypatia stared at him imploringly. He saw that
she’d been crying. Easy, he told himself. Keep it
had grown close to each other this past week.
He knew she was worried about him. While he would have preferred to have spared her the concern, he was pleased. Been a long
time since anyone besides Charliebo had really cared about Angel Cardenas, and Hypatia had better legs than the shepherd.
Sure he was stressing himself, but he could take it. All part of the job. Experience compensated for the lack of youthful
resilience. He could handle any traps Crescent and Noschek had left behind, even if she didn’t think he could.
He stopped in the middle of the room. Concerned about him, yeah. About his ability to deal with another psychomorph or worse.
Under those circumstances what would a caring, compassionate woman do? What could she do, to spare him another dangerous,
possibly lethal confrontation? Couldn’t an experienced, younger Designer follow the path he’d already found and thus keep
him from possible danger?
Shit.
He was wide awake now; alert, attuned, and worried. He didn’t remember getting dressed, didn’t recall the short elevator ride
to the subterranean garage. Sure enough, her little three-wheeler was gone. She wasn’t out for an evening stroll with Charliebo,
then. His lungs heaved as he raced for the nearest induction station. It would be faster than trying to call for police backup.
Besides, he might be getting himself all upset over nothing. If he was wrong, he’d end up looking the prize fool. If he was
right, well, Hypatia was highly competent. But he’d much rather play the fool.
The only thing that saved him was his three decades on the force. Thirty years experience means you don’t go barging into
a room. Thirty years handling ninlocos and juice dealers and assorted flakes and whackos says you go in quietly. Go in fast
and loud and you might upset somebody, and they might react before you had time to size things up.
Thirty years says Hypatia would have secursealed the door to the office. When he discovered it wasn’t, he opened it as slowly
as possible.
The lights were on low. The wallscreen was alive with flaring symbols and muted verbal responses. In the center was the tunnel,
twisting and glowing like an electrified python. He picked out the desk, the muted holo portraits of Wallace Crescent’s abandoned,
innocent family.
Hypatia was on the floor. There was enough light to illuminate the figure bent over her. Enough light to show the still, motionless
lump of Charliebo lying not far away.
Quiet as he’d been, the figure still sensed his presence. It turned to face him. The blend suit melted into the background
but he recognized the triple lenses that formed a multicolored swath across the face instantly. All three primaries were down
and functioning now.
Cardenas saw that Hypatia’s jumpsuit was unzipped all the way to her thighs. A handful of secrylic had been slapped across
her mouth, muffling her as it hardened. More of the so-called police putty bound her ankles and wrists. She tried to roll
toward him but found it hard to move because the figure had one knee resting on her hip.
His gaze flicked to Charliebo. The shepherd’s chest was still, the eyes vacant. Cardenas’s vision blurred slightly and his
teeth moved against each other.
“Don’t,” said the flashman. He didn’t sound uncertain tonight. He glanced down at Hypatia, then smiled up at the federale.
“Worried about baby? No need to. Maybe. Come in, close the door behind you. If I’d sealed it you would’ve gone for help. This
way I only have to deal with you, right?” He leaned slightly to his left as if to see behind Cardenas.
“Right.” Cardenas kept his hands in view, his movements slow and unambiguous. Hypatia stared at him imploringly. He saw that
she’d been crying. Easy, he told himself. Keep it
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