“Yes. A bio. I can still read the receiver signal. Perhaps we can harvest the engrams before it zeroes out.”
“I wonder why someone would copy into a rat bio?” said Shad. “Why would they want to? And what’s a rat with a human engram imprint doing out here in the boonies—and with no cheese?”
“Perhaps he ate all his cheese and expired from despondency,” I suggested facetiously. “I’ll sort the calls, Shad. After you make a try on the engrams, get a scan, temp, DNA, and ID.”
“You got it.”
I rang up Okehampton Camp army base, and reception was scratchy. Either my phone was having problems or not all government departments communicate via satellite. As the operator there began passing my call around from pillar to post by slowest means available, I climbed uphill in hopes of better reception. As I stood facing the direction of the army camp, High Willhays and Yes tors visible in the distant haze, a Sergeant Vickers of the military police came on. A rather long-winded bloke, he was about to do my head in explaining, with maximum words per bit of information, he had no notice, knowledge, or note of anything concerning dead bodies of any kind, type, condition, description, or designation, today or at any other time, and, moreover, even should it be discovered in some manner at some time in the future that he had—
As I tensed, waiting for the fellow to take a breath for interruption purposes, the earth was pulled from beneath my feet and an enormous hand of sound, force, and heat rose and swatted me like a mosquito sending me flying up into absolute blackness.
Splitting headache. Overpowering silence, my body numb. My eyes opened to a confusing smear of images. A strong chemical odor stung my nostrils. Gradually the images resolved into fuzzy clouds, fuzzy hills, fuzzy sky, and shadows, everything through a stinking gray mist. Pain began invading my right ankle, my legs, then my whole body. I tried to call Shad, but I couldn’t hear my own voice. I gently rolled to my right and saw blood appearing on my right hand and sleeve. Managed to push against the ground until I was sitting upright, weaving, everything threatening to go black again. I couldn’t see the cruiser.
My hand rested upon the edge of a very warm rock. I looked at the stone and it was a largish plate that could have been the twin of the hanging stone, but bottom side up. Then I saw a fuzzy gleam of silver and realized it was the self same hanging stone, the scene analyzer apparently none the worse for wear and still attached to its edge. The rock had landed just a few centimeters from me.
I looked for my phone and it was missing, probably somewhere beneath the rock. Tried shouting for Shad again, but still couldn’t hear myself. Struggled to my feet, standing there feeling lightheaded, a sharp pain in my right ankle. I looked down and saw to my dismay both shoes and socks missing, my right ankle swollen, and my right foot at a funny angle. My trouser cuffs were shredded. While I was staring at that, blood spatter appeared on my feet. It was coming from my nose. Further exploration revealed blood coming from my ears as well. Principal flow, though, came from a cut on the left side of my neck. I held my hand over it and stumbled down slope toward the stone’s original location, calling for Shad, still unable to hear.
Nothing was left where the rat had been. Hanging stone, heather, grass, soil, rodent, cruiser, and Shad were gone. Steaming hot granite and that insidious chemical odor were all that remained. I couldn’t think of what to do.
I turned around slowly. Farther up-slope something was burning. I stumbled uphill far enough to see the cruiser’s remains: twisted black metal pieces, flames still licking up from the few bits of remaining upholstery and combustible forensic supplies it had contained. The disembodied hand of the large walking mech was on the ground next to a few scorched feathers and charred bits of flesh. Thin piece of bone, something that looked like the tail of a rat. I couldn’t make out either the rat’s or Shad’s bio receivers. Just then the universe went as black as Newgate’s knocker and I fell, wondering as I did so if I was going to die again.
From later accounts I gather Sergeant Vickers grew concerned when, shortly after losing my signal, the sound of a great explosion came from the south. He had an air ambulance come immediately, and they managed to piece enough of me together to get me to camp hospital alive. When I first regained consciousness, however, it was night, and I was in Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital in the city. I knew I hadn’t died because, unlike my original demise, I awakened in the same body replete with every broken bone and aching cell. Topping the pain inventory was a headache that could gobble steel ingots and blow off razor wire. Soon there was a fellow stabbing into my retinas with an intense light beam and asking my name, the year, and the name of the reigning monarch. When the spots cleared and I managed a look at the bleeder, he appeared as though he ought to be peddling used trusses: slicked black hair, widow’s peak, pinched up dark eyes, a hand-painted tie, and a nose like a broken rudder. The nametag on his white coat was red, but I couldn’t focus well enough to read it. The man’s voice came through in tinny flat tones and only through my left ear. I pointed.
“Temporary hearing assistance patch attached to your left temple,” he said. “Can you tell me your name?”
“I believe I can.”
He waited for a moment, then raised his evil-looking little eyebrows. “What is it?”
“Jaggers. Detective Inspector Harrington Jaggers, Devon ABCD.” I looked at my surroundings. The room was small, off-white and white, a screen to my right displaying my vital signs to anyone who might wander in. On the wall opposite my bed I could make out a framed photo of what appeared to be a Quay scene: Cricklepit Bridge from Waterside. Shad had loved it down at the Quay.
“I fancy they call you Harry, eh?”
I looked in the direction of the voice and apparently the truss monger had failed to remove himself. “My wife calls me Harry. However, sir, you may address me by my nickname.”
“What’s that?” he asked expectantly.
“Inspector.”
His evilly peaked eyebrows arched, then lowered into grim mode. An unfriendly edge crept into his voice. “Can you tell me the year?”
“I don’t wish to be more rude than necessary, fellow, but who are you?”
With the index finger of his right hand he tapped his nametag. “Dr. Truscott.”
I had little time to consider the marketing possibilities in Truscott’s Terrific Trusses, as he had more to say. From what he said I was made aware that I should consider myself a very lucky fellow. Aside from a few lacerations, a broken ankle, four broken ribs, a sewn together carotid artery, deafness, chronic headaches, slightly impaired vision, bruised organs, a dozen or more badly pulled muscles, a dead partner, a crime scene blown to bloody hell, and an unsolved case concerning a now missing corpse, I was going to be just fine.
He apparently decided to make another try at being conversational. “I worked on your model cop replacement bio back in medical school,” he said reminiscently. “A piece of history. ‘Bones’ we used to call them—for Basil Rathbone? The twentieth century movie actor?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Really? Well, your model bio is very durable, infection resistant, and you look like a late-night Sherlock Holmes, eh?”
Mentally I almost expected Shad to be at my side remarking, “I say, Holmes, what medical school did this fellow attend?” to which I would reply, “Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.”