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.