After that, we watched Dorothea Tay's POV vid from the beginning, starting with the opening ceremonies, the fields of riders moving off, the casting of the hounds, and then, as Shad put it, “Yoicks away."
It was rather exciting watching the unedited recording. Miss Tay was quite a rider, as were the five persons with whom she was riding, the hounds almost always in view. Glimpses of Miles, Lady Iva, Lord Talmadge, even an occasional glimpse of Archie Quartermain, his white-tipped tail vanishing and reappearing as he led the chase. Midway through the lane of thinned trees, the hounds veered left and ran beneath the solid cover. Miss Tay led the other riders, her camera going dark beneath the dense cover, the images clearing as she returned to the lane.
"If we're to believe these vids,” said Shad, “the only ones who could've done in Miles were his spouse and his horse."
"It's easy enough these days to doctor vids, Shad, inserting or removing anything one wants. It still takes time, though, and all those tally-hover amateur tapes seem to back up everything shown by the stationary and POV cameras.” I glanced at Shad. “As subtly as you can, see if the park cop SOCOs examined any of the vids for editing."
"Check."
As I returned to Dorothea Tay's POV vid, Shad did his wireless thing. From my end, the call was silent. Shad noted me watching him, and I pointed at my ear. Shad pointed at my portable. “Six-sixty-one,” he quacked.
As soon as I opened that particular channel, I was treated to an authoritative and distinguished investigator questioning DCI Stokes of the park cops on the case evidence, and about any testing that might have been done regarding any editing. The voice Shad was using was very commanding, very British, and seemed very familiar. Every syllable simply oozed gobs of absolute authority and withering contempt. No testing had been done, as it turned out, and Shad's voice intimated that having the vids examined for editing would reflect kindly upon DCI Stokes's future, whereas continuing to fail to examine them would likely earn him a posting as toilet attendant to the northernmost of the Shetland Islands.
"Very effective, Shad,” I said. “The voice you were using—I know it from somewhere."
The duck nodded. “Laurence Olivier as Marcus Licinius Crassus in the old motion picture Spartacus. I find it works very well on most Britaucrats."
While I digested this particular facet of my new partner's sound equipment, I studied a frame of one of the stationary vids I had up on my screen. It showed a red fox: short legs, a long bushy tail, and a narrow muzzle. The creature's ears and feet were black, its tail had a white tip, and the coat was glossy and rust red. I turned and glanced through one of the many tall windows in the club lounge facing Hound Tor. The promise of rain had been fulfilled. “Shad, run the cruiser around to the front of the lodge beneath the portico. I think it's time someone interviewed the fox."
An hour later the rain was falling steadily on the cruiser's canopy a half kilometer south of the lodge grove, giving us a distorted view of the protected site of a nameless medieval village and the large rock formation just beyond it. In the distance, occasionally obscured by patches of ground fog, rose the imposing heights of Haytor Rocks. Had the village been located in the American southwest, it would have been called a ghost town. It was little more than lanes, foundations, and the occasional restored wall, with a small imitation stone, prefab National Park Information Center sporting a pseudo thatched roof and pseudo brick chimney at the site's northwest corner, with a rather real-looking sparrow perched on its top. Shad had posted a wireless text message for Quartermain and when the fox answered, this was where he said we were to wait. Putting the waiting time to use, Shad checked with the District AB Registry for the particulars on both Archie Quartermain and Miles Bowman's horse.
"Both amdroids were gestated, grown, and activated through Fantronics, Ltd. out of London,” said Shad. “The bio amdroid assignment supervisor there, Dr. Shirley Wurple, dodged my call. Her chief assistant to the assistant chief, one Martin Corbola, says he would be happy to answer all of our questions—once we present at the Fantronics legal offices, during normal business hours, a duly sworn and signed warrant for the information on Quartermain.” He faced me. “The information on the horse, however, he gave up willingly."
"Horse engrams can't quite grasp the concept of litigation, I suppose. Have London ABCD apply for a warrant for Quartermain's records and post us with the names of any Fantronics employees connected with Quartermain's transformation into a Vulpes vulpes."
After sending in the warrant request, Shad said, “Where were you before you wound up in ABCD?"
"Metro. London Metropolitan Police."
"You mean, Scotland Yard?"
"Just ‘the Yard.’”
The duck studied me. “So, you were a big-time murder cop in the Yard and you wound up out here in West Mudflap doing grunt work for Artificial Beings Crimes ... how?"
"What about you? How come you're still a duck? The International PBA pays for human meat suits for fallen officers."
"Have you ever seen those generic bios they use in the States? One size fits all. They don't come with wireless modems either."
"Also they don't fly,” I added.
"There is that.” He nodded. “The flying is one reason I'm a duck."
"I hear for many ams it's the sex."
Shad faced me as his eyes widened. “Are you kidding?"
"Not at all. Many species of animals have better sex than humans, I understand."
"What—did Parker tell you that?” The duck laughed with a repeated wak, wak, wak sound. “Better sex? Ignoring the really severe seasonal limitations for most waterfowl, have you ever seen ducks copulate?"
"I can't say that I have."
"No matter how you slice it, man, it's criminal sexual assault."
"You mean rape?"
"I'm not exaggerating.” He shivered all over. “In Duckville, man, if you don't do it like that, you don't do it at all. I can't do it that way. It is one big stone cold turn-off."
"Then why don't you opt for a human meat suit?” I insisted.
"Look, when I was working for that insurance company, part of the deal my agent put together was quite a sophisticated package for their spokescritter. This duck is loaded: ENN-band wireless interface, portable engram reader, all-weather thermal imaging, state-of-the-art sound, a memory bigger than the Library of Congress, disease-proof, and mildew-resistant. As long as I don't get shot by a hunter, sucked into a jet intake, or caught by a chef, I'm practically indestructible. But it's not just that I'd have to give up all those features to put on one of those Mediocre Myron meat suits to become a mere mortal human back in New York's finest. What would happen to me—I mean, what would happen to the duck?"
"The meat suit would be put in the queue for whoever wanted to become a duck."
"That line doesn't exactly wrap around the block. I'll tell you what would happen: This little duck would be allowed to die, its mind emptier than my pension plan. This duck made me a star, put my name in Variety, and got me my own booth at Billy Bob's Buffalo Burger. I owe it more than letting it wind up in a recipe or a landfill somewhere."