Jane looked lost. "I don't remember."
"Does the name Galdenistal mean anything to you?"
She shook her head.
I tried another name. "What about Xavier?"
She shrugged.
I tried again: "Laverty?"
That one got a response. Jane tensed, and for just a fraction of a second I could see her eyes narrow. Then her expression went neutral. She looked up and to the left, the classic expression of someone who is trying to remember something. Then she nodded.
"I
do
recognize that name," she said. "There's a prince by the name of Sean Laverty on the council of Tír Taimgire."
"How do you know him?" I asked.
She seemed puzzled. "Everybody knows him," she said. "Just like everybody knows that Dunkelzahn is the president of the UCAS."
"You're wrong about that one," I told her gently. "The dragon Dunkelzahn was assassinated nearly four years ago, back in August of 2057. Kyle Haeffner is president now."
What she said next caught me completely off guard.
"It's not 2057?" Her eyes filled with confusion. I could almost see her thoughts whirling behind them as she fought against her fear. The lost-little-girl look was back on her face. It sent a pang right through me.
"Then where ..." She swallowed, fighting for control. "Where have I been for the last four years?"
Now it was my turn to use her favorite expression: "I don't know."
Without consciously intending to, I reached up to stroke her hair. I didn't mean anything by it; it was
the same comforting gesture I used to soothe Haley. Jane moved her head slightly, so that my palm brushed her cheek instead. My palm tingled as it touched her smooth skin, and I felt a warmth flush my body. I suddenly understood why humans feel uncomfortable when they're naked. There's no fur to hide what you're feeling.
"Uh, I just wanted to look at your ear," I said, making excuses. "Do you mind?"
She gave me a coy smile. "I don't mind."
Was she blushing, too? Did I really smell a heat rising in her, or was that just wishful thinking?
I drew back her soft brown hair. The ear under it was small and round: a human ear. Although ... I took a closer look. Was that a faint line of scar tissue, hidden inside the ear's top fold? As I traced a finger along it, Jane's breathing quickened. I let my hand drop.
"The elf gave you a train ticket," I said quickly. "It's in your right pocket. Can I see it?"
Jane pulled the ticket from the pocket of her jeans. It was for a one-way trip to Chicago. And not just to any train station in that city, but to the one inside the Cinanestial terminal. That could only mean one thing.
Cinanestial is the national airline of Tír Taimgire, the elven nation formed in 2035 from what used to be the state of Portland. Before establishing an air link with another country, the Tír government demands extraterritoriality for its Cinanestial terminals, making them the legal equivalent of consulates or embassies. The net effect was that the Cinanestial terminal in Chicago was part of Tír Taimgire soil. The planes that flew from it had only one destination: Tír Taimgire. That was where the elf had intended to take Jane.
I tore the ticket in half. Then I walked over to the elf. "Let's find out who your friend is."
In the elf's pockets I found a matching train ticket and some cash: neatly folded 100-and 500-nuyen bills, held by a gold money clip. Although Tír Taimgire uses the standard international currency—the nuyen—that nation prints its own money on woven hemp fiber, impressed with a holo of the Council of Princes as a foil to counterfeiters.
I stared at the faces of the princes in the holo. They were a mixed bunch: six elves, two dwarfs, an ork, the great dragon Lofwyr, and a sasquatch. In the Tir, I would be a citizen, and would have a SIN number. I could become a police officer. But unfortunately, Lone Star doesn't have any contracts in that country. The Tir's laws are enforced by its constabulary, a part of the Tír military.
Another pocket held the elf's passport. Fortunately the elves of Tír Taimgire have a love of the printed word. Every other country in the world uses passports that look like credsticks, with data imprinted electronically. But the Tír passport is a hemp-paper booklet filled with print data and holos. The one concession to modern technology is a magnetic strip embossed on the cover that contains the same information found inside the passport, but in electronic form.
The elf's full name was Galdenistal Tathem. He was not just a Tír national; he had diplomatic status. Which meant he was untouchable and not subject to the laws of the UCAS. The best Lone Star could do, no matter how heinous the crime the elf committed, was deport him. They wouldn't even be able to search his luggage before he left. Which explained how he could have a SINless person like Jane accompany him back to that nation, without any questions being asked. I dropped the passport on his chest.
There was nothing else important in the elf's pockets except a small plastic bottle of yellowish liquid that smelled of the drug he'd used on Haley. I considered using the drug on the elf, but had no idea how to administer it, or how potent it was. I didn't want to accidentally knock myself out by inhaling any of the vapor or splashing a drop of the drug on my hand.
I picked up the elf's Uzi and threw it into the air. The gun landed with a clunk on top of the containers behind us. I pitched the container of liquid up after it. The elf might find them there, but it would take some searching.
When I turned around, Jane was staring at my body. I'm used to human and meta women staring at me; I know my muscular development is pleasing to them. But it was different, seeing that look in Jane's eyes. I blushed all over again.
The elf let out a faint groan. He was waking up.
"Let's get out of here," I told Jane. I handed her the money clip of nuyen bills. "I'm going to change back into wolf form. Pretend I'm your dog." I bent down and removed the elf's belt from around his waist. "Use this as a leash. Walk me to the front of the Via Rail terminal, and hail a cab."
"Where are we going?" Jane asked.
"Across the harbor, to Dartmouth," I answered. "To Nova Scotia Hospital. There's someone there who may be able to help you."
Then I changed back into wolf form, thankful for the fur that hid my desire for Jane.
Nova Scotia Hospital is an old brick building, fronted with lawn and trees and sandwiched between Pleasant Street and the railway tracks that wind along the waterfront below. Over the century or more since it was built, other buildings have sprung up around it. The older ones, like the original hospital, are of red brick. Others look like tum-of-the-millennium apartment blocks. Still others are modern in the extreme: made from ferrocrete slabs and steel, their expanses of tinted glass presenting a very 21st century—but very cold—facade.
Dr. Sandra Bjornson worked in the psych wing, which was housed in one of the older brick buildings. After the taxi dropped us off there I led Jane in through the doors, tugging on the belt we were using as a leash so she'd know which way to go.
We passed through the lobby and were nearly at the end of the corridor leading to the elevators when
a security guard blocked our way. He was a dwarf,
with a ring through his nose and a hair net over his thick beard He was short, his face level with my own. But he was determined. I could smell it—and see it. Despite the fact that I weigh fifty kilos and have teeth that could have torn open his jugular in a heartbeat, he resolutely blocked our path, not even twitching as I panted in his face. A taser hung on his belt; his stubby-fingered right hand rested gently on its hilt. One of his eyes was cybered; I could see the eye bulge and contract slightly as he focused its lens to take a digital photograph of Jane, then of me.
"Sorry, miss," he rumbled in a deep baritone. "No pets allowed in the hospital."
Jane was quick off the mark. "He's a working dog," she told the dwarf. "I use him for patient therapy."
I gave the dwarf my best doggie grin.
The dwarf eyed the improvised collar around my neck. He wasn't buying it.
I sighed. Then I changed into human form. The belt suddenly hung loose around my neck. I slipped it over my head as I stood.
Now the dwarf was looking up at me.
"Well, frig me," he muttered. "What the hell are you?"
"A shifter," I told him.
His heavy black brows met over his eyes and he put his fists on his hips. "Like I said, no animals allowed in the hospital."
I growled softly, wanting to pick the dwarf up and shake him like a rat. I'd been awake for nearly twenty hours, had only just regenerated from a painful bullet wound, and was tired and cranky. I don't like speciphobia, especially when it's directed at me. I'd expected more from a meta; he ought to know what it felt like to be discriminated against. I looked at the name tag pinned above his shirt pocket: CRELLIN.
Cretin
is
more
like
it
, I thought.
"We're here to see Doctor Bjornson," I said, keeping my voice level.
"She's the head of the psych department," he told us. "She's a busy lady. You don't just barge in on her. You got an appointment?"
"Page her," I said. "Tell her Romulus is here and see what she says."
Something in my tone must have warned him I wasn't to be trifled with. Either that or—and this was the more likely scenario—he didn't want to piss Doctor Bjornson off. Sandra doesn't suffer fools lightly.
The security guard whispered something to himself; he must have had a radio implant. Then his eyes grew thoughtful as he listened to a speaker in his ear. He stepped to one side, even pressing the elevator button for us. "Go on up," he said. His voice was polite and his body language impeccable, but I could smell his suppressed anger. "But put some friggin' clothes on."
There was a laundry cart near the elevator. I grabbed a folded pair of pants from it and pulled them on. They were hospital mint-green and baggy, with a pull string—the kind worn by patients. But I wasn't worried about being mistaken for a crazy. Dr. Bjornson knew me well enough.
The elevator was as old as the building. No voice activation; just primitive plastic buttons inscribed with numbers so worn you could barely read them. The inside of the elevator was lined with the padding used when someone is moving furniture into an apartment building. I wondered if this was for the benefit of violent or self-destructive patients.
After an eternity—the old elevator was very slow,
and rose with a series of sharp jerks—we stepped out
onto the third floor and went down the hall to Dr. Bjornson's station.
I'd known Sandra for many years. We'd first met when I was with the K9 unit. A violent sexual offender—a mage capable not only of masking his identity with magic but also of using spells to control the actions of others—had escaped from the hospital's locked ward. I'd been brought in to track him down, since the one thing he
couldn't
mask was his scent. It turned out the frigger had impersonated one of the nurses, then sneaked through the underground concrete tunnels that connect the older parts of the hospital, emerging in the nurses' residence. By the time I caught up to him, he'd used his magic to turn himself into a mirror image of Dr. Bjornson and had just persuaded a young nurse to open the door of her room to him. He had a knife made from a sharpened scissors blade and some flexible rubber tubing in his pockets, and had obviously been planning something ugly to celebrate his escape.
The young nurse was Sandra's niece.
Dr. Sandra Bjornson was consulting with a nurse as I approached the doctor's station. But as soon as she saw me, she broke off the conversation and gave me a wide smile.
"Romulus!" she exclaimed. "Good ta see ya!"
Sandra is human, with a shock of short hair that can only be described as battleship gray. She has a chin that juts just enough to give her a determined look, and eyes that can bore through a foolish notion like a laser through tissue. She takes no guff, does Sandra. But she's also the most compassionate person I know: a magician who followed the healer's path.
Sandra is in her sixties and practiced "therapeutic touch"—with phenomenal results. Just by laying on hands she could quiet the churning turmoil of a schizophrenic's mind, or bring a smile to the face of a severely depressed patient. She used her body—her "healing hands" to create a bridge between the astral and physical planes, channeling healing energy into the bodies of her patients.
Sandra occasionally slipped into a Maritimer's accent, but that didn't mean she wasn't educated. She'd received her PhD in psychiatry from MIT&T and had enough diplomas to paper a wall. She greeted Jane warmly when I introduced her, then ushered us into her office.
"Office" probably isn't the right word for it. Describe it that way, and you'd expect a desk, stiff plastic chairs, and book shelves filled with medical texts. Instead Sandra's inner sanctum was bare of furniture save for a thick, soft rug and brilliantly colored Rajasthani cushions. The smell of lavender, sage, and rose oil filled the room, and the air was filled with soft, atmospheric music reminiscent of a gentle rain. One wall had a "window" that looked out onto a pristine woodland—actually a holo that could be turned to a number of different outdoor scenes. Sandra must have chosen Primeval Forest for my benefit; she knew it would bring back pleasant memories of the wood where I was born. The other walls were set with tiny niches, each one holding a statue of a deity associated with healing.