The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Four (3 page)

Between Rumor and Rizzari
[Carol Hancock POV]

Rumor proved to be cold blooded about the whole ‘feed
the Arm the Transform’ thing, but once I metasensed the Transform, I realized
that no matter how goody-two-shoes he thought he might be (if he did, which I
doubted), bringing this Transform to me wouldn’t disturb him.

The Transform was alive, and human, but the Transform’s
mind was long gone.  Years, I think.  He was little more than a juice-directed
robot.  I sneered.  Focus Patterson knew nothing about Arms.  If she knew
anything, she wouldn’t have bothered with this charade, since no Arm fit to
hunt would have fallen for a trap with bait like this.  Even I, messed up as I
was, could sense the remains of the two Focus tags on the male Transform.

On some subjects, such as Focus tags on Transforms, I
think Arms had a better metasense than Focuses and Crows.  It was nice to see
us Arms weren’t on the bottom of the barrel, despite what the world kept trying
to tell us the rest of the time.

After I took possession of the Transform from Rumor, I
bagged a car and drove north on I–79 as fast as I dared risk, to get out of
Pittsburgh.  My plan was to spend the night in Erie, calling Bobby in Chicago
and Zielinski in Boston.  I had some serious Network ass to kiss, and some big
questions for Zielinski about the safety of interacting with the Network.

For once, the world mostly cooperated.  I got myself a
room at a rural motel along I-90 just outside of Erie, ate four dinners in four
different Erie dives, got some takeout burgers and fries, went back to my room
and finally drew the mindless Transform.  Gaah.  I buried the Transform in some
rural geezer’s half dug up back yard, suffused by the stench of an overflowing
septic system drain field, apparently under repair by a bad contractor for the
last two years.  Nobody would be able to smell the body over the reek of sewage.

Before I headed out to dispose of the body, I made
calls.  I found Bobby at home, petrified for my safety, and I barely talked him
out of doing something stupid.  I wouldn’t tell him my location, or my
situation, or how long I would be gone.  I did give him some explicit phone
sex; my kill had restored me sufficiently so I felt somewhat amorous.  I told
him that if I didn’t come back in a week, consider me dead, and move on with
his life.  He didn’t appreciate my realism.

I had my worries.  I still bled down below.  My muscles
ached from lack of exercise, I couldn’t do a full workout in my condition, and
I couldn’t contact Zielinski.

I tried all the phone numbers from his list, and not a
one of them connected to a phone. 

That left me with one number, a scary number, saved for
last, with the code word “Armageddon” attached to it.  The phone number of Dr.
Lorraine Rizzari, Focus.  Without the code word, I would never get through –
apparently Focuses got a lot of crank calls.  Because of my dealings with
Officer Canon, and the danger of Focus Patterson, I didn’t want anything to do
with any Focuses.

Unfortunately, I was fresh out of options.

I called, and talked, and after a half hour of chatting
with several paranoid and far too intelligent functionaries, I finally got the
Focus on the line.

“I’m Carol Hancock, an Arm, and I’ve got a problem,
ma’am,” I said.

“Hmm?” the Focus said.  From the clackity clack noises,
she typed as she talked to me.  “What sort?”  She spoke with a highfalutin’
Boston accent, same as the late President Kennedy once used.

“I killed a tagged Transform.  By accident.  What do I
need to do to make this right?”

The clackity clack noises stopped.

“You did
what
?” the Focus said, in an accent best
described as Boston fishwife.

The conversation went downhill from there.  Rapidly. 
Downhill.

Tonya Prepares to Meet Lori

Tonya woke early and puttered around her office,
starting her preparations for the day.  She was a tall woman, with the native
good looks that came with a Focus transformation.  She was forty-nine, but she appeared
to be nineteen.  Her olive complexion was flawless and unlined, framed by a
cascade of black curls.  She stood lean and tall, with the smooth curves and
glowing energy that came from a strong body and excellent health.  Her
household’s early morning quiet wouldn’t last long.  She had demanded Focus
Rizzari visit her in person to talk about her meeting with the new Arm.  She
predicted a difficult confrontation.

Around her she metasensed the ever-present glow of her
household, sleeping in the cramped confines of their current home.  Even
sleeping, their juice flowed through her, with a constant thrum of energy as
natural as breathing.

All sleeping except Martha, who shuffled half-asleep in
the kitchen, making an early morning breakfast for her Focus and the other early
risers in Tonya’s household.  After putting her office in order, Tonya went to
join her.

“I have your breakfast, ma’am,” Martha said, when she
appeared.  Tonya nodded.  A Focus was always hungry.  Because their current
house was crawling with bad juice from age and from Keaton’s recent visit, she
made extra sure that the juice flowed properly to Martha.  Transform women were
juice producers rather than consumers, and so Focuses tended to over-draw their
women to keep the Focus’s juice buffer – the source of juice for everyone else
in the household – high.  All Transforms liked high juice, at least up to a
certain point.  Cooking was Martha’s household job and it wouldn’t do to short
her while she worked.  Tonya fought the juice to make it flow properly, and
hoped she would be able to make it through the day without another juice
headache she couldn’t shake.

Tonya sighed as she sat, alone at the large table,
tired, worn down by the weight of the responsibilities on her shoulders.  The
weight had landed there when she transformed in 1958, and grew worse every year
as she took on more political responsibilities in the Council and the Focus
Network.  The lives of the twenty-nine Transforms in her household, their seventeen
spouses and their eleven school-age children weighed the most, though.

Rizzari would be a pain in the ass today.

Shot Eichenzeit walked into the dining area to grab a
bite to eat before his pre-dawn run, just as Tonya finished off her first plate
of pancakes and sausage.

‘Shot’ was short for ‘One-shot’, a reference to his
skill with a rifle.  His unfortunate real name was Horst, an especially
unfortunate name back for a young soldier in World War II.  He picked up the ‘Shot’
nickname in the war, and kept it during his twenty years as an Army Ranger.

Shot was a blocky man, in his early forties, all bone
and iron-hard muscle.  He came to greet his Focus.

“Ma’am,” he said, standing straight.  Tonya always
suspected he had the urge to salute.  She nodded back.

“Can you do me a favor, Shot?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tonya liked Shot.  She liked his competence and his
efficient willingness to do what she asked of him.  She also liked the respect
he gave her for her capabilities as a person, not just as a Focus.  She felt
like he had judged her once, as he judged any superior officer, and that she had
passed.

Tonya smiled to herself.  It was funny to have one of
her own people judge her on her personal competence in something besides being
a juice jockey and a politician.

She did like Shot.

“I’m going to need Johnny today.  Could you get him up
and take him with you?  Get him started on the day?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shot said, without hesitation.  As he
turned to go wake Johnny, he frowned.  He thought Johnny was a flaming asshole.

Tonya shared his opinion.  Johnny was a half-competent
crook with an attitude problem, as well as a Transform.  Her job?  Straightening
him out.

A Focus household wasn’t like the rest of the outside
world.  Too many people lived too close together, with no privacy, always living
inside everyone else’s skin.  Someone who wouldn’t get along made life hell for
everyone else, a hell without any easy escape.  Johnny had no desire to get
along, he refused to do any work to contribute to the household, he harassed
the other people in the household and he refused to obey his Focus.  His
original Focus had tried to reform him, and thought she made progress, until he
started stealing small items from the other members of the household and
selling his loot at pawnshops.  She gave up, pleading for help from the Council.

Help, alas, named Tonya.  The Focuses called her the
Wicked Witch of the East and told each other stories about the horrors she
perpetrated.  However, when they found themselves with a problem Transform, they
turned to Tonya.  The Council had even made it official, another of the many
responsibilities wearing her down.  Therefore, she taught Johnny a few new
social skills, a long, slow process.  When she finished he would be a
productive, livable member of a household.  The household would be happier. 
Johnny himself would be happier.  Tonya would be happy, too.  Johnny would be
gone.

She did the adjusting pro bono.  His original Focus had
been too new to cope with him and too poor to pay her fee.  Typical.

Ten minutes later, Johnny staggered up, looking half-awake
and sullen.  He stood just under six feet and lean, in a gangly sort of way. 
He slouched.  Shot stood five feet back with his arms folded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny forced out.  He had learned a
little courtesy, a hard lesson for him.

Tonya looked up from the last of her pancakes.

“You’re going to help serve at my meeting with Focus
Rizzari today,” she told him.  “You’ll be polite and respectful to Focus
Rizzari, serve food and drinks whenever necessary, and stay in the kitchen
until you’re called for.  Delia will be running the kitchen and the cooks as
normal, so you do what she tells you.  Do you understand?”

Johnny drew a breath to protest the job.  Tonya drew his
juice down in threat, to the thin line between discomfort and pain.  He thought
better of his protest and shut his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, after a pause.  Tonya let the
juice flow back into him.

Twenty-eight other Transforms in her household, and
every one of them would treasure this task.  Focus Rizzari wasn’t a Council
member, but she was the Vice President of the Northeast Region, and held in
high esteem by many of the Transforms because of the cause she followed.  More people
transformed every day.  Many feared that soon there would be too many.  Focus
Rizzari was one of the few Focuses willing to work to prepare for that day and
her cause attracted quite a few Transforms, enough so she had a waiting list of
Transforms willing to join her household.  Several in Tonya’s own household,
much to her chagrin.  Nearly any of the Transforms in her household would welcome
the chance to help with Focus Rizzari’s visit.  Johnny considered the job an
insult.  Tonya wanted to smack him.

He would learn to be a proper household member if she
had to beat it into him.  She suspected this would be a very long lesson.

She turned to Shot.  “Shot, you’ll do bodyguard duty.” 
Even in her home, a Focus always had a bodyguard.  Often, several.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And why don’t you take Johnny with you and get him a
little exercise?  It’ll be good for him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  This time Shot smiled.

Johnny glanced at Shot and his ferret face fell.

Shot led Johnny to the front door of the house then took
off at a slow jog along the broken sidewalk in front of their old converted townhomes. 
Tonya followed, expecting the worst.  Johnny followed Shot slowly, feet
dragging.  Fifty feet from the front door he slowing to a walk.

Tonya frowned at Johnny’s display.  She pulled his juice
out of him, a lot of it, more than eighty percent of his supplemental juice and
way over the line into pain.  Her stripping hit him like a sledgehammer and he
stumbled to his knees.

“No,” he said, a whimper.  He turned and looked back to
where she stood, watching at the window, but Tonya kept her face like stone.  After
a moment, Johnny pulled himself painfully to his feet.  He hugged himself tight
and tears leaked from his eyes.  He glanced at her resentfully, his wounded
eyes protesting the unfairness of her actions.  She was mean to him.  It wasn’t
fair.  He didn’t deserve this.  She could see him thinking ‘bitch’, but he
didn’t have enough nerve to speak.

Tonya had seen it all before.  She ignored it.  Unmoved,
she kept his juice torturously low.

Finally, the lesson sunk in.  He turned and moved
forward toward Shot, one slow step at a time.

She kept the juice down.

Miserable, he went faster, lifting his feet up into a
real jog.  When he finally began the run, Tonya let the juice flow back into
him.

Shot had stopped when Johnny fell and watched the
tableau in silence, his face pale.  Tonya realized she had slipped.  In her
anger at Johnny, she clipped Shot when she drew Johnny’s juice down.  She
clipped Shot by four points, a little less than forty percent, enough to
seriously hurt when the drop came that fast.  She pushed the juice back into
him, and then a little bit more in apology.  He glanced at her, startled.  She
smiled back at him and nodded.

She would have to watch herself when Focus Rizzari
showed.  Such novice sloppiness was unconscionable.

“Pick up your feet, asshole.  I’ve seen little girls go
faster than you.  Move it!” Shot said, as the pair moved away.  Johnny would be
in for a rough run.

Carol Out Hunting
[Carol Hancock POV]

The Midwest Regional Warehouse of Sears & Roebuck
was a busy place at 3 PM in the middle of November.  Appliances, furniture, and
clothes lived there, along with toys, tools, dishes and bed linens.  Trucks
came and left the loading docks in a never-ending stream, and an army of men
worked to keep the goods moving – unloading, transferring, sorting, loading
again, as the crates and boxes came in from the manufacturers and left again
for the stores.

I had hunted all night, curled up in an abandoned
tenement for an hour of sleep just after dawn, and continued hunting into the new
day.  I found my target while I patrolled in my car.  Now, on foot, I checked
him out. 

The world would not miss Danny Clegg.

Danny nudged the prongs of the forklift forward under
the palette holding the Kenmore washing machine.  He worked as a loading dock
man, competent save for his low juice problems.  I sympathized.  This time, he
ran the forklift in too fast and slightly off angle.  The forklift hit with a
jar and knocked the palette back a good foot, twisting under the Whirlpool and
knocking everything off kilter.

“Danny, you asshole!  What the fuck are you doing?” his
shift boss said.  Danny cursed, slammed the shift into reverse and backed up to
do it again. 

Danny was starting to get the sweats.  He was a strong
man, just a hair over six feet, short hair, with the tough corded muscles of
someone who used them all day.  I read him as mid-twenties, draftable but lucky
so far.  He wore a faded corduroy jacket, almost worn through at the elbows,
and kept his cigarettes in his chest pocket.  He had gotten the Shakes some
time back, and when he toughed it out and the disease passed, he thought he was
home free.  No doctors for him, thank you very much.

Too bad he hadn’t defeated the disease.  Without me,
your friendly neighborhood Arm, on the job, Danny would go into withdrawal in a
day or two, become a psycho and make the news in a very special way.  A strong
bruiser like Danny, as a psycho in juice withdrawal, had a chance of killing
more innocents on his short run to hell than I had in my entire career as an
Arm.

More likely, though, he would just get himself killed by
running out into traffic.  Urban life was no place for a mindless psycho.

After Danny finished moving the washing machine, Danny’s
boss called him over to where he stood, arms crossed, by the GE refrigerators. 
His boss was an old cuss, mid-forties, with no patience with screw-ups.  Danny
got a look at his boss’s expression and his face fell.  He climbed slowly down
from the lift, woozy from low juice.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled, looking away from his
boss.  Over past the refrigerators, the super’s desk sat under a pile of
papers.  October’s Playboy bunny watched from her position above the desk, legs
spread and lips eternally puckered.  Danny suspected his boss would fire him. 
See where a little fear of the big nasty medicine men will get you, if you
don’t go get tested when you get sick? 

Danny was dead, no matter what, because it was too late
for him to get placed with a Focus.  He just didn’t know this.

“Go home, Danny,” his boss said, cutting Danny some
slack he didn’t deserve.  “Shift’s over.  Do a little better tomorrow.”

“Thanks, man.”  Danny found his winter hat on its hook
back by the super’s desk and his lunch pail on the shelf above it.  The outside
air hit him with a frigid blast as he left the comparative warmth of the
warehouse, starting him shivering.  He pulled the flaps down on his hat and
soldiered on.

Danny didn’t look for threats as he made his way to his
car, two thirds of the way down the long warehouse.  Why should he?  It was
3:00 on a sunny late fall afternoon, the lot was fenced, and Danny wasn’t the
sort of man a sane person would threaten.  He simply opened his car door and
got in, sliding over the tear in the seat and the duct tape that held the seat together.
 He paused only long enough to light his cigarette before starting the car and
heading home.

He didn’t know I was in the back seat until he felt the
belt around his neck.  I cinched the belt tight and he passed out immediately. 
I pushed him out of the driver’s seat and took over driving, all while keeping
the belt around his neck.

I found myself a secluded spot and gave Danny a one-way
ticket to heaven, saving forklift boy from the agony of withdrawal and a
guaranteed spot in hell.

I climbed off the body and got up.  As I did,
forklift-boy’s death spasm boner brushed the lower part of my abdomen, and I shuddered
at the surge of sensation.  Ruthlessly, I forced the sensations down.  I wasn’t
into screwing corpses, and I wouldn’t start now.  I needed to find someone
soon, though, or I would crawl out of my skin.

I smiled, happy to be a free Arm.