Model Species
Model Species by Eric & Katherine Nabity
Chapters 1-4, draft.
Atendere 3, 20:34
One day after the Death of Beros Evetorropelo
Warehouse near the Kenos Middle Docks
The old man doubled over in pain as his stomach cramped violently. He slumped sideways down onto the floor. His limp, oily gray hair came loose from the thong that held it from his gaunt, ebony face. He was wrapped from head to toe in a web of straps imprinted with white stripes. They all originated from a cluster of small, dirty diamonds attached at his chest.
He clutched at his abdomen, but there was no relief from the hunger pangs that wracked his body. His moans were muffled by the shadows and humidity, but still disturbed a rat that lurked in the doorway, causing it to scrabble away.
The old man rummaged through the wreckage of several crates without rising to his feet. As he fought to find a leftover morsel to sate his greedy hunger, he slipped on the damp, moldy floor and crashed forward onto his shoulder. He stifled a groan against his fist as another wave of hunger passed through him. These pangs were not new to him, but they were worse than any he had experienced in the past. They alarmed him. Had he done something wrong? His muscles and organs, his very bones, screamed for sustenance.
Among the broken wood planks, he found the remnants of a sausage. It was dry and salty, and he choked as he forced it into his mouth. He flailed through the crate slats, hock bones, and packing materials in an effort to find more and let out a cry as he realized that there was nothing left.
The corpse of a young man, still bound and gagged, lay on a table in the workroom. Beros had been the young man's name, and in the scant light from the lamp on the street below, his flesh was darker than any abyss. In death, his face was still younger than the rest of him. He had full cheeks and lips, heavy-lidded eyes and thick hair. Small incisions marked his arms, legs, hips and chest. The collection of wounds matched those on the old man's body, hidden by his wrappings.
A soft golden glow caught the old man's eye. He had drained off Beros' blood hours ago, but it still luminesced faintly in several glass carafes sitting on the workbench. The intent was to sell it. There were people that would pay good coin for it. He should have cooled it immediately though. How could he have forgotten to do that? It would go to waste. The ambition of the plan had outstripped his ability.
He grabbed up the first carafe and brought it to his lips without hesitation. The liquid was sickeningly warm and thick, but it washed down the vestiges of dried meat that stuck in his throat. He downed the second carafe as quickly as he could and didn't think too much about the sensations. Everything after the third settled his stomach and sated his hunger ever-so briefly.
The blood made the next step easier.
The old man staggered to the table where Beros was laid out. He grabbed the leg of the corpse and jerked it loose of the rope that had secured it. The rigidity of the muscles made the old man use all of his weight to move the limb so that the thick, meaty portion of the calf faced him. It was a suitable portion of the body to eat. In a man like Beros, the muscle would be well-marbled with fat. The old man bit into the sinew and ground his teeth down through the skin, into the striated tissue of the corpse's leg. He yanked backward and shook his head, but the meat would not pull free. He sucked at the wound for a moment longer and let go when his saliva did nothing to soften it.
He reeled toward his workbench, scattering used flasks and Ignex tubes until he finally found a knife. His unsteady hands dropped the blade, causing him to lunge after it. The maladies of his aged body were fading, or possibly forgotten under the gnawing hunger.
He plunged the knife deeply into the xanthous muscle and sawed viciously until a large piece was separated from the bone. He bit into it and shaved off as much as he could with his front teeth. Eating the meat raw made it difficult to chew. As he swallowed, he cut off a bite-sized chunk and shoved it into his mouth. He cut and chewed and sawed off all of the calf before his hunger abated.
As he contemplated moving up to the corpse's thigh, the unsavory, slimy lump in his mouth overcame his edacity. None of this was new to him, but it was unpleasant and reflected badly on his planning.
He retrieved his lamp from where it had fallen earlier, and twisted a disc in its base that brought the lamp to life. In the white, emetanic light, the old man regarded the closed heavy-lidded eyes of Beros. It was regrettable. He would have to be better prepared next time. There was much to be learned, but for now, he had to rest.
20:34
The Office of Laird Nero
Laird Nero squinted at the last invoice on his desk. This would be the thirteenth in a row he had filled out, in triplicate for a particularly skittish client. The middle finger of his right hand throbbed and he massaged the callus that had formed on its side.
Evening had crept up on Nero as he worked, and the lack of light didn't help his fatigue. One of the sconces hanging on the wall had run out of fuel earlier in the week, and he hadn't gotten around to refilling it.
"No time like the present," Nero muttered. He rose from his desk, retrieved the sconce's vessel, and took it to a cabinet in the lobby where he had a decanter of fuel oil. He had been without an office assistant for too long. His business was small enough to get along with only Nero, but occasionally invoices built up, and lamps ran out of fuel and Nero wished for someone to take care of such annoyances for him. The last person that Nero had employed had been his nephew Zermino. The kid had lacked any ambition and Nero had to tell him everything that needed to be done. Zermino had been as much work as doing the work himself.
"Good evening, Mr. Nero," the voice whispered.
Nero sat up in his chair and scanned his office.
"No," said the voice. "Now is best."
With a whisper, it was hard to tell if the man's voice was deep or high, or how a voice would sound when in normal conversation. The pronunciation was cultured and the words were well-formed. It was the kind of voice that wouldn't stutter during a focusing ritual. The authority of the statements definitely marked the speaker as male. The voice was near Nero's head, obviously placed there by means of apothos.
"Fine," said Nero. "What can I do for you?" He couldn't help taking another glance through the window.
"Don't worry about trying to find me, Mr. Nero. And please don't move too far from where you are right now."
"Very well," said Nero. "Can you hear me clearly enough?"
"Yes." There was the suggestion of a smile in the answer. Nero suspected that the owner of the voice wasn't nearby, certainly not within hearing range. An apothos would carry Nero's voice too. This man did not want to be known. Nero's efforts to collect information would be deftly deflected.
"I can hear you fine," the voice said, "though you won't have to do much talking. In fact, I'd prefer you didn't."
There was a long pause that Nero felt didn't require an answer.
"Good. This is what I want from you," continued the sibilant whisper. "I want you to investigate a man for me. He is old, with many physical ailments. His back is hunched and many of his joints have been damaged by inflammation. Notably, his hands are weak and gnarled. His sight is poor. His skin is darkened with age but he suffers from a rash that often appears on his face and neck. His hair is, of course, gray and thinning. Are you willing to take this job?"
Nero picked up a pen and scratched down the many details the voice had provided to him. "I'm willing."
"Good." There was another long pause.
"Has this man been involved in any criminal acts?" Nero asked. It was helpful to know whether he should start his investigation with the local constabulary.
"He won't have a record, but I suspect that he is involved with criminal elements," the voice replied.
"Any known whereabouts or kin? A name?"
"I have told you all that I believe is relevant. I'm sure you can manage with what I gave you."
Nero rubbed his eyes. Who was this man and why was he so concerned about secrecy? It wasn't unusual for Nero's clients to want discretion. Occasionally, a proxy was sent to speak with Nero, especially for the first meeting. In the end, almost all of Nero's clients visited in person.
"I will be able to discover much about old men, but not necessarily the one you seek," said Nero. "Any other details will help limit my search, but I can understand your want for discretion." Nero kept his pen poised over the pad of paper.
"I realize that your result may be imprecise. Don't concern yourself with that. Simply find out what you can. Now, I suspect you would like to discuss your fees. I will pay you well, you needn't worry. I will mail payments to you, and have a retainer delivered to you tomorrow. I will also leave further instructions about when we will speak again. Do you have any questions? Please consider before you answer, you will not have the means to contact me."
"No," said Nero. "I'll see what I can find out and have a report for you in five days."
The conversation ended.
Nero reread the notes he had taken. An infirm old man. No record, which didn't mean he wasn't involved in some criminal activity. As the client suspected, it just meant he hadn't been caught yet. This would certainly be interesting.
Atendere 8, 6:13
Six days after the Death of Beros Evetorropelo
The Apartment of Paulos Gaent
Paulos Gaent woke just after the sunlight hit the purple waters of Upper Suna Bay. The small clock on his beside table rang at the same time every morning, and was turned off by a small switch on the back of the emetanism. Gaent rolled out of bed and pulled on a long, linen robe that he had laid over a nearby chair. He had slept wrong last night and his neck twinged in pain. He opened the shutters of his apartment windows and let cooler ai.0r into the stuffy room. The early sunlight glinted off the water, interrupted only by the dark form of the Grand Bridge that stretched across the channel. Far on the opposite shore, he could make out the shadowy rectangles of Denaphaos's docks. Right below his window, most of Kenos, the sister city of Denaphaos, still slept.
He rubbed his eyes and turned back to his high-ceilinged bedroom. There were no sounds from the domiciles around him or from the kitchen below. He wasn't paid by the Precinct for as much time as he needed for his daily fixed apothos preparations, and he liked to get to work early. He crossed to the faucet and basin and briefly washed his face and patted his hair into submission. He wondered for a moment if his curly hair felt thinner today than yesterday, but he quickly pushed the useless thought aside. Eventually his black hair would be completely gone and he would be as shiny-headed as his uncle Edarius. It was inevitable and worrying about it wouldn't help. Gaent dressed in comfortable clothes, plain brown pants and a dark blue shirt that was tight at the waist.
The rest of his apartment was as high and airy as his bedroom. The ceilings echoed back his bare footsteps as he opened the other windows to the rising sun. The rooms were sparsely decorated and furnished. He didn't need much and there were more important things to spend his money on. Only the desk in his study was cluttered, strewn with dusty books and loose notes.
The largest of his three rooms was dominated by one of Gaent's most favored possessions: a thick, intricately patterned rug. It was handmade, bought during his travels along the Zimatran Mountains. The colors evoked the rich black-greens of the grassy plains, the deep red of the birds, and the chestnut Bayards that lived beyond the mountains. For Gaent, it also showed the colors of the summer seas near his home here, grays and greens and violets.
Around his neck, he wore a pendant on a long platinum chain. It was a thick, oval locket with a milky gray fuel stone set behind a fine cage of filaments. It hung taut against the middle of his chest. Gaent peered at the stone and made a face. When he shook the pendant, the stone rattled and a few small flakes of yellowed debris fell out onto his palm. He brushed them off onto the bare floor, avoiding the thick fibers of the rug. The emetanism in the amulet worked away at the stone continuously, and he would need to replace it soon. This one was beyond his ability to reconstruct. He would work on a new one when he could, perhaps after he was finished readying his fixed apothos for the day.
Gaent gathered his fuel lamp and placed it on the windowsill and a half-full tube of surfactant from his desk. For a moment, he stood barefoot in the middle of his rug. He gazed at the patterns until the thoughts of his balding ebony pate and the stiffness in his neck receded. He considered the day ahead. There was nothing pressing in today's schedule that he knew of. More often than not, his arsenal of fixed apothos went unused.
It was all in an effort to be able to quickly deal with any emergency that might occur. Such emergencies were either confrontations with a suspect or taking care of injuries to himself or someone else. He would prepare a blood clotting apothos in case of the latter. Confrontations were more complex. There was no standard procedure, but Gaent had several apothos that he considered adequate to handle most situations. For people who were merely misbehaving, Gaent would prepare an apothos that would amplify his voice. It allowed him to command authority and to be clearly heard over loud noises. If a situation became violent, he had an apothos to shock a full-grown man to the point of paralysis. If there were more than one person to deal with, Gaent knew an apothos that would heat up a block of caustic material, creating fumes that would irritate skin and eyes. Finally, Gaent would prepare an apothos that allowed him to see more clearly in the dark by amplifying the light coming into his eyes.
He followed the gentle flow of violet waves in the carpet for a moment more and then sat down cross-legged with the lamp in front of him and the tube still in hand. He unscrewed the top of the tube and spread the gold, slightly glowing surfactant on the to the palm of his left hand. He replaced the cap and then took up the lamp. The fuel lamp was tall and rectangular with brass trappings and loops for handles. He held the lamp with his right hand and placed his coated left hand on the thick wicks. The level of oil was low and he would have to refill it later. He shook off the errant thought and began the routine. His movements were smooth as he let his muscles as well as his mind remember the patterns of each focusing ritual. The first fixed apothos was the one for clotting blood.
The oil in the fuel lamp sloshed slightly when he made a quicker motion, and the level of oil lessened as Gaent completed each apothos and prepared it for rapid vivification. Thus, he converted the fuel oil to potential apothos. He could feel the uncomfortable presence of the apothos in his chest, but the tightness above his stomach quickly receded to a feeling that he only noticed when his attention was turned toward it. He froze each apothos with a ritual that was designed to preserve it for later use. Then, he thought of a focusing word that would facilitate in recalling a particularly memorable time when he had used the apothos in the past. It would be used to help him quickly locate and complete the fixed apothos when he needed it.
Gaent felt fatigue throughout his entire body as he finished his rituals. It would pass, he knew, but preparing the fixed apothos was work, just like anything else. The muscles in his arms felt light after he set the fuel lamp back down.
There was very little oil left in the fuel lamp now, and the sun was well above the horizon. He had taken longer with his apothos preparations than he'd realized. He looked at the stone in his locket and hoped it wouldn't shed too much more debris. Working on a new fuel stone would have to wait until later.
He splashed water on his face again and gathered up what he needed for the day. He stuffed a few pertinent papers into a leather satchel that he slung across his shoulders.
From outside his room, Gaent could hear the banging of pots and pans from the kitchen and the calls of oil merchants making their rounds. Gaent rarely caught the oil merchant that visited his building. While others were just waking and preparing for their day, he was well into his. He would take care of his oil after work.
He hustled down the stairs and into the kitchen. The room was very warm and the high windows did little for ventilation. Some of the residents cooked for themselves, but Monar Leitar, their landlady, did most of it. She was a short woman with hair bleached to a fashionable shade of light brown to contrast her deep black skin color. Her lack of stature was overcome by the vim she injected into every action. She was everywhere at once and kept the kitchen spotless.
"Good morning, Gaent," Monar Leitar chirped. "I was beginning to think that you had been called away early. But then, you would have left a mess on your way out and I found none."
Gaent smiled, but didn't show his teeth. "And good morning to you too, Miss Leitar." He helped himself to three slices of chewy, dense bread that were still warm. Bread was a difficult thing to make, and Monar took great pride in her oven and the way she could manage to heat the bricks that her baking required. Her locket's green and gold design was extravagant, but the fuel stone was deep gray. The pendant stayed near her body even as she bent to remove a fresh loaf of bread from one of the ovens. For her occupation, she was a more talented apothynom than she needed to be.
Monar placed a glass of chilled cordial in his way and Gaent drank it quickly. He rinsed the cup under the water facet and placed it by the basin. Monar Leitar sniffed at the improper job he had done, but did not comment. Gaent wrapped two pieces of bread and a slice of thick cheese in a cloth napkin and placed them in his bag. He ate a third wrapped around a cured sausage and dodged out of Monar's way before she could comment on the crumbs he was leaving. Gaent was sure he heard her mutter something about rats.
Gaent hustled out of the kitchen and into the lobby. The headline glaring at him from the stack of newspapers by the door caught Gaent's eye. It was about a politician that Gaent had no interest in. He flipped it over to see if there was any news about the group of Denaphaos researchers who were visiting Kenos. He had a passing interest, but didn't have time now to read a page two article about them. He was attempting to fit the newspaper into his bag when he nearly walked into Teria as she came in.
"Look at you, leaving for work when work is coming to you," she said. Teria Bellaphaerneous was a short woman with glossy black hair and long-lashed, golden eyes. She wore a flowing red dress that flattered her shapely figure. Slung over her shoulder, she carried her portable writing desk: a shallow, rectangular box with a latched lid.
"You might have missed me," he said.
"Unlikely. You take the same route every day. Anything good in the news?" she asked with a nod to the paper in Gaent's hand.
"Nope," he said and shoved it into his satchel. "So, what's so pressing that you sought me out?"
Gaent still held half of his breakfast in his hand and took another bite as she led him away from the door. She had ridden her bicycle from Precinct Headquarters to his apartment and had secured it to an overfilled rack next to the building.
"A body was pulled out of the channel. I was there when dispatch received the call. It's not too far from here, so I figured I'd save you a trip into Headquarters."
"Kind of you," he said.
"And we can walk from here."
Precinct Headquarters was close by, but in the opposite direction. The use of an apothos for long distance communication was efficient, but limited by what target areas an apothynom knew well. Neither the Headquarters dispatchers nor Teria could predict if or where Gaent would be in his apartment at any given time. As far as Gaent knew, none of them were familiar enough with the layout or location of his apartment.
They headed toward the channel, Teria setting a quick pace with her short legs.
"So, what do you know about it currently?" Gaent asked.
Teria shrugged. "Not much. A graver on a hull cleaning crew spotted the body. He notified the dock sergeant who secured it and reported to dispatch."
Gaent nodded and chewed the last bite of his sausage as they waited for a horse-drawn cab to pass.
"How can you eat that?" Teria asked. "My stomach would turn flips if I tried to eat that at this time of day."
Gaent shrugged.
"You could heat it up." She winced as he swallowed the last bite.
"Do you know the sergeant that sent the message?" he asked.
"His name is Lor TorIntera," she said without conferring with her notes, "but he's new and I don't know anything about him."
"I hope there won't be any tampering with the body," said Gaent.
"I don't know anyone as zealous about a scene as a new sergeant," Teria commented.
"Sure you do," said Gaent. "A woman with your connections in the Darhoran Church must know plenty of priests, all more zealous than some green sergeant who's had no practice at it." Gaent smiled at his jibe, but Teria did not.
"You're always quick with a comment when it's at my expense, aren't you?"
Gaent bit back anything further. He had just put his scribe out of sorts.
"So, I take it you've finally put in for a new partner?" Teria asked after a few silent steps.
Gaent wasn't surprised at the conversation's turn.
Teria was a constabulary scribe, not an inspector. A scribe mostly searched through city records to assist in an investigation. Also, a scribe was often brought to a crime scene where she observed everything she could, recording those pieces of information. Most of the best scribes, in Gaent's experience, seemed to be women.
All of the notes in Gaent's bag were in Teria's handwriting. She carried her board for writing, and the pockets of her dress held pens that were filled with enough ink to last her several days over. She was young and pretty and very good at her job. But unlike most detectives and even scribes, she did not wear an amulet around her neck.
"No, I haven't given it any thought."
"Meaning that you're too lazy to put in the paperwork," said Teria.
It had started that way. Gaent had been too busy to file anything when Maragos had been promoted, and the precinct had been too short-handed to automatically move someone up to inspector. As the bi-weeks had slipped by, Gaent had began eliciting Teria's opinions on cases. While she wasn't the most innovative person, Gaent had come to value her different perspective. At this point, another partner wasn't desirable.
"Don't worry, I'm sure Petorous will rectify the situation and you won't have to put up with as many of my remarks," said Gaent. The precinct chief had brought up Gaent's partner status several times in the half-week, much to the inspector's annoyance.
Teria didn't have time to respond aside from a scowl. They had arrived at the scene.
A small crowd had gathered on the dock before a large cargo ship. Most of the by-standers were common folk, their backs to the city. Gaent spotted a few lockets, one worn by the sergeant. The jewel in his amulet wasn't any brighter, and not much bigger than Gaent's. Lor TorIntera was a bulky man with fat cheeks that were more brown than the rest of his jet face. Like most of the city constabulary, he wore an avitored breastplate that covered his chest and back. It was thin and light-weight and reflected light back in a dull green color. Beneath the armor, he wore a shirt and pants in the gray and navy colors of the city. The baton and crossbow that were hooked to his belt were also made of avitored. All were strengthened through closely guarded apothos techniques. The slashes on the arm and collar of his under shirt denoted his rank.
TorIntera was nervously attempting to herd away the coopers, chandlers and loadsmen that were ignoring their jobs in favor of more interesting goings-on. The sergeant seemed unaware of the gravers that were cleaning the hull of the ship. Gaent watched as their dark faces bobbed up from the water near the dock and one cleaner after another pulled up his goggles, took a quick peek at what was going on, and then went back to his underwater work. None of these men were apothynomi of note. The body, which had been lain out on the heavy wooden planks of the dock, would not have been altered by any apothos in the very recent past.
Teria quickened her step and pushed through the crowd. Any annoyance she had felt toward Gaent was being taken out on those who remained in her way. A burly, black-eyed loadsman made a lewd comment, but sheepishly bowed his head when he realized who Teria was. She reached into one of her pockets and presented her credentials to the sergeant.
"We'll need you all to get back to your tasks," said Gaent from behind the crowd, "after you supply your names."
The crowd turned toward him, startled that an inspector might be following a scribe. "Including you," Gaent said to the dark-eyed man. None of them would want to provide their names, and some of them would give false names. Chances were, none of them knew anything. But Teria would take down their details and they could be tracked down if needed. "Sergeant, please help Scribe Teria take names."
Dock Sergeant TorIntera was older than Gaent suspected. The man's face brightened with a blush every time Teria spoke to him. She smiled sweetly at the grungy men around her and readied her papers and pens. The crowd shuffled past on the hollow wood of the dock and formed a surprisingly orderly queue.
Gaent skirted the gathering and finally saw the body, blacker than a starless night. He put off nearing it for a little longer and stood at the edge of the docks.
The gravers worked underwater with sharp-edged scraping tools, removing barnacles from the hull of a shallow-bottomed boat. It was quicker and easier to have a crew of gravers take care of a boat than to put it in dry dock. The workmen had been curious earlier, but were now pointedly ignoring the dock, not surfacing at all. It took Gaent three or four minutes before he caught the attention of one of the gravers. A man with a shaved head surfaced and inhaled deeply to easily keep afloat. He smoothly stroked to where Gaent crouched down on the dock.
"Did one of you bring up the body?"
The graver pushed up his underwater mask and squinted one eye as though in deep thought. His face cleared abruptly and he smiled. "Yup, that would be Kareo."
"Great, why isn't he up here with the Sergeant?"
The lumpy planes of the graver's face pulled into a deep frown. "Well, you see, we have a job to do. We need to finish scraping this hull," he pointed to the ship behind him, "before this ship heads out at noon."
Gaent nodded unsympathetically. "We'll need you all out of the water and we'll send a constable with one of you to let your employer know what is going on."
The expressive graver couldn't have made a worse face if a shark had bitten off his left foot. Gaent was impressed that he bit back a curse before he sank back down to relay the message. The gravers moved unfettered aside from their scraping tools, and were among the best swimmers known. A minute ticked by and then a second before the workmen surfaced and hauled themselves out of the water a few yards up the dock.
"And I don't want to have to send anyone in to check underwater," Gaent yelled. "I want the whole crew assembled." They ignored him for the most part, but Gaent got the feeling that the men wanted no trouble.
The body had dried out since the gravers had fished it out of the channel. Its bloodless black flesh hung loosely over its bones. A cheap cotton shirt was buttoned over the torso, and loose ankle-length breeches covered the legs. Gaent approached it slowly, taking in everything he could about the positioning of the body before taking a closer look. The man hadn't been killed here, but sometimes how limbs lay naturally could tell a few things about what had happened. Here, it showed little. The body lay flat on its back, arms at its side, and legs outstretched.
Gaent crouched down near the corpse's head.
The corpse was male. His face was sunken, fallen, though the water had bloated it some. The man's eyes were dark under half-open, thick lids. The lenses were clear, but the edges of the sockets had become a sickly gray. His hands were bony and the nails yellowed, but all of the man's flesh pooled around his bones as though he had been melted in the sun. He had a full head of healthy hair. There were some areas where sea life had eaten on the body, but not many. Nothing large enough vied for position among the boats and ships in the channel. Gaent doubted that the body had been in the water more than a day and a half.
Teria approached, writing without looking at the board or where her pen wrote. The notes would be neat, neater than any Gaent could produce. Her gaze darted across the body, the dock, and the water beyond.
"I had TorIntera call dispatch for a few patrolmen to take names," she said, but her eyes didn't leave the corpse.
Gaent nodded. The gravers were standing in a huddled group waiting for their turn. The one with the shaved head and lumpy face that Gaent had talked to was in the center of them, and wore a frown deeper than the rest. "Make sure we get a chance to really talk to that one," said Gaent.
Teria's eyes flitted toward the gravers. "The one with face that would sour milk?"
"That would be him."
She nodded and turned back to the body. "What is that mark just under his collar there?" Teria asked. She pointed the nib of her pen at the corpse where the top several buttons were undone.
Gaent barely noticed the faint brownish mark on the man's chest, just at the clavicle. He reached out and opened the shirt wider. The lighter coloration of the bruise stood out against the matte black flesh of the man's chest. Gaent carefully undid the rest of the buttons and found similar marks on each clavicle and at the sternum. They were all thick round blemishes of yellow-gray that faded to brown and ended with an abrupt edge. In the center of each, Gaent could see the torn flesh of a puncture wound.
"Do you know what those are from?" Teria asked.
"No idea," he answered. "You?"
"I don't think I've seen their like." She made a small noise in the back of her throat, but dutifully continued to sketch.
"No locket," Gaent said, though he would have been surprised to find one. There were no signs on the skin that the man had ever worn one. Another set of bruises started just above the waistband of the man's breeches where a hipbone jutted outward. On each side, Gaent noticed a tiny mark at the center of a bruise. "All the bruises have puncture wounds."
Teria nodded and noted. "There's one on the top of each shoulder too, right at the joint." She moved the cloth out of the way to show Gaent. She had sharp eyes. "I suspect that we'll find more on his legs," said Teria.
"Good guess. He didn't just tumbled off the pier."
"The question now is...what happened to him?" said Teria.
"These bruises have such and abrupt end and his eye sockets are substantially gray," Gaent noted.
"Are you thinking exsanguination?"
Gaent nodded.
"I'll make a note to check with the usual buyers."
Even Teria was disgusted with the practice of using blood as a surfactant and she kept none of the distaste from her voice. Even in the Polities, some religious sects still used blood, and often not their own.
Gaent pushed up the pants cuffs. The left leg was in generally fine condition aside from more punctures and bruises. On the right leg, the calf was entirely missing. "Now, that's interesting," said Gaent.
"Very," Teria agreed. The word was strained.
The wound was ragged. The muscle had been taken from the limb, leaving the bone exposed.
"Fish certainly didn't do this." Gaent shook his head and quickly glanced over the rest of the body.
"No other wounds like it," Teria commented as she watched.
"Dock Sergeant TorIntera?" Gaent called. He waved the sergeant over and got to his feet. "I want you to clear the dock for me. I'm going to need a little peace and quiet. Send someone to talk to the employer of those gravers and keep them nearby. I'm going to want to talk to them myself."
TorIntera nodded several times and hustled off to carry out Gaent's directions. Gaent was happy that the sergeant was content with his simple position. He didn't need anyone trying to help him more than he requested. When TorIntera had herded as many bystanders away as he could, Gaent knelt down beside the body, his back to the city of Kenos. Teria sat down next to him, cross-legged.
Gaent opened a small pocket on the inside of his satchel and took out a fuel stone of such poor quality that an untrained eye might have thought it to be a piece of quartz. It was what the Precinct had supplied him with, and Gaent kept it in reserve for moments like this. He sometimes used fuel stones that were of his own fabrication, but he hadn't put a new one in his satchel in some time. The tube of surfactant was Gaent's own. It was a quality brand that had no added fragrance or moisturizers. He placed a small daub of it on his left palm and then placed the fuel stone in the middle of it.
He held the stone tightly in his hand and gazed out into the channel. Ships were starting to come in bearing morning supplies from Denaphaos and Zyrie, sister cities of Kenos in the Interan League. There were also long, wide ships from the Bayard Plains that brought foodstuffs to the city. Lightermen ferried sacks of grains and boxes of not-yet-ripe fruit from ship to shore on their flat boats. Gaent tried to put their shouts and exertions from his mind. He was very aware of Teria sitting patiently next to him, and Sergeant TorIntera and the gravers watching him from down the dock. Gaent watched the waves and drew in some of the salty, fishy air through his nose. When his mind was clear and calm, Gaent made a small gesture and began to whisper the incantations he needed.
Practically, there was no need for expediency, and the apothos Gaent required now was quite a bit different from any of the ones he had prepared this morning. Instead of concentrating momentarily to call forth a fixed apothos, Gaent drew from the fuel stone in his hand conducted by the shimmering yellow layer of surfactant. He wove his way through each step of the process until he had created the apothos he desired. There was a sensation of effort in his chest, however the real fatigue would come later as he concentrated to maintain the apothos. He leaned close to the corpse and focused on the puncture in the sternum as he spoke the final syllables of his focusing ritual. The apothos let his eyes see more than they had before. Small features became large and every minute detail was clear as it was illuminated by the apothos.
"The edge of the puncture wound is very smooth," he said aloud. Somewhere far away he heard Teria's pen begin to scratch against her board.
"The puncture goes into the flesh," said Gaent. He followed the collapsed tunnel of the wound as it pushed through the layers of skin and dark bloodless flesh, his eyes carefully refocusing as he examined the puncture. Instead of the docks surrounding him, Gaent only saw the track of the injury. "It follows straight to the bone and ends..." Gaent expected the wound to end at the bone, but it didn't. "It goes into the bone, into the middle. There's a void within the bone like the marrow has been taken out."
He moved on to another puncture, this one at the top of the shoulder. He followed this one as well, past the tendons and ligaments of the joint, but it ended similarly in the bone of the upper arm. "Again there's an area within the bone that's empty," he relayed to Teria. He refocused his view again and found one of the punctures in the corpse's forearm. The wound was the same. The apothos lapsed as Gaent released it. The brightness of the midday sun shocked him and he quickly pulled away from the body.
A wave of fatigue fell over him and he put a hand back to steady himself. He kept the fuel stone in his sweaty palm.
"Going to need some time?" Teria asked.
Gaent nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes. That would be nice."
Teria fished her watch from her pocket, noted the time, and marked it in her notes. Gaent tried to remember the last time he had seen his watch. It was somewhere on his desk, certainly. How long ago had it been since he had placed a fuel stone in it? He couldn't remember. "Our friends are getting restless, Gaent. Should I go ahead and ask some questions of them?"
"Yes, why don't you? I'll call when I'm ready," said Gaent. Teria rose gracefully. "Make sure you ask if anyone knows this poor fellow. And the one that pulled him from the water is named Kareo. Ask him..."
"Yes, I think I can handle it," said Teria. She gave him a smile and turned toward the mob of gravers. She was an incongruous sight against the broad, wide-shouldered men. For a moment, Gaent considered going with her, but she squared her shoulders and addressed them as equals.
"Which one of you is Kareo?" Teria asked. "I'd like to speak with him first."
The man that Gaent had spoken to with the shaved head and mobile face raised his hand. Gaent stifled a groan. Teria knew no better and began her questioning.
Gaent watched her and ate some of the cheese he had packed away earlier. Teria was in the middle of the group with Sergeant TorIntera standing protectively behind her. Gaent didn't wait for her or call out. He performed the focusing ritual again, and began the work of exploring more of the many puncture wounds. He didn't expect to find anything different from the others, and was soon proved wrong. In one of the left leg puncture wounds, Gaent found a small sliver of diamond.
10:05
Organic Apothos Transformations Building
Kenos College
The shadow of the Organic Apothos Transformations Building cut into the sidewalk in a perfect forty-five degree wedge of dark gray. The sunlight whitened the usually cream-colored pavement and made it look slightly wet. The panorama brought Alcander up short. It wasn't the first time he had come to this building on Kenos Campus, or the first time he'd seen this shadow. It was, in fact, the fourth time he'd visited this building and each time it was the same. After the first, he'd endeavored to time his arrival to coincide with this event. Each time, Alcander felt that he had an older memory of this scene, but one that had no context for him.
Alcander experienced this strange sense of familiarity often, but rarely was it as strong as this case. He examined the play of light and shadow and wondered whether he had seen something like it in the past or had seen this scene exactly. Alcander found little value in picking apart the past, but the sensation was so strange that it brought attention to itself.
He examined the scene for a moment longer. As he entered the Organic Apothos Transformations Building, he wondered how the light contrast from the shadow would look in the summer when the light was brighter. He doubted the shadow would be as black and sharp as it was in that other memory, or that the pavement would be so startlingly white. Those other memories never quite lived up to what Alcander found in reality.
* * * * *
Selos Cartio caught the moth gently with one hand. It fluttered and struggled against his fingertips despite the anesthetizing agent he had added to the top of the attraction lantern. A few drops of the sweet smelling liquid burnt off in the warm, purple lamplight and was enough to leave the insects sluggish. He made a shushing noise to quiet the moth. Professor Torret claimed that it didn't help at all, but to Cartio, it was soothing to himself as well as the winged insects. When the moth had calmed, he placed it on his work tablet. The surface was tacky and the moth's legs stuck down easily. It fluttered its wings a few times before giving up.
Cartio placed a set of spectacles on his nose and adjusted their distance from his eyes. Every detail of the moth snapped into clear focus for him. He could see the feathered texture of its antennae and the powder that coated its wings. He had grown to appreciate the miniscule beauty of the creatures, but he didn't let it interfere with his work.
He brushed back a wispy strand of black hair and picked up a fine-tipped, hollow needle made entirely from glass. There was a small detachable bulb at the end for the collection of fluids. With a steady hand, he pierced the thick body of the moth. It didn't move at all.
Cartio had prepared a specialized fixed apothos earlier in the day that would draw the miniscule amount of liquid he needed from the moth's abdomen. A thought, the word 'needle,' brought the memory of using the apothos when he was a student in one Professor Torret's laboratory sections as well as countless other occasions. With the memories, the apothos flooded forth. For a moment, there was a pressure in the middle of Cartio's chest as the apothos was released.
In less time than it had took for him to say "needle," the fixed apothos took effect and amber liquid crept through the needle into a tiny vial attached to its end. Cartio withdrew the needle, capped the vial, and disposed of the carapace. The procedure killed the moth, but the fluid would be instrumental in preparing the generations of moths to come.
He took the apparatus into the next room, away from the purple light and the sweet smell of the anesthetizing chemical. He was very careful to close the door behind him. Half of the adjoining room was set up with equipment for analyzing the sample. Shelves of reference books and a paper-strewn desk that belonged to Cartio's supervisor, Professor Torret, took up the other side.
Cartio was surprised to find a man leaning over the desk. The man, though fairly young in the face, grimaced as he straightened. He offered Cartio a friendly, though shaky, smile. He had lank hair and clear coffee-colored skin marred by a golden-brown birthmark that curled under his chin.
"Can I help you?" Cartio asked. "I'm surprised I didn't hear you come in." He gently laid the tiny vial of amber fluid and his spectacles on the laboratory counter and turned to give the man his full attention.
"Oh?" said the man. "I knocked, but the door was cracked open. I thought that maybe Professor Torret had stepped out and I'd wait here for his return."
Cartio frowned. He definitely would have heard a knock. "Is the Professor expecting you?"
The man smiled again and extended a hand to Cartio. "No, I'm sure he's not. I'm Alcander." Cartio shook Alcander's hand, and was surprised at the lightness of grip in contrast to the man's wide frame. "I was at a symposium recently," he continued. "During a lecture given by... I don't remember the name of the speaker, I'm afraid. I'm very bad with names. But Professor Torret's name did come up in connection with something that intrigued me."
"Indeed? Are you part of the group from Denaphaos that was here recently?" Cartio took a position near the desk, protective of the notes that lay open there. Most of them were his own, on the procedures and results of the experiments he did. He used the desk much more often than Professor Torret did, though it was the Professor that put forth the theories Cartio tested. He didn't fear that this man, possibly from the College of Denaphaos, would steal his findings, but taken out of context, they might be misconstrued. He was naturally protective of his work and how it might be understood.
"Yes, I am," said Alcander. He scratched nervously at his jowl. "But please," said Alcander, "I hope you won't hold that against me." He cleared his throat and tapped Cartio on the arm.
Cartio nodded in sympathy. "I've met quite a few of your group that would like to see many things changed between our colleges. I'm afraid to know what might be printed and said in Denaphaos about Kenos College. Our ways are very different."
"I wouldn't worry," Alcander said. "But as to the reason of my visit. I was still in town and I hoped I could ask Professor Torret one or two things." Cartio frowned. Professor Torret had been scarce during the last bi-week. He wasn't in the habit of sharing personal details, but Cartio inferred that Torret was absent for personal reasons. Alcander quickly read Cartio's distress.
"If that's not possible, perhaps you could help me. You're Selos Cartio, yes?"
"Yes," said Cartio. "I'm surprised you know of me."
"I do. I've heard that you are probably the second most knowledgeable person about the moth research."
"I'm not sure where you heard that from, but I can try to answer your questions," said Cartio.
"I understand that the primary focus of your research is how moths produce their fuel, correct?"
"Yes," said Cartio. "How they produce it and in what form. We're attempting to manipulate the species to produce a richer fuel." Cartio couldn't remember if anyone had presented at the symposium about this aspect of Professor Torret's projects, but he was sure that it might have come up in discussions.
Alcander nodded. "Yes, yes. That part I understand. From my understanding though, you've also manipulated ocules that affect how the moths use fuel." He spoke rapidly, caught up entirely in the subject.
Cartio smiled. There weren't many people he had talked with that understood that aspect. "It wasn't our intent to do that. It happened by accident, a correlation between production and usage characters."
"Merely a correlation?" Alcander asked.
"I'm being cautious," said Cartio. "We need more evidence to support cause and effect, but it does seem that the two are so closely related that when we change one ocule, both characters are affected."
"How exactly?" Alcander rubbed his cheek in thought, as though trying puzzle through it. "I'd really love to see the data if I could."
"Sure," said Cartio. "Let me show you my notes."
"Please. Please do." Alcander retrieved his own spectacles from the pocket of his shirt. As he put them on and eagerly leaned over Professor Torret's desk, he scratched again at his cheek under his eye and whispered something unintelligible. "Please, forgive my scratching. Traveling gives me hives and a terrible rash."
"Oh yes," said Cartio. "That must itch terribly."
© 2006-2009 Eric & Katherine Nabity
