By Pamela Love
“You brought an anteater onto Neptune Space Station? I specifically ordered a bloodhound, Ms. Quinlan.” From the viewscreen on the wall, Colonel Englert squinted at the ID I held up: CKI, Rosemary C. Quinlan, Licensed Detective.
He then glared at Cyrano. My partner’s dark nose twitched at the end of his long tan snout. “We need to locate Dr. Brice, not exterminate pests.”
This was always the tricky part—getting VIPs to allow my partner to do his very important job. I took a deep breath. “As an anteater, Cyrano has an excellent sense of smell—”
“Sir, I verified their credentials before calling them,” Lieutenant Park, the colonel’s young aide, interrupted. “Admiral Gonzalez herself vouches for them. Cyra Knows Investigations is the best search team in the solar system. They have outperformed bloodhounds on several occasions, finding people given up as lost.”
Englert shook his head slowly. But before he could order Park to put me back onto the shuttle, the aide said, “There’s no bloodhound closer than Mars, Colonel. That’s two weeks away. The first twenty-four hours after someone goes missing are critical. We’re already at hour thirty-two.” He held up a metal case. “I have Brice’s lab coat. They can start immediately.”
His CO actually harrumphed. I’d never heard anyone do that before. “You didn’t have the authority, Lieutenant Park. If Quinlan’s pet fails, I’ll bust you down to private. Englert out.” The lieutenant broke into a sweat.
I harnessed Cyrano, who was slightly longer than a guinea pig. If he wasn’t minifauna, genetically engineered to fit into off-Earth environments, he’d be seven feet long and over one hundred pounds. The harness was long enough to let me stand up straight while we worked. Meanwhile, Park fumbled with the case’s lock for a minute—more nervous tension.
While he struggled, I took a short stroll to let Cyrano stretch his legs. Much like Jupiter and Saturn stations, the walls were gray with wall screens every ten meters, half of which were being serviced by techs. Soldiers were hurrying by, possibly searching for the missing Brice. Yet anyone within eyeshot paused to stare at my partner as he ambled by on his knuckles, waving his black, brushy tail, which was one-third of his length. His snout? Another third, more or less.
“Tell me about Dr. Brice,” I said.
“He was a research engineer, and space born like me and practically everyone else aboard.” Which meant tall and skinny. “He’s been here eighteen months.”
The case’s lid finally slid open. Park handed me a white lab jacket with “BRICE” printed on the back in blue letters. Like always, I got a little jumpy at this point. I sucked in my breath as I laid the coat in front of my partner. He inhaled. I stood. “Go search.” We followed the scent trail, my hand on Cyrano’s harness, Lieutenant Park marching alongside.
“What can you tell me about his work?’
He gave me a rueful smile. “Nothing. Top Secret.” As I opened my mouth he held up a hand. “Yes, you have that clearance. Me too, but Brice’s work was strictly need to know, and only Colonel Englert was in that category here.
“For what it’s worth, my CO said Brice wasn’t doing anything that would make him, uh… ” He swallowed hard.
Explode? Dissolve? My gut twisted slightly. “I’d like to examine his lab and quarters.”
“The colonel and I have searched them both.”
I sniffed. “It’s surprising how often people miss essential information when it’s right under their noses—”
“Quinlan!” Colonel Englert intercepted us fifty meters down the corridor, his hair and uniform gray as the station’s walls, his back rigid as its support beams. “I’ve checked. A bloodhound’s sense of smell is thousands of times more powerful than a human’s. An anteater’s is only forty times stronger. Yet your pet is more successful at finding people? You’re a fraud, Ms. Quinlan. Get off my station, now. And get away from me, you.” He aimed a kick at Cyrano, who was snuffling his ankles.
With a gasp, I pulled my partner back. Of course! “You are Dr. Brice. That’s a very high tech disguise you’re wearing. Nanites, maybe? Thought your smell couldn’t get past them, right?”
He flinched. “That’s ludicrous,” he blustered. “Lieutenant, tell her that I look nothing like Englert. I mean, Brice.”
Park and I exchanged glances. “No wonder you wouldn’t see Cyrano in person until you thought he couldn’t detect you,” I said. “But why risk calling in a bloodhound? Unless you already knew there wasn’t one close enough to be a threat. It was a safe way to throw off suspicion until you could escape.”
The lieutenant stepped forward. “Where’s the real Colonel Englert?”
Brice lunged toward me. Dropping Cyrano’s harness, I leaped to one side and hollered his code word: “Bergerac!
Once, twice, Cyrano slashed Brice’s shins. Seconds later, Brice collapsed, howling with pain. He grabbed his wounds, trying to stanch the blood. Park was shouting for help.
“Didn’t think my partner was dangerous, Brice?” I snarled, crouching out of his reach. “You saw the silly snout and ignored the sharp claws. He can’t tear you apart like a full-grown anteater could, but Cyrano’s definitely big enough to discourage you.”
That was Cyrano’s real job—to be my guard anteater.
Like Cyrano, I was also genetically engineered, just in a different way. I was the one with the fabulous sense of smell. I could out track any bloodhound. Nobody ever expected that from me, not even when I was right under their nose.
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