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CLARKES
Copyright 2005 by Scott K. Jamison
(Permission is granted to post this story to free websites in an
unaltered state.)
"IHS, three o' clock," said my partner Sanderson, and I slowed the car
to look.
Once I knew where to look, the "Improbable Hottie Syndrome" was easy to
spot. A woman in a tight red mini-dress, curves like a mountain road,
and a doll-perfect face was clinging for dear life to a little toad of
a man. He was grinning like he couldn't believe his luck.
And neither could I. Sanderson had a knack for spotting out-of-place
relationships that made her a prize as a partner, and this one was so
obvious even I could tell. I took half a block to find a parking place,
pretty good for New York City.
Then it was a brisk walk to catch up with the happy couple and get
ahead of them. Sanderson flashed her badge at them and said, "NYPD,
Reality Violations Division. We need to talk."
The woman looked baffled. "What's going on, honey?" She pulled even
closer to the short man.
"Clarkes," he replied, sounding both annoyed and fearful. "What do you
cops want with us? We haven't done anything wrong."
"We'll be the judges of that, sir. Cord, scanner."
I finished setting up the reality distortion meter and ran it over the
woman. "Class Five. You two are going to have to come down to the
station with us."
"But we can't do that," insisted the woman. "Percival and I were going
to the movies, and dinner, and then we were going to have naked fun!"
She was a Class Five all right.
The man's shoulders slumped. "We have to go with the officers, May-
Lynn. Clarkes have the authority to pull in anyone showing reality
distortion." Percival was awfully subdued for a violator.
Sanderson read them their rights as we bundled them into the back of
the vehicle and activated the nullifier field.
As we got under way, May-Lynn asked, "But I don't understand, honey.
What are Clarkes, and why are they arresting us?"
"Oh, dear God, you are a transformee, aren't you?" said Percival,
seemingly sincerely. "They're the new police division set up to deal
with reality violations, now that they're illegal. We call them
Clarkes, because reality changes might as well be magic. And because it
sounds kind of like 'cops.'"
"Reality vi-o-la-tions?"
"Okay, I guess your memory was really tampered with. Apparently,
there's been people who can change reality to suit their whims for a
long time. Maybe as long as there's been people. But it was all a big
secret that nobody could prove."
Percival looked like he was about to cry. Not a good look on someone as
ugly as him. "Then about three years ago, the government developed
technology that detected these changes in reality, and ways to reverse
them. And then they made it illegal to use those powers without a
government permit under strict guidelines."
"But what's that got to do with us, Percival? I mean, I haven't
changed. I've always been like this." May-Lynn shook her ample chest
for emphasis.
Percival just sighed and held her hand.
At the station, we hustled the couple down to the "cursebreaker" room.
May-Lynn was moved to the center of the technomantic circle,
restrained, and the techs began the process of unweaving the reality
distortions around the girl.
Or not a girl, as it turned out. What emerged from the circle was a
young man, kind of handsome if you liked the jock type, and looking
mighty uncomfortable in that mini-dress and high heels.
"What the hell happened to me? Ah, man, I did that? And I actually
kissed that little freak?" This last was delivered at Percival,
sneering.
The short man winced, then shrugged. "I should have known it was too
good to be true. No woman could ever actually love me."
"Sir," said Sanderson, "Do you remember how you came to be
transformed?"
"Yeah, my girlfriend objected to my seeing other women. Jeez, and she
was so big on 'open relationships' when we started."
"We're going to need a full statement, of course."
"Can I get out of this stupid outfit first, babe?"
"No." Sanderson hates being called 'babe.'
One of the techs cleared his throat. "Officers, I'm still reading a
reality distortion in the chamber."
I ran the scanner over Percival. "Well, what do you know? You too. And
it's an old one."
Percival brightened. "You mean, I don't actually look like this,
Officer Cord?"
"Anything's possible."
He stepped into the circle, and the techs worked the controls again.
When the smoke cleared, Percival looked exactly the same.
"I didn't change. Are you sure it worked?"
"All reality distortions are gone," replied the tech.
I clapped Percival on the shoulder. "Some reality distortions are more
subtle than others. And because it was at least ten years old, there's
no crime involved. You're free to go."
"Yes. Go. Back to my empty, loveless room. Joy."
I put Percival out of my mind, and returned to the squad room.
Sanderson had finished deposing the former May-Lynn.
"Good, Cord, I've got the details--ah, and here's the warrant, freshly
downloaded. We're going to be visiting Dora 'Ravenstar' Daturn."
Daturn lived down in the Village, which had been getting more
gentrified in the last few years. The doorman of the apartment building
wasn't inclined to let us in until we flashed our badges, and even then
we had to threaten him with obstruction to keep him from phoning up.
Apartment 33 was the only one on its floor, a sure sign that Daturn had
been messing with more than just her ex-boyfriend. A knock on the door
and an announcement of "Police" brought a quick response.
Daturn was wearing a shimmery gown that appeared to be made of liquid
diamonds, and looked like a smarter version of May-Lynn. She smelled of
expensive perfume and fine wine.
"How may I help you, officers?", she said in a silky smooth voice. I
was having a bit of trouble not drooling. Fortunately, Sanderson is
made of sterner stuff.
"We're investigating a report of illegal reality distortion. May we
come in?"
"Why, certainly," Daturn said musically. "I have nothing to hide."
She was lying, of course. The inside of the apartment looked more like
a sultan's palace than a mid-income Manhattanite's refuge.
"Nice place," growled Sanderson. "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm executive vice-president of Human Resources for Megalocorp. Just
got a promotion."
I had my scanner out by this time. "Class Eight. You're busted,
sister."
Daturn laughed like silver bells. "Oh, I don't think so, Officer. I
think you two are going to find that everything is absolutely okay
here." She made a gesture, and the air rippled.
But not us. "I see we'll be adding 'assaulting an officer' to the
charges," said Sanderson.
"What th--" Daturn gestured again, with as little effect.
"Reality anchors," I explained. "Expensive, but worth every penny to
the department. You have the right to remain--"
Then she got clever on us, making the chandelier fall right where we
would have been if she hadn't looked up. I'm a better athlete than
Sanderson, so I managed to get to my feet quickly.
"So, reality anchor, huh?" asked Daturn, as she made the couch hurl
itself at Sanderson and up against the wall. "I bet it's in your
badge!" She ripped the badge case from Sanderson, who began to shrivel
and sprout ugly black hairs.
A knife hand to the back of the skull courtesy of yours truly sent
Daturn down for the count. Thankfully, she hadn't thought of upgrading
to 360 degree vision or armored nerve clusters, like some of the
serious criminals we'd run into.
Back at the station house, Sanderson got some ribbing about the spider-
woman look, but we've all had worse days. Daturn was reverted back to
merely pretty hot woman, and locked up. Even if her ex found it in his
heart to forgive her, assaulting an officer would land her some jail
time, and the permanent excision of her reality-bending talents.
The next morning, the chief called us in, and I was surprised to see
Percival in his office. The ugly little guy had a new haircut and a
decent suit on, and was smiling to beat the band.
"I won the lottery last night," Percival explained. "And my manuscripts
got mysteriously un-lost, and Doubleday's going to be publishing my
first book. No improvement yet in luck with women, but hey, at least
money will make the loneliness easier to bear."
"He's donating ten thousand dollars to the Disabled Officers' Fund,"
added the chief. "A good day's work, both of you."
"Thanks, Chief," Sanderson and I chorused.
"Now get out there and solve more crimes. The city isn't paying you to
loaf around!"
"Yes, Chief!"
I love being a Clarke.
FIN
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