Like a Fox on the Run, стр. 11
Tiger shrugged. He’d almost felt pity for the thing … and now he almost sympathized with the jerk of a cop. What was this world coming to? “Damned if I know” was all he could get out, as he suddenly felt the nausea hit him again, this time hastened by the unexpected stress. “Damnedifiknow!” he repeated, more to himself than anybody, all the words running together as he spotted the nearest restroom and made haste toward it.
***
After one more round of Gravity’s Revenge, Tiger washed his face and then stopped at the gift shop for an iced honey bun and a Cheerwine, neither of which were very plentiful in the Out Yonder, the name for deep space past Mars. Then it was on to the barbershop for a trim and a hot shave.
The haircutting business was obviously slow, as the barber was sitting in his chair, head bowed forward. His chest rose in the easy rhythm of an old man snoozing. Soft snores and a line of drool issued from his mouth.
Tiger couldn’t resist. Walking right up behind the old gentleman, he leaned over and with an evil grin, his mouth right behind the man’s ear.
“Rip!” he shouted, startling the portly old barber. The man came awake with a snort that sounded like an old bull, almost falling out of the chair in the process.
“Great Southern Christ, son!” the old man snapped testily. “You trying to kill me?”
Rip and Tiger went way back. Rip had been cutting Tiger’s hair for almost twenty years now, since the days when he’d been one of the commissary barbers at Ol’ Redstone back in the day.
“Hell, if a heart attack and a triple bypass ain’t killed you yet, ain’t nothing goin’ to. Especially now that you got that nuke reactor in your chest.” The man’s penchant for beer and red meat had been legend around Redstone. He hadn’t lived the healthiest of lifestyles and it had almost caught up with him several times. At least he’d given up the Martian cigarettes two years ago.
“I reckon I’ll live long enough to cut your hippie ass one more time!” he grumbled, still not happy about his nap being cut short in such a rude fashion.
“I’m surprised they ain’t got one of them damned robots in here,” Tiger remarked, as he climbed up in the chair just recently vacated by the old barber.
“There was talk of such foolishness,” Rip mumbled like an old walrus through his mustache, his scissors now singing happily. “Til it got out about that one cutting that guy’s ear off!”
“No shit!” Tiger was aghast. “When did this happen?”
The old man shrugged and chuckled, “Dunno that it ever happened. But it sure made the rounds! Never underestimate the power of an ultranet rumor.”
Tiger couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. “You’ll get no argument from me on that one! Of course, in two hundred years, there’s yet to be a single lie told on the net.”
“It seemed to work. I dunno of a single barber that’s been replaced since it got out.”
“Chalk one up for the good guys,” Tiger cheered. “And thank God for urban legends and people believing everything they read!” He decided to shift gears, “Speaking of urban legends, what the hell did I just come face-to-face with at the ‘Arrivals’ checkpoint?”
“Haven’t you heard, son?” Rip paused to look at Tiger in the mirror. “We humans are almost obsolete!”
“S’beginnin’ to look that way.”
Scary, isn’t it?” Rip shook his head but never slowed his combing and snipping. “It’s the latest in genetic engineering, so they say. Anthro … anthrofomo … aw hell, some long word.”
“You got me,” Tiger shrugged. He was going to be no help at all.
“Whatever the name is … they’re basically human DNA spliced with an animal’s. Best traits of both.”
“So … now they’re playing God.”
“Or Frankenstein.”
Tiger decided it was of little use to point out that Frankenstein reanimated a dead person; there was obviously a difference. He understood all too well what the old man was implying though. Someone was making monsters.
He thought back to what the cop had said earlier. “So, it ain’t enough that they’re replacing us with robots … now they’re doing it with humanized animals?”
“Or animalized humans,” shrugged Rip. “Ol’ Ruff, you just met, he’s supposed to be the ultimate police dog. He can smell moonbeam or explosives on you, hear a mouse fart at a hunnert yards, sense your physical state …”
“You don’t say?” Tiger decided not to mention he already was aware of that little skill.
“Not finished … plus, he is a dead-eye marksman, an expert in close quarters fighting, and …” A pause for dramatic effect. “Has full arrest powers, like any other cop.”
“No way!”
“Oh yes!” the barber affirmed. “According to the new Authority regulations, he’s as much a cop as any of those skillet heads out there.” Rip shrugged, “He’s actually a very nice dog … ummm, guy once you talk to him a bit. The other cops just hate him. They see him as a threat.”
“Yeah, I got that distinct impression.”
“He ain’t the one they should be mad at. It’s the Authority doing it to them. But they sure ain’t gonna raise hell with them assholes.”
Tiger didn’t answer. He was thinking about a song he’d heard on an archive tape from the twentieth century. Rip’s opinion about the other cops’ anger being misguided had triggered it. Somewhere in that song had been