Rajnar Vajra: Doctor Alien’s Five Empty Boxes

You’re not the first person in town to ask me what kind of crazy contraption I’m driving these days. But in your case, Pastor, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to tell you the whole story. Never could be completely open about some of it, not even with Sunny; my wife’s been through enough. Can you spare the time? In that case, I suppose it never hurts to start off with a bang.

If you’d asked me that Wednesday afternoon, I wouldn’t have said that everyone in my neighborhood hated my clinic. Aside from you, Sunny merely felt “jittery” about it, or so she claimed; Mrs. Murphy, living directly across the street from the main building, had never uttered a complaint; and our son, Alex, even labeled it “groovy,” a word he’d hijacked from one of the more usual unusual visitors to the institution. Of course, Ember Murphy suffers from multi-infarct dementia, and Alex recently turned eight. And while I’m being candid, an unprofessional condition for someone in my profession, I’d grown a bit sour about the place myself.

Still, I was surprised that anyone felt so strongly about it that they would try to kill me.

I picked myself up off the parking lot pavement, stared at the smoldering remains of my almost brand-new car, and then turned toward Tad, the extraterrestrial still gripping my right arm with a hand longer than my torso. My shoulder hurt and I was breathing hard, but at least I was breathing.

My ET companion, a female1 Vapabond from what I’d come to think of as the wrong side of our galaxy, gazed down at me with her big brown eyes and a grimace that may or may not have been sympathetic. You’ve never seen a Vapabond? Think double-height gorilla with two appropriately hairy arms and legs but then add a torso covered in armadillo shell that expands and contracts hugely with every breath, plus a walrus head with three shrunk-down tusks. Throw in size 22 footwear with an improbable resemblance to huaraches as the only articles of clothing and a pungent odor only an elephant might find sexy. That puts you in the ballpark if not quite in the infield.

“How did you know, Tad?” I asked her. At that moment, I was only mildly perturbed. What had happened was too surreal to take seriously. Besides, maybe my first guess had been wrong and some fluke, rather than someone with a grudge, had ignited the car’s fuel cells.

“Scent. Explosive,” she said, finally releasing my arm.

Tadehtraulagong was a being of few words, or rather few words at a time. She was supposedly fluent in English and Spanish, but you’d never have guessed; perhaps her jaw structure and tusks made human languages uncomfortable to chew on. When in the mood, Tad acted as a nurse and was the clinic’s official security officer. Now she’d added something new to her resume: bodyguard.

Tiny rectangles of safety glass glittered across the parking lot like obese snowflakes. I shook my head, and a few pieces fell out of my hair.

Doors slammed. I looked around and watched neighbors rushing outside, undoubtedly hoping that the clinic had blown up rather than to enjoy the lovely fall afternoon. They must’ve been terribly disappointed judging by the glowers I was getting. Even sweet old Ember Murphy nearly frowned at me.

I felt a rush of blood to my head along with a rush of fear as the reality of what had just happened began to penetrate my brain fog. It also dawned on me that I was being an ingrate. “You saved my life, Tad. Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

If she hadn’t chosen to walk me to the parking lot today, which was hardly her usual practice, my neighbors would have had to find someone other than me to mutter about, and I definitely appreciated her effort. A nice change, since she’d given me three kinds of headaches ever since she joined my staff.

My shoes felt unaccountably warm so I lifted one and found the back heel half worn away. Evidently, friction was the culprit. Now that I knew what to look for, it was easy to spot the long, dual track of black rubber leading from what remained of my car to my present position. All this confirmed my vague impression of what had just happened. My least favorite employee had dragged me backward and twenty yards away from my Volvo Hydro even as I’d pressed the clicker to unlock it. I hadn’t even had time to wonder why I was suddenly zooming in reverse before the BOOM.

I waved apologetically at the neighbors, then used my DM to call Sunny and asked her to retrieve our Alex. Naturally, she reminded me that it was my turn to perform that crucial errand, but I explained that my car was out of commission while cleverly skirting the word “fireball.” She gave me her much-put-upon sigh but agreed to go. Incidentally, the first name on my wife’s driver’s license is “Sonja,” but don’t tell her I ratted her out.

When she logged off, the reaction finally hit me full force. If I’d been using an old-fashioned external sat-phone rather than my DM, I would’ve dropped it. My hands got busy shaking, my legs gave out, and only Tad’s renewed grip kept me from falling. That’s when I heard the approaching sirens and realized I’d better postpone doing a proper job of falling apart.

An impressive turnout: six police cars, two ambulances, an unmarked black sedan, a fire-truck, and a nanosecond late to the party, a large van containing the city bomb squad. Five uniforms cordoned off the parking lot with green Day-Glo cones and yellow tape. Festive. Another three either engaged in crowd control or took statements from the locals—hard to tell from where I stood. After a paramedic pronounced me unworthy to ride in an ambulance, two grim officials in dark suits interviewed me and tried, unsuccessfully, to interview Tad. One, a Detective Lenz, clearly believed the incident was my fault. Probably a neighbor. He oscillated between glaring at me and staring at the Vapabond as if about to challenge her to a bout of arm-wrestling.

Luckily, the other law minion, Detective Carl Beresch, did most of the questioning and stayed reasonably polite although from the lines on his face I guessed the man was allergic to joy. Our little chat started off awkwardly as we performed a conversational duet that’s become so familiar I could do it in my sleep, and probably have.

“Dr. Al Morganson?” he asked, pro forma.

“My friends call me ‘Al.’ Short for Alanso.”

He flicked his eyes toward Tad, then back to me. “No disrespect intended. But you are the man known as ‘Doctor Alien’?”

“‘Fraid so.” And how annoying is that, since I’m not exactly an alien here .

“You are the owner and operator of the—” He consulted an item practically considered incunabula since the DM revolution: an actual paper notepad. “—the Morganson Center for Distressed Beings?”

I hadn’t chosen that name, and it always made me wince. “Only the operator. A Trader Consortium owns it.”

He failed to jot down that vital, psychiatrist-exonerating fact. “We’ll want a list of all your current and past clients, human and… otherwise.”

I shrugged. “I’ve only had one ET client this last month, and she’s been here almost since we opened.” Baffling case. “And I’m positive that none of my human—”

“We need to rule out every possibility,” he said smoothly. “That’s the routine and it works. It’s in your interest to let us do our jobs.”

I gave that a quick chew. “Okay, my receptionist will DM you that list, but you know I can’t discuss my patients.”

His eyes, already chilly, went sub-zero. “I’m sure you won’t. But can you tell us anything that might point us in a specific direction? Any enemies? What about that one alien client?”