about the picture?"
"Doctor, that was over thirty years ago. How old do I look to you now?"
"Ah, about 35."
"Which means I should've been a baby, when that photo was taken."
"Well, some people just don't look their age ... the lack of hair makes it harder to tell ..."
Vin stared at him.
"Alright," Muroc said, "what do you want me to conclude? You're some kind of immortal, from Venus? Sent through space and time to scout the way for a dying planet?"
"I like that better than assuming I'm crazy-eight bonkers."
"Whoever you were, pre-amnesia, you must've had an appreciation for the fantastic." Muroc patted at the fronds of white hair jutting from either side of his dome. "It's too bad Dr. Dorian turned out to be a crook. From what you've told me, I think he has some of the answers."
"
Has?
He's still alive? Last time I saw him, he'd been shot, stabbed, and nearly missing a hand."
"His assault was all over the telly. You were so tired when Marta brought you here, I let you sleep through it. Dorian's recovering in hospital. The police aren't saying much about what happened, but he's a suspect. So is Charlotte. They're the only two survivors—besides you, of course. The
Mirror
has been implying the whole thing was a shadowy art-deal gone wrong."
"Nothing about me?"
"Not a peep so far. I suppose being a cipher has its advantages."
Vin studied his hand. "My fingerprints are on the gun I dropped there." He squinted. There were no lines, whorls, or ridges anywhere on his fingers or thumb. Just smooth skin. "Scratch that. I don't have fingerprints, it seems."
"Let me see." Muroc examined him for a moment, holding his hand up to the track lighting over the table. "You could've filed them off, I suppose. Or used acid. Professional criminals sometimes do that."
Vin smiled. "So I'm an immortal Venusian criminal, now?"
"I'm not one to judge. But a DNA swab might settle some of these questions. Would you be game for that?"
"Of course."
"There's also the matter of your missing prostheses. Trying to track down the old ones would draw too much attention."
"I've got money," Vin said, remembering the brown envelope. "Plenty. I know that robotic arm must've cost a small fortune—"
Muroc held up his hand. "None of this would've occurred if I hadn't sent you to Dorian. I feel responsible. And money isn't an issue for me. As it happens, I have a leg prototype I've been meaning to test. We can have you practice with it, while you lay low here."
"I don't like the thought of either you or Marta getting into trouble, if it develops I'm a fugitive."
"We'll handle that as it comes. You wouldn't be safe in Kensington by yourself, and frankly, your situation is too intellectually stimulating for me to pass up."
"So I'm staying."
Muroc folded his arms across his chest. "Doctor's orders."
* * *
Vin slept on the couch. Muroc was gone in the morning when he awoke, but Doyle showed up later with an early lunch of kebabs and cask-conditioned ale. Vin spent the afternoon on the back porch, gently buzzed, watching kites raise their cellophane tails over the heath's clear skies.
Muroc returned home after five, hustling a leg-shaped bundle into the house. His face flushed with pride and excitement when he showed Vin the prosthesis.
"I saved your fittings from before," he explained. "Let's hurry up and get it on you."
Muroc attached the socket to Vin's stump. The leg fit flush with a hiss of vacuum-seal. "There's a lot more hardware on this one," Vin said, examining the limb.
"It's a modification of a C-Leg. The knee joint can flex faster for something approximating running. Well, more like a fast hobble, really, but that's a huge advancement for hip disarticulation. Mind, you've got to hit this switch here to change to running-mode. Think of it like shifting on a car. Also, this thing practically
eats
lithium batteries. The maintenance is fairly extensive as well ..."
Muroc went on for another five minutes, boasting and fretting over the
"Doctor, that was over thirty years ago. How old do I look to you now?"
"Ah, about 35."
"Which means I should've been a baby, when that photo was taken."
"Well, some people just don't look their age ... the lack of hair makes it harder to tell ..."
Vin stared at him.
"Alright," Muroc said, "what do you want me to conclude? You're some kind of immortal, from Venus? Sent through space and time to scout the way for a dying planet?"
"I like that better than assuming I'm crazy-eight bonkers."
"Whoever you were, pre-amnesia, you must've had an appreciation for the fantastic." Muroc patted at the fronds of white hair jutting from either side of his dome. "It's too bad Dr. Dorian turned out to be a crook. From what you've told me, I think he has some of the answers."
"
Has?
He's still alive? Last time I saw him, he'd been shot, stabbed, and nearly missing a hand."
"His assault was all over the telly. You were so tired when Marta brought you here, I let you sleep through it. Dorian's recovering in hospital. The police aren't saying much about what happened, but he's a suspect. So is Charlotte. They're the only two survivors—besides you, of course. The
Mirror
has been implying the whole thing was a shadowy art-deal gone wrong."
"Nothing about me?"
"Not a peep so far. I suppose being a cipher has its advantages."
Vin studied his hand. "My fingerprints are on the gun I dropped there." He squinted. There were no lines, whorls, or ridges anywhere on his fingers or thumb. Just smooth skin. "Scratch that. I don't have fingerprints, it seems."
"Let me see." Muroc examined him for a moment, holding his hand up to the track lighting over the table. "You could've filed them off, I suppose. Or used acid. Professional criminals sometimes do that."
Vin smiled. "So I'm an immortal Venusian criminal, now?"
"I'm not one to judge. But a DNA swab might settle some of these questions. Would you be game for that?"
"Of course."
"There's also the matter of your missing prostheses. Trying to track down the old ones would draw too much attention."
"I've got money," Vin said, remembering the brown envelope. "Plenty. I know that robotic arm must've cost a small fortune—"
Muroc held up his hand. "None of this would've occurred if I hadn't sent you to Dorian. I feel responsible. And money isn't an issue for me. As it happens, I have a leg prototype I've been meaning to test. We can have you practice with it, while you lay low here."
"I don't like the thought of either you or Marta getting into trouble, if it develops I'm a fugitive."
"We'll handle that as it comes. You wouldn't be safe in Kensington by yourself, and frankly, your situation is too intellectually stimulating for me to pass up."
"So I'm staying."
Muroc folded his arms across his chest. "Doctor's orders."
* * *
Vin slept on the couch. Muroc was gone in the morning when he awoke, but Doyle showed up later with an early lunch of kebabs and cask-conditioned ale. Vin spent the afternoon on the back porch, gently buzzed, watching kites raise their cellophane tails over the heath's clear skies.
Muroc returned home after five, hustling a leg-shaped bundle into the house. His face flushed with pride and excitement when he showed Vin the prosthesis.
"I saved your fittings from before," he explained. "Let's hurry up and get it on you."
Muroc attached the socket to Vin's stump. The leg fit flush with a hiss of vacuum-seal. "There's a lot more hardware on this one," Vin said, examining the limb.
"It's a modification of a C-Leg. The knee joint can flex faster for something approximating running. Well, more like a fast hobble, really, but that's a huge advancement for hip disarticulation. Mind, you've got to hit this switch here to change to running-mode. Think of it like shifting on a car. Also, this thing practically
eats
lithium batteries. The maintenance is fairly extensive as well ..."
Muroc went on for another five minutes, boasting and fretting over the
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