A Normil Day

Rick Normil

When Armand teleported us to St. Mary's Regional, the first thing we saw was Jenna, outside, on her cell phone. "That's right," she was telling it, "gone. G-O-N-E. Past participle of go."

I thought, well, crap on toast. Did I need three guesses to figure out what, or rather who was gone? No. No, I did not. Because the universe enjoys poking me with a stick.

"No," Jenna snapped, "I do not know where! I just stepped out for a thirty-second phone call! He was hooked up to half a dozen monitors—even if there wasn't a nurse in the room, they should have noticed their readouts going dead—but these people . . ."

"Police station," I said aloud.

Armand said, "What?"

"He'll go to the police station." I was already walking in that general direction. "He really, really wanted his possession ray back. We've got to—"

Armand took hold of my arm and there was a blink. We were at the police station.

That was seriously unnerving. Also useful and helpful, so I decided not to mention it. "I go look at the evidence room," I said, "you see if you can find any reports. Sound good?"

Armand nodded. "Nifty. I'll meet you back here, okay?" And he vanished.

Fair enough. I walked in through the front doors (and I really do mean through the front doors) and started hunting for signs saying evidence room.

I'd only been looking for two minutes or so before I saw me, making his way down the corridor with a colander on his head.

All right, yeah, it was strangetech of some sort. But it seriously looked like a colander with wires on. I moved in closer and felt as if there was a gentle but chilly breeze coming from Fake Rick's general direction.

That was more disconcerting than it should have been. So far, the astral plane didn't seem to have temperature or wind. I'd felt a little cold when I first woke up, but I'd assumed that was a side effect of being unexpectedly "naked," so to speak—wandering around without a body for the first time in my life. But now I was feeling something similar from the bodyjacker, or perhaps his tech—maybe the things that he built put out some sort of psychic wave—

A uniformed policeman passed by him. He barely even glanced at the bodyjacker, let alone the bizarre construct he was wearing. "Working early today, George?"

Well, that settled it. There was definitely psychic mojo at work. "He's not George," I informed the cop uselessly. "He's a lunatic with a noodle strainer on his head." Fake Rick just sort of grunted acknowledgement and didn't break stride. Neither did the policeman.

The noodle strainer made people see what they expected to see. Probably. I mean, that would make sense, wouldn't it? This guy seemed to specialize in brain stuff. Most strangetechs have some sort of focus. It's either the way they make their tech—everything out of clockwork, or toy parts—or the kind of tech they make.

Thing is, there's no sane reason for any strangetech to turn to crime. Strangetech isn't machinery, it isn't even science; it's not reproducible. That is, a strangetech might be able to reliably churn out antigravity boots, but anyone else who tries to follow their pattern will get a collection of junk, which may or may not turn their feet paisley before shorting out in a shower of sparks. Strangetechs who can produce highly useful things like power generators and invisible airplanes can afford to crap in a solid gold toilet and fill their swimming pools (plural) with champagne. Strangetechs who whip together more limited devices, like ant-controlling helmets—well, they still ain't hurtin'.