F the Halls

Two

Gripping the final slice of pizza between her teeth, Peregrine eased her 1973 azure-blue Jaguar XJ12 into a barely perceptible gap in the traffic rush of last-minute Christmas shoppers, revelers and other assorted drivers, drivers who Fields could only assume were on their way to places they wanted to go, rather than leaving the places they wanted to be.

He tried hard not to resent them, but failed miserably.

"Ow ood is iss?" mumbled Peregrine, mounting the curb to overtake a stretch limo while simultaneously selecting a track on the Jag's sound system.  The opening chords of Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind filled the car.

Fields had adopted his usual position when in any vehicle under Peregrine's control—both hands convulsively gripping anything solid within reach, expression set and buttocks firmly clenched.  "What was that?"

Peregrine tore off a mouthful, chewed ferociously and swallowed.  "I said, 'How good is this?' "

"Uh," hedged Fields, wincing sympathetically at the wide-eyed, startled expression of a pedestrian whizzing past his window, "not very?"

"Ha!" enthused Peregrine, leaning over to give her partner an approving punch on the arm, a punch which—despite extensive experience in doing so—he was completely unable to dodge, due to his crash-ready pose.  Being of a somewhat diminutive stature, it was also a punch that necessitated Peregrine taking both hands off the wheel, an extremely alarming habit that Fields had not yet managed to talk her out of.

"What a kidder," she went on, regrasping the wheel just in time to veer out of the way of an oncoming bus.  "But seriously, how awesome is it that we get to work a case tonight, instead of moping about at home?  And even better"—she gave the dashboard a loving caress—"I got good old Pearl back from the nuclear techs, just this afternoon."

Fields' buttock-clench approached walnut-cracking levels.  He always did his very best to forget that Peregrine's car ran on plutonium, but she had an annoying habit of bringing it up.  "Wait—you mean there was a problem with the reactor?'"

"Nah.  Well, nothing major, anyway.  The control rods kinda needed replacing, otherwise the core would've gone into meltdown, but that's all sorted now.  She's running like a dream."

Firmly, Fields pushed the term 'core meltdown' deep into his subconscious, way down deep where it would no doubt give his future analysts all kinds of grief, but where in the short term it would at least allow him to think clearly.  Well, more clearly.

"Right.  Good.  Excellent.  Now, where are we headed?  What's the deal with this UFO of yours?"

Peregrine gulped down the final mouthful of pizza.  "The last sighting was up in the Heights, so I figured we'd start there.  Homeowner called in a report of a fast-moving, low-flying object, completely dark except for a single red light—scared the crap out of his poodle, apparently."

Fields processed this.  "A single red light on a low-flying object?  On Christmas eve?  Peregrine, don't you think, just maybe, someone might be yanking our chains?"

His partner gave an emphatic shake of her head.  "Multiple sightings, hotshot, from multiple locations, right across the city.  Every one the same, in every detail."

Fields nodded, as he considered the possibility of a mass, coordinated prank.  It didn't seem very likely, but then, neither did the other...option.  He was just about to say so when the car radio crackled into life.

"Control to Unit F—do you copy?"

Fields picked up the handset.  "F here, we copy.  What's up?"

"We've got a new UFO sighting just called in, out by the harbour."

He raised an eyebrow at his partner.  "When was this?"

"Right now.  We have the witness on the phone and the sighting is currently underway."

Any reply Fields might have given was cut short by Peregrine's screeching U-turn across three lanes of traffic, and the following burst of acceleration, which pushed him back into the plush leather of his seat with sufficient force to take his breath away. 

Teeth gleaming in the dashboard light, his partner grinned at him.  "Saddle up, Fields.  Looks like it's time to go nick St Nick."