If Dr. Catastrophe was going to do something horrible to kittens, I had to stop her.

  "Hang on," I said, getting out of my chair and crossing to my reference shelves. "I'm pretty sure there's a precedent on this. Uh . . . do you know what Dr. Catastrophe wants with the kittens?"

  "No."

  "How many kittens are we talking about?"

  "She said she needed at least forty, and fifty would give her a margin, just in case. She assigned three of us to fetch them."

  "I think there's a precedent about minions and cute furry things. I'll need to look that up." I began scanning the shelves for the volume I wanted. "By the way," I said, as casually as I could, "did you notice that henchmen who try to leave can be hunted down and killed—it says 'terminated,' but we both know what that means—for their disloyalty? But minions who desert are ignored. The contract assumes they don't know enough to be dangerous."

  He looked puzzled for a second, then realized what I was saying. "Wait—so I could just walk away?"

  I nodded. "You'd be out of work, of course."

  "But I wouldn't need to steal any kittens."

  "That's right."

  I could see he was thinking that over as I found the book I wanted and carried it to the desk.

  "I think I'll do that," he said. "Thanks for the advice."

  I waved it away. "It's nothing," I said.

  "No, I appreciate it. Thanks. I guess you won't be representing me, but I've taken up your time, so what do I owe you for the consult?"

  "Nothing. Really. I haven't accepted you as a client, and I'm not going to. I won't accept a cent from you."

  "What? Why not?" He frowned. "Because I'm just a minion?"

  "No," I said, as I flipped pages without looking at him. "Because if you're my client, this whole conversation would be privileged communication, and I couldn't tell anyone about it without your permission. If you're not my client, then we're just a couple of guys chatting, and if I mention any of this to anyone I'm not breaching confidentiality, which would be an ethics violation, I'm just making conversation."

  "I don't see . . . oh." He lost a little color. "Maybe I do."

  "Mr. Doe, have a good day—and I really think you're making the right decision not going back."

  Then he picked up his briefcase and hurried out, and I put the book back on the shelf. I never did find that precedent. Maybe cute furry animals don't actually have any special legal protections.

  But I took the rest of the afternoon off, and made a few calls, and that night a coalition of costumed vigilantes used their superhuman abilities to track the sound of mewing kittens to Dr. Catastrophe's lair, and to put her back behind bars.

  Lawrence Watt-Evans has been a full-time writer for almost forty years, with fifty novels and well over a hundred short stories to his credit, mostly fantasy, science fiction, and horror. He's best known for the Hugo-winning short story "How I Left Harry's All-Night Hamburgers," the Obsidian Chronicles trilogy, and the ongoing Legends of Ethshar fantasy series. He has been reading superhero comic books since 1959, and lives in Takoma Park, Maryland, just outside Washington DC.

  Common Scents

  Jody Lynn Nye

  Uncontrollable, high-pitched laughter issued from the platinum bangle around Homicide Detective Sergeant Dena Malone's wrist.

  "That smell tickles, Malone!" Dr. K't'ank cried. The Salosian, an alien symbiote who lived in her belly, smacked her in the kidneys with his thin tail.

  "Ow!" Dena snapped out. "Knock it off."

  "What the frak?" Sergeant Ramos, her sardonic, muscular partner, raised his bushy black eyebrows at her as the two of them edged forward through the crowd around the yellow ropes. News camera drones hovered overhead. Two of them came to hover just out of reach of the pair of detectives. Another came by at a ninety degree angle to get a good shot of Dena in her ornate floatchair. The distinctive hovering seats were still a curiosity in the megalopolis, as they were only used by Salosian hosts, humans who had allowed the visiting aliens to be implanted in their peritoneums. On its small forward-facing screen, Dena caught a glimpse of herself and frowned. The camera caught her oval face and laser-cut brown hair in a flattering angle, but it made her pregnant belly look like a hovering blimp.

  "Yeah," Dena said dryly. "As if he couldn't get more annoying, he's discovered that when I'm exposed to strong odors with active esters and volatile compounds, especially ones that provoke a histamine response, he gets some kind of physical sensation. I went into a department store to buy some things for the baby's nursery, and all those android clerks swooping down on me with the perfume samples made him high as a satellite. I suppose it's a kind of defense mechanism against poisons in his native marine environment, but it's really just a pain in the neck. I'm hoping that it is very temporary."

  "You don't pick up on odors yourself, K't'ank?" Ramos asked, with a gleam starting in his eye.

  "No!" the Salosian said. "I have no nose."

  "Then how do you smell?"

  "Terrible," Dena said, dryly.

  "How do you know how I smell . . . ? Oh, I see how you set that up!" K't'ank burst into another gleeful outburst, whacking her internal organs even more. "Ramos, I have much to learn from your turns of phrase!"

  "We ought to go on the road together," the detective said, strutting. "I could use a straight man who always laughs at my jokes."

  "No, thanks," Dena said, raising a dismissive palm. "I'm not getting into the middle of a comedy double act." She peered ahead, but the crowd blocked her view. She drew her skinnypad out of its holster. "Conscript newscams," she ordered it. "Combined view." Above its screen, a three-dimensional view of the crime scene formed. She saw the body in the middle of the cordon.

  "Wow," Ramos said, peering over her shoulder. "The coroner could declare that one from across town."

  "I hope it's not as bad as it looks," Dena said. Her gut roiled, making K't'ank laugh uproariously at the roller-coaster spasm. For a scientist, he had a low amusement threshold. "Shut up."

  She used her badge and the front edge of her hovering floatchair to push through the mob crowding the auto-barriers. Facial recognition software in the smart-bollards holding up the taut yellow tape scanned her and Ramos and let them into the roped-off area.

  Three meters from the body, a sharp odor struck Dena's nose and eyes with the force of a tennis backhand. She leaned back in her chair.

  "What's that stench?" she demanded.

  "The decedent," Officer Nelso Havacek said. "The guy reeks. He must put aftershave on with a fire hose." He wore a white scent-block tape over his nose, the kind used by medical examiners. He held out a fistful of the straps. Dena grabbed one and put it on.

  "Whew!" Ramos said, fastening his in place. "He smells worse than he looks!"

  "It reminds me of my grandfather's cologne," Dena said. "Eye-watering." The strip's filters removed every trace of odor from the air, like muting the volume on loudspeakers. She took a grateful breath.

  "Whee!" K't'ank yodeled. "Do not block your nasal sensors, Malone! This aroma is deeply pleasurable!"

  "He's high," Dena said. She took off the host bracelet and stuffed it into her pocket. "Let's get a closer look at the body, all right?"

  The late Dr. Carlson Nagy had not gone to his maker without a major fight. He stood, or lay, over two meters in height, burly build, hardly any of it fat. Blood from a forehead wound still seeped into the staring eyes and down his deeply bronzed cheeks and into his mass of tiny black braids splayed over the pavement. Something about the indentations at the corners of the full, almost carmine-colored lips suggested a cruel but sensual smile. Dena shook her head to clear her imagination. The clothes had to have cost thousands of credits, especially that dark blue shirt, whose silky sheen shouted money. It would never be worn again, even if it hadn't become an exhibit at a crime scene, not with the collar stained by the gore from the torn throat and the seeping gashes in the front and sides of the body.

  "Did someone mistake this guy for a steak that needed tenderizing?" Ramos asked.

  Peals of laughter erupted from Dena's pocket.

  "Ramos, you are so funny!"

  The cop on duty gave her a sideways glance. She met his eyes with a blank stare. He went back to business.

  "You'll have to ask him, but I don't think it'll do any good."

  "You have the perp?" Dena asked. "I'd have thought the guy would be halfway to Florida by now."

  For answer, the police officer pointed to a hovering patrol car. Three officers had a man plastered up against the side of the vehicle with his hands cuffed behind his back. He stood a meager hundred seventy centimeters, with a slight build, a sallow face, and a haircut that must have been done by a bad robo-barber.

  "He doesn't look like someone who could take on a grizzly bear like this one."

  "People are weird," Ramos said.

  "She looks too weak to have committed such a crime," K't'ank said. His optic nerves were tied into Dena's through her spinal column, so he saw everything she did.

  "So, you're back with us again?" she asked, fishing the heavy bangle out and snapping it back on her wrist. "I should wear these nose strips all the time. And that's a man, not a woman."

  "Please do not deprive me of intriguing stimulation," K't'ank said, almost plaintively. "Derabyi and my other previous hosts seemed to occupy such dull environments compared with yours."

  "I'll take it into consideration," Dena said, steering her floatchair toward the attacker. The guy seemed to be doing deep breathing exercises. She brandished the skinnypad at him. "All right, sir, let's start with your name."

  Marlon Canavireiro couldn't have been more apologetic and helpful.

  "I don't know why I did that," he said, his black eyes full of rue.

  "Your rap sheet says otherwise," Ramos said. "Five felonious assaults, one attempted manslaughter, and a major assortment of bar brawls all of which you started. I've just accessed some of the recordings. You throw a mean roundhouse, friend."

  "But those are in the past," Canavireiro pleaded. "I've been in anger management therapy for ages. I'm learning to deal." He stopped and closed his eyes. He drew in a lengthy breath, and expelled it through his mouth. After five inhalations, he opened his eyes again. "I'm calm. I'm calm."

  "A form of self-hypnosis?" K't'ank asked, curiously.

  "I guess," the man said, looking around for the source of the voice. Dena held up her bracelet.

  "Salosian," she said shortly. "We'll have to verify it with your therapist."

  "Sure, whatever you need! I've got her contact info in my communicator. Oh, wait." He looked helplessly at the police officer who had him cuffed. The tall woman handed over the electronic device. Dena downloaded the entry Canavireiro brought up with voice commands: Dr. Prika Sunnet.

  "Did you know the victim?" she asked.

  Canavireiro glanced toward the body, now covered with a sheet, and shuddered. "Yeah. I sure do. The son of a bitch assaulted me when I was a kid. I went to him because I was having trouble at home. He tried to take advantage of me. Frequently."

  Ramos ran down the victim's file on his skinnypad. "There's no record of a conviction."

  More breathing. "Administrative hearing at the school. He never went in front of a justice machine. He got off. I had to get on with my life. I don't like it, but I can't let it rule me. Whenever I saw him on the street, I crossed to the other side as fast as I could."

  "So what made you snap?"

  The slender man glanced over her head toward the covered body.

  "I really don't know," he said. "I don't even remember. One second I was on a walkway near him. I started up a meditation recording and doing deep breathing to keep me even, but the next moment I was smashing his head against a railing. I'm really sorry. He had it coming, but I didn't mean to do it."

  The arresting officers bundled the perp into a van and took off, blue lights spinning, toward the precinct. Canavireiro didn't struggle. He thanked the female officer for helping him into his seat.

  "For someone who looks that lobotomized, he did a thorough job of messing up the victim," Ramos said, as they headed for the aircar.

  "They stare at us, Malone," K't'ank said. Dena realized that the passersby were giving them weirder looks than usual.

  "The strips!" Ramos said, with a laugh. The two detectives removed them in unison. The first breath of fresh New-York-Newark air made her gag. K't'ank laughed gleefully.

  "Most interesting response!" he crowed.

  Dena made a face. "Modern life stinks, you know that?"

  "Life always did," Ramos said. "You think living with open sewers and slaughtering farm animals in the street was any better?"

  Dr. Prika Sunnet tented her narrow, delicately-manicured hands on her desk.

  "Of course you understand that I cannot violate doctor-client privilege," she said. Just by appearance alone, Dena knew the therapist would be good at her job. Her attractive, oval face just seemed to invite confidences, as did the warm, lavender-scented air of the cozy, wood-trimmed office.

  "Warrant's right here," Ramos said, extending his skinnypad toward her. The court document had been instantly granted by an adjudication computer once the waiver from the patient had been recorded. The text shared itself immediately on the terminal beside the doctor's right hand.

  Dr. Sunnet read it through twice, then turned her calm gaze back toward the detectives.

  "Very well. What do you need to know?"

  "Would you say that Mr. Canavireiro was capable of murder?"

  "Oh, yes," the analyst said, pleasantly. "I'd say he had a natural capacity for it. Almost a gift."

  Dena blinked.

  "Say what?"

  Sunnet lapsed into lecturer mode. "Mr. Canavireiro has a fierce temper, excellent reflexes, really superior strength for his size, and a tendency to ignore pain. If you were going to design a living creature as a killer, he ticks all your boxes."

  K't'ank giggled. Dena ignored him. Something in the air must have set him off again.

  "So, why isn't the guy in jail?"

  "Such murderous tendencies are treated with many techniques," Sunnet continued. "Cognitive behavioral therapy, light stimulation, group discussions and individual sessions, aromatherapy, meditation with candles, massage, hypnotherapy, even regular cuddle-puddles. I monitor all my patients frequently to ensure that none of their trigger points is being ignored."

  "And all this helps?" Dena asked. She knew she was unable to keep her skepticism off her face.

  In exchange, Dr. Sunnet gave her a patient look. "Detective, Mr. Canavireiro used to get into brawls on the average of once a night. With time and a lot of work, he is now at a point where he recognizes the stimuli that pushed him over the edge into action. He hasn't had a single episode in months."

  "Are you sure he wasn't just saving it all up for one big blowout?" Ramos asked.

  The psychotherapist's finger-steeple collapsed, and she fumbled to put it back together. "No, no. Such a thing is outside the realm of possibility."

  "Then a provocation of some kind?" K't'ank asked. "Humans are so suggestible. Almost anything seems to set them off."

  "Thanks a bunch," Dena said, dryly. "But he makes a good point, doctor. What about direct provocation from the victim? He said that he knew the man, in fact had been a victim of his in the past."

  "We discussed Dr. Nagy often," Dr. Sunnet said. "He was a . . . difficult individual. I conferred with him over his contact with Mr. Canavireiro. He . . . denied any personal interaction."

  "Uh-huh," Ramos said. "Well, we'll need to go over Mr. Canavireiro's personal files."

  "I don't like this," Dr. Sunnet said, "but very well. My records-office droid will assist you."

  "Ambassador P'n'ira!" K't'ank's voice came from the bangle, sounding blithe and expansive. "And a pleasure to speak with you, as well. I enjoyed conferring with you when our two domiciles had lunch three days ago . . ."

  "Crap," Dena said, scrolling through the charts on the data storage unit. The alleged killer's therapy record was almost as impressive as his rap sheet. "He's drunk-dialing again."

  "He do this often?" Ramos said. The office droid, a standard model tinted a warm orange, bustled around them, providing them with herbal coffee and small pastries as well as bringing up the appropriate files.

  "More lately," Dena said. She tasted the beverage and put it down again. It tasted like potpourri; obviously something soothing for the patients. "I think the increase in pregnancy hormones in my system sensitize him to outward influences. Like he needed more stimulus."

  "Huh." Ramos handed her his skinnypad. "I went over Canavireiro's rap sheet more closely. Our perp was telling the truth. They did investigate the alleged assault by the victim, but it was thrown out of court."

  "Why?"

  Ramos raised his eyebrows at her. "Another guy with anger management problems. The investigating officer."

  "Sure, I remember Dr. Nagy," retired police lieutenant Needham Parker said, pouring them decaf from an old-fashioned percolator. A big-boned, dark-skinned man with gray fuzz clinging to his bald scalp in a ring just above his ears, he moved with the ease of an athlete. His little house was part of a scattered development surrounded by trees. Dena felt uneasy with all the greenery out there, as if it might spread inside at any moment and suffocate her. Parker's security guard harness hung from a wooden peg next to the modest front door. "My last case. All those little kids who were afraid to come forward. The SOB was so smug. Should have been a red flag that no security cameras were operational in his office. He said it was because of patient-client confidentiality." His brows drew down over his blunt nose. "It became a case of 'he said, he said.' The prosecutor didn't have much but the boy's testimony to go on. And when the SOB came outside at the lunch break, I didn't have to see him, I could smell him. I just turned around and let him have it. They yanked me off him. The adjudication machine said it had no choice but to dismiss the charges. The chief was sorry, but he said he had to can me. I'd have done it again, too."