had better be some serious street pharmaceuticals in that syringe. Nurse Fitzsimmons notices my gawk and pointedly turns the monitor away from my Peeping Vincent peepers.
“He’s on the fifth floor, Ward F,” she says, her eyes warily combing down and across my body. “Are you family?”
“Private investigator,” I reply, whipping out my ID. It’s a nice picture of me in my human guise, from a time when I had the cash and the inclination to keep up my appearance—tailored suit, power tie, eyes glistening, and a wide, friendly smile that betrays none of my sharper teeth. “My name’s Vincent Rubio.”
“I’ll have to—”
“Announce me. I know.” Standard protocol. Ward F is a special wing, set up by dino administrators and doctors who designed it so that our kind might have a sanctuary within the confines of a working hospital. There are dino health clinics all over the country, of course, but most major hospitals contain special wards in case one of usshould be brought in for emergency treatment, as Mr. Burke was last Wednesday morning.
The official story on Ward F is that it is reserved for patients with “special needs,” a scope of circumstances ranging from religious preferences to round-the-clock bedside care to standard VIP treatment. This is a broad enough definition that it makes it easy for dino administrators to classify all their nonhumans as “special needs” patients, and thus move them and only them onto the ward. All visitors—doctors included—must be announced to the nurses on staff (dinos in disguise, every one), ostensibly for privacy and security, but in actuality in defense against an accidental sighting. It sounds like a risky system, and every once in a while you’ll hear some dino raise the roof about the chances that we take, but the whiners never come up with a better solution than the system we have now. As it is, dinosaurs represent a large proportion of the health care industry; respect for medicine and surgery is something all dino parents try to instill within their children, if only because our ancestors spent so many millions of years dying of insignificant bacterial illnesses and minor infections. And with all these dinos becoming doctors, it’s easy for them to fill hospital wards—sometimes entire hospitals—with a primarily dinosaur staff.
“You can go up now,” says the nurse, and though I’m glad to scoot away from her scowl, that stale gum sure did smell like the finest ambrosia.
As I ride the elevator to the fifth floor, I can only guess at the commotion taking place up there right now. Nurses are scuttling the patients into safe areas, room doors are being closed and bolted. It’s like lockdown at County, but without the convicts and much prettier guards. As an unknown entity, I represent a potential threat, and all signs of dinosaur existence must be hidden as best as possible. Cameras and still shots of my approach are of no use; with costumes as realistic as they are these days, there’s only one foolproof way of distinguishing a human from a dino in human garb—our smell.
Dinosaurs spew out pheromones like an out-of-control oil well, gushing out gases 24-7-365. The basic dino scent is a sweet one, at least, a fresh stroke of pine on a crisp autumn morning, with just a hint of sour swamp mist thrown in for good measure. As well, each ofus has our own individual scent intertwined with the dino odor, an identifying mark roughly equivalent to human fingerprints. I have been told that mine smells like a fine Cuban stogie, half-chewed, half-smoked. Ernie’s was like a ream of carbon paper, fresh off the ditto machine; sometimes I think I can still smell him walking by.
But thanks to the layers of makeup, rubber, and polystyrene with which my species is forced to cover up our natural beauty each and every day, it now often takes close quarters—three, four feet—before a dino can be completely sure with which sentient member of the animal
“He’s on the fifth floor, Ward F,” she says, her eyes warily combing down and across my body. “Are you family?”
“Private investigator,” I reply, whipping out my ID. It’s a nice picture of me in my human guise, from a time when I had the cash and the inclination to keep up my appearance—tailored suit, power tie, eyes glistening, and a wide, friendly smile that betrays none of my sharper teeth. “My name’s Vincent Rubio.”
“I’ll have to—”
“Announce me. I know.” Standard protocol. Ward F is a special wing, set up by dino administrators and doctors who designed it so that our kind might have a sanctuary within the confines of a working hospital. There are dino health clinics all over the country, of course, but most major hospitals contain special wards in case one of usshould be brought in for emergency treatment, as Mr. Burke was last Wednesday morning.
The official story on Ward F is that it is reserved for patients with “special needs,” a scope of circumstances ranging from religious preferences to round-the-clock bedside care to standard VIP treatment. This is a broad enough definition that it makes it easy for dino administrators to classify all their nonhumans as “special needs” patients, and thus move them and only them onto the ward. All visitors—doctors included—must be announced to the nurses on staff (dinos in disguise, every one), ostensibly for privacy and security, but in actuality in defense against an accidental sighting. It sounds like a risky system, and every once in a while you’ll hear some dino raise the roof about the chances that we take, but the whiners never come up with a better solution than the system we have now. As it is, dinosaurs represent a large proportion of the health care industry; respect for medicine and surgery is something all dino parents try to instill within their children, if only because our ancestors spent so many millions of years dying of insignificant bacterial illnesses and minor infections. And with all these dinos becoming doctors, it’s easy for them to fill hospital wards—sometimes entire hospitals—with a primarily dinosaur staff.
“You can go up now,” says the nurse, and though I’m glad to scoot away from her scowl, that stale gum sure did smell like the finest ambrosia.
As I ride the elevator to the fifth floor, I can only guess at the commotion taking place up there right now. Nurses are scuttling the patients into safe areas, room doors are being closed and bolted. It’s like lockdown at County, but without the convicts and much prettier guards. As an unknown entity, I represent a potential threat, and all signs of dinosaur existence must be hidden as best as possible. Cameras and still shots of my approach are of no use; with costumes as realistic as they are these days, there’s only one foolproof way of distinguishing a human from a dino in human garb—our smell.
Dinosaurs spew out pheromones like an out-of-control oil well, gushing out gases 24-7-365. The basic dino scent is a sweet one, at least, a fresh stroke of pine on a crisp autumn morning, with just a hint of sour swamp mist thrown in for good measure. As well, each ofus has our own individual scent intertwined with the dino odor, an identifying mark roughly equivalent to human fingerprints. I have been told that mine smells like a fine Cuban stogie, half-chewed, half-smoked. Ernie’s was like a ream of carbon paper, fresh off the ditto machine; sometimes I think I can still smell him walking by.
But thanks to the layers of makeup, rubber, and polystyrene with which my species is forced to cover up our natural beauty each and every day, it now often takes close quarters—three, four feet—before a dino can be completely sure with which sentient member of the animal
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