Back From the Undead by DD Barant

of this.”
    He’s looking at me with open contempt. Not suspicion, contempt. I’m not guilty of a damn thing—except concealing the fact that I’m a cop—but in his mind I’m already a convict. I’m not a citizen he’s trying to help, I’m a crook. Not because of the evidence—there isn’t any—but because it’s convenient for him to think of me that way. It gives him an excuse to exercise his power.
    “Maybe I’m not any of those things,” I say. “Maybe I’m a good person. Maybe I was brought here to help people.” I try to keep the anger out of my voice, and pretty much screw that up.
    He leans back. “Yeah, sure. I’ll bet you’re practically a saint. You want to know what I see? A human being. And you know what I am, right?”
    A big, sandy asshole? the Wiseass tries to scream. Common Sense has her in a headlock, but it’s a losing battle. “A lem.”
    “Golem,” he snaps. “My race was created by yours. Created to be their servants, to build their cities, to die in their wars . But that was a long, long time ago. Your kind isn’t doing so well now. Pretty soon, there won’t be any of you left at all.”
    My kind.
    I should have seen this coming. But I’m so used to Charlie that the idea of a lem that resents humanity never really occurred to me. And this angry little civil servant is going to dump a lifetime of that resentment on me.
    “Look,” I say. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. The world I’m from, the culture I’m from, that didn’t happen—”
    He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Save it. Your world, your culture doesn’t interest me. You’re here, now, and your smart-mouthed attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere. You understand me?”
    Whatever sympathy I might have had for him vanishes. He doesn’t want commiseration, he wants a target. “Yes.”
    “I need to verify this visa,” he says, gets up, and stomps out of the room.

 
    FOUR
    Three hours pass before he returns.
    Making you wait is the bureaucrat’s most effective weapon. Paperwork is a close second, but it’s really only waiting with the illusion of doing something.
    I spend the time planning.
    When he finally comes back, he just opens the door and motions me outside. Gives me my visa back and tells me I can go. I’m not surprised; it’s more or less exactly what I was expecting. I smile at him sweetly and leave without a word, joining Charlie and Eisfanger in the car.
    Charlie eyes me like he would a polar bear on PCP: cautiously. “Jace? You okay?”
    “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”
    “Wow,” Eisfanger says. “You were in there a really long time. They checked our ID, asked us a few questions, and then booted us out. We’ve been sitting here waiting for you ever since—”
    “Let’s. Go.”
    Charlie’s radar is a lot better than Eisfanger’s. Damon seems to suffer from the thrope equivalent of Asperger’s syndrome—an inability to correctly read social cues and react accordingly—so Charlie tries his best to head off a Jace meltdown by moving the conversation in another direction. “Vancouver. Last I heard, they had a pretty hot swing dance scene. Maybe we can find a little time to hit the floor.” Charlie knows I love to swing dance, and he’s not too shabby at it himself.
    “That sounds like fun,” Eisfanger says. “I mean, I don’t dance myself, but it’s fun to watch. Hey, maybe we’ll even see some celebrities!”
    “Could happen,” Charlie says. “Plenty of them there, from what I hear. I don’t know how many we’ll find in swing spots, though. Stars tend to hang out in the really trendy clubs.”
    “True,” Eisfanger admits. “And those are hard to get into. Long lines outside. We could be waiting a long, long time—”
    He abruptly shuts up. There’s a long silence, broken by Charlie sighing.
    “Guys,” I say. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. The pin of the Valchek Grenade is firmly in place.”
    “The what now?” Eisfanger