Night of the Animals by Bill Broun

and magnetic running shoes to gasp for breath. He coughed, and he noticed a few bright flecks of blood on his hand. A homeless man with an oily brown beanie hat and no upper front teeth saw him and put his hand on Baj’s back.
    â€œEasy, mate,” the Indigent said. “You’re awright.”
    â€œRight,” he said. “Fit as a fid—” He coughed again. “Fiddle!”
    The doctor had no history of asthma or bronchitis, and he had never used tobacco, so he mostly felt unworried. Still, it was strange.
    A few days later, Baj visited his own NHS Legacy GP, a white-mustachioed internist on Harley Street.
    Dr. Peter Bonhomme was an even-tempered pragmatist whohad survived the paroxysms of the new monarchy by feigning sentimentality when it came to politics. He always wore an old commemorative House of Windsor badge pin issued to mark Elizabeth II’s death. He was short, round, and strong, and apart from his shaky hands, looked not unlike his pin’s squat, stolid depiction of the Tower of Windsor. He was a kindly man, and Baj considered him a heartening presence if not quite a friend.
    Dr. Bonhomme never wasted time. He drew blood, listened to Baj’s chest with a mediscope, and gave him a cloudy plastic cup for urinalysis.
    â€œRight,” he said, with a characteristic firmness. “So how are you doing otherwise?” he asked.
    â€œAll is well,” Baj said. He felt anxious to talk, but he couldn’t bring himself to say much. An old indisposition to show weakness held him back. He almost would have felt more comfortable sharing with a social lesser—even Cuthbert.
    â€œI’m all right,” he added. “You know, ‘getting on with it.’ Are you well?”
    â€œI’m glad to be working still.”
    â€œYou call this work, on Harley Street?” Dr. Bajwa teased. At one time, such a quip between professionals would have seemed more amusing, he realized. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.”
    â€œNo worries, Baj!” said Dr. Bonhomme, grinning, and looking at his mediscope’s floating holographic readout, which plotted a colored ball—in this case red—onto a shoe box–size three-dimensional quadrangle that the doctor analyzed. “We’re lucky to be working at all these days,” he said.
    â€œYes,” said Baj. Were he to say any more, he knew, the conversation would be edging toward treason. He left it there.
    Dr. Bonhomme slid a white ultrasonic camera out of a small plastic case and dimmed the lights. The older doctor smiled gently at Baj for a moment, but then seemed lost in trying to work the camera.
    â€œHold still now,” he said, “and raise your arms up.” Baj complied. Four faint hums ensued—and it was over.
    The aged Dr. Bonhomme could barely hold the heavy camera steady as he guided it onto a wet-titanium gooseneck base. Two lurid blue-white biometric eyes awakened above the lens. He rubbed the top of the camera for a moment, as if petting a baby white shark, and the camera instantaneously projected four-dimensional pathological extrapolations of Baj’s insides on the wall.
    Baj looked at white petals of a neoplasm, unfolding on the wall. There it was—a pale flower of death in the right lobe of his lung.
    Dr. Bonhomme’s face had fallen. He glanced nervously at Baj.
    â€œBut I don’t smoke,” said Baj. “This can’t be.”
    There was a pause. Dr. Bonhomme said hoarsely, “We can do a lot these days—even with lungs.” He appeared to collect himself for a moment. He stood up a little taller, then spoke confidently: “Right now. These are but ‘shadows of things to come,’ as they say. But you’re going to need an oncologist. And you might consider a day or two of Nexar—just to destress, right?”
    â€œI don’t use the hoods,” said Baj, in a tone of subdued annoyance, and Dr.