No! It can’t possibly be the third Friday already!

I stand in total awe of people who can write daily blogs. I almost manage one a month. My main site, which I use for my Alpha readers, who are also my Beta Readers and Grammar Naz . . . uh, Grammarians! Copy Editors.

To my astonishment, they do it for fun.

And do I ever need them! Especially as age catches up and I may have guile, but I also seem to have doubled my typos, my almost . . . Arg! What’s that word for things that sound the same? Yeah, memory and recall issues.

Homonyms! That’s it!

Uh, where was I? Oh yeah, I can’t even do WIP posts daily.

Getting old is not for the weak . . . well actually most of us get here eventually, weak or strong. The only alternate available being worse.

But the stories are coming hard and fast, and fighting each other for keyboard time. Losing that is what I dread. I’ve lived my life with stories running in my head, and while they’ve taken an occasional vacation, they’ve always come back.

Right now? I think I’m writing nine or ten, switching madly back and forth . . .

One that I ought to have finished years ago popped up with a clear vision of what I was doing wrong–trying to sting what ought to be four short stories into a novel.

Nine! Starts on a new branch series, as I figured out the next Big Bad Enemy.

And of course two stories that popped out of nowhere . . .

Wait! That’s fifteen things . . .

Well, it keeps me out of trouble, right?

Do you guys get whole mulitbook series dumped in you heads at once?

And do you stop to write the little things?

I really wasn’t planning on writing a Dr. Inferno sequel . . . but . . .

The Chameleon

P. A. Uphoff

Constantine Bowman walked out of jail, a free man.

For now.

Until I need to eat. Or it gets so cold that sleeping outside stops being acceptable.

He was well acquainted with the Homeless, having been one himself for . . . six years now? Since he was old enough to walk away from his mother. At seventeen, the police didn’t even try to find runaways. Unlikely his mother had called the cops, anyway.

And he’d changed his appearance. Again. It had been a bit of a shock, the first time it happened. The day he’d looked in the mirror and wondered why his mother had had any child at all, let alone one with a dark enough complexion, that everyone could see that his blue-eyed blonde mother had consorted with a Black.

And wished he was lighter skinned. The brown hair was acceptable but . . .

And the face in the mirror changed, a wave from his mouth outward, of paleness.

It hadn’t been extreme, that first change, just . . . he looked more Italian, or something. No one else really noticed.

But that’s when I realized I was, well, not really a superhuman. But I had something. And they say that things develop with age. Puberty. So I kept trying stupid things. Weightlifting, running . . . well, it kept me fit. But there was nothing Super about it.

The next time his mother was evicted, and they moved to another apartment, he’d looked in the mirror and wished for even lighter skin, and it had happened again. Lighter hair . . . nothing.

Until it grew out almost blond. He’d enrolled in a new high school. Where no one called him the N-word. And he’d settled down to being ignored. Blending in. He’d always had good grades, managed to graduate early.

Got a job at MickyD’s.

Not enough money to live on his own, even if his mother hadn’t grabbed all of it she could and gotten drunk. “To shut down the voices.”

He’d gritted his teeth and stayed through winter. Then walked away. Lived on the street. Keeping clean enough to work had been the only problem. And cashing the paychecks. Getting robbed. Getting into fights. A downward spiral he had no idea how to stop.

But the changes came faster, easier.

And easy to change back, when he needed to use his ID.

He managed an efficiency apartment for two months—long enough to have an address to renew his driver’s license. File taxes and get a refund.

Lost his job—not being dressed appropriately—got another. Was accused of stealing and arrested. His cash stash confiscated, parole, that time.

Evicted. Back on the street.

Stabbed . . . by the time the police had taken him to the hospital, the wound was healed. He’d stepped into the bathroom, and walked out, changed, and unrecognizable.

But jobs got harder to find . . . and being able to change his appearance made getting away with theft so easy . . . the next time he was arrested, he was guilty.

And like his latest parole office told him, jobs were going to just get harder to get . . .

He turned into Wondermart. Apply for a job, perhaps? He caught a flash of light to the side. An ATM whirled, opened a slot and spit out three bills.

A quick glance. No one else around. He stepped over and took the money. Sixty bucks. My lucky day. I hope!

He pocketed the money and kept going. Looking for the basics . . .  A couple of boxes of granola bars, a packet of jerky . . .  Paid for it, and stepped into the men’s room. Stared at the mirror. Brown hair. Skin a little darker.  The change swept over his face. With his hair practically shaved while incarcerated, the change to brown would come quickly.

He told himself it was a good neural state, where a little darker or lighter would change everyone’s judgement of his race. Nothing to do with it being close to what he mostly remembered looking like before he started changing.

Then off to Goodwill.

A T-shirt would be nice. A blanket essential. Backpack. Hat . . .

He jerked to a halt as an autocab stopped in front of him, door sliding open. Mechanical voice on the speaker. “Prepaid cab for Constantine Bowman.”

Constantine stared at the stupid little electric car. “Paid for by who?”

“Prepaid cab for Constantine Bowman.”

He shrugged. If it wasn’t to his advantage, he leave. He’d gotten good at leaving.

Hiding. Changing.

But someone had found him. Why?

This may be a big mistake. A trap.

He got in.

Chapter Two

The Voice

The cab dropped him at one of a dozen small businesses in a semi industrial strip of what was usually called Flex Space. Offices in front, garage/shop/warehouse in back. He’d applied for job in places like this before. Robbed a couple.

A big DI on the glass door. Diversity Investments, LLC in small letters below.

He caught the buzz of the lock release as he reached for the door knob. Someone’s watching me.

He turned the knob, pulled open the door. He stepped inside, holding the door ajar.

The room had furniture. Appliances. And boxes. A few bags.

All of it looking . . . exactly as if they’d been dropped off and left there.

“Good morning, Mr. Bowman. I’m Glenda Prince, and as you can see, I need someone to arrange things for me.” A disembodied female voice. Cheerful.

“Uh . . .” Constantine turned and eyed the speaker next to the door. A green light. Remote monitoring security system.

“No, I’m not here, nor shall I be for some time. I’m offering you a job as office manager. The job may involve travel, buying things, and moving them. Sorting things and mailing them. Starting pay is $2000 a month, and you may live here for the interim.

“If we suit each other, you will get raises and be able to make other living arrangements. Are you interested?”

Constantine let the door close and eased around things, and peeked into the other rooms—one big office, one small, and one tiny, a “break room” that was more of a niche, a unisex bathroom, and a door into a small open bay with two garage doors on the far side.

No smell of drugs.

What the hell. It beats sleeping on the sidewalk.

“Ms. Prince? I accept your job offer.”

“Excellent. I’ll leave you to arrange everything however you wish. I recommend you make the reception area look professional, but feel free to arouse people’s curiosity if you insist on drawing attention to yourself.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“A wise choice. The clothes in the bags ought to fit you. The Business Plaza manager, Mr. Bart Morgan will no doubt stop by. He’s been quite nosey. Have a nice evening!” A click and the green light turned red.

“Well . . . this is definitely interesting.” Constantine looked around. Peeked in the bags. Clothes, blanket, pillow . . .  Boxes . . . microwave. Mini fridge. Laptop computer. Top of the line cell phone. Office supplies. A printer. Docking station for the laptop . . .

So it will be an office. What ever else it is.

He grabbed bags and carted them off to the back offices, just to get them out of the way. Unboxed and carried the microwave to the niche and plugged it in. Tossed the empty box into the tiny office. Then the mini fridge, removing wraps and cardboard. Checked the microwave and removed things from inside. Filing cabinets, desk, office chair, book case. Some assembly required for all of them.

 “The desk and filing cabinets need to be in the big office on the side. The chairs out here, like a reception area.”

Which left plenty of other unexplored boxes. “Which I will get to when there’s room to unpack them.”

He grabbed a filing cabinet and dragged it into the big office. All it needed was the draw handles screwed on and the interior racks unwrapped and set up . . . .

He had the office set up and was screwing legs on chairs, when the door buzzed.

He climbed up off the floor and opened it.

A little old man. Weathered skin, a fringe of white hair around a bald pate. “Ah! You must be Mr. Bowman.”

Constantine stepped back and waved the screw driver in his hand in invitation. “Yep. Constantine. And I’ll bet you’re Bart Morgan. Ms. Prince said the Plaza Manager might drop by.”

“That’s me. Well, nice to see someone’s doing something about all the stuff that got dumped in here.”

Constantine nodded. “I can’t believe she ordered all this stuff ahead of time. Well . . . I’ll get it all assembled and ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Quick! What to say?”

Constantine shrugged. “Everything from Market Research for targeted advertisements, to arranging finances for socially responsible business startups. Ms. Prince isn’t afraid to try anything. She’s . . . diverse.”

“Huh, well, here’s all the keys and controllers. The mail boxes are in the main office. If you need anything, call the office.” He handed over both metal and card keys, and a business card, and bustled off.

I really ought to have asked Ms. Prince what “Diversity Investments” did!

Not that I’m in any condition to judge.

He finished assembling the chairs. Rolled out the rugs . . . Munched granola bars and jerky. And finally dug out the pillow and blanket and sacked out in the tiny office.

“What an odd day.” He put his head down and let it all go.

And woke up to find that it had not been a dream. He really was working for a disembodied voice. He got back to work, finished the furniture, unboxed a nice big flat screen and mounted it on the wall of the waiting room.

Why not? It’s got the most comfortable chairs.

Set up the reception hub, connected to the grid, activated the phone, unboxed the computer and printer, signed them into the hub too.

Assembled a clothes rack and unbagged a ridiculous amount of clothing . . . 

“A suit? She bought me a suit? And dress shirts, ties . . .”

“Certainly.” A cheerful female voice. “There’s no telling what I’ll need you to do. Now, to get down to business . . .”

“Uh, yeah. So what business are you actually in, and what do I tell outsiders?”

“I actually write a lot of gaming software, and invest the money I make. And . . . I get things, places, ready for my . . . employer.” She sounded worried.

“Uh, isn’t he around?”

“No, at the moment he isn’t well. But he’s much too mean to die, so I get various places ready for him. For when he recovers.” A pause. “What you will tell people is that I have a serious immune system problem and only work remotely and never interact with people. That even you just deliver things to me, and occasionally talk to me from well across the room. But even that is rare, when I need something heavy or bulky.”  

“Umm, I’m only twenty-four and people say I look younger . . .”

“Yes. You’re taking over from the last fellow who had to retire suddenly. Heart attack, you know. Let’s see . . . I believe you’ve worked with him two summers and an occasional weekend, so you were the logical replacement. As for particulars, you meet the people I talk to remotely, get papers, contracts signed, pick up and deliver things.”

Constantine grinned. “Right. The perfect job for a part-time on-net college student.”

“Oh, good idea! I’ll get you signed up . . . do you want to use your real name, or I have contacts and can get you false ID.”

“Uh . . . I have a criminal record . . .”

“Oh yes, that will be even easier to change! I will change the middle name and the fingerprint records. Then you can remain Constantine William Bowman.”

“Uh . . . thank you?” He thought back over the conversation. “What happens if your boss doesn’t recover?”

“He has to recover. He has to!”

So much for this job.

He tried to make his voice soft. Sympathetic. “Ms. Prince? People die. No one lives forever.”

“Doctor Inferno will never die!”

“Doc . . .” Constantine swallowed. “Ms. Prince . . .”

“He is three hundred and eighty-eight years old. He has Super healing, but it only kicks in when his life is in danger. He just needs to get old enough and I’m sure it will kick in.”

Constantine felt like he’d been sucker punched. Doctor Inferno. Not just one of the old legendary Superhumans.

The. Biggest. Baddest. Super. VILLAIN. Ever.

And I have Super healing. It didn’t kick in until I was stabbed. But then all my old scars went away.  So if it works the same for him . . .

He straightened, took a deep breath. “Well then. We’d better get everything ready. Because when he heals, every law enforcement agency in the country . . . in the world . . . is going to be after him.”

After that, the job got fun. And weird. A new driver’s license came in the mail, so he bought a car—a nice powerful one, in plain old gray that wouldn’t attract attention.

Then an apartment a few blocks away. And Glenda sent him a huge electronics set up for the office, with a computer to link to it all to take home or on trips . . .

He joined a gym, to get back into shape. Thought it over and took karate lessons.

He got to be the blond rich kid who flew to various places to hand deliver or pick up papers and small packages. Keys. All in envelopes, carefully labeled. Delivered vehicles to empty houses . . . No idea why she wanted an undersized pink electric car. Other than to fit into Las Vegas, where he stashed it, then flew back to Oklahoma City.

Fixed up a few things in various places. Mostly installing security systems so Glenda could check on them. Houses, office buildings . . . airplane hangers. Now that was a weird one, a surplused Air Force Base that Glenda had bought. Getting the huge, multiple section hanger doors to work after a couple of years of neglect was mostly tedious. Getting them fitted up to be operated remotely had been a bit frustrating. And then three satellite antennas for communications redundancy.

And giving out research grants to various labs, from a “Private Think Tank.”

And inventing and building fun gadgets.

The robot dogs were neat, and he delivered the first three—Alpha, Beta, and Gamma—to a warehouse in Dallas.

He enrolled in ground school and then flight school, just in case he ever needed to fly a plane. Although something big enough to need an old B52 hanger is going to be well beyond my competency. I’m more Cessna level . . .

And, what the heck. More college classes. Just part time, three days a week, so he had plenty of time to run Glenda’s errands. The tuition was brutal, but Glenda didn’t care.

He thought about it . . . and decided not to ask if she was hacking into bank computers or something. Thought more, and didn’t ask if she was a computer.

Because “Doctor Inferno’s true AI computer” would explain a lot.

And being a minion is a pretty good gig.