- Reaction score
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Not a lot of characters in this one. Still, it may be entertaining. 
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Jester Steele, Android Detective
JR Hume
The bar-jockey looked fully human, but a casual sensor scan revealed that he was a droid. Humans often have odd bits of metal-based skeletal structure, but they have neither the internal space nor the support elements for a fusion power plant. His outer aspect hinted at inner angst, though I suspected the human body choice simply replicated his original, Mark One, Mod 0, homo sap configuration.
"What'll it be?" His tone and accompanying sensor scan were borderline polite. I took no offense. Businesses on Level Eight had good reason for caution.
I flashed my Security ID. "Know an organic named Slim Gherkin?"
His eyes cut left and right below rigid faux eyebrows. He must have opted for the semi-mobile face structure. I could see the advantage. Bar-jocks have to listen to all sorts of sad and strange stories from paying customers. Having immobile eyebrows would be handy. My own plain metal visage, featuring only a pair of vision receptors and a speaker grille, might work for a bar-jockey, although a face capable of expressing reasonable sympathy could well bring bigger tips.
"In the back," he rumbled. "By the window."
There was only one figure seated in front of the window overlooking Hooligan, the world we occupants of Caveat live with all the time. Most volk get tired of the view, though I don't. The face of the planet changes subtly over time, due to the hellish dust storms which have raged there for the last few million years. Some can't abide the sensation of sitting with a few millimeters of window separating them from hard vacuum, even though the window is actually a view screen and several kilometers of Caveat separate this particular room from space.
As I worked my way across the crowded bar three women and two men made explicit offers, which I turned down. I'd never opted for the features required for such interaction, having led a fairly monastic life the first go-around. My only addition to the basic military droid body is a speaker grille with a cigar receptacle. The smoker rig came with taste receptors, a suction pump and bellows for the exhaust cycle.
At the window table, I extended my ID. "Slim Gherkin?" He was fully human. I couldn't detect any repair parts or non-organic enhancements, which was unusual.
He took a moment to read the chit. "Detective Jester Steele. A random name choice or is there a message contained therein?"
The question comes up often. "I was in the military when I went droid. Jester was my tactical call sign in an armored assault brigade. The Steele surname was my choice." I took a seat opposite Slim.
"Names fascinate me. I can't imagine why my mother named me a slender pickle." He leaned forward. "How does the Steele handle relate to your inner self?"
I wasn't interested in analyzing his mother or myself. "You were in Level Eight, near the Tackle Shack when one Q'ung 322X was scragged?"
Slim signaled for a drink refill. He may have been stalling -- or just thirsty. I lit a fresh cigar and waited.
"I was in a side corridor near the Tackle Shack. Someone cratered the Q'ung just before I rounded a corner about ten meters from the scene of the crime." He frowned. "Was it a private affair?"
"That's what I'm trying to determine, sir. Med-teks were on hand within minutes. The Q'ung had hardware and organic damage, but it was covered by Full Medical and Collision, so other than lost time and a little pain and suffering, it wasn't harmed."
"I see." Slim toyed with his drink. "Q'ung like pain and suffering."
"True. It filed no complaint, in any event."
"So what is Security's interest? Sounds like a good time was had by all."
"The insurance companies like us to follow up on these cases. There have been a rash of scraggings lately. Did you see who might have cratered the Q'ung?"
"No. I looked at the victim first." His face paled. "It was awful! Q'ung turn my stomach in the best of circumstances and this one was a mess." All his reactions pointed to real distress. Though Federation and Caveat laws frown on the use of active sensors before probable cause is established, no law can prevent passive scanning. Slim's pulse, respiration, blink rate and thermal readings indicated truth or a pathological liar. There is no reliable way to tell the difference, popular Tri-V to the contrary. I moved to my next query.
"Any idea who might have done it?"
"No. All the volk I saw in the corridor were armed, including me. I didn't shoot the creature, but that's all I can tell you for sure."
Therein lay the problem. Crater guns are the ultimate equalizer. A crater charge will stun and immobilize any meat animal, organic sentient, or droid in Known Space. It is adequate defense against most predators, though volk tend to rely on more lethal weapons when an encounter with a meat eater is possible. Crater charges damage tissue and shatter metal and plastic out to fifteen or twenty meters. Like the Q'ung in this case, most of the wounded recover if they receive prompt treatment from competent med-teks. Practically every sentient on Caveat carries a crater gun and there is no method for matching specific weapons to damage patterns.
I lifted my shoulders in a stiff shrug. It probably looks stupid, but I do it without thinking -- a habit left over from my flesh and blood days. "We have video, but the closest pickup was inop. I hoped you could tell me more."
Slim rubbed the side of his jaw and frowned. Finally, he shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing comes to mind. I still can't see the Security interest. Is there any evidence that the med-teks are hiring scraggers? I've heard of such practices."
"No, but some of the recent victims have been uninsured. Several were sent to the forced labor pool so they could work off medical and repair bills. Security HQ is afraid someone is scragging volk in hopes of filling the pool with low-priced labor."
Slim laughed. "I see two problems with that idea. One -- no sane person would want a Q'ung in the labor pool. The things require several vile liquids just to remain in that quaint half-alive state. Two -- crater enough volk and you'll end up killing a few. Has anyone died yet?"
I nodded in agreement. His logic paralleled my own thinking, especially about the Q'ung. "A scragged droid deteriorated to clinical death a ten-day ago. He required an emergency pattern re-plot. I'm told he may have brain damage, but I don’t know how they'll be able to tell for sure."
"Why? What was his specialty?"
"Miner. Drill-jock." We both chuckled. Most volk consider miners, especially drill-jocks, as brain-dead carrion anyway.
Slim and I parted on good terms. I still didn't have any solid information on a possible scragger ring. HQ was not going to be happy.
The joy houses of Eclectic Avenue held no allure for me, so I crossed the street and followed Rewire Road as it wound past a succession of stim joints. I had no solid leads -- in fact, no leads at all. My steps were guided by blind chance. Where craft fails, luck may suffice. Level Eight moved about me, raunchy and splendid. I lit a fresh cigar and watched the volk of Caveat.
Part of an detective's training is to correlate disparate information and use the result to work toward solving a case. No insights occurred to me as I idled along.
A bold female droid stepped from an alley. "Looking for a good time, spacer?"
She possessed an exquisite face -- a work of art -- all in metal. Below the interlocking chrome steel rings of her neck and obscured by the slightest wisp of fabric, she appeared human. Fantasy and dreams for some, nightmarish horror to others. Her slender steel hand touched my arm.
I raised an arm in greeting. "Not I, sister. Seek among those with proper equipment."
A metallic chime drowned out her reply. My sensor array crashed. I sagged to the street, electronics arcing, actuators aquiver. Stunned! Stunning a droid is dangerous. Our circuits are so varied that a charge sufficient to put one down will kill another. Someone had taken the trouble to measure my system parameters. Slim Gherkin? The steel and flesh harlot? My mind pulsed with terror. An image of her karg hide boots flashed and faded. I spun into a void.
****
A blaze of sun forced my vid sensors into darkened mode. I sat up. Rock. Bare rock in all directions. Rock and a naked star overhead and a standard military cot with me in it. One cot, one droid, one star. I recognized the place at once.
Hooligan.
My sense of dislocation immobilized me for a moment. Finally, I groped for the edge of the cot and swung my legs over the side. Reality jerked and slid. My brain, unable to reconcile what had been with what seemed to be, wavered toward madness, then settled for mere acceptance flavored with paranoia -- my normal state of mind.
My bare rock platform was circular in shape and perhaps twenty meters across. I walked to the edge. Down below -- far, far down -- a vast ocean of sand streamed from one horizon to the other. The mountain below me stood aloof from this torrent, though the windblown sand would subsume it in some future millennia. I hoped to miss that event.
There was little air at the level of my perch and no water, but those were of minor interest to me. A fast self-diagnostic check came up nominal -- except my sub-space comm gear showed a fault. I opened my jumper and popped an access panel. The sub-space transceiver slot was empty. My morale sank to an all-time low.
"You there!"
I crouched and turned. One side of my brain went frantic at the thought of rescue. The other side conjectured that I was hallucinating voices via low-hertz comm, even though my mental stability warranty still had at least five years to run.
"Below there! Would you like a lift?"
Droids are often said to be recycled humans. Some refer to us as people on overdrive. But, regardless of labels, there is a price to pay for marrying organic impulses with machinery. Surprise, for instance, sets off a series of human reactions that never work well in a droid. I ended up flat on my back at least five meters from the cliff edge. As luck would have it, I hadn't flailed around and fallen into the distant sand sea.
A great bulbous contraption hovered over me. An android leaned over the rail of a strange boat-shaped affair slung below the bulbous thing.
I'm afraid my greeting was less than cordial. "Who in the Nine Hells are you!"
"Sorry. I'm alone, you see, and had to stay at the controls until I could stabilize my airship. Didn't mean to startle you."
I got up. Some salient facts worked past my surprised anger. Number one -- I was not alone. Two -- this new person had transport.
His craft turned out to be a semi-rigid airship. I learned the details of its construction and methods of lift (hydrogen plus anti-gravity generators) over the next few days. My benefactor bore a plain droid body, with no organic features or other markings at all. Not surprising, since he lived alone and conducted research at altitudes absolutely hostile to living matter.
His name was Duey Gherkin.
"Do you have a relative?" I asked. "Slim?" We were sitting at ease in the main cabin, located in the aft section of the gondola.
"My cousin. A deplorable sort. You've met him?"
"I have. In fact, I strongly suspect his involvement in my arrival here."
"Not surprising. Did Caveat Security suspect him of something?"
"No. At least not when I met him."
"He's usually under suspicion for something. Nothing proved."
Duey, with his airship as a base, was carrying on a very long-term research project having to do with Hooligan's atmosphere. His explanation wandered into the realms of physics and other esoteric subjects until I fell asleep that first day. After that, he worked at his work and I stayed out of the way. Unfortunately, his library collection ran to history, biography, science and mathematics. Of classic detective tales and space opera, he had none. Mostly, I waited.
Once a year, his university sponsors sent in a ship to provide what little fuel and supplies he needed and to collect any physical samples he might have. That ship was due in five ten-days.
Though we had little in common, we did speculate about my predicament. Cousin Slim occupied a prominent place in our discussions.
Duey told me he and Slim had been raised by their maternal grandmother. He turned away as he said it. "Such relationships are preserved at home. Or they were when I was a child."
I couldn't look down on him for the circumstances of his upbringing. My own family has a conservative bent. Mom and Dad were formally married for nearly thirty years. The genetic makeup of my organic body had been a mixture of theirs, with no customization. In spite of that, I coped.
"What world was that?" I asked. No sense dwelling on the deprived circumstances of our long-ago youth.
"One Hit Wonder. Have you heard of it?"
I said yes, though I'm not sure he believed me. Once, long ago, due to an unfortunate juxtaposition of events, I spent a year in a medium security prison. The experience left me with a liking for burned meat and gravy poured over blackened bread and the ability to recite the names of every Federation planet then known -- all 103 of them. One Hit Wonder was on that list as a Found Planet. Our forebears had a penchant for losing themselves in the vastness of the Galaxy only to be found after interminable periods by their ever-questing offspring. The reunions were not always desired or desirable.
He fell silent for some time. I remained still, assuming him to be occupied with memories of a happy youth. Eventually, I grew restless.
"You lived with this -- ah, this grandmother?"
He started. "I'm sorry. Solitary life has left me unfit for company. I was thinking of the experimental sequences I must run tomorrow."
So much for childhood ruminations. "How were you orphaned?"
"Our mothers had no binding relationship with our father or fathers. We never knew if a living person was involved or if our paternal side came from a specimen jar. The subject never came up, that I can recall." He hesitated, then continued: "A local worship society sponsored a cruise to a star they considered divine, for reasons I've never been able to fathom."
"A common problem," I murmured.
"My mother accompanied a society member on the cruise. Slim's mother was hired as an actress to play a role in a dramatic reproduction of their God's martyrdom. She often played such parts and was in constant demand by various societies.
"Something went wrong with the ship. I have long suspected Slim's involvement, but as with other suspicions relating to Slim, nothing has ever been proved.
"The Qua-Coil engines failed in a catastrophic manner. The starship and all within it was converted to unsynchronized FTL particles." Duey sighed. "Some maintain that the people could be recovered by a properly constructed receiver. Theoretically, my mother is still alive. Be that as it may, the insurance companies paid all claims. Pragmatism triumphed over theory, as usual."
I offered condolences. "But surely you should have been taken to a crèche?"
"The local crèche refused us. There were reasons. I was ten and my cousin two years older. He was suspected of complicity in a data alteration scheme which stripped local residents of a large quantity of credits. His accomplices went to prison, but he was too young to be charged. We were given into the care of our grandmother. She and Slim had a tense relationship."
"What of the stolen credits? Surely they could be traced?"
"The funds were never recovered." Duey assumed a posture of amusement. "When it came time for Slim and I to train for an occupation, credits were available."
I thought back to my encounter in the bar. "I took Slim for a businessman."
"He has been that, but it is a sham. His outward appearance is always innocent. He studied anything that aided him in fraud. Mechanics, ethics, qua-space navigation, oceanography, faro, landscape design. I don't know the extent of his knowledge."
"But what does he do? You hint at theft via chicanery. Describe a typical scam."
Duey spread his arms. "The thing is beyond me. We've seen little of each other in the past decade or longer. I don't wish to know his schemes."
I judged that he knew nothing. My own training included a thorough grounding in illegal schemes designed to separate individuals from their credits. Most require some degree of greed on the part of the victim. Upon my return to Caveat, there was little doubt that I could penetrate Slim's fraudulent undertakings and bring him to justice. The supply ship was due in another ten-day.
*****
We boarded the supply vessel upon its arrival. The ship captain was unimpressed both by my Security chit and my request for transport to Caveat.
"I ain't goin' back to Caveat," snarled the creature, one Bossi, a six-legged werecat from Engine Failure. "I just two-jumped from there with Gherkin's supplies. The station won't have no more cargo for out-system destinations for at least four ten-days. Docking fees would kill me. You wanna charter the ship?" He named a figure approximately ten times my annual salary.
Orbital dynamics are of little interest to me, but I knew that Caveat orbits Hooligan at no great distance. "It's just a short hop, sir. You can drop me off."
Bossi spat a couple of were-words and turned toward Duey. "Are all cops born stupid or do they wipe their upper registers at hiring?"
"He's a specialist," said Duey, in a soothing tone. "A detective. I gather that such cops require an eclectic mix of knowledge."
"Eclectic or moronic?" Bossi waved away my protests. "Lock down your speech center, Pester. I've cargo to move." He scrabbled off into the bowels of the ship.
"That's Jester," I called, but he was already out of sight. "He has no respect for officers of the law."
Duey was sympathetic. "An all too-common defect of character, I'm afraid."
"I must have said something wrong. Is there really a problem with making a little jaunt over to Caveat and dropping me off?"
Duey brought up a system display. "Sub-space engines require a lot of expensive fuel. Plus, there's the time required." The vid panel produced a simulation involving Hooligan, Caveat and a multitude of curving lines. Duey ran a finger over the loops and whirls. "Unless one has unlimited conversion mass available, Hooligan to Caveat requires a transit of about four or five ten-days. You can't micro-jump this deep in Hooligan's gravity well. Most freighters carry only enough fuel for maneuvering between an in-system nav point and their destination station. The university pays heavily for the fuel required on these supply runs. That's why they only occur once a year. And even with extra fuel for descent and departure, the trips are only feasible if the supply vessel jumps out-system, then back in."
My business and computational registers began to signal overload conditions. I planted my rear end in a seat and fought off a sudden wave of vertigo. Duey kept quiet while I administered soothing jolts of raw electrons to various parts of my brain. By the time Bossi finished his cargo handling, I was my old self.
He shucked his worksuit and climbed onto a padded platform surrounded by ship controls and displays. Grooming was his first order of business. For this he used a glittering steel comb with teeth that moved as if seeking prey. In fact, after a couple passes through his flowing mane (black with two white stripes down the back), Bossi picked a small, pink wiggler out of the comb and ate it with apparent relish. I thought I heard a tiny scream.
Other than in Tri-V training films, I had never seen a werecat before. Shaped like an elongated Terran weasel, the creatures are carnivores, with the usual binocular vision, sensitive sight and hearing, oversize skull and multi-purpose teeth. These last are arranged in a lupine-like snout. Werecats move about on their short middle and rear legs, which are equipped with ripping claws. The front legs are equipped with a pair of fingers opposed by a shorter, thumb-like digit, each with a ribbed inner surface and a chitinous outer sheath. I resolved never to needlessly anger a werecat.
Old Garn, our "Know Your Federation Volk" instructor back at Shamus Academy, told us werecats have a vile temperament. He claimed they tend to end up as criminals or intelligence officers. Fortunately, he pointed out, only one in a thousand develop cognitive abilities. The rest, though just as rotten-tempered as their smarter kin, have the intellectual capacity of meteoric iron.
"You can come along," rasped Bossi. "But the return trip to Caveat will be by way of Genetic Drift, Engine Failure and Zeno IV, with other detours possible, depending on available cargo."
"How long will that take?"
Bossi snarled something. "Caveat won't have out-system cargo for four ten-days. Does that give you a clue, Detective Pester?"
"That's Jester," I said, with as much stiff formality as I could muster. Four ten-days! HQ would not be pleased with me. But, what choice did I have?
"I have no choice. What accommodations can you offer?"
"None! I have no room for idlers. You'll work your way or remain here."
"But -- Security will pay any reasonable expenses, once we arrive at Caveat. In fact, I'll send a 'gram from Genetic Drift and obtain a purchase order covering my accommodations."
The werecat and Duey expressed an unseemly amount of mirth. "All right," said Bossi. "I'll rate you as Unskilled Deckhand for the first leg. Then we'll see."
Within the hour I bid farewell to Duey Gherkin and embarked on a hell voyage. My tasks included cleaning the heads, chipping tube mold, polishing ports and scrubbing a century or more of crud from deck plates. Bossi's crew was small, as befits a marginal operation. Monk, a Green Gridge, lived and worked in the engine room. He seldom left the power section when in transit and never when we were docked at a station. I came to believe he was wanted by the authorities or by swindled confederates.
Monk made me clean and polish gigantic shaft bearings and other machinery to a mirror-like finish. He often stalked the power rooms, crater gun clutched in one grasping member, muttering in a strange mixture of Standard and what I took to be his native speech. I gathered from his raving that he sought certain jodies in the dark spaces behind the fusion bottles and in the shadows of his mind. I found work in other parts of the ship during these episodes.
The only other crew volk was Alias Baker. A shady character, of apparent human origin, Baker told me several tales of his past, none of which tallied with the others. To my sensors each story registered as truth. His eyes had that peculiar ruby glitter indicative of an enhanced visual suite. I once tried an active scan on him and discovered that his body and inner workings were protected by an All-Over Sensor Shield (pat. pending). I'm sure he knew of the scan, though no mention was ever made of it. All-Over shielding is expensive, not to mention difficult to acquire. The installation and integration process is painful in the extreme. I asked no questions of Baker. Curiosity seemed dangerous.
Bossi required me to stand bridge watches during my rest periods. "You can monitor the ship sensors while you sleep," he snarled. The partial neural activity stretched my daily rest period from four hours to six, but the werecat liked it that way. He evidently didn't have to pay me when resting, not even if I were engaged in monitoring sensors. I resolved to inquire into spacer guild membership.
(tbc)
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Jester Steele, Android Detective
JR Hume
The bar-jockey looked fully human, but a casual sensor scan revealed that he was a droid. Humans often have odd bits of metal-based skeletal structure, but they have neither the internal space nor the support elements for a fusion power plant. His outer aspect hinted at inner angst, though I suspected the human body choice simply replicated his original, Mark One, Mod 0, homo sap configuration.
"What'll it be?" His tone and accompanying sensor scan were borderline polite. I took no offense. Businesses on Level Eight had good reason for caution.
I flashed my Security ID. "Know an organic named Slim Gherkin?"
His eyes cut left and right below rigid faux eyebrows. He must have opted for the semi-mobile face structure. I could see the advantage. Bar-jocks have to listen to all sorts of sad and strange stories from paying customers. Having immobile eyebrows would be handy. My own plain metal visage, featuring only a pair of vision receptors and a speaker grille, might work for a bar-jockey, although a face capable of expressing reasonable sympathy could well bring bigger tips.
"In the back," he rumbled. "By the window."
There was only one figure seated in front of the window overlooking Hooligan, the world we occupants of Caveat live with all the time. Most volk get tired of the view, though I don't. The face of the planet changes subtly over time, due to the hellish dust storms which have raged there for the last few million years. Some can't abide the sensation of sitting with a few millimeters of window separating them from hard vacuum, even though the window is actually a view screen and several kilometers of Caveat separate this particular room from space.
As I worked my way across the crowded bar three women and two men made explicit offers, which I turned down. I'd never opted for the features required for such interaction, having led a fairly monastic life the first go-around. My only addition to the basic military droid body is a speaker grille with a cigar receptacle. The smoker rig came with taste receptors, a suction pump and bellows for the exhaust cycle.
At the window table, I extended my ID. "Slim Gherkin?" He was fully human. I couldn't detect any repair parts or non-organic enhancements, which was unusual.
He took a moment to read the chit. "Detective Jester Steele. A random name choice or is there a message contained therein?"
The question comes up often. "I was in the military when I went droid. Jester was my tactical call sign in an armored assault brigade. The Steele surname was my choice." I took a seat opposite Slim.
"Names fascinate me. I can't imagine why my mother named me a slender pickle." He leaned forward. "How does the Steele handle relate to your inner self?"
I wasn't interested in analyzing his mother or myself. "You were in Level Eight, near the Tackle Shack when one Q'ung 322X was scragged?"
Slim signaled for a drink refill. He may have been stalling -- or just thirsty. I lit a fresh cigar and waited.
"I was in a side corridor near the Tackle Shack. Someone cratered the Q'ung just before I rounded a corner about ten meters from the scene of the crime." He frowned. "Was it a private affair?"
"That's what I'm trying to determine, sir. Med-teks were on hand within minutes. The Q'ung had hardware and organic damage, but it was covered by Full Medical and Collision, so other than lost time and a little pain and suffering, it wasn't harmed."
"I see." Slim toyed with his drink. "Q'ung like pain and suffering."
"True. It filed no complaint, in any event."
"So what is Security's interest? Sounds like a good time was had by all."
"The insurance companies like us to follow up on these cases. There have been a rash of scraggings lately. Did you see who might have cratered the Q'ung?"
"No. I looked at the victim first." His face paled. "It was awful! Q'ung turn my stomach in the best of circumstances and this one was a mess." All his reactions pointed to real distress. Though Federation and Caveat laws frown on the use of active sensors before probable cause is established, no law can prevent passive scanning. Slim's pulse, respiration, blink rate and thermal readings indicated truth or a pathological liar. There is no reliable way to tell the difference, popular Tri-V to the contrary. I moved to my next query.
"Any idea who might have done it?"
"No. All the volk I saw in the corridor were armed, including me. I didn't shoot the creature, but that's all I can tell you for sure."
Therein lay the problem. Crater guns are the ultimate equalizer. A crater charge will stun and immobilize any meat animal, organic sentient, or droid in Known Space. It is adequate defense against most predators, though volk tend to rely on more lethal weapons when an encounter with a meat eater is possible. Crater charges damage tissue and shatter metal and plastic out to fifteen or twenty meters. Like the Q'ung in this case, most of the wounded recover if they receive prompt treatment from competent med-teks. Practically every sentient on Caveat carries a crater gun and there is no method for matching specific weapons to damage patterns.
I lifted my shoulders in a stiff shrug. It probably looks stupid, but I do it without thinking -- a habit left over from my flesh and blood days. "We have video, but the closest pickup was inop. I hoped you could tell me more."
Slim rubbed the side of his jaw and frowned. Finally, he shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing comes to mind. I still can't see the Security interest. Is there any evidence that the med-teks are hiring scraggers? I've heard of such practices."
"No, but some of the recent victims have been uninsured. Several were sent to the forced labor pool so they could work off medical and repair bills. Security HQ is afraid someone is scragging volk in hopes of filling the pool with low-priced labor."
Slim laughed. "I see two problems with that idea. One -- no sane person would want a Q'ung in the labor pool. The things require several vile liquids just to remain in that quaint half-alive state. Two -- crater enough volk and you'll end up killing a few. Has anyone died yet?"
I nodded in agreement. His logic paralleled my own thinking, especially about the Q'ung. "A scragged droid deteriorated to clinical death a ten-day ago. He required an emergency pattern re-plot. I'm told he may have brain damage, but I don’t know how they'll be able to tell for sure."
"Why? What was his specialty?"
"Miner. Drill-jock." We both chuckled. Most volk consider miners, especially drill-jocks, as brain-dead carrion anyway.
Slim and I parted on good terms. I still didn't have any solid information on a possible scragger ring. HQ was not going to be happy.
The joy houses of Eclectic Avenue held no allure for me, so I crossed the street and followed Rewire Road as it wound past a succession of stim joints. I had no solid leads -- in fact, no leads at all. My steps were guided by blind chance. Where craft fails, luck may suffice. Level Eight moved about me, raunchy and splendid. I lit a fresh cigar and watched the volk of Caveat.
Part of an detective's training is to correlate disparate information and use the result to work toward solving a case. No insights occurred to me as I idled along.
A bold female droid stepped from an alley. "Looking for a good time, spacer?"
She possessed an exquisite face -- a work of art -- all in metal. Below the interlocking chrome steel rings of her neck and obscured by the slightest wisp of fabric, she appeared human. Fantasy and dreams for some, nightmarish horror to others. Her slender steel hand touched my arm.
I raised an arm in greeting. "Not I, sister. Seek among those with proper equipment."
A metallic chime drowned out her reply. My sensor array crashed. I sagged to the street, electronics arcing, actuators aquiver. Stunned! Stunning a droid is dangerous. Our circuits are so varied that a charge sufficient to put one down will kill another. Someone had taken the trouble to measure my system parameters. Slim Gherkin? The steel and flesh harlot? My mind pulsed with terror. An image of her karg hide boots flashed and faded. I spun into a void.
****
A blaze of sun forced my vid sensors into darkened mode. I sat up. Rock. Bare rock in all directions. Rock and a naked star overhead and a standard military cot with me in it. One cot, one droid, one star. I recognized the place at once.
Hooligan.
My sense of dislocation immobilized me for a moment. Finally, I groped for the edge of the cot and swung my legs over the side. Reality jerked and slid. My brain, unable to reconcile what had been with what seemed to be, wavered toward madness, then settled for mere acceptance flavored with paranoia -- my normal state of mind.
My bare rock platform was circular in shape and perhaps twenty meters across. I walked to the edge. Down below -- far, far down -- a vast ocean of sand streamed from one horizon to the other. The mountain below me stood aloof from this torrent, though the windblown sand would subsume it in some future millennia. I hoped to miss that event.
There was little air at the level of my perch and no water, but those were of minor interest to me. A fast self-diagnostic check came up nominal -- except my sub-space comm gear showed a fault. I opened my jumper and popped an access panel. The sub-space transceiver slot was empty. My morale sank to an all-time low.
"You there!"
I crouched and turned. One side of my brain went frantic at the thought of rescue. The other side conjectured that I was hallucinating voices via low-hertz comm, even though my mental stability warranty still had at least five years to run.
"Below there! Would you like a lift?"
Droids are often said to be recycled humans. Some refer to us as people on overdrive. But, regardless of labels, there is a price to pay for marrying organic impulses with machinery. Surprise, for instance, sets off a series of human reactions that never work well in a droid. I ended up flat on my back at least five meters from the cliff edge. As luck would have it, I hadn't flailed around and fallen into the distant sand sea.
A great bulbous contraption hovered over me. An android leaned over the rail of a strange boat-shaped affair slung below the bulbous thing.
I'm afraid my greeting was less than cordial. "Who in the Nine Hells are you!"
"Sorry. I'm alone, you see, and had to stay at the controls until I could stabilize my airship. Didn't mean to startle you."
I got up. Some salient facts worked past my surprised anger. Number one -- I was not alone. Two -- this new person had transport.
His craft turned out to be a semi-rigid airship. I learned the details of its construction and methods of lift (hydrogen plus anti-gravity generators) over the next few days. My benefactor bore a plain droid body, with no organic features or other markings at all. Not surprising, since he lived alone and conducted research at altitudes absolutely hostile to living matter.
His name was Duey Gherkin.
"Do you have a relative?" I asked. "Slim?" We were sitting at ease in the main cabin, located in the aft section of the gondola.
"My cousin. A deplorable sort. You've met him?"
"I have. In fact, I strongly suspect his involvement in my arrival here."
"Not surprising. Did Caveat Security suspect him of something?"
"No. At least not when I met him."
"He's usually under suspicion for something. Nothing proved."
Duey, with his airship as a base, was carrying on a very long-term research project having to do with Hooligan's atmosphere. His explanation wandered into the realms of physics and other esoteric subjects until I fell asleep that first day. After that, he worked at his work and I stayed out of the way. Unfortunately, his library collection ran to history, biography, science and mathematics. Of classic detective tales and space opera, he had none. Mostly, I waited.
Once a year, his university sponsors sent in a ship to provide what little fuel and supplies he needed and to collect any physical samples he might have. That ship was due in five ten-days.
Though we had little in common, we did speculate about my predicament. Cousin Slim occupied a prominent place in our discussions.
Duey told me he and Slim had been raised by their maternal grandmother. He turned away as he said it. "Such relationships are preserved at home. Or they were when I was a child."
I couldn't look down on him for the circumstances of his upbringing. My own family has a conservative bent. Mom and Dad were formally married for nearly thirty years. The genetic makeup of my organic body had been a mixture of theirs, with no customization. In spite of that, I coped.
"What world was that?" I asked. No sense dwelling on the deprived circumstances of our long-ago youth.
"One Hit Wonder. Have you heard of it?"
I said yes, though I'm not sure he believed me. Once, long ago, due to an unfortunate juxtaposition of events, I spent a year in a medium security prison. The experience left me with a liking for burned meat and gravy poured over blackened bread and the ability to recite the names of every Federation planet then known -- all 103 of them. One Hit Wonder was on that list as a Found Planet. Our forebears had a penchant for losing themselves in the vastness of the Galaxy only to be found after interminable periods by their ever-questing offspring. The reunions were not always desired or desirable.
He fell silent for some time. I remained still, assuming him to be occupied with memories of a happy youth. Eventually, I grew restless.
"You lived with this -- ah, this grandmother?"
He started. "I'm sorry. Solitary life has left me unfit for company. I was thinking of the experimental sequences I must run tomorrow."
So much for childhood ruminations. "How were you orphaned?"
"Our mothers had no binding relationship with our father or fathers. We never knew if a living person was involved or if our paternal side came from a specimen jar. The subject never came up, that I can recall." He hesitated, then continued: "A local worship society sponsored a cruise to a star they considered divine, for reasons I've never been able to fathom."
"A common problem," I murmured.
"My mother accompanied a society member on the cruise. Slim's mother was hired as an actress to play a role in a dramatic reproduction of their God's martyrdom. She often played such parts and was in constant demand by various societies.
"Something went wrong with the ship. I have long suspected Slim's involvement, but as with other suspicions relating to Slim, nothing has ever been proved.
"The Qua-Coil engines failed in a catastrophic manner. The starship and all within it was converted to unsynchronized FTL particles." Duey sighed. "Some maintain that the people could be recovered by a properly constructed receiver. Theoretically, my mother is still alive. Be that as it may, the insurance companies paid all claims. Pragmatism triumphed over theory, as usual."
I offered condolences. "But surely you should have been taken to a crèche?"
"The local crèche refused us. There were reasons. I was ten and my cousin two years older. He was suspected of complicity in a data alteration scheme which stripped local residents of a large quantity of credits. His accomplices went to prison, but he was too young to be charged. We were given into the care of our grandmother. She and Slim had a tense relationship."
"What of the stolen credits? Surely they could be traced?"
"The funds were never recovered." Duey assumed a posture of amusement. "When it came time for Slim and I to train for an occupation, credits were available."
I thought back to my encounter in the bar. "I took Slim for a businessman."
"He has been that, but it is a sham. His outward appearance is always innocent. He studied anything that aided him in fraud. Mechanics, ethics, qua-space navigation, oceanography, faro, landscape design. I don't know the extent of his knowledge."
"But what does he do? You hint at theft via chicanery. Describe a typical scam."
Duey spread his arms. "The thing is beyond me. We've seen little of each other in the past decade or longer. I don't wish to know his schemes."
I judged that he knew nothing. My own training included a thorough grounding in illegal schemes designed to separate individuals from their credits. Most require some degree of greed on the part of the victim. Upon my return to Caveat, there was little doubt that I could penetrate Slim's fraudulent undertakings and bring him to justice. The supply ship was due in another ten-day.
*****
We boarded the supply vessel upon its arrival. The ship captain was unimpressed both by my Security chit and my request for transport to Caveat.
"I ain't goin' back to Caveat," snarled the creature, one Bossi, a six-legged werecat from Engine Failure. "I just two-jumped from there with Gherkin's supplies. The station won't have no more cargo for out-system destinations for at least four ten-days. Docking fees would kill me. You wanna charter the ship?" He named a figure approximately ten times my annual salary.
Orbital dynamics are of little interest to me, but I knew that Caveat orbits Hooligan at no great distance. "It's just a short hop, sir. You can drop me off."
Bossi spat a couple of were-words and turned toward Duey. "Are all cops born stupid or do they wipe their upper registers at hiring?"
"He's a specialist," said Duey, in a soothing tone. "A detective. I gather that such cops require an eclectic mix of knowledge."
"Eclectic or moronic?" Bossi waved away my protests. "Lock down your speech center, Pester. I've cargo to move." He scrabbled off into the bowels of the ship.
"That's Jester," I called, but he was already out of sight. "He has no respect for officers of the law."
Duey was sympathetic. "An all too-common defect of character, I'm afraid."
"I must have said something wrong. Is there really a problem with making a little jaunt over to Caveat and dropping me off?"
Duey brought up a system display. "Sub-space engines require a lot of expensive fuel. Plus, there's the time required." The vid panel produced a simulation involving Hooligan, Caveat and a multitude of curving lines. Duey ran a finger over the loops and whirls. "Unless one has unlimited conversion mass available, Hooligan to Caveat requires a transit of about four or five ten-days. You can't micro-jump this deep in Hooligan's gravity well. Most freighters carry only enough fuel for maneuvering between an in-system nav point and their destination station. The university pays heavily for the fuel required on these supply runs. That's why they only occur once a year. And even with extra fuel for descent and departure, the trips are only feasible if the supply vessel jumps out-system, then back in."
My business and computational registers began to signal overload conditions. I planted my rear end in a seat and fought off a sudden wave of vertigo. Duey kept quiet while I administered soothing jolts of raw electrons to various parts of my brain. By the time Bossi finished his cargo handling, I was my old self.
He shucked his worksuit and climbed onto a padded platform surrounded by ship controls and displays. Grooming was his first order of business. For this he used a glittering steel comb with teeth that moved as if seeking prey. In fact, after a couple passes through his flowing mane (black with two white stripes down the back), Bossi picked a small, pink wiggler out of the comb and ate it with apparent relish. I thought I heard a tiny scream.
Other than in Tri-V training films, I had never seen a werecat before. Shaped like an elongated Terran weasel, the creatures are carnivores, with the usual binocular vision, sensitive sight and hearing, oversize skull and multi-purpose teeth. These last are arranged in a lupine-like snout. Werecats move about on their short middle and rear legs, which are equipped with ripping claws. The front legs are equipped with a pair of fingers opposed by a shorter, thumb-like digit, each with a ribbed inner surface and a chitinous outer sheath. I resolved never to needlessly anger a werecat.
Old Garn, our "Know Your Federation Volk" instructor back at Shamus Academy, told us werecats have a vile temperament. He claimed they tend to end up as criminals or intelligence officers. Fortunately, he pointed out, only one in a thousand develop cognitive abilities. The rest, though just as rotten-tempered as their smarter kin, have the intellectual capacity of meteoric iron.
"You can come along," rasped Bossi. "But the return trip to Caveat will be by way of Genetic Drift, Engine Failure and Zeno IV, with other detours possible, depending on available cargo."
"How long will that take?"
Bossi snarled something. "Caveat won't have out-system cargo for four ten-days. Does that give you a clue, Detective Pester?"
"That's Jester," I said, with as much stiff formality as I could muster. Four ten-days! HQ would not be pleased with me. But, what choice did I have?
"I have no choice. What accommodations can you offer?"
"None! I have no room for idlers. You'll work your way or remain here."
"But -- Security will pay any reasonable expenses, once we arrive at Caveat. In fact, I'll send a 'gram from Genetic Drift and obtain a purchase order covering my accommodations."
The werecat and Duey expressed an unseemly amount of mirth. "All right," said Bossi. "I'll rate you as Unskilled Deckhand for the first leg. Then we'll see."
Within the hour I bid farewell to Duey Gherkin and embarked on a hell voyage. My tasks included cleaning the heads, chipping tube mold, polishing ports and scrubbing a century or more of crud from deck plates. Bossi's crew was small, as befits a marginal operation. Monk, a Green Gridge, lived and worked in the engine room. He seldom left the power section when in transit and never when we were docked at a station. I came to believe he was wanted by the authorities or by swindled confederates.
Monk made me clean and polish gigantic shaft bearings and other machinery to a mirror-like finish. He often stalked the power rooms, crater gun clutched in one grasping member, muttering in a strange mixture of Standard and what I took to be his native speech. I gathered from his raving that he sought certain jodies in the dark spaces behind the fusion bottles and in the shadows of his mind. I found work in other parts of the ship during these episodes.
The only other crew volk was Alias Baker. A shady character, of apparent human origin, Baker told me several tales of his past, none of which tallied with the others. To my sensors each story registered as truth. His eyes had that peculiar ruby glitter indicative of an enhanced visual suite. I once tried an active scan on him and discovered that his body and inner workings were protected by an All-Over Sensor Shield (pat. pending). I'm sure he knew of the scan, though no mention was ever made of it. All-Over shielding is expensive, not to mention difficult to acquire. The installation and integration process is painful in the extreme. I asked no questions of Baker. Curiosity seemed dangerous.
Bossi required me to stand bridge watches during my rest periods. "You can monitor the ship sensors while you sleep," he snarled. The partial neural activity stretched my daily rest period from four hours to six, but the werecat liked it that way. He evidently didn't have to pay me when resting, not even if I were engaged in monitoring sensors. I resolved to inquire into spacer guild membership.
(tbc)
