Junkyard
Page 3
“I did not ask him about the status of his limbs,” Scipio said, “but that is his name. I am not familiar with the second man. It is possible he is the third sick individual, the one who was not in his domicile.”
“He doesn’t look that sick.”
“He may also be someone from outside the organization. Let me adjust the camera to better see his face.”
“Don’t get too close,” McCall warned. “My hover-cams are a lot smaller and quieter than imperial spy boxes, but they’re not invisible.”
“Yes, Captain.”
McCall leaned forward as the camera slowly shifted its position to give them a view of the newcomer’s face. Since it was positioned so far above the men, and twilight was creeping in, she had a hard time telling if it was one of the employees from the roster. She’d looked at the faces, bios, and background information on them all already and had been queuing up the footage she’d acquired from the traffic cameras when the alarm chimed.
“That is Erik Pottinger,” Scipio said. “The missing sick man.”
“I’m glad you’re better at faces than I am.” She decided she had been right to hire Scipio, even if he hadn’t yet figured out that she didn’t want to take on bizarre assignments that took her out of her comfort zone. “I wish we had audio.”
Unfortunately, the cameras weren’t that sophisticated. She would have needed to purchase larger, more noticeable units if she wanted extra features, and she’d thought stealth might be more important than sound.
“We could go out and question them,” Scipio said. “With my speed, I could catch them before they could escape.”
McCall grimaced. Running down people and questioning them was even less in her comfort zone than searching for syrup.
“We don’t have the authority to do that, and somehow, I doubt you’ve been programmed to effectively interrogate people.”
“This is true. My programming would suggest I make them coffee after capturing them.”
“Unless you make it so hot that it scalds their throats on the way down, I don’t see that as an effective interrogation method.” She understood why Scipio had chosen a name for himself instead of going by his serial number, but it amused her that he’d named himself after an Old Earth general. Maybe he aspired to overcome his programming and become a master military tactician someday.
“Perhaps we should simply observe them,” he said.
“I think so.”
The two men walked to a door, unlocked it, and went into the warehouse.
“It’s possible they don’t want to be observed,” McCall said.
“Their body language did not suggest they were aware of our surveillance. It is possible they represent the night-shift security guards. I thought it unusual that Dunham did not leave employees at the warehouse since, earlier in the day, he said he was doing so now.”
“Maybe they’re the ones responsible for the heist, and they’ve come to cover some tracks.”
“I did not observe any tracks on the floor when we were inside.”
McCall looked at him, wondering if that was one of his attempts at humor, or if he was being literal. He wasn’t wearing one of his expressions that she’d identified to give her any clues.
She leaned back in the seat and twisted her bracelet on her wrist, barely aware of the bronze charms tinkling. “From what’s in their files, Pottinger is a security guard, like Mahajan. They were both infantry in the fleet and served for one enlistment term before getting out and seeking civilian work. Infantry specialize in ground warfare and also getting into enemy ships, rushing through the corridors, and subduing the foolish souls opposing the empire. They had a lot of training on how to kill people with their pinkies. None of the courses listed on their résumés suggest they had computer or electronics training, so I’m skeptical that either of them could alter the security cameras. It’s always possible one of them has a hobby, though, if not any formal training.”
“Killing people with their pinkies? Even an android would find a single diminutive digit insufficient for such a purpose.”
“Never mind. It’s just a saying. Do you think we could maneuver the camera to get it into the warehouse? We should have done it when they had the door open. Damn. Wait.” McCall leaned forward in her seat again and made a hooking motion with her finger to draw the display from the other camera to the forefront. “Who’s this?”
A man wearing a fur cap hurried out the rear door of the warehouse, glancing over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. There weren’t any exterior lights back there, so she doubted even Scipio would be able to make out his face.
Instead of heading toward the lot near the sugarhouse where a couple of ground vehicles were parked, he made his way along the back of the building toward the junkyard. A few lampposts along its perimeter shed illumination near the fence.
“I am attempting to angle the camera so that we will be able to see his face if he walks into the light,” Scipio said.
“Good.” McCall tapped her foot and twiddled the unicorn charm on her bracelet. “Do you think the dog is barking at all this activity?”
They couldn’t hear sound through the thick, insulated hull of the ship.
“I have not yet detected its movement,” Scipio said. “It may be asleep.”
McCall hoped it had a cozy den somewhere in the junkyard and that someone fed it regularly. Even so, she imagined the existence to be lonely. No wonder it got cranky at the denizens next door.
A dark blur ran through the shadows inside the fence as the man approached from the outside. He stepped into the light, and Scipio worked the camera down closer. The man pulled something out from inside his jacket and unwrapped it. The blur—the dog—arrived on the other side of the fence, a mass of gray, black, and brown fur. Thanks to the perimeter lighting, his wagging tail was visible.
“Not quite the monster Dunham made him out to be.” McCall didn’t like calling anything it, so she assigned the dog a sex based on its—his—size. She had no idea if it was correct.
As the man slid pieces of a sandwich through the gap between the fence boards, the camera drew close enough for his face to be visible.
“Louis Desmarais,” Scipio said, identifying him. “He effectively evaded my questioning earlier, so I have not spoken with him. Also, I believed he had left the premises earlier when he went into the woods, so I did not consider him when I was counting employees as they left the building. He must have returned before I set up the cameras.”
“I spoke with him briefly earlier.”
“Did you find it appealing to speak to one of your kind?”
McCall blinked. “My kind?”
“When I interviewed one of his colleagues, the man mentioned he was autistic. He grew up on a border planet and was not taken to a hospital as a child for the empire’s normalization surgery.”
McCall blew out a slow breath and pointedly unclasped the charm she’d been twirling. “It’s not really a kind. It’s not like we share a cultural background or both go to the same church and sing Sun Trinity hymns together.”
“Do you not have the common link of having been born on a border world?”
“No, I was born on Perun. My mother had access to imperial hospitals. She just didn’t trust them. She never went herself, which resulted in her dying far younger than she should have, and she never took us—my sister and me.”
Louis finished feeding the dog, patted him through the fence, then tugged his collar up against the breeze and headed toward the vehicle lot.
“Scipio, why don’t we take a tour of that junkyard?” McCall suggested.
“The gate is locked, and the junkyard is not owned by the Dunham family.”
“No, it’s owned by Jacob Hyssop who has been off-moon for the last year. I checked the tax records for the neighboring properties.”
“Wise. Do you believe it possible the missing maple syrup is being stored over there until such time that security lessens at the spaceport?”
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“That would certainly be convenient for us, but I’m not going to get my hopes up.” She worried the maple syrup was long gone, that it had indeed been stolen during the quiet of winter, despite the supposedly undisturbed door locks, and that filling the containers with water had kept Dunham from discovering the theft in a timely manner.
“I will get a stun gun in case we need to handle the dog.”
“I’ll get a steak.”
Scipio gave her Curious Head Tilt Number Two.
“For the same reason,” she explained and headed to the ship’s kitchen.
Technically, it wasn’t a steak. It was a turkey-cranberry ration bar that had been purchased because the ingredients did not upset McCall’s stomach. She did not tolerate any form of dairy from cows or jakloffs, nor did she do well with grains. She assumed dogs wouldn’t object to the lack of such things. Just in case, she had heated it so it would smell more enticing.
Scipio, his stun gun in hand, did not look like he believed the bribe would gain them entrance to the junkyard.
They walked quickly across the cracked pavement, the frosty air encouraging briskness. It was easily ten degrees chillier than it had been that morning when they landed. McCall knew nothing about maple sap but was surprised it could flow when the temperatures were barely above freezing during the day.
Maybe this was a cold snap, or the end of one. Or maybe Dunham was trying to get production going early in the year because he feared the imperials would descend upon him if he couldn’t come up with the tax money due on the stolen syrup. A legitimate fear, unfortunately.
The government tended to be draconian in their tax collections, as she knew since she had been late a couple of times. Not because she didn’t have the money but because she’d been focused on her work and had forgotten—or maybe forgotten to muster the enthusiasm—to open the warning messages sitting in her inbox. Now, she had a bookkeeper to help out and ensure she stayed in the empire’s good graces.
A deep baying echoed from within the junkyard. The sound of claws on pavement followed, and heavy pants emanated from behind the fence. A thud came, and the closest boards rattled.
McCall jumped, clenching her ration bar tightly while worrying that her bribery plan might not be sufficient. Just because Louis had befriended the savage beast over who knew how many months didn’t mean she could do the same thing.
“If the owner, Jacob Hyssop, is not currently on the moon, who is caring for the dog?” Scipio asked, not noticeably fazed by the shaking boards.
Was the dog trying to get out and devour them whole? Or maybe he was so eager to play that he was bumping his huge body against them.
More barks sounded. He wasn’t growling, at least.
“I don’t know. Maybe just Louis. If the poor dog has been in there as long as Hyssop has been gone, I’m going to use your stun gun on him if I ever see him.” McCall forced herself to keep walking until they reached the wide front entrance, which consisted of two chain-link gates that could be rolled to the sides so vehicles could drive in. The rest of the fence was made of wood. There wasn’t any barbed wire along the top and certainly nothing as high-tech as a forcefield. A stiff wind could have thwarted the rusty padlock holding the gates shut.
The dog appeared, leaping in from the side and startling McCall anew with his size. He barked ferociously at them, and this time, a few frustrated growls escaped.
Scipio raised his stun gun.
“Wait.” McCall lifted a hand to stop him, then tore off a chunk of the ration bar. She had two more in their wrappers in her pocket should a more substantial bribe be required.
She tossed the piece over the gate to land between the dog’s paws. He snapped at the air and scurried back, leaving the treat untouched on the ground.
McCall lifted the rest of the bar to her mouth and simulated eating it, complete with nom-nom sounds of enjoyment.
Scipio looked at her, and she felt silly.
“It worked on my college roommate’s dog,” she said.
“Are you sure the stun gun would not be preferable? If it continues to bark, the noise could alert the two men in the warehouse.”
“I get the feeling he barks a lot and the employees ignore it.” McCall backed up a few paces in case that would help the dog relax.
Scipio did the same.
The barking stopped, and the dog came forward and sniffed the treat. A tongue almost as big as McCall’s forearm came out and lapped it up. She was fairly certain he consumed it too quickly to taste it, but he tilted his head, big furry ears flopping, in a gesture that reminded her of one of Scipio’s curious expressions.
McCall ripped off another piece of the bar and tossed it inside. The dog ate it promptly, and his tail wagged slightly.
“Shall I break the lock while it is distracted?” Scipio asked.
“He.”
“Pardon?”
“While he’s distracted. And I was thinking we could just climb over the fence. We don’t need to drive a vehicle inside.”
“How can you ascertain its—his?—sex? The dog’s genitalia are covered by fur.”
“Just a hunch.” McCall didn’t want to explain why she thought it dehumanizing—dedogizing—to call him an it. “Will you let me climb in there with you, boy?” She tossed over another piece of the ration bar, then approached the gate and put her hands on the chain links.
She was tempted to try to go over the fence farther away from the dog, so he wouldn’t see her as a threat, but the planks didn’t offer sufficient handholds.
Scipio stepped closer to the gate, pointing the muzzle of his stun gun through one of the gaps. The dog stopped wagging his tail, and he backed up, sniffing the air.
“I’m still hoping that won’t be necessary.” McCall climbed slowly to the top. She paused, straddling the cross bar, and tossed the last piece. As she pulled out another bar, she asked, “Do you have a name, buddy?”
She kept talking in a soothing voice as she climbed down the other side of the gate. The dog didn’t have a collar or any visible identification, so she had no way to guess his name.
His tail wagged uncertainly, and his eyes focused on her second bar. As she unwrapped it, she walked closer, looking at the scenery as she continued to talk soothingly. She’d grown up with a fluffy mutt and had always liked animals, so it wasn’t difficult to “talk dog,” so to speak. If a spaceship were a good environment for pets, she would likely have a cargo hold full of them. She decided not to point out to Scipio that she was more likely to consider animals her “kind” than another human being, autistic or not.
Scipio leaped the fence with an inhuman bound, barely bending his synthetic knees as he landed.
“Show off,” McCall said.
The dog growled, his tail going straight out like a rigid flag.
“It’s all right, boy,” McCall said. “He’s with me. We just want a quick tour, eh?” She tossed him a piece of bar. “Care to lead the way?”
The dog trotted over to a stack of moldy clothing and lifted his leg.
“He appears uncooperative,” Scipio observed.
“It’s possible he doesn’t speak System Standard,” McCall said dryly, heading deeper into the junkyard.
Only one aisle down the center was wide enough to accommodate vehicles. Elsewhere, narrow paths were framed by massive stacks of robot parts, broken appliances, tires and wheels, and cardboard boxes half-disintegrated from the weather.
A mouse scurried out as she started down the first path, and the dog sprang into motion, catching it before it could scurry back under cover. He devoured it in a gulp.
“I’m guessing you don’t get enough food, boy.” McCall walked toward a dented, rusty drum that looked like the drums inside the warehouse. She withdrew her netdisc from her pocket and pulled up the flashlight application. The Maple Moon logo, a tree with a spherical silhouette behind it, was stamped on one side, as faded from the elements as the cardboard boxes. “This has been here a while.”
“It looks far too old to have been stolen this year, right?” McCall knew things could be weathered prematurely, but it was hard to imagine someone bothering. Besides, the drums weren’t what had been stolen. Their contents were missing.
“Forgive me,” Scipio said. “I did not realize you had stopped communicating with the dog and were speaking to me. Yes, I estimate that has been outside for ten years.”
The dog headed to Scipio and sniffed his leg.
“If he urinates on my handmade, jakloff-leather Taglio loafers, I believe I will be within my rights as a consumer and appreciator of fine footwear to stun him.”
“I disagree. Anyone who wears shoes with pretentious tassels deserves to have his foot peed on.”
“My tassels serve an aesthetic function. They are not pretentious.”
McCall waved another piece of the ration bar. “Come on, boy. Show me where the stolen maple syrup is.”
As the dog bounded toward her, Scipio headed down another path. “I will search for condemning evidence on this side of the junkyard,” he called back.
“That’s his way of protecting his tassels,” McCall murmured.
The dog took the treat from her hand with a surprisingly gentle mouth and wagged his tail as he jumped away again. He was younger than she had first guessed. Maybe only a couple of years old and still playful. He bounded in again, and by the light of her netdisc, she noticed the fur on his right side was matted and had something stuck to it.
“What’s wrong there, boy? Got tar or something stuck to you?” She held out another treat but kept it in her fist as he approached.
He grew still as he sniffed at her fist, and she got a better look at his side. Her jaw sagged open in horror.
“Not tar,” she whispered. A shard of metal thrust out of his side like an arrowhead but much larger. His fur was matted with dried blood. She leaned in, trying to see better, but he scurried back. “No wonder you have tendencies toward crabbiness,” she murmured. “Who did this to you?”