A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  “Uh-oh,” said Fletcher. “I think I broke him.”

  Zagarat’s weeping/sniffling/chuckling slowly faded away. “Oh, I hate you so much.”

  “Now, now,” said Fletcher. “Remember our mantra.”

  “Everything will work out just fine for us.”

  “That’s the one,” said Fletcher. “So, relax. I’ve done this before. Besides, he’s a midlevel executive. How much security could his pod actually have?”

  Zagarat could nearly hear Clemona, the Armedian Goddess of Irony, laughing in the distance.

  agarat kept watch as Fletcher ran his hand along the locking mechanism. Although, to be quite honest, Zag had no idea what he was actually supposed to be watching for. Probably watching for anything suspicious. But the only two things that looked suspicious right now were Fletcher and he. Or him and Fletcher. Zagarat was never very good at he and hims. Or she and hers for that matter. The only thing he was any good at was me and I.

  And me and I were scared as hell.

  The whole thing was reminiscent of Errin Zee in Ginley Aust’s newest book, The Oritz Thief Strikes at Midnight. Of course, Zee was a stalwart heroine who never exhibited an ounce of emotion, especially fear, when she broke into a sentient’s apartment.

  Conversely, Zagarat nearly peed his pants at the mere notion.

  But otherwise, it was just like the novel.

  The Mayoo Mayoo Apartments were definitely not what Zagarat had expected. He figured a mid-level Deus executive like Bent lived in a luxury high-rise somewhere. Something with guards and a sharply-dressed concierge in the lobby.

  But he didn’t. He lived in a simple four-story blackstone building with a laughable security door at the front entrance. It took Fletcher all of two seconds to pop open the door. The security cameras were just as laughable. Half of them weren’t even hooked up properly while the other half barely covered the hallways. Fletcher was able to dexterously slip past most the cameras with relative ease. Or so Zagarat guessed as no alarms blared to life and no security officers arrived, eager to practice their aim on a few unsuspecting sentients.

  “All right,” said Fletcher, examining the lock. “Let’s see what we got here. This looks like a Deus Maglock, probably a LT4 model, linked to a wi-card.” He retrieved a small wallet from his pocket and fumbled through the sundry cards within. “Deus LT4, Deus LT4.” He pulled out a card. “Here we go.” He placed the card in the door’s slot. There was a beeping sound and the doors softly swished open. “See? I told you it’d be easy.”

  “What did you just use on the door?” asked Zagarat, following Fletcher inside.

  “It’s a Deus Master-card. It allows Deus to override any of their security systems.”

  “Really?” asked Zagarat. “I’ve never heard of it. How did you get it?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “What can I say? I’m me. Now, we don’t have a lot of time. Get on his console and see if you can find anything. I’m gonna go take a look around.”

  Zagarat nodded and walked into the living room. It was a quaint little space–twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide with canary yellow walls and soft umber wood flooring. It was also fairly barren. There were only two vid screens on the walls; one displaying a resplendent pic of a Bylarian Sunrise while the second was a kaleidoscopic replica of Oooeee Oooeee’s masterpiece, Labyrinth of Madness. To Zagarat, it looked like one of those puzzle mazes he had played with as a child but, according to scholars, it was a thing of beauty and wonder. Go figure.

  There was a Bylarian Lounjay against a nearby wall, with a plush lavender cushion and a bloodwood frame that was reputed to glisten with droplets of red sap every third fiscal quarter. Beside it sat a projector for a UES vidavision.

  But there was no sign of a PC or a PCD anywhere.

  “I don’t see it in here,” said Zagarat.

  “Come to the bedroom,” Fletcher called out.

  Zagarat found Fletcher in the bedroom, rummaging through Bent’s drawers and cabinets.

  “You find anything good in here?” asked Zagarat.

  “Not much,” said Fletcher, holding a tube up to the light. “Although, if I’m reading this right, Bent suffers from a unine tract infection.”

  “Is it contagious?” asked Zagarat, sitting down at the PC.

  “I certainly hope not,” he said, replacing the tube in the drawer. “But I think we should thoroughly sanitize our hands after this, just in case.” Fletcher shut the drawer carefully then walked over to Zagarat. “You in his system yet?”

  “In and already mirroring his files. His security was laughable. I don’t know why so many sentients use the Deus Carrot OS. It may be sentient friendly, but it’s eminently hackable.”

  “Well, I’m glad I have an eminent hacker with me then,” said Fletcher. “Find anything we could use?”

  “Not yet,” said Zagarat. “I’ve queried using some keywords, but no luck so far. I’m taking snapshots of various files. I’ll take a better look at them later.”

  “Good call,” said Fletcher. “We definitely want to get out of here before…”

  And then, as if Clemona had been listening, the apartment door opened.

  “Get under the bed,” said Fletcher, quickly.

  “What?” said Zagarat, looking around the room.

  “Get under the bed,” said Fletcher, pushing Zag down to the floor. He nudged Zagarat lightly with his foot (or what others might call kicked) then rolled in beside him.

  Fletcher and Zagarat both lay absolutely motionless, as if performing a post-postmodern dance routine by that singular choreographer Irfa Zee.

  Post-postmodern dance was created in response to the postmodern dance craze where dancers move around as frenetically as they can for an hour or so.

  Less, if the performers pass out from exhaustion.

  In Post-postmodern dance, the dancers stand absolutely still for an indeterminate amount of time, thereby creating a negative space wherein the viewer anticipates the moment of movement. The longest performance was initially reported by Beron Bool on Bylar Prime who claimed to have witnessed a riveting performance where the dancers did not move for a full three hours. Sadly, critics later refuted his claim, pointing out that the timestamps on his picvids were actually from the day before, which meant that those weren’t actually dancers in his picvids, but rather mannequins from the previous day’s bridal festival.

  For countless moments, there was nothing but silence. A foreboding silence. The kind of silence that pummels the eardrum with the sound of not being. And then a girlish giggle pierced the silence. The bed overhead shifted and sagged, the torsonwood bedframe striking the plastereen wall with a dull thud. Then another thud. Then another. Then another, each thud quicker and thuddier than the last.

  In time, it nearly sounded like a metronome in a prurient orchestra on Somnia.

  “Are they, uh…” whispered Zagarat, pressing his hands together.

  “Oh, yes!” came a female shout.

  Fletcher nodded. “I think so,” he mouthed.

  The thudding continued for a good minute, crescendoing with praise to the Cosmic Creator and a scream of utter adulation.

  Zagarat’s body shook under the pressure. His hands quaked. His legs danced a jig in syncopation with his beating heart, which was at a lively polka level. He even held his breath in the off chance the tenants above had exceptional hearing.

  When a pair of hairy legs teetered over the edge of the bed and landed inches away from Zag’s face, the tech nearly shrieked in terror. And then he nearly shrieked again when an equally hairy hand reached down to scratch an equally hairy calf and Zag saw the man’s face.

  It was Bent. It was actually Bent.

  Logically, Zag knew that it was probably Bent before he ever saw his face, but the creative side of his mind still held out hope that maybe, just maybe it wasn’t Augus Bent. Maybe they had entered the wrong apartment. Maybe this was a Xeroson female with needle-like hairs all over her legs. And maybe she was there with her r
oommate who wanted to act upon a primal impulse with which she had been struggling for years. And maybe they needed a tech to help them sort out their feelings.

  The script nearly wrote itself.

  But then reality slapped Zag hard across the cerebral cortex, waking him from his prurient daydreaming. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Fletcher pulling a pistol from behind his back. But that wasn’t what worried Zagarat. It was the look on Fletcher’s face.

  He followed the privateer’s gaze only to find Augus Bent staring at them.

  “Oh, shleck,” said Zagarat, pithy as always.

  Augus Bent jumped to his feet just as Fletcher rolled out from under the bed. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” came Fletcher’s voice in an ominous warning. “Sit down.”

  The bed sagged above Zagarat’s head.

  “You can come out now,” said Fletcher.

  “I’m good under here,” said Zagarat, his voice cracking. “Thank you, though.”

  “Zagarat,” said Fletcher, levelly. “Get out now.”

  “But I don’t want to…”

  “Zag!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Zagarat, reluctantly crawling out from under the bed. He found himself standing next to a lovely Kelesi with lavender hair, ebony skin, and yellow eyes.

  A woman who was also completely naked.

  “Hello,” she said, reaching out her hand. “I’m Gilly. I’m a whore.”

  “Hello,” said Zagarat, looking away when she uncrossed her legs. “I’m Zag. And I’m not.” He reached out his hand then quickly pulled it back. “And that wasn’t your hand. Sorry.”

  “Gilly, what are you doing here?” said Fletcher, his eyes and aim leveled on Bent. “I thought I told you to keep him occupied for a few hours.”

  “I tried to,” said Gilly. “But he insisted on coming back here. He even gave me a tip.”

  “From the sound of it, I think he gave you more than the tip,” said Fletcher.

  “Ha ha,” said Gilly. “Very funny.”

  “I thought so,” said Fletcher, never taking his eyes off of Bent. “Well, thanks for trying, Gilly. You can go.”

  “Are you sure?” said Gilly, licking her lips. She then began rubbing her foot up and down Zagarat’s leg. “You paid for two hours. You really should get your money’s worth.”

  Zagarat stiffened—but not in that way—utterly frightened of this strange new universe where beautiful women flirted with him. It was nearly as frightening as the situation itself.

  “Consider the rest a bonus,” said Fletcher. “Now, go.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Gilly, standing. She paused beside Zagarat, placing her hand on his chest. “Call me next time you’re on planet. I have a Princess Ayana outfit you might like.”

  Zagarat’s mouth gaped open. “The one with the Corsis diamonds?”

  “And little else,” said Gilly, with a coquettish grin.

  “Thank you, Gilly,” said Fletcher, curtly. “Now, please leave before my colleague explodes, one way or another.”

  Gilly let out a wicked chuckle, then wrapped herself in a long ivory coat, leaving her shoulders and legs exposed. It was a visual Zagarat found more alluring than her denuded form.

  “Now, Augus Bent,” said Fletcher, gravely. “We need to talk.”

  “Deus will kill you both for this,” said Bent, his gaze never wavering from the gun. “No one threatens a Deus exec and lives to tell about it.”

  “Who do you think sent me?” said Fletcher.

  Ben flinched. “DIA sent you?”

  Fletcher nodded. “And Internal Affairs doesn’t like what you’re doing on this planet.”

  Augus Bent’s face went ashen. “Okay, I can explain,” he said, holding up his hands. “Yes, we use a third party corp for our SR and yes, some of those sentients are felons. But they’re the good kind of felons. The ones that steal your money not the rapey kind.”

  Fletcher said nothing. He simply stared.

  “Okay, okay,” said Bent, holding out his hands defensively. “Yes, I get a little kickback from the subsidiary companies, but it saves Deus thousands.” Fletcher continued to stare. “And yes, I might have charged Deus for a business trip to Somnia, which wasn’t entirely all business. And maybe the woman with me wasn’t my secretary, but rather a well-compensated escort.”

  When Fletcher’s level gaze did not waver, Bent continued to unburden his soul. “Fine, fine. I may have uncovered some sludge on a Junior Vice President and perhaps that’s why Mayoo has been appropriating lucrative contracts from the other branches.”

  “I knew it!” exclaimed Zagarat. “That’s why we lost the Derson and Permony accounts to you bastards, isn’t it?”

  “Zag,” said Fletcher. “That’s not why we’re here and you know it.”

  “All right, all right,” said Bent. “The truth is…”

  Bent continued his corporate confession for what seemed like an eternity, each transgression more soporific than the last.

  “Okay, okay, I grew up on a farm and I was getting a little homesick. That’s the only reason I queried girl with a Ferelian goat.”

  That immediately woke Zag up. He looked over at Fletcher who looked just as amazed at this revelation. They even stepped back, as if Bent had suddenly become radioactive.

  “I don’t care about that!” erupted Fletcher. “Tell me what you know about Galustay.”

  Augus Bent blinked. “What about it?”

  “Deus execs are using Galustay and rumor has it that your branch is the source.”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” said Bent, pressing out his hands. “I might use the stuff from time to time, but I don’t know where it comes from. I promise you that.”

  “Really?” said Fletcher, sarcastically.

  “Really,” said Bent.

  “Really?” said Fletcher, his sarcasm laced with a tinge of doubt.

  “Really,” said Bent. “Every once in a while, an exec will show up and offer you a vial. Or someone in the office will have a little extra sitting around and you might take a nip. But we would never sell or make that stuff here. We have too much integrity to do something like that.”

  Zagarat nearly chuckled at the sentient logic. It was enough to make you laugh.

  And possibly weep.

  Fletcher considered Bent for a long time. “Well, DIA will be happy to hear that,” he said finally. “So, do you have any idea where this Galustay is coming from?”

  Bent shook his head. “None whatsoever. But I do have some in that drawer over there. Maybe DIA can track it back to its source.”

  Fletcher retrieved a vial from the dresser. He held it up to the light, the unctuous white liquid coruscating as he swirled the bottle between his fingers. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the vial. “I’m sure DIA will be very pleased to hear of your cooperation.”

  “Absolutely,” said Bent. “Anything I can do to help.”

  “And no more Galustay,” said Fletcher. “You understand me?” Augus Bent nodded. “And no more of that goat stuff either. Just… no. No. That’s a bad Bent. Very bad.”

  “You have my word,” said Bent. “DIA can be sure of that.”

  “Good,” said Fletcher. “And if I were you, Mr. Bent, I would not get the local authorities involved in this matter. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely,” said Bent, eagerly. “Consider it done.”

  “Enjoy your evening,” said Fletcher. “Come on, Zag. Let’s go.”

  inholes of shimmering galactic white light pierced the expansive ebon black canvas above as the slightest hint of Evenin blossoms filled the air. Uanus, Mayoo’s only moon, hovered off in the distance like a refulgent agate shooter in the Universe’s game of marbles. There was a cutting chill in the air, the kind that slices its way up your leg and nicks its way down your spine. It was the kind of night that seemed like a distant memory you never experienced.

  At least, that was how Ginley Aust would have described it in an Errin Zee novel. To Zag, it was cold. There were
no clouds. The moon was big and bright. And the air kind of stank a little bit.

  “What are you gonna do now?” asked Zagarat as they walked.

  “Go back to the hotel,” said Fletcher. “Regroup. Not much else we can do.”

  “So, you really think Bent doesn’t know anything about this Galustay drug?”

  “My gut says he’s telling the truth,” said Fletcher. “But we’ll learn more when we recompile the information you gathered. You do have the datacrystals with you, right?”

  Zagarat patted his pocket. “Safe and secure.”

  “Good.”

  They reached the intersection of Zefrod and De-ahl. Even though Zag’s PCD instructed them to go straight, Fletcher took a hard right down De-ahl Street.

  “I think our hotel is that way,” said Zagarat, pointing.

  “I know,” said Fletcher. “I just wanted to get some fresh air, that’s all.”

  “You gotta be careful,” said Zagarat. “That so-called fresh air can kill you. I knew a sent that went to Bylar Prime for vacation, but forgot his inoculations. He took one whiff of the fresh air and keeled over, dead. It happens.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Fletcher, turning sharply down a dark alleyway.

  Zagarat glanced over at Fletcher. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Fletcher. “I’ve been on Mayoo so many times, it’s like a second home to me. I just want to go to the depot and check on my ship. That’s all.”

  Zagarat raised his arm. “Ooh. I can program that into my PCD.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Fletcher, his stride and tone absolutely laissez-faire. “Those things are grossly inaccurate. I know where I’m going.” He fell silent for a moment. “Not for nothing, but you didn’t leave anything important at the hotel, did you? You know something you can’t live without?”

  “Not really,” said Zagarat. “Just some clothes and a few gadgets. Why?”

  “Just making conversation,” said Fletcher. “So, do you play a lot of vid games?”

  “A few,” said Zagarat, smirking at the understatement. “UUUU. LLoLL. DANCE DANCITY DANCE. You know, the usual.”