The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis

by The Clan Chronicles- Tales from Plexis (retail) (epub)

* * *

  • • •

  ’Whix walked alongside Constable Terk, long legs easily keeping up with the Human’s determined stride as they wove their way through the crowded concourse. “Constable, cannot you find someone else to assist you? Surely others on your ship are more able.”

  “No,” Terk responded brusquely, adroitly sidestepping a Lemmick towing an anti-grav sled towering with party supplies. “None of them are Tolian, and my plan requires a Tolian. Luckily, all members of your division must pass the same background and ethical checks as enforcers. That means you.”

  “You have a plan?”’Whix asked with a surprised squawk he couldn’t quite suppress, though his implant rendered it flat and unemotional. “You cannot even be certain that this Sakissishee Roraqk is involved!”

  “Roraqk is involved—directly or indirectly—in half of the illegal activity on this station. He’s not known to own a share of this company, but it is registered to a Scat. Roraqk likely has his clawed, scaly hands dug into it somehow.”

  “None of the records we examined indicate such a connection, and we must be methodical,”’Whix protested.

  Terk barked a laugh, “‘Methodical’ might be fine for you scientists, but—out here—sometimes you have to follow a hunch.”

  ’Whix stopped walking. “But potentially innocent lives rely on—”

  “Yes, they do,” Terk didn’t stop, but threw over his shoulder, “And if, by rare chance, the Scats are innocent, then we’ll just have to be sure not to kill them.”

  ’Whix scrambled to catch up, panting in distress. If he couldn’t avoid being part of the Human’s hasty plan, perhaps he could prevent it from becoming a disaster.

  * * *

  • • •

  ’Whix gave himself a good shake to settle his freshly-groomed feathers properly, this time without the restriction of his uniform tunic. He whistled with pleasure, turning to Russell Terk, who fiddled with a small recording device disguised as a jeweled pendant in his hands.

  Terk fastened the device to the end of a fine golden chain suspended from other chains draping ’Whix’s body. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “I can keep tabs on what is being said. If they have a bug-detecting scanner, we might be in trouble, but they should have no reason to suspect you. I’m counting on these Scats to be arrogant and lazy.”

  ’Whix looked critically in the mirror and decided the device was indeed unremarkable. “I still think this is too flashy. I never wear this much. Not all at once.”

  “That’s the point,” Terk explained patiently. “You need to grab their attention. You’ll look like you’re so new to travel that you stupidly wear expensive accessories while exploring the more—colorful—sections of Plexis. Sure I can’t convince you to wear some of that paint that I’ve been told is so popular?”

  “Absolutely not, Constable,”’Whix said firmly. “Besides, you cannot be certain I am not wearing any now.”

  “True enough. Okay, then, just try to behave like a tourist. Gape-mouthed amazement, that sort of thing. I’ll be following close behind you, so don’t worry. You’ll be safe.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ’Whix leisurely strolled along the concourse. As leisurely as the deep crowds allowed, anyway. He entered a night zone full of revelers of all sorts: vacationers, spacers spending their hard-earned wages, and the ever-present grifters and outright thieves looking to profit from separating said beings from their credits.

  The Tolian found it difficult to be both aware of the surroundings and press of beings while keeping up the pretense of being a neophyte station sightseer. Oh, right, gape-mouthed amazement. He stopped in the middle of the concourse, dropped his lower jaw slightly, and stared unblinkingly around at the flashing lights screaming the names of a multitude of eateries and entertainment clubs. Floor-thumping music of a dozen styles clashed in an unsettling dissonance. It wasn’t so hard to pretend amazement, now that he had stopped tuning everything out. It really was an overwhelming sensory overload.

  Just as he started walking again, a robed being stepped from the shadows between two venues, thrust a pamphlet into his face, and proclaimed, “You look troubled. Come visit the Mission.”’Whix crossed his eyes trying to see the flyer, but it was shoved so close to his beak, it was in his blind spot. He reared his head back and tried to take a step back to get a better look at the paper and the alien who wore the hooded robe, only to find his elbow clenched in a vise-like grip.

  How had someone snuck up on him? Tolians having a nearly complete, panoramic field of view, ’Whix only had to turn his head the slightest bit and roll his left eye backward to see the creature who stood directly behind him. A pair of slit-pupiled eyes in a reptilian snout met his gaze. A Sakissishee, more commonly called a “Scat.” His other eye noted the hooded figure scampering off, likely in fear of the predatory being.

  “Ssss . . . you look like a diss-scerning being. Can I interes-sst you in a vacation deal s-sso good you might believe it imposs-sible? Lodging, food, and entertainment! All for one low pric-ssse!” A long, forked tongue flicked out to collect acidic spittle off its many sharp teeth.

  Are some beings so gullible as to fall for this obvious ploy? ’Whix thought. I did agree to act the innocent chick. He fluffed his crest in feigned interest and said uncertainly, “I have limited funds . . .”

  “Then thisss isss your lucky day!” The Scat’s paired cranial crests pulsed colors slowly in satisfaction.

  ’Whix rolled his eyes around, trying and failing to spot Constable Terk as the hard hand around his arm pulled him inexorably through the dark doorway of a nearby nightclub. While the Tolian had little confidence in this plan of Terk’s, he hoped the Human’s promise of remaining close was reliable.

  * * *

  • • •

  Constable Russell Terk watched P’tr wit ’Whix being towed into the club. He loitered outside for a few minutes. Without his uniform, even his unusual Human breadth was unremarkable among the press of beings milling about in fickle eddies. The occasional oblivious being would stop abruptly, becoming a rock in the river of foot traffic, to a chorus of curses and ripple of glares in assorted languages and facial features. Some species never did get the hang of crowd etiquette, he thought.

  The tiny speaker in Terk’s ear transmitted more static than expected, but he caught a tinny word here and there. “. . . offer a fantas-sstic deal . . .”

  Eeling across the concourse, he eventually made his way into the dim bar. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust before stepping to one side of the door and scanning the crowd. No feathers bobbed above the heads of the shorter beings, and few tall aliens stood in the establishment, perhaps owing to the unusually low ceiling.

  “. . . wait here . . .” came through the speaker.

  Terk wormed around the edges of the throng, but still saw no sign of the Tolian. His eyes kept drifting back to the ceiling. Not one to ignore his subconscious in such circumstances, he focused more purposefully on the ceiling. Too low.

  And now the speaker only transmitted a faint hiss. Time to move.

  He hurried toward the back where the service corridors and storerooms would be. Ah-ha! A stairwell. Clearly not part of the original station structure and built by someone who was slightly construction-challenged.

  A door stood at the top of the rickety stairs. Terk tried the handle. Locked. No surprise there. Pulling a stunner from the back waistband of his pants, he kicked at the handle. The cheap, poorly-installed door gave way, and he burst into the room, weapon drawn.

  P’tr wit ’Whix sat at a table holding a scatter of bright pamphlets, his crest raised in startlement, but otherwise apparently unharmed. “Get Away!” screamed one brochure in lurid colors, above the image of an improbably colored beach. A poster on the wall behind the Tolian boasted “Luxurious!” and featured a Plexis hotel that Terk well knew didn’t
have any rooms that looked like that. Their most luxurious feature was the sheer number of pests. Of course, for some species, maybe the promise of free meals was a bonus.

  “What . . .” Terk began, only to be interrupted by another well-concealed—but very well-built—door opening opposite his own entry point. ’Whix jumped to his feet. A large, unshaven Human entered, leaving the door ajar behind him. His tunic looked suspiciously lumpy.

  Terk brought his weapon up and slowly advanced on the other Human. “Stop right there!”

  A scuff behind Terk made him spin around to see the Scat from the concourse standing in the gap of the broken door. He stepped backward, swinging the stunner between the Scat and Human, unsure which was the greater threat. The Scat held a drink in both scaly hands and a wad of colorful plas wedged beneath his arm. “What—?” I seem to be saying that a lot, he thought.

  In that split-second of distraction, the Human lunged. Terk shot his stunner as he dodged the grasping arms, but the shot went wide and grazed the other Human’s leg. It was enough to fell him, and Terk turned the weapon on the Scat.

  The Scat raised his arms in a Human gesture of surrender, the drinks smashing and splashing on the floor and brochures fluttering like blown leaves. Well, that’s unusual, Terk thought. Scats never give up so easy. “Here, point this at him,” he said, nodding in the Scat’s direction and handing the stunner to ’Whix, who blinked in confusion and hadn’t yet moved.

  The nearly-immobilized Human was clutching his leg in pain, and Terk swiftly bent to secure the thick, hairy wrists behind his back. Lifting his tunic, he found the lumps he had observed earlier. Not a blaster, as he’d thought, but a small syringe and carrysack containing an empty vial of a strong, fast-acting sedative typically used to induce medical comas or for preparing livestock animals for shipment in stasis boxes.

  ’Whix, clearly uncomfortable with the blaster, handed it back to Terk, never moving the weapon’s muzzle off the Scat. The Tolian took a couple of steps to the side. Smart to give himself a better view of the entire room.

  “How long has Roraqk been involved in smuggling Tolians for food?” Terk demanded of the Scat.

  The Scat hissed. “Roraqk? I don’t know Roraqk, exss-scept by reputation. I s-sstay away from him.”

  “Then what about the Tolian cooking?”

  “I know nothing of that, either.” The Scat’s eyes darted nervously about, and spittle flecked his jaws. “We do not cook.”

  “So is this salesman business your only part in this illegal operation? Are you merely the distraction or do you participate in the butchery, too?”

  “It’ss-s not illegal to s-ssell time-s-ssharessss!”

  “Time-shares? I doubt that. What drug is in those drinks? Was it a backup if he failed?” Terk jerked his head in the direction of the handcuffed Human.

  The Scat protested, “No drugsss! Nic-nic margaritas-ss! To s-sset the mood!”

  Terk snorted rudely. “Tell me another one.”

  “Drop the weapon, Constable,” came a soft, purring voice from the sturdier doorway just behind ’Whix. “Stop harassing this embarrassment of a Scat. He really does just sell vacation packages. If this had gone right, he would’ve thought your friend here just changed his mind and left.”

  ’Whix whirled to face the short, hooded figure holding a lethal biodisruptor pointed at Terk. He leaped straight up and lashed a clawed foot out in a powerful kick faster than the figure could respond. His foot hit the being squarely in its midsection, forcing air out of its lungs in a surprised whoosh as it flew backward. As it hit the wall behind it, gasping for air, its hood fell to its shoulders. A small, furred being stared back with huge, limpid, brown eyes.

  “A Turrned?!” exploded Terk. “A Turrned is behind all this?”

  Everyone turned shocked eyes at the Turrned, which said in a gasping voice, “We must fund the Mission.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Commander Lydis Bowman,” the stocky female enforcer introduced herself to ’Whix as he stood next to Constable Terk in an appropriated Plexis Security conference room. Her uniform was almost as new as his own, though she’d managed to work enough stiffness out of the fabric to shove the sleeves to her elbows.

  ’Whix gave the formal upward-leaning bow of greeting, flashing his crest and throat feathers politely, “P’tr wit ’Whix, Trade Pact Biochemist, at your service.”

  “Constable Terk says that you provided him with invaluable assistance,” she said consideringly, cocking her head to the side and fixing him more with one eye than the other in an almost Tolian posture. “He doesn’t say that about very many people. Of course, very many people can’t stand to work with him. Which is how he ended up here with me.”

  Not knowing what to say to that, ’Whix remained silent, though he rotated one eye to better see the large Human leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed. Terk shrugged at him.

  Bowman continued, “It’s against regulations for me to tell you this, but in light of the role you played yesterday, I want to tell you the outcome of our investigation. The Scat you encountered was a dupe of the smuggling ring.” She chuckled, “He really does sell time-shares for a living.”

  Terk muttered, “Badly. He couldn’t afford higher rent, and who would believe a Scat was innocent of smuggling and running a legitimate vacation business?” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s ridiculous! He never noticed that most of the clients that walked out of his rented office space were Tolians. We located a few more missing persons, fortunately before their stasis became permanent.”

  Bowman went on, “The Scat shipping business was also, while not innocent, not truly involved, either. They simply don’t care enough about what they ship to find out if their clients lie on manifests, so long as they can collect the credits.”

  “The Turrned thought multiple Scats between him and the law was foolproof. Because who would suspect it? A Turrned!?” Terk concluded with a shout.

  ’Whix asked, “But why kill Tolians for food? There are so many nonsapients. . . .”

  Bowman explained, “In some circles, dishes made from sapient beings pull in a high price. There’s a cachet for wealthy connoisseurs because of the risk involved in obtaining and consuming them, the more difficult to obtain the better. The Turrned was a member of a splinter sect. It planned to do this only once or twice to bring in the money it needed for its Mission. Which did go undetected.”

  Terk finished, “But it got greedy. And this particular shipment got mislabeled and sent to the wrong location.”

  “I’ve recently been promoted and given my own ship,” Bowman indicated the insignia on her open collar. “I have an—irregular—assignment, with broad leeway to recruit anyone who may be valuable to my team. You have expertise I could use, and you didn’t run off squawking in a stressful situation you hadn’t planned to be in. You need some formal combat training of course, but I think you’d be wasted in a lab. Tell me, P’tr wit ’Whix. Have you ever thought about becoming an enforcer?”

  . . . Truffles continues

  5

  ’WHIX TENDED TO tilt his head so one emerald eye could regard me. I’d no idea if that eye produced a clearer image, or if the sidelong gaze was more comfortable for him, but it made paying attention to what he said difficult, especially when I could see myself reflected back. “Pardon?” I asked politely, sure I’d missed his meaning.

  The feathers over his neck implant were so soft, they stirred when he spoke as if moved by breath. Which wasn’t the case; another curiosity I couldn’t satisfy. “Partner Terk considers this activity—” we both turned at a new roar from inside the pub, “—to be recreational in nature.”

  “You don’t.”

  He shook violently, feathers falling back in their immaculate order. “I do not, Fem Morgan.”

  “You said you’re both off duty,” I said g
ently. I liked this being, with his earnest desire to be correct. “Sira, please.”

  “Sira. I do not engage in risk-filled pursuits outside of our work.”

  “And you wish Terk didn’t.”

  His head swiveled to bring the alternate eye in line, disproving one hypothesis. “A preference I have stated in strong terms many times. There have been memos.” A sorrowful chirp. “I do not believe our commander shares my concern. She advised me to let Partner Terk ‘get it out of his system.’ This is, however, the third such establishment in succession. Even Plexis Port Authority must take note soon.”

  I’d my doubts on that. True, Plexis had its Port Authority, as would any world with a shipcity. Here, though, it was a private security force, one the station blatantly promoted as official, even naming members constables—overseen by a chief inspector—all with the right to catch and deal with felons. As they’d no court system and the laws here were what Raj Plexis deemed necessary for effective commerce, Plexis levied fines for misbehavior or seized property, once more making profit wherever possible.

  According to Morgan, the truly wicked—or inconvenient—tended to vanish, space being conveniently close.

  Still, ’Whix had a point. I found myself wondering why we hadn’t seen a single security guard. The night zone rated more than most.

  A sequence of crashes—there went furniture—followed by a ROAR. “Morgan will get him out,” I said, resisting the impulse to check on my Chosen. All I sensed from him was focus. No, there was an undertone of fierce glee. Terk wasn’t the only one enjoying himself.

  “I hope in one piece.” The Tolian began to pant, his beak agape; a sign, I’d learned, of unresolved distress.

  A distress he shouldn’t have to bear. “Can’t you ask Bowman for a different partner?” I asked bluntly.

  Another uproar from the bar flattened the Tolian’s crest. “I admit comprehending his behavior can be a challenge, but I would not,” he replied firmly, crest rising anew. “Partner Terk and I work well together, Sira. Our skills sets are complementary, something I learned in our first official case. It involved a most elaborate scheme.”