It was a short list.
A very short list.
“One last day with your usual miscreants, then. Was there anything else, Constable Hutton? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how to spend your last day on the job.”
Elaine headed for the door, caught Chambal’s arm as he entered, and pulled him out with her. “You’re still with me, kid.”
* * *
• • •
“So we’ll never know why he was killed?”
“At least we know who killed him.” Elaine leaned back on the planter and watched a servo, packages swinging, maneuver delicately around a group of Turrned.
“Good thing the cat isn’t with you.”
“Why?”
Chambal grinned and looked even younger than usual. “You didn’t know? She . . . uh . . . relieved herself in that planter yesterday. Dug a hole, buried it.”
The body in the morgue had dirt under the nails.
* * *
• • •
“There’s security drones on the concourses all the time,” Chambal pointed out hurrying to keep up. “Why are the planters under fixed surveillance?”
“Because this is Plexis,” Elaine told him. “Half the people here will steal live vegetation, half will eat it, and half will try to have sex with it.”
“That’s three halves.”
“I can do the math, kid.”
* * *
• • •
The security footage was available to anyone with enough clearance, and Elaine’s code was still in the system—although she wouldn’t have put it past Burr have removed it early just to be an ass.
“That’s a lot of data,” Chambal muttered, pulling the screen closer.
“Yes, it is.” At least they had a rough time frame. And Bryant wouldn’t have traveled far from 384.
“There’s a lot of planters,” Chambal sighed a couple of hours later.
“Yes, there are.”
He searched in silence for a while, then sighed again. “This is boring.”
“Not everyone finds a body their first day on the job.” As far as Elaine was concerned, combing images beat being pleasant to shoppers. “There. That’s the kid in the morgue.” If they hadn’t been concentrating on the planters, she’d have never noticed him. No one was that nondescript by accident.
“Right, then!” Chambal was already at the door when Elaine called him back. “What?”
“I think we should check recent arrivals before we head out,” she told him, entering the codes for the first class lounge.
* * *
• • •
It was late when they arrived at the luxury hotel on Upper Level 22 spinward ¾. She’d considered leaving Chambal behind, but he’d been there from the beginning, so he needed to be there at the end. The hotel had its own security, but even out of uniform, her ident card got her as far as the door of the suite where a large, Denebian fem dressed in a suit tailored to minimize impressive musculature, blocked the way. The suit a virtual sign saying bodyguard.
Elaine opened the duffle bag. “Please inform Raymon Clear that we have something of his.”
The bodyguard looked down at the cat, then held out her hands. “I’ll see that she’s delivered.”
As she’d anticipated this, Elaine released the bag and, ignoring Chambal shifting in place, said, “I’d like to deliver the other piece in person. It’s too small and delicate to go by way of a third person.”
The tattoo of birds in flight replacing the bodyguard’s left eyebrow rose.
Now that is a flat, unfriendly stare, Elaine thought as the other examined her face.
“I’ll let him know,” she snarled at last and disappeared into the suite.
The floor absorbed the sound of Chambal tapping the toe of his boot. “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
“We wait?”
“Get used to it, kid. It comes with the uniform.”
“We’re not in uniform. And stop calling me kid. Could you have taken her?” he asked after a moment.
“Who?”
“You know.” He nodded toward the door.
“She’s twice my size and likely knows more dirty tricks than I’ve ever heard of.”
“So no?”
“Maybe.”
* * *
• • •
The door of the suite opened into a large reception room with lush carpeting, low, plush furniture, and, to the left, a wall of windows overlooking an unfamiliar city. A bird, or possibly a lizard, flew past.
Plexis had no viewports, ensuring privacy for those coming and going from her docks, but even knowing it was fake, the view was magnificent and Elaine had to stop herself from stepping toward it.
Raymon Clear stood by an inner door, cradling the cat against a tunic that had probably cost more than Elaine’s entire wardrobe. He looked younger than Elaine knew he was.
“You have something of mine, Constable Hutton?”
Elaine held out her hand, the data disk on her palm.
He nodded at the bodyguard who took the disk and slid it into her wrist comp. “First level access only,” she announced after a moment. “There’s been no attempt to breach the firewalls.”
“We went only far enough to identify the owner,” Elaine added.
Clear raised a brow. “Why didn’t you turn the disk in to the authorities, Constable?”
“Does it contain criminal data, Hom?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why would I? Particularly when I already had something of yours to return.”
He stroked the cat. “Ah, yes. And you found the . . .”
Elaine didn’t know the word. It sounded nasty, and as though it had a short shelf life.
“. . . who killed my messenger.”
Not only a messenger. Not from the grief in his voice. “I regret to inform you, the body is no longer in the morgue.”
Clear nodded. “I’m aware.” He stepped away and the door behind him opened. Dressed in rich Denebian clothing, exposed skin as tattooed as any of his people, the dead kid lay on a bier draped in glistening silks. Elaine glanced up at the fixtures and the UV lights they now contained. Offered enough credits, hotels were willing to redecorate.
“Why . . .” Chambal began.
Elaine cut him off with an applied elbow. Sometimes those with enough credits, like a high ranking member of the Blues—one of the two ruling Denebian syndicates—needed their messengers to be unrecognizable. Everyone knew Denebians had multiple tattoos.
Clear’s smile was enigmatic as he waved the door closed. “Our organization is in your debt, Constable Hutton, both for your actions regarding our messenger and the return of our property. We dislike debt, it complicates things. So . . .” He stroked the cat again. Her tail smacked against his side. “. . . how can we discharge it?”
She’d never taken a bribe. Not a case of brandy, not a free wrist com, not a large enough payout from the Grays—the Blues competition—to make the dead messenger disappear. Not so much as a cup of coffee. “I’d like the cat.”
Chambal sucked in a disbelieving breath. By the time he finished coughing, the cat was back in Elaine’s duffle bag.
Clear’s second smile was triumphant. “So, it seems we’ve found the price of the incorruptible Constable Hutton.”
“No. You’ve found the price of Elaine Hutton.” She nodded toward the chrono on the wall. “I haven’t been a constable for seventeen minutes.”
* * *
• • •
“Are you sure about this dirt thing?” Chambal asked at the boarding gate.
“Born on it, will die on it,” Elaine told him, shifting her grip on the duffle bag. “Besides, cats don’t belong on a station.”
“I guess.” He shifted i
n place, looked like he might be going in for a hug, until Elaine glared that thought off, and finally said, “So, any last words of advice?”
She’d told him who to keep an eye on—both those who might need his help and those most likely to be up to no good. She’d given him a list of her most useful contacts. She’d left him with information on Inspector Wallace to use as he saw fit. She’d brought him to the attention of someone high in a criminal syndicate although, as yet, there was no way of knowing if that was a good thing. Not bad for just under two station days. As he seemed to be waiting for words of wisdom, she said, “Not doing a thing can be as powerful as doing a thing.”
“That’s not . . .”
“Also, don’t eat at the Skenkran café.”
“I know that.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows that.”
Everyone didn’t. She smiled. “You’ll do, Constable Chambal. You’ll do.”
. . . Truffles continues
13
THERE WERE THINGS about my new life I doubted I’d ever be able to explain to my sister, Rael, let alone Pella, whose conception of alien was an unfamiliar Human delivering an order to her estate. At least Rael had met the Drapsk. In fact, she and our cousin Barac were on Drapskii now—a wholly implausible circumstance.
Before Jason Morgan.
As was this. I watched a giant shelled being grasp my Human around the waist with a single claw, to raise him ceilingward in order to align dripping pointed fangs just so, and smiled indulgently at the pair. Not that I’d volunteer for a Carasian’s intimate greeting, but through Morgan, I’d learned what it signified: trust and love, beyond any physical differences.
Though there’d be the usual bruises on my poor Human’s ribs.
“Enough!” Morgan hammered on Huido’s head carapace. “Put me down, you big oaf.”
“Your grist is excellent,” the creature observed as he complied. Several eyestalks bent to aim their shiny black orbs at me. “As always, yours is peerless, Sira.”
I’d yet to gain a clear idea what grist was to Huido, other than being related somehow to our Power and, in some peculiar manner, state of mind. Still, the compliment was sincere, and I smiled. “Thank you.”
Coyly. “I take it your shell-mate has proven worthy in the pool?”
Huido roared with laughter at my blush.
“Could we take this elsewhere?” Morgan asked mildly. We stood inside the entrance of the Claws & Jaws, those at nearby tables trying a little too hard not to pay attention.
Our final stop had been the Skenkran café, also a neighbor. To my surprise, it was open; the last time, it had been closed for violations of the Plexis food service safety code—a code lax enough to let Keevor’s remain open, also related to the “shoppers beware” signage. The place appeared overripe for another closure, so I’d been mutely grateful Morgan simply gave his message to the first Skenkran we encountered.
Freeing us, at last, to come here. Home, even to me. Tension I hadn’t noticed eased from my shoulders as Huido led us through his immaculate kitchen, with its wonderful blend of mostly appetizing aromas, to the corridor giving access to the living quarters.
Before he could take us to his private apartment, Morgan rapped a knuckle on the nearest claw. “Let’s not bother your wives.”
I heartily agreed. Giving Huido bad news wasn’t something I’d want to do within snatching distance of the predatory side of the family.
Eyestalks bent to stare at Morgan.
“We haven’t eaten yet,” I volunteered helpfully. On cue, my stomach rumbled.
“Of course you haven’t! Come.” Huido turned in place, raising a smaller handling claw to urge us toward the smaller dining area, framed by privacy field and plants. “I’ve a new menu.”
I hoped it didn’t include truffles.
* * *
• • •
“Forget Esaliz.” Clawtips met with a dismissive chink. “Enjoy your meal.”
They were on a first name basis? For a change, Morgan looked as confused as I felt. I lowered the glass I’d raised out of harm’s way, having been ready to leap from the table as my Human broached the news of the truffles. “You know the officer?” he ventured cautiously.
Huido poured beer into a handling claw. “That gluttonous crust of a crasnig shows up any time I’ve truffles on the menu. Appalling manners.” Smug. “One of my best customers. You wouldn’t believe how many it can tuck into that maw—when not complaining about the price. Which, I keep telling it, will only go up as word spreads.”
Morgan grimaced. “Explains why our cargo was the first hit with this new fee.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Eyestalks parted to allow the claw, and beverage, access to a hidden mouth. The ensuing slurp was loud and satisfied. “As I said, brother, forget about Esaliz.”
“I don’t see how.” Morgan put down his glass. “Unless you can pay—” he let his voice trail.
“E’Teiso will take the Fox!” I blurted.
Unperturbed, Huido paused to regard us both. “Only if we offload the truffles.”
Morgan’s frown deepened. “What are you up to?”
A jaunty wave; the hovering portlight lifted out of range, sending prisms across the cutlery. “Ansel!”
At the bellow, Huido’s personal assistant hurried forward. “Yes, Hom Huido?” he asked faintly.
“Explain the truffle situation to my blood brother.”
The older Human paled, but put aside his tray. “Yes, Hom Huido.” Competent—Morgan had assured me there was no question who was responsible for keeping the Claws & Jaws solvent all these years—but Ansel always seemed frail to me.
I supposed any of us looked that way next to the Carasian.
“When the station opened to the public,” Ansel began hesitantly, then warming to his topic, “Raj Plexis defined her authority as applicable to everything and everyone within, as well as to that exterior of the hull vital to operations within, as well as to those contracted directly by Plexis to perform tasks related to—”
“The point,” Huido rumbled.
Ansel coughed once. “Yes, Hom Huido. A starship parked against Plexis is legally neither within the station nor part of its vital exterior hull. Until a cargo leaves that ship and enters Plexis, it, too, is effectively outside station authority and—”
A claw snapped again. “And that truffle-sucking F’Feego can’t levy fines on it.”
This seemed a bit—optimistic. “But the previous cargoes—” I pointed out. “—the other truffles—”
“What truffles? Relished and digested. By Esaliz itself, among others.” Huido laughed so hard I feared for the table. “Waste recycling has the final products for sale. Stop worrying.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve a buyer elsewhere.”
The Carasian poured more beer into his handling claw, then into his mouth with a satisfied slurp. “I do.”
Well, that was promising.
Or maybe not. A muscle jumped in my Human’s jaw as he leaned forward, and there was nothing cheerful in his expression. “Where.”
“Word of my delectable recipe has traveled.” Somehow Huido managed to look humble—a feat for a mass of black shiny plates studded with rings for weapons. “It was inevitable.”
Morgan turned to Ansel. That worthy answered in a very small voice, “The owner of The Salty Appendage has made a very generous—”
“No.”
Eyestalks gathered to stare at Morgan, but Huido’s response was mild. “They’re my truffles and my recipe—”
“No.”
The Carasian grew in size, swelling up and out, claws raised.
Unimpressed, my Human leaned back, fingertips together.
Neither budged. The ensuing silence was thunderous.
Someone, I decided, had to be reasonable. “Where’s The Salty App
endage?” I asked brightly.
My Human’s “Doesn’t matter—” almost drowned out Ansel’s “Auord.”
Pocular. Plexis. Now Auord. I supposed Ret 7 should be next, to fill out the list of places—truths—left to confront. I reached for my glass, then changed my mind and picked up my spoon.
“It’s not about the truffles. We can’t let E’Teiso win this,” Morgan said, low and hard. “We can’t cut and run. If we do, what’s to stop Plexis from imposing fees on every consumable import? How many will go out of business? How long could you last?”
Huido rattled, the unsettled sound all there was for a moment, then reluctantly, one eyestalk bent to Ansel. “Do the numbers.”
Instead of going to a comp system, as I would, Ansel’s eyes half closed and his lips worked without sound.
What was he— I looked at Morgan.
Who nodded, clearly pleased. Ansel’s good at that.
Good With Numbers
by Heather LaVonne Jensen
ANSEL WIPED A trickle of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Hands on hips, he arched his back, stiff from pouring molten lanthanum into setting molds. Nine pours, he thought, six crucibles per pour, 14 molds per crucible, six ingots per mold, each ingot priced at 25 credits—that’s 113,400 credits’ worth we’ve earned for the mine today. From the angle of the triple suns in the lavender sky, he had about seven hours of daylight left. Ansel frowned, and glanced at the row of seething crucibles. The days seemed to grow longer as he grew older. He absently brushed the ubiquitous yellow dust off of his trousers.
The younger miners slogging from the open pit to the refining sheds on Ansel’s right were slathered in yellow mud from crown to toe. The soaked, messy bags of rare earths they carried on bowed backs dripped slippery mustard trails behind them, rendering the path increasingly hazardous as the day wore on. They trudged along in silence. The heat and the hard labor, as Ansel knew from experience, tended to put workers in a trancelike state, until all they could do was put one foot in front of the other until quitting time. One step at a time, Ansel, only 145 units himself, had once carried 100-unit bags of packed mud up and down that same hill for twelve hours a day. Maybe no one knows what they are capable of, he thought, until life forces them to find out.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 41
