“Sandra and I attended a meeting from Alien affairs a few months ago,” said Dean, wincing at her name. “It was a presentation on how the Deitii control their population.”
“Makes sense when you live for millennia,” Rick replied. “There are only about forty left in Moon City. The young Deitii's blood donations are vital here for the production of Constalife. The older of the species is not as potent. That's what this guy is doing. He's feeding off the cerebral spinal fluid in the brains.”
Either hunger or revulsion twisted Dean’s stomach. “What?”
“I know. Pretty raw, ain't it?”
The tech walked up with a wad of several paper towels to offer Dean. Rick eyed them carefully. “Those aren't double-ply. They won't soak up a damn thing.”
“We don’t have those.”
“Well figure it out. Go get something to clean this man up, you cocktail boner.”
The tech now got visibly upset. “Hey, why are you being so nasty?”
“Because I didn’t get to kill today.” Rick shooed him off with a dismissive gesture. With a roll of his eyes, the tech left once again.
Dean took a deep breath. He was exhausted still but didn’t feel like he sat at the threshold of death anymore. “Why is this guy eating the brains of Deitii children?”
Rick adjusted some hardware on his belt that seemed to bother him. “We know that the Deitii have some amazing chemical properties in their DNA, but when I reported my findings with the company's director out here, I got a file on the Deitii that added up to what I'm thinking is rubbish.”
“You think you're being fed something? Wouldn't be the first time Limbus turned against itself internally.”
Rick shook his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “No, I think this data was legitimate. I even think the director actually believed what it said.”
“Which was?”
A shadow passed over Rick’s face and he stared off into space for a moment. Dean thought he would need to prod him further, but then he spoke. “Do you believe in God?”
“Come again?”
“God? The guy with the long beard and robe.”
“Sure,” said Dean. “Maybe. I don't know.”
“When you think of Him, or It, do you think of a supernatural thing?”
“I'm not religious. I don't think about it at all.”
“I hear you,” Rick replied. “I didn't either... But this data file, it essentially says that Limbus knows exactly who created the universes.”
“And how does this tie into our guy?”
“The Deitii are blood related to the species of the being who created the universe. They are similar to what early primates are to mankind. The Deitii share ninety-nine percent of their DNA with God, according to the data file. That's why their blood has so many unknown applications and seems to have almost magical powers. Personally, I think Limbus needs to find some better scientists. Everything has an explanation and this just sounds like a quick way out.”
“Sounds that way. I agree.”
The tech brought over several clean, blue shop towels. Dean accepted them and wiped off his hands and face. The tech went back to his station to run diagnostics while they continued to talk in lower voices.
“I think our Moon City serial killer believes the rumors,” said Rick. “I think he believes eating Deitii brains will turn him into a god. I'll give the theory some credence here, despite my skepticism... That son of a bitch was strong and moved like no other mark I've ever tailed, and he managed to escape death easier than should’ve been possible. His diet is definitely making him powerful. Not a god maybe, but powerful.”
Dean tossed aside a blood-saturated towel and smacked his lips. “Damn, do I need to get some sleep...”
“No. You need some Constalife pills. You'll be in a world of hurt if you sleep right now. It's the worst jet lag of your life. Trust me.”
“Bring it on then,” said Dean.
The sounds of a swelling beach tide and seagulls emitted from a cell phone on the control desk. Dean and Rick both glanced over at the sound.
“That’s me,” said Dean. “Hey, can you grab that for me, kid?”
The tech finished typing and swept the translucent device off the desk and brought it over.
“They transferred all your ring tones to your offworld phone?” Rick asked. When Dean said nothing, he added incredulously, “Upon arrival?”
“Membership has its privileges,” Dean muttered, taking the phone and nodding thanks to the tech.
Rick shook his head. “I need to be more forceful with my contract next time. Just wish they gave us Golden Transport.”
“Agreed,” whispered Dean hoarsely.
He knew the caller. The beach ringtone was his reminder of Sandy. She’d thought it was cute and lovey-dovey, but he’d actually done it unconsciously—just needed a separate tone to know he absolutely needed to answer when she called; she wasn’t a woman who would be sidelined for long.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. The phone stung against the flesh of his ear, his body still not completely recovered from the Quantum Flu.
“You told me you’d call when you got there. I expected to be leaving a message! You’ve got about twenty of them from me in various emotional states.” She chuckled nervously.
“Yeah, I’m very sorry. Ran into a bit of complications outside the membranes.”
“Are you okay? Did something happen? Your voice sounds gravelly.”
“No, I'm fine,” he lied. “Everything went okay. Just wiped out.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rick arch his eyebrow.
Dean cleared his throat. “How was this past month? To me we just talked like a few hours ago.”
She said something inaudible and he asked her to repeat herself, which always annoyed her. “Things are okay,” Sandra said. “Work has been busy. There have been a few new recruits that have occupied my nights. You know how Limbus goes.”
“Yep, I do.”
“You don't sound like you want to talk.”
“No, I do. Like I said, it hasn’t been as long for me as it has for you, and I'm out of sorts. Can I call you back later?”
“Really? Are you for real?”
“Hey, come on, give me a break,” he said, growing more embarrassed with the other eyes watching him.
“Yeah, sure, call me whenever,” Sandra replied curtly.
“Hey, I love you,” he whispered. “Just let me get my head on straight.”
“Sure thing. No problem at all.”
She hung up before Dean had the chance to say anything else. Rick and the membrane tech shared the same amused smirk.
“Ah, was that your old lady, Slaughter Man?” the tech asked, his grin getting bigger. “I could tell by the tone of your voice!”
Dean glanced at Rick. “Maybe you were right to be hard on him.”
“Homeboy is whupped!” The tech made a whipping sound and gestured with a lashing.
Rick stood. “Okay, okay, enough hanging out. Go do some algebra homework, nardling.”
The tech’s shoulder slumped. “You know what, man? I have to say something. That's completely uncalled for. I’m really not taking this abuse—”
The tech’s head bucked back and his forehead split in a wide, vermillion opening, pieces of white and red spinning overhead in a ghastly cloud. Rick sprung forward and caught the young man before he struck the floor. Blood ran in torrents from the shattered face as Rick lowered him to the ground, his other hand withdrawing his weapon. Dean shifted over on his hip and attempted to gain his feet.
Armed soldiers in black helmets and riot gear flooded into the room. The lead officer with a silver star on his helmet edged up, assault rifle covering the room. His voice sounded confined to a radio behind the tinted glass of his helmet. “Which of you is Dean Fulsome, the Slaughter Man?”
Rick lifted his gun and aimed for the soldier. “We’re happy to tell you, but first, how about you go fuck yourself?”<
br />
“Me,” said Dean. “I'm Dean Fulsome.”
Rick gave him a sidelong look but didn’t lower his gun.
“You need to come with us.”
“Like hell he does,” Rick blurted.
Dean lifted his hand to calm his friend.
“You're in violation of Firecracker System 23 transportation ordinance. This membrane transport caused a system-wide failure across our networks. You have to serve audience with the mayor.”
Two soldiers approached Dean. They were surprisingly gentle as they brought him to his feet. Then, in contrast to this, they roughly handcuffed him.
“Can I get some clothes at least?”
“The robe will do,” replied the lead officer, still in a stare-off with Rick.
“Why did you kill this kid?” Rick asked.
“I’m not authorized to answer your questions, mercenary. The mayor’s office will answer inquiries.”
“The tech had nothing to do with the membrane transport problem,” Dean explained, head spinning. “It was an outsider.”
“The owner does not allow techs to engage in personal calls during a transport. This problem could have been addressed much earlier.”
“But kill him?” Dean looked at the still body. “Who is this owner?”
“The Firecracker Lady doesn’t need to answer to Limbus scumbags. Save your stories for the Mayor of Moon City. And if I were you, I’d explain it well if you wish to live on.”
Rick slowly lowered his firearm. “Do you know who we work for?”
The lead officer took Dean by the shoulder and tugged him forward. “Limbus cannot place guilt on anyone else for this breech.”
Rick holstered his gun with a snarl. “Dean, I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I’m going to City Hall too. Meet you there.” He narrowed his eyes at the lead officer. “I know how execute-horny you regional squads are—”
“Coming from you, that’s hilarious,” quipped the lead officer as he pulled Dean up the ramp.
“Execute this man without due process and you will pay dearly for it!” shouted Rick.
The lead officer stopped, helmeted head whipping back. “You will threaten me then?”
“Hell yes I will. First me, then later my brother, and you never want to meet him.”
Dean shook his head. “Don't get into it, man. We'll get it handled. Contact central office. Get Tasha to call City Hall. I'm sure she'll smooth this over.”
Rick looked at him reluctantly. “I will. I'll get you out.” He pointed at the lead officer. “Get this man some Constalife at once. He's just arrived here.”
They escorted Dean outside. He stole a glance over his shoulder. Rick staggered back and considered again the corpse of the young membrane tech sprawled on the floor. He bowed his head and ran his hand through his sooty hair. Then the doors to the transport station closed on the solemn scene.
Chapter 5
Moon City Hall might have been more of a spectacle under different circumstances. Dean could feel the effects of membrane travel and the strange orbital conditions of his surroundings weighing down on him like a drunken gorilla on his back. The regional police acted like the flippers and he the pinball forever bouncing left to right. He took in some of the ornately carved hallways of stone with flecks of gold throughout. Electric torches burned bright behind sapphire prisms fixed overhead. The light through the prisms scattered geometric patterns over the rocky contouring, feeding the gold flakes in the rock and making them a universe of embedded stars.
The sight dazzled him, literally, and Dean almost collapsed while admiring the galactic surface of a winding stairway the police led him down.
“Keep him together,” said the lead officer to another.
“Who cares?” said the other.
The lead officer shoved the other into the wall. “I do. The mayor does. Do what is told to you and I won’t explain why you went trigger happy on the tech.”
Dean opened his mouth but the lead cut him off, “Shut up, Fulsome.”
“Whatever you said, Commander,” said the other reg officer.
“I’m going to change out of the armor,” said the lead. “Tell his honor I’ll be there shortly.”
“You mean that? You’ll be there, right? You’re not going to the casino again, right?”
The lead stiffened. “You have a big mouth, cadet.”
“Sorry, Commander.”
“Get this man to the mayor and shut the everlovingfuck up.”
“Affirmative,” replied his subordinate, who promptly slipped his hand under Dean’s arm and began to guide him on.
The lead officer disappeared into a crowd on the next floor. Lines of unruly-looking individuals waited in queues before a series of counters with receptionist windows, also sapphire glass. A general mix of humans and aliens alike milled around. Dean recognized some of the alien species, from the dauntingly tall Asedgi who looked like humanoid giraffes, to Fanglions whose feminine bodies flickered with white-noise skin, and then there were the Shadow Dragons who were slow-moving gargoyles with psychotic visages. The humans present were actually more intimidating; they appeared tribal or ganglike, some dressed similarly in bright colors with striking symbols, hair punkish or shaved bald, both women and men—they all reminded Dean of the gangs in that old 80s movie, The Warriors. On screen, those people almost seemed comical in their exaggerated gang regalia, but faced with this sort in real life, Dean felt a bit uneasy, and the feeling didn’t get better as the grimaces and snarls and scarred faces considered the newcomer in his sky blue robe.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“Tax office and Department of Motor Vehicles,” was the quick reply.
“Oh, no wonder,” he said.
They departed the crowd and passed a darkened office. A statue of an alien had been situated just left of the door. Its blank expression made other statues lifelike in comparison, but Dean realized it was a fine representation. The Deitii didn’t make facial expressions. His guess was confirmed as he read the placard near the doors: OFFICE OF DEITII AFFAIRS.
The officers rushed Dean down another flight of stairs into a smaller area with one single office. He noted the crest outside on the wall, “The Honorable Mayor of Moon City, Jacob Blath ++”
The ++ alarmed Dean. He’d read in his briefing that adult Deitii males put the double pluses after their names to signify a coming of age, because of their longevity and no noticeable aging features from childhood to adulthood. The women Deitii put two zeroes after their names.
“He’s a Deitii?” Dean asked.
The helmeted officer released his arm and knocked on the door. “Hybrid. Human and Deitii.”
“Wow.” Dean whistled. “Never heard of that.”
“Now you have.”
They waited a moment. Dean reached out and touched the metallic leaves of a potted plant near the door. “These things grow here?”
“It’s fake, dumbass.” The officer knocked on the door again.
“You could have had me totally going. Especially since I can hardly keep my eyes open… You don’t happen to have any of that Consta-stuff?”
“Come in, please,” said a voice behind the door.
The officer opened the door and guided Dean in. The office was humble. Packed bookshelves on the back wall with a single desk and another metallic plant sitting upon it. The mayor was a slender man with thinning, slicked-back, salt-and-pepper hair. His face held little humor and little sign of age in contrast with the weariness in his eyes. Dean wouldn’t have guessed he was part alien. His lack of warmth or any apparent soul wasn’t a giveaway. He just seemed like a prick.
“Your honor, Lead Officer Harth will be here shortly,” the officer told him.
“Good, please shut the door. Have a seat,” the mayor told Dean.
Dean didn’t need to be asked twice. Completely exhausted, he flopped down into the purple wicker chair opposite the desk. He heard the door shut quietly behind him.
�
��Nice place,” he told the mayor.
“Dean Fulsome, I’ve had time to review your file on your way down,” said the mayor, tapping the screen of his notepad.
“That so? I’ve been on at least three dozen long campaigns. It took all of ten minutes to get here. You must have skimmed it.”
The door opened again. A large, bulldog-faced man entered dressed in a dark suit with long-hanging white sleeves that looked like serving towels hanging over his wrists.
“I’ll take a Miller Lite or a Heineken,” Dean told him.
“What?” The man’s face twisted in surprise.
“I thought you were taking my drink order. I haven’t seen the menu yet.”
“I’m a little tired already of you.” The man puffed out his chest. “Do you know what trouble you’re—?”
“Officer Harth, stand down,” said the mayor.
The man looked visibly hurt that the mayor wasn’t on his side, or at least wasn’t in favor of beating the shit out of Dean.
“That’s enough, Donaldo,” the mayor said more calmly. “I’m okay. You can leave us. I’ll call if I need you.”
“But, Mr. Mayor…”
“Leave, Donaldo.”
Dean waved at him. “Bye bye, Donaldo. Quack, quack,” he added.
Donaldo’s face inflamed but he crisply shut the office door behind him. Silence ensued for a few moments as the mayor tried to regain his composure.
Dean folded his arms. He didn’t need this. He’d come here to help these assholes. He’d put his relationship, his heart, in jeopardy, and he wasn’t in the mood to get the strong-arm treatment. Aliens the size of F350 pick-up trucks had chased him around this galaxy. Humans could be rightfully scary in their own right, but his conversation with Sandra had left him too tired and depressed to let anything affect him at this point.
“You were going on about reviewing my file,” he assisted. “Was it a good read?”
“Stow the smart-ass, Fulsome,” the mayor muttered.
“My apologies. I get cranky when I see an innocent, young membrane tech get his head blown off for no good reason.”
“What?”
“One of your regs took an innocent life.”
Moon City Page 5
