Ever so slowly, Thelma smiled.
Her table mates leaned away from her. Their survival instincts were excellent.
Chapter 2
Thelma’s cabin mate woke up a day out from Zephyr. As the urself staggered into their shared tiny bathroom, Thelma hastily vacated the cabin. An urself waking from hibernation had certain very private issues to deal with.
She’d spent a lot of time in the gym over the last five weeks. Its single combat training robot was out of commission, but there was always someone willing to expend energy and repel boredom with a training bout. She’d learned a lot tangling with a mauveinne. The female’s extra-long front legs were whip-fast, but her true combat ability was the art of distraction.
If your opponent could be tricked into focusing on an irrelevancy, then they were unprepared for the genuine attack. That was a lesson applicable to life outside the ring.
However, the gym wasn’t Thelma’s destination, today. She had an appointment at the beauty salon. Waiting for it, she lingered over a ginger ale in a small bar. This close to the end of the journey, the bar was no longer filled with people desperate to hookup for an inter-sector affair. Instead, people were trying to fill in time. Most people’s cabins were no larger than Thelma’s twin share.
A woman confident in her mature appeal waved a bubble glass filled with crimson fluid in the direction of a table of earnest young men whose utility suits were as pristinely new as the ones stowed in Thelma’s duffel bag back in the cabin.
“Dudes.” The intoxicated woman toasted them. “I can spot dudes at a hundred paces. You’re so cute with your wide-eyed mix of excitement and fear. Woo-oo, welcome to the scary Saloon Sector.”
The men, looking barely old enough to shave—or enter a bar—ducked their heads and pretended not to notice her. Their tablescreen showed a star map. They pored over it, tracing possible routes and murmuring among themselves.
The woman laughed. “Let me give you some advice, dudes.” She drew out the last word. Red seemed to be a theme for her, extending beyond her drink of choice. She smoothed an auburn curl behind one ear. Its copper color matched her gingham check apron.
Thelma blinked at the apron, before deciding that its appearance over a clinging black dress had to be a fashion statement—debatably an atrocious one. It served no practical purpose.
Ostentatiously, the red-haired woman crossed her legs, then made a point of slowly recrossing them, her spiky black high heels on display. “In the Saloon Sector it’s all blast. All the things you thought you wanted, they’re gone.” She clicked her fingers. “All the fears that shaped you…gone. The Saloon Sector gives you two choices. Fall apart and slide downward, or embrace the opportunity.” She leaned confidingly toward the table of young men. “Choose blast.”
Then she leaned back, reaching for her crimson cocktail. “Or don’t. It’s your choice. It’s always your choice.” She tossed off the last of her drink and smirked.
Thelma nodded agreement.
She’d been studying the culture and slang of the Saloon Sector during the journey. She had no intention of presenting herself as a dude, or “newbie”. The frontier was wilder than the Rock Sector where she’d grown up. It had its own unwritten rules, and newcomers who didn’t know them, or who transgressed them, would be exploited. People were scrambling to establish themselves, and the fastest way to climb higher, was to climb over the bodies of your competitors. Thelma didn’t intend to be a body.
“Cute dress,” the beauty technician complimented Thelma’s snappy appearance.
“Thanks.” The sundress was buttercup-yellow with a long, full skirt, a white collar and elbow cuffs. The overtly feminine style felt strange, but it was important to Thelma’s plans. This session at the beauty salon would complete her preparations for her debut on Zephyr. “I did a little shopping on Paris.”
Paris had been the Last Day’s final stop in the Reclamation Sector before the starliner burned for the Saloon Sector via three tiresome wormhole jumps.
Unlike the other planets and stations in the Reclamation Sector that focused on the legal and illegal recycling and repair of anything and everything from dentures to ore haulers, Paris was in the business of creating everything new. Sure, it used recycled materials from its neighbors’ operations. And yes, it “borrowed” the designs for the things it made. Copyright was not a respected concept on Paris, a fact that the rest of the Federation abhorred, and hence, something that kept the police busy attempting to enforce it. But what Paris made was new. The manufacturers on Paris could make anything a customer dreamed of, as long as the customer could pay.
“Ooh, I love Paris,” the beauty technician cooed. “I found the sweetest corset there, lace around the…”
Thelma listened and asked questions in the right places, encouraging the woman to keep talking while she added eyelash extensions to Thelma’s already long lashes. Beauty salon employees were high on Thelma’s list of contacts to cultivate. It wasn’t just the information they held that could be useful to her. They gossiped with a wide range of people. If Thelma earned their approval, their chatter would help establish her reputation.
In researching the Saloon Sector, she’d been struck by its current fashion for clothing and furnishings inspired by the Atomic Age on Earth. That had sparked an idea, and she’d gone digging through the Federation’s digital Earth Evacuation Archive. There she’d found clothing designs, centuries out of copyright, that she’d sent through to a clothing manufacturer on Paris along with her size and color preferences.
“…and he was ever so helpful,” Thelma concluded her retelling of her Paris adventures to the interested beauty technician.
The woman combed out Thelma’s dark brown hair and began trimming the ends. “I’ve never heard of the Earth Evacuation Archive. Can anyone use it?”
“Of course. Here, what’s your contact number? I’ll send you the link. I saw a pattern for some glamorous off-the-shoulder gowns that would look wonderful on you.”
The beauty technician beamed and recited her number for Thelma.
Back at her cabin, the urself sniffed in Thelma’s direction as she strolled in.
“Determination. Trepidation.” Sniff. “Interesting. I need to eat.” He brushed past her and trotted down the passage in the direction of the cafeteria. Judging by the slack in his skin, his need to feed after five weeks in hibernation was imperative.
Thelma’s need to learn something—anything!—about her new boss was almost as strong, and yet, her search for background on him was stymied at every turn.
Sheriff Max Smith had a near-supernatural ability to avoid media attention. After weeks of searching, the only photo she’d been able to find of him was a headshot that showed a square jaw and the bottom lip of a wide mouth before the deep shadow of a wide-brimmed hat hid all else.
The chatter on Saloon Sector forums was fractionally more enlightening. A commenter had only to say “Sheriff Smith won’t like it” and discussion of a proposed item of business or mischief ended. By every indication the sheriff was a man of formidable character and ability.
The Galactic Justice database, when consulted, returned no more information than the fact that a Max Smith was sheriff out of Zephyr. How old he was, whether he had a life partner, children, his credentials and clear up rate, and all the other ordinary details of a government security officer were missing. She didn’t know where he’d trained or who might be able to influence his decisions.
“You know your goal. Keep it in mind and adjust your strategy in accordance with new data. You can handle a frontier sheriff.” Her pep talk would have been more convincing if it was haunted by the knowledge that Galactic Justice had assigned her here as a punishment and deterrent to other out-worlders trying to crash the core world party. The sheriff could be a monster.
“I’ll find a way to survive and thrive.” Her hands curled into fists. Her salon-beautiful nails, painted wine-red with silver stars, cut into her palms. “I won’t break.”<
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Chapter 3
Thelma mightn’t have been able to learn much about Sheriff Max Smith, but she had discovered that the Sheriff’s Office was at the Zephyr spacedock where the Lazy Days would be mooring. That meant she could introduce herself there out of uniform—or such uniform as a self-bought utility suit provided—a day before she was formally due to report for duty. She’d be a fool to pass up that opportunity: she had a persona to establish.
There was no way in heck that she’d present herself to the Saloon Sector as the Rock Sector graduate from Galactic Justice who’d been kicked out to the frontier like some unwanted mutt.
Oh no, she had a totally different story to sell.
“Spin, baby,” she murmured and licked her lips which were glossy with a mulberry lipstick.
The Lazy Days had trolleys available for hire, ones that would only operate within the spacedock and which were programmed to return to the starliner after two hours. That was sufficient time for Thelma to get her luggage to the Sheriff’s Office. From there…well, she’d studied the cost of housing on Zephyr. To be near enough to the spacedock to be able to respond to an emergency, she’d have to settle for living in a shabby boardinghouse in the Metal District. That didn’t match the successful image that she wanted to convey, but financial realities couldn’t be massaged. She’d spent her emergency fund in Paris on her new clothes, which were a far more crucial investment.
The sharp tip-tap of her pointy-toed, white high heels preceded her down the concourse as she headed for the Sheriff’s Office. The trolley piled with her worldly goods trailed obediently at her heels.
Her shiny, chestnut-brown ponytail swung jauntily. The crisp poplin of her white skirt with its pattern of maroon swirls swished confidently. Her halter top was a matching shade of red, dramatic but not eye-screaming.
The Sheriff’s Office was around the corner from the much larger Customs Office. Her professional instincts prompted Thelma to wonder how much mutual assistance the two offices exchanged. The Customs officers probably considered the Sheriff’s Department a poor cousin.
Just try to patronize me. Her mouth curled in a challenging smile as she passed the door to the Customs Office. A minute later, the door to the Sheriff’s Office slid open at her approach.
A yprr lounging on a divan behind a low reception desk reared up at her entrance. The yprr’s chitinous, four-segmented body gleamed an unnaturally glossy black with painted on faux chrome studs. This strange appearance was topped by a black toupee, presumably glued to the yprr’s naked skull and backcombed into an astonishingly high quiff. His two antennas quivered.
“I adore your shoes.” The yprr braced his front legs on the desk as he peered at Thelma’s white heels. “They have bows.”
Her smile became genuine. At least as far as the sheriff’s fashionable office manager was concerned, she’d gotten her 1950s blast-dusted appearance one hundred percent right. “Thank you. I’m Thelma Bach, the new deputy.”
The yprr toppled off the divan.
Thelma abandoned her luggage by the door and hurried to help him.
However, the office manager was embarrassed rather than hurt. “No, no. I’m fine. Sooo clumsy. You’re not what I envisaged, but sooo much better.” Balanced on his hindmost pair of legs and tail, he stood as tall as Thelma in her heels. “I thought we were getting some buttoned up Galactic Justice reject that we’d have to…” His antennas crossed. “So-orry,” he sang. “My explanation isn’t helping. I’m Owen.”
He extended his right upper three-digit limb and they shook hands.
“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Thelma said. “I thought I’d pop in and introduce myself before I went in search of accommodation. I’ve heard scary stories about the scarcity of good rentals. For now, would you mind if I left my luggage here? I need to return the trolley.”
“Of course, of course. Dee-lighted to help. We’ll tuck your gear here behind my desk, nice and snug. Although we do have an office ready for you. Well, a closet really. But I’ll let the sheriff show you around. We knew the Lazy Days was due in, but we didn’t think you’d disembark this fast.” As he talked, Owen effortlessly scooped up the two duffel bags, leaving the case with her stylish clothes for Thelma. He stowed them behind his desk. “I’ll call Max.”
“No need.”
The door had opened silently while Thelma had been focused on maneuvering in the small space behind the reception desk. With Owen, the divan, and her luggage, there was barely room to breathe. So the deep male voice startled her. She teetered and staggered. Only Owen’s sudden grip on her waist kept her from falling onto the divan.
“Deputy Thelma Bach?” The man in the doorway was six foot two of uncompromising muscle. A holster belt cut across the worn khaki of his utility suit. There was a blaster at his right hip and a knife at his left. Likely he had other weapons as well.
“Yes, sir.”
“Max.”
Owen gave her a reassuring pat as he released her.
Sheriff Max Smith dropped his hat on a hook on the coat stand, enabling Thelma to get her first clear view of his face. He was younger than she’d anticipated. Maybe early thirties, although his pale blue eyes seemed older. In the office lighting they appeared gunmetal gray. His hair was shaved close to his scalp, barely allowing a hint of its dark brown color. His ears sat neatly against his skull and his nose was broad but not crooked. Yet he wasn’t handsome. The catalogue of individually attractive features somehow added up to a whole that was forbidding more than anything else.
Sheriff Max Smith was a man to be wary of. “Come into my office, Deputy Bach.”
“Thelma, please.” If he was to be Max, then she could do no less than offer the familiarity of her given name.
He pushed open an inner door and stepped back.
Apparently, she was to enter first. Gentlemanly manners in the Saloon Sector?
Should a deputy be treated as a lady?
Was this a subtle insult? A come-on?
Unsure what to make of him and his noncommittal expression, she walked past him, aware of how her hips swung courtesy of her high heels. She waited by a visitor’s chair until he’d rounded the desk and dropped into a worn leather chair. Then she sat.
He studied her in silence.
What he was looking for, she couldn’t guess. Whatever his first, unguarded response to her emphatically feminine and fashionable appearance had been, she’d missed it.
“You’re the first deputy I’ve accepted since I started as sheriff here. So people will be curious about you.”
Thelma was still dealing with that unexpected opening and the questions it raised, when he continued.
“Accommodation is expensive on Zephyr, and our work requires a fast response and weeks in deep space. I expect you to reside aboard my spaceship. The Lonesome is large enough that we can each have our privacy. It will also save you the cost of renting.”
Her pride immediately kicked up. “I can pay—”
“You can’t. I’ve seen what a deputy’s salary is. You can pay me board to cover the food you eat. Otherwise, it costs me nothing to house you on the Lonesome. In fact, Lon will like the company.”
Lon? Did Max have a life partner? She blinked rapidly, trying to assimilate all the facts and changes being thrown at her. Her eyelash extensions practically generated a breeze.
“Lon is the ship’s AI. You’ll also meet Harry, the mech who assists me. In a fight, he’s worth an entire Star Marine platoon, which is why I haven’t needed a deputy.”
“So why me?” If it was pity for her, she didn’t want it. If he thought she was easy pickings for some nefarious purpose, she’d smack him down.
Max leaned back in his chair. “Your brother Joe was in my unit.”
The tension of taking up a new job in unknown territory vanished in a rush of pure annoyance, love and relief. Thelma ceased sitting upright on the edge of her chair and sank into it. A Star Marine background explained the sheriff’s upright stance, h
atred of photos and the haunted look in his eyes. Her brother had the same ghosts from his time in the service.
“Joe.” She said her brother’s name with all of a baby sister’s exasperated love. “Did he call in a favor? I didn’t think he even knew about my assignment. He—”
“He doesn’t, or at least, not from me. I recognized your name on the to-be-assigned list, and connected the dots. Joe used to talk about his little sister at college and how you’d gotten into the Galactic Justice academy.”
Thelma’s jaw tightened. “Galactic Justice dumped me out here as a dire warning to any other out-worlders who might dream of equal opportunities. It’s not where I want to be.” Damn. She hadn’t meant to be that honest. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I’m not offering you pity. This is about looking out for a Marine buddy’s family. Joe would do the same.”
Yes, he would. She breathed deeply and consciously relaxed her muscles.
Max noticed. His tone remained even. “The Saloon Sector has good people in it, but it’s not a place you want to be alone in, without back-up. I’m giving you a chance to find your feet. Take a year. Learn the ropes. After that, if you want to transfer, you’ll have the know-how and contacts to do so.”
His suggestion was sensible and kind.
She hadn’t expected kindness out here. Thelma stared down at her skirt and its maroon pattern of swirls. She traced one with a finger, thinking. When she glanced up, Max was watching her face. She wished suddenly and fiercely that she hadn’t presented herself to the Sheriff’s Office in costume. A utility suit would have been appropriate.
The shirt of Max’s utility suit was loose across his broad shoulders, but the fabric soft enough to indicate the muscle beneath it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ll be a considerate houseguest. I appreciate the offer of accommodation.” And support, although she couldn’t guess whether Max expected to take on a big brother role, in Joe’s place. She didn’t need that degree of babysitting. Then again, the sheriff didn’t actually resemble any babysitter she’d ever seen, so maybe she was borrowing trouble.
Space Deputy Page 2
