Humble Beginnings

by Greg Alldredge

  “I can’t. You stay there. You need to stop your digging, or you will pay with your life.”

  “Is that a threat? I need to know what happened that day. I deserve to know what happened that day. Some questions must be answered.”

  “No, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve anything. Your life is all you deserve. I gave that to you when I didn’t snap your neck.”

  “And what of T’all? Did you kill her?”

  “Who said she was dead?” T’all stepped out of the shadows.

  “But…” Kano thought the voice sounded familiar, but with tech, anyone could sound like another. Masking technology proved to be child’s play. Masking one’s body, not so much. “They told me you were dead.”

  “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Now you know the truth, you need to leave and drop this game you’re playing. I know no one is paying you to hunt me down.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know shit. I am not letting this go.” Something about T’all struck Kano as odd. He couldn’t put his finger on it. His friend had changed.

  “Is it not enough to know your friend is not dead?” The voice shifted lower.

  “Tell me what happened or kill me. I will not stop.” Kano squared his shoulders to face T’all.

  Before his eyes, the woman he knew shifted form. Her voice changed. “These bodies are so easy to control. I don’t wish you harm, but I will comply with your request.”

  Kano dropped to his knees as a searing pain shot through his skull lighting his brain on fire once again. He lost control of his body as he twitched in spasms on the cold deck. He managed to roll on his back before his body locked in a seizure. Eve stood over him.

  She said, “You should have listened to me. Say goodbye to the world. I want you to know, I never set out to kill my maker.”

  Kano tried to speak, but his body didn’t respond. In horror, his dying brain recorded the last few seconds of his life with the new creation, an Eve/T’all hybrid, watching his last breath.

  Power

  Long ago, Sam heard that power can never be taken, only freely given. Those words never impressed her much before the Mahalia case dropped into her life. The saying should have held great meaning—she had been on the wrong end of power her entire life. Being of the Luska race forced Sam to live a lie. Luska females were not permitted to be out of the house unsupervised, and being caught dressed as a male would mean being put to death as a heretic, or for being insane. Away from the Luska home world on Far Reach Station, Sam still needed to dress as a male to keep from being assassinated in the dark of night by some yahoo vigilante. Living this life of lies, she was like a lamb in wolf’s clothing for her own safety and security to earn a simple paycheck.

  She might have found a safer occupation, but if she needed to break the rules to survive, she believed in going all out. Her forehead crown of bone proved large for a female. It made it easy to disguise herself as a male with just a few tight bandages pressing her mammary sacks to her chest. As long as she kept her clothes on, and no one discovered she had no sexual protuberance on her belly, she would be safe. As safe as anyone might be on Far Reach Station.

  Sam worked the lower levels where the heavy-worlders and the lowlifes of the station called home. Down here, she figured the likelihood to be slim anyone would question her race or sex. People were too busy trying to survive to worry about others.

  The local watering hole left much to be enamored about, but for Sam, it provided more than a place to pass the time. The back booth she laid claim to served as home away from home and office. A place for her initial screening of clients. Sam’s profession was private detective. A gun for hire, strong arm—hell, just about what anyone needed or wanted that would keep the water flowing and the power on. The single flat was nothing to be proud of: a cot and a hot plate, with a squatty potty for taking care of business. It proved all she could afford, but it was hers.

  On the station, the larger spaces could be subdivided, so the rent remained relatively cheap. Subletters fought over cheap space, anything to keep out of the station-run free housing, commonly called coffins. Space barely large enough to lie in and keep a few belongings.

  She sat alone, wide brim hat pulled down over her eyes. Anyone passing might have suspected she was drunk so early in the day and simply slept off the buzz. However, it was all an act. She remained sober and did her best to hide the fact from everyone around. It provided her a persona, the role as the hard-nosed, hard-drinking male private dick she found in old Earth detective novels available for free download.

  “Are you even awake?” The voice came out reticent, softly spoken, a little more than a whisper.

  Sam reached up with a middle finger and lifted the brim of her hat. “That depends on who is asking, and who you are looking for.” Instantly Sam knew this male creature felt out of place, if it was a male. The clothes he wore made her think of a big payday, if she could only reel him in. She badly needed a paycheck.

  “I am looking for a Mister Sam Angel. I was told I could find him here, and you seem to be the only one that matches the description.” The Prod didn’t move to sit down. He stood inspecting her like one might look over a puddle of indistinguishable material at the foot of a crapper. A more than slight look of disgust filled his face.

  The Prods were a strange race. Their bodies could change sex depending on the function they fulfilled. The females ran the show, the males little more than slaves. The race developed a third pronoun to distinguish those not stuck in binary: hesh. The sound of it always seemed strange to Sam. She decided early on this one had shifted to male. He had that wimpy air about him.

  “This part of town… asking questions to the wrong person can be hazardous…” She scoffed. “You got a name?” Sam asked.

  The Prod answered, “Not that it matters, but I am called Josmen.” She took that to mean he was in fact a he. “Are you Mister Angel?” The lacky put his hands on his hips. “If you don’t want employment—”

  Sam lifted her face from the shadows, perhaps she was playing too hard to get. “Listen a person needs to be careful.” Sam didn’t take incoming calls. She knew the Force could track an open coms link. She didn’t like to be tracked. “That depends on how you learned the name.” Sam needed to be cautious. She wasn’t a hugely successful private eye and had made more than a few enemies around the station, normally by asking the wrong people the wrong questions. Some creatures had no sense of humor when it came to delicate subjects. At times, Sam forgot her manners around the non-Luska and earned a reputation for throwing her weight around.

  “I can understand than… A Mistress Everclear gave your name to my employer. She was under the impression you could be trusted with delicate matters. Please, let’s end this game, tell me if you are not the person in question, and we can call this miserable experience to an end.”

  “All right, you caught me. I’m Sam Angel. What can I do for you?” She took a sip from the half-full glass of amber liquid that sat before her.

  The Prod’s pink lips parted and flashed white teeth against his ebony skin. He reached in his coat pocket.

  She half-expected him to pull a weapon from his coat and finish her off, but out came a small envelope of real handmade paper. It must have cost a fortune itself.

  “She simply asked that I deliver this and wait for your reply,” he said as he slipped the delivery across the tabletop.

  Prods always gave Sam a bit of the willies. She never fully understood their ability to change sex. Luska sexual identity remained fixed from birth, with all the good and bad that came with it. The ability to change seemed… well, alien.

  Upon opening the envelope, she found an invitation that held yet another slip of paper. Such extravagance was unheard of in Sam’s world. Why use disposable paper when free electrons would work just as well and were… well… free?

  The card was an invitation to an art gallery opening. Sam knew little of art, but she did know about artists and would be able to
fit right in with the eccentric group of misfits. She might even score a free meal. The only people who begged for money and food more than artists, writers, and actors were detectives. The note inside was simple enough. In a smooth well-used script it said, I am in urgent need of your help. Please attend this event and I will pay double your normal fee just to hear my case. Signed, Admiral Mahalia.

  She looked over the card once more and sniffed the paper. “Is this legit?” Sam asked the male Prod that waited impatiently for her reply.

  “I am certain I wouldn’t know. Is that your reply?” The male leaned back as if ready to run from the booth she called her office.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m thinking. I need to check my calendar.”

  Sam didn’t have to check shit. Her days were empty. They had been empty for weeks. If she didn’t get a paycheck soon, she would be out on her ass in short order. Her implant displayed her calendar, reading material, everything in her mind. She mentally flipped through the pages before closing the file. “I will have to juggle a few appointments, but tell the admiral I would love to attend his function tonight.”

  “Her function.”

  “What?”

  “The admiral is a Saravipian Trader. He is a she.”

  “Great, thanks for clearing that up before I met her. Might have been… embarrassing.”

  The Prod male smiled again, Sam wasn’t sure if he reacted to the joke or some indigestion caused by something the creature had eaten earlier. With an about-face that rivaled military precision, the male turned on his heel and departed the bar before Sam could think of another question.

  She picked up the glass and drained the liquid while she inspected the invitation and envelope. The location stood several sections clockwise and on the primary level of the station. The gravity would be lighter there and the rents higher. It was uptown from the lower levels that Sam called home, and even with the moving sidewalks, it would take some time to traverse. Sam had no cash to pay for a lift. She would need to use the two feet the gods had blessed her with and hoof it.

  <=OO=>

  The closer to the inner ring and the central core Sam rose, the more the population became mobile. The inhabitants moved from being sedentary stall operators to moving shoppers. The lighter the gravity, the more incentive there was for people to walk from shop to shop, browsing for a certain type of artifact they desired. But the prices increased with the elevation. The lighter effects of gravity cost precious credits.

  For a civilization where coin wasn’t needed, it seemed everyone had something to sell, and more, people wanted to buy something unique. No matter how advanced civilization became, there would be some things that were in limited supply, and there would be a market for those objects, even if they were made of shit. If the station didn’t provide something, a market rose to meet the need.

  Sam labeled most art as pieces of shit. She’d heard how art would fill a need in the heart. A sculpture or painting would do little to stave off hunger. She had little use for pretty or engaging items when people had to scrape a meal together daily. She remained one of the scrapers.

  The moving sidewalk deposited her in front of the building where the exhibit would take place. Not the nicest part of town, just grungy enough to gain some small amount of street credit. On the verge of gentrification, the price of rent surely headed still higher here.

  The armed guard standing at attention advertised to everyone the security of the building was taken seriously. A line of flailing arms waved, trying to get in. Sam walked up and flashed her invite, and the throng of people trying to gain access parted with the help from some beefy KaMen, or stone people bouncers. It would take an idiot to attack those heavy-worlders, their bodies more like rock than flesh, with brains to match.

  Inside was as Sam expected, all manner of creatures intermingled. The rich stood out, even if they dressed down to blend in. In no big hurry to find the admiral, Sam instead searched out the food line and bar. She loved an open bar, since as a heavy-worlder, it took stronger liquors to affect her the same as the more delicate light-world creatures around. Even if the food were the same tank-grown overprocessed protein and carbs she would have eaten at a disbursement, it was put together with more care than the slop she normally survived on. She understood the reason behind the food acts but hated the outcome. Everything tasted the same. The only people that had variety in their meals were the people rich enough to bribe authorities to bring food onto the station for them. Smuggling of food had become much more lucrative than smuggling drugs, with much lighter prison sentences.

  Drink and a plate of snacks in hand, she strolled through the exhibits. After glancing at the first price tag, she refused to glance at another. The art cost more than she earned in a year.

  She stood inspecting the artwork of a not-so-talented child when a woman’s voice spoke behind her. “Do you like it?” Sam turned, and behind her towered a female Saravipian Trader. It proved easy for her to spot her contact: the headdress indicated her rank plainly enough. The woman was an admiral and should have the credits to buy a whole lot of this art.

  “There should be some requirement to call oneself an artist. I would hazard a guess, school children could accomplish the same results at a fraction the cost.” Sam shifted her drink to the opposite hand and balanced it with the plate. “Admiral?” She offered her hand for a shake.

  Not sure what to expect, Sam was slightly taken aback when the much taller woman laughed. “You are just as Everclear described you.” The Saravipian Trader took her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Outspoken and truthful to a fault.”

  “I didn’t think you hired me for my knowledge of art. That would make you foolish, and one thing I’ve learned about your race is fools are rarely suffered and never make rank.”

  The admiral motioned for Sam to follow her. Left with little options, Sam followed the much taller female. “I’m sure you are curious why I asked you here.”

  They stopped at an observation window showing the central docking platform overhead, ships slipping in and out of the hangars. Neither looked at one another. “I assume you wanted to speak with me where there was little chance of your family or house overhearing what is said. You probably care less about what strangers overhear. To them, this conversation would be meaningless. Besides, here, I am another nameless face. At your front door, I might need some explaining, and you would rather not waste the energy.”

  “Insightful. Then, as you say, let’s cut to the chase. I want you to find a man.”

  “I’m not sure what Everclear told you, but I’m no pimp,” she said flatly.

  “Not for sex, but for my daughter… or rather she has lost a man. More precisely, she has lost to a man.”

  “I can normally follow the strangest manner of speech, but can you say that another way?”

  “I will be plain; my daughter has a gambling problem. She has been taken in by a very unscrupulous man, and she owes a great deal of credits. I would like you to take care of the problem.”

  “I’m no fixer. You want a person removed, I can give you a few names.”

  “There should be no need for violence. I want you to find this man and discover what he wants to leave my family alone. Scare him off if you think you can’t come to terms. Discretion and silence are what I am willing to pay for.”

  “And for this, you will pay double my rate?” The offer seemed too good to be true, but Sam needed the cash.

  “I will pay you two hundred units of water in advance and another two-hundred if the operation meets my satisfaction.”

  That was more than twice her normal fee. She would be able to stay in business for many cycles to come if she earned that water.

  “I can also promise to present more work for you if your efforts are satisfactory.” The tall woman knew how to bargain. The pay was enough to grab Sam’s attention, the added sweet of more credits to come proved too much for her to resist.

  Sam pulled up her sleeve and pres
ented her arm for scanning. The bar code on her forearm would link the two via coms and credit. For better or worse, Sam hitched her wagon to the influential woman.

  With the blip of a green light, the transaction became sealed. A message popped into Sam’s head telling her the units had been sent to her account. In the blink of an eye, she sent what she owed to her landlord. Better to get that creep off her back. She never liked the way it leered at her, even while posing as a man. She wasn’t sure if it was sexual in nature or the creature was thinking about dinner plans, with her as the main course.

  The address of a storefront flashed in her mind, a bookstore owned by a Mister Lousier. “I will be in contact.” Sam turned to leave and thought, You’ve got to be kidding. The task seemed simple enough. The whole matter should take less than a cycle.

  Weaving her way through the crowd to the entrance, she stopped to take in the view of the light and sound show that flashed overhead. They called it art, but it proved more hypnotic in nature. The strobing lights pulsed with the music, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. The display was guaranteed to cause seizures in lesser minds.

  “You should be careful with my mother,” a voice whispered in her ear.

  She turned in the direction of the voice and found no one there. It was a woman’s voice, but that meant little. Using a voice thrower, the sound could be modulated to mask any identity.

  “I will keep that in mind.” Sam barely vocalized the words while looking for the person who spoke to her through such clandestine means.

  “I think she is using you to find her lover, a younger lover,” the voice whispered.

  Sam never guessed the age of her employer. She looked young, but she knew the Traders hid their age well. “What do you suggest?” Along the wall, Sam spotted a Saravipian female without a headdress proclaiming her rank. It had to be her mystery messenger.

  “Be on your toes, life is often not as it appears.”

  Sam spotted the woman’s throat move as she subvocalized the words. The crap warning was meant more for a greeting card than an important statement. Sam didn’t feel the need to play any more games. She turned and marched to the door. The young female could play with her toy using other chumps in the room. Sam had a bookseller to intimidate. How hard could that be?