Sour Notes

by Todd C Wilson

  “Slippy-slidey, boring doorknobs, got it.” Note to self – upgrade the alarm system to detect people going under it. “Look, I need to get a shower and change my clothes. You might not have to deal with personal hygiene but the rest of us do. Make yourself at home, watch the holovid or something until I get done, okay?” I pulled off my shirt not waiting for a reply and tossed the odorous article into a corner with the rest of my dirty laundry. “And don’t go slippy-slidey under the door while I’m in there, either. I like my shower time uninterrupted.”

  ✽✽✽

  Twenty minutes and my daily allotment of hot water later I was feeling more human. Clean underwear helped, along with fresh socks. I walked out of the washroom, rubbing a towel over my head, getting my hair as dry as possible. I’ve been seriously considering getting it laser treated and trying out the bald look but didn’t want to make that kind of long-term commitment just yet. As a compromise I kept it trimmed short, around five centimeters, which made maintenance easy and saved me money on shampoo. Plus, the length made it hard for someone to grab onto during a fight, a common occurrence whenever I started asking questions people didn’t like. Where were you five nights ago? Does your mother offer bulk discounts? Practically the same thing to some folks.

  Bob swiveled one of her eye spots away from the holovid, keeping the other glued to the idiot box. A talking head was standing in front of a row of emergency vehicles, yammering on about last night’s explosion. “Your phone rang while you were making noises in the water box,” she said.

  “It’s called a shower and I wasn’t making noises,” I said defensively. Stupid blob failed to recognize good singing when she heard it. “Did you take a message?” I asked, holding up my pants and giving them a sniff, satisfying myself they were good enough for one more day, perhaps two. I ignored the pile of laundry sitting in the corner, hopping into them one legged. If the laundry wanted to be washed, it could damn well get up and go wash itself. Bunch of freeloaders.

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to,” Bob said, returning her attention to the holovid. “Why do the news speakers keep repeating the same thing over and over? It’s very annoying. Did you know you are out of caff? I mean you’re out now. I drank the last of it. It’s incredibly good. Can we get more? Are you really a private detective? Do you have a gun? Have you shot anyone? Can I be a private detective too? Is your name really J Azize Singer? What does the J stand for?”

  I felt my eyes roll up into my head. Great, a buzzed blob, just want I always wanted. Probably punishment for something I did in a past life. I tried to answer her verbal onslaught the best I could while searching for my phone. “I don’t know. Yes, it is. I do now. I like it too. No we can’t because I’m broke. Yes, I am. Yes, I do. Yes, I have. Not until you’re older. Yes, it is. And none of your damn business. Call me Jazz, or Detective Singer if you want to be formal.”

  I finally located my phone under my coat, display blinking with two missed calls. I thumbed the voice mail button and gave it a listen, my mouth going tight.

  “Turn off the holo, Bob. We need to go to the hospital.”

  Chapter 4

  I

  marched up to the reception desk, Bob the blue blob in tow. I had convinced Bob to morph into a form capable of walking so I wouldn’t have to carry her everywhere. In retrospect, this was a big mistake. Her constant complaining about having sore feet was giving me a migraine, and finally I snapped.

  “Look, I don’t know what you were like before you... Whatever, but I got the impression green-you was a lot tougher. Life is hard and whining all the time makes it harder. So, suck it up buttercup and get with the program.” My outburst had the desired result of shutting Bob up, but I had to endure a pouting blob instead, Bob crossing her tentacles and huffing loudly. Teenagers.

  “Detective Jazz Singer to see Lieutenant Araimer,” I said, flashing my credentials at the receptionist. Most people don’t notice the difference between a police shield and a private investigator badge, a fact I took advantage of more frequently than I’d like to admit. This was one of those times.

  “Of course, detective,” the receptionist said, her antenna waving back and forth. Her compound eyes swiveled to focus on Bob standing next to me. “And this is?”

  “A material witness,” I improvised. This seemed to satisfy the receptionist and she handed both of us visitor badges before directing us to an elevator at the end of the hall. I draped my badge over my neck and tried to do the same to Bob but it just kept sliding through. Eventually I gave up and told her to hold on to the thing with a warning not to lose it.

  “Material witness?” Bob hissed at me once we were in the elevator and out of earshot. “Witness to what?”

  “Well, you were there when Araimer left, so I guess you could say you saw him cheating at cards. I’d call that plenty material,” I said. “Nobody’s that lucky.”

  “A version of me was there, not the now-me. Now-me doesn’t have any memory of what went on, just the sensations of you pulling and me disconnecting from myself.” Bob’s facial area made something akin to a human frown. “I think it happened once before. But like a long time ago.” She brightened up, literally and figuratively, her color changing to a lighter shade of blue. “I remember you holding me close to keep me warm. That was nice. I liked the way you smelled.”

  “Yeah, real nice,” I muttered uncomfortably. The elevator door dinged and slid open, cutting off further conversation. Saved by the bell.

  Bob and I stepped out of the elevator and into bedlam.

  Doctors and nurses were running back and forth, their uniforms splashed with blood and space knows what else. Someone was screaming their heads off and we had to jump out of the way to avoid getting run over by a gurney. Police officers were everywhere, either assisting where they could or taking statements. The only thing missing was a brief of lawyers trying to drum up business, licking their chops at the inevitable malpractice suits.

  “Cold vacuum and space,” I cursed below my breath. Spying a police officer I grabbed him and dragged him close, mindful of the clawed feet. A Dhun, first-year patrolman according to his insignia. “Lieutenant Araimer. Where is he?”

  The Dhun’s eyes rolled, black pupils tiny against a yellow field. “Araimer? He’s… Uh… He’s in Bay 7. Down that way,” he pointed. “Hey, who are you?”

  “Detective Singer, Special Branch,” I half-lied. I was special, just not very branchy. Bob clung tight to me as we moved off, leaving the Dhun to try and determine if police work was something he was cut out for.

  “All these people,” Bob whimpered, eye spots swiveling back and forth. “I don’t think I’ve seen so many hurt people in one place.”

  “I have,” I muttered grimly. “A long time ago.”

  ✽✽✽

  Calcifor 267 was a mining colony, located on a minor moon deep within the Joshua Quadrant orbiting a generic gas giant. What made the moon special was the rich vein of ion-free Holmium composites located there, valuable stuff if you were thinking of building spaceships that could get you from point A to point B in less than a few eons.

  Valuable enough that one day a competing mining consortium got tired of the usual contract negotiations and opted for an old-fashioned hostile takeover.

  Mom and I were on Calcifor 267 following one of her random spirit journeys, a catch-all term Mom liked to use whenever she got restless and wanted to see some new sights. Why she decided that visiting a working mining colony was a good idea I didn’t know, but I think it had something to do with one of the owner’s son, a fairly handsome man with shockingly white teeth and absolutely amazing hair.

  In any case, I was seventeen and bored, fresh out of school and looking for trouble when trouble found me. The first sign things were about to get messy was the general alert sirens going off. My initial thought was decompression, and I immediately turned to look for the nearest vac suit closet. My next thought was decompression might be nice when an Igrel holding a plasma gun came stagge
ring around the corner with half his face missing. A few high-energy plasma bolts followed him, one bouncing off a wall with a hiss and a pop as it left a glowing trail in the metalwork.

  The Igrel ran into me and collapsed, his remaining eye rolling up into his head as he died. I wish I could say he gave me some heroic last words and a final command, but all that came out was a gurgle.

  I grabbed his weapon and ran.

  I passed a few security goons going the other way, each one kitted up bigger and badder than the one before. By the time I reached the apartment Mom had rented for us, Calcifor security had broken out the big toys – grav tanks sporting miniature rail guns, high-cap energy rifles, day-glow riot gear. I hoped whatever loads they were carrying were low yield, because otherwise decompression would be the least of our problems if they hit something important.

  Mom wasn’t there, a hand-written note letting me know that she was spending the day with Philippe in his executive suite, cold pizza in the fridge in case I got hungry. I relaxed for about ten seconds until I caught the news channel, warning everyone to stay away from the exec ring and that security would soon have everything under control.

  I ignored the advice of the talking head and pulled down the hard case I insisted we bring with us. I didn’t trust security to care about Mom if things got dicey, but you could damn well be certain that Roosevelt and I would.

  ✽✽✽

  The narrow streets between the apartment and the exec quarters were littered with evidence of a running gun battle. Civilian bodies were everywhere, some shot in the back as they tried to escape the fighting between Calcifor security and whoever was attacking. I swapped out the popgun I had taken off the Igrel for something a little more upscale, a military-grade rifle with a backup power supply. I kept Roosevelt strapped to my upper chest, holster filled with extra mags and a few loose rounds in my pocket. Plasma weapons were nice and all, but nothing says, “and stay down!” like forty grams of compressed lead delivered at supersonic speeds.

  I darted from corner to corner, trying to watch both my front and back at the same time. I came across a couple of grav tanks on fire, rail gun barrels melted and warped. I circled wide around them, not wanting to be nearby in case the fuel cells decided to let go. The sounds of battle came from somewhere up ahead. The unmistakable sounds of hissing plasma bolts combined with screams of pain and confused yelling.

  I tripped over a dead Bhahex, iridescent wings shedding scales. The sight only served to put my teeth on edge and steel my resolve. Bhahex as a rule are completely non-violent, existing mostly on fruit nectar and sunlight. If whoever was attacking was willing to kill for no reason, the sooner I got to Mom the better.

  I skidded to a stop and backtracked. A liquor store had caught my eye, offering a sale on pure distilled alcohol, guaranteed to wash your troubles away. The broken windows gave me easy access to a few bottles, and I ripped part of my shirt to make an improvised wick.

  Fully armed with a few treaty-violating weapons I waded into the rear of the engagement and made my presence known.

  ✽✽✽

  When it was all over, I got a personal thank you from the Security Commander, along with a warning to never set foot on Calcifor 267 ever again. Turns out that shooting the bad guys in the back was one thing – setting them on fire with improvised alcohol bombs and then shooting them in the back was something else entirely. The Security Commander was impressed with Roosevelt, but after discovering how much grip one needed to pull the trigger and the generous recoil you got in return, decided to stick with his plastic popguns. I wasn’t surprised – it had taken me the better part of a year to get competent with the oversized hand cannon. Roosevelt was an acquired taste, one best enjoyed sparingly.

  Mom, on the other hand, was just upset we were asked to leave Calcifor 267 before she could get to know Philippe better. Still, she tried to put on a bright face for me and asked if I had had a good time.

  “Sure Mom,” I said, looking out the window as the shuttle broke orbit and headed to the jump point. I patted the case where Roosevelt was sleeping, magazines empty. “It was a blast.”

  ✽✽✽

  I didn’t tell Bob any of this, keeping the memories of that day to myself. The sight of so many wounded surrounding me once more was triggering minor flashbacks, and by the time we made it to Araimer’s room I was in a foul mood.

  The two police officers guarding the door were willing to let me in since I was on the approved visitor list and they had heard of me – all lies, I swear – but they were not budging on Bob the blob.

  “You, we know,” the taller one ground out through a mouth full of gravel. Not a surprise, since Vuttaks are mostly silicon. “This one, we do not. No entry.”

  “Fine, fine,” I said, giving in. Turning to Bob, I pointed at a nearby chair. “Park yourself there, and remember, no slippy-slidey,” I warned her, giving her a wink. She got the hint if her change in color was any indication. Steeling myself, I entered Araimer’s room.

  ✽✽✽

  Araimer was in bad shape. The tripod was wired up to half-a-dozen machines, with more standing by in case some set got tired, all of them bleeping and blooping away. IV bags containing space-knows-what dripped into him. The worst part was that where there was supposed to be three lumps below his waist there was only one.

  Araimer would never do the cha-cha again.

  I sat down heavily into a visitor chair, staring at my friend. The thought startled me, since I had always been careful to never apply that label to anyone, always keeping everyone around me at arm’s length. I blamed my mother, always moving us around, never giving me a chance to form close connections. The only one that might have laid claim to the title of friend was Erta L'hotzuma, a Flimian I knew on and off growing up. And look how that turned out. Shot and eaten by a real estate mogul, simply because she saw something she shouldn’t have. Maybe not having friends would be better than what I was feeling now, an ache somewhere deep and left of center. I didn’t like it.

  “Oh wow he doesn’t look so good,” Bob said, having slipped past the police guards and under the door. “I think I remember him. A card game, right?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. Suddenly the card game and Araimer’s cheating seemed so long ago.

  “Jazz?” Araimer said weakly, opening one eye. The other two were heavily bandaged. He reached one claw out, gripping my hand. “Hey. They told me you tried to call.”

  “Yeah, you need to start answering your phone,” I said, blinking back tears. Where the space did those come from? “You didn’t come back so we got a new player for the evening. Say hi, Bob.”

  “Hi Bob,” Bob said. I gave her a sideways look. I wasn’t sure if Bob was trying to make a joke or not. If so, it was in poor taste, but I let it slide for now.

  “So what happened, Araimer?” I asked, looking back at the police officer. “The news is full of garbage.”

  Araimer shifted slightly, his claw letting go of my hand and flopping weakly back onto the bed. “Not sure. Everything was fine at first. Supposed to be standard crowd control. Lots of people, ex spacers by the looks of them. Pink-haired news reporter standing around and yapping away, filming everything. I was holding the line with the rest, thinking about the extra overtime, and getting back to the game. All of a sudden, the crowd started chanting fifty-one, fifty-one. I heard a pop, and everyone went nuts. I got knocked down right after calling for backup. The crowd passed me by and stormed the facility. I think I saw – well, I don’t know what I saw. Next thing I know I’m flying, and everything is on fire.” Araimer coughed weakly and I grabbed a squeeze bottle of water sitting on the table. I lifted Araimer’s head up as I gave him some, the tripod sucking greedily at it.

  “Thanks. After that everything is a blur. I woke up here. Probably gonna get full medical, retire in style,” Araimer said with a weak laugh, patting the side of the bed where two of his legs used to be.

  “I hear they are doing wonders with prosthetics these days,�
�� I said. “So, the chanting. Fifty-one. Any idea what that means?”

  “No idea. Maybe a callsign, signal of some sort.”

  “What about a leader?” I asked. Araimer coughed again and shook his head no. “The reporter, get a name?” Another cough and another shake. “Okay, you rest up, get better. I’ll look into things, see what I can see. You hang in there, okay? We’ll come to visit later, maybe I’ll know more then.” Araimer nodded and relaxed, his good eye closing as his breathing settled into a rhythmic sleep pattern.

  I left the room, Bob right on my heels. The Vuttak did a double take at Bob’s presence. “Hey, where did you come from?”

  “Your mom’s gravel pit,” I snapped, not in the mood to answer dumb questions. “Where’s the doctor? Oh good. Doctor…” I read the name tag on its chest. “Theezens? Cool name. Detective Singer, Special Branch.” I was starting to like how that sounded, might want to put it on my business card. “Tell me about Lieutenant Araimer.”

  “Are you next of kin?” the doctor asked, holding a clipboard tight against its scrawny chest with two feathered claws.

  “Sure. Bloodline marriage through my uncle’s side. Adopted. Three times, first two didn’t take. See? This is my cousin, Araimer’s twin sister,” I said, pulling on Bob. She got the message and quickly morphed into something resembling Araimer if you colored him blue and were wearing thick glasses. It seemed to do the trick, the doctor buying it enough to give me the skinny on Araimer’s condition.

  “The Lieutenant suffered from multiple blunt-force trauma to the lower pelvic region and upper thoracic. Besides the ambulatory limbs that were crushed beyond repair, the Lieutenant also has several cracked vertical supports and deep internal bruising. Facial injuries over the left and center eye sockets, the left one narrowly missing the optic cavity. No cranial damage, however. I’m surprised the Lieutenant is alive at all to be perfectly honest.”