by Scott Rhine
Max kicked the metal stool back into the armed man. Because Max didn’t telegraph aggression through the collective or a facial expression, the move came as a complete surprise. Most Humans would mistake the action for a simple accident. His opponent placed his dominant hand forward to brace himself, momentarily trapping a wide-bore sonic weapon flat on the stool top. Apologizing, Max stuffed the end of his spoon into the muzzle. The poor bugger didn’t even know he was in a fight yet. He had a prominent brow ridge that reminded Max of cavemen in a textbook. While the man stared down in disbelief, Max threw him into the ground so hard that the gun clattered away. Then he straddled the man.
“Care to explain?” asked Max.
The Neanderthal underneath him made a biologically impossible suggestion.
“My handler,” said Doma Isolchar in Banker, so the other Humans wouldn’t understand. “He discourages me from interacting with ‘superior’ life forms.” The Phib stared for a while. “You’re the vampire.”
“I prefer Max Culp.” He grabbed a pair of wrapped chopsticks from the counter in case anyone else attacked.
The Phib executed a gesture of greeting involving the thumbs.
Max didn’t respond in kind. “In the interests of full disclosure, I’m no longer in the business of killing Phibs. If they took out a contract on me—”
“Please. My people don’t see you as evil. They don’t have that abstract concept. You are a force that culls the weak and old.”
“Like a wolf among the herd animals,” Max suggested.
“More like the loving father who examines the tadpoles and eats those we know won’t survive. If they follow the rules, you won’t harm them. You have prevented others in your party from harming bystanders. You considered several ways to kill me but resisted. Your moral code is why you have remained untouched.”
“Your people didn’t just cull their own tadpoles. They ate all but one Turtle egg on the planet.” Max felt anger boiling inside, like the n/um magic. “Why are you visiting the last Turtle from New Hawaii?”
“To beg her forgiveness and to explain that we have isolated the gene responsible.”
Bull. Max blew out, trying to overcome the voice of the adrenaline. “For aggressive behavior, or declaring yourselves superior to your uplifters?”
“Neither. Our doom as a species was not in one rogue warrior, rather, our failure to express outrage. When presented with the evidence of the crime, if our chief diplomat had shown compassion for the victims and atoned, we would have been spared.”
Max considered this. Even flat disavowal of the perpetrators might have worked. The Phibs might have escaped with mere financial penalties and a few restrictions. The unrepentant reply of the race’s representative turned all the other races against them. “And you think if you promise to breed out this gene, or at least keep those with it out of public office, Turtles will vote you back in after only five hundred years?”
Isolchar bowed. “I wish for peace and trust between the races again. I also bring a message she will wish to hear.”
“Right. I’m going to step aside in order to let your keeper up, but tell him if he draws that weapon in public again, I’m going to plug it another way.” Max climbed to his feet and located the gun.
Despite the cool air, a blonde in a short skirt and thin dress wrap strode up to them. Her clothing and long hair billowed, drawing stares from the crowd. “Laying down on the job again, Gunther?” She smiled at Max and the spoon sticking out of the muzzle. In Mae West fashion, she cracked, “If I threaten you, are you going to eat me?”
Max ejected the weapon’s power pack with the push of a button, handing the battery to the Phib and the gun to its owner.
The blonde gestured for the bodyguard to back off with a wave of her hand. “Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
Isolchar shifted back to English out of politeness. “This is a famous war hero who was polite enough to dine with me.”
Reevaluating Max, she held out a well-manicured hand, her designer charm bracelet dangling. She could have been a model. “Lisa Troutwine, executive assistant to Xavier Claremont III.” When Max looked puzzled, she added, “Former member of the oligarch’s council on Luna. We’re … en route to his new assignment as governor of Eden.”
As a hub on well-traveled star lanes, Jotunheim would be her last stop with the comforts of civilization. Ships making the long journey rimward from here were few and far between. None were likely to offer accommodations suited to her social class, which explained the extended layover.
On Eden, the governor ruled the spaceport and station but little else. He could limit imports and exports and decide who immigrated or left. However, he couldn’t force the natives to do anything on the preserve. His job was rather like a prison warden with only the front door keys. “Was the governor’s post a punishment or golden parachute?” Max asked wryly.
She smiled, which increased her beauty. “His wife is inclined toward the first interpretation.”
“Tell Governor Claremont that the fifth hole of the spaceport golf course is a little dangerous. Veer to the right as much as you can. Part of the fairway collapsed during an earthquake.”
Lisa focused her dazzling attention on him. As she flipped hair behind her ear, he noticed she had no wedding ring. “You’re from Eden?”
“I used to be a caddy for the doctor.”
“We’re bringing a new physician with us.”
On a whim, Max said, “I was just offering the Doma here a ride on my ship, standard rates. In the birch forest, we even have a pond that he could wallow in.”
“On the ship?” she asked in awe.
“It’s a Magi courier. We have five extra staterooms. You’ll do best to let the Doma bargain with Captain Zrulkesh because he’s favorably inclined toward the Phibs.”
Isolchar bowed. “Mr. Culp is a very charitable soul. Perhaps these accommodations will finally meet with the governor’s approval. I could share a room with the doctor, the couple would get the second, you and the cook take the third, and four guards could still travel along.”
The thought of the large Phib and anything else fitting in one of those rooms amused Max almost enough to make up for the gun. Getting to know the friendly Miss Lisa and keeping an eye on the allegedly reformed Phib would make the long journey ahead much more interesting. Providing rich, paying customers might even get him back in the captain’s good graces.
When Isolchar and his companions departed, the cook said, “Thanks for not wrecking my place. You want the leftovers? The Phib paid for the whole pot. No one else will touch it after he did.”
Grateful, Max helped the cook pour the extra into an empty water jug. On his way back to the ship, he stopped at a jeweler’s to convert the diamonds to transferable credit. If I’d been mugged, Gina would have lost any chance at freedom.
When he stopped at the bank to make his deposit, he eyed the short, squat teller behind the thick glass-alloy. Unless opening an account or applying for a loan, most people preferred to make use of the many automated booths. The Bankers resembled cement garden gnomes, particular in their lack of warmth. They also had no sense of humor, so no nicknames were permitted. Physically weak, they protected themselves with vast financial resources and intelligence gathering. Merciless in business, their race had transported the ancient treasures from a dozen planets to the vaults of their home world. They hid the coordinates of the planet and placed military bases at the first two layers of outward connections. Only sublight ships could approach the fortress of Nivaar.
As Max waited for his deposit to be recorded, he asked the teller, “Hypothetically, could the fingerprints in your system be used to identify me to the police on another world?”
“No, sir,” said the pompous little man with hairy ears and a red, velvet jacket. “We pride ourselves on discretion. We don’t even require a name, only your account number. Furthermore, your biometric comparison is encrypted using your pass phrase. We can’t read the f
ile unless you unlock it, and the verifier device erases the data after your last transaction.”
“What if my fingertip gets cut off in battle?” Max asked.
“We have the ability to reset the key given medical documentation and sufficient proof of identity. New deposits are always allowed and can be accessed using the new key.”
“Could someone repay a registered promissory note to me if I changed my biometric?”
“We would be happy to make the transaction and record the fulfillment of the contract. However, that would still count as assets locked under the old key. To prevent fraud, we insist on a three-week waiting period before you can spend the old money.”
Max smiled. “I feel safer already.”
Chapter 14 – Irons in the Fire
When Max returned to The Inner Eye, the guards and Reuben were both gone. Hans greeted Max with a friendly high-held fist bump, the species-neutral version of the head butt. “Hey, brother. They made Reuben go inside after we finished unloading. They were afraid he’d try to escape.”
Max saw two large crates in the shuttle bay, stenciled with the golden Valhalla Mining Company logo. Beside them was a case of gold spray paint. “Why are we buying more iron?”
Without hesitation, Hans replied, “Duh, they’re going to sprinkle the good stuff over the other containers in case someone on Eden does an assay.” He paused for a moment, unsure. “And maybe spray the Valhalla logo on all the crates.”
“Have you been spending a lot of time with Reuben the last week?” Max asked, curious about the uncharacteristic burst of intelligence.
“Yeah. You were busy, so he helped me feed the meat mammals.”
“Was there any physical contact?”
Puzzled, Hans replied, “He demonstrated some of the throws you taught him.”
For men, the side effect takes longer, but the boost can still work. How long does the increase last? “Do you really think the captain will give you passage out of system after he delivers this contraband?”
“No. He’ll maroon me for sure. Probably destroy my passport. If he hears I guessed his scam, he might even space me to hide the evidence.” Hans covered his mouth with both hands, eyes wide in panic.
“How long until The Eye leaves port?”
“Three days to a week, depending on the astrogator’s flight plan.”
Max nodded. “A person in such a position could probably find another ship leaving before that.”
“But I won’t get paid for this leg.”
“You really thought that was going to happen in the other scenarios?” Max looked around the unmanned bay. “Everyone else is busy right now. You’ll never get a better chance.”
Hans bleated nervously. “Thanks. Reuben was right about you. Tell him why I had to leave.”
Max nodded. “I’ll tell the crew you were bragging about a ewe and might be a while.”
****
The captain was grateful for the added customers, but the crew had a lot of extra work: cleaning, stocking decent provisions, and hiding evidence of wrongdoing. The first afternoon, Max took advantage of the confusion to remove a panel in the closet ceiling and hide his holo cube in the crawlspace. In a pinch, he might be able to sneak into the stateroom room next door or into the forest. He hid the fancy screwdriver in his bed frame, in case an intruder attacked him at night.
Reuben had located three potential Eden pilots and emailed Max the data. None of it was encouraging. Two were cargo jockeys who couldn’t be trusted with anything larger than a shuttle. The third was a recent retiree whose license had been revoked for drug usage. Max didn’t mind hiring criminals to aid in his escape, but he was reluctant to trust Gina’s safety to a man like this. Plus, he disapproved of the last name McCool on principle. All hope wasn’t lost because the data sets were a year out of date.
Since Hans was AWOL, Reuben played both roles. He put on his friend’s jumpsuit and goggles to spray-paint an entire wall of cargo containers. Max fed and watered the meal mammals. The longer it took the others to figure out the deception, the better chance Hans had to escape cleanly. On the bright side, with Hans’ keys they had free access to their own storage pod and extra rations.
Only after the wall was painted and the seals on its containers forged would Zrulkesh allow Isolchar access to the biozone for an inspection.
Max led Reuben into the mess hall during this event to keep him distracted. Because the crew was busy plumping pillows and opening doors for the guest, the two could dine alone for the first time on the voyage.
Although Reuben was grumpy at dinner because of the gold paint in his hair, the selection of spices mollified him slightly. Sharing the rest of Isolchar’s pot of soup helped even more. “I still think you’re insane for trusting a Phib.”
“Keep your friends close but your enemies closer,” argued Max. He watched the captain and the Phib touring the ship on his computer pad, courtesy of the hidden cameras he had planted.
“You know what that thumb-to-thumb greeting means, right?” Reuben shook a spoon at him. “It’s how they hold the female in place when they mount her. They’re telling you they’re going to do the same thing to you given the chance. Caveat emptor.”
“Placing the thumbs together off-balances the Phib and demonstrates he isn’t carrying a weapon,” Max corrected.
“Because their legs are weapons!”
Max had underestimated the racial animosity, so he changed the subject. “I checked in on Jubalasch. No loss of sensitivity in his tail and barely a scar.”
Reuben nodded. “Yeah the guys said you’re better than the average Saurian doctor.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice with this sort of injury, and the regen unit is top of the line.”
“Yeah, they’re all planning on getting plenty of use out of it. Even the captain is eager to off his brother. How is that humane? What is this fixation the Saurians have with gladiatorial combat?”
After counting the Saurians on camera feeds, Max switched to English. “It’s how they direct evolution. Women flock to the winners of bloodsport competitions because their society values those skills. The aggression and competitive drive translate into nearly every field of Saurian endeavor. A top achiever can fertilize up to a hundred females a year and last as long as eight years. Since each female lays an average of a dozen eggs per clutch, that’s ten thousand legacies.”
Reuben choked on his drink. “That’s certainly leaving your mark.”
“Human conquerors like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun affected our gene pool the same way. The Black Ram did so as well.”
“Hey, leave my race out of this,” Reuben complained. “We don’t kill off all our siblings.”
“All an extension of Darwinian fitness,” Max said. “If you’re all from the best gladiator in a generation and you beat out the other five thousand male competitors, you must really be hot stuff. With the advent of star travel, you don’t even have to kill the others, just fly more often to outlast them.”
Reuben slurped his soup. “So the captain does this job and he gets to retire to do stud service?”
Max grimaced. “They don’t pay him.”
“Still … eight hundred women!”
“Trust me, one is enough if she’s the right one.” Max grabbed the empty bowl and carried it to the sterilizer.
That’s when he saw the blonde assistant eavesdropping. Caught, she purred, “You certainly seem to know a lot about sex.”
Max was speechless, mentally reviewing everything he might have let slip in the conversation.
Reuben seemed highly amused. “Just from dry, medical journals.” Poking Max with an elbow, he said, “Not so funny when it happens to you, is it?”
Flustered, Max took two tries to turn off his computer. “Lisa, how did you get in here?”
“I told you I handle things for the governor, including Isolchar’s leash.”
“You know her?” complained Reuben in Banker. “She’s been here six nanoseconds
, and you’re already moving in? Do you have to take all the women?”
“Do tell,” Lisa said, also in Banker. She followed Max as he headed down the hall.
Ignoring the flirtation, Max asked, “Why did you leave the tour group?”
“The pond was breathtaking, but I never buy based on what a Saurian wants me to know, dear.”
Her scent and the term of endearment made him act against his better judgment. Plus, he had to side with fellow humans against the Saurian smugglers. “We have to get you back to the outer ring with your guards before the captain catches you. He doesn’t like surprises.”
When he opened the door to Hans’ quarters, she wrinkled her nose.
“It’s a shortcut,” Max insisted, leading them down the narrow corridor. At the far end, he put a finger to his lips. Then Max turned on the mirror app on his wrist unit and poked his hand into the hall to check for Saurians. Only a couple Human bodyguards lingered. “Okay. You’re clear.”
“I’ll have months to expose you, Mr. Culp.”
“Pardon?”
“No one makes this long journey into night without a compelling reason.” She scratched his beard with a well-manicure nail. “I’m going to find out what you’re hiding.”
Max swallowed hard as she sashayed away from him in a curve-hugging skirt.
Reuben leaned over to watch and whistled low.
Slamming the door, Max said, “I can’t take you anywhere. Get back to work. I need you to infect a computer file with a tracking virus.”
****
Max made a point of bumping into Isolchar on the way out. “In honor of your visit to my home planet, I present you with a copy of my grandfather’s book about the history and people of Eden.”
Isolchar bowed. “I could not take such a gift.”
“Ah, but you gave me a pot of soup when I was hungry. I always remember my debts,” Max insisted.
