by Jim C. Hines
“She’s probably right,” Doc added. “There are very few documented cases of eating-related reversion, and none of them were triggered by anything this small.”
“Et tu, Doc?” With a sigh, she held out her hand. “All right.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Cook trilled. He placed the nut into her palm and waited expectantly. “Don’t eat the string.”
It was heavier than she’d expected. She tugged off the string and turned the nut over in her hand. “How do I do this?”
“Here.” Monroe took it in his mechanical hand and squeezed. The shell split along the carved line. He tugged the two halves apart and gave them back.
The interior looked like a little fossilized black brain, divided into two oblong hemispheres. Some sort of syrup or glaze shone in the wrinkles. “I just . . . dig it out and eat it?”
“I can get you a nut fork if you’d like,” Cook offered. He put a fuzzy arm around her shoulders. “Most prefer to use their fingers, though.”
With a sigh, Mops dug her fingertips around the wrinkled mass and pulled half of it free with a cracking sound. It felt like water-softened wood, and smelled earthy and sweet. Saliva pooled in her mouth.
She crunched down. Chewed. Swallowed.
“Well?” asked Wolf.
Mops swore silently to herself. “It’s . . . delicious.”
TO ALL COOKS GOOD MEALS EMPLOYEES
Re: Surprising Guests with Celebratory Outbursts
We’re all familiar with the Prodryan celebration of First Flight, marking a young Prodryan’s successful survival after being hurled from the nest. Many Prodryans choose to celebrate in this very restaurant.
Staff are welcome and encouraged to help with this and all other festivities, whether that means a song and free dessert for a mated Nusuran trio celebrating their sexual anniversary, toffee-wax candles for our Krakau patrons to enjoy on the Day of High Tides, or in the case of First Flight, providing fire wine and harmless explosives for friends of the family to set off when the triumphant Prodryan enters the restaurant.
I appreciate initiative, but we must also be aware of different species’ habits and preferences.
Quetzalus mourn the death of a family member with a quiet celebration of that person’s life and accomplishments. It was an honor to have the Xalupux family choose Cooks Good Meals as their gathering place to mark the passing of their matriarch. (A potentially profitable honor, given Quetzalus appetites!)
I understand Assistant Chef Swift Knife was only trying to enhance the celebration. However, surprising a group of mourning Quetzalus with explosives and flaming drinks is not only culturally inappropriate, it’s potentially dangerous.
As Swift Knife and everyone else present that night learned, Quetzalus have a deeply ingrained fear response, evolved to allow them to better fight or flee in times of danger. All total, our guests’ projectile vomited approximately fourteen kilograms of partially digested food matter throughout the restaurant.
Given that Swift Knife was directly in the path of this explosion, I don’t think there’s any need for disciplinary action. The concussion he suffered from the impact was consequence enough, and I’m certain he will not make the same mistake again.
That said, if it does happen again, all cleaning and medical costs will come from the responsible employee’s paycheck.
Thank you!
—Cooks Good Meals
MOPS HAD INTENDED TO go straight to the Coacalos family for information on the names Cook had given them, but Kumar recognized one from their maintenance list. Heart of Glass, from apartment 2-6-103, had put in a request more than a week ago for a clogged drain line.
She stepped off the lift and double-checked her monocle. According to Doc’s map, Tower Two, Level Six, Room 103 should be right across this bridge.
The bridge to the residential section stretched like crystallized red toffee from the lift, splitting off from a central platform in four other directions. Thinner reinforcing strands made the whole thing look like a giant bloody spiderweb.
The gravity was even lighter up here, allowing the Prodryans to drift and loop about as they watched Mops step onto the bridge. Despite its appearance, it felt solid enough to support them. Monroe had to hunch to grip the low railing.
A yellow-winged male with a thin, metal exoskeleton affixed to his limbs corkscrewed around them, never quite coming within reach.
“We’re here to fix a waste line in 103,” Mops called out as she approached the pentagonal platform at the center of the bridge.
The looping Prodryan alighted on the rail. “You’re not wanted here. The last resident brought a human to this level, and its stink fouled the whole section.”
Mops simply smiled. “How long ago was that?”
“Thirty days the stench has lingered.”
“It’ll be easier to clean if we know what Hurt of Ass was doing with this human.”
The Prodryan paused. “Heart of Glass’ business is none of yours, human.”
“Thanks anyway.” Mops tapped the side of her monocle and moved her lips like she was reading. “Says here Mister Glass was working with some sort of venom. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
The Prodryan spread his wings and moved closer, mouth pincers spread. He had a floral smell, surprisingly pleasant. “I know nothing of Heart of Glass’ work with azure venom.”
Bless Prodryan attempts at lying. “Azure venom, is it?”
He froze, then spat a small pellet onto the floor in front of her and jumped from the platform. Mops watched him swoop toward a balcony one level below. “Doc—”
“Already on it. I’m not aware of any references to azure venom, but I’ll keep searching.”
Mops took her time crossing to apartment 103, hoping another Prodryan might try to get in their faces and accidentally provide additional information, but they seemed content to watch and glare.
The smell was worse than she’d expected, making her nose wrinkle from four doors away. She could hear the air filtration fans rattling and vibrating like growling metal robots, but they couldn’t fully clear the pungent smell of chemicals and rotten meat.
“It wasn’t me,” Wolf said, waving a hand in front of her face.
A notice on the door’s lock screen explained that the room was closed for maintenance. A swipe of Mops’ badge deactivated the lock.
Mops stepped inside. She was tempted to seal her hood, but in this line of work, smell offered too many clues to where a given problem could be coming from.
“They blame that stink on one human?” asked Monroe, waving his left hand in front of his face.
Wolf stopped in the doorway. “Should we really be going in there? If they were working on their venom weapon—”
“Anything in the air would have cycled through the station by now,” said Kumar, his voice tight. “You saw how fast it spread through the Pufferfish, and I guarantee our air circulation system is cleaner than anything here.”
The first thing to catch Mops’ eye was a large cylindrical tank with a curved door. “Doc, check the logs on this room and find out when they installed a Glacidae shower.”
“Twenty-six days ago, billed to Heart of Glass.”
Mops surveyed the rest of the room. Three small hammocks hung from the high ceiling. A stone-topped worktable sat against one wall. She checked the gleaming surface—spotless. Someone had done a much better job cleaning this room than the one Mops and her team were staying in over in Tower Five.
Kumar pulled on his gloves, sealed his hood, and slid open the shower door, releasing a new cloud of stink. “According to the work order, this is the drain line they clogged up. I’ll pop off the grate.”
“I’m surprised you’re taking the lead on this one,” said Wolf. “You can’t walk past a window without scrubbing the fingerprints clean, but you want to
reach into that cesspit?”
“I’d rather cut off my own hand.” Kumar’s face was pale. Sweat beaded and dripped from the tip of his nose. “But whatever’s in here, we’ve all been breathing it. The quicker we find out what it is, the quicker we can purge it from the station and, if necessary, our lungs.”
“You said if it was gonna hurt us, it would have done it by now.” Wolf bent to peer over Kumar’s shoulder. “We were probably just inhaling particles of rot or shit or shed skin.”
Kumar tugged the grate. One of his hands slipped, coming up to smack Wolf in the side of the head.
Wolf staggered backward. “You did that on purpose!”
“I hope so,” said Mops, before Kumar could respond. “It saved me the trouble of doing it myself.”
Kumar tossed the grate aside and shone a light down the pipe. “It’s pooled up about ten centimeters in.” He grabbed a slender pry bar from his harness and poked one end deep into the mess. “Something crunchy, like eggshells. Quetzalus lay eggs, don’t they?”
“No way Heart of Glass swiped a Quetzalus egg,” said Monroe. “Not on this station. The Coacalos family would have ripped his wings off.”
Kumar sat back. “We need a vacuum snake.”
Unfortunately, theirs was back on the Pufferfish. Mops checked the list of cleaning supplies in the nearest maintenance closet. “Looks like the closest they’ve got is a basic three-centimeter vacuum hose.”
“So let’s siphon out the water and get a better look at the blockage,” said Monroe.
“Bad idea.” Wolf pointed at the pipes coming into the tank. “Glacidae use a mild acid wash to keep their shells clean and polished. Given how cheap the rest of the station maintenance equipment has been, I doubt their hose could handle it.”
Mops raised an eyebrow at her.
“I had to adjust the acid levels and neutralizing rinse in Grom’s quarters last month, remember? Burned the hair off my left arm, along with a few layers of skin.”
“Find another option.” Mops turned to examine the rest of the room. Pale discoloration on the floor showed where droplets from the Glacidae shower had splashed beyond the tile. She found a closet and a small wall safe, both of which were unlocked and empty. Eye hooks on the ceiling were spaced out to hold four more hammocks, if necessary. She also found a broken security monitor nestled in the corner.
She checked the garbage bin next. The contents had been purged and the interior sanitized. “Nothing here.”
“Check the waste logs,” said Kumar.
Wolf laughed derisively. “Waste logs?”
“The station charges for both the disposal of day-to-day trash and for organic excretions. Everything gets analyzed and weighed and logged. Didn’t you read the toilet-and-sewage section of the orientation packet?”
Mops raised a hand to forestall further argument. “Doc, can you pull up the logs for this room? Trash and organic waste.”
A column of data streamed onto her monocle, each entry tagged by date, time, weight, material, and cost. Doc highlighted four rows and said, “It appears several of our Prodryans returned from their celebration at Cook’s eleven days ago and promptly vomited.”
Mops started with the garbage log. “Ten days back, Heart of Glass threw out what look like mem crystal fragments, synthetic fabrics, chemical powders, and pieces of nonfunctional electronic equipment.” She switched her attention to the organic logs. “Most of the waste is tagged Prodryan, but not all. They also flushed material from a Glacidae, a human . . . and a Krakau.”
“They had a Krakau in here?” asked Wolf.
“Not necessarily,” said Kumar. He and Monroe had both squeezed into the Glacidae shower, trying to clear the drain. “All we know is that someone flushed Krakau waste material. We don’t know if that material came directly from the Krakau. Maybe it was brought here by an intermediary.”
Wolf grimaced. “Why in the icy depths would anyone—”
“I’ve got something,” Monroe interrupted, to Mops’ relief.
She stepped around to the shower door to find Monroe stretched out on the floor. His right sleeve lay flat on the tile. With his left hand, he held the gleaming white bicep of his detached artificial arm. “What did you do?”
“Found something the acid wouldn’t hurt.” Monroe shifted to one side while Kumar reached over with his gloved hands to help pull the arm free.
Oily yellow liquid dripped from the unnaturally white skin. The arm twisted in Kumar’s grip, making him yelp and nearly drop it.
“Be careful! That’s expensive.” Monroe pushed himself upright. “Arm, show us what you found.”
The arm held out a handful of pitted yellow bone.
Kumar set the arm gently on the shower floor and poked the fragments. “I hate to say it, but I think these are human.” He grabbed a pebble-sized bone between his thumb and index finger. “No other species we’ve encountered has teeth this size and shape.”
“Poor bastard,” said Wolf.
“How long would it take to dissolve a human body in a Glacidae acid shower?” asked Kumar.
“Depends on whether they were properly diluting the acid wash,” said Wolf.
Mops thought back to her conversation with Lazan and Ix Coacalos, and Lazan’s comment about a human employee who’d quit without notice. “I think we’ve found the Coacalos family’s missing worker.”
Hauling the remains of a fellow human through the station in a ten-kilo biohazard container felt disrespectful, but at least the bright green warning labels kept the Prodryans at a distance. In the lighter gravity of the upper tower, the box felt empty, but the rattling of shifting bones reminded her what she carried.
Monroe had retrieved most of the bones from the drain, along with a few pieces of corroded metal—buckles and other fasteners. The rest had flushed away once he removed the worst of the blockage.
Monroe’s right arm hung limply at his side. He insisted everything had passed diagnostics, and Arm was just pouting about being used as a drain snake. A quick wash and rinse in neutralizer wasn’t enough to make up for that level of indignity. Which seemed reasonable enough to Mops.
They were halfway back to Tower Five when Doc flashed an incoming message alert. “It’s from Ix Lataclox.”
“I was wondering when you’d call,” said Mops.
“Thank you for recovering the remains of our worker.”
“You’re sure that’s who it is?”
“Genetic testing will confirm the identity,” said Ix. “Assuming the acid hasn’t corrupted the DNA. Please bring the remains to the organic waste processing facility on level one of Tower One.”
Mops stopped walking. “Waste processing? You’re going to recycle them?”
“It’s the most cost-efficient choice. Unless you wish to purchase the remains? As de facto station employees, I could arrange for you to receive a five percent discount.”
Mops closed her eyes, calming herself with soothing images of punching Ix Lataclox in the throat. “What was the human’s name?”
“Does it matter? The human’s death is unfortunate, but it’s obvious the Coacalos family had nothing to do with these matters.”
She counted ten more punches. “The name.”
There was a long pause. “Floyd . . . Westerman, I believe.”
“I assume you had the humans crammed into one of the bottom-level apartments in Tower Five. Where can we find the roommates?” A short list appeared on Mops’ monocle. She ended the connection. “Doc, who on that list is closest?”
“Vera Rubin, a security guard currently working in Arena Two, down in the first sublevel.”
Monroe stepped closer to whisper, “We’re being followed. Thirty meters back. Green wing. She’s been watching us since the lift.”
“Took them long enough,” Mops replied. “Doc, show me.”
&nbs
p; Doc ran a quick replay of everything Mops’ monocle had seen since leaving the lift, quickly picking out and highlighting four stills of the Prodryan. Her right wing appeared to be missing. The other was lime green and lay flat against her body, the end ragged. A dull brown shawl over the right side of her body could conceal any number of small weapons.
She was obviously watching the humans, but that proved nothing. Half the station was staring at Mops and her team, while the other half was just as obviously avoiding eye contact.
Mops handed the crate over to Wolf. “Monroe, you and Wolf take Westerman back to our quarters. Give your arm a proper cleaning and tune-up while you’re there. Maybe that will soothe its hurt feelings. Kumar and I will go talk to Vera Rubin. We’ll see who our friend follows, if anyone.”
“We’re not taking Westerman to Tower One for processing?” asked Kumar.
“Hell, no.”
Monroe smiled. “Yes, sir.”
The Prodryan chose to follow Mops and Kumar. Mops looked from side to side like a gawking tourist as she walked, allowing Doc to track their follower from the edges of Mops’ monocle. When they reached the lift, the Prodryan turned away to enter a small shop selling exoskeletal etchings and piercings.
“Doc, tap into the team’s monocles and put a flag on that Prodryan. If she enters visual range of anyone on the team, highlight her as a potential threat.” As the lift closed behind her, she added, “But remind Wolf that does not mean she has free rein to start shooting!”
Sublevel one had a cavernous feel: tall and dimly lit, with vast open spaces between rounded structures that grew out of floor and ceiling like insect hives. Everything was the red-brown hue of iron-rich rock. The hum of station machinery filled the air, and Mops could feel the faint vibration beneath her feet. She didn’t see many people, and of those she did, most appeared to be station employees. A pair of Quetzalus hauled a shuttle-sized load of fertilizer toward one of the plant feeding stations at the far wall. A Glacidae maintenance worker hung upside down from the ceiling, working on a bad lighting panel.
