by Jim C. Hines
After making sure nobody was paying them too much attention, Mops set off toward Arena Two. Unlike the rest of the sublevel, the three large arenas were decorated in bright-colored stripes and labeled in more languages than Mops could count. There was even a small section in Human that listed upcoming events and attractions, along with the prices for each.
The main entrance was six meters wide and blocked by a metal gate bristling with thorny spikes. A thick-limbed woman stood to one side, a heavy club in one hand. Mops’ monocle identified the club as a modified combat baton.
“The next event isn’t for another hour,” said the woman.
“Vera Rubin?” Mops guessed.
She frowned. “Who’s asking?”
“We’re from Maintenance,” said Mops. “We should be in the system.”
Rubin closed one eye. She had no visible monocle, but was probably wearing a lens or using some kind of implant. When she looked up again, her demeanor had eased from wariness into a generally depressed slump. “I didn’t realize the family had hired new humans. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s no better here than in the EMC.”
Vera Rubin wore what looked like an old, modified black EMC uniform, layered with thin armor plates over the torso, shoulders, waist, and thighs. A black helmet mostly concealed a set of dark scars down the side of her neck.
“The next event is a Tellarian bone duel?” asked Kumar. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Bone duels aren’t bad,” Vera said in a low monotone. “Pointless, but no more than the rest of this drivel they call entertainment. The Nusuran sex opera later tonight is worse. Short-lived titillation to fill the meaningless void of people’s lives. We’ll probably have another packed house.”
“Sex opera? I hope your autocleaner’s well-maintained.” Mops gave a mock shudder, then nodded toward Rubin’s scars. “You were infantry?”
“I was, yeah, but these are from fighting a couple of Nusurans who tried to sneak into a water ballet without paying.” Rubin started to say more, when something in her breast pocket squirmed and let out a low gurgle. “Sorry, hold on.”
“What’s that?” Kumar asked, peering closer.
Rubin pulled what looked like a seven-centimeter-long slug from her pocket. “Nusuran blood slug.”
Kumar searched his equipment harness. “I’ve got a spray in here that should—”
“It’s my pet,” Rubin continued. “I named it Slug.” She rolled up her sleeve and set the blue slug on her forearm. “I’ve been teaching it tricks. Mostly things like ‘Hide’ and ‘Stand up.’”
She snapped her fingers twice, and Slug reared up to display its slick blue underbelly.
“You used to share an apartment with Floyd Westerman,” said Mops.
“That’s right.” She nudged Slug, who coiled around her wrist like a slimy bracelet. “He didn’t like my pets.”
“Pets, plural?” asked Kumar. “How many do you have?”
“Twelve, if you count my tapeworm.” She smiled slightly, the first sign of emotion Mops had seen. “I’m saving up for an Earth dog. Or maybe a possum.”
“We wanted to talk to you,” Mops pressed. “Earlier today, my team found what we think are Floyd’s remains.”
She sighed and tugged Slug from her wrist. “If he’s dead, are they really his remains anymore? Who owns a body with no life left in it?”
“There’s plenty of life left in dead bodies.” Kumar hesitated. “Though probably not this one.”
Rubin turned her full attention to Kumar. “You think the remains belong to the microorganisms that consume us after we die? That’s a lovely thought.”
Mops couldn’t tell whether that was sarcasm or genuine sentiment.
“Legally, it’s another story,” Kumar continued. “According to station regulations, the Coacalos family can claim ownership, meaning they would technically be the Coacalos’ remains. But in the larger scheme of things, who says we own our bodies in the first place? Is it just right of first occupation? Our biological parents contributed the initial cells.”
“Ownership is imaginary,” Rubin countered. “Everything is temporary.”
“We found Floyd in Tower Two,” Mops interrupted. “We’re trying to figure out how he ended up there. Do you know why he would have gone into a Prodryan residence?”
She shrugged. “Floyd was Security, like most of us. He was a charger.”
“Charger?” asked Kumar.
“Big, strong, and scary looking,” explained Wolf. “They charge into a conflict, hollering like maniacs. Half the time, the sight of a huge, half-crazed human running at you is enough to end a fight right there.”
A human like that would have been even harder for the Prodryans to abduct against his will.
“He wasn’t really scary,” said Rubin. “Slug liked him.” She frowned and, for the first time, looked Mops in the eyes. “What are you here to work on? I didn’t think we had anything in the maintenance queue.”
“You don’t,” said Mops. “Did Floyd say anything about a Prodryan named Heart of Glass?”
“The moths mostly keep to themselves. Humans, too. We do our jobs and keep our heads down. It’s better for everyone. Floyd had problems, but he kept away from the bloody tower.”
“The bloody tower?” asked Kumar.
“Floyd said Tower Two was the color human blood used to be, before the plague. He knew lots of things about old Earth and pre-plague humans. He collected Earth artifacts. Plastic toys and old writing instruments. A pair of glasses frames. Little pins to wear on his shirt.”
“What kind of problems did he have?” Mops asked, gently trying to keep the conversation on track.
Rubin looked at Mops like an instructor with a particularly dim pupil. “The same problem we all have. Money. Earth artifacts aren’t cheap. Floyd owed a lot of money to Theta.”
“Theta?” Mops repeated.
“The Tjikko who lives in Tower Six. He knows as much about what goes on in the station as the Coacalos family. Maybe more. She has his roots into everything.”
“Did she work with the Prodryans?” Mops stumbled only slightly over the pronoun. Every species’ gender terminology translated differently into Human. Glacidae preferred the singular “they.” Krakau, all of whom were capable of carrying and bearing young, had chosen “she.”
The Tjikko, once they got over their amusement at the concept of gender, had chosen to alternate pronouns. They said the variation best reflected their own biology, which changed depending on the season and whether they chose to flower and cross-pollinate. Mops hadn’t worked with enough Tjikko for the conversational back-and-forth to become habit.
“He worked with everyone,” said Rubin.
Mops nodded. “What would Theta do if you owed her money?”
“He always gets her money back, one way or another.”
Before Mops could follow up, an impact like a hammer slammed into the back of her thigh. Her leg buckled, and she caught Kumar’s arm to keep from falling.
“Suit punctures,” Doc warned. “Back and front.”
“You’re bleeding,” said Rubin, in that same empty monotone. She grabbed Mops with one hand, Kumar with the other, and hauled them both into the relative shelter of the arched gateway. After pressing them both against the stone wall, she pulled her combat baton and switched it on.
“Sir?” Panic honed Kumar’s voice.
Mops looked down at the two-centimeter hole in her uniform. Her right thigh throbbed, presumably from the matching hole through her leg.
“Your heart rate and breathing have sped up, and your pupil is enlarged.” The words sounded distant and distorted. “You’re in danger of going into shock.”
Another shot shattered a chunk of wall by Kumar’s head. He jumped back, jabbing his arm and shoulder against the barbs on the gate.
�
�Stay down.” Mops grabbed a tube of bioglue from the emergency kit on her harness. “Doc, where did that shot come from?”
“Based on the entry and exit wounds, given where you were standing at the time . . .” An arrow appeared on her monocle, pointing back in the direction of the lift. “The shot may have chipped the outer edge of your femur, but the fact that you’re still standing means it didn’t shatter completely.”
She bit the cap from the tube and fumbled to get the nozzle into the hole in the front of her leg. “They wouldn’t be shooting at us if we weren’t onto something.”
“They might,” said Rubin. She peeked around the archway, then yanked back to avoid more gunfire. “Most people don’t like humans.”
“Don’t you have a gun?” asked Kumar.
“The Coacalos don’t trust human employees with guns.” Rubin adjusted the controls on her baton. A portion of the electromagnetically secured monofilaments bent and reformed into a new configuration, creating rows of three-centimeter spikes on the end of the weapon. “I’ll charge them. You call for assistance.”
“They’re after us, not you.” Mops awkwardly squeezed another glob of bioglue into the back hole. Replacing the cap, she returned it to her harness. “Monroe, this is Mops. We’ve got company. The angry type, with guns.”
“Wolf and I can be down there in ten minutes.”
“Be careful. They might have backup watching the lifts.” Mops drew her gun, biting back the urge to tell him to hurry. Monroe knew as well as she did that this would probably be over in ten minutes. One way or another.
Warning: Tonight’s Nusuran opera may be offensive to members of sexually repressed cultures.
The performers may ask for a volunteer from the audience. Volunteers must be physically healthy. Coacalos Station is not responsible for any injuries suffered by those who choose to participate.
For this performance, the part of the Interstellar Brothel Ghost will be played by understudy Loka-Farnikor-vi.
Rows 1-4 have been designated as a potential “splash zone.” Anyone wishing to change seats must notify an usher before the performance begins.
Recording for personal use only is permitted and encouraged.
These are trained athletes and actors. Do not try what you are about to see at home.
MOPS SHIFTED TO GUN’S-EYE view and pointed the barrel around the edge of the archway. Doc indicated the direction of their attackers, but she didn’t see anyone. Any station employees had scurried for shelter. Even the insects had burrowed into the walls and ceiling, leaving the sublevel eerily still.
A shot from the opposite direction came close to removing her hand at the wrist. She jerked back. “Dammit, Doc!”
“It’s possible the shooters relocated.”
“You think?” Mops fired twice at the edge of a small equipment storage building, her best guess as to where the shooter was hiding. “We’re pinned down. Rubin, get this gate open. We’ll cut through the arena to get away.”
“That’s against the rules,” Rubin said flatly. “Only performers and authorized personnel can enter the arena between performances.”
Mops spied movement toward the lift. She shot three more times, sending the figure scurrying back for cover. “They’ll kill us if we stay here.”
Rubin cocked her head, as if considering the possible outcomes. “That seems likely.”
Kumar put a hand on Rubin’s arm. With his other hand, he pointed to the gouged stones of the archway. “They’ll also do a great deal of damage to the arena. You’re supposed to protect this place, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Let us into the arena,” Kumar continued. “Once we’re inside, they’ll stop shooting at it. You’ll be saving it from damage. Then you can kick us out through another doorway.”
Rubin took several long seconds to consider the idea before turning around and pressing her badge against the control panel. There was no sound to indicate a change, but when she pushed the gate, it swung inward. Mops shoved Rubin and Kumar through, then hobbled after, pulling it shut behind her. “Can you lock it again?”
“It locks on its own.”
The arched tunnel was broad enough for two Quetzalus to walk side by side, and extended roughly two meters. Mops hurried through to find herself in an enormous lobby area, with shuttered shops along the walls. Stairs, ramps, and lifts led both down toward the stage and up to higher tiers of seats.
Enormous vid screens hung from the ceiling. Without an active signal, they looked like rectangles of translucent smoky glass. On the stage, a group of Glacidae arranged squares of rocky terrain for the upcoming show.
“Get out!” Mops shouted.
“We’re working here,” one called back. “Come back when the show starts, you stupid human.”
A slight pause and change in inflection suggested Doc had substituted “human” for one of the more vulgar terms for Mops’ species. With a sigh, she limped forward, pointed her gun over the stage, and fired.
The Glacidae dropped low and scurried away without a sound. The only thing scarier than a human was a human with a gun.
Kumar grabbed Mops’ other arm, and they hurried after the fleeing Glacidae. They’d just reached the main stage when a small explosion behind them marked the arrival of their attackers. A pressure wave thundered through the arena, along with the rattle of shrapnel.
The Glacidae stage crew belched in terror and ran faster, leaving oily black trails as they disappeared into a dark maintenance tunnel.
Rubin paused, staring at something only she could see. “The Glacidae have secured the exit behind them to prevent us from following.”
“Can you open it?” snapped Mops.
“I am not part of the stage crew,” she said simply.
Mops limped down the closest ramp and cut across through the relative shelter of the deep Quetzalus seats. “Doc, can you alert station security?”
“I’m being jammed.”
Mops’ fist tightened. “Is there another way out?”
Rubin shook her head. “The Quetzalus don’t want anyone sneaking in to sabotage or rig an event.”
Mops scanned the arena. The seats in the pie-shaped sections were clearly designed for different species, from oversized divots for Quetzalus to the miniature jungle gyms for the Krakau. None offered much in the way of hiding spots.
Brown daubed-on insulation covered most of the ceiling, all save the air vents, lighting, and the arena autocleaner. The vents were probably maintained from the outside, maybe from an access tunnel on the next level. “Rubin, where are the controls for that autocleaner?”
“I’m not sure. I usually stay by the gate.”
Kumar poked his head up to look around. Mops hauled him down, barely saving him from getting shot.
“Looks like a Tun-Ka-Vi autocleaner. If they’re using a standard model, the controls should be built into the stage itself. Given the size of the stage, it’s probably a Seven or Eight. The Eight has more efficient heating and a wider nozzle range, but it costs almost twice as much as—”
“Come on,” said Mops, shoving him to the floor and crawling toward the stage.
Gunfire raked the seats, then fell quiet. A quick peek back showed their attackers moving through the aisles to line up a better shot. “Are those Krakau?”
Doc froze and enhanced the image. “Indeed. Four of them.”
The gunfire started up again as they reached the bottom row. The stage stood before them on a meter-high base of sculpted stone. Doc helpfully translated the captions on the different scenes carved into the stone, tribute to some of the most famous events held here. Mops saw everything from hand-to-hand fights to a galactic record-setting display of competitive flatulence. A Nusuran held the title for decibels, but a Quetzalus had easily overpowered them in terms of sheer, eye-watering power.
Kumar stopped abruptly and pointed to the faint lines of a conduit channel in the floor. “There’s a power line here.” He squatted in front of the stage, then turned in confusion. “I’m sorry, sir, but why are we worrying about cleaning the stage? This wasn’t on our maintenance list, and even if it was—”
Mops shoved him aside and followed the conduit to a small rectangular panel on the side of the stage. She ripped off the cover. Inside was a grid of amber lights. A few blinked at varying speeds, while the rest glowed steadily.
“Oh, wow, it’s a Six Mark II,” said Kumar, peering over her shoulder. “This thing’s twenty years out of date. This is just a maintenance panel, not the main console.”
“Can we control the autocleaner from here?” snapped Mops.
Kumar brought his badge to the panel. The lights turned red. “Looks like it recognizes us as maintenance techs. We can’t do anything fancy like a selective four-stage sterilization, but we can do test cycles and basic, preprogrammed runs.”
Gunfire turned one of the carvings to Mops’ left into a series of glowing craters. An amplified voice called out in mechanically translated Human. “That was a warning shot. You’re pinned down. Surrender.”
“What’s the broadest radius for the Six Mark II?” Mops whispered.
“It’s big enough to cover the whole arena, easily,” said Kumar. “The jets are rated for a range of a hundred and eight meters. From that height, they could reach one-twenty, though you’d have to adjust for the slope of the stands, and—”
“What disinfectants are they using?”
“I can get that for you.” Doc pulled up a list.
Mops skimmed the ingredients and nodded to herself. “Kumar, turn the detergent-to-water ratio up to max, and run a full cleaning cycle.”
“This is your last chance,” shouted one of the Krakau. Another burst of gunfire struck the stage.
Kumar touched four of the lights in sequence, paused, and tapped three more. “There you go.”
Mops tilted her head. “Well?”
“The Six Mark II has a three-minute warm-up cycle. There’s no way to bypass it from here.” He replaced the cover.
