“As you will be again, soon. Which is the least you deserve!”
Something isn’t right. She’er tamped down the emotions preventing rational thought. Why wasn’t Mori shifting into her natural form and fighting back? And what was it about this form—
By the Hound Below! She’er released Le’es, who scuttled toward the storeroom. The Second braced each hand against the sides of the archway and wheezed, uniform soaked with perspiration.
“You aren’t Mori,” said the captain, stunned. “Amrighans don’t sweat. Why would she bother simulating it once her cover was blown?”
“What…who’s this Mori you keep ranting about?” Le’es panted.
She’er clutched a double-handful of hair. “Oh, I am stale. How could I be so wrong?”
Awash in a nauseating wave of self-recrimination, She’er didn’t realize the IEA detail had arrived until an enforcer spoke in a familiar Parancian accent. “Captain, what is the situation? The chief is located, no?”
“Yes, Underchief Victria.” She’er struggled for poise. “Injured, but alive.”
“Thank the Keeper,” said Le’es, reaching toward Victria. “The captain’s mind has snapped. You need to arrest—”
Le’es’s body went rigid, mouth still working, though all that came out was a high-pitched rattle. A thin stream of blood followed. The center of Le’es’s torso had been hollowed out. She’er recognized the black-rimmed, bloodless hole as the distinctive result of an exterminator fired at close range. Tidy, but fatal.
Le’es toppled to the floor with a clang of skull against steel as Wa’ats appeared in the archway, exterminator in hand. Its muzzle still glowed faintly.
“Chief! You are well.” Victria holstered her exterminator and signaled the rest of the detail to follow suit.
“Wa’ats,” said She’er, relief warring with shock. “Are you all right?”
“Thanks to you.” Wa’ats pointed to Le’es’s body. “Had you not turned up I’ve no doubt Mori would have finished the job she began last night. Once our attention was focused on examining Jon’na’s remains, Mori shifted into her true form and attacked.”
“Did she?” She’er’s heart sank. You already know that cannot be!
“Unfortunately, Mori had the element of surprise. First, she decapitated Ca’ar,” said Wa’ats, as though reciting a lesson. “Then she made quick work of the rest. Of course I tried to intervene, but you know how strong Amrighans are in their natural form.”
Wa’ats’s uniform had sweat stains under the arms. “Indeed I do,” murmured She’er. “So where are their bodies?”
“Probably not enough left to displace, so she incinerated them.” Wa’ats holstered the exterminator and stepped over Le’es to embrace She’er. “Looks as if you’re my hero this time.”
She’er struggled not to resist the embrace while studying Wa’ats’s face. “That head injury…looks nasty. We should get you to Medbay.”
“First, we must find Jon’na’s body before maturation.” Wa’ats addressed Victria. “Underchief, begin searching. I’m confident Mori stashed her here to gestate in this warm, secluded space. It’s perfect for cold-blooded beings like Amrighans.”
Her. “Start with the storeroom,” said She’er.
Victria looked to Wa’ats, who smiled briefly before nodding. “But of course,” she said, and led the detail into the storeroom.
She’er fought to sound calm. “When I found you lying in there—”
“Poor dear.” Wa’ats cupped the captain’s jaw with a cold, dry palm. “You must have been simply overwrought.”
“Chief?” Victria’s voice, tinged with uncertainty, echoed from the storeroom. “Someone is here.”
“How did you recover your senses so quickly?” She’er pushed Wa’ats away. “And since when would you make a kill shot, from behind, when you had the drop on a prisoner?”
“Why,” said Wa’ats coyly, “when my beloved spouse is about to be torn limb from limb.”
“Chief Wa’ats?” Victria sounded alarmed. “Wait, what is this?”
“One moment, love.” Wa’ats winked, strode over to the archway—and drew the exterminator.
She’er hesitated only a moment before charging after Wa’ats. “Victria! Take cover!”
Wa’ats swung an arm suddenly armored in chitin and ending in a sizable claw. It struck She’er in the solar plexus. Breath fled and the world cartwheeled past, until an abrupt impact released an eruption of pain. Searing, it flowed from the base of the captain’s skull to suffuse each limb. Vision faded into a haze of gray and black.
Eventually, She’er became aware of screams, though it took somewhat longer to comprehend their dire meaning. She’er clawed at the steel wall, struggling to rise. Wrong again! Mori didn’t board in Londland or at the checkpoint. No passbeam was needed. Jon’na simply recognized a friendly face and welcomed in a murderer.
As did you.
An agony far worse than physical pain sent She’er sliding back into a heap. Mori mimicked Wa’ats. And if that’s true—Wa’ats must be dead.
Overwhelmed with grief, She’er didn’t notice the slaughter had ended until Wa’ats’s voice said, “Sorry about the interruption, love. Where were we?”
Looking up at the beloved, false face made it nearly impossible to do anything but ache. Existence without Wa’ats would be impossible, meaningless. There had to be another explanation, however improbable.
So find it!
“Ah, yes.” Wa’ats—no, Mori—stood over She’er, lips twitching upward at the corners. “You were just realizing what a fool I’d made of you. Although, in your defense, you are more than a bit out of practice when it comes to the fine art of deduction.”
She’er struggled into something closer to a sitting position. Anguish warred with hatred, but She’er refused to give Mori the satisfaction of falling apart. Wa’ats always accused you of being too much a creature of reason. Your only hope is to live up to that criticism.
“Now, don’t be too hard on yourself. After all, it’s that spouse of yours’ fault that you’ve wasted the last year play-pretending at being a captain.” Mori chuckled. “How ridiculous! What a waste of your sacred gifts. Why, Wa’ats deserved to die for insulting my best enemy like that alone.”
It hurt to breathe. Cracked ribs. At least two broken. “You’re right. I am out of practice. Indulge me?”
“Why not.” Mori sank onto her haunches. “After all, I’ll soon be too busy tending my new brood to have time for adult conversation. Though you could never be my peer, being a disgusting Londlander eunuch, I do find you less contemptible than the rest of your kind.”
“You have no idea. What that means. To me.” Each movement sent fresh bolts of pain down both legs. Compressed vertebrae. Possibly fractured. “Why kill. An enforcer first?”
“I recognized Jon’na from that hellish confinement into which you and your dead lover cast me.” Mori yawned. “But you know this. Come, be clever for me.”
She keeps mentioning Wa’ats to drive that stake deeper into my heart. Hope flared, and with it renewed strength. “If you mimicked Wa’ats long before the IEA boarded, as you clearly want me to believe, why not displace anyone sooner? Why waste the opportunity to displace me?”
“Right away?” Mori smirked. “No sport in that.”
Ominous, but not an answer. “Fine, then why leave Jon’na to be discovered?”
“All part of the game, She’er.” Mori’s natural sibilance leaked through, blurring her words. “I wanted to ruin you by making you suspect and ideally execute one of your crew. Did you have any idea how much the Second Seat detested you? It took me hardly any time to notice it, figure out why, and use it against you. Londland rescinded Le’es’s opportunity to command this cruiser in order to gift it to you. Their hero.”
Well, that explains Le’es, albeit too late to make amends. She’er slid a hand behind while trying to sit up straighter, but even that slight movement was too much. Vision shrank t
o a tunnel view. However, it did confirm the suppressor was still in its holster, just twisted around back.
Mori was so close their noses nearly touched. “You were almost a match for me, once. I don’t say that lightly, particularly to an un-Amrighan thing. Yet you abandoned your true calling at the behest of a controlling spouse to wither away on this glorified ferry, on which a grasping simpleton like Le’es dared condescend to you!” She patted She’er’s cheek hard enough to bruise. “You’re fortunate I arrived, so I could free you from their degradations.”
“That was a neat trick. Escaping prison. Infiltrating the very detail sent to hunt you down.”
Mori batted her eyes. “You’re impressed.”
“Wa’ats—you told me The Scoyard blamed your IEA escort in part for your getaway. Was that true?”
“Yes. Why?”
Finally, the pieces fit. “So, Jon’na was in close proximity to you. Perhaps a bit too close?”
Mori’s eyes narrowed. “Well, now, isn’t that an interesting theory?” The hum underlying her words grew more pronounced. “But how do you explain seeing that particular unfortunate in the process of becoming mine with your own eyes?”
“A performance. No wonder the quarters were so warm. You posed as Jon’na and used mimicry to simulate displacement. Then we made the very error you knew we would—fail to examine the body for life signs before removal. Why would we when it was clearly transforming? A simple, yet quite effective, bluff.”
Mori applauded. “Ah, your mind! So creative.” Her humor abruptly vanished. “I mimicked a random guard who fed me that day. Then I infiltrated IEA headquarters by mimicking a member of the cleaning staff, until one fateful night when poor, lonely Wa’ats was working late. I slaughtered and disposed of your beloved, then used all that lovely IEA data at my fingertips to find you, concoct a false lead, and bring a detail onto your ship.”
Her voice buzzed as it swelled. “You took from me, so I took from you. For my freedom. For my beloved spawn, slaughtered after you revealed my plans on Gerany. Can you even comprehend the depth of a mother’s love? She wants to give her children everything—worlds, galaxies. And she would destroy everyone to avenge them.”
“You’re right. I can’t understand it.” The honesty of the admission surprised She’er. “But here’s what I do know. You’re a liar, as well as a psychotic, xenophobic monster.” She’er tightened fingers around the suppressor, using every ounce of discipline to ignore the waves of pain surging one after the other. “I also know Jon’na never boarded this ship, and Wa’ats is not dead!”
Mori smirked. “How?”
“The simulated perspiration was a nice touch. Just enough to make me think you’d learned your lesson from our previous encounter, not enough to prevent my suspecting Wa’ats.” She’er caressed Mori’s right temple with trembling fingers. “Yet this time you made an even more egregious error.”
Mori’s whispered in She’er’s ear, “Which is?”
“That bruise on your head? It’s on the wrong side.” Before Mori could react She’er drew the suppressor, jammed the muzzle under her chin, and fired.
Mori reeled backward as electricity crackled through her skull. She’er all but fell after her, firing repeatedly, knowing the suppressor didn’t have the deadly force needed. If I can just disrupt her cellular control—
Mori’s screech bloomed into a buzzing roar like a thousand swarming beasps. Her mimicry of Wa’ats dissolved as she lashed out, knocking the suppressor from She’er’s hand.
She’er crawled toward the storeroom, gasping for breath with each agonizing movement. The only chance for survival was getting hold of a fallen enforcer’s exterminator. Ignore the pain. Focus on the task. One inch, now another. Do it for Wa’ats if not yourself!
Abruptly, She’er was flipped over and staring up into the compound eyes of Mori in her true form. Her four mandibles opened, up and down, side to side. “Why didn’t I just kill Wa’ats. Ask!”
“W—why?”
“Because Wa’ats wants you to bear a child. Meanwhile, you’d rather have your head snipped off than reproduce.” She snapped her pincers close to She’er’s ear. “You’re about as maternal a creature as that incinerator! Yet you offered, because you sought parity with the late, beloved Ma’ar.”
“It has nothing to do with—”
“Please. I know it, because Wa’ats knows it.” She clacked her mandibles in the Amrighan version of a chuckle. “How sweet of you to sacrifice your desires for your spouse’s. And won’t it be de-li-cious when Wa’ats awakens to find the child you’re incubating—is mine!”
Pincers clamped around the captain’s neck and left wrist. Trapped and suffocating, She’er couldn’t struggle, couldn’t even scream, as Mori spread her mandibles and extended her thick proboscis. The tip dilated and clamped over She’er’s mouth in a horrific mockery of a kiss.
But then Mori jerked back. Her proboscis retracted and the pincer pinning She’er’s arm released.
“Get off of my spouse!”
Mori let go of She’er’s throat, reared back, and screeched. She’er blinked several times to regain focus, and saw her entire right arm lying on the floor nearby.
Wa’ats, features contorted with determination and fury, staggered over and fired again, but missed. Mori started after Wa’ats, and She’er seized the opportunity to roll toward the incinerator, both to afford Wa’ats clearer aim and discourage firing toward the combustible unit.
The next blast severed Mori’s right leg at the knee. She dropped to the floor with another scream, then swiveled and began dragging herself after She’er again. “We shall meet your Hound together!” she hissed.
Wa’ats appeared above her and jammed the exterminator’s muzzle against the back of her neck stalk. Another burst, and Mori’s head tumbled to the floor. Her body twitched forward another inch or two, clacking pincer nearly reaching She’er’s feet before finally lying still.
She’er moaned and curled into a fetal position, shivering despite the heat. Then Wa’ats was there, cradling She’er gently. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
“I knew.” She’er struggled to focus on Wa’ats’s face. Even bruised and creased with worry, it was a heartening sight. “You couldn’t be. Gone. The universe wouldn’t bear such. Injustice.”
Wa’ats’s voice receded. “Hold on, love. Help is coming. Please, don’t leave—”
That was all.
• • •
It took months, first in the hospital on Parance then back home, but She’er eventually recovered, save for the occasional discomfort. Wa’ats provided such good care that on reflection the former First Seat remarked, “Perhaps you missed your calling. You would have made a wonderful physician.”
Wa’ats snorted. “That career would fit me about as well as captaining the Ba’akre 221B suited you.”
She’er shrugged and took another sip of Londlandian greytea. “I was an excellent captain.”
“Of course. You’re pathologically incapable of not excelling at whatever you do.” Wa’ats picked up a filescreen and waggled it at She’er. “Nevertheless, it wasn’t where you belonged.”
She’er set the cup down on Wa’ats’s desk. “Are you sure about all this? My returning to the IEA.” A pause. “Not having children.”
Wa’ats smiled briefly. “Mori was right. That wasn’t what you wanted and we both knew it. Selfishly, I hoped that the idea would grow on you. Then when I saw Mori about to force herself on you, to make you—I realized I was doing the same thing.” She’er started to object but Wa’ats plowed on. “No, not literally, but I was still pushing you to do something you didn’t want. To become someone you didn’t want to be.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.”
“It’s okay, really.” Wa’ats smiled tenderly. “What I want more than a child, more than anything? Is for you to be the She’er I married. My partner in every way. Eager for the next challenge. Happy.”
“Mor
i was right about another thing. A parent should want a child fiercely, be willing to do anything and everything for them.” Choking up unexpectedly, She’er mumbled, “For whatever reason, that’s just not in me. I—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare.” Wa’ats tapped She’er on the head with the filescreen. “Enough. The IEA doesn’t pay us to sit around gabbing over greytea. Are you ready?”
She’er took another moment to look around IEA headquarters. Sterile walls. Serviceable furnishings. Stacks of filescreens filled with unsolved cases. I’m finally home.
The freshly reinstated Chief Investigator stood and snatched the filescreen from Wa’ats’s hand. “You know me, my dear Wa’ats. My mind rebels at stagnation!”
A Scandal in Chelm
BY
Daniel M. Kimmel
We had just finished the afternoon Mincha prayers at the shteibl—the little room—at the back of Rabbi Shlomo’s home at 221B Babka Street. Renowned as the Sage of Chelm, it was not surprising to find visiting strangers among those who came to services. It was a byword that one had not really experienced Chelm without partaking of Rabbi Shlomo’s wisdom.
There was never trouble getting a minyan, a quorum of ten men, and there wasn’t an empty bench to be had today. Following the Mourner’s Kaddish the men usually filed out quickly, returning to their trades, as Rabbi Shlomo’s weekday Mincha rarely took more than ten minutes. Today, however, a mysterious stranger made no sign of taking his leave. I took note of his shabby coat and his shuffling walk—my time as a disciple of Rabbi Shlomo had greatly improved my powers of observation—and deduced that he was some shnorrer hoping for a handout before moving on. I took a couple of kopeks from my pocket to offer to him, but to my surprise Rabbi Shlomo blocked my way.
“Velvel,” he said to me, “Allow me to introduce the Grand Rabbi of Lublin, Yitzhak ben Shmuel ha-Cohen.”
My amazement that this beggar could be a “Grand Rabbi” was only surpassed by our guest’s reaction. “Reb Shlomo,” he said, “your abilities are legendary but how could you possibly have known it was me? We’ve never met. I deliberately disguised myself as a poor man…”
Baker Street Irregulars Page 13
