by Alex P. Berg
THE TAU CETI TRANSMUTATION
ALEX P. BERG
Copyright © 2015 by Alex P. Berg
All rights reserved. Published by Batdog Press.
ISBN 978-1-942274-06-3
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer or with written permission from the author. For permission requests, please visit: www.alexpberg.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover Art by: Damon Za (www.damonza.com)
Book Layout: www.bookdesigntemplates.com
If you’d like to be notified when the next Rich Weed novel is released, please sign up for the author’s mailing list at: www.alexpberg.com/mailing-list/.
Table Of Contents:
Chapters:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30
About the Author
1
I sighed as I finished yet another game of Smashblocks on my Brain.
Paige spoke in the back of my mind as the score flashed before my eyes. Over fourteen point six billion. Not too shabby. That’s one of your top five scores of all time, if I’m not mistaken.
“Don’t say it,” I told Paige as I leaned back in my office chair.
Say what? Her voice dripped fake innocence.
I rapped my fingers on my desk. “That I’m pathetic. That I’m a loser. That I’m wasting my life playing these mind-dulling games.”
Me? said Paige. I’d never say any of that, Rich.
I scoffed. Opportunities for sarcasm and belittlement rarely passed Paige by untouched, but to be fair, most of that was my fault. When I’d first initialized her, I’d chosen two primary personality parameters to help define her. I’d gone with bubbly and cynical.
While the result was interesting, to say the least, I sometimes regretted my flippant choice, but what could I do about it? I couldn’t exactly tell Paige to take a hike. She was as much a part of me as my legs or my heart. And besides, I needed her to help run my Brain—the cybernetic implant that connected the near-infinite collected knowledge of the known sentient races directly into my gray matter. My Brain also interfaced with my central nervous system and sensory organs, allowing me to see, hear, smell, taste, and experience events the unconnected could only dream of.
I mostly used it to play Smashblocks and watch vids of dogs jumping on trampolines.
Paige snickered in the back of my mind. I let her mocking wash over me, placating myself with the knowledge that I was the only one who had to deal with her unique blend of wit and sass. Paige didn’t really exist, you see. She was a digital imprint—a unique representation of a consciousness created by an enormous, hulking pile of servenets in a bunker somewhere in the bowels of Pylon Alpha, the capital city of Tau Ceti e, or Cetie as it was referred to colloquially. The servenets cultivated a different, tailored personality for every individual with a Brain. Instead of Paige, other people with Brains interacted with Bobs or Sallys or Qrtyfyls, depending on linguistic and cultural preferences.
Of course, I didn’t have to suffer Paige’s snappy retorts or her implications that I was a loser. I could send a request to the servenets to reconfigure her interactivity parameters at any time, but doing so would wipe out the fiery personality I’d spent a lifetime nurturing. Doing so, in my eyes, would be akin to murder. It would be like me taking an electromagnetic scrambler to Carl’s computational core.
“I don’t think Paige was implying you’re a stain on society,” said Carl as he crossed his legs.
I glanced at the slender, sharp-featured android sitting in the chair across from my desk, his medium-length blond hair perfectly coiffed in a factory-optional, mousse-heavy sweep cut. His given name was Carlton Weatherby, but I just called him Carl. My grandfather had purchased him a couple centuries ago when RAAI Corp first came out with their luxury line, envisioning him as an all-purpose manservant. Grandpappy had bequeathed him to me upon his death, but I found Carl’s intellect and robotic skill set were wasted on buffing silverware. Instead, I’d purchased a buffbot for that, and Carl followed me around as my de facto partner.
Carl glanced at me from his perch on the velour sofa chair, the look on his face a mixture of uncertainty and concern. Despite his ability to interface directly with Paige through my Brain, he couldn’t read my mind. I didn’t let Paige share absolutely everything with him—just most of it.
“I feel like there’s an unspoken but you wanted to add to the end of that sentence,” I said.
Carl shifted uncomfortably. He was very sensitive to my emotional state. He couldn’t help it. It was part of his programming.
“Go on. Spit it out,” I said.
“Well,” said Carl. “It’s just that… perhaps it’s time to admit this latest enterprise of yours hasn’t succeeded in quite the fashion you’d hoped.”
I glanced across the office to my front door. The words etched into the frosted glass were reversed from my vantage point, but I could still read them.
RICH WEED
PREMIUM INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES
“What are you trying to say?” I asked. “That I’m a failure? Because if so, that’s a rather shortsighted viewpoint. I wasn’t particularly suited to kickboxing or flightwing instruction or Brain app design either, but I gave all of those a fair shot before moving on to something else.”
“Yes,” said Carl. “But at least in those endeavors you actually received some level of business on a regular basis.”
“We’ve had clients,” I said.
Carl raised an eyebrow.
In a little over a standard galactic year since I’d established my latest venture, we’d had a grand total of three cases. Two had involved tracking down missing cats, and the third had revolved around a piece of missing jewelry that had eventually turned up outside the client’s apartment complex embedded in a dog turd.
“Alright, maybe you have a point,” I said. “But I’m no spring chicken. I can’t keep zipping around on flightsuits or taking kicks for a living anymore.”
While the first part of that is true, said Paige, the second part is only accurate from a historical perspective, and you know it.
I was eighty-five, but thanks to advances in medical technology and GenBorn’s proprietary nanobot-driven rejuvenation services, I didn’t look a standard galactic day older than an unmodified human at thirty. No one who enrolled in GenBorn’s services did until they hit about the quarter millennia mark. At that point, even nanobots couldn’t keep the corporeal self from falling apart. Of course, I also worked out regularly—a holdover from my kickboxing days—but I was fairly sure it was mostly the nanobots that kept me looking fresh.
“To be fair, you don’t need to do much of anything,” said Carl. “Between the revenue you generate off the land lease bequeathed to you by your great-grandfather and the annual government work stipend, you accrue far more income than you need to get by. This enterprise is purely for entertainment purposes. My point was that, if we’re to apply ourselves to an occupation where we provide a service to the public, we should try to find one that has some demand—ideally one that puts your skills to good use.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well, that depends on your skill set,” said Carl.
“You’ve known me my entire life,” I said. “I’d think you’d know my strengths and weaknesses pretty well by now.”
“I do,” said Carl. “But I was hoping you’d been keeping something secret from me for the last eighty-five years.”
<
br /> I tilted my head. “Why?”
“Because given my knowledge of your skills, talents, and attributes, I’m drawing a blank as to what profession you’d thrive at.”
I frowned. “I think your compassion regulator is malfunctioning. You’re not making me feel particularly sunny.”
“I always try to be supportive, but not if the cost is a fictitious reality,” said Carl. “It’s better for your long term health and wellness for me to be honest.”
I leaned back in my chair and ran a hand over my finger-length hair. Ever since I’d started my detective business, I’d taken to styling it with pomade. It added a glossy sheen to my matte black follicles which I thought gave me an air of debonairness, but I sometimes wondered if others thought it made me look unclean. I sighed as I dropped my hand back down.
Paige took note of my mood. Perhaps you could try a career in comedy.
I raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m funny?”
How funny you are is immaterial, Paige said. You just need people to laugh at you. That seems to happen with relative frequency.
“I’ll have you know—”
A thumping sound interrupted my repartee—three rhythmic knocks in short succession.
“Did anyone else hear that?” I asked.
That’s a rather silly question to pose, said Paige, seeing as my input feed consists of the collated total of your own sensory experiences.
“What I meant by that was if anyone knew what the sound was,” I said. “Hopefully the landlord didn’t rent the upstairs unit to a tap studio. He knows how much I hate syncopated musical arrangements.”
“Nothing quite so conspiratorial, I think.” Carl nodded his head toward the frosted glass showpiece that fronted my office. “It would appear someone’s at the door.”
A shadow on the other side of the door seemed to prove Carl’s point.
I nearly did a double take, not only because the evidence suggested I might actually have a customer waiting to speak with me, but also because there appeared to be a real live flesh and blood—or possibly transistors and synthetics—individual waiting outside my office. Most people, whether human, alien, or droid, opted to communicate almost entirely via Brain messaging, so having a face-to-face visit was something of an anomaly.
The triple knock sounded again, and I waved hastily toward Carl. “Alright. This is it. Remember, we’re a real professional investigative service. Stress that we have a 100% success rate in our cases—”
“All three of them…” said Carl.
“—and above all, play it cool.”
As if we’re the ones who need the soothing, said Paige.
My digital Brain companion was right. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves before speaking in my best measured, commanding voice. “Come in.”
2
The door blinked open. Behind it stood a woman with voluminous, curly strawberry blond hair that orbited her head at a stratospheric length. Long lashes curled over eyelids heavily painted a bright goldenrod, and an off-white Spandette crop top and pants combination stuck to her skin like glue.
My breath caught in my throat. Her beauty transcended normal human limits—even accounting for the extensive prenatal genetic manipulation she undoubtedly underwent. I briefly wondered if she was even human, but her short stature and muscular build quickly put that question to rest.
Droids were universally fabricated to Earth standards of beauty—tall, lithe, and thin—making them visibly different from those of us who heralded from Cetie’s warm soils. Due to Cetie’s higher gravitational pull than Earth’s, humans born and bred on the fourth world orbiting Tau Ceti tended to be shorter and denser, both in terms of skeletal structure and musculature. At a meter seventy-five, I was considered tall for a Cetiean, while the beauty outside my office was a much more average meter sixty.
The woman stood just inside the doorframe, casting her sky blue eyes my way. “Excuse me, are you Mr.…Weed?”
I ran my tongue across my lips as I stood. “Um, yes. That’s right. Rich Weed, of Rich Weed’s Premium Investigative Services, at your service, Miss.”
I didn’t know her age, but that didn’t affect my choice of honorific. One of the side effects of youth-prolonging rejuvenative medical technology was its effect on grammar. Now, all men and women, regardless of age or marital status, were Mr. and Miss.
“And you’re a private investigator?” she asked.
“Correct,” I said. “But I’m not a private investigator. I’m a premium investigator.”
The lady in bioengineered breathable stretch fabric raised an eyebrow. “And what does that entail, exactly?”
I scratched the back of my neck. “An attention to detail, a focus on customer satisfaction, a money back guarantee of services rendered, and…well, that’s about it. Honestly, I added the ‘premium’ part to distinguish myself from those other hack investigators out there.”
“Oh,” said the woman. “Well, I’m not sure that’s necessary. When I queried the biz listings for private investigators, yours was the only name that appeared.”
“Really? I guess that means Fredrickson and Sons went out of business.” I glanced at Carl. “Did you know about that?”
He shrugged.
A quick check tells me Mr. Fredrickson passed away, said Paige, and based on their social media profiles, his sons apparently repurposed his office into a hookah lounge. So it appears you are, in fact, the only investigator left in the listings.
As I mulled over my newfound monopoly on Cetie’s investigative operations, the woman at the door motioned toward my desk and spoke. “May I?”
“Where are my manners? Yes, please, come in.” I gestured to the empty lounge across from my desk.
The stunner undulated over, setting her rock hard body—one that was even more chiseled than most—down in the plush chair. “Thank you,” she said. “You know, I have to admit, when I saw your business in the listings, I wasn’t sure what I’d find. I thought it might be a joke.”
“What? Why?” I asked as I sat back down.
“Well, is that your real name?” She jerked her thumb toward the frosted glass.
“Rich is short for Richard, but yes,” I said.
“And you’re a private detective?”
I nodded.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t find the humor in that?”
“Don’t bother,” said Carl. “I’ve tried to break it to him gently on more than one occasion, but it doesn’t quite seem to go through. I don’t know if it’s a conscious refusal to understand or if he’s simply wired differently—figuratively speaking, of course. I’m the android, not him. I’m Carlton, but the way.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Mr. Weed’s partner—of sorts.”
“Valerie. Valerie Meeks.” The woman shook hands with Carl.
I gave them both a slit-eyed look. “I’m not entirely sure what the two of you are insinuating, but I’ll have you know I come from a long line of distinguished Weeds, all the way back to my great-grandpappy Dillinger Weed.”
“Wait, really?” asked Valerie. “Dillinger Weed?”
“That’s right,” I said. “He was a weed farmer—the recreational kind, not the thorns and thistles type.”
Valerie and Carl shared looks again. Carl shrugged. I cast a glance at Valerie and her skin-tight attire and felt my blood pressure rise, and not in the fun, localized way I normally experienced when impossibly attractive women showed any sort of interest in me.
Paige popped back into my thoughts before I could make a fool of myself. You might want to revisit the words on your mind, Rich. Berating your first customer in months isn’t the best of entrepreneurial strategies.
Valerie didn’t give me a chance to show off my people skills. Before I could speak, she pointed to a bronze bust sitting on the corner of my desk, angled inward to face me. “Is that you?”
I nodded. “Yes. I commissioned it to remind myself of my successes as a kick boxer. I needed something for my
desk. It’s rather barren, otherwise.”
I expected a remark about my obvious narcissism, but instead Valerie replied with a simple, “That’s cute.”
I blinked, banishing away the last remnants of my frustration. “Oh. Well…thanks, I guess. So, Miss Meeks, how can I help you today?”
“Ah, yes,” Valerie said. “Well, I have a rather interesting…situation I need assistance with, and I’m not sure where else to turn.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” I said. “Interesting is my middle name.”
Valerie raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. Now, something that plays humorously off your last name, on the other hand…”
I threw my hands in the air. “You got me. My parents didn’t name me Richard Interesting Weed. They gave me a far more ridiculous middle name—Stanley.”
Valerie tilted her head and peered at me askance, a smile creeping across her lips. “You’re funny, Mr. Weed.”
Her smile drew my eyes, which was probably for the best, seeing as I’d been lavishing far too much attention on her midriff and cleavage. “Tell it to my Brain. She thinks I’m a drip. And please, call me Rich. But let’s not get distracted from your query. Why don’t you tell me more about this situation of yours.”
“Very well, Rich,” said Valerie. “I’d like your help investigating a break-in.”
“A B and E, eh?” I said. “Did you contact the police?”
“I did,” said Valerie.
“And they weren’t able to help you?”
She shook her head.
I snapped my fingers as the revelation hit me. “I see. Someone busted into your place and stole something, but those buffoons at the precinct couldn’t find what was taken and now you need me to track it down. Is that it?”
“Not exactly,” said the potential client. “My apartment was trespassed, but nothing was taken. When I went to report the crime to the police, they told me they couldn’t file a report. Since nothing was stolen, no crime was committed. And, based on a quick pull of geopositional Brain activity from in and around my apartment over the past few days, they had no evidence a trespass had occurred at all. I tried to argue that Brain data alone isn’t enough to rule out criminal activity—some humans and many of the alien races decline to use them—but the police said their hands were tied.”
