by Alex P. Berg
I nodded. “Ah, yes, the anti-Brain hippies. I can’t stand those guys.”
“If I might interject,” said Carl, holding up a finger. “If nothing was stolen from your apartment, what makes you certain a forcible entry occurred? Was your apartment vandalized?”
“Yes, good question, Carl,” I said. “That was on my mind as well.” Which was a lie. It wasn’t, really. I was still getting a grasp on the whole investigative process. Hunting down missing cats hadn’t exactly sharpened my wits.
Paige laughed at me somewhere in the recesses of my mind.
“No, nothing was destroyed. As a matter of fact…” Valerie munched on her lips and shook her head. Then she brushed a tuft of unruly hair back from her face and tucked it behind a soft, pink ear. “You’re going to think this is silly.”
“Are you kidding? Silly is my middle…” I paused as I realized I’d already used that line. “Um… I mean, please be frank with me. I can’t solve your problems if I’m in the dark.”
“Very well,” said Valerie. “Nothing in my apartment was out of place. Rather, things were in place.”
I scratched my head. “You’re going to have to elaborate a bit.”
“Someone rearranged my sock drawer,” said Valerie. “And whoever did it spot cleaned the kitchen, as well.”
“I’m starting to see why the police had a difficult time with your report,” said Carl.
Paige said something about not letting the boobs and rock-hard abs dampen my craziness detector, but I shushed her and plodded onward.
“So, let me get this straight,” I said. “A thief—who according to the police may or may not exist—broke into your pad, declined to steal anything, and instead tidied up the joint?”
Valerie sighed. “Trust me, I know how it sounds.”
I slapped my hand on the table. “Yes. It sounds absolutely fantastic.”
“Seriously?” said Valerie.
Paige echoed her sentiments in my mind, as did Carl with a scrunched eyebrow and curled lip concoction.
“Of course,” I said, ignoring everyone. “The crazier the case, the better, I always say. And I’m a master at locating nebulous, indistinct things—“
Like your dignity? said Paige. Because you seem to have lost that during this conversation…
“—so I should be ideally suited to this particular enterprise. Now, if you’re interested in hiring me for my services, all that’s left to discuss is the matter of payment. I normally charge fifty SEUs per standard hour, with a five hundred SEU initial retainer. You can credit me the payment via Brain.”
Valerie shifted in her seat. “Um…yes. About that. That might be a problem.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’m in a bit of a financial bind at the moment.”
She’s angling for a free lunch, said Paige. Don’t give it to her.
I thought about how I’d be happy to provide Valerie with numerous services for free, but my professional services weren’t among those included.
“Ah, so you’re a haggler.” I twisted my lips. “I suppose I could go down to, say…forty SEUs an hour?”
Valerie tilted her head and widened her eyes a touch, no doubt in an effort to make herself seem more vulnerable. “Well, actually…I can’t offer you anything—”
Told you! crowed Paige.
“—at least in terms of SEUs.” Valerie batted her eyelashes at me. “But…there is something else I might be able to offer you.”
I leaned forward, my palms turning sweaty and my heart starting to race. “Um…are you suggesting that—”
“—you could eat for free at my bakery,” said Valerie.
I cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a euphemism?”
“Huh? No,” said Valerie. “I run a sweet and savory bakeshop not too far from my apartment.”
“Oh.” I slumped in my chair. That wasn’t quite the answer I’d been hoping for. I hid my disappointment with a witty remark. “You, uh, don’t really seem like the baking sort.”
“Are you kidding?” She leaned forward, her face flush with passion. “The smell of yeast, the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of crust on a fresh baguette? There’s no activity I love more than baking. And the results aren’t bad either. You wouldn’t believe how many afternoons I’ve spent at home with nothing more than a bottle of wine and a warm loaf of buttered bread to keep me company. And éclairs! Oh, éclairs…”
I glanced at her waist and silently voiced my disbelief, but her altered genetics probably included an active metabolism. I drummed my fingers on the table. “You bake bear claws?”
“Best bear claws you’ve ever tasted,” said Valerie.
“And when you say ‘eat free,’ what are we talking about? For life?”
“Depends. How old are you?”
“Eighty-five,” I said.
“Hmm. How about five years?” said Valerie.
I turned to Carl. “What do you think?”
“You realize I don’t eat, right?” he said.
“Good point.” I stroked my chin. “Alright. You drive a hard bargain, Miss Meeks, but I accept. Five years of glazed, almond-flavored delicacies in exchange for the resolution of your rather curious case of misdemeanor kitchen cleaning. So, where do we start?”
The sexpot looked at me askance. “I thought you’d know. That’s why I came to you, after all.”
“No, I meant perhaps you had some other leads we might follow,” I said. “You know, because what you’ve given us so far is rather indistinct. Maybe you have a name, or, like, a face, or—”
Valerie stared at me blankly.
I’m starting to think you got the best of that bear claw deal, said Paige.
As I flailed around in a stew of my own unfinished thoughts, Carl hopped into the conversation to save me. “Perhaps we could start by accompanying you back to your apartment, Miss Meeks. We might be able find clues left by the intruder that you missed, and we might uncover the reason for the break-in.”
Valerie nodded. “Yes, of course. That sounds perfect.”
I sent a hasty thanks to Carl via Brain before rising from my padded chair. “Well, let’s get to it then. After you, Miss Meeks.”
I stood and held my hand out for Valerie to go first. My manners were hit or miss, but I tended to remember them when they allowed me to get a good view of a firm, Spandette-clad behind.
Valerie made it all the way to the door before I realized my eyes were still glued to her derrière. Luckily, Carl snapped at me just in time, allowing me to avert my eyes as she turned.
“Are you coming?” she said as the door blinked open.
“Yes, I’m just trying to figure out how my legs work,” I said.
I’m not sure Valerie got the joke, but Paige laughed. Her bubbly giggle finally uprooted my feet from the floor and got me moving.
3
I had Paige call for a car as we zipped down the lift from my fourth floor office to ground level. As we reached the lobby, my Brain companion informed me the cab was still a couple blocks away, so I reigned in my troops and told them to cool their heels—literally.
As much as I appreciated Valerie’s frugal attire, it wasn’t particularly out of the ordinary, and not simply because genetic engineering had gifted most people with bodies worth flaunting. Due to its substantially greater insolation than most other colonized planets, Cetie was hot.
Nearly a millennia ago, far before my great-grandpappy had staked his claim to what would go on to be the world’s most expansive marijuana fields, Cetie had been an inhospitable wasteland—or so Paige assured me—but it wasn’t so bad as to scare away the terraformers completely. With a couple centuries’ worth of organic carbon capture and sequestration, along with a few colossal solar reflectors placed at various Lagrangian points between the planet and Tau Ceti, Cetie’s global temperature dropped to hospitable levels—if you considered 48°C to be hospitable. Luckily, concerted forestation efforts had dropped global temperatures even further since my great
-grandpappy’s days, but standing outside in Tau Ceti’s bright hot rays still didn’t meet my definition of a pleasant afternoon activity. The intense solar radiation wasn’t particularly good for the skin either, though my daily moisturizing regimen helped combat that.
Perhaps I wouldn’t mind the heat so much if I dressed more similarly to Miss Meeks, but ever since embarking on my private eye gig, I’d gone on a bit of a vintage clothing kick. Call me old-fashioned, but after skimming through old vid-docs on P.I.s, I got the impression guys in my line of work needed to wear slacks and a trench coat. After carefully weighing the risks of heat stroke and stacking them against my need for credibility, I compromised by outfitting myself in a pair of pants and a guayabera, the shirt made from a delicate, lightweight Hempette blend and the pants from a heavier Linenesse.
I could tell from the look Valerie cast me she’d noticed my rather eccentric choice of wardrobe. Either that or she was sizing me up for a roll in the hay, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up after having been disappointed with the baked goods bartering miscommunication.
“It’s typical detective’s gear, if you’re wondering,” I told her.
Valerie tilted her head. “Is that so?”
“Sort of,” I said. “I improvised a little. For health and occupational safety reasons.”
“Hmm. Well, regardless, it looks good on you.”
I raised an eyebrow and my palms started to sweat again. “Really?”
“Yeah. The shirt manages to be formal and casual at the same time. It gives you a cool, professional vibe.”
I struggled to formulate a coherent thought as I absorbed Valerie’s compliment. “I…uh…”
Car’s here, lover boy, said Paige.
The front doors winked open, and we ventured outside, through a brief patch of balmy Cetie heat and into the cool confines of the cab. Valerie and Carl settled themselves on the front-facing bench seat while I took the rear-facing one. Once we’d strapped ourselves in, the car whirred off soundlessly.
I’d never been particularly adept at making small talk, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least make an effort to engage the lovely Miss Meeks in pleasant conversation.
“So,” I said. “How’d you get into baking anyway?”
The Spandette-clad one shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve always loved it. Part of the joy comes from crafting something out of nothing with my bare hands, something people enjoy on a basic, fundamental level. But I also love the finished product. That unique sensory explosion, a mix of tastes and textures and temperatures as a freshly baked treat hits your tongue…”
Valerie paused, stared at the floor, and blinked.
After a moment, I spoke. “Is everything ok?”
Valerie lifted her head back up. “Um…yes. Sorry. I got distracted. So, how about you? How did you get into investigation?”
I leaned into the cab’s plush bench. “That’s a long, boring tale. I doubt you’d be interested in hearing it.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Valerie. “I’m sure there’s a compelling story behind it.”
I snorted. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but I assure you there isn’t. My job isn’t nearly as exciting as you seem to think it is.”
“What Rich is trying to convey,” said Carl, “is that he’s struggled to find a profession that evokes the same passion in him that baking has evoked in you.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose I can understand that,” said Valerie. “But private investigation seems like a rather odd back-up plan.”
I shrugged. “What can I say. I’ve always loved mysteries. I just expected there to be more of them in this gig, and for them to be less pet-oriented.”
Valerie raised an eyebrow, but I didn’t elaborate. Stories about my occasional cat-scapades weren’t exactly the panty-dropping tales of action and adventure women craved from potential mates.
Got that right, said Paige. I’d almost rather rehash your Smashblocks high scores. Almost…
Carl took the lead, quizzing our client about a few more details related to her apartment and the state of it post-break-in, but the ear which I half-lent toward the conversation didn’t pick up anything of interest. Soon enough, the car slid to a stop in front of a glossy, steel high-rise.
“This is it,” said Valerie. “I’m on the fifth floor.”
We unbuckled ourselves and followed Valerie into the residential tower, a sleek, retro-style building with polished black marble floors, chrome light fixtures, and muted grayscale paint choices. A lift zipped us up to the fifth floor, where we stopped in front of a snow-colored translucent Pseudaglas door. Valerie pressed her thumb into a small reader at the side, and the door winked open.
A vacuum bot buffed the speckled tile floor as we entered, but upon spotting us it spun off and hid in its charging alcove in the corner. Unlike the modern, austere entryway and hallways of the apartment building, Valerie’s place was warm and inviting. To my right, plush sofa chairs lounged over a thick, fuzzy rug, one with a swirled floral pattern full of bright yellows, muted oranges, and earthy browns. To my left, padded highchairs rubbed elbows at an eat-in bar outside the kitchen—a roomy, modern space filled with stand mixers and gadgets giving credence to the idea that Valerie actually prepared her own food. Light flooded into the open-concept living space, streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the entrance.
“Nice digs,” I said. “From your choice of apartment buildings, I was afraid you’d be the modern décor type.”
“Thanks,” said Valerie. “I find traditional stylings are more aesthetically pleasing even if they’re harder to maintain, but the bots take care of that, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“I don’t care much about the looks,” I said. “But I do prefer a seat to have a cushion on it. Maybe on planets that pull less than a couple Gs people can survive on unpadded chairs, but it’s an unnecessary cruelty around here.”
“So, I’m guessing you’ll want to look around?” said Valerie.
I nodded. “Carl, you want to start with the kitchen?”
“Seeing as I’m better suited to the task than you are, I probably should,” he said. “Miss Meeks, could I see your palm?”
“I suppose,” she said, extending her hand before her. “What for?”
Carl took her hand gently, glancing at each of her five fingers before releasing her. “Well, I can cycle my optical sensors to filter different wavelengths of light into my detectors. By varying the filters, I can see fingerprints on surfaces—something Rich isn’t able to do given his organic limitations. While we don’t have the authority to access fingerprinting databases, I can at least see if any prints I find in the kitchen differ from your own and later try to match those to potential suspects. Not that I expect to find any if your intruder cleaned up after him or herself. By the way, have you had any visitors recently?”
“No,” said Valerie.
“What about cleaning?” said Carl. “How often do your bots operate?”
“They’re set to run while I sleep, every third cycle, but they haven’t run since earlier this morning when I found out about the break-in,” said Valerie.
“And when was that, exactly?” I asked.
“About four hours ago,” she said.
I had to ask because traditional designations such as ‘morning,’ ‘evening,’ and ‘night,’ while still used in common speech, were something of an anachronism. Cetie’s day lasted just over 172 standard galactic hours. That didn’t pose much of a problem from the standpoint of the human circadian rhythm—people worked in eight hour shifts, and smart windows on residences performed twenty-four hour tint cycles—but it did pose a problem for plant life.
Photosynthesizing organisms transplanted from Earth didn’t exactly prosper in week-long cycles of light and dark, and due to Cetie’s high insolation, the planet’s terraformers desperately needed a thriving, tree-heavy ecosystem covering the majority of the planet’s exposed landmasses. The solution was to
place six dozen enormous solar reflectors in orbit around Cetie to provide light on the planet’s backside, making night time more of a soft twilight from a visibility standpoint. Having grown up on Cetie, I found it all quite normal, but interstellar travelers always seemed amused by the regular, partial eclipses caused by the reflectors.
“Well, that’s all good,” said Carl. “If there’s any evidence from the intruder, it should still be present.”
As my old android friend wandered over to the kitchen, Valerie gestured down a corridor. “Care to join me in the bedroom?”
What a loaded question… I nodded and followed my new gal pal down the hall to her sleeping quarters, which were dominated by a king-sized canopy bed adorned with rich, velvet drapes and a puffy, overstuffed comforter that made me want to curl up and take a quick catnap. Sleek, white built-ins bookended the room.
I’ve got to hand it to you Rich, said Paige. This is by far the fastest you’ve ever weaseled your way into a lady’s private chamber.
I ignored her jeering as Valerie walked to her bedstand. She pressed a finger against a flat control panel, and the room sprang to life. Closet doors on the far side of the room slid apart, and twin wardrobe racks rolled into the empty space. The built-ins shifted up and back, pushing out dressers with dozens of drawers and angling them toward the bed for better accessibility.
I raised my eyebrows and blinked. I wasn’t a stranger to automation—most appliances in my house maintained themselves, and the few that didn’t were serviced by Carl in the wee hours of the night—however, my own closet’s flair was limited to self-sliding doors. Then again, I was a dude. Before my decision to emulate the great private detectives of yesteryear, my wardrobe had mostly consisted of athletic shorts and T-shirts.
