The Detective (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

by Scott Sigler

  Fred pantomimed slicing the wings from Goolie’s body to emphasize the point.

  He let the little Harrah go then.

  Goolie’s wings began undulating in counterclockwise circles. They carried him up into the air and backed him slowly away from Fred.

  “You’re a good sentient, Rico,” Goolie said. “Too good for our line of business. I wish I could thank you for giving me a break just now.”

  “Why don’t you? Manners are an important part of civilized interaction.”

  “Because I don’t think I’ll get a chance,” Goolie said.

  “What’s that supposed to mea—”

  A shock-stick lit up his hand, making him drop the kerambit as a huge, Human arm slid in fast around his neck. The big body attached to that arm drove Fred face-first into the records room wall.

  Fast, strong, experienced — Fred knew he was in trouble. He couldn’t get to his blades. The man’s weight pressed him into the wall, and the big left arm around his throat started to squeeze boa-constrictor tight until both blood and oxygen were cut off. Fred felt the darkness coming on fast. If he didn’t move fast, he would never move again.

  Stay calm and act, you have at least five seconds until you pass out.

  His hands slithered up the wall in front of him, trembling but steady as they sought his attacker, his killer’s left arm, the one securing his head. Fred closed his fists around the man’s wrist. The grip in which he was caught was as solid as a statue’s, but Fred dug his fingers into the nerves there, mining them with his fingernails until he heard the man hiss in surprised pain and felt the man’s grip loosen.

  Fred pushed off the wall as hard as he could, simultaneously twisting to the right, toward the man, his cheek now on the man’s chest. That released the pressure on his windpipe — he sucked in a big breath, felt the blood rush to his brain.

  Fred’s hands shot inside his coat for his knives, but before he could pull them free, a giant right fist slammed into his mouth. The blow would have rocked his head back, but the big left arm behind him left nowhere for his head to go. A second blow broke his nose, made him see swirls of black.

  Once again, Fred stayed calm — he had to operate by feel alone.

  He felt the man rear back for a third blast. Fred brought his right hand up in front of his face, knuckles against the man’s chest. When he felt the man’s body tighten, bringing in the third punch, Fred pushed out and away with the right hand — he caught the man’s forearm, guiding the fist outward just a bit; the knuckles grazed his right cheek. In the same motion, Fred slid his hand down the thick forearm, grabbed the first thing he felt and yanked — the sound of a pinkie snapping joined a man’s deep scream of pain.

  Fred’s right hand made a fist; he drove his elbow straight back, using feel alone to aim for the mouth.

  He expected the solid impact of bone on bone, but his elbow hissed through open air — the man had ducked, the move of a boxer bending at the knees. Fred never saw the face, but the feel of that move alone gave him a split-second warning as to what was coming next. He had enough time to know he was in trouble, but not enough time to do anything about it.

  The uppercut caught him under the tip of the chin, snapping his head back, lifting him off his feet and throwing him back into a stack of files. He flailed weakly as paper poured down on and around him. He moved like a drunken man swimming, trying to find some way to stand. The room spun. He couldn’t see.

  My knives.

  His hands slid to his sheaths, each came out holding a blade. He blinked madly as he waved the knives at nothing, stabbed them in the direction of the big man, hoping to catch the enemy coming in.

  Fred’s feet found their way beneath him. He stumbled to a crouching stance, still swinging and stabbing and slashing at whatever might come his way.

  A few more blinks and his head cleared a little... he could see again, see enough to know he was alone.

  The big man was gone. Fred had never even seen the man’s face.

  Fred looked to the stack of papers where he’d been working on the incomplete death form — the piece of paper was gone. So, too, was his worm device.

  “Goolie,” Fred said. “You crafty bastard.”

  “Hey, mister!” called a familiar voice called from the other side of the records room — it was the clerk from the lobby. “What are you doing back here? If you break anything, it’s going to be my ass.”

  Fred realized the lazy clerk might well have inadvertently saved his life. Maybe the big man in the suit didn’t want to kill someone in front of a government witness. Whatever the reason, Fred wasn’t sticking around to find out. He stood on rubber legs. He saw his knives and made his hands pick them up.

  “Hey,” the clerk said, backing away. “Just take it easy, no need for that.”

  Fred sneezed, felt globs of blood land on his chin. He slid the knives back into their sheaths. He forced his feet — which suddenly seemed to be made of wet clay — to start running, to carry him out of the records room. The clerk made some kind of protest, but it was a half-hearted protest at best; few people wanted to press an argument with someone who carried big knives.

  Maybe he hadn’t scouted the clerk, but he had cased the building. There were three ways out. He opted for a back door that led to a parking area, as opposed to the front door.

  By the time he reached that door, his head had cleared, allowing him to both see straight and to fully experience the newfound pain radiating through his nose and face. He looked outside — he didn’t see the big man, or Goolie, just the stream of robed Micovians and the endless parade of dirty, skinny orphans.

  The sun was on its way down. Only a few minutes of fading daylight remained. Fred ran across the parking lot, headed for the shadows and a long, zig-zaggy route back to his flophouse. He needed to gather up his equipment. He had to find Alastair Britton, sexton of Grim Tyrant Valley, and he had to find him fast. Britton might be the only person who knew the whereabouts of Quentin’s mother and/or sister.

  Fred knew that, and now, so did Goolie.

  That meant Goolie’s employer knew it, too.

  Fred had to get to that man first. But he also had names, had to ask around about Jeanine and Constance. Something told him asking about Cillian was a bad idea — there was a reason that man had a blank military record.

  Fred couldn’t be in two places at once. Right about now, that concept of a helpful assistant sounded better than ever.

  But... maybe he could get some help. Not an assistant, just a one-time hire.

  He gathered his gear and headed for the mines.

  Chapter 11: Carney

  Enough people worked at the mines that slipping in among them was never a problem, and it never aroused suspicion. Even though “Caleb” had ceased to exist, no one gave Fred a second glance.

  Working as a one-man operation provided certain advantages. He didn’t have to pay anyone else, he never needed to have “meetings” or “corporate planning sessions,” and he never needed to get anyone’s approval to follow the best course of action. But it also had drawbacks, the biggest of which was that he couldn’t be in two places at once. Sometimes, you just had to get help.

  Fred found Carney in the quarry, watching the evening pit fights, sipping stinger juice and cheering with the rest.

  Inside the circle, a burly, shockingly alabaster-skinned miner was getting his lunch eaten by a slightly younger man who obviously knew a thing or two about the ancient Earth art of savate.

  Fred sidled up to Carney and discreetly nudged his best source of information in the mines of Micovi.

  He also might’ve been happy to have one final excuse to see Carney, but Fred would never admit that, not to himself or anyone else.

  “Caleb,” Carney said quietly, almost conspiratorially. “What—”

  “Not here,” Fred told the younger man. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  Carney nodded, following Fred through the crowd and a few yards up the sloping
quarry wall, just far away enough from all the noise to talk.

  When Carney spoke next, he was a little out of breath. Fred didn’t think it was from the slight climb.

  “I figured you for gone, man. Not just from the mines, but maybe from the Colony, too.”

  “That’s next,” Fred said. “First I need your help with something.”

  Carney looked excited. “Sure, man. Anything.”

  “I have a job for you,” Fred said. “A job that will get you off of Micovi.”

  “Away from Micovi?”

  Fred nodded.

  “With... with you?”

  The young man would have to ask that. “No, not with me. The job pays enough for you to buy a ticket off this rock. Are you in?”

  Carney didn’t hesitate. “I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of here. What do you need me to do? Is it dangerous?”

  Fred nodded. “Yeah, it is. I need you to ask around about two names: Jeanine Carbonaro, thirty years old, and Constance Carbonaro, forty-five.”

  Carney nodded. “Easy enough. I can talk to the guys around here, and—”

  “Not the guys,” Fred said. “The girls. Talk only to the girls.”

  Now, Carney seemed really confused. “What girls? Why?”

  “Wives, daughters. Jeanine might not be around anymore, but she would have grown up here. She had to have friends. Constance was her mother, and I think Constance died fifteen years ago. That means someone might have taken Jeanine in. You need to ask around and find out if you want out of here.”

  “Why would anyone talk to me?”

  “Listen, you’re a good-lookin’ guy. Don’t tell me the women around the mine aren’t into you.”

  Carney went from confused to embarrassed. “Yeah, well...

  “Just try for me, all right?”

  “All right. I’ll hit the market and the replenishing stations. A lot of the miner’s wives and daughters work there.”

  “Thanks,” Fred said. “I appreciate it. I need anything you can get as fast as you can get it. I have to go take care of some business. You familiar with Mister Sam’s barbecue joint?”

  “The place with the brisket? Yeah, I know it.”

  “Good,” Fred said. “Look for me there tomorrow night an hour after sunset. If I’m not there, just leave. Come back the next night, and look for me again. If you don’t see me that second night? Don’t bother because I’m not around anymore.”

  Carney’s eyes widened. “Not around? You mean, dead?”

  Fred laughed. “I hope not. I mean I just can’t get to the restaurant and I’ll track you down later, okay? Now, can you do this for me?”

  Carney sighed. He looked relieved to know that Fred wouldn’t be in danger. “I can.” He hesitated, and then said, “Who is she, Caleb? Why do you need to find her?”

  “I can’t tell you. Can you trust me on this?”

  Carney nodded, solemnly. “I do. I trust you.”

  Those words gave Fred a gnawing feeling in his gut and a distinct pang in his chest. He felt like he was using the kid. In truth, he was. Fred did honestly like Carney, probably more than he should, but he was exploiting the kid’s feelings to get information.

  It was part of the job, but that didn’t mean Fred liked it.

  Chapter 12: The Grave Digger

  “Damn, son, you can make this thing move!”

  The tires of the sandrail skimmed the brittle, purple dunes with the wild speed of cannon-fired stones skipping across the surface of a pond. The ‘rail topped sixty-five kph just as the Micovi sun began to melt into the horizon.

  Fred piloted the desert vehicle as easily as he’d jockeyed the stick of the Archangel. He didn’t attempt to steer as much as keep it from launching into a barrel roll with each rise and fall across the fifteen-meter dunes. The ‘rail was a rental, but he didn’t think Mr. Nathaniel Cornish Sr. would get his security deposit back.

  The reason for pushing the throttle past the red line was beginning to gain on them. Another sandrail, larger and covered in armored plating, had tried to slice Fred’s vehicle in half just minutes before.

  To Fred’s right, strapped firmly into the passenger seat, the old grave digger seemed to be having the time of his life. He was either unaware that they were under attack, or he’d ceased to fear death more than the boredom of his advanced age.

  Fred had gotten to Alastair Britton first, fortunately. The old man lived in the desert, commuting over an hour each way to the graveyard he managed. Fred had found the old man swilling stinger juice in front of a dilapidated trailer that was slowly sinking into the side of a dune. Fred had been there only fifteen minutes when they had both seen the sun reflecting off a much larger, much faster sandrail, clearly heading toward the old man’s isolated home.

  Fred took one minute to explain why he’d come, one more minute to explain who he thought might be on that bigger sandrail. The old man had spent five seconds making up his mind to get the hell out of there.

  Their pursuers’ sandrail had more than armor plates; it also had a very powerful engine. Fred had bought some room with clever maneuvering, but in a flat-out sprint his ride didn’t have enough power to pull away. He was only seconds from being mowed down like so much road kill.

  If a sprint wouldn’t do it, he had to go back to what he did better than anyone else — he had to drive.

  Fred pushed the stick right, driving his lighter ‘rail into a wide curve. The ‘rail’s thick tires kicked up an arcing fishtail of purple sand, sand that caught the fading sun in a moving, sparkling wave.

  His pursuers tried to match the curve, their fishtail even bigger, even higher. Fred glanced back to see the big machine’s blunt nose closing in, so he threw his body left at the same time he pushed the joystick in that direction.

  “Uhn!” the old grave digger shouted as g-force slammed him tight against his restraints. The ‘rail gracefully cut into the left-hand turn of the larger S-curve. The pursuers again tried to follow but couldn’t quite match the tighter turn.

  Fred timed it, waiting for his vehicle to start ascending a dune face.

  “Hang on,” Fred said, then pulled the lever for the breaks. Flat fins of metal shot out of the ‘rail’s bottom and dug into the thick sand. Fred’s body slammed forward against the restraints as the ‘rail ground to a sudden halt.

  With a squeal of metal and a head-jarring thump, the pursuing ‘rail’s left side ground along the rear-right corner of Fred’s ‘rail. A secondary thump rocked Fred’s rail forward to teeter on the dune crest — but the pursuers sailed past that crest, and knocked off-balance from the impact, it rolled sideways down the dune face, tumbling and spinning and kicking up huge sprays of purple sand.

  Fred pushed the break lever back down, making the fins recede into their housing. He gunned the engine. His rail rocketed down the dune face. He swung left to avoid his still-rolling pursuers, then shot away at top speed.

  “High One’s eyes!” the old man said. “You kill ‘em?”

  “We’ll know if they stay put,” Fred said. “If they start firing on us, probably not.”

  The ‘rail shot over a high dune and caught air before Fred expertly brought its wheels back to the downslope. The engine roared inside its sand-proof housing. This was dangerous, deadly work, but he liked this machine — if he lived through this, he might come back sometime and do it again. It would probably be more fun if someone wasn’t trying to kill him.

  “I thought you was gonna kill us,” the old-timer said. “But that move. You done this kind of thing before, boy?”

  “Sort of,” was the fairest answer Fred could come up with under the circumstance.

  The day’s light was rapidly fading. The rail’s headlamps came on automatically, but Fred overrode the control to shut them off.

  For a few minutes he lost sight of their pursuers. He even started to think they were in the clear. Then a cluster of lights appeared in the distance behind them.

  “Guess you didn’t kill �
��em,” the old-timer said.

  “Guess not. Sorry about this, old-timer, but I can’t dodge them forever. I’ve got about a five-minute lead, at best. They’re going to catch us.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “I probably get tortured,” Fred said.

  “You into that kind of thing?”

  Fred shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Sucks to be you,” the old-timer said. “What happens to me?”

  “You? Don’t worry, they won’t torture you. They’ll just shoot you in the head.”

  The old man spit out the side. “I figured. Since I ain’t into getting shot in the head—” he pointed northwest. “Maybe you want to go that way. We might make the de-com grounds.”

  “De-com grounds?”

  “Ayup,” the old man said. “Where the bats dropped all of Micovi’s heavy weaponry after the Takeover. Bombs, missiles, mines, that kind of thing.”

  “All of it deactivated?”

  The old-timer laughed. “You’re a picky one, ain’t ya? Some of it’s deactivated. I figure maybe gettin’ blown up by some old mine is better than definitely getting shot in the head. Unless you changed your mind about digging torture. I figure your kind might be into that.”

  Fred pointed the ‘rail northwest. The molten mess of the setting sun was just off-center left, most of it already dropping behind the horizon.

  “My kind?” Fred said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The old man laughed. “Gimme a break, sonny. I’ve been around a long time. Just ‘cause it’s scripture to hate you don’t mean it’s the right thing to do. Scriptures also tell me I ain’t supposed to eat roundbug ‘cause they’re unclean, but I like me a good sandwich.”

  It sounded like a conversation Fred might like to have sometime. Some other time, when he didn’t have the lights of a hostile sandrail steadily closing in on his rear.