by Karl Beecher
“Oh, how wonderful,” he said sarcastically. “Nice of you to verify it for me. So you didn’t believe me when I told you that, but you believed some machine.”
“Hey, I needed to be sure, Colin. But don’t you see what this means? You could help me to piece together what happened all those years ago. We could make the biggest discovery in modern archaeological history. Don’t you see how great that is?”
“What I see is that you’re suddenly a lot more interested in me now that I’m useful to you.”
Tyresa’s felt her temper begin to fray. Was this some ancient form of gratitude that sounded like rudeness to her ears? “Well, excuse me for helping you! If it weren’t for me, you’d still be buried underground in a—”
Colin slid backwards on the bench until he was horizontal.
Tyresa looked angrily at him. “What, are you going to faint again? This is fast becoming your favourite pastime.”
“I’m not fainting,” Colin said, closing his eyes. “I’m passing out. There’s a big difference.”
A moment passed silently.
“Colin…” said Tyresa. “Colin?”
He began snoring like a sozzled fleshhog.
Ade, who had been maintaining a discreet distance throughout the conversation, glided over. “Can I be of assistance, ma’am?”
Tyresa sighed and nodded. “Go and arrange a taxi. We’ll get him back to the hospital, and he can sleep it off. Tomorrow we need to prepare for a trip. We’re going to Procya.”
“A job, ma’am?”
“Something like that.”
Ade left. She watched the snoozing Colin as he began to drool. Pitiful. If the idiot was so upset, why didn’t he say something instead of running off to drown his sorrows? He could have said something at any time.
Well, now that she thought about it, he couldn’t have said something any time, because she hadn’t always been available to talk to. But still, he could have said something during the times she was available.
Which, admittedly, weren’t many. Come to think of it, she’d barely seen him at all since his revival.
All right, maybe he had a point. She’d hardly been the angelic nurse to him, but that wasn’t her job. Besides, she wasn’t the attentive type. She was used to roaming the galaxy alone with only herself to rely on. She couldn’t be expected to become all hospitable as soon as Colin appeared like a stray dog, could she?
Except that, now, she would have to be. Her job was to take Colin to Procya, and it looked like he needed a lot more than just a driver. She was going to have to be accommodating, considerate, attentive.
She wondered where she might find a book that would teach her how.
22
Meanwhile, on a planet far, far away, Inspector J. J. Tiffin found himself in an unfamiliar mood. He was excited.
His footsteps echoed around the corridor as his standard-issue black boots struck the immaculate, grey marble floor. His pace was brisk, his stomach sucked in, and his shoulders thrust back.
If he’d walked any more rigidly, he would have snapped in two.
Tiffin had good reason to be proud and excited. The Deputy Commissioner had summoned him, so he felt sure he was about to receive an important new assignment. That’s what happened when you were summoned to a Bidding Room—so-called because that’s where underlings heard the bidding of their superiors.
Tiffin turned the final corner and arrived at his destination. A door. Not a particularly special-looking door—plain, dark blue—but above the doorway hung the splendid crest of his organisation: a ten-pointed, golden star sitting behind a silver shield. On the shield were engraved the words ‘Security Force of the Erd Tourist Board.’ Gazing at it always caused Tiffin to lift his jaw and puff his chest in pride. The Force was one of the finest private constabularies in the galaxy—certainly the wealthiest—responsible for securing all tourism-related activities on the planet Erd. It possessed numerous stations and facilities, but Tiffin was lucky enough to be housed here in the Force’s central headquarters, a building second only in size and grandeur to the Tourist Board’s corporate HQ itself.
Beside the doorway hung a sign reading ‘Bidding Room 6.’ Tiffin’s excitement turned to trepidation. This was expected. He’d been in Bidding Rooms before, of course. They were designed to intimidate the subordinate person in the room, which was right and proper; it reinforced the chain of command. Plus, putting the frighteners up someone when charging them with a task did wonders for motivation.
He was also jittery because he’d been instructed to bring his apprentice along. Tiffin had ordered his apprentice to meet him here, but the young idiot was nowhere in sight. He checked the nearest wall-mounted clock. The appointed meeting time had almost arrived. The Deputy Commissioner never liked to be kept waiting.
Just then, Tiffin heard footsteps, fast and growing louder. Then came the huffing and panting. Finally, just as the footsteps slowed to a plod, his apprentice came around the corner: Trainee Officer Mokk. He was short, rumpled, and breathless.
“Sorry I’m… late, sir,” the little man wheezed in a high-pitched voice. “I got lost again… It really is… a very large building.”
Tiffin bared his teeth contemptuously. “Don’t give me that nonsense, Mokk. You’d get lost in a janitor’s closet.” He pointed at Mokk’s ruffled uniform. “Look at the state of you. Tuck your shirt in, man. And do that top button up. You’re about to see the Deputy Commissioner, for heaven’s sake.”
Mokk regained his breath and tidied himself up. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that I’ve never met a Deputy Commissioner before. I’ve never even been to a Bidding Room before.”
“The rules are very simple,” said Tiffin. “You’ll follow me into the room, and we approach the hologram of the Deputy Commissioner. We stop precisely three metres in front of the hologram, bow our heads and I, as senior officer, ask him, ‘What is thy bidding, oh Deputy Commissioner?’”
Mokk frowned. “Why like that?”
“What?”
“Why say, ‘What is thy bidding?’ Why don’t you say ‘What is your bidding?’”
Tiffin was confused. Nobody had asked him that before. He’d learned the rules himself long ago and never questioned them. He must have explained them to dozens of trainees before, but nobody had ever thought to ask why ‘thy’ and not ‘your.’
“Because,” he said. “Those are the rules. It’s always been like that. What other reason do you need?”
Mokk shrugged as he finished smoothing down his jacket. “It just sounds strange is all, sir. I mean, I don’t say things like, ‘Is that thy drink or mine,’ or ‘How’s thy sister, I’ve not seen in ages.’”
“Will you shut up,” snapped Tiffin. “Here’s all the rules you need to know: walk in there, stop, bow your head, keep your mouth shut, speak when thou are spoken too. Right?”
Mokk swallowed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Tiffin brushed a single, stray piece of dust from the arm of his dark blue overcoat, then proceeded to push the door’s call button.
Bing-bong!
The door opened, slowly and deliberately for effect, revealing the room within. It was dark and empty of people, its walls clad in jet black panelling. A pathway led down the middle of the room, drawn out by yellow safety markings and flanked either side by messages reading “NO FOOT TRAFFIC BEYOND THIS POINT.” It ended in the centre of the room beside a metallic stump that protruded from the ground and had a glowing blue top. This was the projector.
Tiffin led Mokk towards it, their footsteps the only sound echoing around the four walls. He ran his tongue around his dry mouth, trying to replace the moisture that anxiety had stolen. Talking to a Deputy Commissioner was always nerve-racking. These people held in the palm of their hands the careers of every officer on the Force. One word from them could elevate you to the dizzying heights of senior officership, or cast you down to the depths of the junior grades—or worse. Tiffin knew exactly which direction he wanted to go, and a promot
ion was well overdue.
He stopped a few strides short of the projector. Mokk bumped into his back.
“Sorry, sir,” he whispered after seeing Tiffin’s scowl.
Before them, the projector hummed into life. Above the glowing top, a hologram flickered into life: a spectral rendering of the Security Force’s crest. Below it appeared a short message—“CONNECTING”—and a progress bar. The bar grew smoothly from left to right, until it reached 95% where it then paused for a moment. It always did this, probably on purpose to increase tension.
Finally, the progress bar completed and the crest was replaced by the image of a man’s face, as large as a doorway. It was a plain and unremarkable looking face, but one that managed simultaneously to express ruthless officiousness, cutting indifference, and outright contempt. The eyes, large as dinner plates, peered disdainfully at Tiffin and Mokk.
Right on cue, Tiffin his bowed his head forward. He saw to his side that Mokk had forgotten to do the same, so he reached out and slapped the trainee on the back of the head. That was all the reminder he needed.
Tiffin raised his head again and spoke. “What is your bid—” Dammit! “What is thy bidding, oh Deputy Commissioner.”
He gave Mokk an angry look from the side of his eye. The young trainee avoided his glance, trying desperately to stifle a laugh.
The Deputy Commissioner replied in a steady voice that emanated from a dozen unseen speakers. “There’s been a great disturbance in the Security Force.”
Never any small talk with the Commissioner. Tiffin liked that. No “Nice weather we’ve been having” or “How’s the family?”—not that Tiffin had a family, but still, he appreciated not being asked.
The Commissioner continued, “No doubt, you’ve heard of it.”
To be honest, Tiffin hadn’t. That was the downside of being as unsociable as Tiffin was: you missed out on the gossip.
“Um… ye-e-es,” said Tiffin, trying to avoid looking ignorant. “Just for clarification, which particular disturbance would you be referring to?” The Commissioner’s face looked frighteningly blank. Tiffin chuckled nervously. “I mean, so many disturbances are crossing my desk all the time. People are banging on my office door day and night to inform me about disturbances.”
“I refer to the case of Colin Douglass,” replied the Commissioner. “Our agents report this man has emerged on Ceti claiming to be from the planet Earth.”
“Earth?” Tiffin immediately recognised the label. It was a corruption of the true name, Erd, and one of the names used by terrorists and other bad people who wanted to do nasty things to Erd.
“Clearly, Tiffin, you understand how serious this matter is.” The Deputy Commissioner gave a brief run-down of the case: how Colin had been discovered in stasis and brought back to Ceti by an Alliance citizen, and how he was now scheduled to be taken to Saint Barflet’s Hospital on Procya. “What’s more, this Colin Douglass has taken to claiming that the planet on which he was found is the true origin of the human species.”
Tiffin baulked. “Preposterous.”
“Clearly,” replied the Commissioner. “But he must be stopped. His lies may be believed by others. The Alliance may already believe him. After all, they violated the territorial sovereignty of the Transhumanist Collective to retrieve him. He stays on Ceti as a guest of their premier university. Most suspicious.”
“Indeed, Deputy Commissioner.”
“This duty is entrusted to you, Tiffin. His claims must be suppressed before they do any damage. Find this Colin Douglass and execute a standard retrieval on him.”
Tiffin suppressed the exhilaration coursing through his veins as best he could. His shaking hands formed fists. He resisted punching the air with them.
At last, a mission that would prove him worthy of promotion. He could see the sign on his office door now: ‘Chief Inspector J. J. Tiffin.’ He could even imagine himself delivering the news to his dear mother. In his dream, she wore a proud smile on her face. This wouldn’t necessarily be the case in reality. She was not an easy woman to please, but then Space Vice-Marshal B. B. Tiffin was a legend in her own time, effortlessly heroic, fiercely patriotic, and possessing so many medals she needed to borrow space on her adjutant’s chest during formal occasions just to be able to display them all. Back as a young pilot, she had given birth to her son in the cockpit of her B-79 Hellraiser craft while returning from a bombing run at the Battle of Maddog’s Finger. Tiffin hadn’t seen much of her over the following three decades, but that was understandable; she was a very busy woman. Maybe, finally, becoming a Chief Inspector would be enough to make her proud and look kindly on her only child.
Just getting her to return his calls would be a nice start.
The Commissioner’s voice snapped Tiffin back to reality. “Any questions?”
Before Tiffin could say no, he heard Mokk’s voice.
“Um… I’ve got one.”
Tiffin tensed up as though ten thousand volts were surging through him. A cold chill ran down his back. He watched the huge, unamused face of the Deputy Commissioner turn smoothly towards Mokk.
Oh, great galaxy, Tiffin thought to himself. Spare the young whelp. He knows not what he does.
“Yes?” asked the Commissioner.
Mokk swallowed. “Well… it’s just that…” He tugged at his collar. “You want us to suppress him. I get that. But… what if he’s right?”
Gah! This was too much for Tiffin. Even he couldn’t stand to watch the baby gazelle question the hungry lion about its dietary choices. He grabbed Mokk’s arm.
“Ha! Funny,” he laughed nervously. “Very funny. You know trainees, Deputy Commissioner, they love to joke around.” He started backing out of the room with Mokk in tow. “We’d better be going now.”
“Indeed,” replied the Commissioner, whose face suggested that several decades had passed since last he cracked a smile. “Perhaps, Tiffin, you should impress upon your young apprentice that there’s no room for a sense of humour on the Force.”
“I will indeed, sir,” he said. They were halfway to the exit and still walking backwards. If he could just keep the Deputy Commissioner placated until they reached the door.
“I’ll get right on it. Ho-boy, will this young one learn!”
Tiffin heard the door behind him slide open. Nearly there.
“All seriousness from this one from now on, yes-siree!”
When they reached the doorway, the Deputy Commissioner finally spoke again. “Tiffin?”
“Yes, Deputy Commissioner?”
The great, glowing holographic face stared back. “Don’t fail me.”
It was the standard Security Force farewell. With that, Tiffin knew he was safe—for now, at least. The Commissioner’s face vanished, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“What are you trying to do?” yelled Tiffin, bundling Mokk back into the corridor.
“I was just asking—”
“Well, don’t,” snapped Tiffin. With the sleeve of his overcoat, Tiffin wiped the sweat from his brow. “Around here, you follow orders. And you certainly don’t go suggesting that Erd might not be humanity’s origin, unless you feel that your current solid form is too constricting and you’d prefer to try living as a vapour, right? Now, to more important matters. We must make immediate preparations for our mission.”
“Where are we going?”
“Procya,” replied Tiffin. “That’s where our target is heading, so that’s where we’re going.”
“Then what?”
“Standard retrieval,” he said, echoing the Commissioner’s earlier words.
“And what’s that?”
Tiffin stared at him. “Don’t they teach you anything in the academy these days? Standard retrieval. We take the target into our custody, preferably alive, and return him here to… persuade him to recant his claims. Do you have a pistol?”
“No, sir.”
“Then retrieve one from the armoury immediately.”
“Why? Will this be
a dangerous assignment?”
From the holster inside his jacket, Tiffin pulled his own weapon, a thing of beauty: matte black standard-issue proton pistol with 39 mm emitter window, three-level intensity, and optional rapid-fire mode. He pushed the diagnostics button to ensure it was in full working order. A reassuring green light on the side of the barrel confirmed it was.
“Standard retrieval means we’d prefer the target to be brought in alive,” he replied. “But it also gives us latitude to use deadly force if necessary.”
23
The stars shimmied in a multi-coloured dance through silvery waves of distortion. Back when Colin had first seen space at warp speed, he’d imagined one could live a lifetime without losing a sense of awe and wonder at the beautiful, haunting sight.
But now, after staring at it on and off for several hours, he had to admit the novelty had rather worn off.
His guest quarters aboard the SS Turtle were small and sparsely furnished, containing little more than a screen, a closet, and a bunk bed. It was comfortable in the same way as a well kitted-out tent; tolerable enough for a few nights, but nobody in their right mind would live like this permanently.
The bottom bunk had been converted to a desk because Colin was supposed to be busy learning. That was the idea anyway. Tyresa had asked him—in her own particular style of ‘asking’ that sounded more like an order from a sergeant-major—to read up on Abraman society before their arrival at Procya. She had given him a slate for the task.
“Here,” she had said. “I’ve set it to child mode. Even primary school kids can use that, so it should be no problem for you.”
Charming. Despite that, Colin—a technophobe who had found even the Google homepage overwhelming—still hadn’t got the hang of using the slate. Every time he tried to scroll a document, he caused it to somehow disappear off the screen. As a result, he’d read only the first four lines of numerous articles, meaning his knowledge of Abrama had not deepened immensely.