Williams had been just on the verge of sleep when he heard a chicken. He bolted upright, slamming his head into the underside of Vance’s bunk and eliciting a stream of curses from both men. Every night. Every single night. In the weeks since Zheng He had been ordered to its next port by Fleet HQ, he’d either been woken from a dead sleep or right as he was drifting off. He staggered out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt. Sleep would be a while coming. Sleep was always a while in coming. He’d found it better to just slip off to the galley for a snack while the tension bled off.
As always, he stopped and peered into the narrow viewport next to their bunk. Zheng He’s skip-stitch drive distorted space into streaks and pulses of light. It wasn’t stars streaking past, not quite, but it certainly looked like it. He shrugged off the feeling that there was something just outside his grasp out there. That had been normal lately, too. He darkened the port and forgot about it as best he could.
Menendez was waiting on the other side of the door, hand poised above the chime, blinking in surprise. She was in uniform, but only just. It wouldn’t have passed muster, but maybe she’d just been working late. “Spacer Williams! I—I was just coming to see you,” she said, then added, with an embarrassed blush, “Clearly.”
“Ma’am?’ he said cautiously. “What can I do for you?”
Her mouth worked for a moment, half-vocalized words dying on her lips. Finally, she said, “Just—Just come with me.”
There were no explanations. Menendez tried a couple times, but they petered off without giving him a clear understanding of what had gotten her worked up, or why she had come for him. Williams didn’t press her, but followed where she led.
Transit Three.
Menendez looked up and down the empty corridor before keying the door open and shoving him inside. “I was doing routine sensor maintenance,” she said, finally managing a coherent sentence as she began pulling open access panels in the walls. “It’ll be another week and a half before we need to use the short-range wormholes. We always do extensive checks on the equipment en route. No one uses Transit in deep space. And, well. Look.” She removed a large sensor module with a twist and a yank and Williams finally understood what any of this had to do with him.
“Are those—”
“Eggs,” Menendez confirmed. A dozen of them, bright and silvery, cradled in a nest made mainly of black and red feathers with some shipboard waste thrown in.
“How? It wasn’t on board the ship for more than half an hour.” Williams reached out to touch an egg and Menendez tried to swat his hand away with a hissed “Careful—”
But the chicken beat her to it, pushing out from the recesses of Zheng He’s innards with a shocking speed and aggressively pecking at his hand. Williams snatched it back.
“—She doesn’t like that,” Menendez finished, lamely.
The chicken cocked its head and fixed him with the gaze of one great, shimmering eye, and Williams understood. Understood his sudden fixation back on Dzamglin; understood Menendez’ decision to allow them through Transit screening, in defiance of the Lister Protocol. He understood the spur wound that vanished—because it had never been. And having done that, it was no stretch to think that the chicken had merely seemed to run through the wormhole.
“There’s a kind of psychic chameleon on Rigel VII,” Menendez said. “Or so I’ve read. Doesn’t change color or shape or anything, just makes you think it has.”
The chicken’s eye was a fathomless deep of stars and streaks and distant bright flashes. The cosmos was in that eye, the totality of all things. Infinite futures, infinite pasts. Infinite paths to infinite possibilities. No wonder the priests had torn apart the planet looking for it. In the chicken’s eye were things of which the human race could only dream.
Cluck, went the chicken, as though imparting a sacred truth.
Cluck.
The End
About the Author
Joshua M. Young lives in Columbus, Ohio with his wife, son, and two more feral cats than the optimal number of feral cats. (Which is, ideally, zero.) He holds a Master of Divinity from Ashland Theological Seminary, and yes, he’s quite aware that writing this kind of stuff isn’t exactly what you’d expect from a trained theologian. A life-long lover of science fiction and fantasy, he has been published in numerous venues, including the anthologies Planetary: Mercury, Storming Area 51, and the webzine Mysterion. He can be found blogging at SuperversiveSF.com.
A Murder Most Fowl
Dawn Witzke
A Murder Most Fowl
Dawn Witzke
Monsieur Le Coq stretched his wings and ambled out into the sunlight. He was among the few who were awake that morning. It was strange that Rex, Le porteur de lumiere for the flock, had not woken them at dawn as usual. He would pay dearly for his oversight when the hens awoke. They could be quite obstreperous when their morning routine was interrupted.
Across the lawn, Chien, a large yellow fur ball of the canine persuasion, lay in a sunny patch on the grass chewing on something. The young retriever belonged to the caretakers, Monsieur Marcel and Madame Juliette. He could not understand why they would keep such a dumb creature, but for whatever reason, the flock had to put up with him.
Two La Flèche youngsters marched towards the dog squawking; feathers fluffed. The La Flèche were a cheeky, yet small group of young cocks, none being more than three months old. They thought of themselves as Le Garde, tasked with keeping predators away from the yard.
Chien was their favorite target, most likely due to his easy disposition. The cats, however, they avoided. Chien ignored them and continued chewing.
Monsieur Le Coq settled in at the feeder for his morning breakfast. He turned away from the scene before him to say good morning to Penny, the only hen in the yard.
“Good day, Mademoiselle. How was the worm hunting this morning?”
“Excellent, Monsieur. For the past week, I have caught trois earthworms, but this morning, I caught quatre.”
“Très bon. I do not understand how you keep such a pleasant figure eating so richly.”
The hen blushed. “I’m just lucky I guess.”
The rooster had yet to take a bite when the loud cry from the two La Flèche drew his attention. They ran at great speed toward the coop.
“What in the world?” He could see no reason for their panic.
Chien remained fixated on his chewing and there was no one else around.
“He’s killed Rex! The beast has killed Rex!” one of the young cocks screamed as they ran past.
“That is absurd,” Monsieur Le Coq said to no one in particular. “Chien wouldn’t harm a fly.”
He moved decidedly across the lawn to where Chien lay to see for himself what all the fuss was about.
“Chien!” Madame Juliette called from the porch. The large golden dog dropped the object and ran toward the house.
Lying in the grass was the severed head of Rex covered in dog slobber and slightly mauled.
He stared down at the remains in morbid fascination.
Well, that explained why Rex had not crowed that morning.
He is dead.
He didn’t suppose the hens would accept such a flimsy excuse for not announcing the day, but he would have to break the news.
Back at the coop, he stood in the open doorway and crowed, awakening those inside.
“Rex has been murdered,” he stated matter-of-factly.
There was much clucking among the hens. The two La Flèche youngsters bobbed their heads in unison from where they were huddled together in the far corner.
“It’s true. He was chewing on Rex’s head,” one of them said.
There was more squawking as the hens talked over each other. Monsieur Le Coq was preparing to crow again to get their attention, when a dainty hen of the purest white feathers calmly walked towards him.
“Who did it, Monsieur Le Coq?” she asked.
He almost melted at the cooing sound of her voice. She made murder sound plea
sing.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“It was Chien!” the La Flèche said in unison.
“It was not Chien. There was no blood anywhere on his fur. Nor does the dog have two brain cells to rub together. No, it is not him.”
“Will you find whoever killed my beloved Rex?” the hen asked.
“I will try, Madame.”
“Mademoiselle. We were not married. Rex was not one to keep company with only one hen. He has slept with every hen in here at one time or another.”
“I see. Could one of them have been jealous?”
“I don’t see how. We were all aware of his reputation. Besides, there are far fewer cocks than hens. It’s not like we have much choice if we want any kind of companionship.”
Monsieur Le Coq was aware of the disparity. Every fall, many of the young cocks born that year would go off with Madame Juliette as companions. She would leave a few to keep the hens company. When any chicken in the coop died, it was from natural causes. They had never had one murdered before.
“Please! Quiet,” Monsieur Le Coq raised his voice above the chatter.
The hens settled.
“Before we begin the search for Rex’s killer, we must deal with a more important matter. Who will take Rex’s place as Le porteur de lumiere? Without a light bringer the sun will cease rising with the dawn and our world will be plunged into darkness.”
A collective gasp went through the coop. A yearling cock who looked like a young Monsieur Le Coq approached.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’m up before everyone anyway. Except for Penny. But she can’t be Le porteur de lumiere.”
“What all say you? Shall we appoint…”
“Phillip.”
“Appoint Phillip as the new Light Bringer?”
There was a round of clucking.
“The ayes have it. Phillip is the new Le porteur de lumiere.”
He turned to Phillip. “Congratulations. Please do keep your head on.”
“I’ll try Monsieur,” he responded.
Monsieur Le Coq searched through the flock at the happy faces, all but one. An old rooster, well past his prime, in the back scowled down at the young cock. While the old bird was not likely the killer, he’d remain on the list of suspects just the same. A jealous old rooster could be just as dangerous as a young cock.
“Now that that is settled. I will start looking into the death of Rex.”
“Monsieur Le Coq, Sir, can I help?”
Monsieur Le Coq looked down to see a yellow chick fluffy with down. He couldn’t have been more than three weeks old.
“Aren’t you a little young, kid?”
“Rex was my dad, Sir,” the chick said. “I want to find out who killed him.”
Monsieur Le Coq looked in the chick’s wide pleading eyes prepared to tell him that he didn’t need the kid’s help.
“Okay, kid, but stay out of the way.”
“Gamin,” the chick interjected. “My name. It’s Gamin.”
“Whatever, kid. Let’s go find ourselves a killer.”
The chick silently trailed after Monsieur Le Coq as he headed back towards the remains of Rex. The head was still lying where Chien had dropped it.
Monsieur Le Coq put his wing out to block the chick’s approach.
“Stay back, kid. You don’t want to see your father this way.”
It was too late, though, the young face was wide with shock.
Well cluck.
“If you’re gonna be a detective, Kid, you’re gonna have to toughen up. “Monsieur Le Coq said in a soft, but matter of fact voice.
Gamin sniffed and straightened. “I can be tough.”
“That a boy. Shall we carry on?”
“Yes, Sir.” Gamin looked at the ground. “But, may I look away?”
“Of course.”
Monsieur Le Coq turned back to the head. He leaned forward to examine the corpse. As he moved closer, the head split into two, which seemed rather odd. He moved away and it merged back into one head. He moved closer and it again became two.
He jumped away from the head.
“What kind of witchcraft is this?”
“What?” Gamin asked, staring wide eyed at Monsieur Le Coq.
“When I get close, the head turns into two. When I’m away, it becomes one.”
“Mamma says to look at things up close with one eye and it won’t look like that.”
“Hmmm.”
Monsieur Le Coq approached the head and in exaggerated form, he cocked his head to the side and lowered himself within a few inches of the remains. He could clearly see the ants trailing across Rex’s mauled feathers.
“It seems your mamma was correct. It did not split into two this time.”
The area around the neck was severed cleanly as if by a large powerful beak or jaws. It looked like it had been a quick death. Some of Chein’s golden fur was stuck in the dried slobber on the comb.
Monsieur Le Coq took the comb in his beak and flipped the head over to look at the other side. He shook a stray ant off his beak. The other side gave no additional clues.
“The body isn’t giving me much to go on. There must be feathers or something around here to indicate where the murder took place. Come along, kid, we have a murder scene to find.”
They had not gone far before Monsieur Le Coq spotted a large number of black feathers scattered across the ground. He stopped next to the stump where Monsieur Marcel broke trees into pieces. The large woodchopper and the small woodchopper leaned against the stump, the blades gleaming in the bright sunlight. Lines of dried blood marred the sides of the stump.
“There’s blood over here,” Gamin called from several feet away. “And here.” He hopped to a new spot. “And over here.” Over and over, he called out as he went in a pattern that made absolutely no sense.
Why would there be Rex’s blood in so many different spots? Unless he was fighting off his attacker.
“Listen, kid. It seems your father was a fighter. Whoever tried to kill him didn’t have an easy job. He put up a real fight.”
Gamin beamed at Monsieur Le Coq. “Do you think I’ll grow up to be like him?”
“Sure, kid.” Hopefully, you won’t end up dead like him.
Monsieur Le Coq surveyed the area for any clue as to who might have done it. He could rule out the old rooster. The old bird wouldn’t have had the strength to win a one on one fight with a young viral cock like Rex.
Monsieur Le Coq plucked a gray feather lying among the flurry of black feathers on the ground. It was not a chicken feather. The grey was most definitely that of Faucon, the great killer. But why would he attack Rex when grouse were more to his palate?
“We must find Faucon,” Monsieur Le Coq announced.
“Mamma says to stay far away from him.”
“Very well. You may go back to the yard. Find out who was the last chicken to see Rex alive and inquire as to anything anyone might have seen around the time he went missing.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Monsieur Le Coq kept an eye on the chick until he was back at the coop before heading toward the pasture where Faucon was known to hunt.
“Monsieur Faucon! Are you about?” Monsieur Le Coq called out to the predator.
From above, the piercing cry of Faucon split the air. Monsieur Le Coq jumped backwards as a dead grouse fell from the sky, nearly hitting him.
Faucon, a light gray bird landed next to its meal. “Why are you interrupting my meal, chicken?” The falcon ripped into the side of bird pulling off a chunk of meat and downing it.
“One of our flock has been killed.” Monsieur Le Coq hid his disgust at Faucon’s savage ways.
“And you want to know if I did it.” Faucon lowered his head toward Monsieur Le Coq. The falcon glared over his blood-soaked beak at the chicken.
“No, I didn’t. Now go away.”
Blood splatted Monsieur Le Coq’s face.
Unfazed, the chicken continued. “I was hoping, si
nce you have a much better view from where you fly, if you might have seen anything.”
“No. Now go away and leave me eat in peace.”
Faucon picked up the grouse and turned away from Monsieur Le Coq, hitting the chicken with its tail feathers.
“Where were you at dawn this morning?”
“Sleeping,” Faucon said, his beak full.
“Where?”
The falcon tore another bit from the carcass. “Ask me one more question, and I’ll repeal my prohibition on eating chicken.”
Monsieur Le Coq swallowed. It was not an idle threat. Faucon had terrorized the chicken yard when he was a young chick. Many a hen had become a meal for the predator.
“Very well, I will leave you to your grouse. Good day, Monsieur.” He resisted the urge to run back to the coop.
“Monsieur Le Coq! Monsieur Le Coq!” Gamin ran up to him as soon as he entered the yard. “You didn’t get eaten!”
“No, I didn’t. For which I am most grateful.” He wrapped his wing around the chick to calm him. “What did you find out?”
Gamin hopped from under the older bird’s wing. He shook like he was ready to explode. “Rex was last seen talking to a bunch of young hens over by the barn last night, but he left alone and Penny saw Monsieur Marcel heading to the barn before daylight this morning. She was up trying to catch some worms and no one else was up that early because Rex didn’t crow so everyone slept in except for Penny who was up catching worms.”
“Breathe, Kid.” Monsieur Le Coq waited until Gamin physically calmed. “Penny saw Monsieur in the yard this morning?”
The chick’s head bobbed in affirmation.
“I need to talk to her.”
“She’s in the hen house.”
Penny was dozing in her nest as were most of the hens when they entered.
“Mademoiselle, might I have a word with you?” Monsieur Le Coq said in a low voice, trying not to wake the other hens.
She opened one eye. “Will this take long? I’m awfully tired.”
“I just have some questions.”
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