Dial D for Deadman: A Space Team Universe Novel (Dan Deadman Space Detective Book 1)

by Barry J. Hutchison

  Artur’s eyes flicked open. He saw the underside of a dirty boot, and quickly rolled away. “Ah, come on now, quit actin’ the maggot in front of yer lady friend. Ye’re impressing precisely no one, Deadman.”

  He stood up, making his envelope crinkle. His hands went to his hips and he cricked his back. “Ooh, that’s better. That’s grand.”

  Once he’d finished straightening himself out, he leaned back and peered up at Dan. His eyes were tiny, but one was slightly bigger than the other, giving the impression he was constantly squinting. “Look at ye up there, ye big eejit. Head like a bag o’ spuds. What kind of time d’ye call this, exactly?”

  He turned away, regarded Ollie for a moment, then winked. ‘Ye alright there, peaches? Ye well?”

  Ollie blinked, then looked up at Dan. “There’s a little man,” she said, feeling no one had really acknowledged this properly the first time round.

  Artur folded his arms. This made the shoulders of the envelope ride up so they were level with the top of his head. “I’m afraid I has to ask ye to refrain from usin’ that word,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Ollie. Then: “Which word?”

  “The L word,” said Artur. “Ye’re not to know, seein’ as how ye’re not from around here, so I’m not goin’ to hold it against ye. Least, not this time. Also, I like ye. Ye’ve got a kind face, and – if ye don’t mind me sayin’ – a crackin’ auld pair o’ tits on ye. So we’ll say no more about it.”

  He winked at her again, unfolded his arms, then turned to Dan.

  “Now, have ye got breakfast sorted? Sure, I’m so famished I could eat a reverend mother.”

  Dan squatted down. Artur still had to crane his neck to meet the much large man’s eyes, but not quite as much as he had been. “How did you know she’s not from around here?” Dan asked.

  “What? Come on, it’s written there all over her face,” said Artur. He glanced back over his shoulder at Ollie. “And a fine face it is, too,” he told her, then he turned back to Dan and pointed to the front of the envelope where his stomach would be. “Now come on, Deadman, ye’d think I didn’t have a mouth on me. Am I gettin’ some scran, or what?”

  * * *

  Dan worked his way through the queue quickly. He always did. Most people very rapidly became uncomfortable with Dan standing behind them, and a surprisingly high number would fall out of line, regardless of how long they’d been standing in it, having suddenly remembered they were supposed to be somewhere else.

  The dumpling stand was a couple of blocks from his office, and never busy at this time of day, even when Dan wasn’t looming nearby. There had been another food place closer to home, but it had been shot to shizz by the Tribunal fairly recently, before, by all accounts, being partially trampled by a giant flying robot. He hadn’t seen it himself, but had heard enough people talking about it to believe it was true.

  Shame. He’d really liked that place. It was pricey, but the owner owed him some favors, so he always got the staff discount. Which was ironic, because as far as he could tell, even the staff didn’t get that.

  Of course, he didn’t really need to eat these days, but as his digestive system was one of the few parts of him that still worked, he liked to. He couldn’t taste things the way he used to, but he enjoyed the act of eating itself. It reminded him of… Well. It reminded him of other times.

  His new arm itched. He resisted the urge to scratch it.

  Dan wondered idly what had happened to the owner after the Tribunal had shot her place to pieces. They’d probably have taken her in, although something told him she wouldn’t have gone without a fight. Nana Joan rarely did anything without a fight.

  The customer ahead of Dan in the queue, who had managed to resist the urge to run, took the paper bag with their food inside, mumbled a hasty, “Thanks,” then scurried off.

  “Next,” said a voice. The word was low and drawn-out, like a recording played at half speed.

  A furry brown creature slouched behind the stand, a pair of wooden tongs held in one clawed hand. She wore a colorful paper hat, a lightly-soiled apron, and an expression of total and utter defeat.

  It was thought that the Parlooqs were the planet’s original native species, but they had been invaded and conquered by so many other races over the years it was difficult to be sure. They rarely, if ever, fought back, and seemed to welcome any new alien overlords whenever they turned up.

  There had been a number of campaigns over the years to grant the Parlooqs equal rights as all other citizens on the planet of Parloo, but the Parlooqs themselves had been quite vocal in their objections, and so it had never come to much. Most of them now spent their days toiling endlessly in minimum wage jobs, and never once complained.

  Or maybe they did, but they were so mind-numbingly tedious that nobody ever listened.

  Dan waited for the Parlooq to finish her welcome speech. He already knew what he wanted to order, but had discovered that interrupting a Parlooq usually meant it just started over again, so it was best to wait for it to be done.

  “Hi… there,” she said, in a voice that suggested she’d very recently been shot in the face with a slowdown round. “Welcome… to… Doodie’s Dump…lings. How may… I help… you…”

  “I’d like—”

  “…this morning…”

  “Yeah, I’d like—”

  “…sir?”

  Dan hesitated. The Parlooq gazed back at him with something that straddled the line between ‘expectation’ and ‘suicide risk’. He decided it was safe to continue.

  “I’d like a number six, a number eight…” He looked the printed menu board up and down. “What’s a ‘Funpling Mix’?” he asked, then he realized his mistake. “Wait…”

  It was too late. The Parlooq droned out a lengthy, monotonous explanation which, after a good few minutes, basically came down to, ‘some sweet dumplings’.

  Around two thirds of the way through the explanation, Dan felt a tingling on the back of his neck, like someone blowing gently on it. He looked around, but there was no one behind him. A few tourists were lurking nearby, probably waiting for him to vacate the area before they joined the queue, but there was nothing directly behind him. Nothing visible, at least.

  He kept a look-out until the Parlooq finished talking, then turned and nodded. “Yeah, some of those, too,” he said, fishing in his pocket for his wallet.

  Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Dan took three paper bags from the dumpling seller, scanned his ID card to transfer the credits, then about-turned and started making his way back through the thickening crowds of early-morning pedestrians.

  That tingling on the back of his neck was still there, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Of course, hundreds of people were watching him – a good couple of thousand had filed past him while he was at the dumpling stand, and a high proportion had at least slowed to gawp at him for a moment or two. Even on a planet inhabited by species from all over the galaxy, a walking, talking corpse still managed to draw its fair share of attention.

  But this was different. He didn’t feel like he was merely being glanced at, he felt like he was being observed. Scrutinized, even. He was sure someone was watching him, he just couldn’t figure out where they were. Or, more important, who they were.

  He made a show of checking inside his jacket for his gun, nodded in satisfaction, then stalked off in the direction of his office. If someone wanted to come for him, good luck to them.

  First, he was having breakfast.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nona’s wrists hurt. The plastic ties had cut grooves in her delicate flesh, and any movement – even her involuntary little spasms of fear, which were coming more and more regularly now – made them burn like fire.

  She hadn’t seen who had grabbed her. She remembered a roar. No, two roars, both at the same time. At first, she’d thought they were animals, chasing her down. But not animals. They weren’t animals. They were engines. Old ones.

&nb
sp; Rough hands had clawed at her. Darkness had enveloped her. She had screamed, but the roaring had drowned it out.

  And then she’d been moving. Fast. So fast. So dark. So alone, and so afraid.

  The men who had taken her had brought her to someone else. Someone new, who she hadn’t seen yet. She could hear him now, though, singing quietly as he did whatever it was he was doing out there beyond her covered cage.

  She didn’t want to see him. She just wanted to go home. More than anything, she wanted to go home.

  “Hello?” she said, but her throat tightened all the way, and the word didn’t come out.

  Swallow.

  Deep breath.

  Try again.

  “H-hello?” she said, forcing the word out as a whisper.

  The singing stopped.

  “Please,” Nona said, but there wasn’t enough air left in her lungs to add anything more to it.

  The singing resumed, even more quietly now than before. Nona could hear her name in the mumbled lyrics, although it was the only word she could recognize. The voice was muffled, as if Nona had her hands clamped over her ears.

  A moment later, the tarpaulin was pulled aside. Nona realized then why the man’s voice was muffled. In that same moment, she realized something else, too.

  She realized she was never going home again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Ye going to be eating that, peaches?”

  Ollie paused with a pale green, vaguely ball-shaped wad of dough held halfway to her mouth. Her eyes swiveled down to it, then back across the table to Artur. He was sitting on an upturned mug on the tabletop, with Ollie on his left, Dan on his right, and an assortment of crumbs strewn all around him.

  “Yes,” she said, then she shoved the dumpling in her mouth before he tried to take it from her. She’d already watched him wrestle almost a full purple one out of Dan’s hand, and for the size of him, he seemed to be pretty strong. Also, very determined.

  “Ah. Shame,” Artur said. His stomach rumbled beneath his envelope, and he looked up at Dan.

  Dan chewed slowly for a long time, looking back.

  Eventually, he swallowed.

  “What?”

  “I was going to ask if ye fancied sharing a bite o’ that, but me chances are lookin’ pretty feckin’ slim now.”

  Dan ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then swallowed again.

  “Yup.”

  Artur shook his head in disgust, then turned to Ollie. “Ye see the shoite I’ve to put up wi’? Ye see the way I’m mistreated by this Holy Joe sitting there? Look at him. Face like a blind cobbler’s thumb. I’ve a good mind to—”

  Dan deposited a paper bag on the table in front of him. Artur did his usual scowl at it, then sniffed the air. “What’s this ye be puttin’ down now?”

  “Funplings,” said Dan. “They’re new.”

  “Funplings?” Artur repeated, rolling the world around in his mouth as if tasting it. “Sure, that’s the worst name I’ve ever heard for anything in me whole life.”

  Dan reached for the bag. “Well, if you don’t want them.”

  “I said nothing of the sort,” said Artur, jumping from the mug and striding over to the bag. He fished inside and pulled out a yellow blob that was easily twice the size of his whole head. He gave it an experimental lick, flicked his tongue across his lips a few times, then buried his face in it all the way past his ears.

  It took surprisingly little time for Artur to finish the funpling. Or surprising to Ollie, at least. Dan had pretty much known what to expect.

  When he was done, the little man wiped his bare arm across his mouth and beard, failed to notice the crumbs in his eyebrows, and reached into the bag again.

  “Are they good?” asked Ollie, hoping he might offer her one. He didn’t.

  “Aye, they’re grand. They’re a bit like… have you ever had cake?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Right. OK, then. Have you ever had a bun?”

  “No.”

  “Right,” said Artur. He tapped his foot and stared into the middle distance, deep in thought. “Have you ever had, like, a smaller cake? Not the first cake I already said, but a different cake?”

  Ollie shook her head. “No.”

  Artur shrugged. “Ah, well, feck ye, then. See if I care,” he said, and he went back to eating.

  An uncomfortable hush fell over the table, as Artur got stuck into the next funpling. “These are grand. These are proper deadly,” he mumbled, ejecting yet more tiny crumbs into his beard. “Ye should go and get more o’ these bad boys.”

  Dan shook his head. “That’s your lot.”

  Artur looked disappointed, but another bite of funpling took the edge off it.

  “Can I ask something?” said Ollie.

  “Is it about whether I’m single?” Artur asked. “If so, ye surely can, and I surely am.”

  “No, it’s not that. Why do you keep him locked up?”

  Artur and Dan exchanged a glance. “Oh, that,” said Artur.

  “It’s complicated,” said Dan.

  Artur shrugged. “T’isn’t really.” He lowered the funpling, thought for a moment, then continued. “See, the thing is, peaches, it is not unknown for me to get up to the odd bit o’ mischief during the wee small hours. I can’t help meself. I’m a terrible man at times.”

  “Oh,” said Ollie. “Oh. OK.”

  Some time passed.

  The question eventually came, as Dan knew it eventually would.

  “What kind of mischief?”

  “Oh, ye know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Some pretty harmless bolloxology, mostly,” said Artur.

  Dan cleared his throat.

  “And, on the odd occasion, I’ve been known to get a bit lairy when it gets dark out,” Artur said. “You know, start fighting, and what have ye.”

  Dan cleared his throat again.

  “And the occasional murder. But rarely. Very rarely, in fact. Sure, I could count them all on the fingers of… what? Four hands? Something like that, anyway. If I had four hands, I mean, which I don’t, obviously. That would be mad.”

  A thought struck him. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of thing, of course. Four hands, or whatever. You see all sorts round here. Sure, I saw a lad with three arses last week. Either that, or he was smuggling babies down there. I didn’t like to ask, ye know? Seemed a bit forward.”

  He sniffed, then put his hands on his hips. “Now, what was I saying there before all that?”

  “You could count them all on the fingers of four hands,” said Ollie.

  “Aha! Aye, I could, an’ all. And they all deserved what they got. I mean mostly. Some of them. A few. Well, that one guy was asking for it. A bit.”

  Artur shrugged. “The point is, peaches, I can be a bit… unpredictable, when it comes to the wee small hours.”

  Ollie nodded slowly. She looked pretty relaxed and unsurprised by what Artur had said, as if mass-murder was a perfectly reasonable way to spend the evening.

  “So that’s why you lock him up?” she asked Dan.

  “I locks meself up,” said Artur. “Seein’ as how I’m a responsible citizen and all that. Yer man there just works the key.”

  Ollie nodded for a little longer, then shrugged. “OK. That makes sense,” she said. She looked in her paper bag, hoping to find more dumplings in there. She found only disappointment.

  Dan nodded to the empty bag. “How was it?”

  Fishing inside it, Ollie discovered a final large crumb. She tossed it in her mouth before replying. “Good. Really good. I mean… really good. I’ve never eaten those before. Although, I haven’t eaten anything else before, either, so I guess I can’t really compare it to anything.”

  “See, that’s what I don’t get,” said Dan, leaning forwards so his elbows were on the tabletop. “How can you never have eaten? How can you never have been to the bathroom, if you were only a prisoner in… wherever you were, and not a native?”

  Ol
lie’s face told him she didn’t understand.

  Her mouth told him the same thing.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Dan nudged Artur aside with the back of his hand, then picked out a funpling from the bag.

  “Steady, now!” the little guy protested.

  Dan held the funpling up for Ollie to see. “This is you.”

  “Only you’re a fair bit easier on the auld eyes,” said Artur, winking at her.

  Picking up his empty paper bag, Dan dropped the Ollie funpling inside. “This is you back wherever you came from. Originally, I mean. Pre-Malwhere. If you say this,” - he gestured towards her – “is the real you, them presumably you were eating, using the bathroom, whatever, back when you were in here.”

  He gave the bag a shake, throwing the funpling around inside.

  Ollie watched him. Her expression was somehow wide-eyed and frowning at the same time. It was a neat trick. “When I was in a bag?”

  “What? No, not… I don’t literally mean…” Dan tutted and lowered the bag. “My point is, even if you were kidnapped and taken to some Malwhere dimension where you had no physical form – and I’m not saying I believe that – but even if you were, what about before?”

  “I don’t remember any before,” said Ollie. “I only remember that place.”

  Dan leaned back. “And that’s why I don’t buy it.”

  “Baby,” said Artur. At least, Dan thought that was what he said. The little man’s mouth was so crammed full of funpling, it was hard to tell.

  Artur pointed to his bulging cheeks and chewed faster. This went on for several seconds, before he swallowed quite a large piece, and had to batter his chest with his fist to force it down.

  “Ugh. That’s goin’ to come back and haunt me,” he wheezed, then he brushed the debris from his beard and looked from Ollie to Dan.

  “What?” he asked. “Why’re ye both gawpin’ at me?”

  “You said ‘baby,’” Dan intoned.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. So I did. She could’ve been a baby. These Malwhere Lords, they love that kind of thing. The drama of it, or whatever, stealing a firstborn. Murdering – butchering – the parents, then having it away on their toes with the offspring. Tearing the things right off of their mother’s teat. They can’t get enough of that sort of thing. At it all the time, they are. Sure, it’s practically their hobby.”