“Get what done?” I kept my voice down with an effort. We weren’t alone here—a steady line of beings were heading for where we should be, the Claws & Jaws, so temptingly close.
“One last stop, I promise.”
You could tell me, I sent impatiently.
Instead of the teasing grin I expected, his face turned serious, the blue of his eyes darkening with intensity. “This is how Plexis works. The real Plexis. You put out the word. If others think it matters, they do the same. What happens after that?” An expressive shrug. “I’ve no idea.”
I’d learned about gambling, this past year. I’d also learned about him. “You’re betting it’s something to help us.” In disbelief, I waved the package of tea at the bustling multi-species horde of shoppers around us. “You believe in them.”
Something vulnerable touched his face, quickly controlled. “I believe we’d better make our last stop before a certain Carasian gets wind of what we’re up to from someone else.” Are you with me?
Always, I replied, whatever I thought of his plan. A lock of hair brushed the back of his hand. Aloud. “Where next, Captain?”
“Captain Morgan.”
His face assumed that pleasant, yet unreadable expression as we both turned. “Constable.”
Plexis Security, when we didn’t need help or a delay. I found myself facing an older Human. The constable wore authority like someone else would wear a comfortable coat. Her keen gaze recorded everything about me before locking on Morgan. “Word’s out you’ve an issue with your cargo.”
I tensed.
“Officer E’Teiso has an issue,” he corrected. “Thought you’d be taking it easy today.”
She scowled. “And let scum like you walk around loose?”
Morgan grinned. “Glad to know you still care, Hutton.”
“Huh.”
Humans. Sorely perplexed, I looked from one to the other as Morgan held out his hand and the constable took it in a firm, brief grip.
“Say hi to the big guy for me.” She walked away into the crowd.
“What was that about?”
“That,” Morgan said, as if it were all the explanation necessary, “was Plexis, too.”
The End of Days
by Tanya Huff
ELAINE HUTTON RAN both hands back through her short, graying hair and squared her shoulders. Two station days, she told herself as she entered the Plexis Security offices. Two station days and you’re out. You can handle anything for two station . . .
“Hutton! Got a going away present for you!”
. . . days. She narrowed her eyes as Marion Burr, the C-shift supervisor crossed the room toward her. She didn’t trust the smile on the other’s pale face. Hardly surprising. As a whole, she trusted Burr as far as she could spit a Retian. By the other wall, Jurz, Burr’s shift second, hooted softly, his crest rising. Elaine braced herself. If the Tolian was amused, it wouldn’t be good.
“It’s something you’ve always wanted.” Dimples dug deep into both cheeks, Burr waved at the kid sitting behind one of the shared desks, frowning at the screen, the long, slim fingers of one hand buried in thick dark hair.
At first glance, Elaine thought he could be one of the kids she kept an eye on. Unaffiliated to any of the gangs, they scratched out a mostly legal living, and she helped when she could to keep it that way. Then she realized this kid wore a Plexis Security uniform just like hers. Well, just like hers had been a long time ago—shiny and new and unstained with cynicism.
“We got you a rookie!”
“Did you keep the receipt?”
“I’ve always loved your sense of humor.”
Elaine returned the edge in Burr’s smile with a flat, unfriendly stare. “I’m in this uniform for two days. Heading back to Imesh 27 in three.”
“For reasons which remain unclear to me.”
“I was born on dirt, I’ll die on dirt. Put him with someone who cares.”
The edge of Burr’s smile sharpened. “You care, Hutton. That’s your thing, isn’t it? Chambal!”
The kid stood, all long limbs and youthful grace, and hurried toward them. Older than Elaine had assumed, but not by much.
“Constable Elaine Hutton, this is Constable Geoffrey Chambal. His mother . . .”
“Is Navreet Chambal. She owns Adornment on Upper Retail Level 104, spinward ¾.” Adornment sold the kind of jewelry Elaine would never be able to afford. Or want, for that matter. In her experience, that kind of wealth was a target—although she realized that after a lifetime in security, her experience might not be the norm. The kid looked apprehensive—no surprise—and Burr looked far too pleased with herself for Elaine to attempt to change her mind.
* * *
• • •
“What did you do, kid?” she asked as they made their way down to sublevel 384.
“Do?”
“To get put with me.”
Chambal waited until three Whirtles passed on a rising ramp, each turning so their airtags were visible to the two security officers, then said, “I asked to be put with you.”
“Were you high?”
He rolled dark eyes. “Three years ago, one of my fathers brought some undeclared gemstones onto the station for my mother’s shop. He got past the Port Authority, but you caught him on the concourse. You told him no one looks that innocent unless they have something to hide. When he tried to bribe you with one of the gems, you refused.”
“It was one of the smaller gems,” Elaine pointed out.
The rookie gave her a look of such intense sincerity, she barely managed to keep from smacking the back of his head. He’d lose his idealism soon enough, no point helping it out the air lock. “I checked,” he said. “You’ve never taken a bribe. Not so much as a free coffee.”
“And that’s why I’m still a constable, two station days from retirement.”
“You have integrity.”
She snorted. “I’m a joke.”
“I don’t think so.”
It might have started as integrity, but it was habit at this point. Elaine Hutton was the constable who didn’t take bribes—it gave her an identity among the masses of shoppers and staff seething through Plexis. It also kept her from the upper levels. Not because those on the lower levels were less likely to offer a bribe, but because, with few exceptions, their bribes were of the sort station security didn’t mind missing. The occasional case of brandy from The Claws & Jaws couldn’t really be counted as an exception given that Inspector Wallace took personal advantage of the Carasian’s reluctant generosity.
“Your parents approve of your job choice?” she wondered, scanning the approaching level for familiar faces.
Chambal shrugged. “My parents are part of a line marriage. I have three blood siblings and seventeen line siblings.”
“They’re happy you’re out of the house?”
“Something like that.” He smiled, his teeth very white and very straight and very indicative of a comfortable childhood. “I didn’t want to be StaSec, I wanted to be an enforcer.”
Elaine nodded a greeting at a passing merchant before asking, “We’re second best?”
“Third. The Trade Pact wouldn’t take me either.”
When she laughed, he blushed. “I wanted to be an enforcer, too,” she told him. “Failed the psych.”
“Too ethical?”
“I can’t remember.” She shrugged and stepped off the ramp onto the crowded concourse. It had been devastating when it happened, but . . . “Time passed.”
“They said I was too soft.” Chambal’s resentment remained evident. “Said I should try again after a little seasoning.”
“Not bad advice.” And she bet his mother was happy he’d remained on Plexis where she could intervene in that seasoning if necessary.
* * *
• • •
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“Why would dispatch call us to deal with a stopped cart?” Chambal followed her into the service corridor.
“We’re not dealing with the stopped cart, we’re dealing with what stopped it.” Elaine squinted down the corridor snaking off into station distance and pointed at the line of stationary carts, quivering with the need to fulfill their programming. “There. Don’t touch the waste canisters,” she added, jogging forward. “A few of them are overly enthusiastic about protein recycling.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I could be.” She spotted two carts approaching from the other direction, about to add to the jam, and sped up. The carts were muttering to themselves when she stopped beside them, knelt, and checked for a pulse even though it was obvious he was dead and had been for a while. “You might have mentioned the body,” she snarled into her wrist com, then broke the signal before dispatch could answer.
The young Human male in worn spacer overalls and equally worn boots had the pale, almost translucent skin of those who seldom saw light from an actual sun.
Chambal swallowed audibly. “What killed him?”
“No idea.” No blood. No burns. No breaks in his physical integrity. No visible damage of any kind except the pale pink mark on his cheek where his airtag had been. Which raised the question: Where was his airtag now? Elaine ran her hand over the area, a couple of millimeters off the floor, fairly certain the tag would find her if she couldn’t find it. Nothing. She reached into the dark, narrow space under a waste canister. Her fingertips touched fur.
“What is it?” Chambal asked as she pulled the small animal free.
He wouldn’t know; he’d lived his entire life on Plexis. “It’s a cat. A revenant—a biological rebuild from history, in this case ours. Like the dragons on some inner systems.” Very few species had accompanied Humanity from its long-lost home. Dogs. Chickens. Head lice. At least what now passed for those species. Who knew for sure—or cared?
A small, but full-grown tortoiseshell, the cat snuggled up against Elaine’s tunic and began to purr after a short protest over the boorish handling. “A pet. Dead kid must’ve smuggled her on.”
“Must have?”
“We have a dead body and an illegal animal. Nine times out of ten, one and one makes two.”
“Okay. But he’s not a kid, he’s got to be my age at least.”
“Your point?”
She could almost hear Chambal’s eyeroll. “How did he smuggle in a live animal?”
“Possibly as food. Or he brought her in for someone with enough pull to blind the Port Authority.”
Chambal reached down tentatively and stroked between the cat’s ears. “How do you know it’s a her?”
“Coloring.” They were too close to the Claws & Jaws receiving area. Legalities concerning the introduction of new life-forms to Plexis aside, Elaine couldn’t leave the cat here, she’d end up as an entrée. To her surprise, as she stood, the cat clawed up her uniform and perched on her shoulders. When she stepped away from the body, the soft, warm weight across the back of her neck shifted, easily adjusting to the movement.
The closest cart bumped against her hip, one, two, three times.
“Do that again,” she snapped, “and I’ll pull your delivery license.”
It gave a high-pitched whir and reversed so quickly it cracked against the next cart in line.
“Record the scene,” she told Chambal, ignoring the escalating mechanical argument. “When you think you have enough details, double it. I’ll call in a servo and, when you’re done, we’ll take the body to the morgue.”
Chambal paused, right hand on his wrist com, dark brows rising. “There’s a morgue?”
“There is. Gets used less often than you’d think.” Elaine reached up and stroked the cat. “It’s not actually that hard to get rid of a body on Plexis.”
“It isn’t?”
“What did I tell you about touching the waste canisters?”
* * *
• • •
Expression carefully neutral, Elaine watched Inspector Wallace circle the body on the table. While able to admit the head of security was both stubborn and shrewd—character traits she usually appreciated—she neither liked nor respected the official. He was pompous, self-serving, and secretive, and she couldn’t help but compare him to his predecessor, Inspector Duran. Wallace’s opposite in almost every way that mattered, the Auordian had been cleaning house when an unfortunate accident in a temporarily unmonitored section of the waste stream had cut her career short. They hadn’t retrieved enough of the body to determine cause of death.
“One more dead spacer down on his luck,” Wallace sneered, paused at the end of the table, and stared up the length of the body. “Probably thought he was here to make his fortune. Seen one, seen them all. Right, Constable Hutton?”
“Sir.”
“He reminds you of those delinquents you persist in making excuses for, doesn’t it? They’ll end up the same way, mark my words. As for this one . . . if no one claims the body in two station days, recycle it.”
Chambal took a step forward. “We’re not going to find out who killed him?”
“No, we’re not going to find out who killed him, Constable Chambal. We don’t know what killed him.” The inspector waved a hand. “No blaster holes, no knife holes, no blunt force trauma. Eyes are clear, no burst capillaries, so he wasn’t smothered. No swollen membranes . . .”
“It could still be poison,” Chambal interrupted. “Or drugs.”
Wallace nodded. “It could be drugs. But why would we care about self-inflicted wounds? Are we even certain he was killed?” the inspector continued without waiting for a response. “He could’ve just dropped dead. People do that.” Thin lips curled into a disingenuous smile. “His death hasn’t disrupted the smooth running of the station or the lives of the shoppers. There’s nothing on the security recordings . . .”
“And you don’t find that suspicious?”
Elaine hid a sigh as the inspector raised a brow at the accusatory tone. Upper level entitlement was going to get the kid’s ass kicked.
It seemed Chambal had realized that as well. He took a step back and added a conciliatory, “Sir.”
Wallace flicked his gaze over to Elaine, then back to Chambal. “I find that leaves us with no suspects. And nothing to open an investigation with.”
“Except a dead body,” Elaine reminded him.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Except that.”
“Should we find out who he is, sir?” Chambal laid the obsequious on a little thick. All or nothing at his age.
“We’ll find out if he’s reported missing or if someone comes to claim the body,” Wallace said dismissively. “Get back to 384. Try not to get the rookie killed, Hutton.” He pivoted on a heel and left.
“Is he always so . . . cold?” Chambal asked the moment the door closed.
“No.” The inspector had always put self-interest first and, sad to say, dead spacers weren’t rare, but that was overly disinterested in process even for the inspector. And why had he come to the morgue if all they had was another dead spacer down on his luck?
It was either unimportant enough to ignore.
Or important enough to bring Inspector Wallace to the morgue.
It couldn’t be both.
He’d wanted to get a look at the body. He’d wanted to identify the body?
“You didn’t tell him about the cat.”
That cat was asleep in a duffle bag tucked into a shadowed corner. She’d eaten an astonishing amount of shrimp paste and shown no interest in the body on the table. Nothing suggested she was the corpse’s cat. Or he was her Human. But she’d been there in the maintenance corridor beside the body, and Elaine didn’t believe in coincidence.
“Constable Hutton? Are we going to find out who killed him?”
The dead kid’s hands were soft. He had a pleasant, unassuming face. Straight, short brown hair, neither dark, nor light. No distinguishing features at all.
Except . . .
He had dirt under his fingernails.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes. We’re going to find out who killed him.”
“Even though the inspector . . .”
“Inspector Wallace expressed his opinion on the body. He ordered us back to 384. He did not, at any point, instruct us to not investigate the death.”
Chambal smiled wide and white.
“That said, it might be better if you walked away.” Something or someone powerful enough to bring the inspector to the morgue would be powerful enough to put Geoffrey Chambal on a table of his own. Just another cocky kid in a uniform not smart enough to back down. Elaine could take care of herself, but she wouldn’t be around to hold Chambal’s hand for much longer.
He drew himself up to his full height and glared down at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Let’s hope.” He was an adult—however young an adult—armed and in uniform. She had to either assume he could take care of himself or have the body on the table remain nothing more than meat with a face. “You see anything strange about this?”
“Besides no visible cause of death? No. Nothing. He’s eminently forgettable.”
“Isn’t he just.” Elaine bent to get a closer look at his single tattoo. The oval design on his left forearm was a familiar pattern; she’d seen hundreds over the last few years, inked into every age, gender, and species. At his age, a total absence of ink would have been notable, but attention slid past a design so popular.
“At least we know he’s not Denebian.”
Walking over to the bench that held the deceased’s personal belongings, she made a noncommittal noise. Denebians covered themselves in tattoos, the ink a history, a warning, a celebration. “Watch the door. I don’t want the attendants back in here until I’m done.”
Another question. Why had Inspector Wallace dismissed the attendants as he walked into the morgue? Because two constables were witnesses he could control?
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 39