by Scott Moon
She tapped the panel on her desk. “Sheriff Fry, my office, right now.”
She sat in her chair, throwing her feet up on the desk but immediately realizing she was too restless for the posture. Sitting straighter, she swiveled several times in the chair, stopped, and began tapping her fingers on the desk.
The sheriff entered without knocking a short time later. Tall, broad-shouldered, and smelling like dirt and tractor tires, he was the same old Thaddeus Fry—rough and ready to go.
“Where’s the fire, Shaunte?”
“You won’t be smiling when I tell you what has happened,” she said.
He leaned against the door frame and waited for her to tell him.
“A train derailed in the middle of Transport Canyon.”
He looked at his fingernails. “Is that something the Sheriff of Darklanding normally handles?”
“Do you have something better to do?” Thoughts of secret company mergers and corporate sabotage flooded her imagination. Calling Fry in had been a mistake. She needed him as far away from this as possible until she understood what she was dealing with. “On second thought, forget about it. Go back to wrestling that thing you call a pet and hitting tires with wrenches.”
“Hammers,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“You should come out and try it. I’m back to flipping the tires and found some old climbing ropes. Might help you relieve stress.”
She stared at him, clenching her teeth. “That will never happen.”
“It might.”
“A woman of my status doesn’t have time to play on the jungle gym!”
“Why am I here, Shaunte?”
She moved around the desk to face him. “I only wanted to inform you of the incident in case we see an increase in looted materials on the black market. That is against company policy and the law in Darklanding. Don’t allow it to happen.” She watched him through narrowed eyes as he studied her. She understood that he knew she wasn’t telling him the whole story.
Now wasn’t the time, but soon.
CHAPTER THREE: Mast Jotham
“I have already completed a spirit quest,” Mast protested.
Lingviat’s sour face didn’t change. He stared into Mast’s eyes.
Mast shifted uncomfortably under the pressure of Lingviat’s deliberate rudeness. He sensed the opening to the cave wall several hundred meters behind him. Dawn light struggled through the dirty haze that had arisen from the valley, then shyly peeked into the narrow corridor that descended at a slight decline from the cave opening.
Even with the pollution in the air, the atmosphere of the First Shrine brought him a measure of peace. If Lingviat would stop assaulting him with questions, Mast would be muchly relaxed. Oftentimes, he only needed to reach the First Shrine to find a year’s worth of inner balance.
Getting to the sacred place in the side of the Grand Mesa had taken him two days of careful climbing and hiking. Humans didn’t know and could never be allowed to know of the shrines where Ungloks made their annual pilgrimages. Sheriff Thaddeus had been understanding and quickly granted him days off—with pay, if his words were to be greatly believed.
“I must return at the beginning of tomorrow or my human employees will be muchly curious of my whereabouts,” Mast said.
Lingviat snorted. “You spend too much time on them. You know too much and feel far too acutely. The spirit quest of which you speak was from your youth. It is time for you to make a greater sacrifice and bring your full value to the community.”
Mast felt his heart rate increase. Lingviat was not known for his mercy. A hard master, he had led their people since before the humans came with their machines and insatiable desire for exotic ores. He also spoke the human language better than Mast ever would and didn’t seem willing to let them know. With his masterful speaking, Lingviat could cross many bridges if he chose.
“I am not your concern.” Lingviat watched Mast closely.
A shiver ran up Mast’s spine. “You read my body language like a page of words.”
“I do,” Lingviat said. “It is simple and muchly easy.” He used the misplaced adverb with heavy sarcasm.
Mast lowered his head. “You shame me.”
“There is no shame. You have truly been away too long if you have forgotten that fact,” Lingviat replied.
Mast folded his hands according to the ritual and did not respond. After a moment, he realized his mistake and said the words of acknowledgment, “Wilug-Kibem-Monolo.” It was a rote response, something he had fallen out of the habit of using in recent years.
“Why do you stall, Mast Jotham?” Lingviat asked.
Mast raised his head and looked the wise master in the eyes. “There has been some human tragedy in the lower canyon.”
“Yes, I see poison in the air. Perhaps it does not kill the humans. Would you be a foolish one and go into the dust cloud?” Lingviat cocked his head as he waited for an answer.
Mast looked down, thinking of humility in the hopes that he might be humble. “We face worst dangers in the mines.”
“But less often now, I think. You work for the sheriff above ground.”
Mast could not help himself. He raised his head and faced the wise one. “Yes, I do. If he needs me, then I will face the danger. He will not call me into the clouds if he knows what the dust does to our people. Whatever has happened, I must help.”
Lingviat smiled. “First, you must ascend the ladder of many trials.”
* * *
Mast looked down into the vertical shaft. Eons ago, some force had cut this hole into the core of the earth. It was as straight and perfect as one of the humans’ railroad lines. No one pretended to understand where it came from. It was there, and had always been there.
At the lip of the vertical shaft was a ladder. Mast held a torch over the edge to see where it went. The bottom was far beyond the power of the flames.
Lingviat stood behind him, looking solemn. “You cannot carry the torch during the descent without burning yourself.”
Mast heard the words, but was not willing to admit they were true. After pondering what he could or could not do with a torch, he dropped it and watched it spiral down into nothing. He saw, as the torch tumbled, bits and pieces of the ladder which did not run perfectly straight. It spiraled around the wall of the shaft as it descended.
“How will I ever reach the bottom?” Mast asked.
“You won’t.”
“Then what am I looking for?”
Lingviat lifted his hands high enough that they could be seen in the thick, wide sleeves of his ceremonial robe. “Your spirit.”
“Could my spirit, perhaps, not be found right here?” Mast asked.
Lingviat lowered his hands and clasped them before his embroidered belt. His sleeves once again covered his hands. He said nothing.
Mast reached for the top rung and started to climb down the ladder, pausing once he was out of sight. “I am not muchly fond of this darkness.”
CHAPTER FOUR: Faker
This was the part of the job that Dixie hated most. Breaking in a new girl was always hard, especially if they had no prior experience. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up toward the dormitory-style rooms where the girls stayed. She knew at least three were pretending to be sick to get out of working the floor. How many times had she told them being friendly was half of what brought people to the Mother Lode? Going upstairs was only for people who could afford it and whom she had screened.
The older she got, the more she wished that second part of it wasn’t so essential to business. Charm and beauty should be the most important things. And the ability to act. If the girls followed her instruction, they didn’t really have to do much of anything.
Who am I kidding, she thought. These dirty miners just wanted a warm body. Maybe one out of ten would want a little cuddle now and then and a chance to cry on a woman’s shoulder.
The automated piano in the corner suddenly seemed too loud and
the smoke in the room became too thick. She lifted her skirt far enough to hurry up the stairs. If she had thought she was going to be making this trip so many times, she would’ve worn something less formfitting and maybe flats instead of heels.
Several doors closed when she reached the top of the stairs. No doubt the slackers had heard her coming. Sure enough, she heard a pathetic cough at the first door. At the next was theatrical moaning about throwing up. Others remained suspiciously quiet as though no one was inside.
Ruby’s door was locked. Dixie knocked three times.
“Come in, Miss Dixie,” Ruby said. Dixie wasn’t surprised that Ruby knew she was coming.
Dixie entered and closed the door behind her. Her eyes skimmed the room looking for any of the usual contraband—alcohol, narcotics, unauthorized food, or reading material not appropriate to their calling. The room was meticulously arranged, almost as though Ruby Miranda had a personal assistant to put things in order.
The girl sat at her three-mirrored makeup bureau braiding her hair. She wore the spaghetti string nighty that accentuated her shoulders and her slim physique. She possessed the lean muscularity of a gymnast. Dixie wasn’t sure why, but this bothered her more than any other mysterious fact about the young runaway.
“Are you going somewhere?” Dixie asked.
Ruby finished her braid and then turned on the swivel chair. “Why would you ask that?”
Her face was so innocent it almost fooled Dixie. But then she realized the act was too much. She wasn’t so young and innocent. The overgrown child probably stood to inherit more of a fortune than Miss Shaunte Plastes did. It made sense. Shaunte was working for a living while this girl was out gallivanting around the galaxy on some ill-conceived adventure.
“Drop the helpless street rat act. We both know you’re from money. If you’re not sick, you need to be working as a hostess downstairs. I’m already short three girls.”
“Would you like to check my temperature? It’s over a hundred.”
Dixie sighed with exasperation and looked around the room for some place to vent her frustration.
“I was braiding my hair so it wouldn’t get in the toilet when I needed to throw up,” Ruby said, not sounding sick.
Dixie crossed her arms and stared at the girl.
Ruby’s demeanor changed as she finished the braid. She seemed hesitant. Once, she glanced over her shoulder, but it was a shadow of movement, something most people would not notice. Dixie noticed.
“You better tell me straight, girl,” she said.
Ruby turned around on the chair with the sort of dignified grace that only came from high society charm school. She clasped her hands in her lap and met Dixie’s gaze. “There is a large, brutish man in the Mother Lode. I saw him from the top of the stairs. I can’t go down there.”
Dixie snorted a laugh. “The room is full of brutish men.”
Ruby held the silence just long enough to emphasize what she said next. “I think you know what I mean.”
Dixie dropped her arms and let out a long sigh, part exasperation and part relief. “I knew it. You’re in trouble. Big trouble. Darklanding is full of castoffs and runaways and fugitives, but no one gets a SagCon special investigator sent to round them up. What did you do?”
Ruby stood, back straight as a queen, and seemed to tower over Dixie even though she was much shorter. “There is a tradition in my family, established by my great grandfather. He was the blackest of black sheep, and disowned from all of our fortunes before he returned and took over everything. He spent most of his life doing the wrong things, and making the wrong people angry. He went on every possible adventure and took risks no sane person would even consider.”
Dixie backed away, stopping only when she felt the wall behind her. She put her palms on the paneling and took several deep breaths as she continued to watch the girl.
“I didn’t think your family was that rich, or was that family,” Dixie muttered.
Ruby was still talking, but Dixie could barely understand the words. As the madam of the Mother Lode, she’d seen a lot of people come through Darklanding, most of them dangerous. Yet, for the first time in her career, she was truly afraid.
Ruby stopped talking and considered Dixie for a moment. She walked forward with the smooth grace of a cat and stood very close. “I hope my secrets will not change anything between us.”
Dixie held her breath to control her galloping heartbeat and immediately realized that was the wrong way to get control of her body. When she spoke, she felt like a child addressing an adult. “No, Ruby. I don’t see how anyone should know about this.”
Ruby smiled, then reached up and put her small hand on Dixie’s cheek like they were the dearest of friends. “I suspect you will mostly forget about this conversation.”
* * *
Special Investigator Michael “Sledge” Hammer had other places to be, other leads to track down, but could not bring himself to walk away from the Mother Lode. The other patrons ignored him, but he figured they respected his size and obvious readiness to do violence. No one bothered him, and a few even told him jokes.
He learned quite a bit about the new sheriff and recent events during his time at one of the card tables. Sheriff Thaddeus Fry didn’t seem to be a normal lawman. One of the first things he’d done in Darklanding was round up a bunch of miners and rush into a collapse to save people. Sledge wasn’t sure, but he was pretty certain that that was outside the normal job description for a town sheriff.
Sledge had done the job on other worlds before SagCon discovered his talent, and he found it tolerable work. People had mostly respected him, and he only had to crack heads once in a while. But that had been a long time ago.
He knew why he was loitering. His SI partner, before he ditched her, had been too full of energy and had always rushed about. He was a big man, like a mastiff or a draft horse. Big creatures like him had to conserve energy. His behavior looked a lot like patience or sloth, depending on who was making the judgement.
So he waited until he saw her at the top of the stairs. She wasn’t who he came for, he knew that. His job was of the highest priority and more dangerous than anything he’d done, and he knew that as well. But he was still a man, with a man’s needs, or so he reasoned.
Dixie was all aflutter with some sort of consternation. He wondered what had caused her to mess up her blonde hair and for her clothing to be in disarray. He spent some time looking at that clothing. Tight as it was, it pushed her curves in the right directions. Even though he’d only been there a short time, he considered himself an expert in the way she walked.
Something was different when she came down the stairs, and his protective instincts flared. He shoved them down, wondering why he would think she was in danger. She wasn’t the type to be bullied or manipulated. That was what he liked about her.
He waited until she was down the stairs and had done one full circuit of the room checking on her girls. Then he moved in, reaching the bar where she normally sat just as she lowered her perfect backside and crossed one leg over her knee and arched her spine.
“Buy you a drink?”
“No.”
Sledge pulled back an inch and looked at her again. “Why, Dixie, you wound me.”
She jerked her head at him, leading with her chin, and stared him down with her beautiful blue eyes. “Don’t act fancy.”
“Now that’s more like it. I’ve been trying for two days to get you to look at me.” He leaned on the bar, slightly flexing his bicep and chest as he did so.
“Not much to look at.” Dixie motioned for Pierre to bring a drink. The annoying man with his pencil-thin mustache stared at Sledge for several seconds before he went to fill the order. When he came back, he served it to Dixie without a word and did not inquire of Sledge’s needs.
I can wait her out, Sledge thought once he secured a drink from the passive-aggressive barkeep. He watched the crowd, listened to the music, and said nothing to Dixie despite the powerful
attraction radiating from her.
A fight broke out. Sledge leaned back and held his drink a bit higher as the combatants crashed by him.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Dixie asked.
Sledge shrugged. “I’m not the bouncer or the sheriff.”
“Well, that’s for certain,” she said.
The fight grew into a barroom brawl until Pierre pulled a large stun-gun from under the bar and aimed at the troublemakers. “Fight’s over. Settle down or get out before I call the sheriff.”
Sledge marveled at the sudden compliance to Pierre’s ultimatum. He sipped the watered-down whiskey Pierre had served him before the fight started.
“Why are you here?” Dixie asked.
Sledge turned toward her, leaning one massive forearm on the bar as he smiled his best smile. “Well, I am looking for a runaway. You might have seen her. She’s small, very fit, and stuck up like most ultra-rich brats.”
Dixie arched one eyebrow. “So you’re really just a babysitter.”
“Something like that,” Sledge said. “The job has some nice benefits.”
“Oh really?”
“I get to look at you,” Sledge said.
“Please, Mister Hammer. Don’t embarrass yourself further. That is the worst pick-up line I have heard in years,” she said.
“Point taken.” He faced the crowd, leaning on the bar behind him with both elbows. “If you see this girl, let me know. She’s a pathological liar and a master manipulator.”
“We have plenty of those in my profession,” Dixie said.
“She’s also wanted for murder.” Sledge noticed that Dixie went as pale as a tipped-over wedding cake.
CHAPTER FIVE: Above Ground
“Because I’m the foreman,” P.C. Dickles stated. He looked to the elevator he’d recently emerged from. With his left hand, he pulled a rag from the back pocket of his jumpsuit and wiped his face. The worn-out fabric came back filthy and greasy. For the first time in days, he was aware of his own body odor.