Murder on Euripides

by Scott A. Combs

  “I want to tell you. But I’m afraid you’ll be shocked.”

  “I’m not easily shocked. It’d have to be a doozy if you’d want to be with me. I’m a nobody to you. Just an average guy. Not even worthy of you giving me a second thought.”

  “Would you just shut up! I’m trying to get this said before I chicken out again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Since I first saw you I’ve been having these weird thoughts about you. Totally inappropriate thoughts. Thoughts that seem to interfere with my SLASP training. Thoughts that can only lead to disaster. Oh, my Maker. I should just break off all contact with you.”

  “Ah-huh.” His eye squinted at her like she was about to bring the hammer down on him. “So, this is us breaking up after only one date?”

  “What? No, you have it all wrong. I meant to say that SLASP operatives and common people don’t mix. They actually have rules about that. My grandfather told me he’s blackmailing the admiral just so we can have our dates.”

  “That’s not right. Won’t you get into big trouble breaking the rules?”

  “Apparently not. Not when you have a grandfather who knows more about everyone’s skeletons in the closet than the whole of the Galactic Guild.”

  “I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

  “I want you!” She grabbed him by his lapels and forced him to her so she could kiss him. He struggled for a moment until she let him go. “And I can’t have you.”

  * * *

  THE SKEET SHOOTING RANGE—a panoramic view that spanned the complete aft section of the Euripides—had twelve bays all marked with large numbers imprinted on the deck. The only one used at the moment was the one that Ambassador Bobbafeather perched at—his lucky number—number seven. His portable perch clung to the decking with large magna-clamps to keep it steady as he took practice shots. He wore ear mufflers for the noise and he also wore a curious pair of goggles that masked his rather bulbous eyes. In his right talon he carried an odd shaped las-rifle, custom fitted to his equally odd frame. His left talon rested on an actuator switch which he depressed.

  A round disk, the clay pigeon, raced away through the phasemic field which separated the shooting range from outer space—shimmering momentarily as the projectile exited. Bobbafeather tracked his target. On the vidi-screen the clay target spun further into space with metadata updating to the shooter. When the target was barely visible at five thousand meters Bobbafeather pulled the trigger and a pulse erupted with a crack! The shot was perfectly timed and the clay pigeon exploded into shards.

  Behind him came applause. Bobbafeather turned to see Sir Giles and Nanette—still looking ill—expressing their admiration. “Excellent shot,” said Sir Giles. “Five thousand meters is championship distance.”

  Bobbafeather looked at the statistics on the vidi-screen. “Five thousand and forty meters actually.”

  Sir Giles laughed. “Credit where credit is due. I am very impressed. You must’ve practiced for some years to achieve such skills.”

  “Most of my adult life. I find it rather ironic that I’ve excelled in the one sport which my race finds politically incorrect. Downright derogatory for a Columbidean. Terrans have such odd names for other races. I do believe we are compared to pigeons on your home world, though these targets look nothing like pigeons. I see no reason the name of the damned things can’t be changed to accommodate our wishes.”

  Nanette felt the little ambassador was goading her grandfather, attacking him with the unfortunate name. Nanette said, “It is our way of identifying with the races among the Galactic Guild. I don’t believe Terrans calling your race pigeon-like was meant to be a slur.”

  “And yet, aren’t pigeons a distasteful creature in the Terran System? Always being a nuisance with their habits?” Bobbafeather bobbed his head in annoyance.

  “Not necessarily,” commented Sir Giles. “Pigeons have been used constructively for centuries as messengers before modern communications. Heroes of some ancient wars.”

  Bobbafeather puffed up and cleared his bowels into an insta-sanitizer tray. “I’ve been told pigeons crap on everything.”

  “Indeed they do. Like any birds. But did you know that pigeon waste was a key ingredient in gun powder—an explosive—called saltpeter? Without it Terrans would not have been able to wage warfare.”

  “I was not aware of that fact.” Bobbafeather released another clay pigeon. Almost instantly he fired with a resounding bang! and blew the target apart. “Maybe if there were more pigeons then there would be fewer Terrans today. I mean no disrespect. Just stating a potential fact.” But of course, he had meant offense.

  Sir Giles raised an eyebrow but didn’t take the bait to argue the point. “Shall I take up position and warm up with a few shots before we compete?”

  “By all means.” Bobbafeather pointed with his wing at the number six position. “I chose seven because I aim slightly left of center. And seven is my lucky number.”

  “And I aim slightly right,” added Sir Giles. “It seems we are similarly matched.” On a tray stand next to the sleuth’s chosen position were various weapons. Some small, some large; all being based on las-technology. All except one, which looked like a very long double-barreled, nickel-plated shotgun. Sir Giles was drawn to the weapon. He picked it up and weighed it in his hands. “How exquisite.” Sir Giles notched it to his shoulder and sighted the weapon. He repeated the motion faster.

  Bobbafeather fluffed his feathers. “I took the liberty of stocking your choices with old and new equipment suitable for Terrans. That is a Browning M980, a collector’s piece from Terra’s twenty-fourth century. Do you like it?”

  “I do indeed!” Sir Giles opened it up and loaded the weapon. He donned ear protection and sunglasses previously placed on the table. Then he looked around for the release button for the clay pigeons.

  Nanette straddled his post and showed her grandfather the deck switch. He placed his foot on the switch and motioned Nanette to back up behind him. “Let’s see how the old gal shoots.” He pressed the switch and a clay pigeon raced off into space. Sir Giles led the target and squeezed the first shot and missed. He quickly aimed again and fired, hitting his target with a glancing blow. The majority of the clay pigeon raced away until it was lost to view.

  Bobbafeather chuckled under his breath anticipating winning their match and his money back.

  Sir Giles released the weapon from his shoulder and ejected the smoking spent cartridges. “Hmm. A nice weapon for its day but not very practical for these times.” He replaced the Browning and picked up a conventional las-rifle. “Let’s see if I still have the touch.” He once again released a clay pigeon and tracked the target. The vidi-screen ticked off the distance. Nanette and Bobbafeather watched intently as the numbers increased. When it was close to five thousand meters, Sir Giles shot. The pulse raced away into space at the speed of light. The clay pigeon exploded, dead center. Sir Giles grinned, pleased with himself. Nanette clapped. Bobbafeather bobbed in annoyance.

  Nanette patted her grandfather on the back. “That was a fine shot.” She looked at the vidi-screen. “Nearly five thousand meters.” She whispered in his ear, “Was that luck? Or skill?”

  He turned to her and winked. “Both. I’m about fifty-fifty at that distance.”

  She nodded. “Let’s hope you’re lucky today.” She turned to Bobbafeather and brought her voice back up to normal. “Are both of you ready for your competition?” They nodded. “As I understand, Ambassador Bobbafeather believes he’s been wronged somehow from his losses at the baccarat table last night and wishes for a chance to regain his money?”

  “That is correct. Sir Giles was privy to the winning hand.”

  “That’s a slanderous accusation,” said Nanette having an immediate dislike to the dirty pigeon-like alien. “Grandfather would never cheat. You soil his integrity with such claims.”

  “I stand by my words,” said Bobbafeather. “If I win today, I expect a public apology and my money ba
ck.”

  “And if I win,” began Sir Giles, “I expect you to award me thirty-eight more U238 pellets to the already lost wager and your public apology. Agreed?”

  Bobbafeather gave him the stink-eye. “Agreed.”

  * * *

  AT SOME POINT, Glounce and Pi strolled in to watch the match between the rivals. They took up seats in the spectator stands. Nanette—still feeling under the weather from those chocolate flowers—decided she’d go and sit with the two unlikely friends. “Afternoon ambassadors.”

  “Afternoon,” they both responded. Glounce reached out a slimy tentacle to shake and she did so with just her thumb and forefinger. “You look absolutely—um—unwell,” commented Glounce being his usual painfully honest self.

  “I am actually.” The coloring around her jawline was still slightly grey and the circles under her eyes had not abated. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me. I feel probably how I look.”

  Pi patted her knee. “We wish you a fast recovery.” Nanette didn’t appreciate him invading her space. Pi noticed the sudden tension in her leg and coughed nervously while quickly retracting his hand.

  “Yes,” said Glounce. “Well, I hope we haven’t missed anything. This little dust up between Sir Giles and Bobbafeather is quite entertaining.”

  “No, you haven’t missed anything,” she sighed and finally leaned back to try to relax. “They are just about to begin the competition.” As if on cue, clay pigeons were loaded into the shoots on both sides of the Skeet Range. Each had large hydraulic arms that slung the two meter diameter clay pigeons.

  The match started. Sir Giles’ targets were an intergalactic orange while Ambassador Bobbafeather’s clay pigeons were a yellow hue. The vidi-screen counted down from ten. When zero flashed on their screens, the clay pigeons were flung into space. Both las-rifles blazed, blasting the targets to dust. There followed a frenzy of targets and echoes of eruptions that deafened the onlookers. After only a couple minutes the targets stopped and so did the contestants’ firing. The vidi-screen tabulated their scores. Number six showed in large orange letters: 50-50. A perfect score. Then the yellow score showed: 50-50. The vidi-screen blinked on both sides of the competitors.

  “It seems to be a tie,” commented Pi.

  “That was only the first round,” said Glounce. “It’s easy to hit close range targets.” He pointed a tentacle at the two competitors. “See, they are moving the distance out to twenty-five hundred meters. This should be a more interesting round.”

  The three onlookers watched as the match resumed. This time the clay pigeons didn’t come quite as fast and there were only twenty-five per contestant. After the last clay pigeon burst into pieces the vidi-screen score showed 25-25 for the orange side and 25-25 for the yellow side. Again the vidi-screen blinked on both sides to indicate a tie.

  “Oh,” Pi jumped up excitedly. “This is unbelievable. Another tie.”

  “Sit down, Pi,” chastised Glounce. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “Sorry.” He restrained himself and sat back down.

  Once again the match was moved further out as the skeet shoots were reloaded. Nanette watched her grandfather wipe sweat from his brow. He was tiring while the little Columbidean looked unfazed by his efforts. Glounce noticed the slight weakness. “You worry he’s going to lose this match?”

  “It’s possible. Sir Giles is not a young man anymore, even if you only count when he is revived. He might look like he’s in his forties but really he’s so much older. Who knows if his eyesight can handle the distance.”

  “We shall see,” said Glounce. “It appears they are setting the range to five thousand meters. I’m unable to hit anything at that distance. How about you Pi? Can you shoot to that distance?”

  “Me?” He hemmed. “I’ve never tried. Actually, I’ve never skeet shot in my life. It seems so violent. I wouldn’t know which end of the gun I was to aim with.”

  Nanette wondered why the Podil had an interest in watching this and prompted the blue ambassador to explain. Pi looked at Glounce for approval. Glounce nodded. “I’m expanding my interests. Glounce thinks I’m too refined.” He hesitated. “A real—”

  Glounce interrupted, “Wuss.” He patted his Podil friend on the shoulder. “I’ve taken it upon myself to bolster Pi’s self-esteem by taking up a few sports that could only have a positive effect on him. So, I’m introducing him to some of the more—um—manly isn’t quite the right word—let’s say aggressive oriented sports.”

  “I see,” she said. “I agree, skeet shooting is a character building sport. You get the thrill of killing without actually killing. Terrans deep down are aggressive. Skeet shooting is a constructive outlet for some of us.”

  “See Pi!” He shook his friend affectionately. “Our SLASP agent here believes in the power of building character by learning violent activities.”

  Pi’s eyestalks pinched up. “I’m still not sure it’s right for me but I do see the entertainment value.”

  Nanette swatted Glounce. “Shush! They’re about to begin the shooting at five thousand meters.”

  Now there were only five clay pigeons with each release spaced out between a longer period. The vidi-screen indicated distance and when the opponents were allowed to shoot. The scoring was flawless. Each target burst into pieces from the expert marksmanship which bore down on them. Twice Sir Giles hesitated to wipe sweat from his eyes as he beaded down on his targets. Bobbafeather also was feeling the strain of a perfect score and missed one of his shots. Sir Giles smiled internally at his advantage. Then he missed his next shot. Bobbafeather looked at the score. It was tied at 3-4 each. Then Bobbafeather made his final shot. Sir Giles took aim on his last target—hesitated—and then made his last shot. It was a glancing blow and the clay pigeon only twirled off into nothingness.

  The three spectators watched as the two opponents discussed the outcome of the match. Words heated up and both of them finally came to terms with a decision. Sir Giles put down the weapon, removed his mufflers and eyewear and strolled away to have a word with the spectators.

  “What’s going on, Grandfather?” asked Nanette.

  “Bobbafeather thinks he’s won the match because the last shot didn’t destroy the clay pigeon.”

  “You hit the target,” she responded. “Just not squarely, so you’re each at four out of five on the targets.”

  “You see it that way and I see it that way, but Bobbafeather doesn’t see it that way.”

  “So he won the match?!” said Glounce and Pi.

  “Not exactly.” Sir Giles grinned. “He’s willing to have one more shot.”

  “That’s good,” said Nanette. “You can outshoot him.”

  Sir Giles shook his head. “My eyes have let me down. They are blurry and I told Bobbafeather that I couldn’t continue—but my granddaughter could take my place.”

  “What?!” Nanette stood up. “I’m still sick. I’m not one hundred percent.”

  “My dear.” Sir Giles looked let down. “You’d still be better than Bobbafeather even on your death bed.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “But what if I miss?”

  “Then I lose. But I’m banking on you winning. In fact, I gave him the advantage by wagering double or nothing that you could outdistance anything he could hit by twice the amount.”

  Nanette’s mouth opened in total disbelief. Before she could object, Sir Giles had her out of the stands and on the way to the shooting platform. “I don’t understand. What is so important about this match?” she asked her grandfather quietly. “Is it worth losing a fortune?”

  “It is if my honor is at stake. Remember the Thackery name is one that is not to be trifled with.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it.” She turned to Bobbafeather. “Remember. You asked for this.”

  “No Terran woman can out shoot me,” he bantered.

  “So be it. Make your best shot.”

  Bobbafeather tapped the switch and a clay pigeon flew forth. He bead
ed on it and watched the distance on the vidi-screen. The measure went over five thousand meters and he began gauging his chances of a miss. He pressed the trigger and the pulse flew to the target smashing it to dust. “Ha! Five thousand two hundred and thirty meters. You need to hit the target at over ten thousand meters.”

  Sir Giles corrected him. “Ten thousand, four hundred and sixty meters to be precise.”

  Nanette whispered into her grandfather’s ear, “That is too long. I’m not so sure I’ll make it.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “This is for the Thackery honor.” He kissed her forehead.

  “Go ahead,” waved Nanette to Bobbafeather. “Launch the target.”

  “But,” he hesitated. “You haven’t even chosen a weapon.”

  She glowered at the avian. He relented and pressed the actuator watching the clay pigeon shoot through the phasemic field and into oblivion. Nanette looked over the weapons on the table and found what she was looking for: an F73 las-rifle. She hefted it into her arms—a large weapon for a Terran—and flicked the power switch. It hummed into life. Sir Giles reported the distance every thousand meters. When he got to ten thousand she turned to the void and espied her target. As quick as a lightning bolt she raised the weapon to her shoulder, sighted on the target and fired without hesitation. The pulse was deafening as it erupted from the barrel of the large caliber rifle. Her shot raced out into the void and found its mark, blasting the clay pigeon to pieces.

  The vidi-screen responded by showing the distance: ten thousand, four hundred and sixty-five meters. Pi and Glounce roared from the spectator stands.

  Chapter 5

  Bullseye

  SIR GILES LOOKED AT THE NOTE that was relayed to him from Ambassador Bobbafeather through Roderick. It bore the official crest of Columbidea—two outstretched wings centered around a golden crown. The writing was scratchy and had a hurried look about it. He wondered just how Ambassador Bobbafeather handled writing implements. Then he remembered that the little feathered diplomat could handle a las-weapon in his talons, certainly he could handle other tools. The message read: