If you want your money and formal apology I will be waiting at the Skeet Shooting Range at the end of eight bells tonight. Don’t be late or I will consider the debt paid in full.
It was signed only with the imprint of a talon. Sir Giles scoffed at the words. Under his breath he vowed he wouldn’t miss the exchange on his life. He stuffed the note into his trouser pocket and looked at his chronometer. It read nearly midnight. He’d have to hurry to arrive on time.
When he got to the shooting range, he found it empty. The Euripides was just sounding eight bells so Sir Giles knew he was not late. The lights dimmed until it was difficult to see clearly and he wondered if it was due to the hour of the day or if there was more to it. Somehow it felt sinister, putting him on alert; tense and apprehensive. He reached under his jacket and pulled Ole Gerty out of her holster. He cocked the slide assembly and loaded the weapon. The small .380 caliber Pico Beretta snugged into the palm of his hand took up warmth, seeming to come alive. It was ancient and deadly at close range.
He moved to the shooting platforms and found Bobbafeather’s perch still mounted along with his table of odd assortment of rifles and paraphernalia. On closer inspection, he found a few blood feathers lying on the ground next to the perch, apparently pulled out in a struggle since the tips of the quills had traces of blood on them along with painful looking creases. Bobbafeather had made a good fight of it. A trail of blood smears and loose feathers meandered off toward the large hydraulic arm of the clay pigeon sling. He followed warily to the big metal machine and up into a little cat walk used for maintenance. At the top of the walk he found an opening that led to a storage bay containing thousands of round clay targets stacked on screw lines. The discs measured over a meter in diameter and were racked in rows for as far as he could see in the gloom. He continued into the dark compartment listening intently for any signs of life.
His foot struck something made of glass. Reaching down he found a vial containing U238 pellets. He opened it and poured the contents into his palm counting seventy-six pellets. Just the right amount for his payout. He returned the precious pellets back into the vial and sealed it before putting it into his trouser pocket with the note from Bobbafeather.
He tensed when he heard a noise further in the darkened compartment. Quietly he crept to where he thought the sound had originated. In the gloom he could barely see the outline of a clay pigeon mounted for the next game. Strapped to the disc was Ambassador Bobbafeather wearing a Columbidean spacesuit. His wings were spread-eagled along with each of his legs, mounted to the disc with nanobot clamps. The little clamps were still forming; arranging their bodies to strap the hollow-boned diplomat painfully wide. In the half-light, Sir Giles could make out Bobbafeather’s face which was bloody and bruised. He had taken a tremendous beating by the looks of it.
Sir Giles rapped on the visor. “Bobbafeather? Can you hear me?” The little ambassador’s eyes flickered open. He tried to focus on Sir Giles’ face. “Who did this to you?”
Bobbafeather only shook his head painfully.
“No matter. I’ll try to free you.” But he was unsure how. The nanobots swarmed over Bobbafeather’s body joining an endlessly repairable restraint. Sir Giles brushed them away and they just reformed. “I can’t free you.”
Bobbafeather’s helmet speaker crackled to life. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I had no right to believe you were at fault for Toesle’s murder. She came to me and told me she had words with you about her theories on the case. I told her she was endangering herself. I implored her not to pursue that line of inquiry. I told her to let the experts handle it. Then she died and I felt I let her down. Now it looks like I’m about to be murdered myself.”
“Not if I can help it,” roared Sir Giles. “There has to be a way to remove you from this target.” He turned to go. “I’ll go sound the alarm.”
“It’s too late. Don’t leave me.” Sir Giles stopped and faced the little Columbidean, pity on his face at the distress he was witnessing. The nanobots streamed up Bobbafeather’s helmet and infiltrated his voice system. There was a crackle and then the comm went silent. Bobbafeather kept on speaking but Sir Giles couldn’t hear a word.
“M-Dammit.” Sir Giles put his pistol back in its holster and began frantically scraping at the minute machines to no avail. It was hopeless to struggle against such technology so he began trying to unhook the disc from the screw wheel. The disc spun along the treads but he couldn’t find a weakness to the machine. Everything was very heavy and meant to withstand constant use. But that didn’t stop him from finding a large metal spanner that he used to club the mechanism.
Clang! His efforts rang out over and over without any effect. Then he had an idea that if he could only destroy the clay pigeon he could carry Bobbafeather out of this hellish situation. So he braced his legs and aimed at the clay pigeon for a vicious swipe. But before he could make good on his effort something equally heavy smashed into the back of Sir Giles’ head.
* * *
RODERICK PULLED THE WICKER BASKET out of Smythe’s reluctant grasp. “Señor Smythe need not worry about tonight. Roderick will take care of you and Señorita Nanette. I’ve arranged for everything.” Roderick looked at Smythe’s meager efforts to fill the basket. There was a cheap bottle of wine and plastic cups with some crackers and cheese. Roderick just shook his head.
“What?” Smythe looked annoyed. “Isn’t it good enough?”
Roderick pinched up his face in disgust. “Not good enough for Señorita Nanette. She no want stale crackers and inferior wine.”
“How do you know what she wants?” Smythe pulled the bottle out and inspected the label. “I got a Spanish wine like you instructed.” It read:
Vino de Bob Para Cualquier Ocasión
Roderick scowled and grasped the wine around its twist off cap. The bottle opened and bubbled over coating Smythe’s hands. “I no like Bob’s Wine For Any Occasion.”
“Is that what it means?”
Roderick nodded. “Señorita Nanette not be impressed drinking sugar water.” Then the little Latino smiled ruefully at Smythe. “I have all in place for you rendezvous. Wine chilling; food perfect; beach closed until tomorrow morning. Roderick even have blankets and pillows if you need them.”
“Really?” Smythe gave the valet a wink. “You think I might have use of them tonight?”
“Sí. Señorita Nanette asked me to provide them. She feel awful for throwing up on your date last night.”
“Is she feeling better then?”
Roderick nodded. “She say she very much wants to try again.” He nudged Smythe. “You might get lucky Señor Smythe.” Then as an afterthought, Roderick gave Smythe a stern look. “You better be good to Señorita Nanette or Roderick will never forgive you. And you no like how I no forgive you.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Smythe wiped his hand on the checkerboard linen of the basket. “So when do we meet?”
“Now. She waiting for you behind the last sand dune.”
“There’s sand dunes?” Roderick nodded. “But I’m not dressed. I don’t have a swim suit.”
“No hay problema. Suit has been taken care of. Señorita Nanette said she bring one.” The little Latino valet shushed him toward the hatch that was the entrance to the beach.
Smythe gave Roderick a last look for encouragement and strolled inside to find an ocean. He hadn’t explored all of the Euripides and the oceanfront was one of the features he was truly impressed with. Under an artificial sky with three moons, waves crashed blissfully onto creamy white sands. Closer to the shoreline he noticed one set of footprints meandering away. His shoes got wet from the rushing surf so he pulled them off and stuffed his socks into them. Carrying them in one hand he tracked the sandy prints letting the rushing waves swirl about his ankles. He enjoyed the feel of the surf and he made good time following the footprints. He came upon the last sand dune where, true to his word, Roderick had a large beach blanket laid out covered in cushy pillows. Littl
e beach tables on both sides held wine glasses and noshie tidbits for munching. On the blanket, in a pile, Nanette’s uniform was sprawled out with her bra and panties.
“Hey you.”
He turned to see her silhouetted in the moonlight with the waves rushing around her shoulders. “There you are! I wondered if you melted into the sand. I was about to call for Sir Giles to investigate.”
“No silly. I didn’t dissolve.” She ducked under the water and he watched white kicking feet swimming closer. She came up for air and scrubbed auburn hair from her eyes. “Want to swim?”
“Sure.” He looked around for proper attire. “Roderick said you were bringing me a swimsuit. I don’t see it though.”
“I did.”
“Where?”
“You were born with it.” She laughed. Smythe looked perplexed. “You aren’t a prude are you Smythe?”
“A bit maybe.” She pouted and then stuck out her tongue. “But not that much.” She giggled and spun around submerging while giving him a good view of her glistening rear end as she swam away. He removed his uniform trying not to be embarrassed by her boldness. He ran to the water and dove in head first. The waves were cool, foam and water was swirling over his skin. Then he felt the current of her nearness swimming around his body. He surfaced and gulped in air. She stayed underwater streaming around him faster than he could keep track. She was amazingly quick and supple. Teasingly she’d smack his body and he tried to catch her. When she finally surfaced he was amazed at the amount of time she could hold her breath. She wasn’t even winded.
A wave drove their bodies together and he embraced her reflexively, keeping his head above water. She could feel his erection against her stomach. She quickly turned her body so they spooned. She giggled. “Watch that thing. Or I’ll have to pull it off.”
He didn’t know if she was joking or not, frozen in indecision, then she laughed and brought her legs up and kicked off of his torso propelling away from him. “Wait.” She was gone like a sea nymph. He watched her halt under the water and turn back toward him. Her head popped up close to him.
“You want to kiss me?” she asked batting her eyes and puckering up her lips.
“Very much.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Then you’re gonna have to catch me.” She plunged under the water with the purser in hot pursuit. They played cat and mouse for a while. Sensing his frustration as she outdistanced his reach, she let him grasp one slippery wrist. She surfaced and sprayed him with water and he let go. This time she didn’t swim away but was waiting for him to blink the water away.
“You’re not going to run off again?” She shook her head and swam up bumping against his chest. She hugged him and nuzzled her head on his shoulder. He was cool to the touch in the water but his heart raced with excitement. Then she realized her heart was beating equally fast but not from exertion. She raised her head and let him kiss her. After their embrace she pulled away and swam to shore. As quick as a flash she raced to the beach blanket and began toweling off.
Smythe made his way to her and threw himself down on the blanket and rolled over on his back admiring her wet body. He reached up and gently pulled her to him. “I like you wet.”
“You would.” She stretched out and rubbed her toes to his. Her Lum-O-Edge toenail polish began lighting up, blinking. “Do you like it?” He stared at her torso. “My toes, silly.”
“I like all of you.” He watched the ocean droplets glisten on her pubic triangle. “Even your toes.”
“Good. ’Cause it’s a package deal.” She turned away from him and poured herself a glass of wine. Then he raised his for a fill up. When she replaced the wine bottle, her back to him, he felt in a pocket and found the two little pills that Herbert gave him, he swallowed them without her noticing. She raised her glass and they sipped the fine wine. “Why do you like me?”
“I don’t know why. I just do.”
She flexed her arm. “Is it my muscular body?” She twisted around and showed him tight gluts. “My unfeminine physique?” She twisted back and pumped up her breasts to as large as they could be. “No wait! I know. My non-existent breasts.”
He felt the pills starting to work and took her glass out of her hand placing them on the table. Closing in, he snugged her body to him. “It’s because you’re beautiful and dangerous at the same time.” He tried to kiss her but his erection prodded her and she pushed away.
“Whoa studly.” She pushed him back on his back and pinned him there. She inspected his engorged member. “That’s pretty impressive but I have to decline the offer.” She flicked the head of his penis with the tip of her finger. Then she jumped on his torso and squeezed him holding his arms down. He thought he was going to die from the look in her eyes. Her small frame avoided any unwanted penetration but she did bend down and kiss him, probing his mouth with her tongue. He was completely and blessedly confused about what this woman had in mind.
Then the General Quarters alarm rang. Flood lamps blazed accompanied by the howls of the sirens.
* * *
SIR GILES AWOKE with a throbbing headache and an unexpected view. He was in a spacesuit staring back at the Euripides in the void, pivoting counterclockwise along his Z axis. A clay pigeon disc affixed to his back. Looking down he saw that nanobots had formed a strapping around his midriff. Every once in a while he got a glimpse of Bobbafeather in the same plight as himself. Both were strapped to a large clay target and drifting further and further from the Euripides in the vastness of deep space. Off in the far distance he could barely make out the SATO fleet encircling the luxury space liner.
Then a stream of las-blasts shot past both of them without a sound. Someone was shooting at them from what he guessed was about two thousand meters. He looked around to orient himself and noticed a gouge out of his disc the shape and size of a las-blast. That explained his odd rotation. He’d been grazed.
Another torrent of pulses shot past them; the origin seemed closer this time. Whoever was shooting wasn’t a very good marksman, which he was thankful for. But it was only a matter of time before the sniper would make good on his fatal efforts. Sir Giles wondered how he could change his trajectory. Then he remembered Ole Gerty in its holster. Alarmed, he inventoried his spacesuit and found an airlock pouch made to introduce or remove items to and from his suit. He began coaxing the gun out of its holster in hopes of slipping it into the double-lined compartment of the pouch. Gravity had no effect on the weapon and his deft hands prodded the Beretta into the small compartment. He looked down to see what the instructions indicated to remove the contents. He pressed the inner seal button to isolate himself from the void. Then came the outer seal button which gave him access to the contents of the pouch. The little weapon was there in his hands . . . only his suited fingers were too large to pull the trigger easily.
A pulse nearly hit him lighting up the surface of the disc and spacesuit. He needed to try to alter his position so he was out of the line of sight of the shooter. Carefully he calculated the vector that would yield the best results. He pointed the gun and tried to lace a finger into the trigger. Finally he felt the hammer give slightly. Now he hoped that the bullets had enough oxygen in the sealed cartridge to fire. He made the muscles in his arms rigid to transfer the kinetic energy and fired. There was a silent flash from Ole Gerty and he changed trajectory, veering off, spinning towards the Euripides’ starboard side. He was moving out of range of the shooter but Bobbafeather spun abysmally in place, awaiting another volley of death from the sniper. And it came. A las-pulse struck the ambassador dead center. His little body erupted in a plume of hot gasses. Shards of the clay pigeon and his own real feathers burst out in all directions. Sir Giles watched in despair at the fate of the remorseful Columbidean. His heart went out to Bobbafeather. The avian’s death was at least quicker than his would be spiraling off in the heavens.
Then the sniper fired once again, targeting Sir Giles; this time it wasn’t las-rifle blasts but a pack of missiles! The prope
llant could clearly be seen trailing behind the racing rockets. First there was one, then another and then another. He locked his sights on the first of the missiles and waited, tracking it with his handgun. He knew he need not compensate for gravity so he sighted on the incoming projectile and squeezed off a round. Ole Gerty flared and spat out her bullet to collide with the first warhead which exploded in a ball of fire. He was pummeled with shrapnel from the blast but thankfully none of the shards ripped his suit. Blinking the residual blind spot from his eyes, he sighted on the second of the missiles and fired. This shot missed and he repeated.
Under such true aim another explosion erupted much closer to him. He wasn’t as lucky this time. A larger piece of the missile struck his visor cracking the surface. Air began escaping the suit and his visor frosted over from the releasing gasses as they froze the second they hit the void. He scraped the frost away to catch a glimpse of the last missile shooting straight toward him.
In a panic he sighted and fired. Clearly a miss but there was no time left to fire his last shot. Even if he did hit it, the missile was too close! He braced himself for the explosion. But none came.
The missile raced past him. He craned his head to watch it shoot away. He gave a deep sigh as he listened to his oxygen slowly escaping from the crack in his visor. Then, to his horror, he watched the missile turn to reacquire its objective. The missile was guided. He quickly scraped the frost from his visor and took aim with his last shot. His hands shook and he cursed. Quickly he calmed his nerves and took aim. Then he pulled the trigger but Ole Gerty didn’t fire. The air in the cartridge had dissipated by this time. The bullet was a dud. The missile soared straight at the Terran.
He made his peace with the Maker and closed his eyes awaiting his fate. Over his shoulder came a las-turret blast which took out the missile in a blinding flash of energy. Sir Giles twisted his head to watch a SLASP interceptor piloted by Nanette bearing down on his position. In the co-pilot seat sat Smythe suited up in a spacesuit. He could clearly see Smythe mouthing into his comm but he couldn’t hear him. So he knocked on his helmet around his ears to indicate he was deaf. The interceptor stopped and Smythe exited an airlock to retrieve Sir Giles.
Murder on Euripides Page 12