Analog SFF, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Eventually he came to another door, a small one that he could barely squeeze through. It opened to a dark compartment that reeked of Sith. Sam fumbled about, trying to find a switch that would give him some light. Then he stopped. What if this was a Sith's private quarters? And what if that theoretical Sith were suddenly awakened? Sam gulped. He had no desire to become shish-ka-Sam. His elbow struck something, nearly knocking it over. He caught it before it fell over and held on.

  It felt like metal—lumpish with a thin handle. Sam began to put it back and then realized that it could serve as a defensive weapon. A few blows from this interstellar hand axe probably wouldn't deter an angry Sith, but it gave him reassurance.

  Carefully he began to feel his way around the room with his free hand, inch by inch, letting his probing fingers follow the wall until they encountered the edge of a large panel. No, it wasn't a panel. It was a doorframe. Sam let his hand explore, seeking for a handle, a latch, a pressure panel that would free him. There! It was a simple release mounted in the door's middle.

  With great care Sam pushed on the release and cracked the door, letting a shaft of light into the small room. He hesitated, to let his eyes accommodate and to make certain that the room held no slumbering Sith ready to leap and rend.

  What lay on the other side of the doorway was quite unexpected. It was a large room filled with rows of benches. The walls were painted with frescoes of luminescent hue depicting heroic-sized Sith disemboweling various races, smashing fanciful cities, and raising a huge ivory egg atop a long staff. What was more interesting was that there was a similar staff with egg on the pedestal nearby. Sam was initially overwhelmed by the splendor until, two milliseconds later, he realized that this could only be a Sith church. Of all the luck in the universe he had managed to emerge inside their holy of holies.

  Sam thought fast. He had to get out of here. He raced for the back of the church and found the door. Taking a deep breath and saying a small prayer that there wouldn't be any Sith waiting outside, he dove through.

  Thankfully, none of the aliens wandering by were Sith. Sam let out a sigh of relief and began to walk down the corridor toward his compartment, much relieved.

  * * * *

  The Araso city was only a few kilometers from the shuttle terminal. Roxanne felt somewhat uneasy dodging leaping blue beings within the narrow confines of the hop ways, but followed the Araso mortuary officer until they reached a shack that might be a funeral home, for all she knew. Morgue?

  “That's not much,” Burrowing remarked as he unwrapped the tiny box holding the human's remains. The box measured a bare twenty centimeters along any edge. “We had to burn the unfortunate's corpus,” Burrowing blared. “It had begun to smell and we did not know how long it would take before someone would come.”

  That seemed logical. A month had passed since Hambone's death and, without any knowledge of how to preserve a human body, they probably did the proper thing. “How am I expected to know if this thing was human?”

  Burrowing withdrew a larger package from a nearby bin. “These were the creature's possessions.”

  Roxanne slowly unwrapped the package. “This could fit,” she remarked as she held up a set of coveralls. They were two sizes too large for her, but had the right number of arms and legs plus, she noticed, something proved that the owner must have been male. The right to left closure was a tiny detail an alien could easily overlook if they were faking this.

  The most frightening aspect of the coverall was the long diagonal rip that ran from neck to navel, and around which was a dark stain. Dried blood, she wondered? “Anything else?”

  Burrowing handed her a small silver translator. “Looks like Rix work,” he said as she turned it over and over. “Say something.”

  Roxanne paused. “What the devil do you want me to say?” Much to her surprise the box erupted with a melodic string of tootles that were obviously Araso speech. “It's tuned for a human,” she said in wonder.

  “And who else but a human would carry such a device?” Burrowing remarked as he continued to pull things from the package. “Ah, here's an ID. Can you read it?”

  Roxanne took the smooth piece of plastic and read the standard inscription below the picture. “Sam Boone,” it read in English and in Glax.

  “I think I just found my quarry,” she gulped. And damn if he hadn't been sort of cute, she thought to herself. Regretfully, judging from the long tear in the coverall and the amount of blood she'd seen, the emphasis was on the “had been.”

  And the rip could only have come from a Sith's deadly downward slash.

  * * * *

  “I still have a problem,” Roxanne mused aloud over a mug of warm Araso beer, somewhat too bitter for her taste, but acceptable. The salty nuts that were served with it were delicious, if somewhat difficult to crack. Finding this Boone guy was only part of the problem. The other part was finding whatever religious item he supposedly stole. The only certainty was that a slashed overall that told her another Sith was involved.

  That presented a problem. Burrowing knew nothing of why this Boone guy had become so dramatically and suddenly deceased, or how long the body had been there when it was discovered.

  Obviously, the murder site's the obvious starting point for any further investigation, she thought.

  * * * *

  The Sith were in a foul mood the next morning. All of them were clicking their claws in rapid syncopation and hissing at a furious rate. Ripgut was missing and one or two of the others had some seriously fresh wounds. Sam wondered if it had anything to do with the strange decoration job someone had done on the walls the previous night. The large smears of green and red seemed to follow no special design, but he was not one to judge the Sith's aesthetics.

  Sam couldn't make out a word of what was agitating them since the translator had chosen to malfunction once again. Instead of Glax emerging from the horn there was a bleating, raspberry sound.

  Click-click-chirp, the little Rix engineer complained in a rapid-fire string. “Why didn't I sign up for something easier, like engine maintenance or air treatment? But no, everybody said translators were the coming thing. Everybody needs translators, they said, job security, that's what. Ha! Now I have to deal with every piece of dreck that ... Hello, what's this?” It held up a fuchsia-colored object. “How did this get in there? That's what's been gumming up the works.”

  Sam glanced at the object in the Rix's tiny pincer. It was a Sith claw, and it was the same color as Ripgut's. “Was there an argument after we left yesterday?” he asked, suddenly realizing what the torn claw and smeared wall implied. He felt sick to his stomach.

  “I hope you slept well,” Bowelsplitter replied ominously. “We certainly did not.”

  The absence of the usual insult meant that the Sith were in a really bad mood. Worse, the implication that somehow they had discovered Sam's nocturnal perambulations sent a shiver down his back. “Where is Ripgut?” he asked with trepidation.

  “I am now chief of mission,” Bowelsplitter replied haughtily. “Owing to a failure to respect the Great Egg properly this morning Ripgut was, ah, deposed. We are now the Universal Great Egg delegation.”

  Sam suddenly realized why all of the other Sith now wore Bowelsplitter's shade of lipstick—a sign of acknowledgment and mutual support, no doubt. He was a little surprised to learn that Ripgut had held a religious role, a role that Bowelsplitter had gained. Sam wondered how he could use that bit of knowledge, but before he could pursue this line of questioning any further the Araso contingent arrived.

  "Good morning,” Hoppergoinglightly warbled brightly.

  Bowelsplitter leaned forward and hissed menacingly. Both claws were raised into striking position. “So this is how you treat emissaries of the Great Egg. Not only have you repudiated the Truth, but you violate our sacred persons as well. Do you want me to inform the missionaries that you are unworthy of conversion? I assure you that they are quite capable of changing their objectives.”

  H
opper leaned forward, putting his head within range of the deadly claws. “We look forward to having your missionaries play with us.” Hopper's tail was thumping vigorously.

  “Play, you think? Better tread carefully, infidel,” Bowelsplitter warned. “The Universal Great Egg is not to be trifled with.”

  “Excuse me,” Sam said. “Can I ask what the problem might be? What's going on?”

  Bowelsplitter snapped his claw downward and sliced a chip off the stone table. “Unlike Ripgut I will not deviate from the true faith or my duty. I will conduct my own investigation, and when I discover who has committed this outrage, I shall deal with them. Directly!” he emphasized with a second slashing blow.

  “We should not jump to conclusions,” Flenser interrupted. Since Flenser sat to the left of Bowelsplitter, Sam supposed that he was the new second-in-command. “They appear to be unknowing.”

  “I will tolerate no criticism from a damned apostate,” Bowelsplitter sputtered. “We follow the tenets of the Universal interpretation or none at all.” For a moment it appeared that Flenser was about to attack, an action that would probably be deadly for everyone not a Sith in the room.

  Then he retreated. “As you wish,” he muttered like an exploding steam engine. The sounds of his teeth grinding sent shivers up Sam's back.

  “Do you have any idea of what they were talking about?” Hopper asked Sam in an aside.

  “None whatsoever,” Sam replied. Right at the moment he was more worried about the fleet of overly zealous Sith who might even now be approaching at superluminal speeds, and what they might do, than an argument between two heavily armed aliens. Safehold had no large cities, no industrial sites, no apparent advanced technology of their own. No wonder the Sith thought they would be pushovers.

  Just the same, he hoped that nobody had noticed him slipping into the corridor the previous night, or wondered why he'd been inside the Sith chapel. He looked at the chunks Bowelsplitter had taken out of the table and gulped. He certainly didn't want to inflame the Sith any further. Perhaps he should try to work with Flenser, who appeared to the lesser of the nasties.

  * * * *

  The obvious place to start was where they had found Sam's mangled body. It wasn't that far from the terminal—a short walk, Roxanne found out, just over a hillock and a few steps into a vale. Anyone standing there was pretty well hidden by the surrounding landscape. You'd have to be just a few meters away to see whatever had happened there.

  In other words, it was a perfect murder site.

  There had been several rainstorms since they'd found the body, so there was little evidence of the bloody handiwork to be seen. Nor were there other signs that might reveal interesting information, such as whether there had been a struggle.

  “There were three Sith bodies as well,” Burrowing remarked as Roxanne investigated the scene. Now that was interesting, she thought. It indicated that more Sith were involved—a human's puny strength wouldn't have been a match for even one Sith, let alone three of them.

  Clearly, it couldn't have been these cute Arasoes.

  The big question was whether the stolen artifact had been the motive for the murders. A crime of passion was certainly out of the question. Perhaps the other murders were simply a way of silencing the witnesses to a second theft? That theory might be a strong possibility, but who was the murderous Sith and where might he, and the relic, be found?

  Roxanne tried to trace Boone's movements. She discovered, after tooting it up with the shuttle port officials, that he wasn't spotted in town after he got off the shuttle. That meant that the murder must have happened right after the victim had landed, which tied with the time when Flenser said his relic was stolen. That also meant that the murderer must have followed Boone to the planet.

  Unfortunately, the timing meant that whoever had done this had had nearly a month to make their escape. There was no way she could follow a trail that cold.

  * * * *

  Sam sat in his cubicle trying to think of some way he could reach accord between the two parties in this dispute. Anyhow, dispute was not the word he would have chosen. It was more like a monstrous takeover of a planet by a bunch of bloodthirsty reptilian fanatics. How anyone had ever thought that he could arrange peace between these parties was beyond him. He might as well try to defend a plate of prime steak from a pack of ravenous rottweilers.

  Sam pulled another of the delicious Safehold nuts from the bowl and smashed it with the heavy metal lump he'd found. Ugly it might be, but it made a fine nutcracker. He crunched the meat as he thought of what form the inevitable disaster might take—a softening flock of smart bombs followed by an armed assault would fit the Sith character. Of course, they would probably sing hymns in the process and take up a collection afterward, that is if there were any survivors left to contribute. He smashed another nut: just like the Sith would smash defenseless Arasoes.

  “May I enter?” Hopper blared from the doorway.

  Sam was grateful for the interruption. “Come in, come in. Have a nut or two.”

  Hopper settled himself on his haunches, picked up a handful of nuts and tossed one into his mouth. There was a crunch as he bit down and then swallowed. A second nut followed. “The shells contain most of the nutrients, you know.”

  Sam smashed another nut and examined a bit of shell. Judging from the force it took to break it he doubted if his teeth were up to the task. Besides, he already had enough iron in his diet.

  “What's going on with the Sith? Any progress on finding out what's bothering them?”

  Hopper sighed in B minor. “I cannot say, although there does seem to be an internal struggle for leadership. I noticed several different shades of lip paint today and rather more noticeable wounds.”

  “Promotion comes hard with the Sith, I would imagine,” Sam said as he whacked another nut. “These really are delicious.”

  “I've also noticed that Bowelsplitter is the only one in that service hall of theirs. The rest just mill around outside and fight among themselves. Occasionally one will enter, only to emerge bloody, if at all. I assume they are fighting for possession of the Great Egg's Finger.”

  Sam paused in mid stroke. “Finger?”

  Hopper crunched a double nut mouthful. “Yes, an artifact that is their symbol of leadership. Only those who can produce the Finger are allowed to lead the pack.”

  “Any idea of what the thing might be?” Sam said as he broke a few more nuts.

  “Only that it's very old—an artifact of their first victory. I think it is the melted remnant of some weapon or other.”

  Sam raised his hand and stopped. Very carefully he placed the nutcracker on the table and stared at it. The surface was smooth, as if the metal itself had flowed under great heat. It could have been a sword or a spear or a gun for all he knew. But what he realized with alarming certainty was that this thing he'd been using so casually was the Sith's most venerated religious object.

  Hopper stared as well. “Is that what I think it is?” he wailed.

  Sam nodded and then explained in one great rush just how he had come to have it in his possession. “But I don't think they'd appreciate any excuse I might provide.” He paused. “Uh, I think a few of the station residents might have seen me,” Sam recalled. “If they say anything...” He didn't need to finish.

  “We've got to get this off the station,” Hopper said at once. “And you as well. The Sith are already mounting a full investigation. We certainly don't want anything to happen to you when they find out...” Sam noticed that he didn't say “if.”

  “Where the hell am I going to hide?” Sam asked as the panic started nibbling at his tender edges. “I stand out like an elephant in a phone booth.”

  Hopper cocked his head. “What is a phone booth? No, never mind. Come, I'll get you on the shuttle. Don't worry. We'll take care of you. Matter of fact, it is in our best interest that we get you out of the way.”

  Sam agreed, but he knew that flight was only a temporary expedient at
best. There would be no hiding once the missionaries arrived.

  None whatsoever.

  * * * *

  Roxanne was knocking back her third beer of the evening, trying to shut out the misery of her failure to produce a single idea of what to do next. As she tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her worry lines she assembled the facts she had to see if there was anything she might have missed.

  The problem was that every answer raised a new question. First, the Sith was pretty certain that Sam had taken the relic, but if they knew that, then why hadn't they stopped him from leaving the station? Well, maybe they hadn't yet discovered that he was the thief. Maybe they found that out later.

  Second fact: Boone had been killed soon after landing and, according to a few witnesses, had been seen talking to a Sith as he exited the shuttle. Had that Sith been the one who killed him? If so, then what happened to the relic Sam was undoubtedly carrying? And why wouldn't a Sith return it to the station? Maybe her patron wasn't the only one interested in recovering the relic.

  She had no assurances that Flenser, the Sith who was employing her, was the relic's rightful owner, just as she had no knowledge of whether the one who had killed Boone had been either. Come to think of it, why send a human to find another human? Why not just send a couple of Sith to smell him out?

  Which gave rise to another disturbing thought. “Maybe I'm just a stalking horse,” she mumbled. Just a pawn thrown into the mix to confuse and compound whatever dominance game they were playing? Or did they think that another human would attract the wayward and now sadly departed human? There was no way she could be certain. All she had was guesswork and supposition.

  “Maybe it's a mistake to think too deeply on matters such as these,” she said to no one in particular. Her energies might best be applied to dealing with the solid evidence she had at hand.

  Hah! Evidence. What did she have, after all? A ripped overall, a Rix translator, and a picture ID? Those don't seem very solid.