by S F Chapman
• • •
Nearly four hundred thousand kilometers away, it was well past midnight in the sleazy bar at the Tycho Crater Outpost on the Moon.
“HAH!” Rollo scoffed at the tall tale “You are SUCH a lying bastard!”
Bowie leered a bit at his bar mate before downing his fourth shot of Serengeti whiskey. “Alright, you friggin' caught me.”
Schleim and Wolfe both burst into laughter.
Rollo beamed at his drunken pals, “So how did you kill that thieving low-life?”
Bowie glanced around the crowded tavern before answering, “I shot him in the neck with my badassed new weapon. Wolfe's got one too.” He smiled menacingly, “It makes a tiny hole on one side and a fist-sized crater on the other.”
Schleim squinted thickly at the others.
Rollo drunkenly poked his grimy fingertips into one of the empty shot glasses.
“It don't kill 'em,” Bowie sloshed unsteadily about under the influence of the liquor, “it just makes 'em stop movin'. After that, you can do whatever you want to them.”
Rollo looked like he was going to puke, “Where'd you boneheads get these guns?”
“A military jerk from Tunis. He pays us ten grand for each job.” Bowie waved to the waitress for another round; “He's got a killing for old Wolfie coming up in New Rome. Maybe he'll take you along...”
“I said it before,” Rollo roared in reply, “you are SUCH a lying bastard!”
• • •
Dilma bounded out of her bedroom attired in her pink pajamas just after Sabra had tiptoed into the girl's room to awaken her for breakfast.
The merry twelve-year-old gleefully wrapped her spindly arms around Ryo's neck and favored him with a wet and sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“Hi Daddy, welcome back!”
The bone-weary detective found it hard to resist the energetic lovefest supplied by his exuberant charge. “Good morning, kitten. I really missed you.”
She stared appraisingly into his dark eyes for several seconds, “You look so tired!” She tilted her head a bit, “And rather worried about something, I think.”
Ryo kissed her forehead, “It's just work, nothing important.”
Sabra stood quietly in the background and admired how the man and the girl seemed to effortlessly bring out the best in each other.
Ryo glanced up at Sabra, “What have you two been doing with your time together?”
“Well;” Dilma started, “two days ago we walked around the district for awhile and Sabra let me try on some really pretty clothes at Plumage and Baubles on Fitzroy Street.”
“And how did you look?”
“Sabra said just like a Crusader,” Dilma reported in earnest.
“What about yesterday?”
Sabra silently ducked back into the girl's room.
“We went to the park!” Dilma's eyes lit up, “I got my face painted like a butterfly and I ate a bunch of really good food. Have you ever had Thai/Martian food before?”
Ryo thought for a minute, “Thai/Martian, I think so. It's very spicy, right?”
The girl nodded.
Sabra reappeared with Dilma's new headband and blue-feathered boa, “Would you like to show these off to Ryo before you eat and head off to school?”
Dilma eagerly donned the treasured garb.
The threesome enjoyed a happy breakfast of pancakes together.
When Dilma finished up, Ryo sent the girl off to change into her school clothes.
As Sabra scooped the last of the pancakes from her plate, she grinned at the reinvigorated man, “She really adores you.”
“And you, as well,” he returned her smile.
“She wanted me to ask you,” Sabra ventured, “if it would be alright if I bought her some new clothes?”
“Certainly, would a hundred Units cover the cost?”
“That will be more than enough, thank you,” Sabra nodded. “Would a few Enlightenment Crusade outfits be alright?”
“Of course.”
“Great, she'll be so happy about that,” the woman reported.
Ryo's face darkened, “I afraid that I'll have to travel more than I thought for a few weeks. Will you be able to look after Dilma while I'm away?”
Sabra felt a surprising surge of excitement at the question, “I'd love to.”
• • •
He'd been searching around the University for Zmuda for nearly two hours.
As Jasper strolled past the 3rd floor Lecture Hall, he suddenly heard the booming disembodied voice of the missing man.
“...as you can see in the image on the screen...Chlorarachniophyte algae contains two distinctly different nuclei.”
Jasper stopped and peeked into the crowded hall. There at the lectern was the Lieutenant in his day job as a Biology professor.
Zmuda continued, “Your assignment for next week will be to read chapters 20 through 24. I will greatly favor anyone who mentions other cells that contain multiple nuclei during the Monday class.”
The professor gathered up his papers.
A throng of departing students filed past Jasper. He pressed his way into the exiting mob and approached the lectern.
An attractive young woman queried the haggard professor about a missed assignment.
Jasper waited quietly for the student to finish.
The woman wandered off a few minutes later and the two men were alone in the lecture hall.
“Professor;” Jasper produced the sheet of paper that Mixion had given him earlier in the CRAMP office, “you might be interested in this.”
After several seconds of dogged study, Zmuda scowled at the string of numbers and letters, “What does it mean?”
Jasper grinned at his befuddled boss, “It's an ancient coordinates system used in twenty-first century maps.”
The Lieutenant's shoulders sagged, “I'm too tired for games, Jasper.”
“I'm sure you'll like this one,” the burly Australian laughed, “it's the precise location of some remote ruins in the Saharan Desert inexplicably guarded by two men with guns. Our pal in Tunis thought that you could use this information.”
“OH!” Zmuda stared at the note with sudden interest, “Alright then, let's get back to the office and see what we can uncover about this place.”
20. The night demon
“WAKE UP OLD MAN!”
Seamus gasped under the crushing pressure on his chest.
“I'll friggin' kill you if I don't get answers!” the husky young goon growled.
Seamus's thin old ribs were fracturing one by one under the weight; if one should pierce his lungs, he would bleed to death in short order. The old man warily opened his eyes. “Wha...what...do you want?” he gasped.
The punk backhanded Seamus's craggy face, which caused the old man to briefly black out.
“No...more..,” Seamus finally rasped, “I'll...talk.”
The thug lifted his knee from the old man's chest. “I knew you would, you bastard!”
Seamus struggled to catch his breath.
“What the hell where you doing on the Billikin?” the mysterious assailant sneered as he withdrew a long and slender knife from the sheath on this belt.
“I...haven't been on...the ship for years.”
“Lies!”
The thug slowly lowered the razor sharp tip of the weapon towards Seamus's face.
The old man cringed, “The Inquisitor's Office...they told me I had to go. They needed someone to identify the bodies.”
The goon swung around and pounded the tip of the dagger into the top of the nightstand. “You talked too much to the News people, old man!”
“I..,” the trauma of the late night attack caused Seamus's head to spin, “...they were my friends.”
The attacker pulled the knife free and ever-so-slowly slid the tip towards the old man's throat, “Who are they looking for?”
“I don't know,” Seamus whimpered, “they don't have any suspects.”
“That's NOT what I he
ard,” the thug flicked the tip back and nicked the old man's chin.
Seamus was now quite certain that the punk would kill him.
A curious and rather soft squeaking sound caught the attention of both the old man and the young criminal. It was a common sound that people hear with such regularity that most ignore it. The barely audible noise was that of a door hinge in need of oil as it slowly opened.
Both men turned towards the closet door.
A sinister purple flash and crackling retort filled the tiny bedroom.
The attacker stiffened and briefly convulsed in wide-eyed terror. He lurched heavily to the floor and twitched several times.
“Are you alright?” the almost angelic voice of a young woman cut through the eerie blue haze that smelled of singed flesh. A petite redhead stepped over the glassy-eyed punk and stood next to the badly injured old man. She was still clutched the General Issue Police Stunner that had put an end to the assault.
“Yes;” he gasped, “who...are you?”
She smiled coyly, “A friend who was sent to guard over you.” The mysterious woman's fingertips glided lightly over Seamus's craggy face.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Certainly, sweetie.” She turned and spitefully kicked the crumbled thug in the ribs.
“Ah crap! It seems that I may have used a bit too much force in the process.” The woman prodded the motionless attacker with the tip of her black knee-high boot, “Unfortunately I killed the punk.”
• • •
Twenty minutes later Ryo and Lieutenant Zmuda stood over the carcass.
“Sorry Boss,” the woman apologized.
“Well;” Zmuda snapped with frustration, “I wish that you’d been more careful.”
“Twenty-fifth century Police weapons are fairly new to me,” the redhead grimaced.
“At least Seamus survived,” Ryo noted as he studied the singed corpse of the punk.
The woman knelt over the dead man and twisted the head of the slowly stiffening body, “Any idea of who this goon is?”
“No,” Ryo replied, “we can run his DNA through the Crime Lab Database but we don't always get a match. Meanwhile Seamus is still in danger until we can find out who sent this guy over here to rough him up.”
Seamus followed the discussion with dismay.
“What if,” Zmuda bit his lip, “we stage this to look like a double murder?”
Ryo stroked his stubbly chin, “That would take Seamus out of the picture and give us some time to figure out more about our dead friend.”
Zmuda and the woman both nodded.
While Ryo contacted the Coroner's Office for yet another late night pickup, the Lieutenant summoned Mixion from the CRAMP office with a satchel of medical supplies.
When she arrived, Zmuda readied a syringe filled with a pale yellow fluid.
Seamus stared warily at the Lieutenant, “What is that?”
Zmuda twitched a bit as he injected the substance into the old man's thin arm, “It's a particularly strong sedative that will make it seem as if you are dead. We'll make a big show when we haul you out of here and everyone will assume that you were killed during a burglary.”
Seamus's eyes fluttered, “What happens...next?”
The Lieutenant withdrew the needle, “You will wake up in a better place.”
21. News Item: Elderly gent attacked in apartment
Dateline: 7th of September, 2446; Free City, Earth
Free City Police are at a loss to explain the brutal murder of a reclusive ninety-seven year-old retired spacecraft crewman at his apartment in the tranquil Eire District of the fair city.
Neighbors summoned the police late last night to check on a violent altercation of some sort in the man's apartment. When the officers entered the residence they discovered two bodies, those of the victim and the assailant.
Coroner's Officials removed both corpses early this morning and the Inquisitor's Office has sealed the crime scene pending further investigation.
Neither a motive for the unprecedented attack nor the names of the dead have been released by investigators. Building tenants revealed that the anonymous elderly gentleman kept to himself and may have confronted a burglar rummaging around in the apartment. Speculation suggests that the old man managed to mortally wound his attacker before succumbing himself.
The two deaths mark only the fourth and fifth homicides in the staid Eire District this year.
22. Ominous
“What the HELL happened to Slime?” Bowie slammed his fist on the bar, which caused the accumulation of empty shot glasses to clatter and quake.
The bartender warily watched the befouled threesome from the other end of the bar.
Wolfe nodded, “How does a badass roughneck like Slime get killed by a spindly old geezer?”
Rollo stared drunkenly at the two big Goons.
“I want to know everything that you two idiots found out in Free City. Wolfie, you saw the bodies in the morgue;” Bowie absent-mindedly picked at a soiled napkin, “what do you think happened?”
“Ah; let me see,” Wolfe rubbed his bloodshot eyes as he thought, “the old man had a cut on his chin and a lot of bruises. Slime had a big black burn on his chest.”
“There's something's strange about all of this;” Bowie glowered, “it sounds like Slime got hit with a Stunner. Why would the old man have a police weapon?”
Wolfe shrugged.
Bowie stared at the bartender and tapped his finger several times on the bar. The barman nodded nervously and quickly brought over another round for the well-oiled trio.
“Rollo, what happened to the old man's body?” the head Goon asked.
“They buried him at Old Saint Mary's,” Rollo grinned, “I watched the whole thing with a couple of the grave diggers.”
“What about Slime?” Wolfe wondered as he downed his drink “Nobody's claimed his body.”
“Leave him to rot at the morgue!” Bowie fumed. “It's what he deserves for getting killed by an old walking bag of bones!”
“I guess that you’re right,” Wolfe said. “Well;” he patted at the bulge underneath his black jacket, “I’ve got a job to do.” He grabbed Rollo’s collar as he stood up, “Come on dumby; you’re in on this one.”
• • •
He seemed to be coming around, Mixion noted.
Seamus's craggy old face slowly rippled as he lay stretched out on the cot in the CRAMP situation room.
Jasper and the Lieutenant had hauled the unconscious gent from the Free City Morgue to the secret workroom two days ago packed gently away in a stout shipping crate conspicuously marked 'FRAGILE! -- Cytoplasm Scanning Apparatus -- THIS SIDE UP!'
As his alter ego, Biology Professor Malcolm Evans, Zmuda planned to make a big show of sending the now empty crate away in a few days, claiming that the supposed scanner that it contained was not up to par.
Seamus's eyes fluttered and finally opened.
He gasped a bit and stared at the woman.
“Where...where am I?”
“Safe, I assure you,” she smiled.
He nodded sleepily.
Nearly an hour later, Mixion had gotten the old spaceman to sit up on the edge of the cot. He clutched a water-filled mug with a spill-proof lid that he sampled every few minutes.
“How long has it been, my dear?”
“Oh, let's see;” she started, “you were attacked in the apartment about a week ago. We left you in conspicuous view at the Morgue for a day on a specially heated gurney behind the big windows in one of the Examining Rooms. Jasper kept a close watch over you during that ghoulish exhibition.”
Seamus frowned, “Why did you do that, child?”
“It wasn't my idea, but it makes sense,” she told him. “We are trying to track down whoever it is that sent the thug to rough you up. Inspector Trop still thinks that a girl friend or ex-wife may show up to claim the body of the dead punk. Having your old carcass out in plain sight adds to the fiction of your death t
hat we planted in the news. Another possibility is that a colleague of the mysterious dead burglar was one of the forty-seven people who happened to stroll by the Examining Room while you were there. He or she would probably report back that you were, in fact, dead.”
The old man followed along with a look of consternation.
“Ryo Trop and a few plainclothes Inspectors attended a funeral where an empty casket supposedly containing your remains was buried at the Old Saint Mary's Cemetery.” She grinned mischievously, “He said that it was quite touching.”
“That sounds like much more of an honor than an old curmudgeon like me deserves.”
Seamus sipped some water, “What happens now?”
She dithered at the question, “I don't know. You can stay here for a little while. We can't risk settling you elsewhere in Free City or really anywhere in neighboring EurAfrica for fear that someone might spot you. Eventually, we'll have to move you to a safe location.”
“I suppose you're right,” he sighed.
• • •
Wolfe was already regretting taking Rollo along on such an important job. It was true that he was one of the Goons now but he was just so damn stupid.
“Come on, you idiot!” the heavyset punk barked.
They bumped their way down the crowded New Roman sidewalk towards the nightclub.
“What's the hurry, Wolfie?”
The big man spun around and stared angrily at the underling, “If we pull this off then we'll split up ten thousand Units.”
Rollo grinned doltishly, “Oh yeah.”
The two punks pushed past a noisy group of Enlightenment Crusaders clustered around the entrance to the EurAfrican Imperial Bank.
“Wolfie? I got one question.”
“What now?” he growled impatiently.
“Who is this guy that we're supposed to kill?”
Wolfe perfunctorily pointed to the Hissing Serpent nightclub. “I don't know who he is or what he looks like.”
Rollo stared dimly at his husky cohort, “How the hell are we gonna kill him if we don't know who he is?”
“A Liaison Agent named Macaroni or Macgillicutty, something like that, is going to introduce us to a spy from Free City.”