Odd Jobs 2: Solomon's Code

by Jason A Beauchemin

  ODD JOBS 2:

  SOLOMON’S CODE

  By

  Jason A. Beauchemin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jason A Beauchemin

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 1

  The hypo-injector hissed as it pumped the drugs into my neck. The effect was instantaneous. Time slowed down as a headrush swept over me. It felt like billions of microscopic bubbles surging through my brain and bursting against the inside of my skull, releasing particles of wonder and happiness that seeped back down as more bubbles were rushing up. At the same time, a warm tingle materialized at the base of my spine, then oozed up my back and branched out into the muscles in my arms and legs, wrapping my entire body in a loving opioid bear hug. Those first few seconds of ecstasy after shooting up always seemed to make all the other bullshit in my life worth it.

  Then the moment passed. Reality came crashing back in. The headrush subsided. The bubbles dissipated, filling up my skull with wonderful, magical gas until my head felt like it was floating. The opioid embrace backed off, retracting up my extremities, becoming a long cylinder of warmth where my spine used to be, leaving behind muscles that seemed to pulse with unnatural energy. A random itch played across my skin like an irregular electric charge... popping up on an arm, suddenly vanishing whether I scratched it or not, then popping up again somewhere else on my body. It was not unpleasant. The only part about being stoned that resembled unpleasantness was the fact that I could not exist inside the cloud of initial ecstasy for eternity. I always had to come back to the real world.

  I was in a booth in the silver marketplace in Evelin’s Café, staring across the table at a yellowish ball of sentient mucus. Mister Steven T. Jenkins, the only drug dealer on-planet that would still sell to me, was a semi-transparent sack of goo partially encased in a black cybernetic shell. The hammang, Mister Steven T. Jenkins’s species, did not possess the body parts necessary to display emotion, but I still got the distinct impression that this one was annoyed with me.

  “Are you done, Jobs? Can you get out of my booth now?” Mister Steven T. Jenkins said through the speaker on the front of its cybernetic shell. Its voice program was that of a computer... lifeless, as devoid of expression as its bloated, puss-filled body. Still... years of dealing with this unpleasant species had taught me to read their mannerisms. Mister Steven T. Jenkins did not like me, but that was okay... the feeling was definitely mutual.

  “Your customer service skills could use some work, Jenky-poo,” I said. It was probably a mistake to abbreviate the pus-bag’s name. The hammang chose their names using some fucked-up, holier-than-thou, phlegm-wad logic and they took them very seriously. Any failure to address them fully and accurately, whether it was well-meaning or not, was interpreted as an insult... and my little jibe had certainly not been well-meaning.

  “I don’t need to be polite to get your business, Jobs. You would buy my products even if sucking grindle cock was part of the purchase price. Get the hell out of my booth. I don’t want my other customers to see me dealing with the likes of you. Get out before I have you shot.”

  Mister Steven T. Jenkins’s entire rant had been in its usual monotone computer voice, but I could tell that the talking glob of snot was pissed off. The harshness of its words conveyed what its tone could not. Our business dealings usually did not end in death threats. I did not really care, though. The drugs were lighting up the pleasure centers of my brain like it was a pinball machine. A meteorite could have dive-bombed into the center of the room at that moment and I wouldn’t have batted an eye. Snot-ball hurt feelings did not even register on my personal list of things to be concerned about.

  I did not move. I simply stared across the table, a half-smug/half-stoned smile plastered across my face, watching small bubbles and chunks of partially-digested food drift lazily about the yellowish puss inside the hammang’s semi-transparent membrane. Mister Steven T. Jenkins was silent for a few moments, then a sequence of colored lights blinked on the front of its cybernetic shell. I heard heavy, clomping footsteps and then a hammang blue worker appeared beside me. It was essentially a ball of snot riding on a set of giant mechanical legs with an energy rifle sticking out the monstrosity’s midsection like a massive deadly boner. The rifle was pointed directly at the side of my head.

  “Last chance, Jobs,” Mister Steven T. Jenkins said, its voice as monotone as ever. “Go away. That vial of product I just sold you should last for a few weeks. Make sure I don’t see you until it’s gone.”

  I was not afraid. I had way too much synthetic opioids in my bloodstream to feel that particular emotion. Luckily, a tiny twinkle of self-preservation managed to push through the dope-fog in my mind. I climbed out of the booth, side-stepped past the blue worker, and left the silver marketplace without another word.

  The lobby outside the marketplace was little more than a waystation between Evelin’s Café’s three main revenue sources. The main bar area was to my left, the pink marketplace was to my right, and, of course, the silver marketplace was behind me. The small area had no light of its own. The archways that led to the various marketplaces each glowed different colors, oozing irregular illumination into the lobby. The naked steel walls were mostly masked in shadow but the feeble light from the other rooms was still enough to reveal the dents, scrapes, and burns that scarred their surface like pockmarks... permanent souvenirs from the riot I had started there eight months before. The pink marketplace had been back up and running two standard-days after the incident but the structural damage was still visible after two-thirds of a standard-year. Evelin’s Café was the focal point of hammang activity on-planet. That entire disgusting race was exclusively concerned with turning a profit and it was harder to turn a profit if you wasted a lot of your income on interior decorating.

  I was a walking museum exhibit. I chose to dress like a private investigator from Old Earth, even though I was much more of a mercenary than I was a detective. My trenchcoat was ragged and stained. It hung from my body like a damp rag. My fedora was tattered and dirty. It clutched my head like a large clammy hand. My revolver was clean and oiled. I could feel it hanging in the holster inside my coat, beneath my left shoulder, a deadly and reassuring weight next to my heart. My boots and coveralls were the same as those worn by just about every other schlub on that backwater shithole planet. My hat and my trenchcoat gave me my unique appearance... part of the reason my nickname on-planet was “Odd.” The revolver was not unique at all. Absolutely fucking everybody on-planet was armed.

  I slipped my hand inside my coat, gripped the butt of my revolver, and stepped into the main bar area. The gloom fell like a curtain. The only light came from behind the bar itself and from several roving spotlights that shown down from above, scanning the mob of patrons for signs of trouble. The patrons were living shadows. Silhouettes moved all around me as shady creatures conducted their shady business in the darkness.

  I moved forward, becoming just another faceless shadow, and began to make my way across the expansive bar area. I moved among the silhouettes, sidling and weaving and occasionally shouldering my way through. My head was on a swivel, panning from side to side, scanning the dark, unfriendly living blob for anything that might want to point its unfriendliness my way. My
hand stayed inside my coat, clutching the butt of my revolver, ready to violently resolve any unpleasantness I might encounter. It was all force of habit. The synthetic opioids saturating my brain had drowned out any genuine tension I would have normally felt while walking through Evelin’s Café. I knew that hypervigilance was a good idea so I went through the motions, but my emotions lacked the oomph to make it feel mandatory.

  I walked among the shadows. My route took me near the bar, where gelatinous hammang bartenders rode in many-limbed cybernetic exoskeletons, dispensing all manner of drugs and toxins to the faceless throng. I moved around tables and booths, all occupied by shadowy creatures, forcing myself to ignore the pieces of clandestine conversations that caressed my ears as I passed by. It was dangerous to be suspected of eavesdropping all over this planet, but especially so at Evelin’s Café. I managed to get through the bar area without attracting any negative attention.

  I first suspected that I was being followed when I stepped through the archway at the far edge of the bar area. It was subtle, just a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye, a nondescript shadow that detached itself from the faceless mob at the bar and moved my way. Instinct triggered an alarm bell in the back of my mind, but the drugs tamped down its severity. That feeling would have had me setting up an ambush if I had been sober. Instead, I simply chocked it up to paranoia brought on by a few too many milliliters of dope and I kept going.

  I walked down a long, narrow hallway that was entirely devoid of light. The darkness on either side of me was filled with creatures. I could not see details, I could barely make out their silhouettes, but I could hear the hum of their cumulative murmured conversations and I was almost smothered by the rancid stench of their combined breath. The hallway was packed tight with inhabitants. It was impossible to avoid coming into contact with them. I side-stepped and squeezed and shouldered my way through. My attention was one-hundred-percent focused on monitoring the faceless mob for signs of irritation at my jostling passage. I did not have the luxury of thinking about anything besides my search for something intent on getting itself shot. I forgot about my possible tail.

  A pinpoint of light winked into existence up ahead. The pinpoint swelled as I slid and sidled down the hall, rapidly growing to fill the entire tunnel. The crowd thinned out as the light increased. Soon, the light was so bright I had to squint to see and the only creatures around me were either entering or exiting the establishment. All business conducted at Evelin’s Café was best left to the dark.

  I passed between the blast doors that marked the border between Evelin’s and the Promenade. The two hulking slabs of metal were rusted and battered. They were not a protective barrier anymore. They had not moved in ages. I doubted if they could, even if Evelin had wanted them to. They were a sign, an omen. Coming in, they marked the point where hypervigilance commenced. Going out, they marked the end of the ordeal. I released my grip on my revolver, wiped a palm slick with sweat across my pant leg, and stepped out onto the Promenade.

  I angled to join the foot traffic heading toward the opposite end of the Promenade. I was several paces away from merging with the chaotic river of creatures when a female human stepped in front of me, cutting me off. She was small of stature, a hair under four feet tall, with dark hair tied in a bun, and dark eyes to match. She did not look intimidating. I would have just shouldered her out of my way... if I had not recognized her... but I had recognized her. Her name was Doctor Watkins and the fact that she was pointing those dark eyes my way was very bad news.

  I went for my revolver. The dope pumping through my brain made everything seem slow, like I was submerged in water. My fingertips were millimeters from my holster when Doctor Watkins spoke.

  “Don’t do it, Jobs,” she said. “Mister Timmy has you covered.”

  My hand froze. I turned to look behind me, already knowing what I would find, and cursing my stupid stoned self for forgetting about my tail.

  Mister Timmy was three paces behind me. He was a human... or, at least, he used to be before Doctor Watkins had made him into her personal science project. He was an amalgam of human flesh and more cybernetic implants than I had ever seen on another living creature.

  He was seven-feet-tall, a fact that probably would have made him easy to spot in the bar if I had not been stoned out of my fucking gourd. He had no face. It had been replaced by a blank sheet of metal. It looked like a dull silver bowl was crammed over the front half of his head. The flesh around the edge of the bowl was puckered and scarred where the obscene surgery had healed badly. Coveralls masked most of his body, but the cybernetic augmentations were still brutally apparent. His body looked lumpy and lopsided, bulging in some places, bristling with metallic spines that protruded from his coveralls here and there, smooth and scrawny in the few places that were still organic.

  Mister Timmy’s left arm was the most pronounced of his numerous abominations. The sleeve of his coveralls was cut away up to his shoulder, revealing a massive cybernetic monstrosity three times the size of his other arm, the same dull silver color as his un-face, sporting a smorgasbord of blades, projectile weapons, interrogation equipment, and burglary tools that he could extend or retract at will. That arm was pointed at me now. The appendage of the moment was a very obvious magnetic projectile weapon.

  I turned back to face Doctor Watkins, my hand falling away from my holster.

  “I’ve got no business with you,” I said. Never getting involved with Doctor Watkins was one rare good decision I had made during my time on-planet. She was a special kind of dangerous on a planet renowned for abbreviating lifespans.

  “You do now,” Doctor Watkins said. “The Nemesis Group wants a word with you.”

  “What the fuck is a Nemesis Group?” I said.

  “We’re a new black work organization on-planet,” she said. “And you owe us a lot of money.”

  Chapter 2

  I went with Doctor Watkins and Mister Timmy, down the Promenade, deep into the shipping container maze. The walls of stacked steel boxes towered on either side of us, rising up to brush against the spaceport dome. The narrow corridors were packed with commuting creatures... mostly humans, but with generous helpings of grindles, sagisi, and yandocs thrown in. Small vehicles pushed through the mob with no regard for travel lanes or right-of-way, adding the threat of getting run-over to the claustrophobic madness.

  We took lefts and rights and rights and lefts. Our path took us down main avenues and narrow alleyways and, a few times, into shipping containers and out the other sides. Everyone had their own shortcuts through the maze and Doctor Watkins was no exception. I was completely lost five minutes down her personal route. It was not until we arrived at our destination that I realized where we were.

  Naak’s Joint looked inconspicuous from the outside. We stopped beside a block of rusted and discolored containers. The establishment was marked only by a lone globe housing a closed-circuit camera, hanging eight feet above the ground. Doctor Watkins banged on the side of the box with her fist and then stared up at the camera. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a low grinding rumble sounded from inside the box and a portion of the wall slid aside, revealing a rectangle of darkness. We stepped inside and the wall rumbled shut behind us. The darkness was absolute. We moved several paces, blind in the void, then a wall opened before us and we were saturated by light and sound.

  Naak’s Joint was one of the most successful casinos on-planet. It catered to anyone, from any species, just so long as they had money. The casino floor was massive. It spanned the entire shipping container block. Interior walls had been removed, ceilings had been raised, and everything had been given a decadent makeover. Real wood paneling lined the walls. Large glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling like lazy, transparent spiders. The floor was covered by wall-to-wall carpeting the color of human blood. The furnishings screamed of obscene, unapologetic wealth. All of it had obviously been imported from off-planet... nice things simply were not produced here.

  Naa
k was obviously doing well. He had been a fixture in the planetary green work market for longer than I had been on-planet. The casino had always been his dominant source of revenue but he had dabbled in moneylending and collections... which was how I was acquainted with him. The casino had not always been as opulent as it was now. There was a time, way back in my early days on-planet, when the casino had been downright scummy. Its overwhelmingly gaudy current state was a testament to Naak’s dominance in the green work market. It was really no surprise that he was attempting to make the jump into black work.

  We cut straight across the center of the room in the same order we had come in... Doctor Watkins leading the way, me following her, and Mister Timmy making sure I did not pull a one-eighty and haul ass out of there. We passed card games and dice games and games involving giant wheels. There were games where players competed against representatives of the house, games where players competed against each other, and games where players competed against machines. There were fighting pits here and there where various lesser-lifeforms fought to the death to entertain the surrounding masses.

  The casino assaulted my senses from all sides. Flashing, multicolored lights left rainbows of sunspots in my eyes. Screams of triumph and moans of disappointment blended with the constant murmur of excitement to create a continuous roar of pure emotion that followed me across the room, bludgeoning my ears, drowning out all other sound. Acrid smoke from a plethora of different drugs mixed with the body odor of hundreds of overexcited creatures, harassing my nose with a putrid ambrosia of multilayered reek. There were creatures everywhere. Creatures playing and creatures watching, creatures running games and creatures standing guard, creatures serving drugs and creatures consuming what was served. There were humans, mostly humans, but there were also grindles, sagisi, yandocs, and kabebes. I even saw a few hammangs puttering around in their cybernetic exoskeletons. Walking through that casino was an exercise in sensory overload. The fuckton of synthetic opioids coursing through my bloodstream helped to dull it down a bit, but the atmosphere was still three red cunt hairs away from popping a blood vessel in my brain.