by Scott Rhine
Max’s fondest memories in the service involved Goats circumventing authority. Humanity’s earliest contacts with the Mnamnabonians were as Greek satyrs, steeped in wine, women, and song. Humans didn’t like all the syllables in the real name or the sexism in the classical, so they stuck with the label Goats. Most aliens had a short, unflattering, animal nickname. In response, the older races jokingly referred to Humans as space monkeys.
Traveling in stasis between the stars, Max had left a lot of life behind. He recalled rescuing Michelangelo as a teen almost sixty years ago. “My file says this kid is his grandson, Reuben.”
The walls of the quarantine dock were fused sandstone—the bare bones of a city built for cheap functionality rather than beauty. Everything was crude and modular. From the container’s air vent, Max could see the spaceport’s ten-story acceleration-ring launcher and hear the occasional thunder when shuttles departed. The heat grew oppressive as they waited, causing Grachov to bask.
Once the truck had attached to their pod and hauled them toward the city, Max scanned what he could of the city with binoculars. Half pyramids covered with solar panels faced the spaceport, with green parks in front and alleys running between. He brought up a map on his wrist computer. A second row of poorer structures lurked behind the postcard-worthy front row.
“From what I see, all the races of the Union coexist here. Saurians hauling cargo in the dry areas, Goats trimming the greenery, Humans repairing the shuttles, and Bats flying taxis.”
Eyes half-lidded, Grachov said, “Probably why the criminal thought he could hide here. It’s as far as you can get from the Phib home world without landing on a ball of frilling ice.” Since the war, security on the worlds bordering Human space was tighter than a gnat’s ass.
Once inside, however, security was worse than lax. The truck dropped their pod in the parking lot of a defunct store in the low rent district and drove off. No one batted an eye membrane. People were already in line at the soup kitchen across the street. Half an hour later, someone taped a sign on the pod advertising his services as a pet sitter. Wearing sunglasses and a fedora, he could have passed for a Human of nineteen. However, the sideburns and wider nose base gave him away to the experienced eye.
Max opened the door and took the flyer. “Hello. We’re not in the market for a sitter, but we’re searching for a lost mongrel.”
The Goat handed over a manila envelope. “I have a friend who runs a shelter. You might check there.” Inside were hotel keys, credit vouchers with the local bank, a dossier on the target, and earbuds.
Max flipped through the file folder. When captured at the end of the war, the target Phib had been a rear-echelon supply clerk. Using the alias Tribbethwrop, he started working for a local gangster collecting debts. Phibs were known for harassing and intimidating people who owed them money. Despite a decade of threats and violence, Tribbethwrop didn’t have any murder accusations on his record. A few key witnesses to his crimes had disappeared, but the police had no conclusive evidence that he’d had any involvement. He liked to chew plant-based drugs from his home world and chum around with the other gangsters. As he neared retirement age, the amphibious alien had risen to the third most wanted in the planet’s underworld. The top criminal was Saurian. The spaceport really was a model of equal opportunity.
Reuben had gathered months of contact information and weekly routines, including maps of the Phib’s apartment and the sports bar he visited every day. The file even listed Tribbethwrop’s favorite drink, called a “Cherries of Victory,” the ingredients of which read like the contents of a garbage disposal. However, fruit was very expensive in places like this, a sign of status. The intel looked well-done, but Max would need to be certain of the target’s guilt.
“Bring the cuffs,” Max called to Grachov. He grabbed his medical bag and scribbled two prescriptions on his pad. “We’ll need some basic equipment. My guard needs a billy club and a neural disruptor. I’d like to have a second canteen, a jar of cherries like the target prefers for his favorite drink, 300 milligrams of this narcotic, and as much of this diuretic as you can get.”
The Goat took off his sunglasses, giving Max a peek at the eerie eyes that ruined any illusion of humanity. “You’re him, the !Kung medicine man!” Reuben pronounced the first syllable of the tribal name with a hollow click on the roof of his mouth. In doing so, he might as well have held up a flashing neon sign that read Covert Operation in Progress.
“Someone has misinformed you.”
“Your hair on top is dark and wooly like ours. You’re a hero! My grandpa talks about you rescuing the kids from the orphanage,” Reuben said too loudly.
As ranking officer on the mission, Max had been designated as mentor. He put an arm around the kid as he scanned the seedy neighborhood. “Could we go inside? Maybe our hotel room?”
When the formidable Grachov shouldered his way into the sunlight with a case of heavy equipment, the kid reluctantly agreed.
Because he could tell the kid was bursting to talk, Max asked, “What’s with all the urban blight? I thought the colony’s startup loans would be paid off by now.”
“They were, but with the pirate activity and then the war, trade has been reduced for the past century. Pickings have been lean. In the last ten years, between the Human share of the Phib settlement and the ones that Anodyne has terraformed, seventeen new worlds have opened up for the Humans.”
“Seventeen?” Max considered this an unprecedented explosion. “Before this, we only founded thirty-four colonies in four hundred years.” They had increased worlds by a factor of one and a half within a single decade.
“Yeah. It’s a golden opportunity. All the Humans who can afford to are heading to the frontier. Left a lot of holes in the local economy.”
“Explains the diversity,” Max said.
“And the prices. I got a suite at the Rest EZ for a song, including the all-you-can-eat buffet.” Humans typically wasted about 25 percent of all food, through garbage or spoilage. Goats didn’t let anything go to waste, even the rinds. Max had seen them eat paper napkins with too much sauce. Of necessity, members of their race had an iron constitution.
“You kids. Always the same priorities.” As they approached the hotel, Max distributed the keys and earbuds from the envelope.
Reuben said, “I chose second floor by the loading docks for easy access. The cameras in that stairwell are broken, so there’ll be no record for the police. I also made sure the kitchen has live mammals on the menu for your partner, Kachur.”
“Kachur’s dead, you slapping amateur,” Grachov said, shoving the large suitcase at Reuben. He wandered toward the hotel bar. “Tonight, I drink to my fallen clutchmates.” With the cold-sleep transportation, the loss felt like yesterday to him as well.
The kid almost fell over from the weight but recovered, happily toting the luggage toward the stairwell.
“Don’t take it personally,” Max said as they climbed. “Even I couldn’t tell them apart except by their scars and the war paint on their neck frills. No one outside their clan could. Saurians born in the same clutch of eggs can have the same voiceprint. Bankers have to use DNA samples to differentiate.”
“Then why does he hate me so much?”
The hall appeared empty. “Most likely because you called me a hero. Stop doing that. At the very least, I should lose my license. I probably belong in a penal colony.” Sixty missions compressed into fifteen months of living outside stasis had been like watching a horror movie marathon. All of that hadn’t eclipsed the shame of his actions as an intern.
Max held up a finger for silence until they were safe inside the dingy suite. The spongy carpet hadn’t been changed in a few decades, but the sheets in the bedrooms actually looked clean—small victories. He turned on the faucet in the bathroom in case there were any listening devices. The water had a vile, algae odor to it, probably part of the purification and recycling process.
“I covered all the mirrors and video screens
according to the instructions in your file,” Reuben said, hoping for an “attaboy.”
Max nodded. “Have a seat, kid. What we discuss this afternoon, you can’t mention to another living soul. What did your dad tell you about our group?”
“The Space Ghosts. They’re the avengers of our people.”
“A mistranslation. Grachov and the others were phantom cosmonauts—like the Soviets who died in space debacles that might embarrass the government and were thus erased from all official record. Turtles don’t have their own military. Too few of them venture out for that. You’ve heard of the elite Swiss Guard? The Yellow Slash Saurians serve the Turtles in this capacity in gratitude for uplifting their race. Grachov’s family was assigned to protect a clutch of eggs for an important Turtle judge.”
“What kind of judge?” asked Reuben.
“Whenever a disagreement breaks out between species in the Union, both sides present their cases.”
“The Phibs abused us for years, and nobody lifted a finger.”
“We had proof of wholesale theft, murder, and even genocide for profit. The Phibs seemed too confident. The last time we sent evidence to a convocation, they blew up our diplomat’s ship before it arrived. We had to wait seventeen years until the next Union meeting. This time, the hearing was on our world—New Hawaii—and no way the Phibs were wriggling free. First, they tried to blackmail the judge by threatening his eggs. When he ruled against their race with the maximum penalty plus punitive damages, the Phibs invaded our world.”
“That attack started the Gigaparsec War.”
The Union spanned a billion parsecs of space in the Orion Arm, and all the sentient species had been pulled into this unprecedented conflict. “Yellow Slash Clan honor demanded that either the attackers or defenders be wiped out to the last man, but I’d found one egg that was still viable. I rallied the survivors and pulled them away from the battle.”
“Let me guess: you were a hero, and they were disgraced?”
Max rubbed his right jaw and temple. A headache was brewing. “When the Yellow Slash Clan failed in their mission to guard the eggs, their military records were purged back to their birth certificates. To give them a chance to redeem themselves, the Turtles funded this project to kill every Phib who had a hand in planning and executing the insult against their young.”
“Getting sentience revoked for the Phib species and repossessing half their worlds wasn’t enough?”
“A single life is very important to the Turtles.”
“Why do you trust the Saurians? They shared a lot of the same philosophies as the Phibs,” Reuben said. “I mean, didn’t the cold bloods evolve from the same creature?”
Max held up a hand. “Never voice that opinion unless you want a detailed description of Saurian sexual practices and how they might be performed on your skull.” True, the prevailing scientific theory was that the Turtles uplifted them from the same planet. The neck frills appeared to be vestigial gills from a common aquatic ancestor, but both sides would take offense. “When the last Phib responsible is wrapped up, their clan will be reinstated as honored dead, taking its rightful place in history.”
“Grachov is in it for honor. We Goats volunteered to help because of the rescue and to get revenge for what happened to our people,” Reuben said. “I’ve looked at the financials, and you’re not even earning a paycheck. What are you getting out of it?”
“That rescue was the one time in my life that I fit in. After the fall of Mnamnabo, I … couldn’t adjust to civilian life. I never finished my residency for my degree. When the Turtles offered me a chance to help the Yellow Slash, I accepted. I keep them restrained.”
The kid bleated a laugh. “You don’t need my help for that. There’s only one, and he doesn’t like me.”
Max had promised Michelangelo he would look after the family line. Since this was the last op, it would give Reuben a rite of passage to brag about for years to come. “We’re shorthanded. Every target has been better protected than the last. The Phibs remaining are smarter and have had time to dig in. Casualty rates have been increasing. We need your help with the enemy.”
With complete sincerity, Reuben said, “For you, I’d donate a stomach. Name it.”
“The snatch I want to run tomorrow is a three-man job. Grachov is my backup and my way out to the alley. I’ll need you to come in as a janitor for the setup. We’re going to pour the diuretic into the cherries and have you swap them out at the bar.”
“He always eats at least five of them with his drink. Heh, heh. So after tipping a couple, he’ll hop to the tadpole’s room. I know one of the serving ewes. She can spike the maraschinos for me.”
“Then you run the robot janitors from here. Once the target separates from his bodyguards and follows me into the bathroom, place a Wet Floor sign and keep out the casual gawkers.”
“But no one can see you,” Reuben insisted.
“Wrong. Their eyes and other senses work fine. Psis can’t detect me at a distance through the great union, but that means I’m blind to them as well.” Max wondered what it must feel like for the rest of humanity to feel so connected all the time. “Flash my VR glasses if you spot anyone incoming. We also need one of those wheeled, dirty towel bins that hotels use—big enough to carry an unconscious Phib out and that suitcase in.”
“Sure, but how will you sneak up on Tribbethwrop?” Reuben put his spread fingers over his ears to mimic the huge tympanic membranes. “A Phib’s most accurate sense is hearing.”
“They rely too much on it, in fact.” Max pushed the mute button on his wrist computer and the sound of the faucet disappeared. When he reversed the operation, the hiss returned. “Turtle tech. The sonic filters work best on repetitive background vibrations or voice frequencies, but they adapt fast. The dampers mostly muffle my vibro gloves, which I use for breaking into or out of places. The gloves can shatter windows, shake loose locks and hinges, or scramble security systems.” He lifted a pair of powder blue gloves out of his doctor bag.
“Could I try them on?” Reuben reached toward the new toy.
“No. If you scratched your balls with them, I wouldn’t be able to reattach them.”
“Good call.” Reuben backed away. “So why mess with the cherries if you have this tech?”
“The most dangerous thing about stalking a Phib is his leg strength. Always start with his legs bound, or he could rip you to pieces. The Phib might be shorter than a Human, but he weighs twice as much. The muscle mass in the legs is phenomenal. So we need to pick a locale to neutralize the Phib’s advantages—a confined space where we have access to his ankles, but he can’t see us coming.”
“The public toilet stall! How do you plan to knock him out?”
“I slap these on his ankles.” Max opened the large suitcase to reveal portable generator, thick cables, a temperature gauge, and pumps connected to two shackles. “Freeze cuffs—they have enough charge for one use.”
“How are you going to get the victim to hold still long enough for the cuffs to work?”
“With battle chemicals pumping the heart so fast, all the blood passes through the contact point in seconds. He’ll stand up in a panic and shout for help. Nobody will hear him through my sonic filters. Bam. I’ll hit him with the stall door and pin him. Get his heart rate up even more. When he passes out, I’ll shove him into the bin, cover him with dirty towels, and waltz out. I might need to bring in Grachov for that part.”
“This seems like an awful lot of effort. Why not just gig him on the spot?”
The smile vanished. “Never ask me to terminate blindly, even a Phib. I have to verify everything for myself. I’m not a thrashing killer.”
That night, Max woke after only four hours of sleep, convinced by some random noise that someone was trying to break into his bedroom. Yet the hall on the security monitor was empty … this time. Because his heart wouldn’t slow down, he grabbed his medical bag containing the dart gun and headed for the roof. The open space without
walls soothed him for a time.
Chapter 2 – The Gig
The next day, Max snuck into the sports bar through the kitchen. He had placed a hundred credits worth of ripe but still-viable pineapples by the trash in the alley. When a worker hauled out the waste bags, he noticed the treasure. After propping open the door, the man in the white smock made two trips into the employee locker room with his arms full. Max pushed his cart under the camera, behind the guard for the main dining area, and down the hall to the toilets.
“How do you do that?” asked Reuben.
Max maintained radio silence as he waited to ambush the target, but Grachov replied, “He tells me it is the same way you sneak up on a lion.”
Thirty-eight minutes later, Max wheeled the Phib out to the van without a hitch. Inside the van, he strapped Tribbethwrop’s legs together with a rubber hose. “He was wearing a wetsuit to keep his skin humidity high in the desert air. The suit was a perfect conductor for the freeze cuffs.” He opened the creature’s mouth, wary of the row of tiny, sharp teeth on the outer layer, and fumbled in his doctor’s bag.
The mighty Grachov laughed, which reminded Max of a cat hissing with bared teeth. “What is in the injection?”
“A narcotic that’ll show up on a medical examiner’s report as something he might chew for recreation.” Reuben had procured over four times the necessary dosage, so he decided to be liberal with the clues. After he induced the subject to swallow a wad of the brown snuff, Max sprinkled some of the drier flakes in the Phib’s front pocket. “In addition to loosening his tongue, the drug is also a powerful anti-coagulant for his species. Internal bleeding is common among abusers who fall down.”
Grachov pulled into a dark alley, the sort where drug deals and muggings frequently went awry. The pawn shop nearby catered to gamblers and thieves. “I say this with all due respect, comrade Max. You are the scariest man I have ever met. If you ever deviate from those ironclad ethics of yours, I would be obligated to kill you for the protection of all sentient life.”