by Anthology
“Theft, sir.”
“Of what? Cahill’s street is filled with merchants and bankers. All more tempting targets.”
“The murderer wanted information, not valuables. Dr Cahill was a historian, and he was working on something before he was killed.” Malone described the scene in Cahill’s study, and the corner of Johanssen’s mouth twitched when she mentioned the history books and the empty desk.
“If I may,” Sundar said, clearing his throat, “the sweeps mentioned the broken gates, but according to them, the gates were bent outwards, and they said they saw shattered glass on the steps outside. Isn’t this the opposite of what would happen if someone broke in?”
“If someone broke in,” Malone said. “No one had to.” At that, she produced the key she had found near the elevator.
Johanssen squinted at it. “Go on.”
Malone crossed one leg as she continued, putting the key on Johanssen’s desk. “How the murderer got this is the real question, but it tells us that he planned. It also tells us that he’s not a professional. Whether he panicked or stumbled, he dropped his key on the way up the elevator, and he couldn’t take the time to return for it. Or couldn’t see it in the dark. The gate was rusted enough for him to break it open with a few good kicks or a couple blows from his weapon. He only had to break out.”
“Why not leave through the subterranean door?” Sundar asked. Every business and residence had one, whether or not it had its own veranda. Recoletta, after all, was built around its subterranean thoroughfares and warrens. “He wouldn’t have had to break that one to open it from the inside, would he?”
“Have you ever been to East Eton? The subterranean avenue is one of the main roads into the Vineyard, and Cahill’s domicile is twenty yards from a railcar stop. The assassin would be in plain view for three or four blocks with nowhere to hide.”
“Easier to slip among the buildings on the surface,” Sundar said.
“Obviously.”
Exhaling, Johanssen furrowed his brow. “And all this for a stack of papers?”
Malone laced her fingers, waiting.
“What concerns me is where the murderer got a key. Assuming you’re right,” Johanssen added. “You know how people are about security, especially on that side of the city. There’s hardly a locksmith in Recoletta who would’ve made that.”
He scratched a cheek with his knuckles. “Farrah should have the contract by the end of the day, Malone. In the meantime, Sundar will assist you.”
The moment she’d been waiting for. “Respectfully, sir, getting the bureaucrats to talk will be hard enough without a rookie in tow.” She sighed. “No offense.”
“None taken.” And he looked like he meant it.
The chief stared down at his desk for a long moment. “Sundar, wait outside.”
The younger inspector disappeared behind the double doors. Chief Johanssen turned his gaze to Malone.
“I know this isn’t how you’d have it, but make an exception for this contract. He needs your experience, and I need to know where that key came from.” Johanssen leaned forward, shadows pooling under his heavy brows. “Besides, Inspector Sundar has a few talents you don’t. People skills are chief among them.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’ve noticed, sir.”
He nodded. “You also know that we don’t see murders in Dr Cahill’s district. Expect that charm to come in handy.”
Malone rose and bowed. “Yes, sir.” She left and followed Sundar into the hall, noticing Farrah’s hopeful gaze in his direction.
“The coroner’s report won’t be ready until tomorrow,” Malone told her new partner as they paced toward the rotunda. “In the meantime, we should try to locate some of Cahill’s old acquaintances.”
“Don’t we need to wait for the Council to approve the contract?” The Municipal Police received contracts from the Council to investigate crimes, petty theft and serial murder alike. They provided the formal authorization to proceed.
“It’s not that strict,” Malone said. “We don’t wait on a case like this. One of the benefits of not working directly under the Council is that we can be more efficient.”
“That’s what separates us from the City Guard, right? They take their orders from the Council, and we just liaise?”
“That, and most of them have scat for brains,” Malone said, relishing Sundar’s discomfort. And that’s why we’re the investigators and they’re the muscle, she thought.
“Oh.” Sundar paused, digesting this new information. “We could start with the Directorate of Preservation.”
“Getting information out of the directorates is a nightmare, and Preservation is the worst. We’ll need the contract and, probably, additional signatures from half a dozen councilors.”
“Can we afford to wait?”
“We don’t have a choice.”
He smiled, fixing his eyes down the hallway. “If you’ll allow me, Inspector Malone, I think I can handle this.”
She glanced sideways at Sundar. Casual confidence wafted off of him like a scent. Nurtured, she guessed, by all the entitlements of expensive schooling, attentive parents, and easy good looks. She resigned herself to this one concession. Either he’d botch this and the chief would finally have to listen to reason, or he’d succeed and they’d get something useful.
“Alright, Sundar. Show me what you can do.”
Sunil Patel
http://ghostwritingcow.com
The Merger(Short story)
by Sunil Patel
Originally published by The Book Smugglers in June 2015
Paresh came across the alien while hurrying to catch the 7:45 bus. It was much quieter than the 8:15 bus, which always contained a group of rowdy teenage boys who asked him about his day at the Kwik-E-Mart, as if his fine button-down shirt and leather laptop bag weren’t a clue that he had been a valued programmer at Oracle for five years, thank you very much. It looked like it would be the 8:15 bus tonight, however, because standing in the parking lot behind his office was a six-foot-tall gelatinous blob with horns.
“Congratulations on your exciting opportunity!” declared the blob in a voice that sounded like a mix between sandpaper and nails on a chalkboard. It appeared to be wholly ignorant of the way its voice sounded, its words infused with a joyful sincerity Paresh found unsettling.
“Excuse me?” asked Paresh, who had never encountered an alien before but decided that if the first thing they did when they invaded was congratulate you, they couldn’t be all that bad.
“We have identified you as a potential host body. We find your body very desirable.”
No one was allowed to find his body desirable but his wife, dammit. “Host body?”
“Our analysts have determined that your body’s complexion, specific gravity, and the length of its extremities are optimal for our experience.”
Sita had never commented on his specific gravity, but Paresh took it as a compliment. She had commented on the length of his extremity.
“We are prepared to offer substantial compensation equivalent to the value and potential value of your body. We understand that you may have had other offers but hope that you accept ours.” The blob was glowing with excitement now. At least Paresh thought it was excitement. It could have been arousal.
“What if I don’t want to be a host body?”
“We are prepared to offer substantial compensation equivalent to the value and potential value of your body.”
Paresh repeated himself.
The blob repeated itself.
This wasn’t getting him anywhere. “Look, thanks for the offer, but I have to catch the bus.”
The blob looked at him quizzically. Paresh didn’t understand how that was possible since he wasn’t sure where its eyes were, but it managed.
“As our bylaws do not allow for hostile takeover, we must act in the best interests of the shareholders and prevent dilution of market share. Accordingly, please note that refusal of this offer may result in the
destruction of your planet. As added incentive, we have increased our offer of compensation by 12.5%.”
Paresh chose to ignore the phrase “destruction of your planet” because it was absurd, even though his bar for absurd had recently risen. Instead, he focused on the “exciting opportunity,” which included money. Sita had been wanting to remodel the kitchen (or as she called it, her cooking laboratory). And their car was old, an embarrassment among his colleagues. Paresh raised his eyebrow. “What kind of compensation are we talking here?”
The blob jumped up and down, making disgusting squishing noises with every impact on the sidewalk. “Are you willing to enter into negotiations with the BlarbTech/SnarbCo, Inc. Intraplanetary Conglomerate, hereinafter referred to as ‘the Blarbsnarb’?”
He was definitely going to miss his bus. The 8:45 bus was pretty quiet, at least. “I am willing to hear you out.”
“We believe this will be a beneficial arrangement for us both. Please allow me to contact our chairman and we will begin negotiations this very evening.”
“This evening? Where do I go? I’ll have to tell my wife where—”
“Agreement to begin negotiations constitutes acceptance of a non-disclosure agreement. Please do not speak of this impending transaction to any uninvolved parties as it is considered proprietary information and may result in serious legal consequences.” The blob had stopped glowing. It was possibly angry. Possibly calm. Paresh couldn’t tell. “The negotiations will begin this very evening at a location to be determined.”
And then the blob disappeared. Paresh expected a spectacular buzz and light show, but it was just gone, like it had never been there at all. Apprehensive, Paresh searched the parking lot for any other aliens before rushing to the bus stop.
He watched the 8:15 bus leave with a sigh and sat on the bench, alone. The 8:45 bus arrived, and he got on.
“Hey, Apu!”
He wasn’t the only one who had been delayed.
***
Paresh walked home from the bus stop, laptop bag in hand. He clutched the handle tightly, imagining using it as a weapon against those stupid kids with their stupid hats and their stupid skateboards. They didn’t actually have skateboards, but he thought they should. Although if they had skateboards, they wouldn’t be riding the bus. He definitely thought they should have skateboards.
Two blocks up and one block to the left. Three hundred feet and: “Your destination is on the right.” No one ever heard him say it, but it made him feel at home.
Sita would wonder why he was late. The blob thing had warned him not to talk about the “impending transaction,” but was he allowed to tell her that he’d met an alien? It had never specified. He could leave out the details.
“They kept you late?” said Sita, opening the door.
Or she could do that. Paresh nodded and kissed her, hating that he had lied to his wife but grateful not to have to see her look of disbelief when he told her the truth. When he learned more about the offer, he would come clean.
He took off his shoes, placed his laptop bag in the closet, and went straight to the kitchen. “Turkey chili pizza in the oven,” Sita said, pointing.
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is too a real thing, and you’re going to eat it.”
“I met an alien today,” Paresh blurted out.
“Paresh, that’s not polite, they’re called immigrants,” said Sita. “Your company change their hiring policy?”
“Yes,” he said, flushing. He was the absolute worst at keeping secrets. At the department retreat, they’d had a baby picture guessing game and every time someone pointed to his picture, he’d giggled.
“Where were they from?”
“Ecuador,” said Paresh, naming the first country that came to mind. Maybe he should go get the shovel in his garage if he was going to keep digging himself deeper into this hole.
“Very cool!” she said. “I’ve never been to Ecuador. You should find out how it is. We could take a vacation.”
The oven dinged and saved Paresh from having to continue the conversation. He had already begun to make up fake facts about Ecuador (their main export is kumquats, the capital city of Ecuador City has the rarest Dali in the world, everyone owns a pet capybara). Sita knew more than Paresh about most things, but she taught biology, not geography.
She set a plate in front of him. Already sliced, the turkey chili pizza resembled a pizza in the way a veggie dog resembled a hot dog. Paresh suspected Sita had applied the principles of aggressive mimicry to food. She had been gushing about the anglerfish a few nights ago.
Paresh took a bite and appreciated the smoky taste of chili but stopped chewing as he was assailed by an unexpected flavor. “Is that mustard?”
“Aioli garlic mustard sauce! Do you like it?”
There was no sense in starting to tell the truth now; he was on a roll. “It’s great!” he said, swallowing, then almost choking as a face appeared on his pizza.
“Greetings, human!” the face said with a voice like nails on sandpaper. It was missing a part of its mouth, which Paresh had eaten. He looked up at Sita, who didn’t react. “We are ready to begin the negotiation process!”
“Not now,” he hissed.
“Not now what?” asked Sita.
“I was having this really great idea, and I wished it would come later tonight, when I was alone.”
Sita took a bite of her own pizza. “I know how that goes. I hate when I come up with a great lesson plan while I’m driving. I can’t write it down!”
“Please confirm the rescheduling of the negotiations,” Paresh’s pizza said.
Paresh had never eaten a whole pizza so fast in his entire life.
***
Later that evening in his office, Paresh turned around and there was the horned blob thing. He assumed it was the same one, but he couldn’t be sure. When it spoke, however, the voice was unmistakable.
“We apologize for the previous inconvenience,” it said.
“You can’t just talk to a man through his dinner,” said Paresh. “It’s rude and unprofessional.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “At dinner, but not through dinner.”
“May we begin the negotiations?” it said. Paresh checked that the door was closed. “Your partner will not hear our discussion. This enclosure has been soundlocked for confidentiality.”
“Good. Now explain to me what it is you want from me, and what you are prepared to offer.”
“The BlarbTech/SnarbCo, Inc. Intraplanetary Conglomerate, heretofore and hereinafter referred to as ‘the Blarbsnarb,’ would like to acquire your body.”
“I’m using it at the moment.”
“We believe that your body has a great deal of potential and is being undervalued in the market.”
“Market? What market? Are there more of you?”
“That information is not relevant to this discussion.”
“Fine,” said Paresh. He had enough trouble with one alien; he didn’t need to think about more. “If you acquire my body, when do I get it back?”
“Upon corporeal incorporation, your body would become a wholly owned subsidiary of the Blarbsnarb, with partial autonomy on weekends vesting over four solar years.”
Some of that sounded good. Some of that sounded like gibberish. “And how much would you pay me?”
“The current offer is 0.0001 United States of American cents per cell.”
A fraction of a penny? But Paresh figured he had a lot of cells in his body, maybe even ten million. Which would be one whole cent. “I’m afraid that’s not enough,” he said. “Speaking of undervalued.” This was some kind of joke, surely. They didn’t understand numbers or money or something.
The blob’s horns began to glow, pulsating lightly. Then they stopped. “The Blarbsnarb Board of Directors has agreed to determine a higher, more suitable offer for you, Mr. Gupta. We will contact you when the new offer is ready.”
“Can I discuss this with my wife? I
don’t feel comfortable”—he came this close to saying “selling my body” before he caught himself—“accepting an offer without her input.”
The blob’s horns pulsated again. “As preliminary negotiations have concluded, you may consult your partner in this matter. We are aware that by law she owns half of your body and thus must approve any acquisition.” Paresh was going to dispute its statement, but the blob continued. “Have a good evening, Mr. Gupta. We look forward to conducting a successful business transaction.” Then it disappeared.
Paresh didn’t bring the topic up in bed that night. He knew better than to disturb Sita’s reading.
***
At breakfast, he asked her, “How many cells are in the human body?”
She swallowed her blueberry sweet potato waffle and said, “That depends on the body. And are we counting intestinal flora?”
Paresh wasn’t sure what that was. “My body. All the cells in it. Including the intestinal things, I guess.”
“Stand up,” she said. She stood up herself.
Paresh stood and stepped away from the table. Sita looked him up and down, and Paresh felt self-conscious about the months he hadn’t gone to the gym. “Now give me a spin,” she said, twirling her finger in the air. Reluctantly, he turned around in a circle, still feeling her eyes on him. When he was done, she nodded at him to sit down and took her seat.
Sita cut another piece of waffle and ate it. She pulled out her phone and did some quick calculations. “I’d say you’ve got about ten trillion cells in your body.”
Paresh almost choked on his waffle. “Did you say trillion?”
“Like a million billions,” she said. “Or a billion millions.”
He moved the decimal point in his head. They’d offered him ten million dollars.
And he’d asked for more.
“Sita, I have something to tell you.”
He told her.
After a moment, she put her finger to her nose and pointed at him. “So when you said last night that you’d met an alien…?”
He nodded.
“Okay, first of all, here’s a new lesson plan, hitting me at breakfast when I can’t write it down, but I’ll wing it. My kids won’t mind if we talk about aliens instead of the Golgi apparatus today.”