...*...*...*...*...
Solaximara heard about the hit on Irons. Two of his informants, domestic Siamese Neos gave him the admiral's location. They also informed him that Irons was doing some strange things, interviews with a reporter and repairs to various things. He was also handing out strange plastic boxes. They weren't sure what to make of that. The red Leo ordered them to keep him informed.
...*...*...*...*...
Jerry Richards definitely got confirmation that the man who healed Henrietta was Irons. Henrietta stopped by his hotel, eager to do an interview. She described Irons to a T. He also picked up on the admiral's visits after he'd left lunch yesterday. Irons had been busy, stopping by the local infirmary and police department to hand out goodies and aide the bemused people there before he'd gone on to the local library and then finished his evening at the Siegfried waterfall hydroelectric project. The man really got around!
He'd contacted a pair of Siamese Neos to help him out. The two were wise, smooth talkers who took his money with their usual cat smile and ear flicks. They seemed smug about something, but he wasn't sure what. They told him they'd let him know everything the admiral did and everywhere the man went later that evening. They were practically purring when they hustled out.
He also got wind of the admiral's confrontation and discussion with Fat Larry in Hazard. Perry's source called him. He started digging a little into that story but ran into a wall with the mob side of course. A witness at a nearby table gave him a blow by blow of the alleged first conversation. He left the interview confused, from what this guy described Irons was either a nut or a mobster himself.
...*...*...*...*...
“Admiral, we've still got a problem with your list. At least part of it,” Sprite informed him.
“Oh?” he asked, rubbing the small of his back. He'd take sleeping in the shuttle's tiny bunk or even in the pilot's chair over sleeping in an unprotected hotel room. At least in the shuttle he knew he could lower his guard and be safe, no one on the planet had the ability to access his ship without him knowing about it.
But it lent to another problem, he was a little too tall, and far too old for the damn temporary bunk in the shuttle. It just wasn't set up for people to live in for weeks at a time. At least not for people his size.
“You added some last minute supply items for the new crew members.”
“New...” his brows knit in puzzlement for a moment. Finally his face cleared as he caught on. “Oh the cats? You really shouldn't play mind games before I've had my coffee Commander,” Irons said shaking his head as the cup started to fill.
“Sorry,” Sprite said, sounding anything but. “I did some checking, the holiday and a storm off the coast put the fishing fleet in for over two weeks. They just left port now that the storms abated but it will be at least two weeks before they come back. Those that actually went. Half the fleet stayed in port for repairs or for the holiday.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes, I'm guessing you don't want to buy what's currently on the market.”
He wrinkled his nose. The fish on the market was not only not very fresh... it was being sold at an exorbitant price. He didn't find it all amusing to buy old fish past its' due date for twice the price of fresh. “Pass,” he sighed. “We'll wait. Unless fresh meat?”
“Goat right now. The last harvest was just before the holiday and it depleted stores. Apparently they're a little behind on food logistics,” she said with a sniff.
“It happens in these societies,” the admiral replied.
“I've got a reference to large stock yards and reefers. I accessed the historical database. Apparently they do their slaughtering in six major cities every two months. There are cattle drives every spring and fall to rail heads where the animals are picked up and shipped to the yards for later slaughter.”
“Oh?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee. This was all interesting from a historical view but he could care less.
“Yes, up until a few years ago they shipped the meat to market locally, they didn't have reefers, refrigerated box cars.”
“Hmmm....”
“Historically there should be a paradigm shift in the market soon as technology filters in. Reefers will allow them to ship the materials further and store it for longer.”
“They have refrigeration in stores right?”
“Another recent addition in the major cities, it hasn't spread to smaller markets though. There's a bottleneck.”
“Ah.”
“They have some sense of industry here but they lack a proper assembly line. Some of the industries are outmoded and cling to old practices of cottage industry to the detriment of themselves and the market. They dominate the market and crush any competition too.”
“Ouch.”
“What they need is a good swift kick. A Henry Ford,” Sprite said suggestively. The admiral's eyes narrowed, a sure sign he saw through her gambit. Not that she had any hope of it playing out anyway, the star system just wasn't suited for his purposes. Not currently, though in a few years...
“Not me,” Irons said, spreading his hands. “I'm not a ground pounder Sprite. Pass.”
“I know that, I'm just commenting on the situation,” Sprite replied with a sniff. She knew he wouldn't go for it.
“I imagine when trade with Antigua starts up things will change. They'll force the local industry to change and update or die off.”
“Or the locals will lobby to install heavy tariffs on all imported goods,” Sprite riposted.
“Entirely possible. But not my problem,” the admiral replied. He hoped for their sake that didn't happen. Oh smuggling would kick in, people would want the better goods so the market would be there, some backlash for loyalty to their planet would happen... but it would really mean that their planet would be passed by while others around them would benefit from the changing technology.
With new goods would come new consumer demand for other things. A better standard of living would eventually evolve, and with it, an interest in furthering education and medicine in order to compete with the other planets.
The tariff debate might spark something more, a renewed interest in politics and democracy. Or it could devolve into cynicism and skepticism. It was a difficult thing to predict, there were far too many variables at play. He spread his hands, still holding the cup. “It's out of your and my hands. The best we can do is try to toss them some ideas and sow what we can and then step back and see what sprouts.”
“To continue with your analogy, some sunlight, the occasional watering and fertilizing would be nice admiral. Farming doesn't work without proper care and guidance.”
“True. But I for one am not sticking around to provide it, at least not directly. Any ideas on how to help in that regard?”
“Find some people who are smart enough to see the possibilities?” Sprite suggested.
The admiral rubbed his chin and set his cup down. “Possible. We'll go walk about for a bit, maybe we'll meet some people who can help out there.”
“Interesting,” Sprite said.
“Hey, you're always saying I need to get out more,” the admiral replied with a grin.
...*...*...*...*...
When the admiral finished with the local area he turned his attention elsewhere. He was running out of materials on hand, and didn't like the hand out attitude some of the people were developing.
Some of the people looked at him with pity, thinking he was giving so much away to settle with whatever deity he worshiped before the assassin found him. That was annoying, but even more annoying was the avarice some others had. Here he was trying to help them and they were not only greedy, but also snotty about what he gave them. “That's it? That's all you've got?” he'd heard from one woman at the utility company he had visited after he'd handed her a microcomputer. She'd taken it and dropped it into a drawer and slammed it shut. At least she hadn't thrown it in the trash, he thought with a pang.
Irons took his rented air car and t
raveled south to some of the communities in the southern peninsula around Fisherman's Wharf City. He passed through an art commune, people who painted and sculpted and did various art related projects. He was amused at all the artists in the area. It was a classic case of clustering. There were groups on the beach painting, and others in the hills painting various bits of nature or the mountains. He even ran into a group doing fantasy scenes, staging the scene with actors posing and mock up props.
He nodded to an artist in a red beret and electric yellow ascot. The combination looked strange on a blond Neobear. The bear growled and waved for him to be on his way.
He was blocked from his path by a group of spectators watching some sort of contest. “What's going on?” he asked. A spectator looked back, gave him a dirty look and shook his head.
“New around here?”
“Just visiting yes,” the admiral replied. The guy was built, Terran, well-muscled, wearing a white tank top with some advertisement on it and really short shorts. The handle bar mustache gave him a rather retro look.
“Figures. Muscle beach. You may want to move along then,” the guy said.
“Can he lift?” another spectator asked.
“Lift what? Why?” Irons asked.
“It's a competition admiral. A weight lifting one,” Sprite informed him on his HUD. “According to my files Terrans and other organics tended to do such things to impress each other, especially potential mates.”
“Okay, no, chest beating isn't really my thing fellas,” he said with a smile. The guy with the mustache twitched and then twitched the mustache. A few of his fellows turned.
“Oh? Since when?” Sprite asked him with a laugh.
“I tell you what, you lift a weight and we'll let you pass,” the tough said.
The admiral snorted softly. “Really?”
“Give it a shot. Unless your chicken?” the tough asked. Irons chuckled.
“No, no it's no problem.”
The crowd parted and the tough motioned him to go ahead. At the stage he was waved up. The promoter looked amused and aggrieved at being upstaged.
“This won't take but a moment Burt,” the tough said, slapping the promoter on the shoulder. The fat man winced and then nodded moving aside.
“How large a weight?” Irons asked.
“Oh take your pick little man,” the tough said, clearly amused.
“How about that one?” Irons asked pointing to the largest.
The crowd sputtered and tittered. The tough roared. “Sure, go ahead and bust your guts on that,” he said slapping his knee. “Me, I'll take yonder one over there,” he said, pointing to a smaller set with a one hundred kg markings on the black cast iron weights on either side of the horizontal pole.
“Here, I'll show you how it's done,” the tough said, striding manly to the weights. He put his hands on his hips, jutted his chin out and took a weight belt off a stool and buckled it on. He sniffed a few times, made some muscles, stretched and then took a deep breath and knelt. He let it out and then took a second breath and then let it out. With the third breath his entire body explode into action, with a grunt his lifted the weight first up to chest height, and then straining over his head. He held it trembling for ten-seconds and then dropped it, stepping back fast as it bounced to the ground.
“There, that's how it's done,” he said blowing hard.
“Okay,” Irons said watching the man blow. “That's what two hundred kilograms?”
“And the one you picked out is six hundred.”
“I know that, I was just curious,” the admiral said. He leaned over and the muscle man laughed.
“No, no, two hands. He thinks he can do it with one hand!” the tough said to the crowd. The crowd roared in laughter.
“Want me to show him?” a big broad brown bear off stage asked, huffing and making a face.
“No, I got this,” Irons said.
“Suit yourself,” the first tough said, shaking his head and chuckling as he stepped back. “Whenever you're ready,” he said. He turned, smirking at the audience. This was going to be hilarious he thought.
“Sure,” Irons said, getting a grip. He grunted and dry lifted the weight up with one hand. When he had it to chest level he grunted again. “I see now why you said two hands. It's actually hard to balance,” he said in the ensuing silence. He was holding the bar perfectly level in front of his chest. He placed his other hand on it and then lifted the dumb bell over his head. “Where do you want it?” he asked, turning to the tough.
The tough was staring at him. Irons held the bar, not showing any stress or strain. He was rock steady, not even shaking with strain the tough realized. Finally when the man didn't answer the admiral carried the bar over to the side and set it carefully down. “There okay?” he asked.
The tough stared. The crowd roared in disbelief. A pair of humans scrambled onto the stage and brushed past them to try the bar. They strained but failed to budge it. Irons looked at the tough. “Sorry, didn't mean to show off. Can I go now?” he asked. The tough blinked but just stared mute.
“Well, I've got to get going, enjoy your day folks,” the admiral said, waving and then walking off the other side of the stage and then off. People watched him go, a few followed for a bit but then turned back. Irons rounded a corner of the sea wall and then shook his head.
“Showing off indeed,” Sprite said. “You and your questionable sense of humor.”
“It was fun to see the look on his face,” the admiral admitted.
“Right...” the AI drawled.
...*...*...*...*...
“I think I like this,” Sprite said as he felt the wind ruffling his hair.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, this mix has made your tail back off,” Sprite informed him.
“Tail?” Irons asked. Two images of a pair of Siamese cats were projected in windows on his HUD. He wasn't sure what the big deal was. Domestic cats’ right?
“They're Neos admiral. And I believe they're tracking you by scent,” Sprite said.
He stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd overlooked that possibility. A Neo could track him if he didn't suppress his scent. “I forgot they could get that small,” he admitted. Most people thought of Neos as larger, two meters or so. The most common Neos were canines, they tended to be between a meter and two meters tall when standing upright. But other Neos were out there, running around, sometimes pretending to be pets.
“True,” Sprite replied, taking pity on him. Neos were usually a bit larger, they had tended to grow and self-evolve over the centuries since they had been created. Normally a Neo that looked like a domestic cat was either a human genie or someone who had a human genie in their past. These however were the real deal, possibly rare.
“There are otters here too,” Sprite reminded him. He nodded. “I believe the old saying about perceptions and...” he held up a restraining hand to stop her.
“I get the picture. Okay. My mistake. Good catch. Now, any idea on who hired them? Ole Blue perhaps?”
“No idea. They aren't communicating except in sign language,” she replied. He watched a short video she presented of one Neo sitting on her haunches and using hand signs briefly. From the look of her behavior and the thrashing tail of the other, the smaller female wanted the other one to circle around and pick up his trail somewhere else. The other wasn't happy about being split up.
“I'm fascinated that they're here,” Sprite said. “Most Neos of their size were on the core worlds. There was a block on their breeding you know,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Terran cats, normal Terran cats were terrors to local bird and small mammal populations on Earth and several of the early colonies. They drove some animals to near extinction. Neo cats had restricted breeding for some time.”
“Larger cats because of the physical threat,” Irons replied, remembering his history. People were people, having a three hundred kilo predator walking down the street didn't bode well for peace and t
ranquility. Which was why many of the larger Neos headed to the outer worlds after the first AI war.
Neo domestic cats had split into two factions. Some had kept to their size and kinship to regular unmodified cats, while others disdained human contact and disappeared into the back alleys and sewers of their undomesticated kin. A few, a small few had stayed in society, but they had developed an inferiority complex when they compared themselves to their larger kin. Many had re-engineered themselves or their prodigy to a full two meter Werecats in compensation. Those that had followed that path had either intermingled with the other Neo breeds and lost their separate identity, or they had embraced different pelt designs to make themselves stand out.
Either way it didn't really matter now. He had a pair of furry spies on his heels. He sent the mental order to cut his scent and then went on his way, more wary now.
...*...*...*...*...
On the beach further away he ran into a group of genies fishing. They were Terrans who were descendants of people who had engineered themselves to be amphibious. They had gills among other fishy or dolphin traits. Some were mer, some were Naga like. He was impressed by the colors and diversity of the clan. “Fascinating,” Sprite said, highlighting the mix of primitive tools and clothing. Some were fat, needing the excess weight for fuel and to better endure the frigid waters at depth. Others were slimmer, they apparently kept near the surface or in the shallows.
They worked as a well-oiled team, the deep sea divers running lines out while others worked the inshore. The children dug for clams and other creatures in the sands and tide pools.
“They have no fear of a predator attack?” the admiral asked.
“Apparently not. The only predators here are those that came with the colonists. I am assuming sharks are in the food chain, but they may have limited the species to smaller animals.”
“Okay, I'll buy that,” the admiral replied nodding.
“You're not worried about the worms?” a woman asked, looking up at him. He turned to her. Like most of the other women she had some sort of suit on. It was a partial bathing suit, with exposed sections on her sides for her gills.
Plague Planet (The Wandering Engineer) Page 16