The Tau Ceti Transmutation (Amazon)

by Alex P. Berg

  “I know,” I said. “But we’re here looking for something. Your boy toy in front told us you had a lost and found.”

  Boy toy?

  “Friend? Acquaintance? Confidant? Broodmate? The guy selling waffles.”

  I see. You were using a human term of endearment. I will have to remember this one for future reference. But my thinking has veered tangentially. Yes, we have a lost and found. What have you displaced?

  “A sock,” I said. “Do you have it?”

  It would depend. Can you describe it?

  “I don’t know. It’s a sock. We think a friend of ours lost it here.”

  The Dirax clicked its pincers, a tic I was starting to think could express any number of emotions from disapproval to annoyance. You are here to retrieve an article of clothing that does not belong to you? I am unfamiliar with many human customs, but this seems unethical to me.

  “No, it’s not like that. This woman, Valerie Meeks, she hired us to investigate—”

  The Dirax stuck a pincer in the air. No. I cannot allow it. Apologies and best wishes to you.

  I gritted my teeth. Dealing with aliens could be a test of composure and patience—two personality traits I wasn’t particularly adept at. Back in my kickboxing days, I’d succeeded in most of my bouts mainly by adopting a devil-may-care attitude, intimidating my competition, and attacking like crazy. I’d mellowed in my early-middle age, but I still didn’t do well with curtness. Thankfully, Carl rescued me from my own temper before it boiled over.

  “We can describe the article in question if it makes a difference,” he said. “We’re looking for a sock of roughly this length—” He measured it out with his hands. “—and white in color, with a blue stripe across the toes.”

  “How do you know any of that?” I asked.

  “That’s the match to the other mismatched sock from Miss Meeks’ dresser,” said Carl. “It only makes sense the other sock was misplaced here.”

  I tried to figure out how I hadn’t made that connection while the Dirax contained to act as if whatever organ inside of its body that performed the actions of a heart was made of stone. No. I cannot let you have it. It is not appropriate.

  “We don’t actually need the sock,” continued Carl. “We just need to look at it.”

  The Dirax waggled its antennae as it considered our request. Very well. I do not see how a visual inspection of the article would violate any social conventions of ownership. I will show you what we have.

  The large insect creature turned and shuffled toward a wall-mounted shelf from which it pulled a small box about the same size as two loaves of bread pressed side to side.

  “This is your lost and found?” I asked.

  Yes. The Dirax opened the box and held it forward.

  I snorted as I took stock of the contents. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The creature leaned forward. Do you now require the restroom?

  “No. That snort was another expressive mechanism,” I said. “And please stop asking me about that. It’s weird. But I’m starting to wonder if this is all some big joke between you, your friend, and me.”

  I don’t understand.

  I reached into the box and pulled out a length of white cotton. “This sock is the only bloody thing in the box! Of course this is what we’re looking for!”

  Please be gentle, intoned the Dirax. We agreed to a visual inspection only.

  I sighed and let Carl and his delicate hands take over. He poked at the bottom of the sock, then reached in and pulled out another slip, similar to the one for the Veesnu chapel we’d found at the Funporium except this one exhibited a much more businesslike aura, with a name, an address, and an insignia printed upon it in a bold typeface.

  You cannot retain that, the Dirax’s voice instructed. By being within the sock, it is considered property of the rightful owner. At least I believe that is how proprietorship would be applied in this case. Sort of a chicken and egg scenario, no?

  “I think you’re mixing metaphors,” I said. “But it’s all right. We’re not going to take the slip. We only want to look at it.”

  Carl handed it over so I could get a closer look. The slip listed a Dr. Francis Castaneva, Professor of Exoneurobiology at Cetie University in Pylon Alpha. An address was listed underneath the name.

  “Anything I’m not seeing here, Paige?” I asked.

  There’s a bunch of promotional research vids on the slip, she said. Fun stuff. You can watch them on the climber trip back to Cetie.

  Fun. Right, I thought.

  I handed the card back to the Dirax, who accepted it with a surprisingly gentle claw. After giving the creature a somewhat insincere thanks and suffering through another misinformed lecture on human property law, I ushered Carl back into the spaceport hallway, managing to escape before the waffle vendor tried to sell us on any more Veesnu mumbo-jumbo.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets as we walked back toward the climber, a frown working its way onto my face despite my best efforts to the contrary.

  Carl noticed. “You’re rather surly for a guy who had the next clue to his case delivered to him on a silver platter.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And that’s precisely why I’m surly.”

  Carl raised an eyebrow.

  I tried to elaborate. “Doesn’t this seem odd to you?”

  “Many aspects of this case seem odd,” he said. “To what in particular were you referring?”

  “Everything,” I said. “I mean, we already established how strange it is that someone broke into Valerie’s apartment and instead of stealing anything, other than a pair of socks apparently, they organized the joint and left behind a mystery token. That behavior’s odd enough, but everything we’ve found since? It’s as if the perpetrator intentionally left a trail of breadcrumbs for us to follow. What kind of thief—or not-a-thief, if you will—wants to get caught? And if they want to get caught, there are easier ways to go about it. They could’ve sent Valerie a ping or showed up at her doorstep and confessed.”

  Carl nodded. “It would appear we’re being intentionally strung along. The question is why, and to what end?”

  “Exactly.” I snapped my fingers a few times, but no revelations spontaneously popped into my head. “Oh well. We should probably tell Valerie what we have and haven’t found. Paige, can you connect us?”

  A trill sounded in the back of my mind, the distinctive sound of a Brain call. It rang five, six, seven times. “Um, Paige?”

  The trill stopped.

  Sorry, Paige said. Looks like Miss Meeks declined the call.

  I looked at Carl. “Hmm.”

  “She must be busy,” he said. “Try again later.”

  My android friend was probably right, but the conspiracy theorist in me wondered if perhaps Valerie hadn’t answered for a different reason. What if the intruder had intentionally led us on a wild goose chase to isolate Valerie and place her in a vulnerable position? Could my precious flower of a client be in danger?

  That’s a ridiculous notion and you know it, said Paige. If someone were after Valerie, why would they wait until you were involved before going after her?

  Paige had a good point, but I still couldn’t get the thought off my mind. At least, not until Paige bored me to sleep with neurobiological research vids she’d culled from the cardslip during the climber ride back to Pylon Alpha.

  8

  “Ah, college,” I said. “The camaraderie, the pageantry, the passion! These hallowed grounds sure take me back.”

  We walked down the campus’s west mall, a broad expanse of walkways and manicured grass hedged by neat rows of knee-high white orchids and canary-yellow birds of paradise. Hanging over them swayed bright red-orange poincinias, more commonly known as flame trees, their boughs heavy with so many blossoms I could barely discern the green leaves underneath the brilliant crowns of vermilion.

  I took a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the sweet, sticky scent of the flowers and the damp, earthy aroma of
the freshly cut grass, though other smells lingered as well. Stale beer and old urine, I think.

  “Um, Rich, I hate to break this to you,” said Carl, “but you never went to college, much less Cetie U.”

  “Oh, I know that,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t crash my fair share of college parties. And let me tell you, there’s a certain liveliness and vivaciousness that erupts at a party full of college co-eds that you don’t find anywhere else. It could be the exuberance of youth, or the eagerness of open minds—”

  “Or the copious amounts of alcohol consumed,” said Carl.

  “—or that,” I admitted. “But still, good times.”

  We crossed onto a path lined by rose-colored hibiscus flowers that wound to and fro like a drunken river before spilling out in front of a high-domed building crusted with cornices, balustrades, parapets, and other completely unnecessary details architects seemed intent on cramming onto the front of every academic building they could get their hands on. Perhaps the embellishments’ purpose was to lend an air of knowledge and sophistication to buildings that essentially functioned as gathering spots for kids with too much money and time on their hands, but the cynic in me thought the adornments had a more basic purpose—one that resulted in more SEUs in the bank for the architects and builders.

  Carl and I shuffled into the building and took a lift to the third floor, working our way down a cream and white hallway edged with elaborate baseboards and crown molding before ending at the address our lost-and-then-found sock-clad slip had indicated.

  The door winked open, and we walked into an austere room with only four pieces of furniture in it: three plush chairs and a slim, curved, clear plastic desk that reminded me of a wave cresting upon an invisible shore. Behind the desk, in one of the chairs, a woman sat.

  She was short, just over a meter and a half, with big dark eyes and long, chestnut brown hair held in a tight ponytail. The slim nose perched on the front of her face held a bit of a curl to it, but in a natural way, not one forced by awkward manipulative surgery.

  On the far wall across from the woman, images from a projector spun and swirled—proteins folding and molecular diagrams assembling. Within the maelstrom sat static equations featuring lots of symbols that weren’t a part of the traditional English alphabet.

  The woman jabbered away at someone on her Brain as we entered. “—but that’s exactly what I told the oversight board. I know they expect a grant proposal in by tomorrow morning, but the problem is we can’t submit it without knowing the T-base sequencing mechanics, and our programs to model them haven’t finished processing the projections. Unless the dean kicks McDougal off the cluster in the next half hour, I can’t imagine we’ll be able to finish in time, much less analyze the results.”

  She finally noticed us. “Hey, can you hold a sec?” She turned toward Carl and I. “My office hours are from oh-fourteen hundred to oh-sixteen hundred on the same days as my lectures.”

  I glanced at Carl. “Why does everyone always assume they know what I want? First Keelok, then that Dirax, now one of the finest minds Cetie U has to offer. You’d think people would ask more and assume less. You know what they say about people who assume, right?”

  “Excuse me?” said the woman.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We’re not students. Are you Professor Castaneva?”

  “Well, clearly he’s not a student,” she said, gesturing at Carl and his robotic physique. “And yes, I am.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you from the funding committee? Maybe you can talk some sense into the oversight board. I’ve been interfacing via Brain with Darna all morning, but she can’t seem to get them to grant us an extension. Maybe if—”

  “Slow down. I’m not with any board. The name’s Rich Weed. I’m a P.I.”

  “Yeah, so?” she said. “I am, too. Just about everyone on our faculty is. Are you here about a collaboration? Because now’s not a good time.”

  I blinked. “Wait…what? You’re a private investigator, too?”

  “What? No.” The professor shook her head. “I’m a principal investigator. The head of a research project. You’re really a private dick?”

  “Whoa, watch the language,” I said. “Carl here gets easily offended.”

  “He’s joking,” said Carl. “He does that a lot. But to answer your question, yes, we are.”

  “Darna, let me call you back,” said Professor Castaneva, waving us in and pointing us toward the two open chairs. “Sorry about that. I’ve been up to my elbows in grant bullshit all day. Makes me snappy. So you guys are private investigators, huh? I didn’t know those still existed.”

  “Few people do,” I said as I took a seat. “We’re something of a dying breed, Professor.”

  “Call me Fran,” she said. “Professor Castaneva makes me sound too much like my father. So what’s going on? What brings a pair of private eyes my way?”

  “We’re investigating a case,” I said.

  Fran raised her eyebrows. “Yeah…I figured as much. I may not have any experience with detective work, but I do have a Ph. D., you know. I was looking for more specifics.”

  “And, believe it or not, I was trying to avoid them,” I said.

  “Huh? Why? Are you involved in something lurid?” The professor leaned forward. “Don’t tell me there’s a sex scandal going on in the department. Not that I’d be that surprised. I’ve seen the way Professor Doyle looks at some of his grad students.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing like that. I was avoiding specifics because I have so few of them.”

  Fran leaned back. “Explain.”

  “Well, our case is a little…unorthodox,” I said.

  “Which is putting it mildly,” said Carl. “Our client hired us to investigate a trespassing that occurred at her apartment, but nothing was taken. Instead, the intruder left behind a clue, ostensibly to help us find him or her.”

  “It was a token for an antique gaming cabinet,” I said. “One that led us to an arcade in the spaceport owned by a Tak named Keelok. Once there, we found another clue leading to a Veesnu church operated by a couple of pair-bonded Diraxi, except the church also served waffles, if you can believe it. And the waffles were good. Darn good. But that’s not what we were after. We were looking for a sock, and we found it in their lost and found. That led us here.”

  “A sock led you here?” Fran asked, her brows furrowed.

  “Well, not precisely. One of your promo slips was inside.” I pointed to a desktop slip holder, full of slim, plastic rectangles with the Cetie U logo emblazoned upon them, which faced me from the corner of the professor’s workspace. Other than a holoprojector base which looked as if it could be used for displaying anything from vacation stills to brain cross-sections, it was the only thing on her desk.

  “One of my slips was in a sock?” Fran glanced at the holder. “You’re not just making this up are you?”

  “I told you it was complicated,” I said.

  Fran rubbed her thumb and forefinger across the edges of her thin, pink lips. “You know, I’d be happy to help you, detectives, but I’m struggling to see how I fit in here.”

  “You’re not the only one,” I said. “Trust me, I know how this sounds, but unfortunately I’ve told you pretty much everything we have to go on. You’re telling me there’s nothing about my story that sounds familiar to you?”

  “Gaming tokens? Waffles? Socks containing clues? No, none of that is at all familiar,” said Fran. “However, I suppose it is rather interesting you found my slip at a Veesnu church. I’m a professor of exoneurobiology, and my area of expertise is in Diraxi brain function.”

  “So?” I asked. “Veesnu is a Diraxi religion, but what does that have to do with your research?”

  “More than you’d think,” said Fran. “Through we call Veesnu a religion, it’s more of a cross between a theology and a science. There’s a lot of principles in it that have their basis in the fundamentals of Diraxi brain function.”

  “I sense an explana
tion is heading my way,” I said. “I should warn you, I never went to college, so I’m not particularly adept at sciencey stuff.”

  “It’s worse than that,” said Carl. “He also spent a number of years taking kicks to the head for a living.”

  I glanced at my fair-haired partner. “Maybe that firmware update of yours really is messing with your circuits. That felt particularly snarky.”

  “It’s a statement of fact,” said Carl. “The intent was to inform Professor Castaneva of your learning handicap.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ve been medically diagnosed,” Carl reminded me.

  “I wasn’t going to lecture you,” said Fran, holding up her hands in appeal. “Honestly, I’m not an expert on Veesnu, though I do find it interesting.”

  “How so?” I asked, leaning forward.

  If you were that curious about the religion, I could’ve briefed you on your way here, said Paige.

  Yes, but you’re not cute and fleshy, I thought as I gazed at the Professor’s pretty little nose.

  “Well, think about it,” said Fran. “The Diraxi neural system developed to transmit and receive communications through electromagnetic pulses, which is how they’re able to communicate with those of us with Brain implants, but unlike our electronic devices which are tailored to transmit and receive along certain wavelengths, the Diraxi are able to pick up a wide spectrum of transmissions. Think of their antennae as providing them with a sort of sixth sense. Just as we can focus on a smell or sound, they can focus on a particular electronic transmission, but that doesn’t mean they don’t sense, at some level, the noise around them. And the universe is full of electromagnetic radiation, not just from the activities of sentient beings, but from the cosmos itself. You could see how an early Diraxi culture might be inspired to base a religion upon the ‘voice of the universe,’ as they sometimes call it.”

  I nodded as I pretended to show interest.

  “And as intriguing as all that is,” Fran continued, “the really interesting part is how their neural architecture processes and filters the signals. Have you ever noticed how Diraxi communications don’t feel the same as incoming Brain missives? Sort of how it feels like they’re thinking at you instead of talking to you in your head? Well, it’s because we don’t actually require Brains to interpret their communications, only to receive them.