The room itself was filled with both organic and inorganic medical and scientific equipment, most of which I recognized, but some of it had to be of Centauri origin. The genetic sensors were arrayed in the center of the room along with a half-dozen glass tanks filled with bulbous, semi-mummified, organic masses. The scientists would put the genetic sample into each tank and allow the sensor to give it a thorough sniff. Depending on whether or not the sensor liked what it smelled, it would sound out a variety of whistles, each signaling a different genetic defect in the sample. Of course, one sensor could only do so much, so there were multiple sensors smelling for different types of defects.
Lining the room were about ten different…well…cells, each big enough for a human or two to live in comfortably while having their genetic insides turned upside down.
I swallowed very loudly. This was definitely the dangerous place.
I motioned for the rest of the team to fan out, not too far from one another of course. Ariadne kept close to my elbow, but surprisingly wandered off toward items I hoped she was recognizing. She’d pick up a piece of old equipment or two, inspect it and put it down, all while a concerned expression drew itself on her face.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Oh sh—” I began, cut off as a hand, seeming to materialize itself out of nowhere, curled around my arm. Another hand clamped my mouth shut as I tried to scream.
A fierce Ariadne swiped at the interloper, trying to put the shock pads on whatever tangible skin there was. She finally succeeded and I clenched my jaw to keep from biting my tongue off as the electricity coursed from the ruffian’s body into mine.
I made it to the ground, coughing and sputtering. It looked like the rest of the team was having the same kind of trouble. Pairs of mutilated humanoids started fights with Skirm, Alyx, and Cabochon, all displaying a dazzling array of strangeness. Some were overly short, some had skin that was almost melting off their bodies, some had eyes that glowed in the low light.
Yup. Definitely an illegal genetic-manipulation lab.
The ruffian that had tried to catch hold of me had coarse, bumpy skin that flickered with a variety of natural colors. It reminded me very much of a chameleon, and made it possible for him to blend into the walls around me. He tried to stand up on disproportionately long legs and arms. His eyes were almost tear-dropped shape as he looked at me.
“Stay down,” I told him coolly. I’d rather not have to fight these people. He didn’t seem to mind the idea, resting his head back on the floor where he’d fallen.
I scrambled to my feet as quietly as I could, still shaking from being electrocuted. Ariadne had already crossed the room, trying to catch another person with the shock-device. I picked up the knife Skirm had given me, looking to see what the best target would be. Throwing the knife was out of the question because it was a free-for-all melee and I might hit someone on my own team. So I dove into it, flicking my knife toward one of the guys with glowing eyes. He moved almost fluidly, shifting to the side. He slapped me upside my pretty little head.
Of course, I’d pick the guy who seemed to have an unnatural affinity for fighting.
I righted myself, giving this fellow a good once-over. I might not have great eyes in the low light, but from what I could tell, this guy seemed to be part cat. I thought back to the mother cat and kittens Ariadne and I’d rescued on Myrkheim, cute, adorable, and tolerably sweet; not exactly good reference material for taking down this cat-man. At least he didn’t seem to have razor-sharp claws. I took a swing at him with my knife, which he dodged easily.
For what seemed like an amazingly long and frustrating period of time, the cat-man toyed with me. I’d make a move, he’d dodge it. He’d attack, I’d try to defend and simply get slapped again. He smirked and remained content to simply harass me until I was well worn-out. It would be a while before that happened, however, because I was also getting very angry. This man was being flippant with me, not even taking my efforts with any major amount of seriousness.
Jerk. I’ve fought bigger.
I told myself to calm down after narrowly dodging one of his irritating, slap-based attacks. Getting angry without doing anything to fix the situation is deadly, so I observed. Cat-Man had to have a weakness of some kind; everybody did. What was it? I chanted the words over and over in my head. One good smack sent me flying halfway across the room. Ah, his patience and fun did have an end. That was good to know.
I thought over every move he had made as I recovered from the slap. His defense was almost impenetrable, up until he went on the attack. Using his height and strength against me was great, but it made him cocky. The window of opportunity that I had between his attack and him returning to the defensive was small, so I’d have to be quicker than I ever had been before.
I took a great big swipe at Cat-Man with my knife; he deflected it easily and, as I expected, returned it with another slap. This time I threw myself toward him quickly. Not so quick that he didn’t start retreating immediately — he was part cat after all — but it was enough for me to shoulder his next slap and thrust my knife into his exposed side. His eyes grew big as I stared into them and he whimpered slightly. It didn’t have to be a fatal wound, but it was enough to send him scurrying down the nearest hallway, leaving me and my now-bloodied knife behind.
I turned back to the rest of the fight and someone threw a cheap shot across my nose. I screamed loudly as the healing cartilage was re-shattered. One of these days I might even learn how to duck properly.
“How’s that, little one?” a sickening voice cooed. Of course, I couldn’t see who exactly it was, but I had enough information to figure that out. Who else took some kind of perverse pleasure in breaking my foremost facial features? I blinked back tears to look up at Ottoman, who sneered.
“Where’s Set?” I asked, trying not to sniffle. I started to stand up slowly, only to have a run-in between Ottoman’s boot and my stomach. I gasped as the air escaped my lungs at startling speeds. I curled sideways, trying to breathe again, and Ottoman followed, poised to kick me again.
So I slammed the knife I still held into his thinly shoed foot. The blade went through boot, flesh, and floor, pinning the murderous Lee in place. Ottoman yelled in surprise, giving me a moment to stand back up.
He reached down for the knife, but not before I caught his head, slamming it down onto my knee. He began to fall backward in reaction, but couldn’t quite catch himself with one foot still immobile. Ottoman’s head fell with a loud thud onto the floor and for a moment I almost figured he was dead.
Unfortunately, while I’d witnessed his still-breathing form, Set had not.
“You promised he would live!” the other twin/clone came out of nowhere and screamed. Before I could react, he caught me by the throat, shoving me backwards until I was up against the wall. He held me by the neck with his right hand, using his left one to jam a blade into my right hand, pinning it to the wall in much the same motion I’d used to incapacitate Ottoman.
Karma was a…pig.
I gasped and sputtered, panic filling my mind as I tried to pry open the addict’s grip. My eyes widened in terror as I watched Set squeeze the life out of me. His face had the sharpest and most keenly bent-on-death expression I had ever seen on a living being. Setesh was not a human, he was a weapon, a genetic monster, and while Ottoman was bad, Set was the one who’d set up their reputation. He was the murderer who loved it, who relished the idea of killing over and over again. But somehow he’d known that was wrong, somewhere along the road he’d decided to empty his brain with drugs instead of continuing to kill.
I tried to squeak out a few words, trying to plead to whatever part of him hated what he’d become, but all that came of it was a few garbled noises.
Set pressed harder with both hands, and my vision grew spotty.
I would die because I was a bumbling idiot, I mused.
Of course, I couldn’t even do that properly.
A blur of a
human came up to Set, the overly task-saturated psychopath not noticing that something was wrong until Ariadne had already begun her punch. The princess’s hand connected solidly with the side of Set’s skull, rendering the psychopath instantly dazed and releasing me from my doom.
I sputtered loudly as I fell to my knees, hand still skewered to the wall.
“Marcie!” Ariadne called after she’d made sure Set was unconscious. I gestured to my hand as I coughed. The princess carefully removed the excruciating hand/knife combo from the wall, leaving the blade in place to staunch the bleeding.
I took stock of the rest of the room. It appeared that our team won, although both Alyx and I were in need of some serious medical intervention, as the ghoul-lady held a bloodied towel to her side. It must not have been a serious wound, however, since she was still standing upright and smiling her ghoul-like smile. Ottoman and Setesh were both incapacitated and safe to bind, along with one or two of the other genetic experiments, including the grey-skinned chameleon and little fish-girl from earlier who Griffin brought down at Cabochon’s behest. Secure in the idea that Alyx, Ariadne, Skirm, and I could handle the highly incapacitated mutants, Griffin and Cabochon headed back to the first house to get back up and find paramedics.
“I don’t wanna be a skiptrace,” I whispered hoarsely.
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Ariadne said, sporting a new busted lip, as she ripped the knife out of my hand without warning. I yelped in pain as she wrapped the wound in a swath of fabric.
So I waited impatiently for the paramedics to arrive.
Twenty-Two
“Need help with that?” I asked Ariadne as she struggled with our substantial stack of Receipts of Capture. The folders threatened to slide off of one another onto the damp ground.
“Count how many usable hands you have right now,” she muttered, almost tripping over her own feet.
“One,” I muttered, looking down at my bandaged hand as if I could still see the knife sticking out of it.
“Use it to open the door,” the princess said, panting.
I sighed loudly, but pressed the iris’ access scale. We were both bandaged, healing, and in possession of a sizable Receipt of Capture from the Old II’s police department, where we’d delivered the Lees and all their illicit genetic experiment compatriots, too. While the chief of police couldn’t let us in on all the details, she hinted that we’d unearthed one of the biggest and oldest illegal genetic manipulation laboratories in the area.
My hope that this unruly stack of captures would please Aristotle had gradually turned to irritation that the lawyer had sent us into the mess in the first place. I didn’t feel like this was any sort of test to prove I was worthy of the skiptrace license; it felt more like the room was full of idiots. What I did hope was that I could curb my tongue.
“Come,” Aristotle’s voice wafted from behind the door. The organic membrane retracted, revealing an unchanged room with the lawyer seated behind his desk. He looked up at us for a moment without recognition. Once he finally did realize who we were, his eyes went big and he started pleading.
“You’re really alive,” he exclaimed, standing up in surprise.
“Yeah, about that,” I said as Ariadne slammed the receipt onto the lawyer’s desk. “We really, really shouldn’t be.”
“I know; once you left I heard all about the Lees. I can’t describe how sorry I am.” Aristotle was beginning to sweat. Despite his nervous demeanor, he sounded genuine. He reached into his desk for a checkbook and began scribbling into it. “That was a horrible mistake.”
“Did Silene of Ascalon contact you?” I demanded.
“Yes, yes, and I have taken her up on the offer of keeping my records up-to-date,” the lawyer said, handing me a check. “Here is the total bounty for all the quarries you took into custody. Plus I am willing to foot the bill for whatever healthcare you need for mission-related injuries.”
I looked at the check, scrutinizing it before handing it to Ariadne. I watched the shamed lawyer in front of me as he looked me in the eye sincerely.
I might even get a little cosmetic surgery for my nose.
“I’m sure you ladies want to get on with finding a new lawyer. I can officially mark your license as up for representation,” he said. I looked at Ariadne.
“Are we really going to fire him over a messed-up file?” I asked the princess. She tugged at the check thoughtfully. In all honesty, we really didn’t have much of an option. While we had uncovered a massive conspiracy, it was unlikely any lawyer would be willing to risk hiring two beat-up sprites such as ourselves. I also happened to know that Aristotle’s company was not known for its mistakes, and was already suffering great losses, what with only four working skiptraces — and that counted Ariadne and me.
“I don’t really think so. As long as he pays to get your nose patched up properly,” Ariadne said.
“And pays for a new wardrobe for you,” I commented.
“You guys know the definition for idiot is to repeat the same thing over and over expecting a different result?” Aristotle said.
“You said you’d take Silene’s offer, so technically it won’t be repeating the same thing over,” I shrugged. “You’ll be better prepared.”
Aristotle sighed, but it sounded largely in relief.
“Come and see me for a new mission whenever you want it,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake. After Ariadne and I took turns shaking it, we strode out the door.
Bonus Scene
How Humans Discovered Pluripotent Cells
Time: A little over 70 years ago
Location: Station Eden-3, in heliocentric orbit between Mercury and Venus
Human engineer Culman Andrews let out a long, slow sigh.
He was greatly enjoying the process of turning the organic Eden-3 into the system’s biggest cyborg by combining human living technology with Centauri machineries. The whole station smelled in equal parts of warmed-over wheat - a common scent for plant-based organic structures - and of the plastics and metals brought in from the Proxima Centauri system. Eden-3 was a sort-of testing ground to truly push the limits of what human and Centauri collaboration could accomplish and Andrews was at the very heart of it.
So far, though, it mostly involved staring at the Centauri-invented electricity-based screens for inordinate amounts of time. Andrews looked back at his screen, but unfocused his eyes and let the numbers and diagrams it projected get comfortably fuzzy. He couldn’t understand how his Centauri compatriot - short-ish, grey telepath named Whiffle - was able to watch these screens for so long without needing any sort of break. Maybe it was his flat, dark eyes or some kind of implant that eased the visual stress of staring for so long.
After a moment of rumination, Andrews finally refocused his eyes and set back to his task, noted the dust that was beginning to collect on the top of his monitor. He reached up and began to wipe the dust off, slicing his finger along the sharp metal edge of the screen’s casing.
“OW!” he yelled, retracting his hand and inspecting the damaged finger. It was bleeding quite a bit as Andrews looked around for something to use as a bandage.
Are you injured? Whiffle said without any outward sign of communication. The Centauri telepathy was still weird to Andrews, but he was getting used to it.
A little, Andrews said/thought, still looking for a makeshift bandage. Without warning, Whiffle reached over and grabbed Andrew’s injured hand. Taking off his argon-providing mask, the Centauri exposed his small mouth and gave Andrews’ wound a good lick, then returned the mask to his face and went back to work as if nothing happened.
Andrews looked at the saliva-covered appendage with a barely veiled mixture of horror, revulsion, and uncertainty. He wasn’t necessarily disgusted at Whiffle - Andrews always tried to remain open to alien customs - but as a human, Andrews didn’t see any benefit to what had happened.
Uh, thanks? He thought to the Centauri carefully wiping the spittle onto his coveralls.
> Tsk, tsk you didn’t let it sit long enough. Whiffle made the strange clicking sound Centauri do when they’re irritated.
Pardon? Andrews asked as Whiffle once again took his injured hand and licked the wound.
You’re just like a baby, making other people lick your wounds. Whiffle sighed. Don’t your human mothers teach you to lick your own wounds?
“Teach me what?” Andrews said aloud without thinking. “Humans don’t lick their wounds, at least not literally.”
Then how do you heal? Whiffled asked with almost affronted curiosity.
“We put a bandage on like normal,” Andrews said.
That’s the exact opposite of normal. Does your saliva not heal you? Whiffled asked. Andrews shook his head.
“No its actually unsani—” the human glanced at his finger. He yelped aloud and stumbled out of his seat, falling less-than-gracefully on the organic floor. The formerly wounded appendage was looking mostly whole and uninjured. He rubbed it repeatedly in disbelief. There wasn’t even any pain or scarring.
You really are idiots, Whiffle laid his pronouncement across the whole of humanity.
“Is this why you’ve been licking the organic walls?” Andrews asked.
After our current discussion, I’m very concerned about the fact that it took you this long to ask why I was doing that, Whiffle folded his arms.
“Good point,” Andrews said, still looking at his finger. “We should probably tell the medical about staff this.”
Whiffle shrugged and turned back to his screen.
Author Biography
Honestly, this book is probably way more interesting than anything I could write about myself in an author’s biography. Does the book tell you my favorite ice cream flavor (mint with brownies)? Well, no. Does it tell you if I’m a dog or cat person (actually I prefer fish, but cats are cool)? No, not really. Does it tell you that I grew up at the end of civilization and that I’m actually faxing all of my books through time to be published thousands of years before I’m even born? Duh, of course not. That would be silly. And would result in my immediate arrest by the local Temporal Enforcement Authorities (TEA).
Set'em Up Page 27