The End of Days
by Tanya Huff
ELAINE HUTTON RAN both hands back through her short, graying hair and squared her shoulders. Two station days, she told herself as she entered the Plexis Security offices. Two station days and you’re out. You can handle anything for two station . . .
“Hutton! Got a going away present for you!”
. . . days. She narrowed her eyes as Marion Burr, the C-shift supervisor crossed the room toward her. She didn’t trust the smile on the other’s pale face. Hardly surprising. As a whole, she trusted Burr as far as she could spit a Retian. By the other wall, Jurz, Burr’s shift second, hooted softly, his crest rising. Elaine braced herself. If the Tolian was amused, it wouldn’t be good.
“It’s something you’ve always wanted.” Dimples dug deep into both cheeks, Burr waved at the kid sitting behind one of the shared desks, frowning at the screen, the long, slim fingers of one hand buried in thick dark hair.
At first glance, Elaine thought he could be one of the kids she kept an eye on. Unaffiliated to any of the gangs, they scratched out a mostly legal living, and she helped when she could to keep it that way. Then she realized this kid wore a Plexis Security uniform just like hers. Well, just like hers had been a long time ago—shiny and new and unstained with cynicism.
“We got you a rookie!”
“Did you keep the receipt?”
“I’ve always loved your sense of humor.”
Elaine returned the edge in Burr’s smile with a flat, unfriendly stare. “I’m in this uniform for two days. Heading back to Imesh 27 in three.”
“For reasons which remain unclear to me.”
“I was born on dirt, I’ll die on dirt. Put him with someone who cares.”
The edge of Burr’s smile sharpened. “You care, Hutton. That’s your thing, isn’t it? Chambal!”
The kid stood, all long limbs and youthful grace, and hurried toward them. Older than Elaine had assumed, but not by much.
“Constable Elaine Hutton, this is Constable Geoffrey Chambal. His mother . . .”
“Is Navreet Chambal. She owns Adornment on Upper Retail Level 104, spinward ¾.” Adornment sold the kind of jewelry Elaine would never be able to afford. Or want, for that matter. In her experience, that kind of wealth was a target—although she realized that after a lifetime in security, her experience might not be the norm. The kid looked apprehensive—no surprise—and Burr looked far too pleased with herself for Elaine to attempt to change her mind.
“What did you do, kid?” she asked as they made their way down to sublevel 384.
“Do?”
“To get put with me.”
Chambal waited until three Whirtles passed on a rising ramp, each turning so their airtags were visible to the two security officers, then said, “I asked to be put with you.”
“Were you high?”
He rolled dark eyes. “Three years ago, one of my fathers brought some undeclared gemstones onto the station for my mother’s shop. He got past the Port Authority, but you caught him on the concourse. You told him no one looks that innocent unless they have something to hide. When he tried to bribe you with one of the gems, you refused.”
“It was one of the smaller gems,” Elaine pointed out.
The rookie gave her a look of such intense sincerity, she barely managed to keep from smacking the back of his head. He’d lose his idealism soon enough, no point helping it out the air lock. “I checked,” he said. “You’ve never taken a bribe. Not so much as a free coffee.”
“And that’s why I’m still a constable, two station days from retirement.”
“You have integrity.”
She snorted. “I’m a joke.”
“I don’t think so.”
It might have started as integrity, but it was habit at this point. Elaine Hutton was the constable who didn’t take bribes—it gave her an identity among the masses of shoppers and staff seething through Plexis. It also kept her from the upper levels. Not because those on the lower levels were less likely to offer a bribe, but because, with few exceptions, their bribes were of the sort station security didn’t mind missing. The occasional case of brandy from The Claws & Jaws couldn’t really be counted as an exception given that Inspector Wallace took personal advantage of the Carasian’s reluctant generosity.
“Your parents approve of your job choice?” she wondered, scanning the approaching level for familiar faces.
Chambal shrugged. “My parents are part of a line marriage. I have three blood siblings and seventeen line siblings.”
“They’re happy you’re out of the house?”
“Something like that.” He smiled, his teeth very white and very straight and very indicative of a comfortable childhood. “I didn’t want to be StaSec, I wanted to be an enforcer.”
Elaine nodded a greeting at a passing merchant before asking, “We’re second best?”
“Third. The Trade Pact wouldn’t take me either.”
When she laughed, he blushed. “I wanted to be an enforcer, too,” she told him. “Failed the psych.”
“Too ethical?”
“I can’t remember.” She shrugged and stepped off the ramp onto the crowded concourse. It had been devastating when it happened, but . . . “Time passed.”
“They said I was too soft.” Chambal’s resentment remained evident. “Said I should try again after a little seasoning.”
“Not bad advice.” And she bet his mother was happy he’d remained on Plexis where she could intervene in that seasoning if necessary.
“Why would dispatch call us to deal with a stopped cart?” Chambal followed her into the service corridor.
“We’re not dealing with the stopped cart, we’re dealing with what stopped it.” Elaine squinted down the corridor snaking off into station distance and pointed at the line of stationary carts, quivering with the need to fulfill their programming. “There. Don’t touch the waste canisters,” she added, jogging forward. “A few of them are overly enthusiastic about protein recycling.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I could be.” She spotted two carts approaching from the other direction, about to add to the jam, and sped up. The carts were muttering to themselves when she stopped beside them, knelt, and checked for a pulse even though it was obvious he was dead and had been for a while. “You might have mentioned the body,” she snarled into her wrist com, then broke the signal before dispatch could answer.
The young Human male in worn spacer overalls and equally worn boots had the pale, almost translucent skin of those who seldom saw light from an actual sun.
Chambal swallowed audibly. “What killed him?”
“No idea.” No blood. No burns. No breaks in his physical integrity. No visible damage of any kind except the pale pink mark on his cheek where his airtag had been. Which raised the question: Where was his airtag now? Elaine ran her hand over the area, a couple of millimeters off the floor, fairly certain the tag would find her if she couldn’t find it. Nothing. She reached into the dark, narrow space under a waste canister. Her fingertips touched fur.
“What is it?” Chambal asked as she pulled the small animal free.
He wouldn’t know; he’d lived his entire life on Plexis. “It’s a cat. A revenant—a biological rebuild from history, in this case ours. Like the dragons on some inner systems.” Very few species had accompanied Humanity from its long-lost home. Dogs. Chickens. Head lice. At least what now passed for those species. Who knew for sure—or cared?
A small, but full-grown tortoiseshell, the cat snuggled up against Elaine’s tunic and began to purr after a short protest over the boorish handling. “A pet. Dead kid must’ve smuggled her on.”
“Must have?”
“We have a dead body and an illegal animal. Nine times out of ten, one and one makes two.”
“Okay. But he’s not a kid, he’s got to be my age at least.”
“Your point?”
She could almost hear Chambal’s eyeroll. “How did he smuggle in a live animal?”
“Possibly as food. Or he brought her in for someone with enough pull to blind the Port Authority.”
Chambal reached down tentatively and stroked between the cat’s ears. “How do you know it’s a her?”
“Coloring.” They were too close to the Claws & Jaws receiving area. Legalities concerning the introduction of new life-forms to Plexis aside, Elaine couldn’t leave the cat here, she’d end up as an entrée. To her surprise, as she stood, the cat clawed up her uniform and perched on her shoulders. When she stepped away from the body, the soft, warm weight across the back of her neck shifted, easily adjusting to the movement.
The closest cart bumped against her hip, one, two, three times.
“Do that again,” she snapped, “and I’ll pull your delivery license.”
It gave a high-pitched whir and reversed so quickly it cracked against the next cart in line.
“Record the scene,” she told Chambal, ignoring the escalating mechanical argument. “When you think you have enough details, double it. I’ll call in a servo and, when you’re done, we’ll take the body to the morgue.”
Chambal paused, right hand on his wrist com, dark brows rising. “There’s a morgue?”
“There is. Gets used less often than you’d think.” Elaine reached up and stroked the cat. “It’s not actually that hard to get rid of a body on Plexis.”
“It isn’t?”
“What did I tell you about touching the waste canisters?”
Expression carefully neutral, Elaine watched Inspector Wallace circle the body on the table. While able to admit the head of security was both stubborn and shrewd—character traits she usually appreciated—she neither liked nor respected the official. He was pompous, self-serving, and secretive, and she couldn’t help but compare him to his predecessor, Inspector Duran. Wallace’s opposite in almost every way that mattered, the Auordian had been cleaning house when an unfortunate accident in a temporarily unmonitored section of the waste stream had cut her career short. They hadn’t retrieved enough of the body to determine cause of death.
“One more dead spacer down on his luck,” Wallace sneered, paused at the end of the table, and stared up the length of the body. “Probably thought he was here to make his fortune. Seen one, seen them all. Right, Constable Hutton?”
“Sir.”
“He reminds you of those delinquents you persist in making excuses for, doesn’t it? They’ll end up the same way, mark my words. As for this one . . . if no one claims the body in two station days, recycle it.”
Chambal took a step forward. “We’re not going to find out who killed him?”
“No, we’re not going to find out who killed him, Constable Chambal. We don’t know what killed him.” The inspector waved a hand. “No blaster holes, no knife holes, no blunt force trauma. Eyes are clear, no burst capillaries, so he wasn’t smothered. No swollen membranes . . .”
“It could still be poison,” Chambal interrupted. “Or drugs.”
Wallace nodded. “It could be drugs. But why would we care about self-inflicted wounds? Are we even certain he was killed?” the inspector continued without waiting for a response. “He could’ve just dropped dead. People do that.” Thin lips curled into a disingenuous smile. “His death hasn’t disrupted the smooth running of the station or the lives of the shoppers. There’s nothing on the security recordings . . .”
“And you don’t find that suspicious?”
Elaine hid a sigh as the inspector raised a brow at the accusatory tone. Upper level entitlement was going to get the kid’s ass kicked.
It seemed Chambal had realized that as well. He took a step back and added a conciliatory, “Sir.”
Wallace flicked his gaze over to Elaine, then back to Chambal. “I find that leaves us with no suspects. And nothing to open an investigation with.”
“Except a dead body,” Elaine reminded him.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Except that.”
“Should we find out who he is, sir?” Chambal laid the obsequious on a little thick. All or nothing at his age.
“We’ll find out if he’s reported missing or if someone comes to claim the body,” Wallace said dismissively. “Get back to 384. Try not to get the rookie killed, Hutton.” He pivoted on a heel and left.
“Is he always so . . . cold?” Chambal asked the moment the door closed.
“No.” The inspector had always put self-interest first and, sad to say, dead spacers weren’t rare, but that was overly disinterested in process even for the inspector. And why had he come to the morgue if all they had was another dead spacer down on his luck?
It was either unimportant enough to ignore.
Or important enough to bring Inspector Wallace to the morgue.
It couldn’t be both.
He’d wanted to get a look at the body. He’d wanted to identify the body?
“You didn’t tell him about the cat.”
That cat was asleep in a duffle bag tucked into a shadowed corner. She’d eaten an astonishing amount of shrimp paste and shown no interest in the body on the table. Nothing suggested she was the corpse’s cat. Or he was her Human. But she’d been there in the maintenance corridor beside the body, and Elaine didn’t believe in coincidence.
“Constable Hutton? Are we going to find out who killed him?”
The dead kid’s hands were soft. He had a pleasant, unassuming face. Straight, short brown hair, neither dark, nor light. No distinguishing features at all.
Except . . .
He had dirt under his fingernails.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes. We’re going to find out who killed him.”
“Even though the inspector . . .”
“Inspector Wallace expressed his opinion on the body. He ordered us back to 384. He did not, at any point, instruct us to not investigate the death.”
Chambal smiled wide and white.
“That said, it might be better if you walked away.” Something or someone powerful enough to bring the inspector to the morgue would be powerful enough to put Geoffrey Chambal on a table of his own. Just another cocky kid in a uniform not smart enough to back down. Elaine could take care of herself, but she wouldn’t be around to hold Chambal’s hand for much longer.
He drew himself up to his full height and glared down at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Let’s hope.” He was an adult—however young an adult—armed and in uniform. She had to either assume he could take care of himself or have the body on the table remain nothing more than meat with a face. “You see anything strange about this?”
“Besides no visible cause of death? No. Nothing. He’s eminently forgettable.”
“Isn’t he just.” Elaine bent to get a closer look at his single tattoo. The oval design on his left forearm was a familiar pattern; she’d seen hundreds over the last few years, inked into every age, gender, and species. At his age, a total absence of ink would have been notable, but attention slid past a design so popular.
“At least we know he’s not Denebian.”
Walking over to the bench that held the deceased’s personal belongings, she made a noncommittal noise. Denebians covered themselves in tattoos, the ink a history, a warning, a celebration. “Watch the door. I don’t want the attendants back in here until I’m done.”
Another question. Why had Inspector Wallace dismissed the attendants as he walked into the morgue? Because two constables were witnesses he could control?
The overalls were worn but clean. She sniffed and frowned at the almost familiar scent.
His boots were a style five years old at least. Not that it was unusual for broke kids to wear secondhand clothing.
Even without an official investigation, the body would be scanned before recycling; Plexis preferred to know what went into the waste stream. Elaine lowered the diagnostic scanner and positioned it over the body. If it was going to happen anyway, she’d be breaking no rules and, more importantly, setting off no alerts.
Technically, security personnel didn’t play with the tech in the morgue, but what were they going to do? Fire her? “No poison. No drugs. Not even recreational.” The insides were as aggressively unremarkable as the outsides. Except . . . “Trace amounts of rodamine, but not even close to what would have killed . . .”
“Mmmrup?”
Elaine turned to see a black-and-orange head poke out of the duffle bag. “Come on, then.”
Oozing out onto the floor, moving more like a liquid than a solid, the cat stretched both rear legs, crossed the room, jumped up onto the end of the table, and landed back onto Elaine’s shoulder.
“Does she understand what you’re saying?” Chambal asked, dark eyes wide.
“Not unless someone’s messed with her intelligence levels.” The variegated fur was soft and plush under Elaine’s fingers. “And it wouldn’t matter if they had. Cats do what they wa . . .”
“Is that . . . ?”
The tag had attached itself to the back of Elaine’s hand. If asked, she’d have scoffed at the thought of a cluster of microorganisms looking disgruntled, but that was the best description of the waxy blue patch at the base of her knuckle.
“DoyouacceptresponsbilityfortheairyoushareonPlexis?” Barely waiting for an affirmative response, the Ordnex applied a tag to the Denebian’s right cheek, obscuring most of her starburst tattoo. As she hurried to catch up to the rest of her crew, the Ordnex began to turn to the next in line.
Elaine cleared her throat. “Andohbay.”
The Ordnex sighed and closed her station. “HowcanIhelpConstableHutton?” she droned, ignoring complaints from those waiting to be processed.
“Sorry to slow things down, Ando. I need the data off this tag.”
“Thereareproceedures.” Andohbay paused. Took a long look at Elaine’s face. And sighed again. “Ihonorthememoryofmymaternalunit . . .”
“Thisisnotthemomentofdeath.” One long, multi-jointed finger tapped the screen. “Thetagwasdisplaced.”
“How? Best guess,” Elaine added quickly.
“Electricshock. Bigonethough.”
“HEY! I have places to be!”
Elaine turned slowly to face the big Human at the front of the line and locked her gaze on the florid face. “Please excuse the delay, Fem. This booth will reopen when we conclude a security investigation.” Her tone made it clear what security would be investigating next should there be any further shouting. When she was certain the other understood—few of those who parked in the less than prime spaces on Plexis’ belly wanted to attract security’s interest—Elaine turned her attention back to Andohbay. “Electric shock strong enough to stop a Human heart?”
“Mybestguess—absolutely. Broadenoughbeamwouldthrowoffelectronicsintheareatoo.”
“Thanks, Ando. Haglen-durnon.”
“Sure.Whatever.” Andohbay waved it off. “Enjoyyourdirt. Andyourpronounciationstillsucks.”
“Maternal unit?” Chambal asked as they walked away and the line began moving again.
“Old friend. Made the best hurglon you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’ve never tasted hurglon.”
“Your loss.”
Sorge Nolan. The body had a name. Elaine studied the information they’d pulled from the tag point’s database, while Constable Chambal gave directions to a lost shopper. He knew his way around, she’d give the kid that. “Ident card’s a fake,” she said as Chambal joined her. “A good one, but a fake.”
He peered over her shoulder at the image on her wrist com. “How can you tell?”
“Experience.”
“That’s not . . .”
“Do you have any idea how many fake ident cards I’ve seen?”
“No, but . . .”
“Neither do I. This is fake.” She slid her hand into the duffle and stroked the cat. The quality of the forgery didn’t match the quality of the dead kid’s clothing. Or lack of quality. “Looks like we’re checking used clothing stores.”
“All of them?”
A little too slow to avoid a playful claw, she pulled her hand out of the bag and rubbed the blood off her finger with her thumb. “If we have to.”
Chambal tripped over a loose pile of shoes, righted himself, and twitched his tunic back into place, trying to look as though he’d meant to do that all along. “What are you doing?”
“Ever notice how used clothing has a particular scent?”
“No.”
Of course he hadn’t. Up on level 104 they didn’t wear used clothing. “The cleaning chemicals linger.” Pulling a heavy sweater from the overflowing bin, Elaine held the fabric under her nose and breathed in. Cleansers weren’t necessarily unique to each establishment, but she’d recognize the almost familiar scent of the overalls should she smell it again.
“No, it wasn’t him.” Kir Whol, the proprietor of Why Wear Worn, commonly known among its more frequent customers as W3, waved a tentacle over the image on Elaine’s wrist com. “Is he dead? He looks dead.”
Elaine sighed. “Kir Whol, I’m out of here in less than two days. I don’t have time to gossip.”
“Fine. Was another Hom bought the overalls. Taller. Like him.” He pointed past her at Chambal. “But older. More colorful.”
More colorful could mean any number of things. Comspeak took interesting turns species to species. Following the old StaSec truism that the simplest answer was usually the right answer, Elaine asked, “Multiple tattoos?”
“Yes. Many.”
Which raised the odds the Human they looked for was Denebian.
“Did you get a name?” Chambal asked.
Elaine and the Whirtle exchanged a look as identical as differing physiognomies allowed. “Can you remember anything unique about him?” she asked, both of them ignoring the kid’s question.
Tentacle drumming on the counter, the Whirtle narrowed two of three eyes. “His scent was . . .”
Another tentacle touched the respirator he’d removed to hang around his neck as they talked. “. . . sweet. And sharp. Sweet-sharp.”
“Pickles!” Chambal exclaimed, then flushed as he realized he may have been a bit overly emphatic.
Kir Whol nodded. “Yes. Like pickles, but sweet like fruit.”
“Shouldn’t we have searched the shop for the original clothing?”
“No.”
“But . . .”
“The killer couldn’t possibly have been stupid enough to sell the clothing he stripped off the body to the same shop where he bought the overalls and boots.” Elaine sidestepped a hurrying shopper, set the duffle bag on the edge of a waist-high planter and leaned back against it, feeling the warmth of the cat and the vibration of her purr even through layers of fabric. “Daniel!”
Chambal turned a confused expression her way. “What?”
“Who,” she corrected, nodding across the concourse at a young Human male hurrying toward them, his heavy boots clumping against the floor.
“You bellowed, StaSec?” he asked sulkily as he arrived.
“Hey!”
Elaine cut Chambal’s protest off. “Any chance you or yours were in the maintenance passages in behind Claws & Jaws last spin or so?”
His green eyes narrowed. “We had nothing to do with it.”
“I know what caused the power outage, Daniel, I want to know if you saw anything unusual.”
“Like?”
She raised her brows. Daniel used the maintenance passages as his personal shortcuts around the station and knew exactly what she meant by unusual.
A lock of shaggy dark hair fell into his face, but his hands remained in his pockets. “We haven’t taken the backway for forty-eight. Rose got inventory in, so we’ve been burning.”
“You’re going to take his word for it?” Chambal loaded the pronoun with disdain.
“Daniel doesn’t lie to me.” She noted the flash of pleasure under the sullen exterior and added, “Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Why?” he muttered. “You’ll be hitting dirt in another two.”
“We talked about that.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m leaving you the contents of my quarters.”
“What?” There were two spots of color high on his cheeks as he finally raised his head to meet her gaze.
“Everything that doesn’t belong to the station, everything I can’t fit into a carryall, is yours. You can keep it. You can sell it. Your choice.”
Eyes wide, arms waving, he had to close his mouth before he could speak. “That’s . . . nebular! That’s totally stardust!” Then he frowned, remembered, and slumped back into his sullen posture. “You’re still leaving.”
“I’m still leaving. So will you someday.”
“Yeah. Right.” He spun on a heel, took two steps, paused, sighed, straightened, and turned again. “Hey, Hutt-hutt? Thanks. And, you know, have a life.”
“You, too. Actually, wait, I need you to do something for me.” She picked up the bag just as the cat climbed out of the planter and back into it, shaking dirt off one back foot. “Take this to my quarters.”
Holding a handle in each hand, he stared down into amber eyes then up at her. “Can Jack visit? I mean, he’ll fusion!”
“Sure.” Jack was crazy about animals. The cat would be safer with him and Daniel than anywhere else on Plexis. “Make sure she has water. She likes shrimp paste. Don’t let her out, and don’t spread the word. This is important, Daniel. Don’t tell Rose. Don’t tell Warren. The cat witnessed a crime, and no one can know where she is.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please.”
“We have history,” she explained to Chambal as Daniel left cradling the bag.
“I got that,” he muttered, sounding remarkably like the younger Human. He perked up halfway across the concourse. “Are we going to Claws & Jaws? I’ve never been. My mother has a . . . thing.”
“Sympathies to your mother, and no. We’re going next door.”
Chambal glanced at the hostel, then at the arched entryway to the Skenkran-operated cafeteria on the other side, then at Elaine. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t have a sense of humor. The cafe’s the only place on the station that sells pickled nicnic which . . .” She held up a hand to forestall an interruption. “. . . smells both sharp and sweet and tastes disgusting to everyone but a Skenkran.”
“But we’re looking for a Denebian.”
“And there can’t be more than one Denebian who eats enough pickled nicnic that the smell clings to him. We’re lucky they’re open. Must’ve paid their taxes this quarter.” She led the way past the nearly empty tables to the service counter.
“There’s no one here,” Chambal pointed out, using his height to peer over the top of the displays.
“It’s self-serve.” Diners tapped their ident cards against the containers and took their chances.
He squinted up at the two flickering lamps above the counter. “These lights don’t do the food any favors.”
“It’s not the lights. There.” She pointed. “Pickled nicnic.”
“That’s edible?”
“That’s what I’ve been told. Come on.” She tapped her ident against a reader set into the surface of the counter. A piece about half a meter wide folded up out of the way. “There’s an office in the back.”
“Should I be worried about the way you said office?”
“Not if your shots are up to date.”
The two Skenkrans working desultorily in the prep room barely glanced up as they passed. Security personnel were there often enough they could be ignored.
She’d seen the office in worse shape. Fresh “mud” had been packed against the walls, leaving the center of the room clear. “Flir.”
“Constable Hutton.” Flir raised both arms, the fold of gliding skin flapping. “My old friend. You’ve made a trip to our wesong for nothing. Our taxes have been paid.”
“I’m not here to close you down. I need to know where I can find a male Denebian who eats pickled nicnic.”
Translucent membranes slid across Flir’s eyes. “That’s . . . unusual.”
Elaine shrugged, the motion aggressively nonaggressive. “Easier to remember him, then.”
“Unlike people who desire an audience while they eat . . .” Flir tossed their head in the general direction of the Claws & Jaws. “. . . . my customers are here for privacy.”
“Your customers are here for cheap food and a near-death adrenaline rush. I’d rather not check your stasis chambers, but I will if I have to.”
“I’ve heard you have a ship to catch.”
“Won’t take long to get a StaSec team down here.” She raised her wristcom.
“Keevor’s . . .” Chambal stared wide-eyed at the entrance to the Every Kind Friendly Eatery. “I’ve heard about this place.”
“As StaSec, you’ll hear about it a lot more. And learn to call it the Swill and Heave. Try to not to look so . . . young,” Elaine added, pulling open the door.
The smell hit her first. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted three Lemmicks in one of the booths, the prevailing odor of Keevor’s masking their scent.
“I always thought Lemmicks were kind of pleasant and inoffensive. You know, except for . . .” He rubbed his nose.
“There’s a top and a bottom to every species, kid. This is where most of them hit bottom.” She made her way toward the bar, ignoring the resentful silence.
“What do you think you’re doing, Jelly?”
She turned in time to pull Chambal to her side as the big Human rose to his feet and swayed belligerently in place. Fingers wrapped around Chambal’s wrist, she kept the rookie’s hand away from his weapon. “Do you have any idea of the paperwork you have to fill out if you fire that thing? Even in here?”
“Your baby Jelly bumped into me, Hutton.”
“Don’t care, Murray. Sit down.”
Mouth open, bellowing inarticulately, Murray dove forward.
Elaine shoved Chambal out of the line of attack with one hand and punched Murray in the throat with the other. When he went down, she kicked him in the stomach. Twice. As half a dozen others surged to their feet yelling abuse, she snarled, “Are you stupid? You want to fight, you wait until I’m gone.”
Multiple forms of respiration sounded loud in the sudden, reclaimed silence.
Chairs and other seating arrangements scraped against the floor as the fighters sat and picked up their drinks.
“You okay, Murray?” When he grunted an affirmative, she continued to the bar, Chambal hurrying to keep up. “Sal.”
The bartender polished a glass. “Constable Hutton.”
“I’m looking for muscle going by Dillon Bryant.”
Sal nodded her fluorescent pink head toward the door. “That’s Bryant trying to run.”
Bryant turned at the sound of his name and pulled a weapon, although Elaine couldn’t identify the type. Before he could pull the trigger, Chambal picked up an empty beer stein and threw it, hitting Bryant’s forehead with a meaty thud. Bryant’s shot went wild and half the lights in the back of the bar went out.
“That’s going on StaSec’s tab,” Sal said, cleaning another glass.
“Take it up with the inspector. Good arm, kid.”
He blushed. “Cricket. Top bowler of the Retail League. I expected the mug to shatter.”
“Keevor knows better than to stock the bar with breakables,” Elaine told him as she slapped Bryant in restraints. “He’d never cover his overhead.”
“Has he talked?”
“Good morning, Constable Hutton.” Burr flashed dimples. “Excited that it’s your last day before your dirty retirement?”
Maybe she’d drop by before leaving and punch that smarmy smile off Burr’s face. “Has Bryant talked?”
“About what?”
“About the body.”
Burr spread both hands in the universal gesture for I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m lying when I say that. “He’s in on a restricted weapons charge.”
“He’s wearing expensive clothing that doesn’t quite fit him and, if we check, has probably been made to measure for the body in the morgue. A body likely killed with that restricted weapon he’s carrying.”
“I didn’t know you cared so much about fashion.”
Punching Burr was looking better and better. “I want to talk to Bryant.”
“No one talks to him. Inspector Wallace’s orders.”
Punching Wallace had begun looking pretty good, too. What, or who, was powerful enough to keep Bryant from talking? She knew the type; he’d spill at the first opportunity to cut a deal. More importantly, what or who was powerful enough to to bring Inspector Wallace in on it?
It was a short list.
A very short list.
“One last day with your usual miscreants, then. Was there anything else, Constable Hutton? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how to spend your last day on the job.”
Elaine headed for the door, caught Chambal’s arm as he entered, and pulled him out with her. “You’re still with me, kid.”
“So we’ll never know why he was killed?”
“At least we know who killed him.” Elaine leaned back on the planter and watched a servo, packages swinging, maneuver delicately around a group of Turrned.
“Good thing the cat isn’t with you.”
“Why?”
Chambal grinned and looked even younger than usual. “You didn’t know? She . . . uh . . . relieved herself in that planter yesterday. Dug a hole, buried it.”
The body in the morgue had dirt under the nails.
“There’s security drones on the concourses all the time,” Chambal pointed out hurrying to keep up. “Why are the planters under fixed surveillance?”
“Because this is Plexis,” Elaine told him. “Half the people here will steal live vegetation, half will eat it, and half will try to have sex with it.”
“That’s three halves.”
“I can do the math, kid.”
The security footage was available to anyone with enough clearance, and Elaine’s code was still in the system—although she wouldn’t have put it past Burr have removed it early just to be an ass.
“That’s a lot of data,” Chambal muttered, pulling the screen closer.
“Yes, it is.” At least they had a rough time frame. And Bryant wouldn’t have traveled far from 384.
“There’s a lot of planters,” Chambal sighed a couple of hours later.
“Yes, there are.”
He searched in silence for a while, then sighed again. “This is boring.”
“Not everyone finds a body their first day on the job.” As far as Elaine was concerned, combing images beat being pleasant to shoppers. “There. That’s the kid in the morgue.” If they hadn’t been concentrating on the planters, she’d have never noticed him. No one was that nondescript by accident.
“Right, then!” Chambal was already at the door when Elaine called him back. “What?”
“I think we should check recent arrivals before we head out,” she told him, entering the codes for the first class lounge.
It was late when they arrived at the luxury hotel on Upper Level 22 spinward ¾. She’d considered leaving Chambal behind, but he’d been there from the beginning, so he needed to be there at the end. The hotel had its own security, but even out of uniform, her ident card got her as far as the door of the suite where a large, Denebian fem dressed in a suit tailored to minimize impressive musculature, blocked the way. The suit a virtual sign saying bodyguard.
Elaine opened the duffle bag. “Please inform Raymon Clear that we have something of his.”
The bodyguard looked down at the cat, then held out her hands. “I’ll see that she’s delivered.”
As she’d anticipated this, Elaine released the bag and, ignoring Chambal shifting in place, said, “I’d like to deliver the other piece in person. It’s too small and delicate to go by way of a third person.”
The tattoo of birds in flight replacing the bodyguard’s left eyebrow rose.
Now that is a flat, unfriendly stare, Elaine thought as the other examined her face.
“I’ll let him know,” she snarled at last and disappeared into the suite.
The floor absorbed the sound of Chambal tapping the toe of his boot. “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
“We wait?”
“Get used to it, kid. It comes with the uniform.”
“We’re not in uniform. And stop calling me kid. Could you have taken her?” he asked after a moment.
“Who?”
“You know.” He nodded toward the door.
“She’s twice my size and likely knows more dirty tricks than I’ve ever heard of.”
“So no?”
“Maybe.”
The door of the suite opened into a large reception room with lush carpeting, low, plush furniture, and, to the left, a wall of windows overlooking an unfamiliar city. A bird, or possibly a lizard, flew past.
Plexis had no viewports, ensuring privacy for those coming and going from her docks, but even knowing it was fake, the view was magnificent and Elaine had to stop herself from stepping toward it.
Raymon Clear stood by an inner door, cradling the cat against a tunic that had probably cost more than Elaine’s entire wardrobe. He looked younger than Elaine knew he was.
“You have something of mine, Constable Hutton?”
Elaine held out her hand, the data disk on her palm.
He nodded at the bodyguard who took the disk and slid it into her wrist comp. “First level access only,” she announced after a moment. “There’s been no attempt to breach the firewalls.”
“We went only far enough to identify the owner,” Elaine added.
Clear raised a brow. “Why didn’t you turn the disk in to the authorities, Constable?”
“Does it contain criminal data, Hom?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why would I? Particularly when I already had something of yours to return.”
He stroked the cat. “Ah, yes. And you found the . . .”
Elaine didn’t know the word. It sounded nasty, and as though it had a short shelf life.
“. . . who killed my messenger.”
Not only a messenger. Not from the grief in his voice. “I regret to inform you, the body is no longer in the morgue.”
Clear nodded. “I’m aware.” He stepped away and the door behind him opened. Dressed in rich Denebian clothing, exposed skin as tattooed as any of his people, the dead kid lay on a bier draped in glistening silks. Elaine glanced up at the fixtures and the UV lights they now contained. Offered enough credits, hotels were willing to redecorate.
“Why . . .” Chambal began.
Elaine cut him off with an applied elbow. Sometimes those with enough credits, like a high ranking member of the Blues—one of the two ruling Denebian syndicates—needed their messengers to be unrecognizable. Everyone knew Denebians had multiple tattoos.
Clear’s smile was enigmatic as he waved the door closed. “Our organization is in your debt, Constable Hutton, both for your actions regarding our messenger and the return of our property. We dislike debt, it complicates things. So . . .” He stroked the cat again. Her tail smacked against his side. “. . . how can we discharge it?”
She’d never taken a bribe. Not a case of brandy, not a free wrist com, not a large enough payout from the Grays—the Blues competition—to make the dead messenger disappear. Not so much as a cup of coffee. “I’d like the cat.”
Chambal sucked in a disbelieving breath. By the time he finished coughing, the cat was back in Elaine’s duffle bag.
Clear’s second smile was triumphant. “So, it seems we’ve found the price of the incorruptible Constable Hutton.”
“No. You’ve found the price of Elaine Hutton.” She nodded toward the chrono on the wall. “I haven’t been a constable for seventeen minutes.”
“Are you sure about this dirt thing?” Chambal asked at the boarding gate.
“Born on it, will die on it,” Elaine told him, shifting her grip on the duffle bag. “Besides, cats don’t belong on a station.”
“I guess.” He shifted in place, looked like he might be going in for a hug, until Elaine glared that thought off, and finally said, “So, any last words of advice?”
She’d told him who to keep an eye on—both those who might need his help and those most likely to be up to no good. She’d given him a list of her most useful contacts. She’d left him with information on Inspector Wallace to use as he saw fit. She’d brought him to the attention of someone high in a criminal syndicate although, as yet, there was no way of knowing if that was a good thing. Not bad for just under two station days. As he seemed to be waiting for words of wisdom, she said, “Not doing a thing can be as powerful as doing a thing.”
“That’s not . . .”
“Also, don’t eat at the Skenkran café.”
“I know that.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows that.”
Everyone didn’t. She smiled. “You’ll do, Constable Chambal. You’ll do.”