While the business of homicide detective was a gruesome one, it came with its merits—namely, the deterrence of boredom, and free tickets upon first-class interstellar vessels.
Mr Iridinus Rock stood on a metal boarding platform beneath mustard-tinged clouds. The industrial ruckus buzzed around him in a bubble of humanity. The scents of ship-hull metals, bodily perspiration, various propellants, imported solar ice, caffeinated drinks, and a smorgasbord of others he could separate, reached his snubby nose. The chill of high-altitude wind and the insulation of flesh and metal bodies clashed upon the temperature battleground of his skin. Staticky air wore him like an oversized suit, and if he’d had any hair upon his head or arms, he was certain they would reach for the skies like overexcited critters.
Rock eyed the craft in a mellow manner, wearing the rarest variant of his famous multi-formed half-smile—loose and stretched, adding a dimple to his pale, rounded face. There was no distinction between face and head for the man, for the two merged to one spherical object. It was not unlike a moon, with its pockmarked surface. Whenever the time came for Rock to display the razor-sharp variant of half-smile that meant a murder was on, his facial appearance would still be that of a moon, but with a crescent one projected on-front. It was a peculiar look, but any killer’s worst nightmare. When Rock was on the scene, the mystery was as good as… deceased.
The vessel was modeled like that of a primitive train, except it stood up-right for the process of leaving atmosphere. It was blood-red and rimmed in gold, and Rock spotted only a mere three specks of imperfection upon its hull.
A well cared for lady.
A doorway opened at the bottom of the craft, and down came a small flight of stairs.
“Go on, lad,” came a nasally voice. “Fetch their flipping stuff, we’re slacking on time!” a skinny man with a long face emerged from the craft, an old-fashioned conductor’s hat on his head and a disheveled, navy-blue uniform covering his body. “Ello, uh, passengers! Welcome to the Ceti Express!” he glanced at his watch, licked his lips, then grimaced.
A tall, long-limbed boy came after, then descended the steps. He had a defined face, but young features—eyes bright, blue, and innocent. He walked with a youthful and upright stance that suggested he was new in his career, and intended on working hard, but with the subtle hesitance that indicated fear of the unknown when it came to his future.
The young man nodded to Rock with a toothy smile. “Hello, sir. Welcome. May I take your-“ He glanced down at Rock’s empty hands.
Rock flashed his amused half-smirk—thin, with a delicate flick. “Thank you so much, but I travel lightly you see—I dislike baggage, or anything that will burden or suffocate me.” He put a hand into his green cloak and extracted a hand-sized bag.
“And before you judge me, because—what? This man wears the same clothes at all times? No, I carry twenty-three pairs of super-adapt under-and-over garments—anti-antiperspirant and scented—which I swap out every morning beneath my cloak and overcoat!”
The boy opened his mouth, closed it, then smiled pleasantly. “Okay, sir. That’s great!” With that, he passed the detective and approached the other passengers.
“Well, I am the luggage!” Rock announced, empty hands out to his sides. He smirked at the conductor and said, “May I enter?”
The entrance was reminiscent of a hotel waiting room—except on a minuscule scale. It was after-all, merely for show. There was only one door in the room, and on the other side were the crash-seats that the passengers would occupy while the ship left atmosphere. After this, the craft would tilt, and the passengers would have access to the full vehicle.
Rock stood patiently as the steward boy brought in the bags. The conductor leaned against a wall, chattering his teeth together and pouting his lips in and out. Rock stretched his arms and legs as he inspected the man.
He was a fellow with little care for things, but with a natural anxious aura that came out in his jittery movements. The anxiety was not for the consequences of failure, but for the lack of motion. Seat him in a quiet room full of mutes, and the silence would drive him into a gibbering frenzy, which would almost certainly lead him to expelling any information one wanted to extract. Already, Rock knew that this man could keep no secrets from him. This was comforting, for Rock knew not to trust a soul in this dark galaxy. Except for his grandmother of course—grandmothers were the most trustworthy species in all the cosmos.
The first to enter the waiting room was a woman of insectile proportions. Rock deciphered within three seconds that she was a sportswoman from Cusco, a dwarf planet in Sirius’ main belt. Rock’s logical route had been: pale skin indicates a distance from the sun. Stooped posture suggests a tunnel-dweller. Pink stripe tattoo on face translating to “Victor” in Incosmo colour lingo—spoken on only five dwarf planet nations, all within the Incosmo Empire—is a cosmetic quality fitting of a nationalistic Cuscan.
The small, broad woman glanced at Rock and nodded. “Hey.” Her common-speak was heavily accented, ending in an “ah”.
Rock imitated the nod, and said, “Greetings, the title I own is Mr Rock. Which are you the owner of?”
The lady snorted. “Interesting way of asking me what my name is, mate. I’m Pacari.”
“A victor?” Rock inquired.
She nodded. “You’re a fan of the Tlachtlii-games?”
“A fan? I will not lie to you. But an interested observer? Indeed!”
She shrugged. “Fair, mate.” She crossed the room and slumped into a chair with a sigh.
Rock continued to stretch, and smirked pleasantly, not hiding the way in which he inspected the two newcomers with his green eyes.
They stepped in together, but with a distance that suggested an awkwardness. Slightly ahead, was a man in a three-piece suit inlaid with more precious gems and metals than a queen’s vault. The suit itself was stark white—a bold move, performed only by a bold man! Bold, that is, yes, not bald, like I!
The suit fit the body to perfection, exaggerating all muscular bulges within the man’s peak physique. He was a giant of a man—seven feet almost—and with dark, sun-baked skin. A true, proud, innie, the detective thought. Clearly raised by a privileged family on a terrestrial world within a planet’s habitable zone—around a G-type star undoubtedly, for high UVs produced fine skin like that. This was no man from a gravity-lacking rock, or a terraformed, artificial land. He was proud of it too. The brief glance he gave Rock and Pacari made it clear that he looked down upon anyone who originated elsewhere.
Hmmm, not so fond of moonies, like me, no?
He was also a man utterly consumed by work. While his skin was pristine, the colour of his eye-bags were off by a fraction—evidently covered over artificially by a man who cares much for his appearance. While this suggested a body deprived of rest, his mind was clearly awake and alert—eyes sharp, like homed missiles, each blink the clicking of a calculating machine. The alertness-despite-physical-fatigue of a man for who career and life go hand-in-hand.
The man behind also wore a suit, but next to the other it looked like a mere joke. His was yellow—indicating an intellectual—and above the left breast was a sewed-on badge of a Nova-graduate. He was very proud of this, but he wore it out of insecurity—to elevate him above other flaws, Rock decided. Despite the dip in extravagance, Rock suspected this man cared even more for appearances than the other. While his hair was swept neatly to the left, there were minuscule strands that pointed up and in diverting directions, in a way that Rock could almost see the scene of the indecisive man combing left, then right, then left. He wanted to appear particularly striking and important for this trip, and Rock had a feeling he knew who for.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” Rock said.
White-suit ignored the greeting and approached the seating area.
Yellow-suit gave the detective a delayed glance. “Uh, hello,” he said distractedly.
“Mister Rock,” Rock said with a dip of his head.
“Perisolar,” Yellow-suit uttered, then adjusted his suit while watching white-suit’s back.
Stolen story; please report.
White-suit made a point to sit three chairs away from Pacari.
Rock watched, both amused and curious, as Mr Perisolar warred with whether or not to sit by his more esteemed acquaintance. He looked left, then right, then… with a visible inward sigh, took a seat beside White-suit.
“Oh,” the other man said.
“We have a lot to catch up on, I think, Croyman.” Perisolar said, after clearing his throat.
Croyman frowned. “Call me by my family name around such… company,” he scowled in Pacari’s direction.
The asteroid-dweller laughed loudly, then stretched her feet in front of her. She uttered a cough that strangely resembled the word “asshole”.
“Ah, sorry,” said Perisolar. “Osnovalight, we left things a tad, uh… awkward, I’d say.”
“Hmm?” Croyman Osnovalight looked straight ahead as he spoke. “I don’t recall much of my time at the academy. I’ve moved to better things.”
Wow-wow, a very bold man indeed.
The drama was interrupted by the ushering in of the remaining passengers.
“Come on, come on,” the conductor was saying with a strained smile.
The steward strode past, beaming, with arms engulfing an array of heavy bags.
Six others entered. Rock extracted much from them all in his brief sweep of the eyes.
The conductor slammed the door behind the final passenger—a small, smiling man in checkered shirt and jeans. He offered a nod to every individual in the room and announced himself simply as “Ethon”.
Ah, a polite fellow, how refreshing.
“Alright chaps and chappesses, this is where I tell you lot what you’re in for!” The conductor tittered, then checked his watch. “Except we’re tight on time, ya see, and so I ask if I can do that part… after launching.”
“How much did we spend on this?” the speaker was a tall, dark-skinned woman with enough hair on her head to summit a mountain—its tips ending just before the floor. She smiled after speaking but glanced around the room, as if to ensure that the audience was amused by her words. Her lips were smothered in dark lipstick that gave her a permanent pout.
“I don’t give a dying star about the price, it’s the principal that bothers me,” said Croyman Osnovalight in casual anger. He held and inspected a pad-screen while speaking. “I have somewhere to be, and so am of the mind that we get a damned move on. I’ll make sure this conductor is replaced of course, he is likely to blame.”
The conductor coughed. “Uh… I… I am awfully sorry about— can you do that?”
“Is he talking to me?” Osnovalight didn’t look away from his pad.
“I’m sure you can do that, but I’d appreciate if—“
“—We aren’t in the presence of a black-hole, you knowww,” the tall lady said with another smug smile and check around the room. “Time is running at its usual pace. Tick-tick-tick,” she flicked her finger with each sound effect, then cackled horribly.
The conductor cleared his throat. “Apologies to everyone, we’ll deal with all… speaking matters once we’re off-planet.” He clapped his hands, muttered a few words under his breath, then rushed to the door across the room. “Everybody in here,” he continued. “Strap yourselves in, yada-yada, you know the drill.”
All ten passengers took seats, where they strapped themselves in.
The steward boy darted across the room, ensuring that each chair was secure. Afterwards, he left the room to where the crew seats likely were. There were three crew members aboard the ship. The only remaining stranger would be the chef.
Whom I must acquaint with, for Mr Rock does not travel with strangers, no, no!
The shuttle rattled for a brief moment of turbulence, then smoothened out in the fashion of high-end, modern comfort.
Rock turned his head to the left, where a chipmunk-faced man was strapped in. Chipmunk looked to the ceiling like it was mama bird after a fortnight of starvation. Sweat trailed his sickly face and a layer of ginger stubble matched the thin red fuzz upon his skull.
Not quite bald like I. The fellow should go all the way—I’ve always found the egg-head style quite striking!
“Hello there!” Rock chimed pleasantly. “Rock. Not pebble, nor asteroid, but a thing relevant to both. And you?”
The man didn’t look away from the ceiling but took a dramatic gulp. “I-uh… huh… whah?” he struggled to talk between breaths. “Rocks?”
“My name. Rock. Mr.”
“Oh. Hello Rock… I’m… um, Shermon? Volts, that is.”
The room darkened a touch as the shuttle reached space-bordering skies. Artificial lights turned on above—a soothing, blue.
“You appear a touch nervous, Shermon of the Volts.”
“Uh… y-yes! It’s just space travel.” He swallowed. “Gets to me.”
“Ah wow. And in this day and age? A difficult disposition to have.”
“Yeah, you’re not wrong.” He laughed nervously.
Rock glanced at the window, seeing atmosphere fade to black space.
“I used to be afraid of spaceflight too,” Rock said.
Chipmunk blinked, head still raised. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm. When I was just a little rock, space travel meant a new home. Foster parents found me… odd, yes? Whoever knows why!” he chuckled. “There are many moons around the gas giant, Verdeisa, and I must have frequented all of them! But I reached an age where I enjoyed the journeys. A new location meant new questions. New faces! New adventures!”
“I prefer familiarity,” Volts managed, closing his eyes.
“Then what draws you from home?”
Volts’ eyes shot open. “Work.”
“Yes?”
He nodded. “At King Alexstar’s feast.”
Rock’s eyes sparkled. “Ahh, that is where I head too! As an honoured guest for a favour many moons ago.”
Volts swallowed. “A… favour?”
“Yes.” Rock’s lips curved just a touch.
“What kind of favour?”
“An investigation.”
Volts nodded. For the first time, he turned to look at Rock. “I thought I recognised your voice. You’re the detective. Iridinus Rock.”
“Indeed, I am!” And why does this bother you?
With the Ceti Express flipped and on its way, the passengers were each taken to their rooms. Number seven-B shared walls with Perisolar and Black-lips. The room was large for a space-vessel—big enough to fit a king-sized bed, with stark red sheets and a curtain. A projector and speakers hung on the ceiling for custom room aesthetics. A large ornate dresser filled half a wall, with a bulbous lamp on top.
As Rock was relocating his mattress to the floor, the conductor’s voice filled the shuttle, announcing dinner.
The diner was spacious and blue-walled, with four long-tables evenly spread out but close enough to give a feeling of togetherness. Only one other passenger was present, and he conversed with a man in full stark-red outfit and tower-like hat. The chef.
Red? How odd. I respect it!
The chef dipped his head to Rock with a blank expression, then retreated through a set of double doors. The passenger looked to Rock and outstretched his arms.
“Hey there! Comrade!”
“Greetings, happy man! Rock—sedimentary, for I have many layers. But perhaps a tad igneous, for my skull is as hard as obsidian,” Rock explained with a wave.
“Ah. Exostan Leek. I can say that I didn’t grow in the ground and am not green like my vegetable counterpart.”
Rock chuckled loudly. “I am glad, for that would have been quite unusual, my vegetably friend.”
“Yes, it darn would, my geological pal.”
This man is a killer, Rock thought. Perhaps not now, but once. Ex military. Served in Quadrasar. His skin was dark—not from birth, but from extended time in sunbaked, thin-atmosphere worlds. He had the short and thin-boned stature of an asteroid dweller, but with a leanness and highbacked posture of a disciplined man. A scar caressed him from chin to throat—easily removable but worn as a reminder.
“Would you like to acquaint this moonie as he eats his food?” Rock asked pleasantly.
“Of course, comrade!”
The two sat down opposite one another.
Perisolar entered next, ensuring an upright posture as he did so. He glanced around—surely to check if Osnovalight was nearby.
“What brings you aboard the Ceti Express?” Rock asked.
Leek flashed a canine smile. “Why would you like to know? Are you a spy, Mr Rock?”
Rock smirked at the man. “And who might I be spying for, in such a scenario?”
“You tell me. I’m not lacking in enemies.” His scarred hand tapped a tune on the table.
Rock noticed Perisolar take a lone seat on a table to his far left.
“Widows and orphans?” Rock prodded.
Leek’s smile diminished slightly.
“I’m sure all was necessary in your line of work.” Rock shook his head. “Grave business indeed, that war.”
Leek frowned. His friendly demeanour shifted to guarded rigidity. “You know me?”
“I do. As of two minutes ago.” Rock gave his amused smirk.
“Then how do you know I’m a Quadrasar vet?”
“I apologise if I’ve made you uncomfortable my friend, I have a habit of reading people and irking them quite fast into the relationship. I merely decipher things.”
“I see,” Leek grumbled. “Well, you seem genuine enough. Quite refreshing to say the truth.” His easy nature returned. “And downright strange too—I’m awfully messed up in here,” he prodded his noggin, “So I’ll get on well with the likes of you.”
“Brilliant! Fantastic! I do so love to befriend all who I travel with.”
“Hmm. Good luck with that.” Leek side-eyed Osnovalight, who just now had entered.
Interesting.
Rock noticed the way Perisolar watched Croyman Osnovalight—eyes as affixed as a predator’s.
Pacari came next, followed by an elderly woman, both approaching Rock’s table. The older woman was tall with impressive posture for her age, and remarkably clear skin. She was so cleanly presented, and yet with such deliberate and ordinary modesty, that Rock had fast deduced her royal relation to King Alexstar.
The rest of the passengers soon entered. The short, polite man—Ethon—strode straight to the chef to help with serving.
The crimson chef soon arrived at their table.
“You are on the vegan list, yes, madam?” he asked the princess, in a gravelly voice.
“Yes, dear.”
He served the four of them. “Enjoy,” he said with a bow, then left.
Rock noticed Perisolar change seats to sit with Osnovalight.
Rock and his three companions conversed jovially, while the detective took in the three-dimensional puzzle that was the cafeteria—now fully occupied. The many lives, ambitions and opinions clashed like a silent force of nature. Such a thing was powerful, and Rock could almost feel the pebbles raining before the landslide… His lip twitched.
Osnovalight stood and left, pad-screen in hand, leaving a full plate and an embarrassed Perisolar.
A cough.
Rock turned.
A splutter. The clattering of cutlery.
Rock looked with concern—and morbid interest—to the modest princess as she held a hand to her mouth. She cleared her throat.
The conversing continued and while the princess tried to maintain her composure, it became evidently more difficult.
“Sorry,” she said abruptly. “I feel unwell. I believe it is the travelling.” She stood up and left.
Oh dear. And so, it begins.
The silent mechanisms turned upon the Ceti Express, as it carried its thirteen occupants deeper into interstellar space.
Author's Note:
This was written in 2023 for a creative writing university module called "Adapting Crime Fiction" in which I had to take inspiration from an existing piece of fiction and alter it. If you hadn't guessed, I chose Murder on the Orient express, but changed it dramatically. I came across the piece and thought I may as well do something with it. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you'd be interested in a continuation :)