A short while later I was sitting looking at the dry rot on the wall of my room in Sweetheart Heights, fingers idly running checks over the deadly weapon I’d built myself as I *waited*, long as I dared. I’d been given three days — seventy two hours — but I was also sure that now I’d seen the body I was soon to become persona non-grata far faster than that.
More Cake was missing from the puck, though not through choice. I could sleep when this was all over. If I slept now, I knew I’d end up in a steel coffin of one sort or another, on another one-way journey. Potential side-effects of paranoid delusions, apophenia and pareidolia be damned.
Io worked on Terran time, though the day-night cycle was entirely artificial. Five o’clock was quitting time. Tick, tock, tick… tock… seven o’clock was even more important. Happy hour at the bars.
I got up, fighting to stay vertical for a moment, then packed *all* my tools and headed for the ground floor. I thought for a moment about using what passed for the fire escape, but… naa, straight out the lobby. I’d been thinking for the rest of the afternoon, thinking hard, sure that I had missed something yet not really sure what. At quitting time it had all become clear.
Gordon Silas definitely hadn’t died from a normal accident, oh no. His death was most likely due to the kind of ‘accident’ that involved getting in the way of a tweaked-out dorarizin, something that the galactic senate would rather be swiftly forgotten about. Of course, it was being dressed up as a human squabble *made to look like a dorarizin attack* so that everybody would turn the other cheek. After all, everyone knew that no dorarizin in their right mind would ever *actually kill* a human.
Gordon Silas had been murdered because he’d found something out he shouldn’t have; something was going on at Marv’s Meat Packing Co. and I was going to find out what if it killed me.
Squawky had put me on the right track, I had most likely found my way to exactly the right place, I’d just got there several hours too early and I’d been too dumb to figure it out.
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Night in a hab is much the same as night on a planet; the same pregnant quiet, the same dark corners, the same hushed whispers. I paid extra for the human cabbie to forget he’d seen me and I paid more still for not only the forging of my ID in the system but the route and final destination. I wasn’t convinced any of it would work to throw off those interested in my whereabouts, but if I was very lucky that could only work in my favour. There wasn’t much to steal in a meat packing company, at least apart from the heavy equipment, so in theory security would be light. I turned off my wetware all the same long before coming anywhere near Marv’s, anything running even passive scans wouldn’t know a thing. Location caching was supposed to be illegal, but it was hardly a secret that you could be subpoenaed for it.
Marv’s Meat Packing Co. was indeed deserted, save for a couple of lone guards. I watched the perimeter until I thought I had their patrol routes down — do a half-hearted patrol of the main gate, nip inside the complex, most likely for a coffee refill, then retire to the gatehouse… it wasn’t a patrol so much as a patcrumb — then snuck inside under their nose whilst liquid refreshments were being had.
I didn’t regret my purchase of a hat — a nice, wide-brimmed trilby — on the way to the actual plant, it would literally and figuratively keep the heat off my head should there be any surveillance. I held on to it tightly as I squirmed my way through barbed wire fences and scooted under barriers.
Marv’s business wasn’t big on electronic security; the fewer cameras and the lower their resolution, the less that what passed for OSHA would have to say about what went on in this low-rent chop-shop. I would still have to be careful, however.
The downside of my current ease of entry meant that whatever was going on probably wasn’t centered here. I just hoped I’d find enough clues to get me to where trouble was really going down. I was, however, certain I’d find *that* info right here.
The locks on the doors to the building I was interested in were, unsurprisingly perhaps, plainly mechanical. They were heavy and well-built, but bowed to my firking about with a pin tumbler and torsion rod in short order. Gritting my teeth for the inevitable alarm, it took me several long seconds for the thudding in my ears to die away enough to be sure I hadn’t heard one. That didn’t mean that a silent alarm hadn’t been tripped, so whatever I was going to do now, I’d better get to it.
I still remembered the route to Marv’s office, but it was slow going in the darkened workshop. The ever-present smell of pig shit and piss permeated everything, and glistening, wet tools hung from racks. There was a *lot* of sharp, blunt and just plain effective implements of death and dismemberment here. My eyes, adjusting to the dark, spied what had to be a walk-in freezer with electronic security locks on it in the back, judging by the cooling system. It hummed away merrily. I shook my head; lots of people still paid a premium for hand-made goods, I guessed. The automated systems further down — and there were long channels to funnel animals down that led to an automated abattoir that could be adjusted to send streams of pigs this way or that as needed — were more than likely capable of producing any particular cut anyone could ask for, but the tools right here told me they likely picked off prize animals for special treatment. It was clear this was also where they did mass inspections of their herds, culling for disease, disposal — a largish incinerator sat quietly roaring to itself, still dealing with the last of the day’s unwanted trash — and otherwise dealing with the messy part of life and death that involved humans.
A large counter on the wall had the number of ‘days’ since the last accident, nearing two weeks. What looked like a betting pool was underneath it, or possibly quotas. I moved on. No sirens yet, no sudden lights, no shouts… I knew at some point the game would be up, but so far everything seemed copacetic.
I tried not to touch anything, even though I was wearing gloves. I was pretty sure that pulling any sort of fingerprints or genetic profile from *anything* in this factory would be an exercise in frustration, but it made sense to be careful.
I found the stairs in short order. This would be the second real hurdle after breaking and entering in the first place. Navigating the iron steps with iron railings, in the open, without being spotted. I paused, ears metaphorically perked for any trouble, counted to ten, then tip-toed my crouched way up to the second floor.
The balcony above the shop floor wasn’t any less exposed and I fought to keep my breathing steady instead of bursting out into ragged gasps. After an aeon I made it to the door into the nicer office area that belonged to the miniscule number of white-collar workers. The lock here too was purely mechanical. I swore under my breath, reflexively, as this mechanism was a lot harder to pick on account of how much my hands were shaking, but after another ice age this lock too snicked open and I cracked the door and slipped in.
I closed the door, wincing at every sound the mechanism made until the door was flush and I’d released the handle, then I glanced around. The lights were manual, I hadn’t spotted any sort of alarm, and it appeared I could act with relative impunity. Something wasn’t adding up. I was more and more certain now that the jig was already up and that I was running on borrowed time.
None of the internal doors had locks, so gaining access to the boss’ office itself was a literal cakewalk, but my first stop was the receptionist’s computer.
As luck would have it — treacherous the Lady may be, but she is also not without a sense of humour it would seem — a post-it note was affixed to the flatscreen with the password. Wincing anew at the necessity, I fired up her computer and logged on. I dialed the brightness down as low as it would go, but was forced to trust that the internal nature of this area would prevent actual trouble from the glare.
The company’s records were simple enough to access, but ten minutes of searching didn’t turn up anything out of the ordinary. The only thing that stuck out were the entries for ‘retired’ workers, papered out, that stank of payoffs for that accident counter outside. I knew for a fact nothing would stick from any of this level of petty bureaucratic shenanigans, so was forced to look elsewhere.
It was in the boss’ office that I struck paydirt. Really, I figured, it was obvious when you thought about it. What’s food without sauce? Condiments? A filing cabinet had the *real* papers in it, filling out the transactions that, in the computer database outside, were just *numbers* for special orders.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
It seemed that Marv was dealing in a very lucrative cash crop of some sort, pencilled down as ‘special orders’. With Squawky eager enough to send me here, with Gordon’s death being so obviously graphic, I figured it was probably the one product that was ridiculously easy to come by in one corner of our galaxy and yet so incredibly heavily restricted in another, *green*.
‘Green’ was a karnakian plumage cleanser, akin to scented sand or soap. For karnakians, it was a pleasant and highly sought-after, freely available and well-loved product, but for the dorarizin… well, alien biologies what they are, green was like pure rave in a bottle. Laced with various other compounds, it gave older dorarizin the edge in bed, revved up their muscles, made the world come alive. It was heroin, speed, smack, angel dust and pcp all rolled into one.
It also tended to send them into a wild, homicidal rage that didn’t end until everything else in the immediate area was torn to shreds or the dorarizin’s heart exploded, whichever came first.
Green was, therefore, *very lucrative* in the right hands. Why *not* shuffle it through a dead-end human station? It didn’t do anything much for humans, so it would be very easy to deal with, wouldn’t ping any of the human interdiction systems and the senate — already on tenterhooks with the human race as a whole — would keep their noses out without a damn good lead.
Oh, great.
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I reasoned that was *my* job in this whole godforsaken mess.
I swore again under my breath as I continued pulling out ‘special orders’ from the filing cabinet, then had to stifle a whoop of joy; something was going down tonight if the newest entry with just a date and no other monetary details inked in was anything to go by. If only I could find out *where*.
This facility was rapidly becoming an obvious courier hub for illicit goods, but none of the data I was pulling out told me *anything* about where and when, just the what, and without the illicit goods, without the green, I had nothing.
Kilos and kilos of ‘special orders’ were ear-marked for various shipments to the wider galaxy, hidden within the general product shipments being sent out to not only human worlds but dorarizin, karnakian and jornissian — and none of it would matter if I couldn’t prove they were for anything but gourmets.
If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say some of these special orders were, from the code names, other products than just the obvious ‘green’. If I could crack the code, I could come up with something to go on there, too, once I got myself out of here.
As I closed the cabinet and started searching for some sort of hidden cabinet or safe, I figured that maybe some of the flow was cold, hard cash in return. That would surely be the easiest to figure out, and to trace. Would it weigh less than other shipments? Always have the same dropoff point? Or be the same order type? As I scanned the entries looking for patterns, I sniggered to myself. Hah, ‘cold’ hard cash.
All these shipments were nominally for different cuts of pork; they had to be hiding the goods in with it, *literally frozen*. With a nice, thick, organic shield around the real goods, most sensors wouldn’t see anything untowards until it was far too late. Skim off the special box — maybe even in flight in some cases — and it’s gone. The galaxy was a big place, it made truly policing restricted goods a nightmare. Most financial transactions were performed to the galactic block-chain, but breadsticks and even analog currency were far from unusual, and provided for a more intimate, if not immediate, transfer of funds.
If there had to be an open port to get into the standard shipping channels, then human space would be the perfect cover for not only goods but money laundering services. In truth, this was big, bigger than me. I felt the weight of responsibility settle not-so-comfortably around my neck even as I heard the footsteps outside and the door to the outer office click open.
I saw the lights in the reception area come on by the glare under the door to Marv’s office, followed by a sudden babble of hushed voices. The takka-takka-tak of somebody accessing the receptionist’s computer came next.
In moments, the jig would be up. I swore again under my breath. I’d found what I thought was the safe, but there was *no way* I’d be able to break into it before I was caught. To be honest with myself, there was no way I was getting out of here without a fight. Clicking the ‘on’ button on my plasma pistol, I prayed to whatever gods were listening that it would remain stable and actually function as I squared myself off, facing the door.
Moments later, the handle jiggled, then turned.
Letting out a huge bestial yell, I charged. I slammed into the door as it opened, braining the guy behind it, hopefully breaking an arm or knocking him unconscious.
No such luck, though I had knocked the wind out of him.
As I yanked open the door again, I noticed two security guards and three heavies in bloodied smocks, two of the latter picking up one of the former. Piggy, from before, was there, being the one heavy not manhandling a guard.
Almost instinctively I raised my arm, gun in hand, and blasted the ceiling. With a bright, disorienting *foomf* of light, a good deal of the industrial ceiling disintegrated, along with a good section of sprinkler piping. Water rained down around us as I barrelled through the crowd, sumo-charging Piggy. He went down like a sack of blubber, almost bouncing as I rolled over him.
A hand grabbed my leg and twisted as I tried to get up. I saw stars as my jaw hit the ground, blood gushing from either a bitten tongue or a split lip. I twisted too, lashing out with a boot to Piggy’s face as a ham fist the size of a small dog gut-punched me, another heavy had got into the mix.
Piggy let go with a squeal, but two more shapes descended on me. I rolled over on top of one, head-butting and biting as what felt like a night-stick slammed into the back of my head. I rolled again, using the body now on top of me as a shield, and brung up my plasma gun. Multiple swears rent the air as my assailants dived for cover.
I wasn’t about to commit murder, however, and my shot was aimed more to disorient than kill. Another shower of sparks and flames as the desk exploded, and I was free to throw off the guy who was now laying limply on top of me like a sack of ugly potatoes, having been beaten heavily by his friends. I jumped up, covering my face with my arm as I levelled the gun at my other assailants, then turned and ran for the door.
I pelted down the metal walkway, no longer caring about stealth, as four figures charged after me, shouting and hollering. I fired at the metal in front of me whenever the gun announced it was ready, jumping the holes as they formed, panicking as I heard the structure start to buckle and bend. In a bound, I was down, as with a screeching cacophony, the stairs detached from the superstructure.
Screams sounded out as the four guys fought to not end up on a heap on the floor behind me, but I couldn’t stop to make sure nobody was seriously hurt. I didn’t even stop to look back at the doors out, luckily they hadn’t been locked behind the guards as they’d come in, and kept on running as I leaped over the barrier. Somehow, my new trusty hat stayed with me. Truly, a gumshoe’s best friend and most valuable item of clothing.
I was away, but hardly safe. By morning, everyone would know *somebody* had broken into Marv’s and taken a gander at the ‘secret menu’. I was screwed if I couldn’t come up with something *tonight*. My only chance was the deal that was, with luck, going down right at this very moment.
Hailing a cab with my wetware as I brought it back online, I headed for the one place I was sure I could find some more information, The Fox and Stoat, home of fences, low-lifes and, hopefully, a karnakian who’d see things my way. If I’d been on the clock before, then now the alarm bells were ringing.
I sat and breathed heavily in the automated cab as the automated systems whisked me through the habitat. Driven cabs were preferred in the same way that actual restaurants still employed waiters, but when you wanted fast food you punched your order up on the screens. I had to get to Squawky ASAP.
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I was disgorged more or less right next to the entrance, and didn’t even hesitate on heading in.
Inside, the atmosphere was livelier than before. The deadbeat drunks were fewer, the conversations more hushed, but the regulars were on form. The dirty dance floor had been cleared of most of the detritus and multicoloured lights were flashing rhythmically as some heavy bass loops made my gut vibrate. Snakes, humans, raptors and gorilla-dogs all seemed to be enjoying themselves, though the latter were wearing this seasons in-vogue dual air-filter gas masks and the raptors were wearing colourful binding tape on their talons and claws.
I made my way through the mass of biologicals, heading for one particular booth. I couldn’t tell if Squawky had moved during the intervening hours, but there he was, with his body-mutts still on duty. I heard their buzzsaw-like disapproval of seeing my face again as they ground their multiple rows of teeth, but I ignored it.
“Hey there, old buddy, old pal, so nice to see you again!” I called to Squawky, forcing a cheery grin on my face. I’m sure it looks like a rictus.
“[The feeling is not mutual, human. What do you want? Unless you’re buying or selling, I suggest you find another place to sit.]” Squawky gestured to Larry and Curly
“You know, you never did tell me what it was you did,” I tell him, attempting and failing to slide in opposite him in the face of some large, furry walls of meat.
“[I sell… merchandise. For rent. For short periods of time. I’m sure I could find a spot for you in my, ah, stables, if you’re truly interested.]”
For a brief moment, I’m forced to entertain the idea of a future where I’m some sort of male pet gigolo to ogling xenos. My brain bluescreens, then reboots. He’s a pimp, right, focus on that. I size him up for a moment; he probably doesn’t like drugs. Probably doesn’t like ignorance and bad behaviour. Green would be… bad for business. It’d attract karnakians, which was good, but if one third of your clients — I wasn’t sure how much he sold *to* xenos versus humans, but I *was* sure he sold humans — would end up devouring your merchandise, well, that’s *very bad* for business. Had I been sent to exactly the right place to get rid of a rival? A thorn in his side? I led with that.
“Look, Squawky, I like you. You may not like me, but I respect you. Product like Marv is selling, that’s bad for everyone, am I right?”
Squawky seemed taken aback. “[Go on.]”
“Then you probably know where the latest deal is going down. Get me there and I’m gone, one way or another. Either face down and six feet under, or a million miles spinwards, but I’m gone.”
The karnakian growled under his breath. “[You come to me and beg for information twice, snatching scraps from my table with nothing to offer in return but damage to my plumage? You humans have a saying, [lay down with dogs and you get fleas]. You are a [dog] and I do not want [fleas]. I should have Gresjnjr rip your arms from your sockets and beat you to death with them right here and now, why should I help more than I already have?]”
I noticed ‘Larry’ flexing his claws. *No sane dorarizin would kill a human* I kept repeating to myself, but another, small part of my brain said *nobody said anything about maiming though*.
“S-sir, you know why you helped me in the first place. You could have ignored me, I’d find my way to his employers soon enough, but you knew that… you knew I’d find out about the ‘special orders’,” I did my best to stress the word, praying that the translator would take notice from stress patterns in my voice, “you knew that was where the rot was. You don’t like these ‘special orders’, they’re… they’re bad for business, right? Then let me—” I was interrupted by an enthusiastic dancer as she spun and tumbled onto Squawky’s table. “Shit, get off—” I started, and Larry and Curly were already moving, but it was too late. She unfurled her palm and, with a huge puff, blew a cloud of black-blue particles into the air.
For a brief eternity I saw, as the lights cycled, a settling miasma of black, blue, black, blue… green.
*Shit*.