Crumbs

Detective Vim Lithesteel

(Art source unknown)

Chapter 1

Imported Jurisdiction

To call this venue seedy was an understatement. Labeling it a bar or, Universe forbid, a tavern, was an affront to even the most run down establishments which operated in this part of Fringe Space. Set up inside something that once passed for a basement, outfitted with poorly welded together pieces of salvage that were supposed to serve as furniture, there was a lingering stench one needed to physically grapple with just to walk in. A mystery, said malodor could not be detected with a brand new, shiny hand scanner, even the Corpo ones sporting the best scanning Algos.

Yet, “The Crumbs” was surprisingly calm, cozy even, for a watering hole with such repugnant charm. Locals of the three prevalent species which populated this planet, sat beside each other. Many, if not all, were slurping chilled Sodopoppu noodles, chugging mugs of ice cold Movlefe, and they with adventurous taste, alcohol brewed in polyplastic barrels. Sly, green-skinned Taz’arans scratched their earholes and clinked glasses with unusually chatterly Taksians. Otherwise mortal enemies, they sported a much paler skin, often cackling over racial jokes about their slightly pointy ears and the Taz’arans’ lack thereof.

Sultry Nara practicing the oldest of professions made sure they had a cut from every deal. Bar the earholes and unibrows, this ancient offshoot of the Taz’aran race looked quite alike. Some were in between, bastard children barred from entering the Taz’aran Imperium for being racially impure. They either sported half-a-unibrow or their earholes were more in the ear territory, genetic abnormalities “fixed” by use of expensive gene-tech, fake digi-papers, or hefty bribes.

Waves of smoke spread across the venue like blankets. Multiple, yet surprisingly distinctive layers of blue, gray, and yellowish red fought for dominance whenever the rachitic life support system coughed another gust of dubiously filtered air. When one would gaze into the smokers’ eye, they’d witness pleasurable timelessness, paired with uneasy relaxation.

Syncotics were openly sold by local Corpo authorities, oft laced with the tiniest amount of Sparkle, made legal on this planetary body by its owner, Gahen Inc. Their vast slave farms offworld, this smallish rock housed the company’s corporate headquarters, and its overcrowded major city, Basileck, Gahen’s middle management. Bureaucrats who made their home away from home here, they craved as much of the creature comforts they were used to, including cargo holds full of vice. However, debauched as they were, none would visit this part of town. Even the lowliest official thought themselves a better creature than they who scraped a hard living on these holo-light graced, dirty streets.

Such was the nature of these cities; whatever their denizens’ social strata, all were forever running after each other in the wozzie race.

Evening came and a roaring cacophony of starship engines announced multiple newly-landed spacecraft. Bouncers, servers, bartenders, cooks, and working girls eagerly expected someone new to grace the venue with their offworlder’s coin-laden presence. Their hopes and prayers answered, for no ten star-minute later, a handful of businessmen, stinking of cheap alcohol and dubious perfume, eagerly stampeded inside. With professional swiftness, these visitors were seated, their orders taken, and paired with suitably priced for their taste lady of the night. Coin extracting proceeded as usual, with little to no issues since all offworlders who visited Basileck knew exactly what deal they’d get at the “The Crumbs”.

Cheap swill sold by the dirty bottle and slop by the pot, paired with a bawd heavy on the cyber-tech and holo-makeup. All of it, and a tad bit more if the new patrons were lucky, was theirs for bits on the decat, no questions asked... as long they were paying.

Content that everything was as it was and everyone paid willingly, when the bouncers faced a late guest, they nearly shoved him away. Wearing a spacesuit of alien-make, armorplates covered in so much scratches, dints, and bends, their outright assumption of the wearer’s penniless state was soundly disproved by a platinum Taz’aran decat. Wasn’t newly-minted, this coin, yet very much legal tender, and the bouncers ushered this late patron in with near-polite smirks on their scarred gobs.

He did not complain about leaving his Taz’aran-made beamgun with them either, which calmed the two even more. Since his suit was light on the armor, there was no way how one would hide a vibro-blade or something else in it, nothing bigger than a pocket can opener, that is. Their cyber gear gave them a surface scan which proved that except money and his dubious taste in venues, the late guest had nothing murderous on him.

One of them gave his Taksian friend a sign, which the young woman instantly picked—the offworlder had much, much more coin where this singe decat came from.

Inside and walking past tables full of cheap drinks, their occupants never giving him the star-second of attention, the man casually hugged the curvaceous girl who approached him, nodding in agreement when she whispered her offer – “A tenner, five more if ye’r stayin’ ‘ere till morn.”

“Fair.” – replied he with a calm, friendly voice, which made her smile – “You get me a bowl of Folbeno stew, not that polyplastic sodopoppu crap, and I’ll add five more. Another fiver for a eight-pack of imported Taksian beer. You know, the clean stuff.”

Hearing this, she giggled and batted her covered in generous amount of holo-makeup eyelashes. Best clients were they who knew exactly what they wanted, be it a girl, alcohol, food or in this case, all. Folbeno stew was something which only people intimate in Taksian culture were aware of.

Lopotops was a moderately alcoholic and surprisingly clean beer made by runaway Taksians. Having knowledge of this was yet another sign that this customer wasn’t some gullible mark. Otherwise she’d be watering him with narcobeer and feeding the man cheap sodopoppu until his head swirled. She and her cousins would later relieve him of his coin. Not all, of course, and leave him to wake up somewhere distant, preferably on the other side of town. They were all whores and grifters here, not murdering scum. People with nothing to lose killed people more often than invading armies and spacecraft accidents.

“Mister, what’s yer business-eh?” – chirped the girl when she’d relayed his order to her fellow server and led him to her corner table.

He reached for a can, opened it by twisting its holo-covered cap with one finger, offered it to her and reached for another, clicking his spacesuit’s faceplate open – “Oh, you know, nothing legal.”

She gently elbowed him, trying to guess which race he belonged to, finally giving up, marveling at his short, yellowish hair, stubby beard, and a pair of deep-blue eyes. His voice made her feel even calmer, and when the man gave her a smirk, the girl giggled again, a conspiratorial glint in her red eyes – “Lookien’ fer some ‘ired ‘elp? Be it smugglin’ or sumfin else, I knows the people ya need. F’course, fer a smol commission, like seven percent?”

“Five percent is all right... if your people are good.” – negotiated the man and fixed her light-brunette hair with daft fingers.

Still her own, it was not one of these cheap cyber-tech polyplastic extensions which stupid girls replaced their real hair with, for the dubious ease of color change and cleaning.

“Oh, bet ya they be real good, mister!” – and she played with his beard, surprised at its softness – “An’ six percent be evan bettah’.”

“Six it is then.” – the man agreed and she nearly bit her nails from the excitement, until he finally whispered in her ear – “Lots of stuff on my list of things to do, and ‘smugglin’ is definitely there. However, I need a fake permit first.”

“What for, eh mister?” – she made sure to feed him the first spoonful of stew, when the Folbeno was served – “Cousins’ can make’m good an’ cheap.”

Further demonstrating his knowledge of Taksian customs, the man fed her a spoonful, which she swallowed in the most enticing way possible. Some clients liked to watch their girls eat and drink. Others had different demands, many of whom borderline insane. As soon as she relinquished the spoon, this unknown alien man, he gifted her with such a look that she nearly choked on her food.

“My wife, she used to feed me like this.” – and the man spoon fed her again, sadness creeping in his eyes.

“Mister, where is she nahw?”

“Corpos killed her,” – his eyes became lifeless and he dried a can of beer in one go – “they got my kids too.”

She’d heard many a sob story. This man, though, he was telling the truth, and his every word was heavy with the pain only a parent losing his children and a husband his wife could carry. Which is why, when he finally told her about the permit, the courtesan did not call the barkeep, nor did she alert the bouncers.

“See, I need me a good cover. Private investigator digi-papers can open doors that would otherwise remain closed.” – eyes lively again, the man caressed her cheek, wiping a bit of stew with his napkin – “I’ll be doing some digging as a favor for a good friend, a Taksian.”

When he spoke, she made a mental pause, going through the list of usual fears. No, it was not possible for him to be working for either TISD or DCPS. The Taksian Directorate’s special services did not condone hiring aliens, for it was in their quite rigid doctrine to do their own work. The Sciencecrat blood hounds were too leery to even consider employing others than their own, Directorate vetted, loyal goons. Beyond obsessed with catching runaway thought criminals and hunting partisans, they took no chances.

The girl fed him another spoonful, studying his eyes, his voice still fresh in her mind when she asked – “What sort’a diggin’? Mister, Gahen’s corpo security be real tight ‘round ‘ere.”

“Looking for someone.” – he said with a hesitant smile.

She shrugged, assuming the man was a debt collector – “Yer fren’, he is owed coin or somefin?”

“Yes, something like that.” – the man replied with a nod.

Not telling her everything, and that was clear. The girl had seen much during her young life, including gazing deep inside what passed for eyes of a DCPS agent. More like hellish pits, she could not sleep well for a full year, until one of her cousins splurged on a telepath to help her fight the nightmares. No, this alien man, though burdened with much sorrow, his were the clear eyes of one full of warmth and life.

For a few star-minutes the two remained silent. The man ate his stew and drank another beer, while she sipped half-a-can, wondering how would her cousins react. They’d be content that the man worked for another Taksian, and though snooping around with forged digi-papers was dangerous, coin was coin. Things could get dicey with CorpoSec, if the man was caught that fake permit could be traced back to her Cousins’.

She did not find it strange the way her client made her feel even though it was a first. When he produced a Screakru cracker from his spacesuit pockets and crumbled it to eat the last of his broth, she giggled some more.

“Name’s Noila.” – she hugged his neck and kissed him.

“Vim...” – he returned her kiss – “Vim Lithesteel.”

One of the venue’s bouncers gave his bawds a link that CorpoSec’s weekly “sweep” was about to commence. Though the slothful coppers usually swept through bottles of alcohol and coin-laden purses, the girl played it safe and nudged her customer – “Them Gahen suits ‘ill be comen ‘ere an’ I don-wa-nna giff ‘em muh moneh’.”

Having finished the Folbeno stew Vim stood up, taking the rest of his eight-pack – “Not eager to feed their gobs either.”

“Can me ask?” – mumbled she, guiding him towards the service elevator and her room – “What kind’a name is Flim Liftsteal?”

He chuckled and pinched her cheek ever so gently when Noila butchered his name on purpose. The two were alone in the elevator when he finally replied – “A Terran one.”

“Nah wae!” – Noila giggled vigorously as she gestured, hands flopping like a pair of ears above her head – “‘Vryone knows them Terr’aans haff ears, yea big.”

“I am one of them ear-less Terrans.” – Vim spoke with pretend seriousness, mag-locking his helm on the spacesuit’s belt, the moment they left the elevator.

The girl ruffled Vim’s hair as she pulled his hand on the way to her room – “They’re also smol and fuzzy like.”

“Some are, yes.” – nodded he, while they entered through one of fifty identical doors and inside a tiny, box-like room.

It was a bit like prison, making use of every inch of space to fit common amenities like sink, toilet, bed, and a small wardrobe. Clean, her workspace was outfitted with a shield against the prevalent weird stench—a herbal air freshener. She hopped on the bed, bouncing off its replaceable polyplastic sheet cover, yawning a few as she stretched her limbs. He produced the negotiated sum in her armored case, which she unlocked via hand-scan.

The man placed his hands, gloves off, on her shoulders – “I have this rule, you know.” – and he began to massage her – “Only proper a thing to do is sleep when you’re tired.”

She blinked rapidly, relaxation spreading down her tired spinal column and back, as Vim engaged in some obscure Terr’aan magic, mumbling – “B-but you paid.”

“Morning is wiser than evening.” – the man said in her ear, a whisper which nearly made her entire body tingle.

（>◡<）

Early morning came with the annoyed grumble of passenger liners and cargo ships lifting off in a hurry. Grav-cars and other vehicles of the same type, they whistled past the hostel, their grav-engines making everything not well secured, shake. Protests of hungover offworlders being shoved out of bawds’ rooms, the holler of bouncers checking if everything bought had been paid for, and the ever-closing whine of digital sirens made damn sure that even they fast asleep, woke up.

Vim, he had somehow awoken not just in time, but before all of the aforementioned activities. The self-proclaimed Terr’aan found a clear link to the Crumbs’ kitchen, two, hot cups of Taksian “kemen” swirled their aromatic steam on Noila’s tiny breakfast table, together with a pair of bright orange sammiches. Without a word, her bouncer brought the man’s particle-beam pistol and handed it over, mumbling something in Vim’s ear. He patted the burly man over the shoulder before this one left, prolly handing him another platinum coin or something.

“Haf’ta split t’day,” – she slurped the overly hot kemen, chewing a bite of sammich, wincing since Vim ordered it the Taksian way, no sweetener or anything – “dem CospoSecs are comen.”

He cracked his joints and proceeded to devour the sammich, in between bites sipping the bitter, dark-blue kemen with nary a wince, making sure to don the spacesuit. Only now, in the light of day, did Noila notice that Vim’s body was covered in all manner of nano-stitched scars. Exactly when he holstered his Taz’aran-made pistol, her PDA bleeped with a warning from the bouncers.

The CorpoSec slime were at the main door.

The two exchanged a look and a smile, as she swiftly donned a jumpsuit, her daily plain clothing, buckling a mundane magbelt with a coin purse, and one old-time stun pistol, just for good measure. They had plenty of time to devour the rest of their breakfast, until Noila’s ear, practiced from listening to hundreds of coppers bitching and moaning as they coaxed bartenders, bawds, and bouncers to grease their already slimy beyond measure paws, heard the tell-tale sounds of lazy feet stomping around and about.

“Orbital bomb’men’ stairs.” – chortled she, pointing at something metallic beyond the tiny window of her bedchamber – “Us be slidin’ dowhn, till plasmah’ fires are burnin’.”

The man’s brow furrowed, yet it was not in anger, more like someone expecting a joke’s incoming punchline. There wasn’t one, but somehow, this provided him with infinitely more entertainment. She made sure to grab her locked money case first. Vim easily found the secu-locks of her window, clicked them open and slid the old polyplastic cover up, helping Noila out on the “staircase”. Made from discarded spacecraft alloy, it somewhat resembled fire escapes of olden Earth’s metropolises. It was not an overly tall building and it took their fit legs no longer than a few minutes to reach the backstreet below.

“Where are those cousins of yours?” – asked the man, a glint in his alien eyes proving that he was beyond entertained.

“Not far.” – and Noila pointed at something that resembled a heap of street trash, vaguely car-shaped – “‘Elp muh wiff the no-steal-tarp, hon.”

He was, again, quick to do what needed to be done. It was almost as if, Vim had experience aplenty strolling around darkly wynds, sifting through trash, and un-hiding cleverly concealed grav-cars. The latter was a smallish, but comfortable neon yellow two seater. A repurposed open car, which Noila, or whoever was it that modified the vehicle, fitted with clean polyplastic windshield, side windows, a roof, and proper doors. With a flip of a switch, following a quick eye-scan, the girl activated her vehicle’s systems. Whizzing and rumbling, the tiny car lifted off two steps from the street level.

Smiles and giggles replaced by a concerned frown, when Noila and Vim heard a violent commotion coming back from The Crumbs. Screams joined the stomping of armored boots, an act much more vigorous than what happened during a CorpoSec raid, indicated something was amiss. If she and her customer were not convinced yet, the death-promising hiss of a highly charged particle-beam changed their minds.

Her PDA once more bleeped, a glowing digi-text read:

“Scram nahw sis!”

Sirens, as if things needed more schlocking, squealed ever closer, and Noila slammed her accelerator button. Furiously manipulating the turning handles, the girl’s car swished down the trash-covered street and out on a heavy with traffic boulevard, shouting – “Mister, bettah’ haff a whole lotta coin!”

“What,” – asked Lithesteel, watching something on his hand scanner, a smallish grin on his face and eyebrows gently raised – “you’re changing jobs?”

“Yea,” – grinned she, plunging deep into an air lane full of flying energy shield to energy shield delivery grav-pickups, skimming over and under them with practiced ease – “liek nahw, muh is bein’ yer personal drivah-eh!”

Despite the brutally hard to navigate swarm of grav-cars, the two managed to share a look for few star-seconds. It would appear, that she was quite the capable car driver or at the very least, used to this particular kind of traffic. Sirens, no matter how insisting their squeal, they eventually became bogged down in the areal swamp which was Basileck’s infrastructure. Noila, as if to calm her client a bit, assured him, following one rather impossibly close turn – “Werked in delivery as a kid. Five star-years, an’ wiff onleh one crash!”

“Always wanted to hire me a guide, I did.” – addressed her he, fingers twiddling with one really old Taz’aran decat, shooting his driver a smile – “Such a fascinating coincidence that you are available!”

Fully wrapped in an invisibility cloak made of grav-vehicles, their neon yellow microcar eagerly navigated snug spaces, soon to vanish in the nano-concrete jungle.

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