Crumbs

Detective Vim Lithesteel

The Black Knight

May 08, 2026

(Art by Hans Park)

Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Digging up Corpos

The main office building of Gahen Inc. bristled with exactly the lavish opulence most Taksian sciencecrats adored. Thus, Chief Detective Naym of the DCPS (Directorate’s Committee for Political Safety) straightened his otherwise immaculate bright-golden uniform by pure force of habit. Though he knew full well that was not a proper tower of governmental bureaucracy most hallowed, the man felt as if he was back home, and this, one of the daily managerial meetings every field operative need attend.

There he stood, flanked by two peace troopers, heavily armed urban commandos on loan from the TISD (Taksian Internal State Department). One of his own assigned policewomen stayed a wee back, ready to operate her grav-trolley loaded with a stasis pod marked “Evidence.” This was Naym’s important bargaining chip and its judicious use, sure to force the Corpos of this world to fully cooperate.

Recently promoted following one particularly erroneous offworld DCPS operation led by his predecessor, Chief Detective Zoenn, he was quickly credentialed and issued a brand new uniform. Square atop, with a trapezoid visor, his official uniform cap sported the letters DCPS stamped in black holo-print, front and center. Following Zoenn’s failure, all forward intelligence gathering officers and chief detectives were outfitted with advanced Psy-circlets, and his hat, striking to behold as it was, hid one in its brim. The Directorate sought to break the minds of others and extract their most valuable knowledge, not the other way around.

Also black, his new set of uniform gloves were woven from armor mesh fabric, exactly like the rest of his deceptively plain looking uniform. Flexible plates of stolen Taz’aran Arnium alloy ensured that not only was the officer protected from low-yield particle-beam fire, but the occasional fragmentation blast, and to a lesser extent, vibroblades.

Detective Zoenn had faced a heavily armed Terr’aan, thus, the eleemosynary Taksian state provided.

Heavy in the holster swaying on his left torso, there was the shining new FBI pistol. Focused beam incinerators were novel armaments, only issued to field operatives of his rank. Fitted with an experimental beam focus chamber which produced a particle-beam nearly twice the power of other contemporary pistols of this energy bore, and so focused, that it could outright fry the target alive. Naym made sure to requisition a few extra power packs, just in case the gun was energy hungry since the govt-approved weapon specification digi-file read nothing about recharging or, for that matter, heat management.

On his left shoulder, there stood the hexangular metal pip of his Chief Detective rank. Most aliens would not make a distinction between any of the Directorate’s militant servants, but all Taksians knew who were they looking at. Right upper chest, there shone his perfectly square DCPS badge; a stylized logo of the organization holo-painted by one of their best, state approved brutalist copyists. Roughly outlined, but visually impactful, the depiction of a mother hugging her babe wore the most gentlest of smiles. In bright red holographic letters underneath there was the slogan of the DCPS, “Government is a family”. A utilitarian governmental building served as the badge’s background, with Naym’s personal state identification number stamped on its upper edge in golden, metallic letters.

CorpoSec troopers, four of them, decked in their rather imposing and heavily armored uniforms, move aside to make way for the Chief Detective and his retinue. As the thick gate of Gahen Inc’s CEO office closed behind with a barely audible click, Naym stroke his small mustache by force of habit, while his black eyes swiftly scanned office furniture, and his mind assessed each for possible application during combat.

One never knew if the otherwise subservient Corpos would betray them...

“Good to see you, Field Operati...” – chimed a corpulent Taz’aran man from his grav-chair eyed the new rank pip, and changed his tune mid sentence – “I beg your forgiveness, Chief Detective Naym! What brings you here, in our humble offices?” – and he waved Naym to join him at a table heavy with delectables and alcoholic beverages.

“Oh, you know,” – smiling replied Naym, as he sat in a comfy grav-chair, motioning his retinue to stop behind him – “the usual.”

Slurping from a nano-crystaline glass full of something red and pungent, the CEO graced him with a nod full of faked understanding. He puffed blue, narcosynth smoke from his thin cigar, and, shoving the semi-empty glass towards a Taksian server trembling like a leaf beside the chair, clapped his hands – “Our family at Gahen Inc. is once more eager to aid stalwart servants of the Taksian Directorate like yourself. Please, tell me, what is your quota this time?”

“No quota.” – smiled a terror-oozing grin the Chief Detective, as he waved at the stasis pod, prompting his underling to push it open – “I came here bearing gifts.”

The painful mumble of a mutilated, tortured Taz’aran filled the CEO’s office. Wearing a prison uniform, what was once a man in his prime had been reduced to a skeleton. Brown-green skin dotted with darkly spots and numerous scars, terrible rashes crawled around the cyber-tech implants which replaced the man’s earholes, eyes, and mouth.

The CEO took one look in the pod, raised his immaculate unibrow and spoke with feigned indifference – “I know not who this man is.”

“Interesting.” – Naym switched gears and addressed him with his professional tone – “Then, am I correct to assume that Director Berul operated behind your back?”

“My friend, rest assured that all of our directors’ actions, to the last link they’ve sent and received, everything has been duly cataloged.” – and the CEO took another loud sip from his liqueur, throwing a scathing look at his servant whose hands trembled so much, he nearly dropped the glass – “More, I should inform you that Berul is no longer an employee of Gahen Inc.”

“It would appear, Chief Manager of Offworld Operations Lomm, you are in dire need of DCPS assistance.” – and the Taksian motioned the policewoman to shove their prisoner out of the pod – “Berul went out of her way, spent quite a lot of decats to hire one pirate clan warship, an imposing fleet raider, for a covert op somewhere deep in Fringe Space.”

“Thats news for me.” – and Lomm leaned forward, his mass tasking the grav-chair’s system with a faint mechanical hiss somewhat unpleasant to the ear – “Please, do tell more.”

“According to our preliminary investigation, Berul commandeered a crack platoon of your elite Enforcers. That she could not do, unless the good director was authorized by a higher... body.” – further elaborated the Taksian detective, while his underling held the barely alive prisoner from behind, hand wrapped around his throat.

“Marvelous, I commend your diligence and adept knowledge of our procedure!” – clapped the CEO, completely ignoring Naym’s implications, not a drop of sweat on his calm, fat gob – “However, I am feeling slenderly confused of your magnanimosity. Sharing this rather exciting bit of intelligence seem to lead nowhere.”

Naym’s index finger shot up in a gesture nigh tangential, casually tracking the edge of his uniform cap’s visor. The Taz’aran prisoner mumbled something unintelligible through his mouth cybernetic and the policewoman behind him squeezed. Only when she received a sign from Naym did her grip loosen and the man, allowed to speak – “I-i... cough... was... Chief g-gunnery officer... gargle... t-to Captain Zhur.”

There was but the faintest emote on Lomm’s corpulent face and Naym graced him with the benignant of nods – “That slender confusion of yours, it has been ameliorated... yes?”

Lomm blinked and his unibrow twitched ever so gently – “Aaaah, that Captain Zhur. I remember him linking an offer for possible offworld reclamation operations, but... I mean, nothing ever came out of this. Berul was no longer an emplo...”

The Taksian shot his prisoner a glare, one which induced facial tremors – “B-berul hired... us... t-to bring... bzzzt... b-back runaway... Gahen Inc. s-slaaaveees... wheeze...” – mid sentence the cyber-tech which he used to speak produced a loud mechanical pitch, and the policewoman promptly switched it off.

The CEO was no longer blinking.

Calm until just a couple of star-seconds, his face became drenched in cold sweat, as he fought Naym’s withering gaze which tore straight through his otherwise pristine, poly-plastic facade.

“Please, do not bother me with that polished and practiced Corpo line ‘We own no slaves, Taksian or otherwise’.” – said Naym looking at one of his fingers, as he needlessly straightened his otherwise perfectly fitting black glove – “That would be a waste of good air.”

The Taksian motioned once more and his policewoman unceremoniously shoved the suffering prisoner back in his stasis pod. Creaking like a tomb opened for the first time since countless millenia, the pod’s lid clang shut, sending chills of pure terror across Lomm’s spine. Not one to have bribed himself into the highest office of Gahen Inc. by being an inept poltroon, the Taz’aran made every attempt to regain full control of his emote. Naym, being his graceful bureaucratic self, gave him the star-minute he needed, casually shuffling through some digi-papers on his PDA.

“How can my office hel... cough... assist the benevolent Taksian state?” – the CEO wiped his sweat and reached for the refilled glass.

“Help, this is exactly what the Taksian Directorate would gladly exchange for our most discreet assistance in your private Corpo affairs.” – Naym spent a moment fixing his uniform cap, making sure its visor was pointing straight forward, with not even an inch of tilt to either side – “Exactly like this Berul escapade, which, even for those whom it may concern had never occurred, the DCPS needs some loose ends tied up.”

“My friend, you will have our full cooperation!” – Lomm exclaimed, shoving the handkerchief in his servant’s profusely sweating, quivering hands – “Nothing ever remotely marring our two great organizations’ immaculate reputation had ever happened, offworld or... elsewhere.”

The detective stood up with a smile, ever so slightly flexing his wide, muscular shoulders – “That armored transport of mine—it did not land. I and my field operatives, all of our soon-to-occur actions, no matter their severity, they never occurred.”

Lomm eagerly nodded, an ever-growing smirk on his smug face. It took the Corpo but a few moments to link a secret memorandum to all CorpoSec offices on his planet. There would be no digital trails, no surveillance, and no reports filed whatsoever.

Naym was not here.

Naym was never here.

Having secured almost complete operational freedom, the Taksian waved his underling and she left the coffin-like pod behind, grav-trolley and all. As he slowly walked away, the detective hummed one melody in particular. Quite somber, this was once an ode for all who defied the state and suffered capital punishment. Composed by a famed musician who committed thought crimes and vehemently refused re-education, this rather genius piece of music initially became something of a hymn for rogue Taksians who attempted to run away form the eleemosynary Directorate.

Always prudent, the DCPS immediately adopted the ode as its own anthem, new lyrics and all. It being played during executions, interrogations, and yes, arrests too, became a widespread practice, tradition. Even on the prison ships, the anthem echoed from all speakers on endless loop and with constant, relentless mercilessness.

One step separated Naym from reaching the office door when he turned around, his right hand index finger up – “Ah, there is that small thing.”

“Y-yes?” – Lomm mumbled, his servant having lost control of his knees, holding his boss’s grav-chair, star-seconds away from fainting.

“About that quota you mentioned.” – the detective’s voice changed, emanating the sureness of a DCPS executioner ordering his firing squad to shoot – “Since I was never here...”

“How m-much?” – and the Corpo fixed his suit’s neckline, dread for the lost profits felt in his voice.

“My prison ship captain will contact you, momentarily.” – and Naym reached for the door’s open button.

“We, at Gahen Inc. are here to serve our friends and partners!” – Lomm nearly squealed since DCPS prison ships were of corvette hull size, and capable of housing five thousand prisoners or more.

“Remember,” – smiling said the detective, a moment before he closed shut the office door – “only Taksians.”

Long since Chief Detective Naym left, and the aforementioned prison ship captain linked him her cargo capacity, the CEO of Gahen Inc. shuffled through Sentient Resources (SR) digi-files. Not even glossing over worker dossiers, he shoved all personnel of Taksian descent deemed unnecessary into a list. Business suit covered with disgusting sweat spots, breath labored, the corpulent bureaucrat finally reached the aforementioned number, bar one.

Sparing not a single thought, Lomm put his own servant’s name on the list and linked it to CorpoSec.

（>◡<）

Vim’s stomach rumbled the very star-second he woke up.

Having cut trough multiple levels of slow traffic due to its diminutive size, and evaded a number of air-jams, Noila’s vehicle fluttered near one street, wide and surprisingly clean. Down there, there were people walking around colorful street food stalls, a number of mobile game venues attracted they with decats to spare. Zero-G fried Taz’aran meats, stuffed Nara vegetables, and Taksian stews, this place grabbed you by the nose and did not let go until you were lying somewhere, in a food comma. Benches for the poor and private floating booths for the rich, this ParcoStreet was jam packed and yet, Nifa somehow found a parking spot.

The Terran chuckled as he helped his beautiful driver down from the wide cargo truck’s roof she’d parked her car atop. She hopped in his open arms, hair and hoodie fluttering on the afternoon breeze, giggling when he catched her.

There was this small gang of unruly Taz’aran boys and girls, gliding over on their grav-skids. Lithesteel noticed them from afar, making sure to move aside in advance; he did not have time to waste with skid gangs. Sure enough, a few star-seconds later, when the skidders attempted leaping over and sliding through a crowd of leisurely strolling Corpos, they smashed straight into them. In a flash, there was the CorpoSec patrol car flying over with its screeching sirens, giving chase. Just as they appeared, the skidders darted away and in all directions, making interception moot.

Vim shrugged.

“Mister ‘mproyer,” – began Noila and pointed at a not-so-distant food truck – “care fer a fresh sammich?”

“Hey, that one sports the Spiffy Sammich decals!” – cheerful Vim was quick to notice, his eyebrow raised – “What scheme are you trying to pull on me now?”

Noila danced him around a small group of off duty Corpos, all soaked in narcobeer, singing and stumbling – “Course, ya can see schemin’ and griftin’ ‘verywhere, but can ye see them arm-long sammiches?!”

“Maybe not, but I can smell them.” – snickered he, faceplate open and sniffing theatrically.

The girl made a sign which someone working inside that food grav-truck noticed. As soon as they approached, one smallish girl wearing a colorful vacfoam apron absolutely decked in holo-painted foods ran out, nearly bent as she carried two packaged sammiches, paired with cans of freshly squeezed juice. Twiggy, nevertheless, the kid appeared in good spirits and smooched Noila on the cheek, unleashing a high-pitched squeak – “Siiiis! Haw’ya-doen?!”

Noila hugged the child and, for a few moments they hopped around, squeaking in perfect unison. Another Taksian youth, but in his late teens, popped his head out the grav-truck, hollering – “Pipsqueak, yer comien? Them sammiches won’t make ‘emselves ya know!”

The girl sneaked a handful of decats in one of the child’s pockets while this one was not looking, and sent the little cook back to work. Carrying their food, the two found a free bench nearby and sat, quick to unwrap the steaming hot yumminess.

Vim gulped.

This, just as Noila had assured him beforehand, was truly an arm-long sammich! Jam packed with cooked to perfection juicy cuts of mystery meat, chopped vegetables of the unknown variety, sprinkled heavy with a gooey, molten mixture of yellow, blue, and greenish cheeses, everything was housed within a crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside reddish bread. This thing had so much and different types of oils, that it could probably fuel a small space shuttle.

Hungry, Lithesteel proceeded to attack the treat. To Noila, watching him eat looked like as if the man was inhaling his food. Now you smell its mouth-watering yumminess, now you don’t. He took care of his can-o-juice in the same swift manner, making sure to clean himself, his beard, and spacesuit from odd bits here and there. She ate slower, yet still quite fast and in a few star-minutes, grinning Noila sipped juice, a smidgen of cheese on her cheek.

“How long since you and your Cousins had this orphanage?” – Vim asked with a huge smile, as he wiped her face with a clean vacfoam handkerchief.

Noila mumbled following a bout of nervous chuckle – “Uuuum, don’ know ‘bout no orphanage.”

Lithesteel’s eyes met hers and a star-second later, the girl sighed the sigh of surrender.

“Tell me if they need something. Clothes, shoes, toys... you know.” – continued Vim, fixing her hair with a gentle hand.

“How did’ya ivan...” – began she, inducing a wide and calm smile as he shrugged in his spacesuit.

Vim played someone handling a scanner, sounds and all – “Well, I am a detective and I do detect stuff.”

“But how?!”

“I swear, I was not looking for it.” – explained the Terran and pointed his face – “If all of you, Coisins included, did not give me a clue or two, the father in me would’ve sensed it, eventually. You care for them and not just because you are one of them.”

Noila’s eyes studied Vim as she finally calmed down and hugged him – “Deliveryh rider girl, was she who gave da sneakieh sammich gig up, eh?”

“She was one of the clues, yes. Your interaction with her was more like a big sis little sis, but there was that other aspect.” – Lithesteel explained while Noila thought of something so hard that she pouted, a half-smirk on her face – “Employer and employee...”

The girl’s eyes widened and, mouth slightly open, she blinked.

Vim elaborated further, counting on his fingers – “Your supreme ability to sneak through traffic, encyclopedic knowledge of air-routes without even a glance at your car’s navi-screen, and star-years worth of experience avoiding CorpoSec blocks. Not to mention you read me like a hacked digi-file, back at The Crumbs...”

“Sooo,” – Noila hopped in his lap, giving him a smooch – “me figured ya, and ye muh.”

His body suddenly tense and eyes beam focused on something, the Terran asked – “What are they doing?”

The girl shot a look where his head turned and saw a trio of goons who were in the process of accosting the food truck’s customers. When the teen boy came out to see what was happening, one shoved his cyber-enhanced gob in his face, sneering – “Ei, din’t us told’ah to clink dem coin e’sterday?”

Another goon reached inside the truck and pulled the little girl, and the teenager snapped. Without thinking he attempted to shove his intimidator away, only to get himself pushed instead. His voice void of emotion, the thug produced a small vibro-blade and pointed it at the struggling child – “See, yois gonn’ gib coins or git ‘er one piece ah’day.”

Suddenly behind the child-snatching thug and armored hand on his shoulder, Vim promised – “Where you’re going, you won’t be needing any coin.”

（>◡<）