Crumbs

Detective Vim Lithesteel

(Art by Nathaniel West)

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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

Pain past and present

“Pipsqueak,” – Vim addressed the tiny girl – “don’t look.”

“Mmmhhh!” – was what she managed and, face twisted, closed her eyes.

Lithesteel squeezed like a megasteel vise and the thug squealed, bones cracking and flesh ripping.

There followed a moment of silence broken by the thump of a corpse meeting the street, as Vim released his grip. Swiftly, he moved the child out of danger’s way and, without even reaching for his sidearm, continued his assault. Otherwise quite vicious, the gangbangers were not simply at a loss for words, but action.

Without giving them chance to think, in the span of another star-second the Terran stepped forth, his towering figure completely blocking the little girl’s view. He grabbed the second thug’s vibro-blade waving arm, snapped it like a plastic straw, and turned his own weapon against him. Shoved in his chest to the hilt, the weapon made mince meat of his internal organs.

Another body hit the pavement.

“Aaa...” – the last goon’s attempt at screaming was cut short by a brutal, skull crushing slap.

Thump number three.

Vim gestured the teenager to push their garbage container’s lid open, and proceeded to dump three new additions to its pungent, colorful assortment of waste. Producing a handheld force scrubber from his thigh spacesuit equipment pocket, the Terran swiftly wiped all traces of gore from the street and himself.

“You can open your eyes.” – said he, one one knee, wiping the little girl’s face with a clean vacfoam handkerchief.

“Th-they are n-not gon’na t-take me?!” – sobbed the child, her eyes darting between Vim and Noila, who was in the process of hacking the nearby CorpoSec sensor pole with furious speed – “P-please sis, don’ let’em t-take...”

Terror was replaced with confusion when the girl noticed that there wasn’t a single trace of the three goons – “W-whait, hwere are dhey?”

Lithesteel smiled, distracting the child by wiping her tears, while he used the force scrubber to clean drops of blood and bone pieces from her shoes – “The trash man came for them.”

“I don’ know ‘bout no tash man, mishter.” – Pipsqueak’s confusion had since fully made her forget the fear, and she reached for his handkerchief – “Uuuu, so kleen and shiny, mei I haff it?”

He gave her the item, which she examined as if it was some marvelous present, a toy purchased from a high-end shop, before folding it with care. She stashed the handkerchief in her overall’s front pocket; a piece of clothing which, from the looks of it, had seen more than a few owners. Her cooking apron reached almost down to the shins. Lithesteel noticed she wore flipflops made of one cut in half, discarded vacplastic bottle, tied around her ankles with old shopping bags, braided into ropes.

A sad beyond measure smile hidden behind his faceplate, he thought, “So far, far away from the past, and yet, exactly the same.”

Vim gave Noila a nod, stood up and took a good look around. There were the stupefied food truck customers, a gathering of Nara and Taksians, most of whom could not tear their eyes from him. It was not terror he saw in their eyes, but something else—the calm satisfaction of everyday people finally having witnessed justice being served. To be on the safe side, as soon as Noila confirmed that the CorpoSec sensor was successfully hacked and all data wiped, the detective reached in his pocket.

Each of the twelve customers he gave five decats, and as they lined up at the food truck, Vim pulled Noila to the side – “Trash collecting is automatic, right?”

“Y-yes,” – she nodded, a half-smirk on her face – “‘lready called a dump barge.”

“Good,” – and he pointed her a CorpoSec grav-car which slowly flew their way – “because we need to scram.”

Her looking at his SecuCard prompted another response – “My shiny new license does not allow for permanent sub-sentient trash disposal.”

A long trash collector floated into view, pulling the full garbage container up via low yield tractor beam, and replacing it with an empty one. Even though the thing was not flying low, Noila in his arms, Vim was nevertheless able to leap up and reach it without effort. Boots maglocked to the dump barge’s roof, they floated along its way, while the CorpoSec patrol car landed behind, right next by the food truck.

The two were long gone, their neon green grav-car swallowed by a sea of air-traffic, when a duo of slothful cops expressed their perfunctory desire to question sammich-loving customers and cooks about suspected gang activity in the area. The food truck, operated by some waifs, offered them complimentary cans of energy drink, and, instead of relevant information, showered the coppers with digi-links for street food promotions.

Yawning as they sipped from the constantly changing color Super Slimer Over 9000, the flatfoots addressed their sammich-munching customers. Wouldn’t you know it, the answers ranged from “em just eatin’” to “seen none ‘ere” and the obligatory “don’t know wut yer talkien ‘bout”. The cops linked in with the local surveillance sensor pole and, to their immeasurable dismay, ascertained that it had ostensibly glitched, data-dumping its entire daily info-stack straight into the recycle bin. That was a job for the techies from DT support, not noble patrol officers like them. Filing one rather careless report, they stuffed their miffed asses back inside the grav-car and promptly left...

（>◡<）

“We can’t quite go back to your room at The Crumbs.” – Vim gave his recent sleeping arrangement a thorough look, hand around Noila’s waist – “But this... it is more than fine.”

Back at her Cousins’ place, Lithesteel was just about to arrange a hostel for the night, but Snuul offered their guest room. In fact, the Taksian insisted in such persistent manner, that for Vim to have refused, it would’ve been an insult.

“But my stuff, I got’em!” – Noila had her small baggie of goodies from the previous place of employ, delivered by one of her fellow bawds – “Tah’morroh’ I dress fer impress.”

“Alrighty then!” – smiled the Terran, cracking his neck – “Since we are all having to spend the evening together, and you fed me that amazing sammich, it is Terran tradition to return the favor.”

“Uhuuu, what’ya going to order, mister ‘mployer?” – the girl clapped, her wrists clinking with the clank of handmade, exquisite metallic bracelets she just produced from her baggie.

“Order?! I am cooking for you and the Cousins.” – Vim snatched a vacplastic shopping bag from a box of supplies, nearly identical to the one used to craft Pipsqueak’s “shoes” and winced.

“Show me to the nearest shop. I need veggies, meat of some kind... preferably not wozzie.”

“Got’et. Cousins’ haff booze, so ya knows.” – said Noila and gave him a stack of longish power packs, which she produced under the modest-looking couch.

“Oh, I have booze of my own too!” – snickered the Terran as he was led out and into another lift behind the Cousins’ office.

This one moved swiftly, and was significantly larger. Suicidal for an alien like him perhaps, yet completely normal for locals, random people hopped in and out as the lift moved between levels. Oldsters with shopping bags full of groceries, a gaggle of little kids with their toys, and even a couple of madly smooching each other teenagers, no one showed even the speck of hesitation, nor did they look down or up.

Following a journey of two star-minutes, Noila and Vim were strolling around a shopping street, shops galore. A promenade ripped from some derelict cruise ship, it hanged between grapes of odd spaceship cabins, all molded together into one long residential block. The so called Bundluh was home to all types; shady merchants, streetwalkers, pickpockets, muggers, and, of course, bumphacks. The latter would try and swipe data from your PDA by clever use of algos, and jerry-rigged gadgets. They would then leech all your digi-cash, and sell your info to streetwalkers, G-Net grifters, or worse.

In this instance, it took only a three attempts for the digital cockroaches to give up. One lost an eye and another her hand when their devices overloaded, detonating in their faces. For what reason exactly, even the nifty gadgeteers could not ascertain. One thing they knew and that was to stay away from this person in particular. Risk was not something the average bumphack was known for and the pool of potential marks, rather large still.

Vim was led to a small shop nearby with a hilarious holo-ad which read “Totally not Wozzie”. The holo kept looping a bunch of people, Nara, Taksians, and yes, Taz’arans, chasing after constantly running away, surprisingly clean wozzie rats. Owned by a family of Taksians, they and their kids could be seen running around restocking, cleaning or servicing shoppers. There was a small cooking station, where they without time purchased a bite to eat and the aroma hit your brain like a railgun every time the doors opened. Through the looking vacplastic window, it was easy to see the shop offered a variety of veggies and fresh meat. Precooked meals lined in ordinary fridges, stacks of all kinds of alcohol, even alien, important sweets.

Before he entered though, Lithesteen took note of a young man, a Nara, who suddenly clutched his stomach. The gun-shaped bulge was impossible to miss, as was the person’s loudly rumbling belly. Tracking where his eyes went, Vim was quickly able to ascertain a situation, which promised to unravel into a proper clustersnot. A nearby, claustrophobically small side street concealed a trio of nasty to behold gangbangers. Whenever the youth’s eyes shot a look their direction, there was a shudder traveling along his entire body.

“Noila, you go in and ask the good owners for their choice cuts of meat and a bag of veggies.” – and Vim pointed at a bunch of ingredients through the glass, giving Noila more than just a handful of decats.

At first, the girl gave him a slightly puzzled look, checking the neighboring stores until he aimed his finger at a small footwear atelier one shop apart – “I want to grab some shoes for Pipsqueak.”

She giggled, smooched his cheek and invaded the shop, unsuccessfully sneaking upon the auntie owner. While the two laughed, hugging each other, Lithesteel addressed the young man – “Not worth it.”

“Leave me alone!” – There was a mix of shock, fear, and anger on the youth’s face when he reached for his gun.

“Whatever these roaches promised,” – Lithesteel was much, much quicker, and had already snatched the beamgun – “it is not worth dying for.”

A look of complete and utter despair in his eyes, the young man trembled when he mumbled – “Please, I need to do this! My brother and... sister... w-we... have... nothing.”

Behind the faceplate Lithesteel’s face became a mask of glacial rage when he inquired – “It is this and they’ll take care of them, of you?”

The youth nodded – “If I don’t... they will... t-they will work instead.”

“Where are your siblings?”

“Over there, in the wynd... they are keeping them...” – the young man pointed at the side street where the three goons hid, yet began to shake and Vim grabbed ahold of him till the shivers went away.

“Consider yourself a hired bodyguard.” – stated the detective and gave the youth his beamgun back – “Come, we are going to get your kin.”

“Ha... hire... w-what?” – mind ravaged by hunger and Universe only knew how many sleepless nights, the stupefied youth nevertheless followed after Lithesteel.

“Eeey, youis doin’ wut, ye stoopit-eh?” – sneered the tallest gangbanger when Vim emerged at the wynd’s entrance, deft as a Reaper’s apprentice.

It was exactly as the young man said. A few steps behind there quaked a small boy, no older than five, and a tallish girl, perhaps ten years old. Clearly forced into clothing fit for streetwalkers, the two children had a certain look on their faces. One which Vim knew well, for he had seen it on his own scarred mug, reflected off of puddles filled with rotting corpses, radioactive chems, and poisonous water. The look of kids about to be robbed of their future...

Not tonight.

“Tell them to look away.” – Vim instructed the youth, canted his head slightly to the right, and remembering something, added – “And to cover their ears.”

The young man said something in the Nara dialect, which prompted the three thugs to reach for their guns.

“Us dah Royalz! Us owns deze street, an’ us...” – the head gangbanger screeched, hand near his crotch since it was there he’d “holstered” his gun, spittle flying in Vim’s closed faceplate... until it did not.

Face caved in when a Terran fist collided with it, the sub-sentient was yet to hit the street, when Lithesteel throat-punched goon number two, and kicked thug three in the neck. Speeding his suffocation despite his original intent, Vim stomped on the second thug’s skull, and made sure the last one’s neck was broken good. One star-second they were there, posturing, and the next these “royalz” lie dead on the dirty metal floor. Puddles of smelly Taz’aran blood soiled what passed for clothing within their gang, soon to be efficiently absorbed by the layer of micro-garbage underneath.

Vim motioned his new employee – “Make sure the kids don’t see and follow me.”

When Noila giggled out of the shop with two large shopping bags overflowing with ingredients, she was surprised to see Lithesteel flanked by three Nara. The children on his left wore simple, yet sturdy, and best of all brand new clothes, while the armed young man stuffed his face with a slice of street pie.

“Noila, meet Jarro, his sister Mita and brother Bago.” – faceplate open, Vim pointed at each of the Nara with a fatherly smile.

“I cawry stuffs!” – grinned Bago, his face recently wiped from grime, a couple pairs of new shoes in hand.

His chauffeur, whatever she thought there and then, greeted the children with a smile. Noila gave her shopping bags to Mita and Jarro, patted Bago’s head, and gave Vim a look. He returned it, and before they entered the lift, addressed her with an almost joyful chuckle – “You can not expect me, your ‘mployer, to carry all the shopping bags, and watch out for pickpockets!”

(╭ರ_•́)

When they got back, Lithesteel usurped the Cousins’ kitchen area and since he had new hired hands, employed them to help. Wash the vegetables and clean the cutlery, sort ingredients, prepare plates and heat retaining containers, set up a table. When he proceeded to cook, it was a fury which none had seen. Though the runaway Taksians had preserved much of their traditional foods and invented new ones, they have not witnessed anything even remotely similar.

The man employed techniques which, although known to them, yielded a varied and oft distinct result. He made sauces they could not imagine, cut vegetables and combined them in ways which either enhanced or outright delivered different taste. What the Taksians often loved was to zero-G fry meat in heat so great, it would steam inside. Terrans did either fry, bake or braise proteins slowly, adding a mixture of spice and vegetables at specific intervals, building layer upon layer of taste. The result was an array of meals, six of them to be exact, which, including a thick soup with handmade noodles, steaming hot instead of the usual chilled which they were accustomed to, literally nailed everyone to their seats.

It took two full star-hours to consume everything and even then, there were leftovers which did indeed look way to tasty for them to simply throw away. Stasis fridges were unpacked, items which they rarely used, and stuffed full of portion after portion. Sitting across three folding tables arrayed as one, where two thirds of the space was needed to serve food alone, with barely enough spots to place cups with soft drinks, Taksian beer, or hard liqueur.

The newly “hired” Nara youths especially, even though having suffered hunger for a prolonged period of time, were utterly incapable of eating a lot of food. In the end, Jarro’s younger kin dozed off and, wrapped in thermal blankets, laid to sleep at Vim’s new quarters. The rest sat around the tables, each sipping their choice alcohol, sharing stories of their past.

“See, we knows not what happined,” – explained Snuul, raising a cup of the Terran alcohol which Lithesteel shared, something called Rakija, coming from a place named Bulgaria – “traffickers dumpes us ‘ere, but no mum... sniffle... no dad, aunt or unkle.”

Reen, with the utmost of effort, shoved a slice of baked to perfection bird in his gob, paired it with red hot, Nara root based sauce and exclaimed – “An’ dhei kept asken fer moar coin! We finds them, dhei lied. Gib moar an’ we def’nitle finds mum an’ dad.”

Noila, wiping her tears with one of Vim’s vacfoam handkerchiefs, slurped the leftover broth from the noodle soup, making sure to eat all her veggies – “Werked us did... night or day, saved from food, wore rags evan, but gave dhem all. Lying, soul-eatin’ fokks!”

“How long before you realized they were sucking your blood?” – Lithesteel sighed, holding a cup of rakija and a fluffy loaf of red Nara bread stuffed with chopped bird meat.

“Smol, we were smol, wee high back dhen.” – gesticulated Snool as he dried his cup and poured himself more alcohol while he explained – “But ‘fter four star-yers, Reen smarted dhis wozzie crud out!”

“Yeah, we did sum coin lifthen then or not?!” – Noila sniggered and reached for a slice of the minced meat stiffed in tart fruit, which Vim somehow managed to cook, despite said fruit usually turning to mush in an oven-like environment.

“Which is why you organized that orphanage.” – concluded Lithsteel with a smile – “Made sure to help as many orphaned Taksians, spare them the slaving you suffered.”

Jarro sighed, holding a cup refilled for the nth time with some colorful Nara soft drink – “Guess we should count ourselves extremely fortunate. Spent only a star-year scraping by, sleeping in and around garbage pits, scrounging for discarded street food. Seems that the Royalz... they are in the business of finding and using others like us.”

“Not for long.” – promised Lithesteel – “Even if another gaggle of degenerates takes their place, I will make damn sure they know of the Royalz’s fate.”

There was a short lull in the chat and following a trip to the restroom, everyone sat there, giving Vim the look. Though he did know what it was that they wanted from him, there was a certain dreaded hesitation in his manner when he returned their looks. His eyes lingered in Noila’s and when the girl nodded with resolute smirk on her face, the Terran began his tale.

“I come from a planet we call Sirius, one of the biggest, and most developed colonies of my people. But... it was not always like that. When I was seven, the place had just been established about ten star-years ago. The only thing we had going for us, my dad often said, was a constant stream of new settlers.”

Vim made a pause, sipping more rakija, and threw another look at them as if he wanted to say ‘Are you sure you want me to continue?’ as they gave him their undivided attention.

“And so, while I was still a baby, more and more Terrans came. They developed the land, built large farms, small factories, and drone-drilled for ore. Buildings rose and I grew up and learned to walk, every week watching my hometown change. Hospitals, libraries, and theaters, all beautiful to behold, these were soon erected and from chiseled marble, nano-restructured stone, and baked brick. Of course, I did not know all the details then, only marveled at painted columns in blue, gold, and red, when mom and dad took me out on a stroll.”

“At six, dad took me to the firing range daily. I was gifted a stun gun, but father taught me how to shoot with a training laser pistol. You know, point, shoot, and if you hit the target, it bleeps... kid stuff. Wouldn’t you know it, I had already made a lot of friends. Kids my age, we either babysat siblings or took care of neighbors’ children, did chores for a coin. We played on the pedestrian streets, stuffed our faces with Sloppy Joes, fresh fruit from the trees, and helped parents or other adults plant veggies at the designated park food lots.”

Lithesteel’s voice wavered a bit when he spoke of playing and Reen, confusion on his face, asked – “Terr’aan play outside? Naaah, whaaait, whaaait... shootien wiht guns, is dhat what’ya just shaid?”

The detective took another bite of spicy bird meat, sipped more rakija and gave Reen one very much Taksian sign, a touch of his index and thumb, which meant yes.

“By the age of seven and a half, I was a proficient shot with small pistols. Not surprisingly, when you shoot every day for hours, under adult supervision, and the direction of veteran soldiers, you get quite good. Mom got me a brand new laser pistol for my birthday, and Dad gave me a set of kid’s traveling gear. My childhood friends, I joined them in this homefront group as soon as our survival teacher said I was ready. Whenever one of our colonies gets invaded, everyone has their duty. Kids, while not completely self-sufficient, are quite capable of helping with small tasks. Help in the hospital, babysit, cook simple foods and feed the soldiers or the wounded. My naïve self, initially I was loving the idea of being the town’s gopher, riding around my scooter, delivering a backpack full of goodies.”

Confused Jarro addressed this part of Vim’s tale – “Your planets get invaded often?”

“Back in the day, there was always someone new coming at us, who wanted to nab Terran kiddies and sell them on the market.” – Lithesteel answered with a somber smile, and placed his finger to his temple – “Our fathers learn us hot to defend ourselves, but it is our mothers who teach us when to use our last shot...”

Snuul choked on his drink, Noila dropped her food on the table, and Reen just stood there, mouth agape.

“One day, I was nearly eight, we were attacked. Led by the Push’va pirate clan, a sizable force consisting of Narco enforcers turned mercs, joined by Taz’aran imperial troops from their local garrison, persevered in their attempt to conquer us. Each of these groups had their own agenda, yet they worked well together, under one leadership. Plasma bombs and orbital strikes hammered our defenses, and as us kids huddled in the bunkers, our parents fought back.”

“Figures dhem Tazzies gon’n ‘nvade,” – Snuul grumbled as Reen gritted his teeth – “is in deir bloods.”

“From what intel they gathered after, the Taz’aran border count wanted bragging rights so he could improve his position in their Imperial Court. Narcos were in there for the coin and loot. The Push’va? They were in for us. Every single person, man, woman, and child they could snatch, would bring them a great price on the slave markets. Did not know it as a kid, but back then, our planet was home for over fifty million people.”

Noila winced when Vim mentioned the Push’va – “These slaving fokks ar’ still ‘round.”

“Initially, the invaders assumed we would fold quickly. After all, they had achieved orbital superiority and were planning for a bombing campaign, reduce our defenses to rubble before sending their troops. Planetary defenses wrecked many of their starships in the first month and so, they were forced to change plans. A siege instead of a quick invasion, things bogged down when they finally touched our soil. I shan’t bore you with the beginning of our toil, but rather, its end. That was when us kids from that homefront group had to dirty our hands.”

“Months passed. Everything that was built reduced to rubble, even the bunkers got hit hard. What was left of our troops held a network of defensive fortifications, first waged maneuver and later, guerrilla warfare. Millions died, including my parents, yet, in their thwarted rage, the invaders pushed even harder. More bombs, more orbital beam strikes, chem and bio weapons... stuff which they couldn’t have used on other planets, all was thrown in our face. Someone later told me the Tazzies assumed our colony a Terran fortress world, and the everyday militiamen and women who killed scores of them, crack troops. Nevertheless, at a certain point, almost one star-year later, everything had deteriorated to such a degree, that no longer were they aiming to enslave, but exterminate us.”

Reen, after fighting with a terrified expression so unusual for him, blurted out – “Cousins, ‘m beginning to think us all got’en kind off easy.”

Noila and Snool agreed, their own faces much paler than usual.

“Nine, armed with my pistol, I and my childhood friends, we carried wounded, and helped in the rear. On occasion, command had us guarding supply depots and artillery, which is when I shot my first Taz’aran. Yet, there weren’t enough supplies, combat and otherwise. Begrudgingly, in nighttime and wearing chameleo-cloaks, command sent us to scavenge the graveyard-like battlefield for rations, spare power packs, anything of use. I learned how to cobble things together, jerry-rig Tazzie or pirate guns and ammo. I also learned how to crawl through a carpet of rotting corpses and not puke what tiny bits of food I ate earlier. Three star-months of this and all who survived, and we were not many, looked like living skeletons. That was when it was decided that we needed to do something rash or many hundreds of thousands of babies would not last.”

Lithesteel’s words had such an effect on all of them, they could almost smell the corpses, and hear thousands of crying babies.

“All kids of the homefront who lived were reorganized into these ‘repositioning units’, but we called ourselves ‘carriers’. What was left of our manufacturing base had produced enough small stasis chambers so the babies could sleep through the hunger, the thirst and... the poison gas. From one shelter to another, at first using vehicles, guarded by the armed teenagers formed in resistance bands, we moved tens of thousands out of harm’s way. One after another the trucks, pickups, and cars were all lost, but we commandeered scooters, bikes, everything that moved, and kept working.”

“Every single power pack which we scavenged immediately went to power the pods. At one point, what was left of the token militia troops, gave their last ammunition for the babies and went into battle with their vibroblades. Pretty much everyone was being eaten alive by hunger, including myself, yet we all knew that a relief force, come hell or high water, was bound to arrive. Every single time when I thought it was not possible to make another step, when I counted how many fingers I had left, or picked the worms gnawing at my boils, I thought about the lives entrusted to me and kept going.”

Sobbing, Noila hugged Vim’s hand, so distressed, she was counting his fingers over and over. Jarro... he did not know how to react imagining such terror, and remained silent, his eyes focused at something distant, unseen. Snuul and Reen, otherwise strong-willed, gruff people, experienced wave after wave of fear and rage.

“Two months of this and the war ended for me. At a ruin of a bunker, full of skin-melting poisonous gas, I crawled through chemical puddles, dragging six stasis pods tied to my waist. Taz’aran troops clashed with what was left of the resistance band, killed them all, and actively hunting us. I remember a one-handed girl named Greta, we shared a smile and took our precious pods in different directions, hoping that at least one of us would evade the enemy. Skin burnt from the chemicals, spitting blood with every breath I took, nevertheless, I kept moving. Terran Star Marines, when they arrived hours later and found me unconscious, I was crawling still...”

His listeners finished whatever alcohol they had in their cups, Jarro even poured himself a sip of rakija, and exchanged looks full of immeasurable sadness, when Lithesteel stood up. Before he and Noila left the room, the Terran said – “I rather spare you a tale of my long and arduous soldiering. Good night to you all.”

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