Crumbs
Detective Vim Lithesteel
(Art source unknown)
Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 9
Chapter 8
Normalization
Energy dispersal cloak surging by the gust of a landing starship, Chief Detective Naym held his uniform cap, hand resting on the FBI pistol. Unbeknownst to the SecuCorp personnel, its safety was switched and the weapon ready to fire. Standing at attention, if such a loose formation could be called such, the flatfoots each threw a hidden look at their supreme sergeant. It was, as if, the entire seven strong evidence stealing team sought to draw some mystic Taz’aran power of lies and deceit from their commander, and somehow swindle a DCPS detective. It would’ve been maddeningly annoying if it was not pitifully ludicrous.
A servant of the Directorate so stalwart as he did not suffer the slothful to live, not until they’d shared all relevant information, that is...
Naym’s own crew had already combed every single inch of that automated shuttle. They disassembled its engines, ripped open all consoles, and practically gutted her mainframe. Minute traces of Taksian genetic material were discovered, and though they who planned and executed this decoy smuggling run were cunning, the DCPS was infinitely craftier. His crime scene techs could do things with scanning frequencies that most sentients could not imagine. Not to mention that the team of commandos on loan from the TISD could practically sniff fraudulent and hacked data without even looking at it.
“I command you on your initiative, Supreme Sergeant.” – Naym addressed the Corpo flatfoot keeping a side glance at him, giving the man a deceptively false sense of security.
To anyone, moreso a copper, being questioned by one who did not even look at their face was a sign of redundant digi-form filling, boring staff meetings, and bureaucratic formalities.
Indeed, a few star-seconds before he bellowed his reply, the Taz’aran sergeant almost emanated tranquil, a thing which Naym was trained to detect – “We obey our contractual obligations with most fruitful duty, Chief Detective!”
“Interesting.” – sighed the Taksian since his techs had just linked their preliminary report, projected by his uniform cap’s visor straight onto a pair of eye lenses – “Then you should express no objection as I and my men execute you on the spot for breaching said contract.”
They, because this is why he brought all of them here, both the TISD commandos and the crime scene specialists, have already located a cache full of stolen evidence; forty-thousand instapacks of smuggled, highly unregulated Terr’aan coffee. Of course since all of it was practically smothered with the coppers’ fingerprints and their individual Taz’aran DNA, there was no need to plant incriminating evidence. His troop was expert in that or they wouldn’t have reached such high positions in the Directorate’s arm militant.
Complete stupefaction and the beginning of terror replaced prior ease, as the sergeant mumbled, cold sweat dripping from his unibrow – “Excuse me wh-what?!”
Naym tilted his head.
One finger tracing the hat’s visor, a tiny smirk on his thin lips, the detective drew his pistol, a sign for his commandos to act. The men immediately aimed their snub particle-beam repeaters, fingers on the trigger buttons. Cleaver JO11 was a somewhat of lighter beam yield that the model which Taksian Directorate troopers employed on the battlefields, yet quite lethal still.
“You can’t beam us!” – vehemently protested one of the panicked coppers, while his comrades looked around, their supreme sergeant having sent a useless link to CorpoSec HQ, one which came and went without answer.
“Oh... I am sorry,” – and Naym slowly lowered his powerful FBI beam pistol – “I did not know you seven have a wizardly protection from punishment under Corpo Law.”
“Taksian bureaucracy has no jurisdiction here,” – screeched one of the flatfoots, to the dismay of their horrified supreme sergeant – “this planet belongs to Gahen Inc. and...”
Naym fired once.
Incinerated on the spot, what was left of the mouthy officer danced upon yet another landing ship gust. Indicators blinked on his eye lenses, giving him scan-data from the helmets of his commandos and the detective sighed. This weapon was overpowered and to such an extent, that whoever came with its designation, their choice was quite apt. However, he calculated that in its current configuration, mods or no mods, the FBI pistol would overheat after seven shots. That meant he either had to use it sparingly, count the star-second in between his shots or outright lower the power input.
He firmly believed in the Sciencecrats who conceived his beamgun and did nothing.
The supreme sergeant did indeed receive a short link, not from HQ, but some fellow of his, which read “Your operational ability to issue warnings and file reports has been restricted.” Knowing exactly what this meant in Corpo-speak, he quaked in his uniform, hands nowhere near the beam pistol. Even if he was supremely quick, the commandos standing beside Naym had their weapons aimed.
Resistance was beyond futile.
“The Directorate is eleemosynary.” – Naym spoke without a semblance of an emote as he holstered his gun with a twirling flourish – “I could send a link directly to CEO Lomm.”
“We will do anything.” – his unibrow dripping with sweat, the supreme sergeant was quick to assure.
The Chief Detective motioned towards a line of landed transport ships. Cargo and passenger, it was a mix of Taz’aran and even repurposed Taksian military vessels. All bore either Gahen Inc’s logo or the labels of various other Corpo entities. Lifters, grav-cranes, and other machinery operated around some, either unloading or stuffing their holds with containers, while busses and cars deposited their sentient cargo inside the transports.
“Would you then be so helpful and provide my techs with everything you have on vessels which offloaded Taksian refugees? To the last ship, person, and all relevant digi-files, including hyperspace or jump-gate navigation routes.”
Scared as they were, the Taz’rans managed to sneak a star-second and shared a slightly puzzled look. Another would’ve missed it, but Naym was what he was and here for a specific reason. He processed all of the nonverbal clues he’d gathered so far, counter-imposed these upon a map of Taz’aran behavior and sifted his conclusions through a strainer of their known cultural norms.
With slightly elevated tone of voice, Naym addressed the supreme sergeant, of course, only after he’d turned around to face him – “I would say that another came to you before me, and with the exact same demand. Since you are a Taz’aran with working brain, said somebody wouldn’t have gotten the data unless he or she offered something of value.”
Terror-oozing from his eyes, the Taz’aran was about to mumble something in reply, yet Naym had already read, measured, and ascertained his most probably answer – “Coffee, they offered you that contraband shipment. It was a ploy so obvious and basic, that even your scheming Taz’aran mind refused to imagine.”
“But that private investigator... he h-had proper l-license and... everything c-checked out! Taksian pay dashers, that’s who he was after. You see? Nothing weird there!” – uttered the sergeant with his best subservient voice, sweaty fingers speeding through his PDA records to link the Taksians, the exact same ones which he linked said private eye.
“Secucam footage.” – one of the TISD commandos nudged the flatfoot’s DT support tech with his gun, and this one immediately complied.
“I could care less, personally, when Gahen Inc. involves itself in unregulated traffic of sentient cargo.” – Naym’s face was inches away from the Taz’aran, eyes locked with his, a gentle smirk on his lips – “However, locating Taksian thought criminals, it is my duty.”
One of his policewomen, a data-tech, gave him a sign that the Corpos had linked all relevant info-files, and that these were not fake. Paired with a bunch of holo-slides and vids of the aforementioned private detective, a tallish mad clad in alien spacesuit, and rad-coat cloaked to boot, this was the extent of the flatfoots’ involvement in Naym’s case.
“Hacking and decoding data is such a tedious chore.” – said the detective as he fixed his black gloves, content that every tiny bit of information had been secured, and without wasting extra time or computing resources.
Shrugging in his uniform, hit by another and quite powerful gust of starport wind, the Taksian pulled the cloak over his hands. With but a nod, his commandos proceeded to unleash a singular beam burst each, mowing dead the coppers with zealous efficiency. All power packs supplied to any armed servant of the Taksian Directorate were accounted for, and to the last shot.
“Gnrhhhh... wh... why?” – the supreme sergeant wheezed his last breaths, chest ripped open and flesh cauterized.
Ignoring the horrid stench of Taz’aran blood, Naym crouched, and head tilted to the right, said – “How could I’ve sent a link to that CEO of yours, if I was never here?”
Gazing upon a facial expression of pure astonishment, catching the last gleam of life in the man’s eye, all of it was worth suffering the smell and more. When he left, one of the commandos casually chucked a flame grenade over his shoulder, and the chem-flames turned all coppers into cinders as everyone boarded the Corpo-issued dropship.
Screens gleaming with newly acquired data, Naym made sure all clues were uploaded before he sat behind his DT support tech’s station. Cargo and passenger manifests checked and double checked, names of wanted thought criminals with relevant threat scores made their way on top of the DCPS list. For sure, all who vanished from border worlds, their identification numbers correlated with such from Chief Detective Zoenn’s investigation files. The woman may have been defeated by the Terr’aans, yet her detective work was beyond immaculate.
While the dropship pilots maneuvered their refurbished ship, following a navi-route towards Naym’s next target, he examined the starport secuvid. Taller than him, clad in a space garment nigh useless unless as a piece of disguise, that person and his scruffy spacesuit appeared mundane. His speech pattern flat, his walk casual, only the speed of his hands was out of ordinary.
“Probability of cyber-tech or gene-grafts is high.” – Naym spoke aloud, again with little emote since many Taksians who ran away from the Directorate often jacked themselves up full of unregulated tech or genetic augmentations.
Their desire to resist the inevitable would be all but laughable, yet aliens like these Terr’aans offered their quite deadly assistance. Even the thought of somebody enabling the escape of Taksian runaways gave Naym great discomfort. To him the idea alone felt unsettling, doubly so since said Terr’aans seemingly offered their aid without any ill-intent or desiring pay. Meaning, that the DCPS could not effectively apply convincing anti-Terr’aan propaganda since none of the escapees could end up trafficked, pimped, or chopped for their organs.
‘Zoenn shouldn’t have failed,’ the detective thought to himself, and reached for the holo-vid controls.
He spent the time till his dropship landed rewinding and playing the same three star-second frame over and over again. There was that flash of movement, almost too hard to observe with the naked eye even when slowing the footage. However, that was not what made this alien private eye mysterious, not even that weird something in his demeanor.
There was a presence, an aura of sorts, quite impossible for the mind and eye of the untrained to perceive. The fact that this alien carried an excessively plentiful supply of power packs for one single handgun, three times the usual number most sentients would, was a major clue. It reminded Naym of something in particular, something vaguely distant and of great importance, yet, for some maddening reason, even his photographic memory refused to comply.
Quite... annoying.
The detective disembarked, hand on his beamgun. Flanked by his commandos, a trail of policemen behind, he approached one rather weird office. It was so plastered with holo-ads and shining in varied coloration of space paint, that a common person might be confused to assume it housed a troupe of actors or comedians. It was, in fact, the home of one rather unassuming, at least according to his G-Net profile, Munmsian gun collector.
“Odditiesh and gunshesh extraordinaire.” – read the elaborate holo-sign projected by top grade holographic emitters above the entrance.
Naym entered with little worry. He knew enough about Munmsians and this one in particular, to expect submission and not particle-beam fire. Just in case, the Taksian had already switched his personal shield belt on, one hand positioned the cloak before his chest if a beam of too great a power breached its bubble.
“Do you have an appointment?” – greeted him one youngish Taksian secretary, applying another layer of holo-makeup to her already cyber-enhanced face – “Mr. Flookumsh does not accept anyone without an appointment.”
He loomed over her, the commandos standing shoulder to shoulder and waited until she finally looked up. For a few star-seconds, her facial expression was unchanged, yet she finally recognized Naym’s DCPS badge. Complete and utter terror replaced the aura of mild annoyance, so wonted for sentients of her vocation. Cybernetic, tears did not pour from her eyes, yet her entire body shook so violently, that she fell from her comfy grav-chair.
“My appointment is not with him, citizen designation Boona.” – Naym reached down, caressing a face remade with polyplastic and metal with his black glove – “Or I should rather say criminal 00478653.”
A lump in her throat, citizen Boona was unable to speak when the detective motioned behind him – “Officers, detain and process the criminal. Make sure to remove her Directorate unregulated facial cybernetic prosthetic. Arrange transport to the prison ship at our earliest convenience.”
Humming the DCPS hymn, two of his policewomen dragged the Taksian secretary away from her desk and outside, where soon echoed her muffled wail. Prisoners were not allowed on any Directorate facility with cybernetic implants or gene-grafts. It was not the concern of the agents who detained and processed them if said criminals survived the process of normalization.
“Scratch one from my list.” – Naym dusted one invisible fleck from his badge.
The locked door of Mr. Flookumsh was swiftly made passable by one of the commandos. Once inside, they were greeted by a tentacle-faced Munmsian. According to Naym’s sources, whatever happened to this man was unpleasant, and yet the collector of oddities and guns smiled behind his elaborate desk. Brand new suit and holo-hat changing color, a flicker of tiny lights glittering around his body like an aura of latest galactic fashion. Yet, in the eyes of a DCPS detective, all appeared to be ever so slightly off.
“He is not really here, isn’t he.” – the detective addressed his crime scene techs, one of which nodded back.
“But of courshe I am not!” – giggled the Munmsian, hand pointing at something behind his desk – “Neither ish my collection.”
Naym played with the visor of his hat for a few star-seconds, shooting a look at the same tech. The woman made an attempt to track the holographic projector’s upload point, finally giving up with a shrug – “This is one of these trendy holo-person algos. He recorded this beforehand and inputted conversation parameters, to be activated whenever.”
“Where are you?” – inquired Naym, even though he realized that was a pointless question.
“I don’t know.” – replied the holo-person algo, tentacle-face wriggling into what passed for a smug grin among Munmsians – “What I do know ish, that I am shafe.”
The detective sighed as his team scanned and searched everything, including a secret door behind the desk. This rather expertly force-scrubbed room, which once housed Mr. Flookumsh’s vast gun collection was explored in all its glorious emptiness.
His annoyance back, Naym decided to try one last time – “Why did you leave?”
“While I am not at liberty to anshwer your query, I can shay thish...” – and the holo-person’s tone of voice, although programmed, was obviously laden with quite a lot of worry when he quoted a line from some alien book – “Terran tradition ish that all musheum piecesh need be fully operational, a plentiful supply of ammunition maintained, thush the arms are alwaysh ready to fire.”
The Taksian took a deep breath, hand gripping his pistol’s handle.
This was exactly what his memory had so stubbornly refused to relinquish!
The tentacle-faced Munmsians, he knew them all too well and these days, the slick scammers ran away from only one thing. Barbarous people, they who dared oppose the established order of things, even deny the Directorate its due. These Terr’aans, and Naym was now sure that spacesuit-wearing man was one, they never went anywhere without ammunition aplenty...
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Ye want to read more? Click over ‘ere, you know you want to!
@Suzie Nicks Thank you for restacking. The events of the Sirius War are perhaps one of the hardest for me to write.
Another baddie that needs vaporized. This was a fun episode.