Crumbs

Detective Vim Lithesteel

(Art source unknown)

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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

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Chapter 7

Acquired assets

The tall, spacesuit-wearing man entered a garbage-ridden residential cluster. One of the many grapes of spaceship cabins plasma welded together, here lived people who worked at the shopping street nearby. Yet, this place, once echoing with the laughter of playing children, the murmur of gossiping aunties, and smooching in the corners giggling teenagers, it now appeared deserted, abandoned even. Patting his radiation overcoat, the man scanned a nearby graffiti plastered wall, an ever-so-gentle twitch on his alien face.

‘Twas the twitch of doom.

“Pawuh to’dah Royalz!” – read the barely readable holo-paint letters sprayed by someone’s inept hand.

Arms under his oldish gray rad-coat, which dock workers often wore over their spacesuits in orbit or down on the ground to protect their suits from grime, and spare the spacepaint from getting white by radiation exposure, the man faced a corridor. One of two, it circled around all cabins, connected the small dining spaces in between, where residents would’ve shared breakfast, rumor, and sat for a board game. He walked past one such space, the tables shot to bits, chairs deliberately smashed, everything buried under piles of disgusting garbage.

Something noise adjacent, as far removed from what one would describe as music, scraped his ears. Whatever it was, the sounds were so loud that the entire corridor vibrated, bits of trash moved into piles and dust fluttered in the air. The man hastened his pace when he turned around the corner since there was a body, half sticking out an open cabin. One of his arms aimed a hand scanner as he approached and, with a sigh unheard, he picked up the old Taksian woman from the floor. Carrying the beaten bloody lady inside, the rickety door closed behind, and he was quick to inject her with a brand new medipack.

When her breathing began to normalize, just before her eyes opened, the man whispered something in her ear. The woman understood, because when she looked at him, there was a hesitant smile on her bruised lips. Hand shaking, she pointed down the corridor and replied his calm question. He produced a ration pack, canned juice, and placed these in her lap, more inquiries pouring out his mouth. She continued to answer the man’s questions in Taksian, while he treated her deeper wounds with self-sealing medstrips. He promised something and she wept.

Before he left, the man wiped a blood blot on her entrance with his portable force scrubber.

Another shit-crusted piece of digi-noise assailed his ears as he approached the corridor’s next turn.

More, and, if possible, even uglier set of graffiti came into view, “Royalz owns diz.”

There, standing among even fresher piles of trash, two gangbangers proceeded to steal breathable air. Moderately decked in cyber-tech, they had beam pistols and smoked Syncotic sticks which colored the air around them in neon pink. They’d seen the towering, rad-coat clad man and one of them was chuckling, making fun of his choice of attire calling him a “Brokie”. Most of that poltroonish cheer evaporated as soon as said man loomed over them, the ominous bluish glint of his faceplate gazing at their mugs from under the rad-coat’s hood.

“Hour be a fiver, a tenner fer rough plei.” – goon one spat rainbow spit on the floor as he showed a digi-file that read menu on top, the holo-slides of over a dozen Taksian and Nara kids rotating above, tagged and priced – “Limb er eye ‘ill cost’ya ‘nather tenner... iech.”

There it was again, the man’s cheek twitched.

“Aiiiy, youis gonn buyen’ a liddle whore er wat?” – sneered the second, a star-second before the man’s fist punched straight through his ribcage, crushing his cyber-heart.

Mr. menu explainer ended up head popped like a ripe fruit, his twitching body slumping to the floor, a huge trail of gore left on the wall behind.

The man reached under his rad-coat, drawing one highly modded, Taksian-made automatic beam pistol. Safety already disengaged, he proceeded to rip open the otherwise reinforced with an extra sheet of metal door, aiming his Warbler, finger on the trigger button. Behind the door there stood goon number three, his stupefied, cyber-enhanced mug vaporized by burst of particle-beams. Whatever the gangbangers said or screamed after, the man did not care. He stepped over the gobless corpse, his movements deft, his aim precise, his heart void of mercy.

Beams hissed over the sound masquerading as music which still boomed inside the small apartment. Haphazard return fire attempted to overpower his Warbler’s relentless buzz, with predictable, pathetic results. Then came the obligatory pleas for mercy, the promises of coin, all to save their miserable lives. The man’s answer was a swift reload. He opened fire, frying the leftovers dead with a barrage of beams, even before his slagged power pack hit the floor.

He exited the shot to hell apartment, soon to be joined by two costumed Taksians. They burst inside, shopping bags in hand, and came out having stuffed these full with coin, Syncothic sticks, PDAs, and guns. Everything of value had been stripped from the Royalz. Indeed, the man even cut whatever useful cyber-gear they had with a vibro-blade, minutes before he and his friends left.

CorpoSec arrived in a star-hour with their usual slothful efficiency and filed a report of yet another gang-related shooting. Since everything worth something had been lifted, and the usual automatic beamgun fitted with street mods used, Corpo flatfoots did not waste their valuable time. Things like these were so common, there was no need to even question witnesses. Authorities cared not about some raggedy tiny residential, nor the well-being of its dingy occupants. A corpse wagon came to dispose of the bodies another few hours later, and that was, as they said, it.

CorpoSec gone, a small group of Nara and Taksian youths entered the complex. They wore a mix of new and old clothes, looked smart, all of them had shoes, and carried bags full of cleaning supplies. While some began to coax the terrified residents out of their cabins, the rest attacked the trash. Piles of it were removed with vicious efficiency, the ugly graffiti which marked this as a territory belonging to the corpsified Royalz, wiped from the walls within the star-hour. As the kids and their older siblings worked, another group of youths arrived on their grav-scooters.

Their overalls and jumpsuits plastered all over with street food decals, including one which read ‘Spiffy Sammich’ they delivered bags full of delicious treats and drinks. When the confused residents, them having nothing left after being abused and robbed by the dead gangbangers, said they could not be paying for all of this, the delivery drivers explained that was already covered and they should not worry about anything.

On the next morning, wearing the same rad-coat, the man in the spacesuit returned. He was joined by his two associates, who carried a small briefcase. The three men visited all apartments and cabins, giving every single resident a small purse full of coin, “for their trouble”. They asked only one favor back, and that was to house a bunch of Nara kids, whom they’ve rescued from the Royalz. Most of them Nara themselves, the residents gladly accepted.

To make sure that another gang would not occupy their residential, a dozen strong group of armed young men, Taksians and Nara, were assigned to protect it. Carrying the same weapons which the gangbangers used to oppress them, but cleaned and fitted with new mods, the youths wore energy resistant vests under their common-looking clothes. They helped older residents with chores, babysat their kids, maintained the premises immaculate, and shopped groceries and even cooked for those with working hours too heavy to do so. When people asked who they were or what gang they belonged to, the young Nara man in charge said, “The Carriers”.

( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

Seven Taz’aran strong manning it, the CorpoSec exterior starport office brimmed with all types of electronics. Holo-screens glowed atop comfy desks, linked to at least one desktop and perhaps a couple PDAs. All of it was connected to the entire network of sensor poles and other scanning equipment which maintained a security perimeter in and around the starport. A SecuCard dangling from his neck, duly scanned and verified, before them stood a man in a spacesuit. The flatfoots tried not to look at him too much since the rad-coat he wore over his oldish suit was quite unpleasant to the eye. Smudged here and there, wrinkles all over, the thing did indeed suit some lowly private snooper like him.

“Why are you here,” – yawned one of the coppers – “don’t ya see we’re all busy like?”

“I am simply operating under Corpo Law, supreme sergeant.” – was the alien’s calm answer, the blueish glow of his faceplate giving his gray rad-coat a somewhat spooky outlook – “All private investigations must be compliant with Gahen Inc. regulatory organs.”

The cop sighed, rolling his eyes – “Sure. Ya have three star-minutes, as per regulations.”

Rad-coat ends gently fluttering, the man appeared to have already placed a crystal data-chit on his desk and the copper rubbed his eyes. He was unable to see how said chit was produced and from which spacesuit pocket, nor how it ended where it did. With another yawn, the flatfoot slurped from a can of Super Slimer Under 9000 Limited Edition(tm), his very logical Taz’aran brain switching on its “do not think too much about weird shenanigans” center.

The copper’s unspoken question plastered upon his covered with slothful annoyance gob was answered with perhaps the driest bureaucratic tone he’d ever heard – “Kindly upload secuvid copies of all spacecraft carrying Taksian refugees, their referent digi-files, including cargo and passenger manifests.”

“Ya want... what?!” – the cop nearly choked on his energy drink.

Helmet gently canted to the right, a minuscule increase in his faceplate glint, the alien asked – “There should not be an issue, officer. After all, I did come with a perfectly reasonable, Corpo regulation approved request.”

The silence was heavy, assailed by the quiet murmur of desktop cooling systems making sure crystaline chips did not crack and plasma lines melt from overheating. Holographic projectors, though generally silent, when working for many star-hours on end, they generated static force field displacement which, for they with sensitive hearing, did indeed sound like one persistent and rather annoying screech.

Having gained the undivided attention of all six coppers, their supreme sergeant ready to leap out of his comfy grav-chair, the alien said his next words with such a serene tone of voice, the Taz’arans fell into a state of utter shock – “See, there is that Terr’aan coffee smuggling gig that you definitely would like to bust. I know the time and location.”

“There will be a shuttle landing on pad 243 in a star-hour and twenty two minutes.” – and as if they needed more convincing, the man fed them even more info – “Check orbital docking vector FU-331P, ship ID is Groove Hunter. One standard case, fifty thousand packs.”

“How much?!” – mumbled one of the coppers, almost visible glow shining from his eyes as he began counting what they could gain.

“There,” – gasped the office sensor specialist, who made sure this oh-so-generous tip was real – “docking vector, ship, and everything checks out!”

“I comb your unibrow you comb mine.” – the supreme sergeant was swift to shrug off his startle, followed by the rest of his office, who rushed for their gear room, clamoring like schoolchildren readying themselves for a trip to the park.

Without wasting a second longer, the sergeant shoved the man’s data-chit in a reader which was not connected to their system. First, he initiated a transfer to a PDA from his desktop and when the mobile was unlinked, dumped all the data in the chit. Hastily shoving it in the alien man’s hand, the flatfoot jumped from his own seat, a smile on his thin lips – “Offworld operations will jump from joy when we deliver our report. After all, it is not every day when one catches ten thousand packs of smuggled Terr’aan coffee!”

The data-chit vanished and with his swift step, the man had nearly reached the office’s door, when the copper stopped him – “Ey, ya didn’t tell me about your thing. Its regulations. Why the Taksians?”

“Certain sentients owe other sentients coin for cervices rendered. I am just here to make sure that they collect.” – head tilted to the side said the man, fingers forming a gesture that all Taz’arans knew by heart.

It was the familiar weighing of the coin purse one did by habit when they received a bribe or took somebody’s purse.

“Hunting pay dashers?” – the flatfoot scratched his unibrow – “Money any good?”

“A fifty here, a hundred there,” – the alien shrugged as he pushed the door’s opening control – “it all adds up.”

More the copper did not need, nor was it prudent to waste time.

The man, his rad-coat fluttering, vanished into one of the outer starport alleys, while the CorpoSec officers nobly pursued their duty. That they soon caught said cargo shuttle and inside, there was indeed a box full of coffee, made them quite happy. Though the coppers failed to arrest anyone since this smuggler ship was flied on auto, it did not concern them much. They had all the data from its navigation system, stole most of the contraband for themselves, and were looking at possible promotions for their entire team.

What the flatfoots did not see was a huge cargo ship container, stuffed to the brim with millions of coffee packs, which casually slipped through their grip. Past a checkpoint void of officers, riding atop an unassuming grav-truck modified for container carrying, the Cousins laughing inside its driving compartment, 99% of Vim’s coffee was successfully smuggled.

In the mean time, Noila parked her neon yellow microcar atop one old building. Made from nano-concrete, this thing was once an office center, which offworld Corpos rented for their operations. Turned hospital, the spire-shaped construction sported a great number aid-docks for limousines, now used for private vehicles and ambulances.

“This Nara friend of yours,” – asked Vim, as he kept looking at Noila’s working attire – “she is dependable?”

Dark green, the shortish dress which tightly followed Noila’s curvaceousness, she paired with a bunch of handmade metallic bracelets, a pair of large circle-shaped silverish earrings, and comfy white shoes with thick soles. Only the slightest holo-makeup accentuated the natural shape of her face which was void of any cybernetic beauty enhancements. Hair dressed in a coquette bun, which she’d decorated with some sort of a bird-like plastic ornament, when Noila leapt from her car, she looked like a graceful avian.

“Sure thing mister ‘mployer.” – giggled she, fixing her decolletage – “Almi is real good at ‘er job. Fair too.”

They entered inside the hospital through a sliding door, he ahead, his rad-coat’s edges fluttering, Noula slightly behind, the soles of her elaborate shoes enabling her to move with little sound. A look her direction and Vim realized why she paired these with her handmade bracelets. While some working women relied on uncomfortably huge platform shoes to draw attention, Noila achieved almost the same effect with a simple hand movement, while walking around in comfort.

Lithesteel winced when a middle-aged Nara woman, charming and shapely, greeted them from a patient coach nearby. He hoped the Corpos tenderized this private ‘advisor’ Jemkek or else the Cousins need pay him a visit and soon.

Almi’s smile was wide and happy, despite having suffered quite the beating. Eyes still a bit on the black side, the woman’s lip was somewhat swollen when she giggled in their faces, hugging Noila – “Eyyy, Noilieeee, watcha doeeen?! Dhat yer tall boss ya talkien ‘bout? He keewl-eh!”

“Nahw,” – she sat back on the coach, shoved a piece of space-candy in their hands and popped open a limited edition of Super Slimer Under 9000, taking a huge slurp – “wat’s dhis job ye mentioned on the link?”

“Vim Lithesteel,” – the Terran introduced himself, slid open his faceplate and went straight to business – “Miss Almi, I would like to offer you the position of front office manager at a hostel named ‘My cozy room’.”

The two dames shared a conspicuous look.

“This venue is under new management, pending refurbishment. Suffice to say, some of the previous employees sported views and condoned practices incompatible with our values. More, I believe that said persons could’ve not simply interfered with the smooth operation of the establishment, but threatened the safety of our clientele.” – further explained Lithesteel, as he showed Almi a short series of holo-slides that helped her understand not only where said venue was, but grasp the nature of this business.

“A safe house?” – whispered the Nara woman inducing a nod of yes from Vim.

“Mostly Taksians, but also Nara will stay there, until they are safe to travel.”

The woman grinned and pointed at her noggin – “Dhen yer girl is me, boss. Been runnin’ a bunch of spots fer yeirs and all smooth-like, ‘ncluding The Crumbs.”

“Glad to hear it. Miss new employee, here is your info-pack.” – and Vim swiped a small bundle of data to her PDA, including salary and other stuff, motioning the two women to wait since there was an incoming link – “Noila, you and your friend have a chat as I take this link.”

Switching his helmet to silent mode, Vim accepted the link and saw Snuul’s grinning mug projected on the faceplate. Behind him, Reen casually pushed a grav-trolley, loaded with a garbage container. The Cousins were both wearing dumpster jumpsuits, paired with hats, face masks, goggles, and everything.

“Was your talk... convincing?” – inquired he, prompting Reen to push the container’s lid up, revealing the hostel pimp, tied, gagged, and tenderized, eyes full of immeasurable terror.

“What about that other thing?” – Vim’s eyes scoured the holo-feed and noticed another container already set in the dump barge’s clamps, seconds before Snuul replied to his question – “Trash collectid, ‘mpoyer, sir.”

“Nevah’ gonna beat ol’ peepo ‘gain, this fokk.” – Reen joined in, sammich-eating grin on his gob, as he pointed at a moderately cleaned mag-cutter, one which dumpers used to chop scrapped cars or other vehicles for ease of disposal.

The Terran inhaled and exhaled with joy – “I’ll be cooking Bulgarian barbecue tonight. Grab some of that booze of yours. Noila’s been talking about it for hours already.” – and having concluded this business, severed the link.

“Boss, can’ya ask whut is yer business-eh?” – began slightly stupefied Almi since in terms of pay and work conditions, all of this looked a bit too good to be true.

“Information and asset acquisition.” – said Vim as he slid open his faceplate and smiled – “Trash disposal of late.”

Her marvelous to behold bracelets clinking and clanking, Noila chimed in – “Ye knows, nuffin’ legal.”

Lithesteel followed his driver’s words with a reassuring nod, which fully calmed the Nara and she returned back to her otherwise cheerful self. Moment later, and a long scanning look around, Vim said to himself, “When justice is illegal, I shall gladly call myself a criminal...”

(╭ರ_•́)

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