Crumbs

Detective Vim Lithesteel

(Art source unknown)

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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5

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Chapter 4

A trail of crumbs

“Ooooh, woe is meee!” – whimpered Mr. Flookumsh, snot-like tears running down what passed for cheeks among the Munmsians – “Mutilated, my bonny face it ish! Mom could not even recognize me now...”

Helm in hand, his face a mask of utmost tedium, Vim threw the weapon collector a killing look. Voice adopting quite the intimidating timber, the detective said – “Maimed my foot! I know for a fact that this wriggling kisser of yours, it regrows over time.”

“Yesh, but... they takesh really, really long time to regenerate. Ish also paimful... osh, how paimful!” – A look of profound sadness replaced the Munmsian’s weepy face when he blew his nose-hole with the vacfoam rag Reen was so gracious to provide him with.

The Taksian was quick to dump said rag in the waste disposal chute.

“Do not trust a word he says.” – Lithesteel waved his glove Flookumsh’s way – “His tentacle-face will be all pristine and bonny like, on the morrow.”

Silence followed, about two star-minutes long, while Noila, Snuul, and Reen studied the aforementioned wriggling kisser, each with varied levels and types of emote. The quiet was broken by Snuul, who had thoroughly examined Mr. Flookumsh’s still existing net presence and, following a nod from Reen, projected a weapon digi-file – “Since we’ve been paid, ye gonn’ deal wiff me. Soonish, this pristine gun would be delivered to this ‘ere planit. Mind me, ‘tis always been in yer possession, that gun. Got it?”

Flookumsh’s eyes darted between Snuul, the holo, and Vim. His tentacles drooped and, shuddering, he avowed a most vigorous protest – “You don’t knowsh what’s he going to do withsh it! Look, he hash a pistol a-and a rapitt firin’ snubbing gun; thish Terr’aan already has way, waaaay too many weaponshesh. Don’t be giving him more, p-please!”

“Look,” – and Reen placed his hand on Flookumsh’s quivering shoulder, still a bit surprised of the fear this one exhibited towards Vim – “naht onlieh we saved yer wrigglie, snot-drooling gob, but muh Cousin neirlieh got shot ded doen’ it. That’s yer debt paid in full too. Be naht ungrateful...”

Snuul produced a spare PDA, shoved it in the Munmsian’s trembling hands, immediately following up after his Cousin – “Fix yer collection manifest with this gun...” – and he pointed at the holo-keyboard when he reiterated – “It was alweis there, still is, and nevar left yer gun vault. Do you understand muh?”

“Nod if ye do an’ sthart typen.” – smiled Reen as he squeezed Flookumsh’s shoulder.

Following another set of armored amphibian tears, the Munmsian tried his last to dissuade the Cousins, throwing multiple and supremely terrified looks at Vim – “B-but... he’sh a Terr’aan!”

Noila, the dislike in her voice in no way concealed, pointed at the olden rifle’s holo-image, trying real hard not to look at Munmsian’s wriggling tentacles – “Oooh, comen’on! Huwhat could him scary Terr’aan do with a museum piece?!”

“P-plomish is a museum p-piece?” – scared Mr. Flookumsh began to type an addendum to his collection manifest, which he’d somehow gotten from a G-Net node without the Cousins’ noticing.

“As a mattir of fakt, we’re smugglin’ one veery diaktiveited, veery useless gyro-jet rifle.” – assured him Snuul, once more pointing at the holo-images, zooming one for good measure when he added – “This be so old, so weird a gun, no one can evan trie to fix...”

“Not you, b-but a Terr’aan can!” – and the Munmsian stopped mid typing, yet another layer of fresh terror on his face.

Noila struggled to look at Mr. Flookumsh’s face – “Why so skared?”

“Because, you don’t knowsh Terr’aan powersesh! They can kill everyone... anything...” – and the tentacles twitched vigorously when Flookumsh explained – “Handless, withsh a vacplastic spork, and thish ish a big gyro-jet gun!”

Reen donned his best and most reassuring smile when he used another, this time his suiit’s vacfoam handkerchief, to wipe more snot and tears off Flookumsh’s gob – “An’ hwere will dat mega scarieh Terr’aan grab them bullits-eh?”

“P-promish... no b-bullets.”

“See, not a single round in me smugglin’ manifest.” – Snuul said with a wink.

The Munmsian’s fingers resumed typing ever so hesitantly. It took him under a star-minute to falsify his otherwise recently expanded and quite extensive collection’s digital manifest. Vim’s warning ringing alarm bells in their minds, the prudent Taksians looked at Mr. Flookumsh with newly-found wariness. A plastic smile on their faces, the Cousins watched him not unlike predatory birds, making sure that this one put every number and certificate digits as he should, and these were correct.

Not until they double checked everything and Vim screened the file himself, was the Munmsian allowed to leave. His task finally done, the “weirdo”, as Noila called him, proceeded to leave the office without another word and with such swiftness, they were not sure there existed another sentient who could move like him.

“Had I not been here, he would’ve whined about his holo-hat. Perhaps even asked for a ‘modesht shum’ for a replacement.” – Lithesteel spat, eyes tracking the line of snot Mr. Flookumsh had left behind him in his hurry, his nose sniffing the air.

Reen was quick to fiddle with their cleaning drone’s algo, as the thing immediately whizzed around, going first after the snot and with vicious efficiency.

Noila made a little dance, producing Lithesteel’s private detective license from her jumpsuit’s neckline. On a colorful strap made from high quality vacfoam, which Vim could wear around his neck, there was the properly fiddled with stolen secuchip. Housed in a new card cast from Arnium alloy, it bore his scannable data, assuring CorpoSec personnel that he had been fully vetted, and otherwise totally compliant with all corporate laws and regulations Gahen Inc. operated under.

“Snuul, you take sixty for the license,” – Vim counted the decats, when the Cousin gave him back his coin purse – “and another forty for light shopping.”

The Taksians shot a look at each other and Reen quickly slid behind his desk to pull a list of G-Net shadow retail pages – “What we lookien fer?”

“Nothing big. One small nano-printer and some chems.” – and the Terran linked him a tiny dig-file – “Here’s the list.”

Lithesteel canted his head at the door as he looked at Noila, who grinned from ear to ear – “Mister ‘mployer, we’re goin somewhere?”

“Time for some info digging.”

（>◡<）

Droplets of multi-colored rain peppered their car, leaving watery scars across its neon yellow shapes.

All grav-vehicles had some form of low-yield energy shielding or another, to protect them during speedy flight, but Noila’s was different. Modded extensively, some tech had tweaked the field controls so well, that minute things like harmless rain or micro dust were not blocked by the shield. This increased the car’s speed just a wee bit, and lowered its fusion cell drain, which in turn ameliorated some of the heat. This vehicle had a number of mods, clever system hacks, and setting tweaks, which, as a whole, made it significantly faster than other grav-cars in its class.

“Nevah’ gonna have one of them ‘nergy windshields.” – chirped his driver when she noticed that he was marveling at her ride – “They just guzzle powuh’ an do nothien.”

Vim had the Warbler partially disassembled in his lap, and nodded at her windshield commentary – “Some sentients can’t understand that all that stuff stops working when the power drops.”

Noila watched him examine the hastily slapped together power pack and giggled at his concerned wince. He actually considered tossing it out of the semi-opened window, such was his dislike of its shoddy make. The girl pointed at the tiny compartment under the passenger’s seat – “Pop it open.”

He did so, producing a pack of disposable vacfoam wipes, a can of Super Slimer Under 9000 energy drink (still good), and a spare power pack. Vim did not have to scan this one or put these side by side and compare, like most non shooters. Without hesitation, the man loaded his looted weapon, a gentle whiff of ozone reached his nostrils and heard it click with the “full power” pop he knew so well.

“Sorry, don’t haff any bigguns.” – she patted her tiny stun pistol with a smirk.

The girl veered around some Corpo limousine crash caused air-jam, brashly flying her tiny grav-car through what appeared to be CorpoSec checkpoint. Lithesteel had even reached for his brand new SecuCard, but left it dangle on its colorful strap – “They let you do that?”

“Meh.” – she popped a chewing gum bubble – “Smol, cheappo car, that’s no big fine fer them. But them big ones... oooh... just’a look-a-back, mister!”

Vim glanced in the rear holo-view, noticing a shiny offworld Corpo limo which was immediately stopped, to the great chagrin of her driver and vexation of the passengers.

“I am surprised they don’t go to work in portable stasis chambers.” – chuckled the detective – “Slumber till some fat Corpo ass flutters close, then wake up, slap a fine or maybe take a little bribe and then, its sleepy time again.”

“Probl’y not in dat jigglieh’ chubby budget of deirs.” – smiling Noila joined on the joke.

They laughed for a good star-minute, the two making faces of sleeping CorpoSec officers, because of the air-jam behind them, their airlane was nearly empty. In another minute, Noila maneuvered around an atmo well since the planetary spacecraft controllers sent air traffic info-files about incoming vessel. With a brutish, death-promising grumble, an armored military space shuttle descended down through the atmo, its wings aimed at the needle-like building, headquarters of Gahen Inc.

Lithesteel examined said starship, cataloging its shape and engine configuration, including one rather detailed holo-slide that he made using his hand scanner. One could not be weary enough when strolling or in this case, flying, around a Corpo owned world.

“This is the place, there, behind that mall.” – said Vim, pointing at a grapevine-shaped and rather expensive looking shopping district.

The girl was not in her home air, therefore, to avoid any potentially money costing engagements with CorpoSec, she piloted slow and steady. In another couple of star-minutes, her yellow car gracefully landed behind said mall. This street, though still littered with trash, was significantly cleaner and better maintained than what Vim saw back in the starport district.

“My cozy room” read the beyond ugly holo-sign, lazily blinking above what appeared to be the entrance of a cheap worker’s motel.

“What’s the plan?” – asked Noila, when they popped out of the car, she pulling the hood of her cozy jumpsuit over and he, helmeting up.

“I need ten minutes. You stay here and watch over, call if something happens.”

The girl nodded, spat the chewing gum and produced a sugary bonbon from her jumpsuit’s upper pocket.

Vim checked his two weapons and, following another thought, left the Warbler in Noila’s car and his SecuCard out for everyone to see. He gently turned her head when she ogled the automatic pistol with a playful smile – “You call me.”

“Sure, mister ‘mployer sir.” – she giggled a pretend salute, cracking the cherry red bonbon with her teeth, and waved him goodbye.

Once inside, Lithesteel changed completely.

Behind the faceplate, his eyes became nigh lifeless, lips a thin line, facial expression void of emotion. The first obstacle, a haggard landlord in his ancient pair of vacfoam slippers and a dirty robe, he sent packing with a single decat. Up the stairs and across what passed for a lobby of what was once a reputable small hotel, there sat obstacle number two.

A pimp masquerading as a receptionist attempted to gain Vim’s attention, swiping a bundle of dirty holo-slides his way – “What’cha lookien’ fer, eh, mister? We haff all kinds of gir...”

Dangling the SecuCard in the pimp’s face, Lithesteel ignored the smutty offer – “I do not want to call SecuCorp.” – and a fiver quietly slid over his way, as he nodded at the hotel’s main lift.

“Stoopit me, yer on official business.” – sneered the slimy man and in a few moments, Vim was riding the elevator.

He made sure to stash the card.

Just a random alien doing his random alien things, Vim strolled down a corridor, its recycled carpet squishing with Universe knew how much dreck under his boots. Filed at the back of his prudent mind there was the thought to give his magboots a thorough sonic wipe, later. Though he was not in outer space, a man like him made use of all spacesuit gadgets.

A few tired denizens and streetwalkers peeked from their door eyeholes, fear replaced by indifference as soon as they were assured he was neither CorpoSec, their pimp, nor some other obvious goon. He did not fail to notice that most were freshly beaten and there were recent blots of dried blood on the rotten carpet.

Lithesteel gritted his teeth behind the faceplate.

At room number 301, he halted and rummaged through the contends of his thigh pocket. Producing a metallic card, Vim held it at the door’s spyhole and rang the button. The Nara’s otherwise pale green face which greeted him was black and blue. A pair of tired eyes winced and, in a few moments, recognized the playing card.

“Fancy a game?” – asked the Terran.

The old man reached forth with trembling fingers and took the card, wetness in his eyes when he coughed – “Come in. I have a full deck of cards now.”

The room’s spartan insides were turned upside down. He found no concealed sensors following a quick sweep with the hand scanner, but located traces of silenced pain. Dried droplets of Nara blood, scratches on the furniture, spittle, and a man-size indentation in the carpet. In the aftermath of the painful visit, the old man had spent the night on floor, curled behind the fallen sofa-bed. Vim activated another gadget with a voice command from his faceplate and the localized sound dampener field came up. He proceeded to help putting the heavier pieces of furniture back in their places, asking questions in the mean time.

“Uncle, who is shaking you down?”

“Must’ve seen him at the reception desk.” – wheezed the old man, as he produced a deck of cards from a hiding place under the carpet, shuffled through it, and replaced Vim’s card with one of his own.

“What for?” – The detective pocketed the nearly identical card, and left the man his spacesuit’s set of emergency rations.

“One of his hookers ran off,” – explained the oldster as he settled in his chair when Vim put it back up – “and he thought we knew where or... with who.”

“Uncle, can’t you move?” – inquired Vim as he peeked inside the man’s empty stasis fridge, though he very much expected the answer.

“Even if I had the coin, I no longer have the strength... nor the time.” – coughed the tenant.

Poking a polyplastic plate of stale, recycled food with the sad realization that most sentients in this part of Fringe Space consumed nearly toxic slop, Lithesteel noted he had five minutes left.

“Describe the attacker,” – asked he, standing next to the wheezing old man – “just in case.”

“Tazzie merc; six-an-a-half foot tall, cyber-hands, with combat eye implants, street gang issue.” – said the oldster and nearly choked as he suffered a violent coughing fit, prompting Vim to inject him with medigel.

“Lay low,” – advised Lithesteel – “and take care of that cough. Sounds nasty.”

The old man shrugged in his chair, sucking protein paste from one of Vim’s rations.

“Micro-plastoid schlock... wheeze... my lungs are full of it. Nothing short of full replacement can help.”

Vim nodded; two minutes left.

“Uncle, how many coming and going Taksians did you count in the last three star-months?”

“Stats are on the card, but it looks pretty normal... you know, for a trafficking hub of this size.” – the uncle replied, his breathing a bit more clear and even,

“There were irregularities then, like money squeezing, and organ selling?” – Vim asked, his eyes blinking at the faceplate’s blue time indicator; one minute left.

The uncle, a sad smirk on his mouth, pulled his cheap thermal blanket over, and covered his legs – “At first, I noticed the usual crud. Traffickers forced young Taksian girls into prostitution to pay for their parents’ ‘debts’. Some were coaxed to sell a organ or two. Others became street thieves or burglarized shops to pay for their trafficking fees. However, you are correct to ask me about irregularities. Of late, when their ships land, they are mysteriously on the emptier side.”

Lithesteel winced – “Dare I ask, who is missing?”

Having slurped the nourishing paste, the uncle replied – “There is a shortish list on the card, but nowhere near as accurate. Hundreds of younglings, thousands I suspect, yet it was impossible for me to gain access to all cargo manifests.”

“Meaning, the trafficked disappear en-route or...” – and Vim reached for his PDA, projecting holo-slides, some of the local starport, a number of suspected trafficker ships, and one small star map.

“Son, they vanish right here!” – and the oldster’s finger pointed straight at the starport control building when he added – “Ship controllers, the traffickers cannot do business without them.”

The time index changed and Lithesteel switched off his sound dampener.

“Good game.” – said the detective, at the door and ready to leave.

Profound sadness in his eyes, the Nara man coughed from his chair – “One of the best I ever had.” – a moment before the door closed behind Vim’s figure.

Across the rotting carpet he stomped and nearly reached the lift, when he heard Noula’s trembling voice in his comm – “Mister ‘mployer...”

“Trouble?” – and his hand hovered over the gun by habit.

“Repos!”

The detective left even quicker than he entered.

Past the slimy pimp who, again, tried his luck with a barrage of sultry ads but was ignored, and the indifferent landlord, who cared not about what actually occurred inside his building or how of the safety of his tenants. Once out on the backstreet, Vim Lithesteel witnessed a party of five cyber-stacked gangbangers. Them having surrounded Noila with dreams of car jacking, one suddenly became very stunned and was lying zapped in the gutter.

“Git yer grubby cyber-shclocked paws off me car!” – cried Noila, waving her fully discharged stunner in their gnarly faces.

“Not yours!” – snarled one of the bulky goons, a massive and quite brutish looking baton in hand.

He was about to swing said weapon, when Vim’s hand snatched it with practiced ease. Immediately, the trio switched their attention, even reaching for their pistols the very star-second they measured him. A bit hesitant, as soon as they came to the realization that actual particle-beams may be exchanged, their leader grumbled – “This does not concern you.”

Another, hand gripping the handle of his beamgun, snarled – “Scram. We needs no more grief that we already has...”

While the third nodded in what he assumed to be quite intimidating manner, Vim moved and with such speed, that the Repo team leader had no time to react. Hand holding his gun drawing arm, faceplate in his face, the Terran spoke with such calm severity, that the goons shook to their very core – “Imagine... not only I want more, but the grief I seek is of the heavy particle-beam to the heart, vibroblade in the eye kind?”

“Got a little death wish-ey t’day, eh?!” – goon number three attempted to sound scary, and a split star-second later Vim’s vibroblade hummed an inch from his left eye ball.

Not an idiot, the Repo team leader summoned what seemed to be his widest, and most peaceful smile, addressing both Lithesteel and his underlings – “‘T’would seem we have made a mistake, am I right?”

Goon number two checked something on his PDA, nodding vigorously in the process – “Yeah, car is neon green, not yellow...”

Repo man number three dared not even blink, the tip of a vibroblade so close to his eye, yet was able to mumble with faked confidence – “Ah-ahahah! See what we did there... the same model, but its digi-number is not the one we’re lookien fer.”

Sticky end averted, the Repo men grabbed their sleeping fellow and left with such efficiency and speed, Noila looked their way for another half-a-star-minute after they were gone for good. She shook her fist their way, intent on cheering and mayhap even laughing, yet became dead silent when Vim linked her Cousins, his tone ice cold.

“I need someone disappeared. I am sending you detailed descriptions.” – and Lithesteel swiped a file from his PDA while he nodded mid sentence – “Yes, he is a no goodun’ Taz’aran fokk’ and yes, he did beat old people bloody. The pimp? Have a chat with hi... it, of the convincing kind.”

The detective severed his link and reached for Noila’s car door. She blinked a few times, her heart thumping after hearing him change his demeanor so. Before he sat, the man snatched his trophy beamgun. Sliding open the faceplate by force of habit, Noila nearly choked on her gasp when she saw his face. Not a speck of emote, but concentrated, focused despite, his eyes were iron. For a short moment, there was the beginning of her quiver, announcing a nightmare which she’d long since been made to forget, until he cast his gaze upon her.

Vim’s voice emanated his usual warmth when he addressed her – “I am like that, whenever I face issues beyond my immediate control.”

She hopped behind the controls, spurring her ride into a reasonably speedy ascent – “I-issues?”

His face alit with pleasant memory, the detective changed topics – “Tell me, Miss Employee, what is all that fuss these ‘repos’ made about your car?”

The girl pouted.

“Ride’s mine!, muh frens slapped it ‘gether from a scrapped Golden Hare 400E. I paid fair and square for aftermarkit parts too!”

“What was this then?” – asked he, and canted his head in such an adorable, alien manner, that Noila forgot all worries, gracing him with a huge grin.

“Stoopits looking fer a skared mark to snatch another car from, dats what.”

“Next place is this residential area.” – Vim yawned as he slid his next destination to her car’s navigation – “And, Noila? You should tell me if you have any other grubby little ‘stoopits’ after you.”

She waved her hand, changing course as soon as her car was in the proper air-lane.

“Good.” – smirked he, dozing off under her smiling eyes.

（>◡<）

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