Even under pressure and battered as I was I'm still good. Six kneecaps, six shots. I don’t know if Cla-arrk legs have kneecaps but I put the shots where the kneecaps should be if they had some. Either way, he went down.
Those were also the only six rounds I had. Sneaking the small weapon onto the shuttle and through Carson Station customs had not been too risky. The whole pistol is made out of high strength poly-carbon plastics. Not a weapon meant for prolonged use but great to smuggle through inspections. Most detectors will not see it. The shells were the only things made with metal. I didn’t want to risk bringing more than what was already in the gun.
I hadn’t thought I would need a weapon and I wasn’t going to bring one. My partner Nick was the one who insisted I take along some insurance as he called it. I finally relented when Sarah, our receptionist slash accountant slash mother hen, told me in her most stern voice that I was going to bring it if I knew what was good for me. Sarah’s in her mid sixties and proud of it too. Not the typical receptionist one expects to see in the office of a detective agency but I wouldn’t replace her for anyone. She treated Nick and I as her boys. So I agreed to carry the gun. Nick lent me his shoulder holster to go with it, mine being too big to hold it. I really should listen to Nick’s hunches more often.
The ambassador was dragging himself across the floor towards me with a look of pure hatred on his face. Of course it could have been a look of pure love for all I knew. Humans and Cla-arrk are not the same at all. The corridor I was hiding in when he found me ended at an emergency escape lock. Vacuum at my back and the half-ton bulk of the ambassador blocking the way ahead, I was starting to panic.
Well, to be precise, I was starting to panic more. Being beaten and chased by a half ton six legged camel with more sharp teeth than should fit in its mouth would make anyone panic. Did I forget to mention the two arms; they looked like they could open an armored vehicle as if it was a sardine can.
The ambassador was getting nearer by the minute and I was sure this was it. I wasn’t going to survive this one. My luck had finally run out. I thought to hell with international incidents I’m not going down without a fight. If that damned over-toothed camel wanted to kill me he would have to work hard for it.
I searched my pockets for something to use as a weapon but all I came up with was my pen. Oh well, it would have to do. Going for the neck and face would be my best bet.
Just as I was about to jump onto the ambassador six marines in full combat armor rushed into the corridor. I’m saved I thought. They jumped the Cla-arrk’s bulk with power- assisted ease and landed between us. Oddly, their weapons were all pointed at me. I was staring down the bore of six, one centimeter, plasma assault rifles holding my pen in front of me as if it could stop the blast of energy they would spit out.
“They may say that the pen is mightier the sword Kellogg but I don’t think it will make a hell of a difference to these rifles. Put it away will you, you look ridiculous.” I put the pen away and two marines grabbed me and slammed me against the airlock. I recognized that voice. The owner of that voice stepped around the corner, walked right over the ambassador without even a glance down and stopped in front of me.
Sergeant Julie Morgen. Major Julie Morgen now I saw. The toughest, meanest marine you can imagine. Take the worst 6 foot 4 drill sergeant; remove any remotely nice feelings he may have for anyone, put ice water in his veins and concentrate it into a five foot two inch perfect female body. Jet-black hair cut just below the ears, and eyes the same gray color as storm clouds. I always expected to see little lightning bolts in them if I looked really close. She could be a model for any fashion mag.
Instead, she was a marine. I had served under her for a while. Those who stated the obvious joke to that line within her hearing would learn the hard way to watch their tongues. She could beat anyone in our unit without breaking much of a sweat. She enjoyed beating anyone in our unit!
Sergeant Julie "the Morgue" Morgen. Shit! She was the reason I wasn't in the marines anymore.
Now I was really panicking. I'd taken a shot at her a few years ago. The only reason she was still alive is because someone jumped me from behind as I pulled the trigger. I was going for a head-shot, as I was sure she had no heart, but just took the lobe off her left ear.
The marines don't look too kindly on soldiers shooting their sergeants. It might give everyone ideas. Only the circumstances surrounding the incident permitted me to get a discharge. That and signing lots of papers giving my life away if I even breathed in the direction of the press.
"Jack Kellogg. What the hell are you doing on my station?"
"Hey Julie, shot any babies lately? Oomph!" Wrong thing to say. The marine on my left jabbed me in the solar plexus with the muzzle of his rifle.
"I don't recall seeing your name on the station directors door Morgen. When did you get elected to that post? Oomph!" The marine on my right this time.
"I'm in charge of security for the embassy section Jack. That makes this my station!"
Those twin thunderstorms were boring right into me.
“I’m glad you’re doing well Morgen.” Might as well try the nice guy angle. Ya never know.
"Jack, Jack, Jack. You know, I think I'm happy to see you cornflake." And she smiled. The animal inside me was whimpering at that smile. It knew she only smiled when she was hurting someone. So much for the nice guy angle.
"That joke's kinda old Morgue, oomph" Left again. "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell your trained monkeys, oomph," Right. "Here to stop poking me like that. And if you can tell these other two gentlemen that I'm quite able to stand on my own, thank you, I'll be on my way."
“Not so fast cornflake, we need to catch up on old times before you go anywhere. Why don’t I have my boys here show you the way to my office? We can discuss things there.”
While we were speaking a cargo cart with a flat bed trailer arrived. Several people in medic uniforms got off, slipped some moving straps under the ambassador, and hauled him onto the trailer. As the cart left, on the way to sick bay I imagine, I heard the Cla-arrk speak for the first time. What he said left me very confused.
“Jolly good show old chap, I do hope we can do this again some time soon. Utterly surprised me with that little pistol of yours. You must let me know where you acquired it. I’ll have to send my butler around to get a few. It made things so much more fun. Well ta cheerio pip pip and all that. Must be going you know.” And he waved a hand in the general direction of his legs.
How he said this in an upper crust British accent with that mouth overflowing with teeth I’ll never know. And in the voice of an upper crust British Lady at that.
I know for a fact that the ambassador was male. When he was chasing me I suppose the hormones were raging because a certain part of his male anatomy was in extreme evidence.
He sounded like Queen Elizabeth in the old flat screen recordings they used to show us in high school history class.
“We’re not sure where he learned to speak English but it’s annoying as hell listening to him yammer on like that all the time. Now that you’ve gone and given him a good hunt we’ll never hear the end of it.” The smile was gone from the Morgue’s face when she said this. Now she just looked mad.
“Right! Turner, Okaida, take Mr. Kellogg here to my office. Put him in that nice comfy room next to mine. The rest of you get back to your posts.”
The nice comfy room turned out to be an eight-foot cube of deck plating welded onto the emergency airlock in Morgen’s office. Welded to the OUTSIDE of the emergency airlock in Morgen’s office. It was airtight so I wouldn’t have to try and breath vacuum but it wasn’t well insulated nor was it heated so it was damn cold in there.
She left me in there for quite a while. I had time to go over all the reasons why I shouldn’t have taken this case and the only reason I had.
The great-grandson of one of Sarah’s bridge buddies had disappeared. Months of official investigation had turned up little to explain it. All Mrs. Dion had was a letter from the boy that said he had applied for a job as a technician for a company that serviced the space stations and that he would let her know how things went later. That was the last she ever heard from him. Sarah asked me to take this case for her. How could I say no to Sarah let alone a 105-year-old teary-eyed granny?
Jonathan Sawers was not a very lucky kid. His parents had died in the moon shuttle disaster at Armstrong field when he was only two years old. His paternal grandmother had taken him in, as he had no aunts or uncles. She died four years later from one of those genetically engineered war bugs that keep popping up even after the government claims to have eliminated them all. From then on Jonathan was dumped from one foster home to another.
Agnes Dion was too old to take care of the boy herself but kept in touch by letter with him. Actual, written with pen on paper and mailed letter as great-gran Dion was very old fashioned. She didn’t believe anyone could put as much emotion through a keyboard as with pen and ink. Being a generally nice kid Jonathan answered her in the same way. This habit of theirs gave me my first break in the case.
I flew into Dallas that same day, rented a car and went to the kid’s apartment. Since he’d been missing for so long and hadn’t been paying the rent someone else was already living there.
They were a nice newlywed couple in their early twenties still bubbling with enthusiasm for the future. I remember being like that once. I’m not quite sure when things changed for me but I’m not like that now. I have a more cynical view of the future.
Anyway, I showed them my P.I. badge, explained why I was there, and asked if I could look around. It was a typical one-bedroom apartment with a nice view of more typical apartment buildings. It told me nothing. I left them my card on the way out.
My next stop was a phone booth. I inserted my card and queried the yellow pages directory about any type of technical company in the area that has anything to do with space stations. The list that popped up was rather long. It would take me at least a couple of days to call them all.
I pressed print and OK to confirm that I wanted to print then yes to accept the charges and OK again to confirm that I had said yes to accept the charges the first time. I could strangle the people who write these programs. And why do they call directory assistance yellow pages anyway?
I grabbed the printout and headed for the hotel that Sarah had booked. It was a bit classier than what she usually pick for us. She’s always making sure we don’t waste money on frivolous things like fancy rooms. I guess this was her way of saying thanks.
I sat in the room and made calls for the rest of the day and into most of the next. This is the part of the job most people don’t see. Dull days and even duller nights. Repeating the exact same questions to an endless file of people. You get to the point that your mind is working on its own. They always gloss over this part in P.I. shows and movies.
Not a single company I called admitted to knowing Jonathan Sawers. The sixth one I called had a Jonathan Sayers on staff but when I spoke to him he turned out to be a middle-aged man in upper management. I apologized for the intrusion and continued making calls. No way could it have been that simple.
I took a break around four pm to have something to eat. I had not eaten breakfast and had worked through lunch so I was hungry. I called room service and ordered a BLT on whole wheat and a pot of coffee. I figured I’d need the caffeine to keep me going.
About ten minutes later my phone rang. I answered on voice only, too tired to get up and turn on the screen.
“Is this mister Kellogg the private investigator?” Anyone asking for me by name on this line must be important to the case so I got up and flipped up the screen.
“Yes, I’m Jack Kellogg what can I do for you?”
“Mister Kellogg, I’m Jerrie Espinoza. We spoke yesterday” I drew a blank and it must have shown in my face. “The apartment yesterday, you asked me and Jose about the previous tenant.” Oh yeah the newlyweds.
“How may I help you Mrs. Espinoza?”
“Call me Jerrie please. Well I was talking with my sister Louise this morning and I mentioned your visit yesterday. She doesn’t get out much since her accident. She thinks that everybody will stare even though I keep telling her that it’s hardly noticeable. The scar on her neck that is. But she won’t listen, she just refuses to believe me. She’s such a nice girl, innocent you know, no one who really loved her would care about the scar. I always tell Diane, that’s my other sister, that if she….”
“Mrs. Espinoza, uh Jerrie, I don’t want to sound rude but can you get to the point. I have several more calls to make today”
“Oh! Sorry. I guess I do ramble on sometimes. Anyway as I was saying I was talking with Louise about you this morning when I remembered something. When we moved in, Jose and me, we found a small box with some papers in it behind the dresser. They were letters. Who writes letters anymore? I wanted to toss them out but Jose decided to keep them. He’s a pack rat. Do you know, he still has the retainer from when his teeth were crooked when he was a kid? Who else would keep this kind of stuff? He has boxes full of all sorts of junk. I keep telling him to…”
“The box of letters Jerrie?”
“Sorry. Anyway, I remembered the box with the letters so I called Jose at work and he told me where he kept it. I have it here with me. Would it be important to you?”
I thanked her and told her that I would be there in ten minutes. My BLT arrived just as I was leaving. I grabbed it to eat on the way and left the coffee.
When I got back with the box I took a look at the letters inside. They were from Agnes to Jonathan but there was one in a different hand. It was an unfinished letter from Jonathan to Agnes giving her the name of the company he would work for.
The company that had hired Jonathan was called Hunter Technical Services. They were one of the first companies that I had called since their offices were only a few blocks away from his apartment. They had also denied knowing Jonathan Sawers.
Why would Hunter Technical Services lie? I didn’t want to go in and just accuse them. That would let them know I was onto them. I came up with a plan so I called Nick to set it up. He’s the data manipulation expert. I asked him to create a background for me that was similar to the kid’s. No parents or siblings, no close relatives to speak of, basically a loner with a technical background.
He called back the next day and said my name was now Jack Hobart. Unemployed maintenance tech orphaned from birth. An apartment was leased in my new name in Dallas across town from Hunter Technical. The lease showed that I had been living there for eight months and that I was late two months rent. Nick was good.
I applied for a job at Hunter that same day. Thank god I hadn’t used the screen when making inquiries. Two days later I was called in for my first interview. It went pretty much like any other job interview. Only at the end did the interviewer ask a few non-standard questions. He was quite good at it and made it seem like friendly chitchat. They learned that I was without relatives. He smiled and said that as long as I worked at Hunter I would feel like I had a family.
A week later I had a job as a food processor maintenance technician on Carson Station.
Shuttle to Armstrong field then third class liner to Carson Station. I had been told to go straight to the Hunter Tech office when I got here. Someone would take care of my baggage. I never got to touch a food processor. I was given a tiny cubicle to sleep in in the Hunter Tech offices as they said my quarters were not ready yet. They also brought me a light lunch to tide me over till the next morning. A really nice bunch of folks.
They must have put something in the lunch to knock me out because the next thing I knew I was in the Cla-arrk embassy being beaten to a pulp by the ambassador and chased like a mouse.
Six shots later here I am freezing in the Morgue’s comfy room.
Two hours later I had to be helped out of that room and into a chair in Morgen's office.
“I’m really disappointed Kellogg. I was all prepared to have you shot for the attempted murder of the Cla-Arrk ambassador. But he insists that you’re innocent. It’s all a game to him you see. Something they do all the time on his home world. Injuries are only to be expected in a hunt he said. I may still have you incarcerated Jack; hunting sentients is not legal here. So, tell me, what are you doing on my station being hunted by the Cla-arrk ambassador?”
I gave her the short version of my search for Jonathan Sawers, the job with Hunter Technical Services, and how I wound up here.
“Well Jack, as much as I hate to say it, I owe you an apology and a thanks. Your case fits in nicely with a very strange puzzle we had here. I believe we have your boy on ice in medical. His description matches that of the third body we’ve found in the station.”
“How did he die?”
“Oh he’s not dead but only barely. We’ve got him in cryo while we re-grow some internal bits and pieces that were too damaged to save. Unlike the first two he was in a coma when we found him. The others were dead. We had to freeze him quickly before he died too so he was never conscious. The doctors say we got to him in time so he has a good chance of surviving.”
“This station is big, but not that big that we could have a John Doe in the morgue for long. Let alone three. Get that damn grin off your face soldier before I wipe it off myself!”
“I’m not your soldier anymore Julie. Get used to it.”
She turned and called to one of her assistants. “Get Mr. Kellogg a room at the Twin Tree Hotel on level 42 and book him a seat on the next Earth bound ship. Now get the hell out of my office Jack, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” She was smiling again. Thank god not at me. I almost pity the people at Hunter Tech. Almost.
I had a week to kill until the next ship arrived. I looked in on Jonathan and the doc told me he would be another month in cryo and at least six in physical rehab. Morgen had arranged for him to have a real job when he was well. I’m not sure if she did it to be nice or to get his medical bills paid. Either way the kid was going to be ok.
The nice folk from Hunter Tech were rounded up and accused of multiple murder. The company was just a front for the real money making scheme, that of supplying sentient prey for the Cla-arrk hunts. The Cla-arrk were willing to pay huge sums to participate in a hunt. The ambassador and his staff were given an official slap on the wrist and told not to do that again. Diplomatic immunity.
When I got back home I delivered Jonathan's last letter to Agnes and told her that he had been injured but was doing fine. She would be getting more mail from him in a month or so.
Sarah found a way to charge all our expenses to Carson Station because this was in some way their responsibility so we turned a tidy profit on this case.
Things went back to routine cases from there.
Six months later I received a package from Major Julie Morgan. It contained six small bullets and a note from the Cla-arrk ambassador.
Mr. Kellogg;
I have been elected to a seat in parliament on my home world. It would be a great honor to me if you would accept this invitation to a celebration of this event. All your expenses would of course be taken care of by my office.
To the pleasure of meeting you again,
Lord Orr-ack Ton
To this the Morgue had added,
Jack;
The ambassador is really looking forward to meeting you again. Please tell me you will be going.
J. Morgen
I don’t know if she wants me to go so I could get killed or so that I could kill the ambassador. Either ending would make her happy.
Bio:"I work in the electronics industry in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. I live in that area with my wife Martine, daughter Sydnie and two cats. If it were up to my wife alone it would be 10 cats. I have Dan Hollifield to thank for this story."
E-mail: dfb@p2net.ca
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