Menu

mark laporta

Insective Episode 6

Insective (Episode 6): New SF Noir by Mark Laporta

, , , , , , ,

Case Files of Rolkahr Dholztra, Kuzdrohna Department of Public Safety:

[Editor’s Note: Read Episode 1, here.]

Dholztra’s first experience with the humanoid robotic unit developed by LunarOne was a disaster. As expected, it was hard to keep the carbon nanotube simulacrum upright. Worse, each time “Celia” fell over, technicians rushed to check for abrasions on her pseudo skin, an ingenious mix of silicon-based fibers, integrated with cloned organic material. All told, the robot’s natural look was an impressive achievement. Especially, that is, because Nolatrid biologists had learned almost everything they knew about the human epidermis from studying battle-scarred cadavers.

One surprising outcome of that study had been the realization that there were many more human phenotypes than they had originally thought. To simplify matters. the roboticists on LunarOne had modelled their humanoid unit on Imogen’s phenotype. That way, they reasoned, she’d find it easier to pretend that “Celia” was a relative, or merely another Red Disk from Humantown.

Fortunately, after a day of constant practice in the LunarOne robotics lab, Dholztra’s control over the unit improved dramatically. By then, Agents Grelek and Jalinoor had updated Imogen and brought her over to consult with the detective. Though she was initially enthusiastic, her confidence faded when she saw the robotic unit in action.

“You’ve never seen a human female walk, have you?” she asked.

In fact, “Celia’s” clomping steps created the impression of a pour soul of either gender with extensive nerve damage.

“We’re born to walk on two legs,” she said. “Stop trying to control every step.”

Dholztra’s thorax tightened.

“Walk for me,” he told Imogen.

The human smiled to herself, then made a complete circuit of the robotics lab. She also demonstrated walking backwards and a number of different strides: confident, hesitant, relaxed and formal.

“Be here forever,” said Dholztra.

“Maybe not,” said Imogen. “My body reacts to my emotions. Doesn’t yours?”

That flash of insight gave the wily detective the confidence to try again — with much better results.

“We’ll have to hope our boy Halfoorn isn’t such a keen observer of human kinetics,” said Grelek.

Admiral Nethrez, who’d sat silent through this entire exchange, rose to her feet.

“Whatever,” she said, “we’re officially out of time. Detective, if you’re going to make this work, it has to be now. The Belanthrese fleet is getting closer every nanoblink.”

Dholztra glanced at Imogen.

“Ready?” he asked.

Though Imogen nodded, Dholztra read profound sadness in her expression. Would the outcome of their mission, he wondered, bring her an ounce of comfort? But there was no more time for speculation, as they were now called to the LunarOne launch bay and shuttled back to Nolatre with the humanoid robotic unit.

The HCBI agents used the trip to create a counterfeit metadigital record for “Celia.” They needed to make her appear as real as possible to Halfoorn’s inevitable sensor sweep. Meanwhile, the Nolatrid detective concentrated on making “Celia” speak. At first, his biggest problem was editing his thoughts, so the robotic unit wouldn’t blurt out whatever was on his mind. Imogen suggested he practice having a real conversation. After all, even if Dholztra said as little as possible, he had to be able to improvise a response to any comment from Halfoorn or his crew.

Dholztra nodded and “Celia” spoke up. But in spite of the unit’s female voice, its speech patterns were too reminiscent of the detective himself.

“Maybe try a little acting,” said Imogen. “You know, pretend you’re a human female, like me.”

“That’s a heavy lift,” said Dholztra. “Pretending to be human is one thing, but pretending to be female … well, you know what I mean.”

“But you have a girlfriend, right?” asked Imogen. “Could you model Celia on her?”

Dholztra’s antennae drooped.

“Might work,” he said. “Except Treldraah’s not exactly a diplomat.”

“Is it true that Halfoorn’s holding her hostage?” asked Imogen. “That must be awful.”

“Yeah,” said the detective. “Don’t know what I’ll do if I find her in his compound.”

“No problem there,” said Grelek. “Halfoorn has her on house arrest in Romnexia. Sorry to say her sister’s trapped in there, too, with mercenaries guarding the door. Don’t worry, we’ll get her out.”

Dholztra took a deep breath and shrugged his four shoulders.

“Forget it,” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”

His fears shoved aside, the dedicated detective took Imogen’s suggestion and tried to imagine how Treldraah would talk. A few hours later, “Celia” was ready for casual conversation, just in time for Dholztra to feel the jolt of Grelek’s air car, as it touched down at HCBI headquarters on Nolatre. Though they could have shipped “Celia” out in a crate, The savvy detective wanted to practice controlling the unit in the real world.

As it happened, the real world wasted no time in testing him. The moment they were out of the air car, a raggedy human teenager ran up behind them and called out to “Celia.”

“Hey, Babe, why you hanging with those bug boys?” he said. “You needa get yourself a real man.”

“Where would I find one?” said Dholztra through the robotic unit. “The only humans I see are my friend here and a skinny kid who’s late for dinner.”

The human boy scowled, his eyes flashing.

“Big Brian was right about you Red Disks,” he said. “You let the ‘sectoids rip out your heart and replace it with a bag of bug juice.”

A nod from Grelek to an approaching security guard and the human teenager was hustled off the HCBI campus.

“How did that kid get in here?” asked Dholztra.

“We don’t live in a police state, Detective,” said Grelek, “not yet. The high security area is straight ahead. I don’t doubt he’s one of Halfoorn’s operatives, though. Consider yourself warned.”

Dholztra’s mandibles clenched, but he was determined not to let Imogen down. How was it, he wondered, that she seemed so brave? He had his answer soon after they’d settled into a secure, windowless conference room that was paneled in dark neo-wood and decorated with polished brass trim.

“You know,” she said. “I’ve nothing left to lose. When my father boarded his ship on Earth, he was a soldier in a proud tradition. I was born here, but at least I had my family. Now Dad’s dead and Nyles … I know I’ll never really get him back again. But you have a career and a lover to protect. What’s in it for you?”

Dholztra glanced up at her tear-stained face and shifted his gaze to the view screen on the far wall, which displayed a computer animation of the approaching Belanthrese fleet.

“The stakes are the same for me,” he told her. “If we don’t stop Halfoorn my life won’t be worth a sack of comet dust. So we have to pull ourselves together. Go wash your face, or whatever humans do. No matter what, your best defense is knowing you can win.”

Dholztra walked “Celia” across the room and made the unit take Imogen’s hands.

“Besides, Sis,” she said, “we have each other’s back, right?”

Imogen smiled, kissed “Celia” on the cheek and left the conference room. A few minutes later, when she returned, looking refreshed and calm, Dholztra wished he could say the same for himself. If they made it through this mission, he realized, it would be due to the courage they took from each other.

Agent Jalinoor poked his head into the room.

“It’s time,” he said. “We’ve located Halfoorn’s headquarters. And get this, it’s still under construction.”

“Where?” asked Dholztra.

“Ask ‘Celia’.” said Jalinoor. “LunarOne built a complete sensor array into the robotic unit, so it knows everything we do. You’ll also find a map and schematics for Halfoorn’s compound.”

Dholztra closed his eyes.

Halfoorn’s location, he thought. Almost immediately, a GPS map appeared in his mind, with Halfoorn’s headquarters marked in red.

“Got it,” he said. “So … what? We just walk in?”

“Seems like it,” said Jalinoor. “According to the intel we yanked out of a captured operative, the ‘First Citizen’ is so over-confident that he leaves the whole compound open to the public. He tells everybody he wants to be ‘transparent.’”

“Guess he succeeded,” said Dholztra, “’cause I see right through him. Just one more question. Won’t the compound’s AI pick up my signal?”

But as Jalinoor explained, “Celia’s” inner workings were encased in a chameleon field, which masked her sensor array behind the vital signs of a young human female.

“Hope you’re right,” said Dholztra. “I don’t relish getting my brain fried if his tech team finds me.”

“Just try not to stand out,” said Jalinoor. “The quieter you are, the better the chameleon circuits will work. You’re only going in to observe and be a transmitter.”

“That’s great for me,” said Dholztra. “But Imogen will actually be inside Halfoorn’s … palace.”

“We’ve done what we could.” said Jalinoor. “Imogen, how’s the microtransmitter we implanted in your arm? Giving you any trouble?”

“It tingles a lot,” said Imogen, “but it’s fine. Will you really be able to message me once we’re inside?”

“That’s the idea,” said the HCBI agent. “As soon as we’re ready to move in, we’ll send you coordinates to a safe location within the compound.”

“Safe?” asked Dholztra. “Not with that lunatic. Maybe I should go in alone.”

“No way,” said Imogen. “Halfoorn thinks he knows me. That should give ‘Celia’ better cover. Anyway, it’s like I said: I’m at the end of my rope and the one last thing I want out of life, is to see the monster who took my brother burnt to a crisp.

“No need to jump the gun,” said the detective. “I’ll make sure you get out alive.”

Imogen hung her head.

“Thanks,” said Imogen. “Not sure I care.”

Dholztra watched as Imogen left the secure conference room with Jalinoor and the humanoid robotic unit that, he hoped, would give him the opportunity to finish off Halfoorn personally.

A lot easier if they’d built a pulse pistol into that thing, he told himself. Too late, he realized his mistake and heard “Celia” repeat his thoughts remotely. Seconds later, Imogen’s remote whisper echoed in his mind.

Stop it! she said. Control yourself.

Dholztra’s first impulse was to apologize, but he thought better of it. Instead he said through the robotic unit,

“Oh, Sis, I’m glad you talked me into this. Halfoorn only wants what’s right for us.”

Through the unit’s eyes, he saw Imogen smile at him, then put a finger to her lips. Of course, she was right. The less “Celia” said, the better.

By now, Imogen and her robotic sister were within a few meters of Halfoorn’s headquarters. As predicted by the HCBI, the massive gate that faced the street swung open easily, and they stepped into the grounds of Halfoorn’s main compound unopposed. It was only when they reached the short flight of stairs leading to the main entrance that they were accosted by a reverberant female voice.

“Welcome. State the nature of your business with the First Citizen,” it said.

Dholztra’s mind exploded with sarcastic remarks, but he distracted himself by analyzing the layout of the compound, in case they had to escape in a hurry.

“We’ve seen the light,” said Imogen. “We want to spread the First Citizen’s message to all humans on Nolatre.”

“Enter,” said the voice. “You will be scanned.”

Imogen nodded at “Celia,” and Dholztra summoned every ounce of concentration to climb the stairs — the one thing he’d forgotten to practice. But luck was with him and before long, the two humanoids stood in the lobby of the compound’s main building. A purplish-red light bathed them and the entire lobby for what felt like an eternity of silence.

“Cleared,” said the same female voice. “Though it appears the human designated ‘Imogen’ has an elevated heart rate. Explain.”

“Please,” said Imogen, “this is the most exciting moment of my life. I can’t wait to learn how I can help.”

“And you?” said the voice. “The human designated ‘Celia,’ are you not excited to meet the First Citizen?”

”His plan fills me with the serenity of the just,” said Dholztra. “I know that all of history has led to this point, and I am content.”

“Poetic,” said the voice. “In time, you must learn to speak in the cadence of the common people. The First Citizen’s message is for all.”

Dholztra’s mind reeled at the prospect of keeping up this subservient patter. Fortunately, he was soon spared by Halfoorn himself, who flung open the doors to his inner sanctum.

“Extraordinary,” said Halfoorn. “But not unanticipated. The message behind a great political movement is always infectious. Come in, my children.”

Dholztra let Imogen take the lead, as he walked “Celia” into an immense office space, decorated in a bizarre mix of Nolatrid, Belanthrese and human artifacts. On the wall opposite the room’s ovoid doorway, he saw a traditional Nolatrid coat of arms. To his left, a suite of office furniture in the Belanthrese style, with its satiny upholstery and elaborate copper metal work running up and down its legs, back and arms. Not knowing what to expect, he made “Celia” look left and saw a human tea service. It was a collection of porcelain and silver objects that the detective couldn’t quite identify.

While it was doubtful that Halfoorn knew much of anything about human customs, the intent was clear. The leader of the self-described New World Order was trying to show solidarity with the roots of three contrasting civilizations. For her part, Imogen made a special point of gazing about in wonder

“Magnificent, First Citizen,” she said. “I’m more convinced than ever that yours is the one true path.”

“Please, child,” said Halfoorn. “No need to be so formal. We go back a long way, don’t we? Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Imogen looked over at “Celia” with surprising nonchalance.

“This is my sister, Celia,” she said. “Celia, the First Citizen.”

“I’m … I’m honored, Sir,” said “Celia.”         .

Halfoorn turned his multifaceted eyes to face the robotic unit.

“And have you, too,” he asked, “come to help me spread the truth to your fellow humans?”

“Yes, First Citizen,” said “Celia.”

“Superb!” said the besotted dictator. “Let’s put you two to work. I’ll introduce you to my … my head of marketing, I suppose I should say. Come along.”

A loud clang sounded and Halfoorn reached for the silvery handheld that lay prone on his oversized hardwood desk.

“What is it?” he yelled into the device. “I’m busy with important guests … What? Oh, stop babbling. No, there’s no truth to that rumor … What? … Well that’s why it’s a rumor, now isn’t it?” Dholztra’s former informant closed contact and tossed his handheld back on his desk. “Honestly, Imogen, you don’t know how glad I am to have you here. Most of my operatives are a tad too dense for their own centers of gravity, like that idiot Olithcraz. Now … this way.”

The self-described author of The New World Order pivoted on his four feet, opened a door embedded in the wall to the right of his desk and hurried off down a brightly lit corridor. Imogen glanced at “Celia” and followed. Dholztra did his best to keep up, despite being distracted by his curiosity about Halfoorn’s comlink call.

What rumor could possibly get that maniac so riled up? he wondered.

Regardless, they now entered an imposing war room, filled with computer workstations, and decked out with an interlocking array of gleaming view screens.

The screens, Dholztra noticed, were labelled with place names. While the majority of them referred to locations on his homeworld, some tracked sites on Belanthra and a few other strategically placed worlds. Trouble was, most of the work stations were unoccupied. Halfoorn stopped, spread his four arms wide and swept the air with his wiggling antennae.

“This is it,” he said. “The heart and soul of The New World Order. I can track anyone of importance from here and, of course, issue commands instantaneously to every corner of the three galaxies. Impressive, no? I’ve spared no expense to ensure our rise will be swift and permanent.”

“It’s … it’s overwhelming,” said Imogen.

“We’re still staffing up, mind you,” said Halfoorn. “Because of the resistance I’ve encountered, most of my recruiting efforts have gone to securing ground troops and air cover. Change takes time and Nolatrid society is, shall we say, complacent. In fact, I may need you as much to drum up support among my own people as yours.”

“Oh First Citizen, you’re … you’re such a visionary,” said Imogen. Though Dholztra knew the lump in her throat was from terror, he was dead certain that Halfoorn interpreted it as awe.

“Thank you, child,” said Halfoorn. “But realizing a vision takes dedication and plenty of hard work. Are you ready, both of you?”

“Yes, First Citizen,” said the two intruders in unison — though Dholztra had a tough time getting the words out. Halfoorn, eyes sparkling, headed back to the corridor they’d just exited.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll give you a private tour. It won’t give you the complete picture, because I’m afraid we’re still under construction. But I’ll bet you’ll catch the spirit of the thing right away.”

What followed was a mad scurry through all six floors of Halfoorn’s administrative complex, including the two above ground and the four subterranean levels. Like the room they’d just left, every other section of the vast compound was laughably empty, as if Halfoorn had planned a large coming out party and then forgotten to send out the invitations. True to Halfoorn’s disclaimer, there were signs of incomplete construction work everywhere, including tool belts, heavy equipment and discarded scraps of various building materials. All the while, the would-be ruler of the civilized world gave a running commentary, which Dholztra hoped “Celia’s” sensor array would pick up in full.

Finally, after two exhausting hours, Halfoorn returned them to the large open office where they started. Despite a small crew of operatives working intensively at a wide variety of tasks, the room was eerily quiet.

“Here’s where you’ll work,” said the self-styled First Citizen. “You see how it is, don’t you? I don’t tolerate fraternization. Now, where’s Epilosaah?”

Imogen and “Celia” watched as Halfoorn rushed to a wall-mounted comlink. Within seconds of Halfoorn’s petulant summons, a squat female scurried up to greet them. Dholztra was surprised to see she was one of the very few Nolatrids who wore large, rounded glasses over her multifaceted eyes.

“I leave you in good hands, my children,” said Halfoorn. “Now I must rush off: The universe beckons!”

“Welcome, humans,” said Epilosaah. “You can think of me as the First Citizen’s Chief of Staff. Though, frankly, he thinks of me as his slave. I’m afraid I’m short on human-compatible equipment, so you’ll just have to make do. This way, please.”

The bespectacled Nolatrid set off along a winding path between numerous workstations before leading the two intruders to an unoccupied module, filled with equipment that even Dholztra didn’t recognize. He could only imagine how perplexing it must be to Imogen.

“Based on the First Citizen’s somewhat abbreviated comments,” said Epilosaah, “you will be assisting Tralkilarn, our Propaganda Chief. She processes all the information that flows in and separates real news from, you know, rumor.”

Suddenly, Dholztra remembered the angry comlink conversation Halfoorn had in his office.

“What about the latest rumor?” he asked. “Think it’s true?”

“What? That an unidentified fleet is approaching?” asked Epilosaah. “Some think it’s real, some think it’s a data ghost. Who knows? Even if the fleet’s real, it’s too far out for a positive ID.”

“Well, why would a fleet come out of nowhere?” asked “Celia.” “Does Nolatre have any enemies I don’t know about?”

Epilosaah shrugged.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” she said. “But we didn’t pick up any activity in the vicinity of those ships — or ghosts — until after the First Citizen formally invited Earth to join The New World Order. But nobody seriously thinks the humans would come back here. Not after the way we trounced them. Besides, from everything I’ve heard, their ships were barely space-worthy.”

“Funny how the battle lasted as long as it did, then,” said “Celia.”

“Well, when you’re dealing with barbarians, no offence,” said Epilosaah, “anything can happen. Anyway, the boss will have my gastor if I don’t get you two settled. Take a look at the workstation and see if you can start it up with your tiny hands. I’ll be back later to check up on you. And I’ll let Director Tralkilarn know you’re here.”

Epilosaah hurried off faster than Dholztra would have thought possible.

Fear does that to you, he thought.

Imogen grabbed “Celia’s” forearm.

“You think an Earth fleet could be heading to Nolatre?” she whispered.

“Even if it arrives,” Dholztra replied through the robotic unit, “there’s no telling whose side the humans will be on. We better assume the worst. Let’s see if we dig up more intel — and stop talking. You heard that nut-job. Silence is golden.”

Imogen nodded and between them, they managed to get the workstation running. Dholztra dialed up his favorite news outlet. There on the front page was an image of Commissioner Olithcraz, surrounded by HCBI agents.

KUZDROHNA POLICE COMMISSIONER

ARRESTED ON CHARGES OF CONSPIRACY

While he found the news heartening, Dholztra now knew that Olithcraz was merely one tiny cog in Halfoorn’s mad scheme for cosmic domination. He was about to continue searching when Imogen sat bolt upright and whispered to Dholztra.

“It’s Agent Grelek,” she said, “through my transmitter implant. They’re storming this facility now. We have to get to safety.”

“Lead on,” said Dholztra. But he was keenly aware how much finesse it might take to leave their assigned seats without being stopped. Worse, he could already feel the impact of the HCBI assault even though, by his count, they were four stories below ground. Imogen, it seemed, was receiving clear instructions from Grelek; she navigated Halfoorn’s vast headquarters as if she’d been born and raised there.

“To the left, up ahead,” she was saying. Dholztra saw an entryway looming before them, and assumed the spiral ladder just inside its arched framework would lead them to a deeper, underground bunker. But no sooner had he wrapped his fingers around the top of the railing than he heard a familiar voice calling out to him.

“There you are,” said Halfoorn. “I figured you wouldn’t know where our safe rooms were and then I saw you on the security cameras heading here. Good instincts. But come on, I know an area even more secure. Dholztra’s antennae stiffened as he saw, through “Celia,” that Halfoorn was pulling Imogen onto a balcony, still under construction, which looked down onto a large laboratory. Tools and small sections of pipe lay in a heap to one side of the railing.

The view from the balcony was an exact replica of the genetics lab he’d seen in Olithcraz’ warehouse, except on a larger scale.

“Down there,” said the First Citizen, “you see? That’s where I’m transforming your species so it can rise to its rightful place in the universe.”

Dholztra made “Celia” hurry over to join them and stared down at row upon row of polyglass cylinders, each one filled with a bizarre, genetically altered hybrid of human and Belanthrese traits.

“You see, my child?” said Halfoorn. “There, on the left in the second row. I believe that’s your brother, Yes, a fine lad and one of the first to join my cause. A magnificent specimen and a worthy addition.…”

Imogen rushed at Halfoorn with both hands out, grabbed at the narrowest part of his thorax and began to squeeze.

“Monster!” she shrieked. “He never signed up to be turned into that.”

Halfoorn, though initially startled, was much stronger than any human and pushed her away with all four hands. Imogen, however, was relentless and Dholztra, seeing his chance, took advantage of his intimate knowledge of Nolatrid anatomy. While Imogen continued her assault, he made “Celia” dive for Halfoorn’s legs. Thrown off balance, the terrorist leader lay splayed out on his headquarter’s polished white tiles.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “You need me. I alone can save you from.…”

“Who’ll save me from you?” yelled Imogen.

Before Dholztra could take his next breath, she picked up a large wrench from the construction site and used it to bash Halfoorn’s exoplated head. At the same time, loud sirens sounded, as the assault by the HCBI reached down to the lowest level of the compound. One blast knocked a chunk of ceiling down not three meters from where “Celia” was still on all fours, trying to hold Halfoorn still.

In no time, the First Citizen was a crumbled mess of bio-matter, but Dholztra knew it wouldn’t be long before the compound itself would be reduced to rubble.

“Let’s go,” he told Imogen.

“No,” she said. “Not while there’s a chance I can still get Nyles out of here.”

“He’s not your brother anymore,” said Dholztra. “I’m not even sure he’s alive in that tank. But breaking him out before he’s finished … developing … will kill him for sure.”

“I’m not leaving,” the fragile human female sobbed. “The least I can do is die with him.”

Back at HCBI headquarters, Dholztra’s antennae drooped as he resolved to do what, in one half of his heart, he knew he had no right to do. With one swat of “Celia’s” servo-powered arm, he knocked Imogen unconscious, flung her over the robotic unit’s right shoulder and started to run. At every step, another blast strewed debris in his path, but he pressed on. The map of the compound, which Jalinoor had transmitted before Imogen left, served him well and guided him to the surface.

At last, “Celia” raced out into the night air with Imogen still on her shoulder. But though Dholztra had hoped their escape would give him a moment of peace, he had badly underestimated the battle erupting on all sides. For now, in addition to the frontal assault by SWARM forces on Halfoorn’s mercenary army, the first wave of landers from the Belanthrese fleet began touching down in the near distance.

Experience told Dholztra that his first and only objective at this point was to find cover. With Imogen beginning to revive, he pushed “Celia’s” robotic limbs ahead, toward a huge, mobile HCBI bunker that must have touched down from LunarOne less than an hour earlier. Would he reach it before the Belanthrese advanced? It was hard to say. For despite the battle raging all around him, the only sound he could hear was the throbbing pulse of destiny, as it thundered in his ears.

(To be continued: read Episode 7, here)

Mark Laporta is the acclaimed author of the Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek series and the new novel, Probability Shadow, which was published in October by Chickadee Prince Books, available now in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you.

Design by Steven S. Drachman, from an original Image by Miguel Bruna / Unsplash

 

Warehouse Insective

Insective (Episode Four): New Science Fiction Noir by Mark Laporta

, , ,

Case Files of Rolkahr Dholztra, Kuzdrohna Department of Public Safety

[Editor’s Note: Read Episode 1, here.]

Dholztra awoke to the whoosh of a large air van, as it lifted off from a crowded lot, on the eastern edge of Kuzdrohna. From the steep angle of the ascent, the savvy detective suspected that his captors had made a hasty departure.

Maybe SWARM caught up with them, he told himself.

But no matter how accurate his analysis, he was still the prisoner of a massive terrorist organization. By now, the Commissioner’s goons had seized his particle guns, his comlink — and crushed any hope of escape. Why then, hadn’t they done away with him? By now, the experienced detective was sure, Director Increalaar would’ve rejected any attempt by Olithcraz to ransom him off. The HCBI didn’t negotiate with terrorists, even to save the life of a law enforcement officer.

Yet an hour of air travel later, when a Department of Safety robotic unit stalked into Dholztra’s compartment, the Commissioner’s motives were still unclear. As the robot released his restraints, the weary detective’s antennae perked up. This unit, he realized, had been assigned to his own office until just last week. In fact, his department’s authorization code still blinked out at him, across a small status display on the robot’s right forearm. Had Olithcraz turned Dholztra’s own assets against him as a show of contempt? Or were the Commissioner’s resources more limited than they seemed?

Regardless, Olithcraz talked as if he held all the cards. Dholztra shuddered as his smug voice oozed out of the ship’s intercom.

“Welcome to the next phase of History,” it said.

Please subscribe for free to Audere Magazine to receive our latest stories in your inbox

* indicates required


“Cut the crap,” said Dholztra. “What do you want with me?”

“I need a reliable witness, Rolkahr,” said the Commissioner. “One with a reputation for honesty.”

“Honesty? That’s ironic,” said Dholztra. “But a witness for what? A wedding? Don’t tell me your hand mirror finally said yes.”

Olithcraz stomped into the compartment, his face consumed by a bitter scowl.

“What I need,” he said, “is someone to testify that we mean business.”

“Testify to who?” asked Dholztra. “Everybody in Kuzdrohna saw that bridge disintegrate. It was all over the newsnets, too.”

“Don’t insult me,” said the Commissioner. “That was just a declaration of intent. You’re about to see Phase One of the new world order.”

Dholztra didn’t like the sound of that. Could there be more than bluster in his captor’s words? All the more reason to make a break for it. As the robotic unit led Dholztra from the air van, across a shallow tarmac to a shadowy warehouse, he craned his neck for a glimpse of a possible escape route. Prospects were slim, but the narrow alley that ran along the east side of the gray, depressing building did offer a glimmer of hope.

One of the Commissioner’s stooges gave Dholztra a shove that nearly knocked him to the pavement.

“Eyes forward, Rubber Neck,” he said.

Though his mind reeled with aggressive comebacks, the downtrodden detective kept his mandibles shut. Olithcraz might want him alive, but there was no telling what a muscled-up thug might do, once his buttons were pushed. Dholztra sighed. The way he figured it, he had one hope: If he survived long enough to discover the terrorists’ mad scheme, he could get the word out before they struck again.

Soon Olithcraz and his dark entourage reached the entrance of the imposing structure. At a nod from its master, the robotic unit keyed-in a pass code and a heavily armored door slid open. Dholztra’s antennae trembled at the sickening smell of antiseptics.

A set of overhead lights flared on. His multifaceted eyes stared out at a surreal landscape of operating tables, oxygen tanks, monitors and work stations. But the lab’s most distinguishing features were several rows of three-meter tall polyglass cylinders. In the artificial twilight that bathed the interior, Dholztra made out distorted humanoid shapes, suspended one-to-a-cylinder in a sickly green liquid.

“Splendid, no?” crowed Olithcraz. “Each one of these disgusting bipeds is in the process of being reborn!”

“As what?” asked Dholztra. “Don’t tell me the new world order is too cheap to use robots instead of slaves.”

“Really, Rolkahr, you sound like a petulant child,” said Olithcraz. “Robots don’t need to be fed. They’re much cheaper than organic workers. But their thinking runs along a rather narrow chain of logic — whereas we need more … flexibility … from our operatives.”

“I’ll bet,” said Dholztra. “So what did you offer these chumps in exchange for their transformation? More video time?”

“We’re giving them a chance to matter in this tail-chasing universe you love so much,” said the Commissioner. “Here, I’ll give you an example.”

Dholztra followed Olithcraz along the rows of cylinders, shepherded by the Commissioner’s operatives and the hulking robotic unit, until he stopped in front of a cylinder containing a male human in his early twenties. While the operatives trained their eyes and hand guns on the lab’s entrance to the rear, the robotic unit shadowed Olithcraz like any bodyguard.

“This, Rolkahr, is a biped you’re already familiar with,” said the Commissioner. “You’ve even met his sister, that impudent Red Disk, who thinks she has a right to interfere with government business.”

Dholztra gasped as Olithcraz switched on the tank’s internal illumination. There before him was Imogen’s brother, Nyles, hideously distorted. His humanoid body had grown to double its normal size, and was now a grotesque mass of sinew and muscle. Nyles’ face, which had once possessed what humans would call a boyish charm, was utterly transformed. It was elongated by a reinforced skull and a thick jawline that, by all appearances, housed a fearsome array of pointed teeth. It was all Dholztra could do not to vomit up his stomach.

“That sure is one lizardly-looking human,” he said. “How’re you gonna break it to the Belanthrese that you stole their genome?”

“That’s the trouble with you, Rolkahr,” said his former supervisor. “You lack vision. I’ve given you a privileged glimpse of a magnificent future, and you insist on clinging to the tired paradigms of the past.”

Olithcraz gestured to his operatives with his antennae and Dholztra felt his four arms pinned back by the robotic unit. Desperation made him forget the futility of struggling, until a tall, reddish member of the Commissioner’s roughneck retinue shoved the business end of a particle rifle into his gaster.

“What now?” he asked. “My head on a pike in the center of town?”

“And make you a martyr?” asked Olithcraz. “On the contrary, you’re about to become my chief ally. A broadcast will go out on the newsnets this afternoon, in which you’ll pledge your unconditional support for our little rebellion.”

“You’d have to kill me first,” said Dholztra.

The Commissioner twisted his antennae to and fro.

“Unlike you, I leave nothing to chance,” he said, “The holovid is already made, of  course. I’m afraid the very snooping that led to your capture enabled us to make a complete video of your rather … robust … physique. From there, it was nothing to create a convincing video avatar that even your mother couldn’t tell from the real thing.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Dholztra. “Nolatrids know me out there. They….”

“Nolatrids believe their eyes,” said the Commissioner. “But I’m out of time. If you won’t serve my cause, you’re useless to me. As it happens, however, I know a wealthy Belanthrese with a taste for Nolatrid males. A little genetic remapping and you’ll be able to breathe the lizard’s atmosphere. Then you’ll wish you hadn’t been so stubborn.”

“Your new world order sounds a bit kinky, don’t you think?” asked Dholztra.

“You’re so out of your league,” said Olithcraz. “But I can’t expect you to understand. The finer things in life have always been reserved for ambitious sorts.” He motioned to the robotic unit. “Take the Detective back to his berth on the air van until I decide how to dispose of him.”

As the robotic unit lumbered up to Dholztra, a glint of afternoon sun, through a cracked skylight, bounced off the robot’s right forearm and caught the detective’s multifaceted eyes. If Dholztra had had any doubts before, now he was absolutely certain: This was the same unit that had served his precinct and even his own office many times. The serial number was … unmistakable.

“Override Command: Dholztra 579024!” he shouted. “Target Olithcraz, Commissioner!”

The robotic unit swung into action and grabbed the Commissioner by his four forearms, but not before firing warning shots at his other operatives.

“Get this thing off me,” Olithcraz shrieked.

But his operatives, wary of getting shot at again, were slow to react. Dholztra took advantage of the confusion and ran out of the ghoulish genetics lab, nearly crashing into several of the towering polyglass cylinders on his way to the door.

Out in the late afternoon air, the wily detective ran down the narrow alley he’d spotted on his way in and put as much distance between himself and the warehouse as possible. Head down, he dodged pedestrians and oncoming traffic, as he zigzagged his way across an unfamiliar sector of town. His first thought was to head for the nearest precinct office, until he remembered the video, which the Commissioner had told him would be airing any time now.

Instead, he hurried off toward Bak Reltoor where, with luck, he could find his ground car and a loose brick heavy enough to smash the driver’s side window. With his handheld gone, his only other option would be to rely on voice commands. But once that video got out, it was likely his own department would scrub his voice off the car’s safe list.

It was a desperate ploy, but a step up from the fate that had awaited him a moment before. Yet if that thought granted him any comfort, it was short lived. A moment later, he ran smack into a team of no-nonsense HCBI agents.

“What a coincidence,” said the taller of the two agents. “We were just looking for you. I’m Agent Grelek this is Agent Jalinoor. Come on, you’re going downtown.”

“Downtown to what?” asked Dholztra. “A holding cell for your brains? The Commissioner is plotting to.…”

“Work with us, Detective,” said Grelek. “If we don’t play along with his clumsy deception, he’ll know we’re onto him. That holovid he sent out? Phony as Hell. Our AIs spotted the non-congruent speech rhythms in the first fifteen subunits. That was no more you talking than my Auntie Larianthrez.”

Dholztra’s eye-facets misted over as he followed the two muscular agents down the sidewalk to their unmarked air car. For the first time in hours he felt like himself again.

“So you … what? …” he asked. “You know what the Commissioner’s next move is?”

“We were kinda hoping you could fill us in on that point, Dholztra,” said Jalinoor.

They reached the ground car and the two HCBI agents made a show of handcuffing Dholztra, reading him his rights and shoving him into the backseat.

“A little rough, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Tough guy like you can take it,” said Grelek. “Now, this car’s secure. Why don’t you tell us what you learned in there?”

“Not secure enough,” said the savvy detective. “I’ll tell Increalaar or no one.”

“Good luck with that,” said Jalinoor. “The Director got her thorax slit up real bad on her way home from Humantown last night. Don’t count on her being able to hear you again.”

Dholztra’s tubular stomach clenched. Events were moving faster on this case than any he’d ever handled before.

“So who’s leading the H.…” he said.

A horrific blast off to the left of the groundcar’s driver’s side knocked every last idea out of Dholztra’s head. His neck strained with the effort to look up at the six armored landers that were descending on the center of town.

“Belanthrese!” he shouted.

“You wish,” said Grelek. “Those, Detective, are Nolatrid military. The Hexagon just declared martial law. Come on, we need to debrief you with the Acting Director.”

Dholztra flinched as another blast from the landers set off a barrage of alarms and sirens unlike anything heard in Kuzdrohna since the humans invaded twenty-five years before.

“Wherever you’re taking me,” he said, “I hope it’s underground.”

Jalinoor flashed a wan smile, then fired up his engine.

“Right,” he said. “But not the underground you’re expecting.”

Dholztra sank his weary head into the aircar’s plush back seat and tried to imagine how this disturbing day would pan out — as the air car made a rapid ascent away from the raging street battle.

“You’re taking me to LunarOne aren’t you?” he asked.

“That’s classified,” said Grelek, “but yeah. You’ll love the cozy ambiance … unless the Belanthrese or their partners find it first.”

“Partners?” asked the detective. “You mean Olithcraz?”

Jalinoor snorted.

“The Commissioner likes to puff himself up,” he said, “But he’s strictly minor league. The real mastermind is a shadowy figure most people have never heard of. You’re the lucky one. You’ve met him several times.”

“Wait … no,” said Dholztra. “You can’t pin this on me. I know nothing about any rebel leader.”

“Relax,” said Grelek. “You were played. Craters, we all were. The psych team has him pegged as a Class One telepath. Mentallic controls — the whole nine orbitals.”

“Who?” the detective yelled. “Who the quibbling quarks are you talking about?”

“The ring leader?” asked Jalinoor. “His name is Halfoorn.”

(To be continued – read Episode 5 here)

###
Mark Laporta is the acclaimed author of the Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek series and the new novel, Probability Shadow, which was published in October by Chickadee Prince Books, available now in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you.

Insective Episode 3

Insective (Episode 3): New SF Noir by Mark Laporta

, , , , ,

Case Files of Rolkahr Dholztra, Kuzdrohna Department of Public Safety:

[Editor’s  note: If you have missed earlier episodes, you may read Episode 1 here and Episode 2 here.]

Bak Reltoor at night was a cityscape of eerie quiet, against which suspicious or downright disturbing sounds broke at close range. While Dholztra’s two particle guns could give him plenty of cover, a single shot would change his shadow into a crime scene. In that violent instant, he’d trade the cover of darkness for a flashbulb’s nosy glare.

But there was still more reason for caution. Because a Nolatrid’s hard exoskeleton obviated the need for clothing, Dholztra’s guns were out in the open; they rested in holsters strapped to two of his four legs. For all he knew, the sight of his pistols might tempt a bored loner to use him for target practice. It only made sense to put them into light-canceling mode. While the Handbook didn’t expressly forbid it, Dholztra doubted the Department would approve. The phrase “concealed weapon” was liable to have an ominous ring, if word of his investigation reached the newsnets. Yet he had to hope the Department would also disapprove of a singed detective with a gaster full of ionized plasma.

“Have to play it smart,” he whispered. He slipped out of his car, locked in its chameleon settings and sealed it noiselessly with the handheld that doubled as a comlink, which he’d strapped to his second right arm. His first thought was to find Halfoorn, even though, as his most obvious move, this left him more open to ambush. But what choice did he have? From this point forward, Dholztra realized, his every move was based on a gamble: that he was worth more alive than dead to the terrorists. He didn’t like the odds.

Please subscribe for free to Audere Magazine to receive our latest stories in your inbox

* indicates required


The only saving grace was the warren of interlocking side streets and narrow alleys that snaked through this part of town. There were hundreds of different ways to sneak into Halfoorn’s favorite haunts. With his eye facets trained on points in all directions, and his antennae cocked to pick up the slightest sign of trouble, Dholztra set off with the studied nonchalance of a seasoned professional. Along the way, he was confronted, not for the first time, with the failings of Nolatrid society.

At its foundations, of course, Nolatre was more equitable than many Class-4 civilizations. But in the years since the humans’ failed invasion, Dholztra’s homeworld had slipped into a convenient amnesia about the less fortunate. Sadly, the poverty of the abandoned humans had created an indelible association, in the mind of many citizens, between the words “poor” and “alien.”

As a consequence, this shadowy neighborhood, already in decline when Dholztra was born, was sinking faster and faster into a morass of shattered souls and the deadly habits that comforted them. One of these souls was Halfoorn himself. Was the story Dholztra’s chief informant told about his past the truth, or simply a by-product of his dreznel addiction? Either way, he had to admit that Halfoorn was cut from different cloth than the average inhabitant of Bak Reltoor.

Regardless, when the wary detective finally found the reddish-brown Nolatrid at the back of “The Laughing Beetle” — slumped over a bowl of ghaldrazo stew — he couldn’t stop his tubular heart from fluttering. Could Halfoorn be … was he…?

A rough voice called out to Dholztra’s left.

“Hey!” said the voice. “You know that slouch? Maybe you feel like paying his tab before I chuck him out in the street?”

Tempted as he was to flash his detective badge, just to watch that gruff bartender squirm, Dholztra held his tongue and settled Halfoorn’s tab in cash. After casting a stealthy, analytical glance around the bar, he returned to his informant’s table to assess his condition. It took a couple of tries, but Dholztra managed to rouse Halfoorn with the sound of his own name.

“Dholztra,” said the bleary-eyed diner. “What took you so long? Thought maybe the Belanthrese….”

“How about you tell me outside?” said the detective. “Looks like they need your table in here.”

The last thing Dholztra wanted was a lot of loud talk about the unfolding crisis right out in public. With a little prodding, Halfoorn found his legs and managed to shamble out into the dank air with the detective at his side.

“There was … something … I wanted … tell you,” he said.

“About the Red Disk you sent me?” asked Dholztra.

Halfoorn looked up at him, his antennae drooping.

“Oh, Rolkahr … it was pathetic, what those … Belanthrese lizards did to her. Never saw so much human blood. You know something? They bleed a lot.”

Dholztra could see Halfoorn was on the verge of passing out again, so he talked fast.

“Where’d they take her?” he asked.

“Who, the lizards?” asked Halfoorn. “Nowhere. Couple of HCBI agents muscled in at the last minute and they scattered. Looked like the agents were gonna take her to a hospital in Humantown. Hey, can I just go to sleep now? My facets are killing me.”

Dholztra sighed, and helped the poor bedraggled addict over to the nearest stoop. Fortunately, it was plenty broad and deep enough for a bed. Dholztra figured the high steps were carved out of marble at least a century ago, when Bak Reltoor had been, incredibly, home to bankers, doctors and rising politicians.

“Hospital,” he whispered. Though he was desperate to find Imogen, entering Humantown in the wee hours of the morning would attract unwanted attention. Besides, he’d so far accomplished precisely nothing — and time was running out. To judge by the voice on his office phone, the City of Kuzdrohna was about to become the epicenter of a major political uprising.

If only he could get a lead on how the rogue Belanthrese and the traitorous faction that had infested SWARM were working together. Hard as it was to stop that train now, it would be even harder when the engine was going full steam. But, Dholztra realized, there was another angle to consider. Sooner or later, he was sure, a double cross was coming.

If Nolatre was the prize, no way either party would be satisfied with only a half share. And when those odds played out, the lid would blow off world government for good. Trouble was, the corruption ran so deep, he might dig down for miles without finding its rotting core.

The Commissioner’s in on it, too, the detective reminded himself.

Come to think of it, that probably meant Olithcraz’ cronies on the Kuzdrohna City Council were looking the other way at his lavish budget requests. That might explain the explosives and the lase canon array. But with expenditures that big, Mayor Guldraath would have to be clued in, either as a co-conspirator or a blackmail victim.

Dholztra set off in the direction of CityHive, in the hope that, this late at night, he might catch the tail end of a scheming transaction. Maybe just seeing who went in or out of the Mayor’s office would yield some clue to the conspirators’ next move. He was grasping at straws and he knew it, but there were times when straws were all a detective had.

But before he’d walked more than a meter, a nagging thought made him pull out his comlink. In the midst of this tension, the sound of Treldraah’s voice on the other end was like a drink of cold water on a hot summer day.

“Rolkahr?” she mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Listen, larva,” said Dholztra. “I don’t have much time. But do me a favor, would you? Go visit your sister in Romnexia for a few weeks.”

“What is it, Honey?” said Treldraah. “You in some kinda trouble?”

“There’s gonna be trouble for everybody soon,” said the detective. “And I need to know you’re not in the middle of it. Just get on the next airbus. Don’t even pack. I’ll send you some credits as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about me, you big lug,” said Treldraah. “I’ll be fine. Just don’t let anybody cut up that beautiful proboscis of yours.”

Dholztra had wanted to say more, but she closed contact and, of course, it was for the best. As it was, he had to hope the call had been too short for some wise acre to track with a homing device. Be that as it may, it was time to head out.

To keep a low profile, he left his car in its parking spot and took the subrail west and south one mile from Bak Reltoor to CityHive. The train, as usual this late, was mostly empty. All the easier to spot the odd-looking Nolatrid huddled over an expensive metadigital tablet. Was it the flickering yellow light in the car or did this particular citizen have a genetically altered exoskeleton? Either way, Dholztra’s practiced eye noticed something strange about this character — not least, the furious way he entered string after string of commands into his tablet.

Like a programmer, Dholztra reflected. Or an android.

Either way, if he had to guess, it was likely that a suspect in a situation as unusual as city-wide terror just might be ever-so-slightly unusual himself. Immediately, a memory of an argument he’d had early on, with Protnoak, his late wife, popped into his head.

“Oh, so only unusual Nolatrids commit crimes, is that right?” she’d demanded. “I have an extra stripe on my thorax….”

“You know I love that stripe, larva,” he’d said stupidly.

“I’m not talking about your pervy little fetish right now, Rolkahr!” she’d screamed. “The point is whether my stripe makes me a suspect in your case. What? Am I a good kind of ‘different’? Well, I’m so glad I made it into your club!”

They didn’t speak for days after that. Dholztra knew how pointless it was to build an argument about principles out of dry, pragmatic facts. But what Protnoak never grasped was that facts were all a detective had, to move a case forward. Some facts were dead ends, but every one of them had to be pursued for its potential value. And the fact was, this particular subrail passenger had “trouble” written all over him.

“Bad time to visit Kuzdrohna, isn’t it?” he asked. “Course, when you save up your credits all year for a vacation….”

The odd-looking figure looked up from his tablet.

“Not a tourist,” he said. “Not a patsy, either.”

“Relax pal,” said Dholztra. “Just making conversation. I’ll let you get back to your programming. Though, I have to say, I’m surprised an advanced model like you needs an external device.”

“Not an android either, OK?” said the stranger. “Craters, a guy gets half his body blown off fighting those disgusting bipeds, then he has to spend the rest of his life looking like a freaking machine. Finally pulled myself together to get some part-time coding work. Don’t need to be mocked for it, do I?”

“You were in the war?” asked Dholztra. “I thought all the survivors got great pensions.”

“Sure,” said the former soldier. “It’s so great I have to give three-quarters of it back to SWARM to cover my medical expenses. All this hardware has to be cleaned out and fine-tuned every quarter. So unless I want to eat in a soup kitchen every night, I gotta work.”

Dholztra shifted his weight in his seat. Either this guy was a great actor, or he’d just found a lead on a major government kickback scandal. Trouble was, until the HCBI got its hands around the nascent terrorist movement, no one was liable to care about a lone veteran’s complaints.

“That’s … that’s rough,” he said.

“Yeah? Think so?” said the war veteran. “A bunch of us have got together to let SWARM know they can’t get away with it. You could join up yourself. It’s the real deal. We’re even getting help from Belanthra, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Why would the lizards care about you?” asked Dholztra. “No offense, but Nolatre’s not really they’re problem.”

The subrail slowed down for the next stop.

“Know what?” said the stranger. “The way my body hurts in the morning, I don’t care who helps me. SWARM’S so cheap, I can’t get the replacement part I need for another half-cycle. Gotta make do with painkillers that make me lose my lunch most days.”

The doors of the train car whooshed open and the stranger shuffled to the exit.

“Gralkidret Park in two days,” he said. “Show up for the afternoon rally and one of us will find you.”

Stunned, the detective watched as the car doors slammed shut and the subrail continued on.

What are they up to? he asked himself.

Suddenly, the scope of off-world involvement with Nolatre had expanded exponentially in his mind. Belanthra, it seemed, was using every available means to tear his homeworld apart. First, they’d roped in disgruntled humans and now, the disgruntled veterans who’d defeated them. Wherever this led, Nolatre society was taking a hit it might never recover from.

And by the sound of it, the process had started some time ago. Until that night, Dholztra had never heard of a kickback scheme in the Veterans Association like the one the stranger had described. Someone, whether off-worlder or Nolatrid, had started a lucrative racket right under society’s proboscis — and there was no telling how far it went.

Objectively, Belanthra’s determination to destabilize and, perhaps, subjugate Nolatre made no sense. The two worlds and their colonies had been cooperating for the past five centuries on favorable terms.

There had been little poverty, near full employment, universal health care and, with the exception of the humans on Dholztra’s homeworld, a full range of civil liberties for all. And that was not to mention the limitless horizon of space-time that every star-faring culture had access to. By now, as Dholztra was not alone in thinking, the historical forces that had produced thousands of years of conquest and domination by countless civilizations, really should have waned.

Something has made the madness return, he thought. And in that moment, he realized, there’d be no Law Enforcement solution to the evolving terrorist crisis until the source of that madness was uncovered.

After a gradual, trudging slowdown, the subrail reached the CityHive station and came to a clattering stop. Dholztra made a casual exit, partly for effect, in case someone was watching, but also to help himself stay calm. With so much at stake and so many bad actors at large, psychic tension was his worst enemy. Besides, he realized, he’d come alone to observe, not to be a one-insect strike force. All he was after were leads.

He strode up a flight of gently sloping stairs to the street and left the subrail’s aggressively cheerful ambience behind. Out on the broad sidewalks of the CityHive complex, its spacious layout had a calculated, calming effect on all but the most sociopathic visitor. It was almost impossible not to feel safe here, amidst gracefully proportioned buildings that, for all their architectural efficiency, nevertheless conveyed a mood of benevolent authority.

Yet tonight, Dholztra knew, he couldn’t afford to be lulled into complacency. His city, let alone his homeworld, was decidedly not in good hands. He shut his eyes tight and resolved to stay on mission. That meant finding a covert vantage point from which to observe the Mayoral mansion without being detected.

The most obvious cover was a series of boulders that were excavated when contractors dug out the mansion’s foundation over five hundred years ago. If he hid behind them, he’d have a ringside seat to the spectacle of government corruption he hoped to unmask.

Yet, crouching down there, he figured, was the surest way to be found. The boulders would likely be monitored by CityHive security 24/7. Instead, he’d have to rely on electronic surveillance, by tapping into the fleet of microdrones the Department maintained in every sector of the city, including the Mayor’s residence. For an experienced operative like Dholztra, it was nothing to pull up the data feed from that fleet on his handheld. So without so much as a furtive glance, the detective slouched down onto an inconspicuous park bench and tapped in the programming codes needed to access the drone feed.

Looks quiet, he thought.

Had he come all this way for nothing? Every instinct in his exoskeleton told him “no.” The Commissional Olithcraz was involved so was the Mayor. It was just a question of time before … There! Leaving the mansion by a service exit was a Belanthrese agent, stuffed tight into an ill-fitting dark grey encounter suit. At the threshold was Mayor Guldraath himself, waving the Belanthrese agent on, with the bland familiarity of a family member at a holiday meal. Seconds later, the agent summoned a transmat pod and was gone.

”Worse than I thought,” the detective muttered.

Of all the players on the field so far, Dholztra found these off-worlders the most puzzling. What had changed? Why rock the boat at all, and why now?

So engrossed in surveillance, Dholztra was too late in noticing the fetching night crawler who had just set her svelte body down on his park bench and wasted no time scooting over to his side.

“Kinda late to be out in the park, Mister,” she cooed. “Let me guess, you got a thing for a late-night rendezvous? Or is it a wicked architectural jones you just can’t shake?”

“Maybe I just like the night air,” said Dholztra. “But what are you doing, trolling this beat. It’s as dead as the morgue. Aren’t you better off in the theatre district?”

The female slapped him hard across the mandibles.

“Think you can talk to me like that?” she said. “Think again, Detective. Forgive me for trying to show you a good time. But, OK, if you don’t want to play it smart, let me introduce you to my manager.”

All at once, Dholztra’s attempt to see the big picture was obscured by the explosion of a noxious smoke bomb, no more than a meter away, to his left. Instinctively, Dholztra stood, spun away from the smoke — only to smack straight into the armored chest of a Belanthrese street fighter.

Stunned, he backed off and tried to reach for his pistols, until he felt his four arms pinned behind him with the easy strength of a Department of Safety robotic unit. A familiar voice rang out from the robot’s sound system.

“Can’t take a hint, can you, Rolkahr?” it said.

Dholztra’s voice snarled..

“Olithcraz, you traitor,” he said. “What’s the matter? Did a crate fall on your head or were you born this way?”

“Pretty righteous talk, from a pathetic little puppet,” said Olithcraz. “Bet you sing yourself to sleep with the homeworld anthem, don’t you?”

“Don’t even want to think about what you sleep with,” said Dholztra. “Tell me, how do you keep a Belanthrese pilot happy in his encounter suit?”

The detective‘s only reply was a rifle butt to the back of his head that knocked him out cold. When he woke up, he had every reason to wish the blow had killed him. Aside from the sharp pain in his tangled antennae, the nagging pinch at his wrists and ankles told him he was chained down to a hospital bed.

“Lumpy mattress,” he muttered.

“Didn’t think you’d ever wake up,” said a female human voice to his right.

Dholztra trained his blurry vision on a young woman in a khaki jumpsuit, who was lounging in a black padded chair.

“Imogen?” he asked.

“Oh God, it’s true,” said the woman. “You bug boys can’t tell one human from the other. Don’t worry, your little collaborator girlfriend is in way too deep to be out on her own.”

“Who … are you, then?” asked the detective.

“Nobody to you, Shell Head,” said the woman. “Sit tight. The doctor will see you now.”

Dholztra watched as the human stood up and clicked her heels out of the room. His head pounding, his limbs trembling, he nevertheless resolved to listen closely to his captor’s words. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was that crooks loved to crow about their Master Plan. Didn’t matter if they were kingpins of a crime syndicate or a two-quark con-artist with a phony charity.

The scratched-up door to his dingy room swung open and Dholztra had his visitor pegged, from the moment his plump frame lumbered into the room. The only hard part was listening to his oily voice.

“Rolkahr, my comrade,” said Olithcraz. You look exhausted. That’s on me. I’m afraid I inspire a bit too much devotion in my operatives.”

“Until somebody makes them a better offer,” said Dholztra. “What I don’t get is what the Belanthrese offered you.”

Though the Commissioner chuckled, his dull red eye-facets flashed with grim determination.

“You think I’m working for the lizards?” he asked. “Now I know my boys banged up your head too hard. The Belanthrese are working for us. At least the smart ones are.”

“Us?” asked the detective. “Now, isn’t that cute? You started your own club. Let me guess: you’ve already earned all the merit badges.”

Olithcraz smacked him hard across the proboscis.

“You’ll find out,” he said. “Meantime, watch your tone. The only reason I’m keeping you alive is to bait that fool Increalaar. Once the HCBI is under our control, the planet is ours. And that’s just the beginning.”

“Tell me something, Commissioner,” said Dholztra. “Do you really think the Interstellar Council will let you get away with this?”

“What do I care?” snapped Olithcraz. “Where were those data dribblers when the humans attacked? They wouldn’t send one ship to back us up. And now they dare say the humans are our problem. Let me tell you something. By the time we’re finished with our little genome-remapping project, the humans are going to be everybody’s problem.”

“I’d tell you you’re crazy,” said Dholztra, “but that would be an insult to every nut-job in the universe.”

The Commissioner’s antennae twitched.

“Very funny,” he said. “It’s too bad. We could use a smart guy like you. But you’re stuck in the pupal stage like everyone else in SWARM who won’t listen.”

The Commissioner spun around and yelled into his comlink, as he hustled out of Dholztra’s room.

“Get me Director Increalaar of the HCBI on the line,” he said. “It’s time we filed our missing person’s report.”

The vibrations caused by the slamming door sent sharp shocks of pain up and down Dholztra’s exoplated body. In his weakened condition, the exertion of the past few minutes had been too great. His face-to-face encounter with an insidious evil opened a chasm of fear he might easily have tumbled into — had his aching mind not slid down deep into unconsciousness.

(To be continued – Read Episode 4 here)

Mark Laporta is the acclaimed author of the Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek series and the new novel, Probability Shadow, which was published in October by Chickadee Prince Books, available now in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you.

Design by Steven S. Drachman, from an original image from BeFunky.

Insective Pic Part 2 (a)

Insective (Episode 2): New SF Noir by Mark Laporta

, , , , ,

Case Files of Rolkahr Dholztra, Kuzdrohna Department of Public Safety:

[Editor’s Note: Read Episode 1, here.]

It didn’t take a degree in criminology to connect the dots. Nor did Dholztra feel any smarter for the diploma hanging on his office wall.

Idiots, he thought. What was it, he wondered, that made the bipeds think violence was any part of the solution? Or were they just creating mayhem for sport? Regardless, their aggressive behavior was the reason more and more civic leaders had recommended mass incarceration, neural implants, sterilization … or worse.

With the technology at Nolatre’s disposal, any of these options was depressingly possible. The issue in Dholztra’s mind, and that of a shrinking number of citizens, was whether anyone had the right to exact such fierce punishment on another sentient species. Surely, in time, they believed, The Human Question could be resolved peacefully.

Trouble was, when it came to Empathy, a recent downturn in the Nolatrid economy had totally skewed Supply and Demand. Phrases like “military clean-up” had appeared in the newsnets with alarming frequency in the past six months.

Please subscribe for free to Audere Magazine to receive our latest stories in your inbox

* indicates required


Thought we were past that, he told himself. Guess I’m just a sucker for daydreams, like everybody else.

But this was no time for philosophy. Nolatrids were hurting, and he had to take street-level action, pronto. Step one was cancelling his date with Treldraah.

“Like I’d let you anywhere near me with this stuff going on,” she said. “Get off the link and nail those creeps!”

She closed contact and Dholztra sighed. Treldraah was no Protnoak, but she was still one classy female.

One by one, he rallied his forces. Quality time with the kids? Poker night? Forget it. It was time to step up. Analytics about the composition of the explosives and their triggering mechanism had already streamed in from CityHive AI. At some point, the data pool would also include the names, faces and personal records of every poor soul murdered that night. But for now, they were nothing but faceless numbers.

Meanwhile Dholztra called up every staff sergeant in his district and organized his beat cops into investigative teams. Within minutes, he’d also coordinated with the Fire Department and the Emergency MedEvac team. Next up, with some trepidation, was the HiveCentral Bureau of Investigation.

The call to the latter took a solid half hour to go through. When his comlink finally rang him back, he was startled to hear the ethereally calm voice of Director Increalaar herself on the other end of the line.

“Think this could be it, Detective?” she asked.

“Well, Ma’am, in all humility,” said Dholztra, “I think you’d know that better than I.…”

“You don’t get it,” said Increalaar. “Have all the humility you want. It’s cute, even. But I need input from people on the ground I can trust. So tell me what you think is going on, and don’t hold back. I don’t give a handful of neutrinos whether what you know is corroborated. If you believe it, that’s good enough for me. Now: tell me who just caused a ten-block explosion in our capital city?”

Dholztra felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the abdomen. But after a halting start, he gave the Director of the HCBI his take on the data he’d gathered from “informants.” If he shaded the truth about exactly who his “informant” had been, it was only to make the larger Truth more credible.

“Huh,” said Increalaar. “Do you realize that your report flies in the face of every treaty we have with the Belanthrese?”

“Yes, Director,” said Dholztra.

“And yet you’re actually putting it out there,” said his superior, as if to herself. “Tell me this, I heard a report of a data ghost out in the neighborhood of the incident you described. You know anything about that?”

“Just … just that it implies someone with sensor-cancelling tech was on the scene,” said the Inspector.

“Someone?” asked Increalaar. “Or you? Don’t answer that. Just think about what’s best for the homeworld. And I hasten to point out that we can’t mention the Belanthrese in connection to this explosion, unless we can truthfully claim blind adherence to the rule of law on our end.”

“Understood, Ma’am,” said Dholztra.

“Good,” said the Director. “I’m glad we agree. Now tell me how you want me to coordinate our investigation of this bombing.”

To Dholztra, it was like waking up inside a dreamscape, in which every one of his insights was validated, his suggestions were implemented and his instincts were sharper than at any time in his career. Stranger still, the sound of the Director’s voice kept echoing in his mind, long after they broke contact. What was that sensation?

Only a jerk falls in love with appreciation, he scolded himself. Might as well start dating my service awards.

Increalaar was simply an inspirational leader who knew how to bring out the best in her operatives. Every one of her comments had the tone and intent of Apollonian justice, nothing more nor less. Her valuation of him was simply an honest testament to his skill and expertise — and was anything but personal. But though he acknowledged that line of logic, it nevertheless proved a tad too thin to rein in his wandering thoughts.

Fortunately, his tangled ego was soon spared further self-inflicted wounds. Because events swept on like a tidal wave and washed away every scrap of pointless longing from his mind. In mere days, his police investigation of the explosion gave way to an interdisciplinary effort to save lives and preserve as much of the existing infrastructure as possible. Thanks to state-of-the-art self-repair systems and CityHive’s extensive network of psychiatric social workers, the city of Kuzdrohna might have eventually moved on from the explosion’s horrific aftermath. That is, if the humans hadn’t struck again.

For it was only about ten days later that a network of ground-based lase canons had vaporized the Djalethan bridge. Somehow, militants had learned that the bridge’s magclad shielding was shut down to streamline structural repairs.

Answers were scarce, but Dholztra’s money was on a silent, dissident faction in CityHive. Only somebody close to the Kuzdrohna Corps of Engineers could have offered that piece of candy to the terrorists.

“Who’s behind this?” asked Commissioner Olithcraz. “Don’t bother, everybody has an unsubstantiated theory. By the way, Director Increalaar thinks highly of you. Keep it up. If we live through this you might be headed for better things than hanging around with street scum informants.”

At the moment, however, “if” was the operative word. For now, reports of an organized army of a good twenty-thousand humans were coming in from every direction. Some images flying across the newsnets showed automatic particle-gun fire augmented by drone support and transmat bombs. None of those weapons were among the wreckage the humans had left behind when they fled.

So where in the moons of Ventral had these heavy arms and munitions come from? Certainly not the human homeworld. Word was, internal strife was throwing the humans backward at the Speed of Stupidity. Despite his years on the force, Dholztra couldn’t fathom what made the bipeds so self-destructive.

In any case, whatever had sparked the recent uptick in violence on Nolatre, one thing was clear. Only a tight-knit faction of traitors could have supplied the humans with so many shiny toys. No way even the slickest Belanthrese could have sneaked a cache of lase cannon past spaceport security, even with transmat tech. By the look of it, Nolatrid anarchists had infiltrated every branch of government, from his local ward on up. That meant that a significant cadre of anarchists within SWARM had recently flipped over from Armchair Radical to Full-time Lunatic.

In a situation like this, the detective was forced to wish he would find no more clues. Because even if he stumbled on a motherlode of incriminating evidence, who could he entrust it to?

But as much as he wished to opt out of the fray, it wasn’t meant to be. Trouble found him, as it always did — this time in the form of a trembling supplicant.

It was after another long day of fieldwork, supervisory badgering, and gruesome morgue duty with the forensics team that Dholztra heard human footsteps following him home for the first time. His eight limbs trembling, he put his right front hands on the pair of lase pistols he kept in separate holsters and spun around in the cold, dark air.

“What’re you after, Biped?” he snarled. But the voice that greeted him was soft, civilized — anything but threatening.

“Please, wait,” said the voice.

Dholztra’s multifaceted eyes tingled in the glare of the crude LED light his follower had switched on — to reveal a young human female. Unlike most bipeds the detective had seen, this one was clean and wearing fresh clothes that Dholztra assumed were in the style of the human homeworld. How was this possible? The Red Disk affixed to her khaki blouse, above her right mammary gland told the whole story. This was, in theory at least, one of The Good Ones.

The Disk also explained why she spoke halfway decent Nolatrid. Between the lessons the Red Disk program had given her and the chance to come out of the shadows, she’d obviously come a long way.

“Are you Dholztra?” she asked.

“What if I am?” asked the Inspector.

“Halfoorn told me you’d say that,” the young woman said.

“How do you know Halfoorn?” asked Dholztra.

“Does it matter?” asked the human. “I have intel on the bombing and Halfoorn said you wouldn’t believe it coming from him.”

“It matters, if you expect me to believe you,” said Dholztra. “You have a name?”

The young woman brushed a shock of reddish brown hair out of her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m Imogen, Nyles’ sister — the man you asked Halfoorn about.”

“The one who’s accepting contraband weapons from the Belanthrese?” asked Dholztra. “Nice family. What’s your cut?”

Imogen’s eyes misted over.

“You don’t … it’s not like that,” she said. “Nyles is in over his head. He thinks he’s a rebel leader but he’s just … well, do you have puppets on your world?”

“Familiar with the concept,” said Dholztra. His limited contact with humans made her hard to evaluate. Were the tears a sign of genuine emotion, or of a cynical deception? The phenomenon was unknown to Nolatrids, who lacked tear ducts altogether. His kind showed their emotions through a complex language of scents too subtle, he figured, for Imogen’s ugly nostrils.

For some reason he was inclined to trust her, but the case-hardened detective in him knew it was too early for that.

“Nyles …” said Imogen. “He’s been out of his head ever since our father was killed by a CityHive patrol unit. Trouble was, Dad liked his freedom. He insisted on hiking around like he owned the planet. He ended up in a restricted area by mistake and … anyway, now Nyles thinks teaming up with the Belanthrese will get him some kind of justice. But the Belanthrese he’s dealing with.…”

“They have their own agenda, I take it,” said Dholztra.

“Halfoorn says they’re a fringe group,” said Imogen. “They want Belanthrese to stay ‘pure’ whatever that means and, I guess, break off all interstellar treaties.”

“Starting a war is one way to do it,” said Dholztra.

“Maybe,” said the human, “but I don’t give a rat’s ass about politics. I only care about Nyles and … and they’ve promised to take us all back to Earth if he does what they ask.”

“You think they would?” asked Dholztra.

“Why would they bother,” asked Imogen, “once Nyles and the others give them what they want? Besides, I hate to say it, but I don’t think EarthGov wants us back at this point. Last time anybody got through to our homeworld, they got a pretty cool reception. Rumor is, the defeat you handed us pretty much wrecked our economy. Each one of the ships you destroyed cost us a fortune. Well, it’s not like we didn’t deserve it.”

Dholztra looked up from Imogen’s soft, human eyes which, despite how alien they were to him, were strangely moving. He took a deep breath in the night air and suddenly realized, he’d been standing out in the open for several minutes with a human fugitive he should have arrested for breaking curfew.

Just lucky the streets are empty this time of night he told himself.

“Let’s get some cover.” he said.

“No,” said Imogen. “I can’t stay out much longer — and I don’t want you getting in trouble. I just need to know: can you help me bring Nyles back to his senses before he does something really horrible?”

“Like blowing up ten city blocks or disintegrating a bridge?” asked Dholztra. “Too late for that. Look, Miss, even if I believed the story you’ve laid out with no evidence, what do you expect me to do about it? I’m not running this planet, and the worse this situation gets, the less I’m even running my own department.”

“But I’ve told you….” said Imogen.

“Nothing,” said Dholztra. “Nothing I can use. Most I can do, is keep my eyes open. But here’s the thing. If your brother’s out to blow stuff up, supposedly to make a point, there’s not too much anyone can do to talk him out of it. Do yourself a favor. Get back to Humantown before the patrol finds you out this late. And tell Halfoorn not to bother me unless he has some hard evidence. Can you do that?”

Imogen bowed her head and her shoulders shook in a gesture Dholztra found particularly alarming. Was she about to explode? Instead she looked up again at him, sobbing, and held out a data cylinder.

“Halfoorn … he said you’d say that too,” she said. “So here. Here’s the data he gave me. I don’t even know what’s on it, except he told me it would give you enough evidence to arrest Nyles. Maybe … maybe if he’s in jail he’ll stay out of trouble until this is over.”

Dholztra stared at her for a minute and then reached out for the cylinder.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll take a look. But you listen to me: Nothing is ever over. What your brother started is going to play out for a long time. A lot of humans are gonna get it in the neck no matter what I do. Understand?”

“Yeah,” said Imogen. “I know. Thanks. Halfoorn said you’d be fair. Guess I owe him one.”

“So how can I reach you?” asked the weary detective.

“Found you the first time, didn’t I?” asked Imogen. “You’ll see me again when there’s more to say. I can’t be seen with you too often and expect to live. Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure it matters anymore.”

She spun around on the soles of her canvas shoes and ran off into the darkness.

“Crazy,” Dholztra muttered. “What the quark do I care about a crazy human?”

All the same, he turned back to his precinct station, flashed his badge at the AI-controlled sensor array and rode the maglev lift up to his fifth-floor office. He lit up his work station, dropped in Imogen’s data cylinder and hit PLAY.

The video that scrolled across his holosplay was grainy, but clear enough to a practiced eye. It showed a night time rendezvous between a human and a Belanthrese similar to the one he’d witnessed himself days before. Only this time a third party lurked in the background. But … it couldn’t be.

Dholztra smacked his ovoid head with all four hands. Was that really Commissioner Olithcraz?

“Can’t believe this!” he shouted, in spite of himself. The next second his comlink buzzed like a micro fusion pile on the brink of a meltdown.

“Believe it, Detective,” said a decidedly human voice on the other end of the line.

“Who the spinning pulsar are you and how did you bug my office?” asked Dholztra.

“You’ve been bugged?” said the voice. “Ain’t that just adorable. Now listen, you two- quark loser. Your investigation’s over. Increalaar is as good as dead. And if you’re smart you’ll take the next colony shuttle out to AstroNest 3 and start a new life for yourself. Your girlfriend’s already waiting for you.”

“You … You’ve got Treldraah?” asked Dholztra.

“Only one way to find out,” said the voice. “When you get there, just tell them Brian sent you. You can thank me later. Things are gonna get hot around here real fast.”

The comlink went dead and Dholztra’s heart sank. If the humans could tap into a secure CityHive comlink and wire his office for sound, they were getting help from the top echelons of Nolatrid society. If the detective had been a mammal, he’d have been sweating bullets. As it was, he nearly jumped out of his own exoskeleton when his comlink buzzed again.

“Dholztra? It’s me, Halfoorn,” said Dholztra’s main informant. “You better get down here. That Red Disk I sent you got herself cut up real bad.”

Five minutes later, the seasoned detective was back out on the street hurtling down to Bak Reltoor in the upgraded ground car he’d recently acquired from Headquarters. This time, there’d be no data ghosts and, if Imogen was dead, no mercy.

(Read Episode 3, here)

Mark Laporta is the acclaimed author of the Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek series and the new novel, Probability Shadow, which was published in October by Chickadee Prince Books, available now in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you.

Design by Steven S. Drachman, from an original image from BeFunky.

Screen Shot 2018-09-15 at 10.29.06 AM

Mark Laporta: The Probable Future of Sentience

, , , , , ,

In American culture, the future is supposed to be the place where every social and cultural dilemma is solved. In the land of Someday, we’re told, famine, disease, poverty and inequality will vanish, through education, innovation, technology, redistribution, land reform and enlightened governance. Tomorrow, we like to believe, is where Love triumphs, Evil is vanquished and Rent is affordable. There’s just one problem.

The future will be full of people like us.

You know, complicated people with contradictory desires, who are tempted to act on their impulses. All the same, because I’ve personally witnessed a small, incremental improvement in the human condition, I allow myself to imagine a better future.

Please subscribe for free to Audere Magazine to receive our latest stories in your inbox

* indicates required


What I can’t imagine is a sentient being who is “99 and 44/100 percent pure,” no matter how much society advances. After all, at the base of every skull is our evolutionary heritage: a selfish little monster whose hunger can never be slaked.

Surviving the fall.

That’s why I’m sure the future will be inhabited by beings much like us. Because every sentient species is the product of evolution. It rises up through the ranks — as predator or prey — until mounting self-awareness leads to an epiphany. The result is the self-justifying superego at the foundation of civilization. Forget fire. Forget agriculture. We became who we are the moment the first homo sapiens said, “I didn’t want to do it, but an evil spirit made me.”

We’ve been in the self-justification business ever since. Fast-forward nearly 3000 years, to the era described in my upcoming novel, Probability Shadow, and you’ll meet both human sentients and their alien counterparts — still repulsed by their animal nature. Yes, the trappings are different. But the self-centered structures at the core of the cerebral cortex are as firmly rooted as ever.

Tumbling down to empire.

Some things never change. Most of the humans you’ll meet in Probability Shadow, are citizens of a vast commercial and military empire. Though they ventured out from the Milky Way with the best intentions, the experience of being greeted as gods, on dozens of underdeveloped worlds, simply went to their heads.

Eager to help, the humans established a program of intergalactic aid. In exchange for grain, natural resources and cheap labor, they introduced the aliens to the game-changing technologies that nominally end all suffering. Within a century, their commercial network grew large enough to require a central administration with a set of Terms and Conditions to regulate commerce and personal conduct.

In time, a competing class of newly space-worthy civilizations arose. To protect their investments, the humans created a space fleet of immense power. Rebellion was quashed, smugglers were annihilated, and the Rule of Law was rigidly enforced.

All that was missing was a reliable self-justification mechanism. Accordingly, at a time of economic downturn, a band of opportunists fanned the flames of a religious revival. A frightened populous voted for theocracy — and the galaxy-spanning Terran Protectorate was born.

Clawing up to the light.

Now, I don’t mean to assert that only the dark side of sentience has a future. Love, compassion, empathy and creativity will exist side by side as by-products of civilization. In Probability Shadow, when a terrifying evil emerges from beyond the boundaries of Space and Time, sentients from five different species step up to defy it. They must repel an onslaught from an ancient race of mutants with unprecedented control over the laws of Probability itself. The task is daunting, but they pursue it unselfishly.

Whether they succeed or fail, a few dissident humans, the Krezovics, the Grashardi, the symbiotes, the Dralein and the ghostly remnants of the Ootray must draw on positive mental traits. These are qualities of mind that, like their negative counterparts, are as old as the first sentient ape to stand up in the savannah and bark “I am.” As I see it, the survival of these qualities, well into the future, is limited only by the persistence of space-time itself.

Mark Laporta is the author of the acclaimed Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek series. His new novel, Probability Shadow, will be published in October by Chickadee Prince Books. Pre-order now in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you , and visit him the weekend of 9/28/2018 at the Capclave science fiction convention in Rockville, Maryland.

Image of future New York, source unknown, dated as early as 1911.

Respect laporta illo

Respect: New Science Fiction by Mark Laporta

, , , , ,

Charlee had once dreamed of running an exobiology lab at a top university. In her late teens, she’d imagined herself synthesizing a new, galaxy-sized definition of Life, broad enough to encompass an ever-expanding array of extra-terrestrial phenomena.

But these days, doing dog work at a space station greenhouse was as close as she ever got to biological research. And now that the salad-green harvest was in, the energy she once devoted to daydreaming was eaten up by relining hydroponic seed beds. No use expecting the higher-ups to appreciate her expertise, either.

“It’s great that you’re thinking, Char,” said Sanjit, the head of hydroponics for the Interstellar Consortium Station Wanderer. “Now we need the broccoli beds seeded, no?”

Worse than this condescension, was the sure knowledge that she herself was the source of her misery. It had been a mistake to call her department chair at MarsOne University a “xenophobic anthro-centrist,” no matter how good it had felt at the time.

“Why go over that again?” she whispered into her net pots.

By the year 3856, most people assumed Charlee’s line of work would be thoroughly roboticized. But that’s only because they were thinking like Planetaries. Off-world, things were different, and the farther from Earth you went, the more your priorities shifted.

For starters, robots needed spare parts. Try getting a quantum gate, anywhere out past the Cat’s Eye Nebula, and you’d have to deal with a less-than-savory sort of merchandizer. Besides, there was something just wrong about asking a Zeta-class android to tend romaine lettuce. And who in the ridges of Hesperia Planum could afford a full suite of specialized workstations, even if the sales rep insisted they were “fully customizable”?

An organic like Charlee, however, was grateful for the work, needed minimal maintenance — at least for the first few decades — and could fuel up on b-grade produce at practically no overhead cost. Take attitude from an android about the efficiency of your operation, or have an organic ask you about your weekend? The psycho-social equations practically wrote themselves.

Yet this particular organic did have the annoying habit of speaking to her employer like an equal.

“We really need better monitoring of the root zone solution in the kale beds,” she piped up to Sanjit one Thursday afternoon. For that, she earned three double-shifts in a row and a tick on her HR file for insubordination.

Charlee soon learned to keep her insights private. Fortunately, even a third-tier station like Wanderer had a robust Stellnex link. She had, at least, a passive connection to biological research and the latest academic debates. Hours into the night shift, when she should have been plugged into her REM-enhancing pillow, Charlee marveled at the news streaming in from every quadrant.

One night, she learned, researchers exploring a planet deep in the Tadpole galaxy had discovered a telepathic species of orange, vine-like flora. The article described the harsh punishment a thoughtless botanist received, after clipping off a vine segment for his sample bag. Even after he apologized, the poor soul was tormented by horrific nightmares, and it took a full psych-reset to put him straight again. Trouble was, the nightmares had a nagging basis in fact, which severely hampered his prognosis for recovery.

“Love to see that vine,” Charlee’s tired mind told her, as she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, she found Sanjit waiting for her. That was never a good sign. Had she forgotten to hang up the scrubber hose and flush out the nozzle? Charlee felt her narrow shoulders tense.

“Admin sent us a sample of an alien vine last week,” said Sanjit. “Nobody knows what to do with it. It’s supposed to have great ‘business potential’ they said, but every worker I assign to it, comes out … different.”

Charlee’s freckled left hand brushed her orange-red hair off her pale forehead.

“Different how?” she asked.

Sanjit sighed, and cast his dark eyes at his royal blue cross-trainers.

“Hard to explain,” he said. “But one’s in the psych ward and the other three are on extended shore leave.”

Charlee’s heart raced as she realized how Sanjit’s tone had changed.

“You think the plant affected them?” she asked.

“The first time, I figured the sample must be squirting out neurotoxins,” said Sanjit, “but I put each of the following guys in a heavier encounter suit — the last one a HZ57 — and they still came out loopy.”

“Too bad,” said Charlee. “But why tell me about it? Can’t you just comlink Admin and say it’s a no-go?”

Yet as Sanjit explained, saying “no” to Admin was tantamount to flushing his station license out of the airlock. Despite a series of spectacular failures at the Earth’s top space stations, Admin was still determined to get a handle on the vine, and harness its unique qualities. But so far, Sanjit told Charlee, no one would say what those qualities were. All he’d received from the saccharine DARPA agent who’d contacted him was a pat on the head.

“We don’t want to prejudice your team,” the agent had purred. “Makes for bad science. We need to know your results are without a hint of experimental bias. You can understand that, can’t you, Dear?”

Charlee couldn’t deny the sweet taste of vindication that crossed her lips at the sight of Sanjit’s sad eyes. Had someone talked down to him? Delicious.

“You studied at MarsOne, didn’t you?” Sanjit asked her. “I thought maybe, you might be able … from a theoretical perspective….”

Charlee gulped. Here was the chance her hot temper had thrown away 10 cycles ago. But what if this were the same vine as … no, it couldn’t be….

Two hours later, after a frustrating session with the station’s quartermaster, Charlee finally donned a bright yellow encounter suit that actually fit her borderline anorexic frame. Before entering the sealed lab where the sample sat in a nutrient bath, she reviewed her instructions one more time.

“Stay no longer than you feel comfortable,” Sanjit had told her. “I need science, not sacrifice.”

Fat chance she’d end up a hero, Charlee’s world-weary thoughts told her. But as soon as the READY light flashed above the door to the sealed lab, she knew it was time to focus. Science aside, her one shot might depend on paying attention to the slightest detail — exactly the kind of thing her production-minded colleagues might have missed.

Once inside, she waited for the door to reseal before tiptoeing toward a stainless steel hydroponics table, brimming with exactly the odd, orange vine, she’d read about the night before. The only other occupant of the lab was a tan, neo-wood stool in the far corner. Charlee breathed deep, closed her eyes and summarized what she’d learned from last night’s article. The telepathic vine from a planet three galaxies away had reacted badly to violence. Maybe a gentler approach … maybe if she touched it with her mind….

“Hello there,” her thoughts rang out.

The vine sample, connected hyperspatially to its planet-wide consciousness, trembled slightly then flooded Charlee’s mind with a series of vivid images. To describe what she experienced next as a conversation would be grossly inaccurate, even by analogy. And yet, she understood. The vine before her was a member of the Tchaldrali, a sentient species that demanded respect. But what, she wondered, did Admin hope to achieve by bringing it here, where plants were grown for food?

As if in answer, the neo-wood stool in the corner of the lab seemed to shuffle a bit against the polyslate floor tiles, before rising into the air and arcing gracefully to Charlee’s feet. She’d no sooner sat down than a voice entered her consciousness.

“Let me explain.”

It now seemed as if the vine’s first encounter with Charlee had taught it a thing or two about communicating with humans. This time, it told its story in a much more linear way. Apparently, despite astonishing psychokinetic abilities, the Tchaldrali were still limited by their planet’s unpredictable weather cycles. As a result, their long-awaited space program had lain dormant for decades, due to chronic drought. Without sufficient numbers of thriving shoots, the vines lacked the computing power to complete their calculations -– let alone to build space-worthy ships. So, while they had hoped for years to migrate to a more hospitable world, they were forced to sit by helpless as, year after year, their strength dwindled.

As Charlee learned, what they desperately needed was a climate control system to end the drought and regain their former numbers. In return, the Tchaldrali promised Earth it could harness their hive-mind telekinesis for any peaceful purpose.

Charlee had many questions, including why the Tchaldrali had neglected to tell their story so clearly before.

“Ever since our first encounter with your species,” said the vine, “after the … the cutting incident … we’ve been jumpy. You humans have a lot of violent thoughts. More, we assume, than you realize. It’s also unnerving to keep seeing the word ‘salad’ in your minds. Besides, is every human a — what’s the expression you use?”

Charlee shifted her weight on the tan stool.

“Control freak?” she asked. “Let me explain a few things about us. First, try to understand: the scientist … from the incident … had no idea you were sentient. We aren’t telepathic like you. Plus, we’re all individuals, and kind of emotional and that’s made our history, well … complicated.”

Hours later, Sanjit was leaning way back in his office chair, trying to wrap his mind around the holocall he’d received from Admin only minutes after Charlee emerged from the sealed lab.

“I don’t know how else to say it,” said Sanjit, his eyebrows raised high. “The Tchaldrali want you to be their ambassador.”

In trying not to laugh, Charlee nearly bit off her tongue.

“I’m … I’m flattered,” she said.

The astonishing news that Sanjit was forced to absorb was that Admin had reached a trade agreement with this alien, sentient vine. In exchange for building the Tchaldrali a planetary climate control system, the aliens would supply humanity with enough telekinetic seedlings to speed construction projects across the settled galaxies. The only stumbling block had been the humans’ inability to communicate with the vines — without frightening or insulting them.

“A station like this could be built in weeks,” said Sanjit. “The savings on electrical generation alone will be incalculable. But tell me. How did you succeed when everyone else failed?”

Charlee shrugged her bony shoulders.

“I listened,” she said.

***

Mark Laporta is the author of the acclaimed Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek series. His new novel, Probability Shadow, will be published in October by Chickadee Prince Books. Pre-order now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you.  

Please subscribe for free to Audere Magazine to receive our latest stories in your inbox

* indicates required