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The Answer: Rediscovered Fiction by Emil Petaja

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The room was dark. It was always dark, so dark he couldn’t see the bed, the soft wide bed with the plum satin headpiece that was studded with cushioned buttons, and the triangle of chiffon that was draped elegantly from the ceiling. The Venetian blinds were shut tight, so that not even the blackness of the black summer’s night could be seen.

John Reeve couldn’t see the bed, and he also couldn’t see his tall self in the modern half-moon mirror of his wife’s dressing table across from him. Most of all he couldn’t see her—Lisa, his wife.

But he could hear and smell. He could hear Lisa breathing softly. He could scent her intoxicating perfume which clung to the hot windless air of the room. Then there was the uneven pounding of his own heart—that told him he was here, here in his wife’s apartment.

It was so late. It was that dark hour when the planets themselves sleep, couched against their black bed of space. It was that dark hour when illusion takes hold and reality wavers in the balance.

Standing there, John Reeve forgot. He forgot—everything. Who he was, where he had come from, what he was doing here in Lisa’s uptown apartment. He didn’t belong here. Lisa didn’t belong to him any more. It was over. She belonged to—

Why? Why had she left him?

He couldn’t remember. He tried, but he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember how he got in here. Had he stolen a key? Bribed the red-head at the desk downstairs?

He couldn’t even remember two minutes ago.

He stood there in the hot windless dark, listening to Lisa’s soft breathing, listening to the uneven rhythm of his heart. He sucked in the heady perfume that he had reason to remember so well. He did remember that. He saw rows of little bottles, lavender bottles, oddly shaped bottles. Anniversaries. Birthdays. No special days. What was it called? Tigress? Musetta? Jealousy? Maybe. Maybe that was it. He couldn’t remember concreteness, only things you feel more than you think about.

Why didn’t Lisa ever open her window at night? Such a hot summer’s night as this?

He curved a little smile into the perfumed dark. Lisa had always been like that. Always. No fresh air fiend Lisa. Lisa shrank from draughts as from dragons. She always kept her windows shut tight at night. They had quarrelled about that—too. Lisa loved warmth. She was like a kitten snuggling cosily in front of the fire, a lissome tawny-haired kitten.

And now.

John Reeve sighed. Because now he remembered the one important thing he had to remember. He remembered why he had come here, to Lisa’s uptown apartment, now in the darkest corner of the hot summer’s night. All in a rush it came to him, a rush of tremulous feeling. There was no thought behind it. It was pure feeling. He didn’t stop to analyze the wherefores to any degree, or to catalog them neatly in the pigeonholes of his brain. He just knew what he had to do and he did it.

He walked over to the bed and strangled Lisa.

It wasn’t bad, but the long moment afterwards was.

The room was just the same. The windless heat, the jealous scent of Lisa’s perfume mingled with the scent of her tawny unseen hair. His hands saw it though, blindly, so soft and silky under them. Lisa was so still, she died so gently.

The silence, while he hung there over Lisa, barely touching her hair, held as in a cup all the ache and the agony a man can endure.

Then the telephone started to ring.

He didn’t look at it. This sudden sound, shattering the cup of silence, made him shudder.

It rang and rang.

Answer it.

It was a prickling voice in his mind. No, it wasn’t. It was a tiny ghost that had hidden in the curve of his ear and was whispering into his ear’s cavern, then shouting merrily against the membrane of his eardrum:

Answer it!

It was Lisa. He recognized her voice.

He pulled up sharply, tossing a heavy breath across the bed.

Lisa, you fool! If I answer it, then they’ll know I was here. They’ll say I killed you and they’ll strap me down in a chair and send ten-million volts of electricity through me and I’ll be as dead as you are.

The voice changed now. It wheedled, it caressed, it coaxed him. It made a joke out of it. Then—

Please answer the telephone, darling. You know I can’t stand to leave it ring like that. It’s somehow—sacrilegious. Please, darling.

It was true. If Lisa were alive she wouldn’t leave her telephone ringing like that, never. That was one thing Lisa was meticulous, even fetishistic, about. She might not be so meticulous about other things, such as husbands, but she invariably flew to the telephone when it rang. She used to lie on her silken bed and talk to it for hours, caressing it with her long red-tipped fingers. Lisa had loved the telephone. She had loved it above everything else. Maybe more than John. What do you mean, maybe? Of course she loved it more than she loved John!

He didn’t move, so the ghost in his ear began to taunt him.

You always used to want to know who was calling me, John. You used to insist on knowing. You used to try to beat me to the telephone. Well, now’s your chance—

John Reeve stiffened. That was true, too. All too humiliatingly true. He made a rough noise in his throat, then brushed a hand across the darkness. He located the telephone by its impudent burring. He reached for it—and almost had it.

Then he woke up.

Of course it was only a dream. Of course! He hadn’t really killed Lisa. It was only this dream he kept on having over and over and over. A man could go out of his mind—

And always the same. That was why he couldn’t remember going to Lisa’s apartment, or getting in, or anything like that. Just being there, feeling the oppressive summer heat, the dark silence, scenting Lisa’s jealous perfume, wondering why she never opened a window, and then strangling Lisa.

But the telephone was the worst thing.

He didn’t like to strangle Lisa, it was definitely not the act of a gentleman, and John Reeve considered himself a gentleman. He was never crude, at least. When Lisa said casually one night after dinner. “Darling, I’m leaving you,” he didn’t exactly yawn but put something of the effect of a yawn into his smile. “Are you, dear?” He was too much of a gentleman to try to hold her if she wanted to go, even for one day.

But it hurt. It had clawed his heart all that night, and the next, and all the next nights until—

Of all the things that tortured him in his dream, the telephone was by far the worst. Why, why, why did the dream have to end just there? It was just as Lisa, or Lisa’s ghost in the dream, said. He was curious. He had to know. It was driving him crazy not to know. Once he thought that by straining at the dream and forcing it to go on, his fingers did actually contact the cold surface of the telephone. But he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure.

More and more the dream obsessed him. Like a succubus it drained him, and pummelled him, and lay heavily on him. He did other things; his existence must have included innumerable other things such as eating, brushing his teeth, bathing, working. Working, of course. Working at what? Sometimes he thought vaguely that it had to do with fuel. But what did that matter? The dream was the only thing that mattered! It was the important factor in his miserable existence!

Always the same. Always the telephone ringing, just after he strangled Lisa. Always the little ghost in his ear. He tried to reach the telephone. He strained hard, but he never could, not quite. It was the damndest thing.

Oh, it must have been eons, at least, before the dream began to edge in his favor. Perceptibly, the dream began to last longer. Each time he fought to keep the dream going. That was the only way he would ever know. The conclusion of the dream lay in his actually picking up that telephone and finding out who was calling. He had to know.

Lisa’s ghost pleaded and begged him to answer it. Her telephone mania in life had extended itself beyond the grave. She had to know, too.

Answer it, darling. You always have to know everything….

No, damn you! He fought her, at first. Then they’ll know I was here! They’ll pin your murder on me! They’ll strap me in a chair and—

All the same, he knew he had to answer that telephone, no matter what happened. Lisa had always teased him about his curiosity in the matters of her many telephone calls. It was the not-knowing that was sheer torture—

Finally it came.

Finally.

The room was quite dark, it was always dark. He couldn’t see the bed, the soft wide bed with the plum satin headpiece that was studded with cushioned buttons, and the triangle of chiffon that was draped elegantly from the ceiling. The venetian blinds were shut tight, the summer heat was stifling, it was like an impenetrable wall.

But he could hear and smell. He could hear Lisa breathing softly. He could scent the madness of her perfume. He couldn’t remember how he came here, now in the night’s darkest corner.

Why doesn’t Lisa ever open her window? Such a hot summer’s night.

Lisa. Warm, cosy little Lisa. Like a tawny kitten curled up by the fire. She could never stand a single breath of cold air. Maybe that was why. Maybe some of his words were breaths of cold air. In the beginning everything had been so warm and cozy. Then—coolness, coldness. Why weren’t you here when I telephoned today? You’re always so careful to answer the telephone. Why not me? Who was the man that called you on the telephone while you were out? Not your hairdresser! Not again!

Then Lisa went away.

John Reeve curved a smile into the darkness and walked to the bed and strangled Lisa.

Then the long silence before the telephone rang. It was so hot. His forehead was sticky. So frightfully hot here, without a single open window.

Brrrrr.

Answer it. Answer it, darling!

Why was Lisa so anxious, perched there on his earlobe? Why? Only because she’d always been fanatical about answering telephones while she was alive and that now, dead, she clung to her fetish. Or—was it to tantalize him into making his presence here in her apartment at the time of her death known, so that the police—

Answer it. Answer it, darling!

He reached for it in the darkness. This time he strained harder than ever. This time he reached it. He had to. He had to know. No matter what happened he had to know. It was driving him crazy. Surely such a torture must have an end.

He made it. His hand grasped the telephone and held on to it grimly. He put it to his ear in triumph.

“Hello?” he told it. “Hello!”

Silence. The room was a cup of black silence.

“Hello!” he shouted. “Who is this? Tell me who this is!”

There was a low wisp of laughter. It might have been the instrument, or it might have come from Lisa’s tiny ghost, still perched on his earlobe.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“Central office,” answered a voice like the largest pipe in a church organ. “Satan speaking.”

^^^

Emil Petaja was the author of 13 novels and around 150 short stories, many of them in the F&SF genres. He died in 2000.

This story originally appeared in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, September 1951

Image design by Steven S. Drachman. Model: Amelissa Oblige.

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Insective (Episode 8): The Conclusion of the New SF Noir Serial by Mark Laporta

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Case Files of Rolkahr Dholztra, Kuzdrohna Department of Public Safety

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

The brutal Belanthrese attack on the Nolatrid homeworld continued to rage across town and countryside, while the waterways stayed relatively calm. Since the dawn of orbital warfare, aquatic battleships. submarines and aircraft carriers had become as obsolete as the humans’ ancient cavalry divisions.

Not content with the damage already inflicted, the enemy had now launched a comprehensive ground-based assault. While major government facilities, roads, bridges and dams were hit hardest, residential areas weren’t spared. Across the planet, desperate citizens flocked to municipal shelters, only to find many of them already compromised.

By vastly underestimating the scope and intensity of the Belanthrese battle plan, Nolatrid military had been caught flat-footed. Only in the last few hours had homeworld forces begun to rally, by winning a major skirmish on the outskirts of Kuzdrohna, the capital city. But it would take a lot more than that to gain the upper hand, not least because, by then, the invaders had broken the Nolatrid spirit.

At the relocated, underground HCBI headquarters in Pelintherash, however, the dedicated agents refused to give up hope. The only demoralizing point was the disappearance of Detective Dholztra, who hadn’t been heard from since before the agency’s flying bunker had touched down the previous day. Inside a secure conference room, Agent Grelek pounded all four of his fists into the large, shiny table around which he, Jalinoor and Imogen were seated.

“Should have picked him up on our way out,” he said.

“Not your fault,” said Jalinoor. “Deputy Director Lotrianka insisted we head here directly.”

Greleck snorted.

“That’s the last order I take from that pea-brained chrysalis,” he said. “The worst of it is, we don’t have a crumb of intel on the Detective’s whereabouts.”

A disturbance outside the conference room made the world-weary HCBI agent yank the door open. From the threshold, he saw a junior agent named Rhethalaz being subdued by a uniformed security guard.

“You better have a good explanation for this racket,” he said.

“Agent Grelek,” said the young female, “It’s the robotic unit … “Celia” … it just walked into your office and started talking. I wanted to tell you immediately, but this idiot wouldn’t let me in.”

“Guard’s just doing his job,” said Grelek. “Let her go, OK? Why didn’t you comlink me?”

“Our secure channel may be compromised,” said Rhethalaz. “The Deputy Director….”

“Never mind that,” said Grelek. “Where’s the unit now?”

Panting, Rhethalaz pointed down the corridor to Grelek’s office, and Grelek called out to Jalinoor and Imogen. The three of them raced off, following her lead. If “Celia” were talking again, that could mean only one thing.

“Detective!” said Grelek, the moment he entered his office

It had taken a few grueling hours, but Dholztra had eventually trudged far enough into the desert to escape the electromagnetic interference generated by Halfoorn’s high-tech underground lair. So when his implant finally connected to “Celia,” his voice sounded weak, distracted and less than fully coherent. Yet with a few grunted phrases he made the main points clear.

“Still alive?” asked Imogen, her voice an odd mix of consternation and, truth be told, relief.

More to the point, Dholztra conveyed the startling news that Halfoorn had stolen his very consciousness and pressed it into service.

“I’m afraid this is it,” he murmured through the robotic unit. “That maniac knows everything now.”

“On the contrary,” said Grelek. “We know everything. You’ll be able to predict Halfoorn’s every move. But that can wait. Just keep the link open so we can find you.”

“Don’t … waste … time,” said the unit. “Find coordinates. Destroy.”

Grelek refused to hear that. What Dholztra didn’t realize, was how extensive the Belanthrese assault had become. With almost half the population on the run, destroying Halfoorn would be meaningless until they could turn the tide militarily.

“No way to know if this Halfoorn is the last one,” said Grelek. The wary agent figured they might only learn the true identity of their enemy when they defeated him. Meanwhile, with help from the HCBI’s crackerjack cyber tracking unit, the agency had homed in on Dholztra’s coordinates. On Grelek’s orders, a rescue team consisting of a Special Ops squad, a field doctor and an emergency medical team were dispatched to bring him in.

They arrived not a moment too soon, to find the miserable detective cowering in the faint shadow of a sand dune that the wind had piled up only hours before. Dehydrated, trembling and in abject terror, he seemed to be engaged in a vigorous conversation with … well that wasn’t at all clear.

“Why should I believe you?” the field medics heard him say as they laid him on a stretcher. A moment later, he’d passed out. Once onboard the armored lander that Grelek had sent for him, the med team set to work pumping the exhausted detective with fluids. At the same time, they carefully removed every trace of the burning sand that had scarred his exoskeleton almost beyond recognition.

Gradually, on the four-hour flight to Pelintherash, Dholztra’s outlook improved, until he was able to sit up, enjoy a light meal and answer questions. Though the lander’s skilled pilots made every effort to avoid the worst battle zones, the areas not yet affected by intense fighting were dwindling fast. More than once, the fragile Nolatrid winced at a jolt from the resulting turbulence.

Now that he was awake, the weary detective’s strange inner dialogue with a phantom conversationalist resumed. The field medics shook their heads at what they assumed were early signs of brain damage. Had they known the truth, however, it’s doubtful they’d have been any more reassured.

Fact was, the voice Dholztra now responded to was none other than his own. That is, the copy of his consciousness that Halfoorn had made the day before. What the besotted tyrant had failed to take into account was the control chip the HCBI had installed in Dholztra’s brain, so he could control “Celia.” By failing to remove the chip, Halfoorn had allowed his brainwave mapping system to make an exact emulation of the detective’s remote link.

As a consequence, Duplicate Dholztra, now embedded in Halfoorn’s globe-spanning AI, could reach out across vast distances and communicate directly with the original wetware in the detective’s brain. And, as it turned out, Duplicate Dholztra was a bit of a wise acre.

Come on, Rolkahr, it was saying into his weary mind. Of course you can trust me. I’m you.

“Really?” said the detective. “I’d never work for Halfoorn, no matter what he did to me.”

Exactly, said the duplicate. That’s why I’m contacting you … me.

“Forget it,” said Dholztra. “You just want to earn my trust so I’ll tell you our strategy.”

You don’t get it, said the duplicate. I already know everything you know, the second you do.

“The implant!” said Dholztra. “I’ll get it yanked out. Then where will you be?”

Totally under Halfoorn’s thumb, said the increasingly life-like voice. Without you, I’ll go pure evil. You gotta help me, Rolkahr.

“Leave me alone!” Dholztra shouted and was startled by the sound of Grelek’s voice coming over the lander’s intercom.

“What’s going on up there, Detective?” asked Grelek. “The medics tell me you’re ranting like a psychotic bark beetle. You gotta snap out of it. We need you.”

“That’s the problem,” said Dholztra. “Everybody needs me — even me … I mean the copy of me that Halfoorn made. Turns out it can speak to me through my “Celia” implant.”

“Think of the intel we could get out of your … your clone,” said Jalinoor.

“Please,” said Dholztra, “it can hear you. So don’t get insulting. Thing is, I don’t know if I trust Detective Dupe. Hey, I know, let’s give him a target to eliminate.”

“Risky,” said Jalinoor. “We can’t blow up something that we couldn’t possibly know about, without giving away our secret weapon.”

Still, the idea was intriguing, in that even a temporary setback for the enemy would buy them some time. But might there be a more productive use of this bizarre strategic windfall?

“We still don’t know the status of LunarOne,” said Grelek. “If the Admiral’s only in lock-up, we might be able to get her forces operative again. That’d be worth a thousand planet-side targets.”

“What do you think, Dupe?” Dholztra asked his cyber copy. ”Talk through ‘Celia’ now, so everybody can hear you.”

A split second later, Grelek, Jalinoor and Imogen saw “Celia” spring to life again in Grelek’s office.

“I’ll see if I can enter their systems,” said Duplicate Dholztra. “I know Halfoorn has a direct link somewhere — but LunarOne is the lizards’ mess. I’ll have to tap into their system and … yeah, I’m in. You’re in luck, Pal. The lizard leader figured LunarOne was too useful to destroy. Same for its leadership. Admiral Nethrez and the senior staff are all locked up in stasis chambers.”

Imogen’s eyes welled up at the thought of so many potential casualties.

“And the … the crew?” she asked.

According to the cyber clone, the rest of the LunarOne force had been pressed into service by blackmail. One false move and the Admiral’s stasis chamber would be flushed out of the nearest airlock. Meanwhile, the Belanthrese kept the base on red alert at all times.

“Much as I’d like to break the Admiral out,” said Grelek, “I don’t see how you can do it without getting the base personnel killed. Nobody wakes up easy from stasis, especially after all this time. She wouldn’t be battle-ready for hours.”

“Way ahead of you, Agent Grelek,” said the duplicate. “I’ve already got a file started on that nanobot weapon you told us about. Kid stuff. I can upload it to the Belanthrese command center on LunarOne anytime. The lizards will be cold — and out cold — pronto.”

“Think you can do all that without being detected?” Dholztra asked his other self.

The simulacrum snorted. Halfoorn, it turned out, was quite the hedonist.

“The main reason he wanted to upload our brain was so he could indulge himself more,” said the duplicate. “Right about now, he’s probably enjoying his second helping of … well, you know what I mean. The guy’s insatiable. That’s why it seemed natural to add a few … additives … to his water supply. ”

“Then let’s act fast,” said Grelek. “No matter how far gone he is, he’ll come up for air at some point. I say go.”

“Me too,” said Jalinoor. Imogen nodded.

“Let us know the minute the lizards are out,” said the detective. “Let’s hope Halfoorn stays under the influence until they are. But, hey … what’s up with that mystery fleet I keep hearing about?”

“You sitting down?” asked the duplicate.

The latest intel showed a revived Earth fleet closing in on the Nolatrid solar system, with a series of risky, short-range spacefolds. From there on out, it was hard for Dholztra and the rest to tell whether time had sped up or their frame of reference had downshifted to a different plane of consciousness. Though they had no idea of the humans’ intent, the addition of another player to this high stakes poker game was a wild card no one could ignore.

“What if the humans have bought into Halfoorn’s phony promises?” asked Dholztra.

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Imogen.

“How can you be sure?” asked Grelek.

“I can’t — except my father used to tell me about Earth history,” said the human female. “Especially on one of our traditional holidays. You know, like the Fourth of July.”

“The what?” asked Dholztra.

“Never mind,” said Imogen. “Dad used to tell me about a time, five hundred cycles ago, when a guy like Halfoorn had his own insane ideas about creating a “master race” of genetically perfect specimens. Would have destroyed the whole planet if they hadn’t stopped him.”

“Destroyed … how?” asked Grelek.

“Dad said his scientists came this close to developing nucleonics,” said Imogen. “Anyway, I’ll bet you a million credits that EarthGov was ready to sign up with Halfoorn, until he explained his genome remapping scheme. If he showed them a holovid of … of Nyles … they would’ve seen their old enemy had come to life again.”

“It’s like sentience has this sick joke buried in it,” said Jalinoor. “Just when you think you’re close to evolving, Reality pulls you back into the muck.”.

“Yeah,” said Imogen. “And don’t get me wrong. The leaders of the Nolatrid invasion weren’t any better. Don’t know how my father got sucked into that. That’s why I’m not positive these new human ships won’t support Halfoorn after all. Craters, what makes evil people so persuasive?”

“Because anybody who can imagine the future is scared by it,” said Dholztra. “Too many unknowns, right? So when somebody says they have all the answers, it’s comforting. Besides, the way life works, it’s easy for average folk to feel they don’t get a fair shake. Guys like Halfoorn know exactly what we want to hear. That’s how they get us to look the other way, until they’ve destroyed our freedoms.”

“Well not this time,” said Grelek. “Maybe we can’t change the sentient condition, but sure as water’s wet, we’re gonna stop this nut job. Dupe? How soon before we can patch into the LunarOne comsystem?”

“Oh,” said Dholztra’s quantum clone. “You wanted me to wait? The lizards are already dropping like flies. I told the operatives not to touch the thermostats and to get their officers out of stasis right away.”

“Good work,” said Dholztra. “Can you pull the same stunt on the entire Belanthrese fleet?”

“Sorry, me, I gotta go offline for a while,” said the clone. “The First Citizen’s waking up. Good luck.”

Now the fate of the Nolatrid system and the lives of trillions of peace-loving citizens across three galaxies turned on the initiative of a moonbase-full of groggy military operatives. Yet to their credit, they swung into action immediately, by dispatching the bulk of their assault force to Nolatre and engaging the Belanthrese space perimeter with terrific force.

Yet it was, as the saying goes, too little too late. While Admiral Nethrez exhibited tactical brilliance on all fronts, the focus of the battle was now on the planet’s surface, where billions of innocents were under threat of mass extinction. Nolatrid forces battled on bravely, but were outnumbered by as much as three to one in some locations. Despite a few lucky breaks, thanks to Duplicate Dholztra, it looked as if the end of Nolatrid independence — and even, perhaps the entire Nolatrid species — were just over the next horizon.

Against this background of despair, the arrival of the human ships came as an even deeper blow.

Imogen’s second-hand knowledge of human history notwithstanding, there was no way to know what impact they might have on the situation. That is, until two of their lead ships fired two halves of a massive positron torpedo at a Belanthrese battle cruiser that was parked in geostationary orbit. The halves joined each other mid-trajectory and annihilated the enemy ship faster than the average Nolatrid could inhale. The fiery explosion lit up the afternoon sky for a full minute.

From there on out, the fighting escalated to unheard of levels of devastation. Bridges collapsed, roads buckled, communication towers snapped and the terrain was beginning to take on the deadly pallor of an airless moon. The sight of the humans’ early victory heartened the Nolatrid forces and encouraged them to rally against the odds. But though his Belanthrese confederates had been blindsided, Halfoorn himself had another hand to play.

Across the planet, on all eight continents, a series of strategically placed sliding doors opened up in the crust. Out of them streamed wave after wave of severely mutated male human clones. They quickly assembled into a planet-spanning army of hulking soldiers clad in dense body armor.

Worse, SWARM’s heavily shielded central AI confirmed that each soldier was equipped with advanced-design cyborg implants. No wonder they immediately demonstrated an ability to target their weapons with superhuman accuracy. They fought like demons and within hours had commandeered nearly every major Nolatrid spaceport. Soon enough, thanks to the mutants’ relentless pounding, what little had survived of the main Nolatrid fleet after the Belanthrese assault was in shambles. Though a relatively small contingent of battle cruisers was on its way from Nolatre’s most prosperous colony, the space force on LunarOne was all they could count on for now.

Yet in the midst of this disturbing development, a ray of hope burst through for the Detective. Word arrived that Halfoorn had put every available soldier into direct combat maneuvers. That meant the small patrol unit that had kept Treldraah captive at her sister’s home in Romnexia was now disbanded. She might survive the war after all. But the news had barely registered in Dholztra’s mind before the facts at hand demanded his full attention again.

“Now what?” he asked. “Dupe! Can you infiltrate the mutant’s implants?”

After an uncomfortably long delay, the detective heard his cyber clone whisper in his mind.

“Can’t risk it now,” it said. “But I have an idea that might work if you can implement it. You’re in luck. Halfoorn has linked all of their implants into his central system — that is, into me. It’s a strategy thing; no time to explain. Sending details to Grelek. Don’t contact me again until….”

The mentallic link went dead and Dholztra was forced to hope that his other self was merely disconnected. But this was no time for mourning. He had to see if Grelek could carry out Duplicate Dholztra’s attack plan.

“Pretty ambitious,” said Grelek. “Considering we aren’t supercomputers embedded in the heart of Halfoorn’s system, like Dupe. We don’t have a safe way to deliver his malware program to those implants.”

“What about ‘Celia’?” asked Imogen. “I’ll bet those poor boys have never even seen a human female. If she distracted their leader long enough, she could transmit the program and infect the entire army.”

“That might work,” said Grelek. “Dupe said they’re centrally controlled. If we infect one, we’ll infect them all.”

Dholztra sank his head into his front two hands.

“And infect Dupe, too,” he said.

“We don’t have a choice,” said Grelek. “Besides, Dupe is you. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said the detective. “But I don’t have to like it.”

Yet now, even with a plan in place, the dedicated team was still up against Time itself. Though the combined LunarOne-Earth fleet had started to put a dent in the Belanthrese assault, their adversary’s head start was a formidable advantage.

“I’ve just heard from LunarOne,” said Jalinoor, “The Admiral is meeting now with the human ‘Supreme Commander’ to work out a coordinated strategy. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Let’s just hope it’s not the last day we see,” said Dholztra. “Is ‘Celia’ ready? And by the way, what exactly should she do when she gets out there?”

“I’ll help you,” said Imogen. “Just don’t get too embarrassed.”

“Can’t believe the fate of my homeworld depends on whether I can get in touch with my feminine side,” said Dholztra.

While they worked out their charm offensive against Halfoorn’s soldiers, Grelek was busy securing an armored auto car to take the robotic unit into the midst of the raging battlefield. Within two hours, Grelek’s staff had replicated a new, decidedly less business-like outfit for “Celia,” and changed the robotic unit’s clothes. They also took care to install the necessary nano-transmitters into the palm of her hands. It was a long shot, but if the robotic unit could get close enough to touch one of the mutant humans, the transmitters would do the rest.

“How do we know Halfoorn’s soldiers won’t blast the car to bits before it even gets close?” asked Jalinoor.

“If the chameleon circuits hold, we should be fine,” said Grelek. “They won’t even see the car until it’s practically on top of them. Then the circuits will switch programs and the car will appear to have Halfoorn’s First Citizen logo on it. That’ll be your cue, Detective. You’ll get ‘Celia’ out of there and work whatever magic you can.”

Dholztra took over from there and walked the robotic unit over to the armored car, where technicians showed him, through “Celia’s” eyes, how to work the safety harness and the internal door handles. HCBI operatives slammed the doors and Dholztra watched as the car sped out across the smoldering battlefield toward the nearest formation of mutant soldiers.

As predicted, the chameleon circuits kept the car off the mutants’ visual sensors, while the noise of battle masked any engine noise, until it was in close range. At that point it stopped. “Celia” walked out onto the rubble-strewn terrain and waved at the soldiers as they rushed passed.

“Hey guys,” the unit called out. “All hail the First Citizen. Can you help me out? I’m kinda lost and my dang car just conked out.”

The closest soldier stopped short and turned his perplexed face in her direction. His massive jaws, though still nominally humanoid, bristled with pearly white, razor sharp teeth that glistened in the afternoon sun.

“What … what are you doing out here … Miss?” said his shy, awkward voice. “You could … you could get hurt.”

“It’s the darn nav-AI on my car,” said the unit. “It just went all … crazy … and I couldn’t control it. Could you fix it for me, please? I read the manual, but it gave me a headache.”

“Kind of busy … but … OK,” said the soldier. “But you gotta promise me. Drive outta here as soon as I get this working.”

“Oh, thanks,” said the unit. “You’re such a sweet guy.” And before the soldier knew what was happening, “Celia” reached up, took his horribly distorted face in both hands and kissed him. Instantly, the nano-transmitters went to work. The soldiers eyes went blank. He stepped back and nearly stumbled over his own feet. He bent double and a series of gagging sounds squeezed out of his throat. Dholztra wasted no time stepping “Celia” back into the auto car, which sped off back toward the entrance to the underground HCBI headquarters.

Inside the secure facility, Dholztra glared at Imogen.

“Was that last part really necessary?” he asked. Imogen tried to suppress a smile — and failed.

“We had to get close enough, right?” she said. “Tell you what. I promise to handle it differently the next time we’re in a similar situation.”

In spite of himself, Dholztra laughed, but not for long. Reports were coming in of Halfoorn’s soldiers falling where they stood, all across the planet.

“Looks like it worked,” he said. “I just wonder what happened to Dupe.”

Later that evening, more encouraging news came in about the largely decimated Belanthran fleet. To the astonishment of the Nolatrid High Command, the humans’ innovative sonic weapons had played havoc with the enemy ships. Better yet, a design flaw in standard Belanthrese guidance systems made them especially susceptible to sonic disruption. It was a type of weaponry no one on this side of the universe had ever considered and it took the proud insectoids by surprise.

Yet as always in war, the triumphs of one day are easily dispelled by sunrise on the next.

“Craters, look at this!” Jalinoor called out the following morning, from across the situation room where they’d been camped out these many hours. He pointed frantically at the room’s main view screen and Dholztra’s antennae twitched at the scene unfolding before him. In the outskirts of Kuzdrohna, where the HCBI had convinced itself that Nolatrid forces had finally taken control, an oddly shaped mound of earth had risen up in what had once been a municipal park. Now the onscreen image shook as an immense, glinting metal device broke through its upper surface, looking for all the world like an outsized corkscrew.

Up the screw turned; it uprooted trees and ripped through the electrical grid. It also smashed through water mains and sewer lines, until the entire area was awash in water and bio-waste. Sparks flew at random as downed powerlines careened off trees, buildings and each other. The scene had all the earmarks of an urban Armageddon and it was just getting started.

Now the screw stopped abruptly and a gigantic sphere emerged from the park’s swampy remains. A menacing array of tentacles dotted the surface of the orb. Each one ended in a heavy armament that began firing with merciless fury. At the same time, a dark voice boomed out from deep within the sphere. In the hysteria of the moment, as citizens of all stripes ran in vain to find shelter, the message the voice delivered blotted out rational thought:

CITIZENS OF THE THREE GALAXIES: UNDER MY PROTECTION, THE PARASITES OF SWARM WILL WAGE THEIR GALACTIC CARNAGE NO MORE. FOLLOW ME OR PERISH AT THEIR HANDS. I ALONE CAN SAVE YOU. I ALONE CA… OWN … AN …ALO … WHAT IS HAPPEN … HAPPE … DHOLZTRA YOU … FOOL … WHAT HAVE … AV … YOU DONE?

 

Now the mayhem the sphere had initiated began to turn on itself. Its tentacles ceased firing and turned inward, only to fire again on the sphere itself at full blast.

“It’s Dupe!” cried Dholztra. “He came through!”

My last hurrah, Pal, said a faint voice in the detective’s mind. You know, that’s one sick brain you have there, but I guess you’re used to it. Anyway, nice knowing you. Say hi to Treldraah for me, you lucky ‘sectoid cretin.”

With that, Dholztra’s cybercopy winked out of existence.

Can’t say I’ll miss him, he thought. Mainly because I’m still stuck with him….

Meanwhile, the combined space fleets of LunarOne and Earth saw their opportunity and took it, firing as one on the sphere and the desert coordinates Dholztra had identified the previous day. It was a searing stream of weapons fire not seen in the three galaxies within living memory. But when the dust and smoked cleared, the flooding subsided and the hearts of a hundred thousand mutant soldiers ran cold, it was all over.

“Can’t really call it a victory,” said Grelek. “We’ve lost a monster, and gained a legacy of fear that I’m not sure we can ever recover from.”

“You hope he’s lost,” said Dholztra. “But you can bet that Halfoorn wove himself a safety net. He’ll be back.”

Jalinoor’s multifaceted eyes squeezed shut

“How did Halfoorn ever build such a massive power base?” he asked. “Even with a twenty-five cycle head start?”

“We let it happen,” said Grelek. “We got complacent and stopped paying attention.”

“Come on, don’t take it so hard,” said Dholztra. “Nobody expects a monster like that.”

“And now?” asked Grelek. “You think after we rebuild, we won’t slide back?”

Dholztra shrugged.

“No time for that debate,” he said, “until we fix up the mess that Halfoorn made.”

And in the coming weeks, the savvy detective’s words rang true many times over. For starters, the damage Halfoorn and his confederates had done to Nolatre was daunting. Aside from the sheer scale of physical destruction, his corrupting influence had shaken public trust in SWARM leadership to its core. Weeding out Halfoorn’s collaborators was only half the battle. There was also the challenge of holding meaningful elections at a time when the planet’s entire infrastructure was in tatters.

The only silver lining was the flip side of Halfoorn’s meteoric rise — after decades of planning in obscurity. So new was his rebellion that the majority of the Nolatrid colony worlds had remained untouched. Thankfully, following a quick assessment of the homeworld’s most critical needs, volunteers from Nolatre’s twelve colonies began pouring in, accompanied by financial managers and engineers, who brought an army of advanced-design replicators, automated tools and robotic units with them.

As a consequence, the planet’s most urgent needs were met, in a matter of weeks, albeit through a patchwork of improvised solutions that wouldn’t hold for long. In this regard, the humans proved especially helpful. Their own fairly recent experience in rebuilding Earth, in the aftermath of their failed invasion, enabled them to offer the Nolatrids a fresh approach to disaster management. Over the next few months the humans’ advice became the foundation of a new interplanetary cooperation agreement that eventually include a technology exchanges and a mutual defense pact.

Still in all, it was nearly a year before, on a balmy day in mid-spring, Dholztra gathered with the two HCBI Agents, and other members of the Bureau, at the refurbished Kuzdrohna headquarters for a gala farewell to Imogen. In the intervening time, she’d joined the thousands of humans, both in the Red Disk program and from amongst the rebellious human diaspora, to accept an offer of repatriation, extended by the human fleet commander. Under different circumstances, Imogen’s formal reception might have made her heart swell with joy and anticipation.

Yet if she saw the prospect of traveling to her ancestral homeworld as a dream come true, it didn’t show in her sullen expression.

“Not sure what to expect,” she told Dholztra. “Nolatre is the only world I’ve ever known. After my mother died, my father tried to bring Nyles and me up like real Earth kids, but he didn’t have much to work with. I can count the number of facts I know about Earth, let alone its history. And, let me tell you, after five cycles of speaking almost nothing but Nolatrid, I don’t even know if I can hold a conversation in the main human language.”

“Wait,” said Dholztra, “you have more than one? Isn’t that a little crazy?”

“I’ll find out, I guess,” said Imogen. “Besides, what could seem crazy after this?”

Dholztra was about to agree, but the sound of the door opening behind him made him spin around.

“Take it easy, Detective,” said Admiral Nethrez. “War’s over now, remember? Imogen, there you are! I want you to meet Captain Craig Stone of the Earth ship Redemption. He says he knew your father.”

Imogen’s eyes misted over.

“Really?” she whispered.

“No, actually,” said Stone, “but I feel like I did. My uncle Todd served in the same unit as your dad. He was one of the lucky ones, who got away when EarthGov pulled out. Used to talk about your father all the time.”

“Sorry, if I can’t … can’t …” said Imogen, “What EarthGov did was … well … thanks for remembering my father.”

Captain Stone glanced down at his polished, neo-leather boots.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “the invasion disaster turned everything around on the homeworld. It’s a different place now.”

“Congratulations,” said Imogen. “But I’m only going to Earth because I’m out of options. So far, the Nolatrids have a better track record with me than your people.”

“I can’t blame you,” said Stone. “But I also can’t change the past. Will you give us a chance?”

Imogen walked away, her face lined with tears.

“I’m a fool,” said the Admiral. “I should have known she wasn’t ready to meet you.”

“I think we’ve all learned that ‘should have known’ is one of those phrases we can do without,” said Dholztra. “What matters is how you play with the cards in your hand. Imogen is tough as titanium. She might never forgive EarthGov, but she’ll pull herself together. Me? I’m not so sure.”

Agent Grelek clapped him on the back.

“Come on, Detective,” he said. “I’ll bet you’re secretly itching to get back to your case files.”

“Maybe later,” said Dholztra. “Right now, what I’m itching for just walked into the room.”

Grelek, Nethrez and Stone turned around to see Treldraah tiptoe into the Agency’s imposing ballroom.

“Dholztra, you big lug,” she called out. “You could’ve told me this was gonna be so fancy.”

The wily detective rushed to her side.

“Nobody’s fancier than you, Larva,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” said Treldraah. “You have some fresh mouth for a guy who almost got me killed.”

“Sorry about that, Trel,” said Dholztra. “Maybe I should start selling insurance.”

“You do and you can forget what I have in mind for later,” said Treldraah.

“Later?” asked Dholztra. “What do you mean?”

Treldraah blinked back tears.

“Gyroscopes, Rolkahr,” she said. “For the world’s greatest detective, you sure are clueless sometimes.”

Whatever sheepish reply Dholztra was about to make was drowned out by the sound of the hired dance band, striking up with a medley of popular favorites. Dholztra twirled his antennae, took his cue from Destiny and swept his girlfriend out onto the dance floor.

“Stepping on my feet,” Treldraah complained. But the way her eye-facets shone, it was clear she didn’t mind a bit.

THE END

^^^

IF YOU ENJOYED INSECTIVE BY MARK LAPORTA,

PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD

 

Art by Mélanie Bohémier Gagné

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.

 

Figure alone in the desert-1

Insective (Episode 7): New SF Noir by Mark Laporta

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

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

Guided by desperation alone, Dholztra struggled to keep Imogen balanced on “Celia’s” right shoulder, as the robotic unit ran around to the back of the massive HCBI bunker. Fortunately, the bunker had landed just one meter in front of a retaining wall at the back of Halfoorn’s compound. So for now, at least, his rear flank was covered.

The area behind the bunker was surprisingly clear of military personnel. Apparently, the fighting out in front was so intense that SWARM forces relied solely on sensor surveillance for security. Yet what little advantage that gave him was quickly dissipated by the large shell that landed only ten meters to his left and exploded with terrific force.

The blast toppled the already wobbly “Celia,” whose biomechanical knees had been jolted badly by the war-ravaged terrain she’d just crossed. In the wake of the explosion, Dholztra thought fast. He hoisted Imogen off the unit’s shoulders at the last minute, and shielded the fragile human with “Celia’s” carbon nanotube frame. Back at HCBI headquarters, his heart pounding, the detective forced himself to wait a moment longer to make sure no more rockets were headed Imogen’s way.

Only when he believed the immediate danger was past did he bring “Celia” back to her feet, a few inches from Imogen’s trembling body. Through the unit’s eyes, he saw that Imogen had finally regained consciousness.

“You OK?” he made the unit say.

“Should have left me to die with Nyles,” said the human. “Now I’m gonna die anyway — and all alone.”

“Come on,” Dholztra told her. “Let’s get inside the bunker. Once this is over….”

Imogen jumped to her feet.

“Don’t you get it?” she said. “This will never be over. I have to live with this memory the rest of my life.”

Dholztra’s harried mind riffled through its entire catalogue of consoling phrases. But his reverie was cut short by the creak of the bunker’s massive door — which slid open at its midsection to reveal an impatient HCBI agent.

“Craters,” said Grelek. “What’s the matter with you two? Get in here. The Belanthrese are too much for us. We’re pulling out.”

Relief washed over Dholztra’s exhausted mind as Grelek signaled a team of four SWARM soldiers to pull the two humanoids up into the bunker. Before the door had completely slammed shut behind them, the bunker’s powerful engines lifted the huge ship up and away from the battle scene. From the safety of the airborne HCBI substation, Dholztra wondered what would happen to the two battalions of Nolatrid soldiers they were leaving behind.

We’re just as bad as the humans, he thought

“What about Admiral Nethrez?” asked “Celia.”

“Latest intel says the lizards made a strafing run on LunarOne on their way down here,” said Grelek. “If there’s any good news, the Admiral will let us know with reinforcements. Until then, we’re on our own.”

“Well, here’s one cheery thought,” said the robotic unit. “Halfoorn is dead. Imogen saw to that before we arrived.”

“Please,” said the human. “Don’t talk about it. Can’t believe I actually murdered someone.”

“War’s different from murder,” said Grelek.

“How?” asked Imogen. “Halfoorn’s just as dead. I might be glad, but I’m definitely not proud of myself.”

“Give it time,” said “Celia.” As Dholztra knew from twenty-five years on the Kuzdrohna police force, the first kill was the hardest. How strange now to be nostalgic for a “simple” armed suspect, like the two he’d been forced to shoot down with his regulation pulse pistol.

In the distance, “Celia’s” eyes gave Dholztra a view of Jalinoor running toward them from the opposite side of the bunker’s command center. The agent’s breathless message was not reassuring.

“More Belanthrese landers arriving by the … by the minute,” he said.

“SWARM called up five battalions from Okthassia,” said Grelek, “but they won’t arrive until morning. We may have to consider the unthinkable.”

“Nucleonics?” asked Dholztra. “We won’t have a planet left to fight for.”

“No, never that,” said Grelek. “Nanobots. They’ve been banned by the Interstellar Council for two hundred cycles, but we may have no choice.”

The streetwise detective shuddered. As effective as a nanobot attack on the Belanthrese fleet might be, the collateral damage couldn’t be shrugged off as “the fortunes of war.” After the smoke cleared, or rather the data cloud, it might be decades before Nolatre re-emerged as a viable technological society. In the short term, by imposing a strict quarantine on its goods and services, the Interstellar Council would reduce this sovereign world to a bankrupt client state.

“Hey, if you don’t mind,” said Dholztra, “can you comlink me? Talking through a robot wears me out.”

The government agents complied and within minutes, the view screen in the conference room at HCBI headquarters in Kuzdrohna gave Dholztra access to real-time video and audio from the bunker. Once he was online, the conversation immediately turned back to tactics.

“Isn’t there another way besides nanobots?” asked Imogen. “My father told me that Earth used psychological warfare on its enemies.”

As she explained, the idea would be to find out what the Belanthrese feared most and then convince them it was actually happening.

“That might work,” said Jalinoor. “But these days, the only thing the lizards are afraid of is getting too cold. It slows their metabolism and throws them into hibernation.”

“What about a limited nanobot attack, then?” said Dholztra. “You know, target only the life support systems in their landers and encounter suits. If we get control of every Belanthrese thermal regulator, they’d have nowhere to hide from the cold.”

Agent Grelek nodded, then dialed up the HCBI’s remote tech center. After a few tense moments, he had his answer.

“CentralTech says it’s possible,” he said. “But we’re still not in the clear.”

Because nanobot warfare had been outlawed for so long, anyone inquiring about it was immediately under suspicion. As it stood, it was illegal for engineers and physicists to conduct further experiments with the devices. Though a subculture had kept the science alive behind closed doors, any nanobot expert who stepped forward would need and demand immunity from prosecution.

“That’s a lot of maneuvering in war time,” said Jalinoor. “The paperwork’s one thing, but if we can’t get through to Admiral Nethrez, I don’t even want to think about appealing to SWARM.”

“What appeal?” asked Grelek. “Get this through your head, Jalinoor. Neither the Admiral nor the antenna-twirlers in SWARM Admin can ever know about this. If we go nanobot, we go alone — and take all the heat.”

Jalinoor nodded and called up a list of underground programming cells on a secure connection.

“Understood,” he said. “But how do we decide whom to contact? Can’t just, you know, post a job notice.”

“Leave that to me,” said Grelek. “The less you know, the better. Focus on establishing a secure facility that’s stocked with whatever the nano-nerds need. And make sure it’s far away from the battle zone.”

“If this keeps up,” said Dholztra, “the whole planet will be a battle zone. I can’t believe how quiet Nolatre used to be. Couple of major crimes a year, tops.”

“I feel terrible,” said Imogen. “None of this would have happened without the invasion.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Grelek. “Guys like Halfoorn come along every fifty cycles or so. If it hadn’t been the invasion, he would have found some other opening. But, come on, let’s focus. Just having a plan isn’t enough. Not to mention, we don’t even know if it’ll work.”

As the bunker continued its flight south to the regional HCBI headquarters in the port city of Pelintherash, Grelek, Jalinoor and Imogen ran off to a secure conference room where they could continue planning, with Dholztra listening in from Kuzdrohna. Before they sat down, Grelek excused himself to make a private comlink connection.

“Still no word from LunarOne?” he asked, when he finally rejoined the others.

“Nothing,” said Jalinoor. “I think we can assume….”

“Assume nothing,” said Grelek. “But for now, we’re still punching above our weight class. Now it turns out the earliest our ‘technical advisors’ can produce a workable intrusive program is two rotations. The folks in aeronautics are already working on a microdrone delivery system, so that should buy us some time. But the way the Belanthrese are eating up our ground troops — and I hear we’re not doing that much better in the air — we can’t afford to wait. There has to be something we can do now.”

Jalinoor looked up from one of the computer screens embedded in the conference table.

“Maybe a propaganda blitz,” he said. “If it’s true that Halfoorn’s dead, we could work that bit of news into a demoralizing ‘Surrender Now’ holovid and flood their sensor array with it, 24/7.”

Grelek nodded.

“I’ll get the media team on it right away,” he said. “Imogen, would you deliver the news yourself and tell those lizards what a — pardon the expression — weak little human did to their First Citizen?”

“Why not?” asked Imogen. “I can’t fall any farther.”

For the next few hours, the airborne HCBI bunker was abuzz with excitement, as the Bureau rapidly relocated its central office. Once the bunker’s trajectory was finalized, Grelek arranged for a supersonic aircar to pick up Dholztra for an eventual rendezvous. At that point, Grelek’s immediate superior, Deputy Director Lotrianka pulled him aside.

“Agent Grelek, really,” said Lotrianka. “Why do we need a broken-down ward detective on this case? This guy … Dholztra? … he’s never even made Chief Inspector.”

Despite the sudden spike in his internal temperature, Grelek kept his voice even.

“Sir, with respect, we owe this whole investigation to the Detective,” he said. “He’s the one who tipped us off to Olithcraz’ schemes. Without his help, Halfoorn would still be alive.”

“And who authorized that execution?” asked Lotrianka. “I’ll tell you: no one. You’ve gone way out of bounds, Grelek. When this investigation is over we’ll hold a thorough inquiry.”

“Deputy Director,” said Grelek, “if we survive this investigation, the only question the Bureau will ask is how Halfoorn built his crazy empire right under your nose. You want an inquiry? Write that up and I’ll submit it to SWARM personally. Just be sure to attach your receipts.”

Lotrianka stared, mandibles open, as Grelek stormed out of the bunker’s command center.

Meanwhile, the battle for control of Kuzdrohna intensified, and the Belanthrese launched a space-based attack on key installations all across Nolatre. But if Nolatrid officials were expecting a surgical strike, they were sadly mistaken. As the damage to residential areas sent civilians scrambling for cover in the planet’s age-old bomb shelters, the initial skirmish metastasized into a planet-wide disaster.

It was in this climate of panic that the HCBI’s flying bunker touched down in Pelintherash. Imogen was startled to see the city’s police force out in strength to keep fleeing citizens away from the service’s gated compound. As she learned later, recent sightings of a second, unknown space fleet had made emotions flare up even faster than before.

“Could they be the ships Halfoorn was warned about?” she asked, when they were safely inside the compound. Without Dholztra there, who was still enroute, Imogen almost regretted her blurted question. For the two HCBI agents were taken aback and struggled not to accuse her of concealing evidence. But she was quick to report Epilosaah’s words of caution.

“They thought the ships might be a data ghost,” she said. “Whatever that means.”

“It means the mystery fleet must have been several folds out of optimal sensor range,” said Grelek. “Did Halfoorn’s flunky say anything else?”

When Imogen recounted that Halfoorn had extended an invitation to Earth, and that the data ghost had appeared soon after, Grelek decided that the timing was too close for coincidence. He slammed his hands down onto Jalinoor’s shoulders.

“Compile all data on the specs for the Human ships,” he said, “and run a cross check. If there’s a chance this is the human fleet, we need to know ASAP.”

“Right,” said Jalinoor. “By the way, shouldn’t the Detective be here by now?”

But Grelek was engrossed in his comlink, as he tried to get an update on his clandestine nanobot team. For the moment, Dholztra was the farthest thing from his mind. It might have been just as well, for the Detective’s supersonic air car was experiencing technical difficulties.

At first, Dholztra thought nothing of what appeared to be classic atmospheric turbulence. When that familiar rocking sensation was joined by a high pitched whine and followed shortly thereafter by a horrific grinding sound, the air car’s sole passenger reached for its intercom.

“What’s going on up there?” he called out. Come to think of it, although Grelek hadn’t specified that this was an autocar, Dholztra now realized that he’d rushed into his compartment without giving the pilot a thought, much less stopping by the cabin to say “hello.” Either way, his reverie was cut short by the realization that the car had become eerily quiet as if….

The forty-something Nolatrid felt his stomach heave from a sudden shift in his center of gravity — as the air car began plummeting down through the clouds.

“Pilot!” he yelled. “Pull up!”

His pleas were greeted by a deep chuckle that echoed out over the car’s intercom.

“You’re pathetic,” said an equally deep voice. “A veteran detective who doesn’t even check out his ride before strapping in. And don’t pretend that trusting the HCBI is any excuse. Used to be, you trusted no one.”

“Like you’d know,” said Dholztra. “So what, anyway? Whoever you are, if you’re working for Halfoorn’s outfit you have nowhere to hide from your own failings.”

“Comet gas,” said the voice. “Where’s a film crew when you need one? That could’ve been a scene in a feature holovid — or even a hologame, though I doubt many parents would let their kids play with a scruffy reprobate like you.”

“Can you get to the point, whoever you are?” said Dholztra. “I’m running out of time.”

“So you are,” said the voice. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. We used to have rather enjoyable conversations, you and I, back in your precinct office. I’d miss that.”

Dholztra’s antennae stuck straight up.

“Halfoorn?” he asked.

“In a sense,” said the voice. “Only now we meet for real. So far, you’ve been dealing with my cyber proxies. The one at my compound was especially convincing, I think you’ll agree.”

“Right,” said the detective. “Now I’m convinced you’re insane.”

“A sharp wit, even in the face of danger,” said the voice. “So much talent wasted on grubby police work. Really, Rolkahr. Just say the word and I can elevate you to the position in life you deserve.”

Dholztra’s multifaceted eyes caught a glimpse out of the nearest window — of the planet rushing up toward him at alarming speed.

“Mind explaining that?” he said. “Why would you, of anyone in the three galaxies, want to keep me around?”

The voice let out a soul-withering sigh.

“I can’t expect you to understand,” it said. “But the fact is, the upper echelons of a new world order are a lonely place. Being surrounded by eager subordinates, and all that that implies, is a fleeting comfort. I lack the true companionship of a near-equal — if only to bounce ideas off from time to time.”

“I’m touched,” said Dholztra, “but unless you elevate this vehicle, pronto, the only thing you’ll be bouncing is me — right off the pavement.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said the voice. “The way you underestimate me … I have to say, it hurts. To think that I would ever dream of wasting a state-of-the-art air craft on a SWARM lackey.”

With that, the scene out of Dholztra’s window changed. His breath came up short at the sight of a massive gateway opening up in the ground below. The air car’s engines kicked in hard and the sudden breaking effect snapped his head back into his chair. Eyes wide, he watched the car being swallowed up in the yawning maw of a vast subterranean stronghold.

Surrounded by darkness, he tried to settle his racing mind. Whatever plan Halfoorn had in store for him would be revealed in good time. The experienced detective forced himself to search for identifying marks that would pinpoint the stronghold’s location for the HCBI. Assuming, that is, they’d survived the Belanthran onslaught. But that depressing thought, he decided, was off topic — and the only topic was staying alive long enough to escape.

The HCBI air car alit on a broad. circular landing pad. Dholztra’s seat belt and shoulder straps clicked open on their own, as did the side door to his left. Knowing full well that it was either walk out of the car or be dragged out, he made his best show of saving face and strode into the immense landing bay with his head held high. He didn’t have to wait long before he was approached by a dark green android with an unusual ovoid design.

In spite of himself, Dholztra stared at the unit admiringly. In place of legs, treads or rollers, it floated on what Dholztra would have assumed was a maglev cushion, if it weren’t for the absence of the standard composite tiles used in cargo bays and factory floors across the three galaxies to generate the required e-mag field.

Lost in thought, Dholztra jumped back nearly half a meter at the voice from the air car, which seemed to emanate from speakers on all sides of him.

“Gravity modulation is just one of the many gifts I plan to share with your backward people,” said the voice. “Provided, of course, you’ll stop this foolish resistance.”

Despite his fury, Dholztra resisted the urge to engage this … being … in a war of words. Instead, he forced his fear-worn legs forward to explore his surroundings. There had to be a weakness in this underground structure that he could exploit to his advantage — if only to broadcast a homing signal to the outside world.

“The detective at work,” said the voice. “Inspiring. But you must get out of the habit — however it may be supported by casual observation — that you’re the only intelligent mind in the room. The android to your right will now conduct you to a sterile transfer station, where your consciousness will be uploaded into our systems. After that, you’re free to go. While I have no need to kill you, I also have no need to give you free room and board.”

“My ‘consciousness’?” asked the weary detective. “What are you talking about?”

But try as he might, Dholztra’s stalling tactics failed. The android’s gentle but firm hand on his arm told him he would either comply voluntarily or by force.

“Please don’t concern yourself,” said the voice. “I’m simply completing the work that idiot Olithcraz neglected to carry out instead of pontificating. That’s my dilemma. Imagine trying to revolutionize society with a gaggle of associates who, at best, are suited only for the petty intrigues of local politics. You, however, have the rare quality of mind I need to institute my reforms on a galactic scale.”

“You know, it’s a funny thing,” said Dholztra,  “I’m not the least bit flattered.”

The detective looked up to see that the android had led him to a parabolic archway blocked by a pair of sliding doors. The android entered a command string into a keypad on the threshold and the doors whooshed open, to reveal an impressive, high-ceilinged facility in brilliant white with chrome accents. Dholztra’s lower mandible dropped at the sight of the intricate array of computer systems and the bustling staff of Nolatrid and Belanthrese operatives who tended them.

Nudged forward by the stubborn android, Dholztra plopped down into a stark, white chair that wouldn’t have been out of place in the cockpit of a military assault ship. Within seconds, he was strapped in and helpless, as the chair’s back tilted a good ninety degrees, until he was lying flat. His heart racing, he watched as an ominous sphere floated over from an unknown location to cover his head.

This is it, he thought. Didn’t even get to see Treldraah one more….

From that point on, for the next twelve hours, conscious thought was impossible. Much later, he’d have the distinct memory of being in two places at once, with each version of himself able to perceive the other in a mental hall of mirrors.

Nice life, his other self seemed to say at some point. But there was nothing to be done about that now. In one fateful day, all his years of striving to uphold justice and the rule of law came to nothing, as his powerful mind would now and forever be in the service of the galaxy’s greatest evil.

When the process was complete, the android wheeled the semi-conscious detective into a holding cell, where he eventually awoke, groggy and disoriented. Soon the chair returned him to a seated position and the straps that bound him came undone automatically.

“Good morning,” said the voice. “You will now be escorted to an air car, which will take you to a local hotel, where you may stay as long as you like, with my complements. Within its confines, you will be safe, come what may. Venture out of it, and you will be subject to the ravages of the battles to come. The choice is yours.”

“What’s it to you whether I live or die?” asked Dholztra.

“Now that you’ve so callously rejected my offer of friendship, it’s immaterial,” said the voice. “However, should my system need refreshing at some point, having you close at hand would save me the bother of retrieving you again.”

Dholztra shook his head.

“Forget it,” he said. “Just let me out of here.”

The echoing laughter that followed grew from a deep, quiet rumble into an ear-splitting cacophony.

“Have it your way,” the voice said at last.

A massive scraping sound startled Dholztra as, to his left, a gigantic side panel opened to the outside world. The determined detective raced out of the complex and into a searing expanse of desert. Faster than he would have thought possible, the huge panel slammed shut again with a loud clang.

“Enjoy the weather, you fool,” said the voice.

Dholztra stared out at the desolate landscape in front of him. How in the craters of LunarOne, he wondered, would he ever survive in this hostile environment?

(To be continued – Read Episode 8)

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 Jeremy Cai, Unsplash.

Insective Episode 6

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

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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

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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.

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“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.

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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

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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.

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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.