Here Be Monsters - Chapter 39

     The only sound on the Jester's bridge was the constant subliminal hissing of the ship's life support system.  Cameron sat in his command chair staring at the comm officer's console from where Alex had done her job.  It was impossible to understand the sheer randomness of the events of the last several hours, and as he sat there he wanted nothing more than to just give up, go back to his quarters and pretend that nothing was wrong.  His gaze swept across the rest of the bridge stations, and twin pangs of profound sadness and shocked anger threatened to overcome him.

     He didn't hear Gandu come through the hatch onto the bridge until he heard the XO's voice behind him.

     "The shuttle has been cleared for departure, Captain.  Are you certain that you want to go groundside?"  He asked, waiting patiently when an immediate response did not seem to be forthcoming.

     "Not much choice; the locals took everyone into 'protective' custody, and I need to check on Alex and Jinx, then make arrangements for Hicks, Bao-jian, and the other crew members who died in the shooting."  Cameron replied, wiping his hands over his face before continuing.  "And as if that wasn't enough, I will likely be interviewed by the Níngjìng Bay Police Department's investigating officer in charge.  Probably at considerable length."

     He pushed himself up out of his chair, and looked squarely at his executive officer before speaking anew.  "I swore to Alex's parents that I would keep her safe, and I need to be sure that she's going to be okay."

     Gandu reached out and placed a hand on his captain's shoulder in a silent gesture of reassurance as he passed by, then turned to follow his friend.

     "Has there been any update on the whereabouts of crewman Sinclair?"  He asked, falling in step beside the Captain.

     "No, and that worries me.  By all accounts, he took out the three shooters - with what eyewitnesses described as 'superhuman' speed.  One witness apparently claimed that he thought DJ was shooting a machine pistol, he was firing so fast."  He paused, suddenly finding himself deep in thought.

     He decided not to mention that the investigating officer who had called him a few hours ago had also revealed that witnesses claimed DJ had questioned one of the men he'd shot, and once he'd gotten an answer, simply executed him on the spot.  He had always known DJ was capable of doing something like this, but he couldn't really bring himself to believe that it would actually happen.  But then, he had never in his worst nightmares imagined Alex being nearly killed in a gunfight either, and that would certainly have been enough to push DJ over that precipice.

     "What do you suppose he was thinking, running off like that?  If ever there was a clear-cut case of self-defense, this was it.  It makes no sense; the worst that might happen would be mandatory counseling, but that could be handled by Doctor Morishita, I cannot see them jailing him."  Gandu said, clearly at a loss as to what his fellow crewmate could have been running from.

     "I hope that the police will have more to tell by the time I meet the chief investigator assigned to the case."  Cameron replied, somewhat noncommittally.

     The two men walked in silence the rest of the way to the portside personnel airlock where the commercial shuttle contracted to take him down to the planet's surface was docked, each lost in his own private thoughts.

     The Captain of the Jester found himself caught in a mental rut, trying to get a handle on his gunner's seemingly erratic behavior, but his past experiences watching DJ under extreme pressure made it difficult, to say the least.  Dirk was as calm under fire as anyone he'd ever met, but by all accounts, he'd bolted like a startled neofelynx after killing the last of the attackers.  It was possible that he had simply panicked, not terribly likely, but possible.  Eventually, he would have to slow down, and then he'd realise that running wasn't going to get him out of this.  With any luck, he would turn himself over to the local authorities, and then this whole situation could be resolved without having to go before a justice of the peace.

     The Captain arrived at the airlock, where Doctor Morishita and his second assistant Carla Ustinov were waiting, the former with a security cased data card in his hand, the latter carrying the shoulder bag from his personal quarters. 

     "As you requested, I have downloaded copies of the medical files for the crew members onplanet; although I wish you would allow me to go with you.  I have a responsibility to see that the people under my care receive the best possible treatment."  The doctor said, in a tone of mild reproach, as he handed over the data.

     "Believe me, if I hadn't been expressly forbidden to bring anyone else with me, you'd be coming.  If it's any consolation, I was informed that Alex is being treated by the personal doctor to the Darkaellan ambassador, at his own expense, no less.  And before you ask why, understand that it's just as much a mystery to me, because that bit of news makes no sense whatsoever."  Cameron replied, while pocketing the card, and reaching out to Ustinov for his bag.

     Ujio Morishita said nothing more, and punctuated his silence with a polite bow.  Cameron nodded his own quiet thanks to the doctor and his assistant, and stepped into the airlock that connected his ship to the shuttle that had been sent by the NBPD.

     After he had been passed through the shuttle's airlock, he found himself facing a woman in the working uniform of a member of the Níngjìng Bay Police, whose face was a mask of studied indifference.

     "Captain Marshall?"  She inquired, in an oddly accented voice that nonetheless suggested that she knew perfectly well who he was.

     "Yes."  He replied, knowing what was expected of him.

     "Officer Sutedja.  I am to escort you to the USPF building once we have cleared you through customs and immigration.  Please follow me."  She told him, quickly turning towards the passenger cabin.

     He was thoroughly confused by her mention of the USPF, but she had turned and left him so abruptly that he was unable to ask her what she meant, and had to hurry to catch up.

     "Excuse me, Officer, but I don't understand; why would I need to go to the USPF building?"  He asked her.

     The officer said nothing, but instead gave him a look that could normally be interpreted any number of ways, although this one seemed to convey a sort of thinly veiled contempt, mixed with what could have charitably been called pity.

     He got the impression, as he stowed his baggage and took a seat, that something had happened which had run him, and maybe his crew, afoul of the UniSys Police Force, and he thought about little else for much of the flight down to the planet's surface.

     He heard the shuttle crew announce that they were on final approach when a horrifying thought occurred to him:  

     What if the gunfight had involved someone from Darkael? 

     It would explain why the USPF was involved, and while it didn't exactly explain why the Darkaellan ambassador would be taking care of a member of his crew, he figured that it was related somehow.  The number of unanswered questions had just expanded dramatically, and he got the feeling that, even if he did find answers to all of them, then he wouldn't like what they revealed.

     Their arrival pushed any other thoughts away, and he prepared himself for the rigors of passing through immigration.

Here Be Monsters - Chapter 38

     Petrona Hamasaki was reviewing the final paperwork for her current cases, while simultaneously wondering if she couldn't just finish it tomorrow, and spend the rest of the day at her favorite bowling alley.  She had always disliked doing paperwork, and the UniSys Police Force - by its nature - generated a lot of it.  It had to be done, however, and she knew that it wouldn't get any better if she put it off.
     Her boss suddenly burst into the office with some serious speed, startling her, since he'd been gone for less than twenty minutes after being summoned upstairs for an unscheduled meeting, and she had assumed he would be tied up for at least an hour.
     "Get your kit, Pet."  He said, urgently, as he rushed to his desk, grabbing up his badge folder and holstered pistol from the top drawer.  "Whatever you're doing is officially on hold until further notice; we've got ourselves a massive situation, and it needs to be handled before it gets uglier."  He finished, waiting for her to get her own ID, and service weapon, as well as her wristcomp, which she strapped on while he led the way to the lift that accessed the VTA landing pad on the roof of the building.
     "What the hell's going on JB?  I've never seen you this wound up before."  She asked, as the elevator doors closed behind them.
     "There was a shootout in a local watering hole last night,"  he grinned at her uncomprehending look, "and the initial report has one of the victims wearing a medalert tag issued exclusively to members of the Darkaellan Imperial House itself."  His grin took on an ominous tone as he finished speaking.  "Sorry, Pet."
     There was sudden silence in the lift as Petrona found herself unable to respond.  She suddenly felt like something had coiled itself around her chest and started squeezing the air out of her lungs.  If there was one group of people she never wanted to get involved with ever again, it was the Imperium; the idea itself was enough to make her feel sick.  She took long deep breaths as she leaned forward to brace herself against the lift's mirrored wall before speaking.
     "Why us?  They're not signatories to the Interstellar Judicial Agreement, and they won't cooperate with any request we make, so why bother?  More to the point, the locals know it, so again:  Why us?"  She asked, in a voice that bordered on petulant.
     "You're assuming that the request came from the locals, but it's not."  He told her.  "The call came from Ambassador Stirling himself."
     For a split second, Petrona Hamasaki laughed, because she genuinely thought that JB had been playing a practical joke, but the look on his face was completely devoid of amusement.
     "That makes even less sense!"  She exclaimed, incredulously.  "And it just brings me back to my original question: Why us?"
     JB fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt, obviously trying to find an answer to the question that would make any sense.  "I wish I could say, Pet, but we are both going to have the chance to find out."
     Petrona was on the verge of demanding clarification when the lift doors opened, and they stepped out onto the walkway to the rooftop landing pad.  The sight that met her eyes was not one calculated to make her feel better.  There was a military VTA painted in the unmistakable flat charcoal black of the Darkaellan Imperial Guard detachment here on Minotaur sitting on the pad.  The only other person visible was a woman wearing the standard working uniform of an officer of the embassy's guard detachment.  As they got closer, Petrona saw a that the officer was wearing the rank insignia of a Guard Commander.
     The Commander was, to put not too fine a point on things, extremely attractive, and Petrona felt a subliminal pull of desire.  She spent a moment trying to figure out what her background might be; the eyes were large and expressive, her face triangular, with high prominent cheekbones, and richly colored, full lips.  Her hair was cut short, in a style common to people who had to wear sealed helmets.  The commander's name tag read: S. Turlington.  The name rang a bell, and within a few seconds she remembered why; the Turlingtons were an extremely wealthy mercantile family, and members of the lower nobility on Darkael itself.
     JB was the first to extend an olive branch.
     "Good morning, Commander, I am Julius Benedict Harlow, UniSys' SAIC here in Níngjìng Bay; I'm given to understand that we have been invited to meet your Ambassador Stirling."  He introduced himself, in his native Oxford accent.  "This is my assistant, Agent Hamasaki." He continued, gesturing in her direction.
     The Commander regarded each of them in turn before speaking in a very businesslike manner.  "Commander Shevaughn Turlington, Darkaellan Imperial Guard.  I have been instructed to convey you to the embassy.  If you'll follow me?"  She said, waving them to the insectile aircraft a few meters away.
     Petrona forced herself to move forward with JB to the VTA, although the idea had her sweating.  It wasn't that she was afraid of flying, but rather the four heavily armed Imperial soldiers who were standing guard around the aircraft; they weren't overtly hostile, but they radiated a sort of barely restrained aggression, as if they fully expected to be attacked at all times.  Decked out as they were in full combat uniform, armor, including full face helmet, their compact assault rifles at the ready, she had to admit that if anyone was stupid enough to make trouble, it likely wouldn't last long.
     The smooth, angular slab exterior of the aircraft gave no indication of how surprisingly comfortable an interior it possessed, as Petrona was guided to one of four comfortable seats in the rear of the troop compartment by one of the flight crew.  He stopped to say something to the Commander, but it was impossible to make out over the engine noise from outside; well, that, and the fact that he said it in a language she couldn't understand.
     Now seated across from Commander Turlington, she took the time to think over what JB had said when he'd burst into their office to collect his badge and sidearm.  The latter of which their hosts had not yet bothered to confiscate, which suggested that either the Imperial Guard didn't consider them a threat, or they just didn't care.  She decided that it was probably the fact that there were at least a half dozen heavily armed, and armored, soldiers in the cabin with them, and there was no one for the Commander to protect.
     A feeling that she'd missed something, which had been nagging at her since JB had dragged her out from behind her desk, popped up from her subconscious.
     "You don't know who it is, do you?"  She blurted out, impulsively.
     "Sorry?"  Turlington replied, looking confused.
     "I've been trying to figure out who it might have been; whoever got hit last night, but I can't, and neither can you.  Can you?  JB said that they had a medalert tag belonging to the Imperial family, but it wasn't.  Was it?"  She said, watching Turlington intently, looking for any indication that she had hit a nerve.
     There wasn't one.  The look she got back was so bland that it was, in its own right, as good as a scream in the face.
     "The ambassador no doubt hopes that you can help to determine the facts surrounding recent events, certainly."  Commander Turlington replied noncommittally.
     "This may come as something of a surprise to you, Commander, but we do have some passing experience with the local police, and I can just imagine that they were thrilled with the idea of having to deal with your people.  Then imagine their delight when they discover that there's no need to involve you at all, and this all starts to make a twisted sort of sense."  Petrona expounded, with a more sarcastic tone than the Commander probably deserved.
     She sat back in her seat triumphantly, and caught JB's expression from where he was, seated across from her.  He looked as though he was choking on something, and his face was a mask of martyred patience.
     She would remember the trip to the embassy later, and readily admit that, if she'd known at the time what the future held, she might just have jumped out of the VTA then and there.

Here Be Monsters - Chapter 37

     Dirk was sitting in the pilot's seat of the NAC-Hyundai Aero' that he'd stolen, after shooting the driver of the second one outside the bar before he could report back to his employer or escape.  He had been running on pure instinct - if it could be called that; he had figured that if he took one of the killers' vehicles, then it would make him harder to find.  Logically, a professional killer would have found a way to identify and disable any tracking devices or software embedded in the Aerodyne's flight computer that could potentially be used by the authorities.  His personal background and early training had made such tactical thinking a sort of second nature.
     It was raining steadily across most of the Bay area, and the windows were beginning to fog up, but Dirk wasn't paying attention.  His mind was replaying the sight of Alex, starting to run, only to be shot in the back, her body tumbling to the floor, like a ragdoll thrown by a petulant child.  He looked up at the street outside, but tears blurred his vision.  Shame for abandoning her, when he should have stayed, and helped to try and save her poisoned his thoughts, and it was followed by an instant of mind-bending rage.  It passed quickly, but it was harder to set aside the shame.  He had fled the scene out of fear.  Fear of the consequences of trying to save her life by sacrificing the freedom he'd so carefully worked to achieve.  The medalert tag he had used had been given to him by his grandparents, before leaving home for the last time.  It wouldn't be long before the Imperium's agents figured out that he had been in the bar, and had shot four people.  When they did, they would begin searching for him in earnest. It seemed as though the lie that his life had been was about to be exposed.  Looking back, he should have stayed, and simply faced the consequences, but the die was cast.
     He hadn't given a destination any real thought, so he was a bit confused when he realized that he had landed the air car in front of The Hyperwave Club.  His mind, it seemed, had been making decisions subconsciously, without any of the rational thought processes needing to get involved.  He suddenly realized why he had come to this particular place:  Thorne.
     He'd spoken with him the last time he was on-planet; before the trip out to the colony ship.  Dirk had barely recognized him from the images and video clips he had seen as a child, but although his facial features had been altered, the way he walked, and moved, the way he kept scanning his surroundings, looking for any possible sign of trouble, were like a beacon of light in the dark for anyone who had been trained to notice such things.
     And he had been trained; from early childhood.
     He drew his pistol from its holster, checking to make certain that it was loaded, and that a round was chambered before getting out of the 'Aero.  There was little to no traffic in this area, which was something to be thankful for, since it meant that if he had to get away quickly, he wouldn't be dodging other vehicles.  The low clouds were reflecting the city lights, giving good visibility in spite of the rain that was coming down, soaking him as he ran to the club's entrance.
     Although it was after hours, the club's sign was still lit, and he was willing to bet that if he knocked hard enough, then someone would answer the door.  They would probably be annoyed with him, but if they answered, then it wouldn't matter if they hated him with a passion.  He needed to find Thorne, and this was the only place he had seen him, so it was the best place to start.  He decided on a direct approach, and simply hammered his fist on the door continuously until a loud, distorted voice came through the comm panel next to the door.
     "FUCK OFF!  We're closed!  Now beat it, shǎzi!"  Someone shouted at him from somewhere on the other side of the door.
     He suddenly realized that if anyone inside decided to call the local police to report a disturbance, then he was well and truly screwed, so he decided to try reasoning with whoever was inside instead.
     "I'm looking for someone, and this is the only place I ever recall seeing him.  I just want to talk to anyone working here who might be able to ID him."  He said, standing in the dark, rain drenched street, and pounded on the door a couple more times for emphasis.
     There was no immediate reply, and he felt like an idiot for thinking that there would be.  He suddenly felt as though the planet's gravity had become as heavy as his homeworld's, and he slumped forward resting his forehead on the door.  He stood there in the rain, nearly leached of all ambition, considering the various consequences of simply turning himself over to the local authorities, when the sound of the door's locks being disengaged nearly caused him to jump out of his skin.
     He backed up, and kept his right hand across his abdomen, close to the weapon on his left hip as the door opened up to reveal the hulking shape of the club's cyborg doorman, partially occluded by shadow in the unlit foyer beyond.  The FBR didn't say anything, but held the door open, while standing just enough out of the way to let him by.
     The problem with full body replacement cyborgs was that you could never tell what kind of a mood they were in until it was too late.  The cyborg had no sooner closed an locked the door, when he rounded on Dirk, pinned him face first against the wall with one hand, and systematically relieved him of his handgun, spare magazines, two knives, his ID folder, billfold, titanium pen, motorcycle keys, and his private comlink.  Dirk knew that resisting would be less than futile, so he waited until the doorman was finished.  The cyborg was extremely thorough, and didn't miss anything, including the 25mm ring claw concealed by his right hip, behind his belt.  It occurred to him that most bouncers didn't get this thorough, and began to wonder if he'd made a serious mistake coming here.  His intuition told him that more was happening here, but he needed help, and Thorne was the best way to get it.
     The cybernetic hand was pulled away so quickly, that he nearly fell over backwards.
     "Saints' wet dick!  Should I just be thankful you let me keep my clothes?"  Dirk exclaimed, looking into the impassive mechanical face looming over him.
     "Yeah, you should."  Said Thorne from the end of the foyer.  "In fact, you should be thankful that you're still breathing.  Come on."  He made a come along gesture and turned into the club proper.
     Dirk followed him for want of any real options.