Marlowe and the Spacewoman (9 page)

She scooped all the papers onto her lap, then shoved them onto the floor.

“OK, now what?”

The trooper reholstered his VID scanner and started to swagger up to the car, his hand now resting on the butt of a plasma pistol jutting out of another holster.  Marlowe kicked up the mag to read the trooper’s ID badge.  It read “Maj. Biff,” a fuzzy gray stenciling over a deep black patch.  Intentionally hard to read.

“Push the bottom of the glove box down.  A compartment will pop open in the back.”

“OK, it’s open.”

“Car, allow access.”

The horn softly honked once.

“Now reach in and pull out the gun.”

Nina pulled out a squat, chrome-plated pistol.  Her voice sounded relieved.  “OK, I’ve got it.”

Trooper Biff was at the back of the car now.

“Good.  Now reach in again, pull out the BB gun at the bottom of the compartment, and then return the illegal ion pistol you’re currently holding back in the compartment.  Then close the glove box.  And hurry, or he can legally shoot us both on sight.”

“Crap!”  Nina thrust her hand back into the glove box, grabbed the second gun, and shoved the first back in.  She closed the glove box just as Trooper Biff tapped on Marlowe’s window.

Marlowe reluctantly thumbed the window lever, rolling down the comforting protection of the polarized AntiProjectile armored plastiglass window.  “Hi, constable.  Is there a problem?”

The officer leaned down, his chapped lips a flat slash of impatience.  Marlowe found himself staring at his own reflection, which looked very uncomfortable and furtive.  

“What’s the matter?  You look like you’re hiding something from me.  Are you hiding something from me?”  Trooper Biff’s gruff voice matched his physical appearance – mean, intimidating, and clearly not a voice to hide something from if you valued your continued good health and liberty.

“No sir, constable.  I’m not hiding anything.  Just nervous, you know.”

“Nervous?”  The grim lips, if possible, tightened into an even narrower line.  “If you’ve nothing to hide, why are you nervous?”

He flipped up his mirrored visor in a slow, deliberate manner, revealing first a wide, crooked nose with a tuft of thick nasal hair billowing back and forth with each frosty, liver-and-onion scented breath, and then two nervous, familiar-looking faces staring back from a pair of mirrored sunglasses.  He thrust a compact VID scanner into Marlowe’s face.

“License and registration, please.”

“I thought you already grabbed those from-”

“Are you refusing to comply with my order?”  Trooper Biff cracked what might have been the merest hint of an eager smile as his free hand went back to the butt of his plasma pistol.  

“No, sir, constable.  License and registration, coming right up.”  Marlowe’s sweaty hands ran over the control console built into the dash, initiating the requested transfer.  The small scanner flashed a green light, which caused the trooper to frown with disappointment.

“Right, everything here seems to be in order.  It matches what your car sent over a moment ago.”  Marlowe couldn’t see the trooper’s eyes, but he guessed that behind those mirrored lenses, a colossal battle to suppress his disappointment was being waged.  A moment passed, and then trooper Biff regained his icy composure.

“Any idea how fast you were going back there?”

“50 kph.  Got a repair weevil working on the car, couldn’t go any faster.  And, according to the traffic beacon transmitting out here, that’s the posted speed limit.”

The trooper paused, his sallow face changing to a faint shade of red.  “Good, just testing your, uh, situational awareness.  Uh, good, glad you know.  Just checking.”  He stood there awkwardly for a second, possibly thinking.  If it was thinking, it looked to Marlowe like it was slow going.  It seemed that Marlowe’s deviation from the norm of terrified acquiescence had thrown the trooper off.  Perhaps he wasn’t used to it.  This suggested a new approach to dealing with the constable.

“You know why I pulled you over?”

Marlowe crossed his fingers, hoping this worked.  “Not really, Major Biff, though if I had to guess, I’d say on the orders of CMP Obedere.”  

“That’s ri-” started Trooper Biff, only belatedly catching himself.  “No.  That’s not right.  I pulled you over because we received an anonymous tip that there is a citizen in this vehicle who doesn’t have a BB gun.”

Marlowe dropped his jaw in what he hoped was a suitable display of shock and disbelief.  “A citizen without a BB gun!  But that’s unthinkable.  Let me assure you, Major Biff, that I would never be party to such a crime.  Is there anything we can do to help clear this up?”

“Actually, if you could both show me your BB guns, nice and slow, please.”  He allowed himself a huge grin as he turned to Nina.  “You first, ma’am.”

He’d tensed up a bit, his grip on the butt of his pistol tightening.  Nina looked a little flustered, patting down her pockets.

“Where is that BB gun?  I know I put it on this morning.  Where did I put it?”

Nina was either very perceptive, or very foolish.  Marlowe hoped it was the former as he wiped sweaty hands on his seat cushion.  Trooper Biff had drawn himself up to his full height.  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step-”

“Oh, here it is!  Silly me!  How did I miss that the first time?”  Nina produced the BB gun, holding it out butt first towards Trooper Biff.  The trooper, on the other hand, had started to pull his pistol out before the fact that Nina actually possessed the prerequisite BB gun registered.  It flustered him as his pushed the pistol back into its holster.

“Oh, uh, may I see that ma’am?”

Nina extended the gun out further.  Trooper Biff almost dropped it in Marlowe’s lap as he grasped it.  He reddened at this, and covered for his embarrassment by taking a long time to examine the gun.

“Well,” he mumbled as he handed it back, “everything appears to be in order.  Sorry to have disturbed you.”

He snapped the mirrored visor down, pivoted on his heel, and started back towards the police flitter.

“Oh, officer,” shouted Nina, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

Marlowe stared in stunned disbelief at Nina.  “What,” he whispered furiously, “are you doing?  Are you insane, he’s leaving!”

Nina struggled to contain her laughter.  “I cannot tolerate intimidation or incompetence,” she whispered back, “and given the opportunity to do so safely, I express my contempt.”  Trooper Biff, uncertain about this interruption, twirled around on the heel of his boot.  The maneuver was designed to convey control and confidence, but the effect was diluted when he lost his balance and almost fell.  Catching himself on the fin of the Studebaker only further reduced the dignity of the movement.  He did his best to saunter back.  Nina pretended to cough into her hand.

“I’m sorry ma’am?  What do you mean?”

“You didn’t check Marlowe for his gun.”

“Oh.”  Trooper Biff started to smile, but stopped.  He wasn’t sure if the balance of power in the situation had shifted back to him or not.  Marlowe could almost imagine the debate: if Marlowe didn’t have a BB gun, a bad situation was salvaged; but why would Nina tip him off if Marlowe didn’t have a BB gun?  “You’re right ma’am,” he replied cautiously.  “Thank you.  Sir, may I see your gun?”

Marlowe glared at Nina as he reached behind his back to the gun in his waistband.  He yanked it out.  His Mathers PPK rapid-repeating, semiautomatic double-barreled BB gun felt reassuring in his hand, especially since not having one in his hand would lead to a heavy fine if not outright incarceration.

“Here you are, constable.  Never leave home without it.”

Trooper Biff gave the gun a disheartened, cursory examination, utterly failing to note the exquisite craftsmanship and superb balance of the weapon.  Marlowe felt a slight twinge of disappointment when the trooper dumped the gun back in his lap.

“Right,” he said with an angry frown, “everything appears to be in order.  Sorry,” he added stiffly, “to have disturbed you.  Have a nice day.”

Marlowe watched in the side mirror as the trooper marched back to his flitter.  He appeared to be having a heated discussion with someone via his throat mike.

“You know, Nina, if I hadn’t had a BB gun, I would have had to pay a steep fine.  Did it ever occur to you that the reason I had you reach into that glove box, past an illegal gun to my spare BB gun, was because I might not have a BB gun on me?”

“Oh.”  Nina paled slightly.  “But you do have one.”

“Yes, I do, but you didn’t know that with certainty.”

“It seemed a safe bet that you’d be in compliance with the law, given what you’ve told me.  I’m sorry, but he was just so grossly incompetent, I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, next time a heavily armed incompetent goon crosses our path, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go out of your way to aggravate him or her.”

“I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.”

“Good.  And keep the gun.  On you.  Always.”

Nina idly turned the BB gun over in her hands, examining it.  “Why?”

“City law.  Because of the parrot infestation, everyone has to carry a BB gun.”

“Parrot infestation?”

“It’s a long story.  I’ll explain as we drive.  Car, let’s get to that reconstitution parlor, please.”

“Reconstitution parlor?”

Ah nuts, thought Marlowe.  This is going to be a long drive.  He proceeded to explain, as best he could, the pertinent local laws and the events of the morning.  He suspected it would take a long time.  He was right.  In the twenty minutes it took them to get to the first recon parlor on his list, he had still only half explained everything.

“How can soap have citizenship?  It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It’s not just the soap, it’s the personality chip embedded in the soap.”

“Then why not give citizenship to just the chip?”

“Why not determine citizenship based on skin color, or the clothes you wear?  Believe it or not, this is an enlightened society - well, elements of it are enlightened - and we don’t judge on exterior packaging.  Besides, discriminating like that would cut into the tax base.”

Nina mulled this.  “OK, but why would a bar of soap want to kill you?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be driving to all these seedy recon parlors.  I’d just kick down the door of whoever hired him and…persuade that individual that having me killed isn’t such a grand idea.”

“’Persuade’?  That doesn’t sound particularly enlightened.”

“Hey, I did say only elements are enlightened.  I’ve never claimed to be fully enlightened myself.”

The car honked three times in quick succession.  Marlowe looked up and noticed that the road was closed.  In fact, most of the road had been moved, piled up on the sidewalk in football-sized chunks.

“OK, looks like we’ll have to hoof it from here.  They’re rebuilding, or maybe rerouting the street.”

CHAPTER 7

ABLE TO LEAP TALL BUILDINGS…

The City had reasserted itself in full force, with the guy-wire and zeppelin supported buildings towering over them.  Marlowe hopped out of the car followed a moment later by Nina.  She still seemed to be adjusting to the events of the day.  They squeezed themselves down the sidewalk between the asphalt chunks and the shop walls on the other side.

“Be careful not to touch the debris, and try not to inhale any dust.  It’s chock full of industrial and radioactive waste in this part of the City.  In fact, this may be a cleanup operation.”

“Part of the work these parrots control?  Sounds like they’re very ecologically conscious.”

“Yeah, something like that.  Look, I don’t think I’ve quite conveyed the threat they pose to human society.”

“Hmm,” she responded dismissively.  “I’m still a little unclear how tracking down a bar of soap is helping you prove I am who I say I am.”

“It’s a question of priorities.  If I don’t track down the person who wants me dead, and they succeed in the next attempt, I’ll be even less effective in my investigation of your identity and origins.  Heck, Obedere might even find a way to blame you for my death, and then you’d really be in the soup.”

“But won’t you just be resurrected again, like this morning?”

“Maybe, if there’s enough of me left to repair.  But my most recent backup is from this morning.  Everything I’ve done today would be forgotten to me.”  Nina was slow to absorb this.  “You’d have to explain your story to me all over again.”

That prospect sobered Nina.  “Anything I can do to help?”

“That’s more like it.  A little support goes a long way in this place.”

They came to a dark alley and ducked in.  Marlowe had kicked up a map in his right eye, and using his PDI’s built-in GPS, plotted their position on the map so he could watch their progress.  “We’re almost there.  It’s above a butcher shop.  McMullin’s.”

At least, thought Marlowe, the rain had stopped.  Nina wasn’t dressed for the acid rain.  At some point they’d have to stop at a mall and get her some proper attire since his spray-on wardrobe wasn’t programmed for feminine duds.  At least, not anymore, after that little joke on House’s part a couple of years ago.  It was fortunate that Marlowe had had the time to change into his backup clothing.  And he’d gotten back at House, reprogramming his voice into a falsetto right before a big virt-u-date with a megaframe House had been smitten with for months.  Afterwards they’d called a truce on practical jokes.

Nina pointed down the left side of the alley.  “Is that is?”  

Marlowe kicked up the mag on his right eye, zooming in on a neon sign flashing ‘McMullin’s Butcher Shop’.  It was set into the back of one of the high rise buildings, which was somewhat surprising.  Still, stranger things had been known to happen in the City.

“Yeah, that’s it.  Good eye.”

“Can’t be in the space program unless you have, among many things, excellent eyesight.”

Marlowe decided to check in with the home front.  “House, anything I should know about this building?  Anything odd or unusual?”

“I’ve checked the City Department of Records, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary.  The building is owned by the real estate division of Imperial Industries, a wholly owned subsidiary of Montessori Enterprises, whose primary shareholder is, of course, your brother.  He owns fifty six percent.”

“Primary purposes?”

“Industrial leasing in the bottom thirty floors, residential leasing the top twenty.  One moment.  I’m tapping into the City Public records.  McMullin’s has been registered at this address for six years.  Most of the industrial leases are at least five years old, the residential leases show a normal distribution of lease terms.  The only thing that slightly stands out is that the entire third floor was leased three months ago to Pallmark Press.  The only new lease in the last five years.”

“Marlowe,” said Nina, “you’ve got to do something about keeping me in the loop on these conversations.  I’m serious.”

“Later, please.  We’ll work something out, I promise.  House is just giving me the rundown on this place.  Anything else I should know, House?”

“Nothing else I am cognizant of.”

“Thank you.”  Marlowe turned to Nina.  “OK, when we get into the recon parlor, things might get a little rough.  Just keep out of the way and you’ll be fine.”

“Don’t worry.  I can take care of myself.  Don’t forget, until today I was living under one and a half gees.  You’d be surprised how strong I am, relatively speaking.”

“There you go with that relative term again.  I won’t pretend to fully understand, and I don’t doubt your strength, but you can encounter some really nasty characters in places like this.  Keep your back to the wall and let me handle it.”

Nina didn’t respond, but when they reached the entrance to the butcher shop, she stood to the side and waved him in ahead of her.  “Age before beauty.”

“I thought you were over one hundred years old.”

“Relatively speaking, again, yes I am, but I wear my years better than you wear yours.”

Marlowe merely grunted and plodded forward into the shop, hoping against hope for a smooth visit.

The butcher shop was fairly typical for the City, unsavory and smelling faintly of rotting flesh.  The shop was narrow, with a glass counter stretching the length of the room, filled with various cuts of meat plopped down on a bed of ice.  A large display on the back wall listed the prices per kilo: BEEF Ş20, OSTRICH Ş50, IGUANA Ş35, PARROT Ş10, SOYSPAM Ş12.75, and underneath the sign proclaimed “ALL OUR PRODUCTS ARE CERTIFIED 100% GMO-FREE!”  Marlowe snorted at that, remembering how easily he’d gotten Gomer’s certification, and gasped audibly at the prices, a bit high considering the state of decay.  The flies circling and crawling over the store’s wares only reinforced that sentiment.  Marlowe kicked up the mag to check one of the flies and shuddered.  A honey fly, the result of an ill-conceived attempt to make flies more useful by crossing them with honey bees.  Somehow they’d become Africanized.  The round, fuzzy bugs packed a mean bite and when they couldn’t find putrid meat, they settled on any fresher fare that happened to be around.  Fortunately, this shop had no shortage of spoiled cold cuts for the insects to consume.

The advanced state of decay and the lackluster attempt to thwart it suggested to Marlowe that this store’s primary source of income was not the sale of meat.  That source would be, almost certainly, the recon parlor.  Still, it would be prudent of the store to make more of an effort to keep up the front.  On the other hand, with product of this quality, the shop would have very few legitimate customers, reducing the chance of some upstanding citizen dropping by and noticing anything suspicious.

Aside from the two of them and the butcher, the shop was empty.  The butcher was a case study in intimidation who would have given Trooper Biff pause.  A burly man who clearly worked out too much, Marlowe had to crane his neck to see the butcher’s face.  The bronze nose piece almost drew attention away from the cuttlefish hair, cut in a severe slant top that cycled through a swirling neon psychedelic spectrum of visible light.  The hair changed colors every six seconds, the new color spreading over and absorbing the previous color.  Yellow to orange, orange to red, red to blue, blue to violet.  The eyes were dull and drooping, the irises a cheap dye-job maroon.

Marlowe found himself getting disoriented and forced his eyes down.  He didn’t want to make eye contact anyway.  Fingers like pink boa constrictors wrapped around the handle of a rusty cleaver, slicing it up and down, up and down over a slightly green and scaly slab of meat.  Under a black vinyl apron, he wore a white t-shirt, spattered and streaked with the tell-tale marks of his trade.  On the t-shirt, Marlowe could make out a single sentence in large block print.  “BUTCHERS DO IT WITH CLEAVERS.”

Great, thought Marlowe bitterly.  He’s bound to be a tremendous help.  “Excuse me, I’m trying to find my way up to the second floor.  Do you know the way?”

The butcher stopped slicing through the tough, stringy meat and slowly fixed his gaze on Marlowe.  He had a far-away, unfocused look.  Marlowe wondered if he was on Loopies or Trippin’ Tabs.

“The second floor?  I can get there from here?” asked Marlowe again.

The butcher shrugged, shook his head, and returned to his chopping.  

“OK.  Don’t mind if I look around, do you?”

The butcher ignored him.

“My, he’s helpful,” chimed in Nina.

“He didn’t say we couldn’t look.”  Marlowe began a slow circuit around the narrow shop.  “Fortunately, House provided me with a crib sheet.”

Marlowe kicked up the floor plan of the building, projecting it directly onto both retinas for a 3D perspective.  House had already highlighted the most likely spots for an entrance to the second floor parlor, with a probability assigned to each.  The door in the back with the lit up ‘STAIRS’ sign had the highest probability, ninety nine point nine nine nine percent.  Marlowe shrugged, cricked his neck left and right to remove a kink, and plodded forward to that door.  Nina followed a discreet distance behind him, close to the wall, just as he had instructed.

As he got to the door, there was a deafening war whoop, a crashing commotion and a metallic clatter followed by a scraping skitter.  Then a dull, pain-filled wailing.  Marlowe snapped around, arms up in a defensive posture.  He found the butcher curled up on the floor, his meaty hands clutching one of Nina’s boots, which was firmly embedded in his crotch.  His face was a ghastly pale, whiter than the non-blood spattered portions of his t-shirt, and his hair color had stopped cycling, stuck in a cold, icy blue.  A mashed table had broken the butcher’s fall, though considering how flat that wreckage now was, Marlowe suspected it hadn’t acted as much of a cushion.  This did, however, nicely explain the crashing commotion.  The metallic clatter, deduced Marlowe, had come from the large, blood-soaked cleaver that had clearly fallen and then skittered towards Marlowe until it yielded to friction and lay motionless on the floor a few centimeters from his feet.  The wailing, which had continued unabated as Marlowe took in the scene, and indeed increased in pitch and volume, emanated from the butcher’s large, gaping (and toothless) mouth.  It spoke of a knowledge of pain beyond pain, discomfort not meant to be known by mere mortal man.

Nina shrugged.  “He came up behind you.  I waited until I was sure his intentions were bad.  I took the wielding of the cleaver and his yell to be that indication.  I hope you don’t mind.”

The butcher began convulsing.  Nina removed her foot and joined Marlowe.  “I may have kicked a little too hard.  I forget how strong I am now.”

“After the one and a half gees,” replied Marlowe, nodding.  “OK.  Thank you.”

“You still want me to keep my back to the wall?”

“Yes, but keep your eyes open while you’re doing that, and if you see anything that merits your stepping in, feel free.”  Marlowe was beginning to understand why Obedere had wistfully referred to her as ‘feisty’.  Not only beautiful, she was also smart, self-assured, and damned good on her feet.  He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have covering his back in a bar fight.  And his line of work did lead to the occasional bar fight or two.

“I have to say, Nina, I’m beginning to like you.  You really are a breath of fresh air.”  Marlowe suddenly blushed, having lowered his guard and speaking the words without thinking.  He cleared his throat as the nano probes countered the blush, and forced himself to assume a businesslike tone.  “You think we should do something to make sure he doesn’t follow us up?”

“Well, depends how long we’ll be up there.  He isn’t going to be moving for some time.  I think I heard his pelvis crack.  It certainly felt like it did.”

Marlowe checked the butcher again, but didn’t see any blood.  Thank the Governor she was on his side.   “I better check him for nano probes.  Not everyone does, and not all the people who do can afford the higher end models.  Heck, even mine are only mid-range.  This fella doesn’t look like the type to have them at all.  Still, better safe than sorry.”  Marlowe ran the toe of his left shoe over the torso of the butcher, then studied the readouts that came up on his PDI.  An advanced state of acid reflux disease, the tell-tale stretch marks of a steroid-boosted heart muscle, and a fully intact appendix.  “Nope, no nano probes.  We won’t worry about him for the time being.”  

There was a narrow staircase on the other side of the door, with a naked bulb swinging from a ceiling lamp.  It didn’t help that the bulb was broken.

“Kinda dark, isn’t it?” asked Nina.

Marlowe activated the low light filter.  “Naw, it’s not too bad.  But you don’t have a low light implant in your eye, do you?”

“Uh, no.”

“OK, hang on.”  Marlowe began fishing through the pockets in his trench coat.  His hand passed over the stapler in its hidden compartment, and ignored the apple, bubbles, and lucky trilobite in the left pocket.  He was less able to ignore the screwdriver in that pocket, however, as he managed to jab his hand on it.  He continued searching, paying only cursory attention to the BB gun clips scattered throughout the other pockets, and finally grunting in triumph as his hands closed around the small box he was seeking.  There was something else in the pocket, which he pulled out with the box.  A lottery ticket.  He’d have to check the news to see if he won.  He doubted it though.  He never won.