Starliner (The Intergalactic Investigation Bureau Book 1) Read online

  That’s two, thought Dresker.

  “Can you get an ID on this bot?”

  “Nope,” Cleb said, peering around again. “She’s covered up pretty good. I fink da only person dat’s gonna ID dis one will be whoever sleeps wif her.”

  “Well, that sounds like a perfect opportunity for you to express your—”

  “I told you already dat I ain’t got dat fetish.”

  “Oh, right,” Dresker said, trying to hold back a laugh. The booze was beginning to settle. “Can you get anything on her?”

  “She looks like one of dem sex types.”

  “SensualBot?”

  “Yea, dat’s it.”

  “Interesting,” Dresker said, wondering what a SensualBot was doing blabbering about religion. “Well, if you hear anything new or maybe if one of your friends happens to be the lucky fellow and can help the IIB out...” Dresker saw the look of horror on Cleb’s face and recalled how secretive a culture they were about their sexuality. Talking about genitalia was fine, but conversing about conquests was out of the question. “Strike that,” Dresker said with a grimace. “I’m a little tired and just not thinking right tonight. We’ll sync up again in the morning.”

  “Yeah, let’s do dat,” Cleb said and then disconnected.

  Clenk had already refilled his glass. Dresker stared at it. He was buzzing already as he slumped over the bar. The warmth of the alcohol coursed through his veins seeking to blur the experience of the world. It was doing quite well in its quest.

  Morning was going to come fast and with it would be a major headache. He had tablets that cured that. He just needed to take them before drinking if he wanted to completely eradicate the morning-after events, but the pills were sitting at home on his nightstand.

  “You have any tabs?” he asked Clenk who dropped a couple on the counter.

  “Beep.”

  Dresker popped them in and chased them down with the shot and then turned the glass upside down on the bar along with a few credits. He always tipped Clenk well.

  “Boop.”

  “You deserve it, Clenk.” Dresker felt the world wavering.

  “Beep beep boop boing twing,” Clenk said.

  “Yeah, he said that there was a SensualBot down at DaPlace talking with the Uknar.”

  “Bing boop ding.”

  “I don’t know that I’d say it’s disgusting,” Dresker said as he held the wall up. “She’s just trying to make a living. Can’t help how you’re born when you’re a bot. Some wacko puts that type of programming in and that’s the life you live.”

  “Boop,” Clenk answered with a low note, his version of a grumble. “Blip ding boop bap.”

  “Is that so?” Dresker said.

  “Beep.

  “Interesting.” He was hoping that the wave of sudden nausea would pass before he walked out into the night air.

  “Beep twing boop,” Clenk went on and then began describing how the SensualBot he’d seen had a ship on her gown and how she was talking to some poor bot named “Bob Jones.”

  Dresker sat up and looked at Clenk.

  “Bob Jones?”

  “Beep.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Clenk just looked at him.

  “Right,” Dresker said, trying to keep his bearings. “It’s the alcohol doing my thinking again. And he was here with a SensualBot?”

  “Beep.”

  “Don’t suppose you got her name?”

  “Bop ding bing.”

  “Shame,” Dresker said. “What do you think the ship on her robe meant?”

  “Bing bing bap.”

  “Starliner, eh?” This Starliner thing was getting meatier by the miniclick. “Who would have thought that a SensualBot would be accepted as part of a religion?”

  Clenk rinsed out Dresker’s shot glass and set it on the meshing.

  “Beep bip bip bip boop.”

  “True,” Dresker said, agreeing that bots finding religion at all was odd. “Good bot, you are, my friend Clenk,” he said as he headed toward the door. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Dresker wobbled out into the night air, vomited twice, watched the tubes for a while, and then staggered home.

  THE LEADER

  ALL THE MECHANICANS had gathered and the general murmur of discussion was rampant as The Leader strode onto the stage. When he reached the podium, the crowd became quiet.

  He studied his flock. This was no induction ceremony. These were full-fledged Starliner members who knew the rituals.

  “Brothers and sisters,” The Leader said in a commanding voice.

  “Leader,” the flock replied in unison.

  They stood uniformly and their voices echoed off the walls.

  “May The Captain be with you,” said The Leader.

  “And so with you,” replied the flock.

  He looked around and caught his image plastered on the large screen that stood some twenty feet tall behind him. He did so enjoy seeing himself as a larger-than-life figure. The visage was the only thing that captured how he believed everyone should view him.

  With a dramatic turn he faced the screen and held his hands high. Etched on the back of his robe was a little space ship and the words “The Leader” were embroidered across his shoulders. Even when he wasn’t wearing the ceremonial robe, he still made sure all of his Starliner shirts said “The Leader” on the back to ensure that people showed him the proper respect at all times.

  “There have been a couple of very unfortunate events today,” he said as he lowered his arms. “Two of our flock met with their end recently.” He let the sentiment set in as he faced the gathering again. “Walter Blitterbent decided that he could not wait another two days for The Captain to arrive and so, sadly, he took his own life.”

  Talk began again amongst the flock. The Leader wanted to let them voice to each other their concerns and condolences. He gave them a few moments as he adjusted his gloves.

  “I know many of you will be worried for poor Walter,” The Leader went on, “and I do share that concern as suicide is not a way to win The Captain’s favor. However, The Captain is just and merciful. I believe that he will see how Walter was a troubled Mechanican.”

  He was expecting some type of response from the crowd, but got none. Did they not believe him? Maybe they were contemplating. This was one of the issues that The Leader always faced when dealing with his own kind since they were expressionless. Unless they spoke or changed the glow of their eyes or showed some dramatic response, such as clapping or raising their arms in praise, The Leader didn’t know what was going on in their metallic heads.

  So he set a diversion as any good leader does, “May The Captain be with you.”

  “And with you,” they replied.

  “The second friend of The Captain, Bob Jones, struck a firm blow to the CCOP this morning as I’m sure we all felt.”

  Clapping ensued.

  The Leader was not happy about this, but it was exactly what he was expecting and why he was having this gathering.

  “I agree with your favoring of Friend Bob,” he said loudly. “His sacrifice has put doubt and fear into millions.” More clapping. “However,” The Leader shouted, “he acted without the will of The Captain.”

  That silenced the crowd.

  The Leader moved from the podium.

  “You see, The Captain’s first and foremost goal is...”

  He realized that he could no longer hear himself and all the Mechanicans in the room were craning an ear in his direction. Looking down he caught that he’d again left the portable microphone at the pulpit. He always forgot to put the thing on when he entered the stage.

  Snatching it up, he stuck it on his tunic and sneered under his hood.

  “May The Captain be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  “The Captain’s first and foremost goal is to end our suffering,” he said, resuming his walk. “He wishes to rescue us from the CCOP and bring us to our promised land.
Random attacks against the CCOP may cause a rift in that plan because those attacks could lead back to us. If they do, and if the corporations catch the full wind of The Captain’s plans to liberate us, do you not think that they will do all they can to stop The Captain?”

  A benefit of having a following of Mechanicans was that their logic was swift. It didn’t take a lot of leading to get the point across. It just took simple language and carefully cornered arguments.

  “What I am saying is that what Friend Bob did could serve to hurt the plans of The Captain. Again, though, The Captain is just and he will forgive our Friend Bob for acting out of turn.”

  The Leader returned to the podium and the speakers started to feedback. He flicked off the portable microphone and wondered why, in all of their vast capabilities, Mechanicans couldn’t just be wirelessly connected to a speaker system?

  “The point that I am trying to make is that no one shall take it upon themselves to interfere in any way with the workings of the CCOP from this point forward.” His voice was stern. “Anyone acting without the direct authorization of either The Captain or his appointed vessel, namely me, will not find his or her way onto The Starliner. Is that clear?”

  “Leader.”

  The Leader opened his arms. “We are not a terrorist group, my friends,” he said more gently. “It is not our mission to destroy the CCOP. Our goal is to build a better life for ourselves, is it not?”

  “Leader.”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “The Captain knows that the biggest blow we can deliver to the CCOP is our exodus. It won’t destroy them, but it will cripple their operations for quite some time. Does this not make sense?”

  “Leader.”

  “And so, acting as The Leader and appointed thus by The Captain,” which wasn’t quite true but to The Leader—who was in his own estimation the most intelligent Mechanican in the known universe—there was no other logical choice for the job, “I hereby deem that any of our flock that acts on their own, without express direction from me, will not be saved. Is that clear?”

  “Leader.”

  “May The Captain be with you,” he concluded and began to stroll off the stage.

  “And with you.”

  BAD FINGS

  “GRACEFUL” WOULDN’T BE a word you would use to describe Lemoolie. At nearly seven-feet tall and weighing in at roughly three hundred pounds, most of which were pure muscle, “terrifying” would be more apropos.

  You would be hopeful that she was a gentle giant. She would laugh at that.

  “I are here to see da manager,” she said to the clerk. Cursed with the typical Uknarian communicative capability that was comparable to that of an iguana, it was difficult for people to find Lemoolie adept professionally. But she was good and she knew it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about the way she sounded to other cultures. In an attempt to alleviate her concerns, she had purchased a word-a-day calendar. Her struggle was remembering to use them. “Posthaste,” she added.

  “Which manager?”

  “Refter.”

  “And you are?” the clerk said as if Lemoolie were an annoying gnat.

  She flopped her badge onto the desk.

  “Oh,” said the clerk as his eyes widened. “Uh, I’ll let Mr. Refter know you’re here.”

  “You do dat,” she said, and then added, “forfwif.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Forf...” Lemoolie, like most Uknar, couldn’t get the “th” sound right. “Forf...forf...straightaway.”

  The clerk nodded and suggested that she find a comfortable chair while Mr. Refter prepared to see her. She didn’t like that “prepared” part, but she wasn’t worried. Lemoolie could find enough to put almost any executive on second-shift for a few years.

  She sat in the waiting room and glared at the other visitors. She didn’t mean to bad-eye them, it just kind of happened with her.

  They’d offered classes at the CCOP to help Lemoolie become a kinder, gentler monstrosity, and anyone that had known her for a while had to admit that she was indeed more personable now than when she’d started the job. But getting to full-blown debutante (another word she’d learned) wasn’t likely in her future. Dresker had marked on her report that the CCOP training had helped her social aptitude move from velociraptor to crocodile. This was a major step up, assuming you already knew Lemoolie; otherwise, you would still consider her akin to a ferocious reptile.

  “Ma’am,” the clerk said, congenially, “Mr. Refter will see you now.”

  “Stupendous.”

  They walked through a maze of hallways before arriving at Refter’s office. Lemoolie noted his tidy desk and empty trash bin. She looked him over, finding him to be a typical Human male. Small, pasty, and squishable.

  “Ah,” Mr. Refter said, his voice shaking, “it’s always good to have a member of the Internal Investigation Bureau team here. Makes us feel safe, doesn’t it Tilly?”

  “Certainly, sir,” the clerk said and then shuffled out.

  “Right,” said Refter. “Unfortunately, my executive assistant is not around to help us at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon. What can we do for you today, Miss...?”

  “Lemoolie,” she said and showed him her badge as procedure required.

  “Lemoolie it is,” Refter said, tugging at his collar.

  “You’ve had recent layoffs. Let me see your records,” Lemoolie said as she sat down and began pulling out papers from her over-sized briefcase.

  Mr. Refter coughed a few times and began looking through drawers and tapping at his iPane. His already pale face had grown even more so and she could see the vein in his neck pulsing. The guilty were so obvious.

  “I’ll just need a few miniclicks…”

  These things always went one of three ways: adamant refusal of any wrongdoing, violent reaction and attempted escape, or crying.

  “Dis will do,” Lemoolie stated as she placed a few Synthsheets on his desk.

  “Oh.”

  One thing Lemoolie had learned when she’d started as a financial investigator at the IIB was that the use of force was often a great motivator. Prime Investigator Dresker had given her a talking to, though, and put an end to it. It was funny how not a single person she had ever met had ever intimidated her, not even her father who was a rough disciplinarian; yet, when Dresker talked, Lemoolie listened, and, even more interesting, she paid attention.

  Since she was disallowed from browbeating Refter into confession, she would have to outwit him. She was prepared, though. Attention to detail mixed with a segacious plan resulted in an ironclad front.

  Lemoolie leaned forward, tilted her head, looked him square in the eye, and said, “You did bad fings, didn’t ya?”

  Mr. Refter made a little gurgling noise.

  “Dats what I fought.” Damn, she thought. She hated it when they cried. It did something to her that her friend Bintoo called “maternal instinct.” Looking at the grubby little Refter made her doubt that she could possibly feel motherly toward him, but something inside of her softened. “Look,” she said with a sigh, “der is no point in trying to hide stuff. We know what you done.”

  The tears streamed and the sobbing began as the side door opened and a flawless-looking Human walked in.

  Lemoolie had never seen such a specimen before.

  He had dark hair that was perfectly coiffed, eyes that glittered like Uknarian Bloodrocks—a sort of bright blue rock that was indigenous to the southern continent of Alkway on Uk—a musculature that betrayed not a single ounce of fat, and skin so flawless it looked like it was painted on.

  His only flaw was that he was Human.

  “I do apologize for my tardiness,” he said and then approached Refter. “Why are you crying, sir?”

  “Because he done bad fings,” Lemoolie said, trying to clarify the situation.

  “Is that so? And you are?”

  She showed him her badge.

  “Ah, a financial investigator. How q
uaint.” The man smiled. “I hope you understand that any time you approach any upper-level manager that their only defense is to whimper and hope that you’ll let them off the hook. They have no clue whatsoever about the inner-workings of the financial portions of the work.”

  “Yeah,” Refter said, wiping his eyes. “You tell her... Hold on a second, what?”

  Lemoolie raised an eyebrow.

  “Numbers don’t lie,” she said, tapping the Synthsheet. “You done layoffs and I can’t see why.”

  “Simple,” the impeccable man said. “Upper-management wanted to increase their own salaries. Layoffs often aid in doing just that, no? Besides, there was no real reason to hang on to those who were let go. They were redundant.”

  The only thing Lemoolie hated more than crying was honesty. It really put a Mechanican in her gears—which was the newest saying on the CCOP for when things didn’t go as planned.

  By now Refter had straightened himself back up and blew his nose. “Thank you, Coremon,” he said. “Your insight is invaluable as ever.”

  “Just doing my job, sir.”

  Lemoolie looked over this Coremon again. She had never found a Human to be attractive by any stretch of the imagination, but she was now faced with something she’d never seen before. Not that there was any sexual interest—she would crush the poor fool if they were to bed down—no, it was more of a fascination.

  “What is your job?” she asked as she opened her VizScreen.

  “I am the executive assistant to Mr. Refter.”

  She accessed Coremon’s files.

  “Ah, you’re an android,” she said.

  “Prototype, yes,” Coremon said. “Is that an issue?”

  “Hmm? No. Should it be?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Coremon said as he placed two gloved hands on the desk. “I have faced a lot of prejudice in my time, which is why I ask. I find that people are just ignorant of what I am and what I represent. I do not take offense at the curiosity.”

  “Why are you wearing gloves?” Refter asked.

  “Oh, uh,” Coremon said, slipping the gloves off and putting them in his pocket, “I was working with some of the chemicals that we talked about yesterday and I didn’t want my hands to melt.”