Reboots: Diabolical Streak Read online

  REBOOTS: DIABOLICAL STREAK

  Mercedes Lackey & Cody Martin

  Phoenix Pick

  An Imprint of Arc Manor

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  Reboots: Diabolical Streak © 2014 by Mercedes Lackey and Cody Martin . All rights reserved. This book may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual persons, events or localities is purely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.

  Tarikian , TARK Classic Fiction, Arc Manor, Arc Manor Classic Reprints, Phoenix Pick, Phoenix Rider, Manor Thrift and logos associated with those imprints are trademarks or registered trademarks of Arc Manor, LLC, Rockville , Maryland. All other trademarks and trademarked names are properties of their respective owners.

  This book is presented as is, without any warranties (implied or otherwise) as to the accuracy of the production, text or translation.

  Digital Edition

  ISBN (Digital Edition): 978-1-61242-139-1

  ISBN (Paper Edition): 978-1-61242-138-4

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  Publisher’s Note

  The original Reboots was published as part of our Stellar Guild series, which pairs a veteran author with a newer author of the veteran’s choosing. Each of the writers co n structs a story set in the same universe, complementing each other.

  Mercedes Lackey chose a promising young writer, Cody Martin and together they created the universe of Reboots : a universe where paranormal creatures live side by side with regular humans…and who best then to take on the rigors of space flight.

  Spaceships full of zombies, werewolves and vampires …what could be better?

  Not much, it seems like, and we decided it was a world that needed more material. It helped that we kept getting requests for a sequel.

  Hence, Reboots: Diabolical Streak .

  Other veteran authors who have participated in the Stellar Guild program include Larry Niven , Robert Si l verberg, Kevin J. Anderson, Eric Flint, Harry Turtledove and Nancy Kress. For more information please visit www.StellarGuild.com.

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  REBOOTS: DIABOLICAL STREAK

  THE UNIVERSE HAD CHANGED in some ways, but had stayed the same in many more. At least it seemed that way to the Boggart. He’d been around and actually active longer than most, save for some of the more adaptable Paras, nineteen centuries, give or take a decade. The modern age didn’t particularly agree with many creatures of his ilk, what with its abundance of cold iron, lack of superstition from the Norms, and high technology that helped to illuminate the night that all of the dark and scrabbling beings used to inhabit. But then, Boggarts were more closely associated with humans, or “mortals” as the Fey and the Sidhe used to call them, than some of the other creatures that had come tumbling out of the broom closet at the start of the Zombie War.

  Ah yes, the Zombie War; humanity first truly found out about the Paranormal when Zombies showed up. No one knew the how or why of Zombies, only that they didn’t go after Paras. Paras—short for “Paranormals,” the catchall for our kind—largely depended on humanity. Most of us for sustenance of one form or another; blood, psychic energy, offerings, whatever. The Zombie War and its outcome changed everything, the entire world turned upside down as Paras were integrated. We were integrated because we turned the tide of the war; humanity was losing against the onslaught of the dead. Paras were what tipped things back in favor of mankind, though the goodwill from the Zombie War didn’t last long. Misunderstandings, massacres, more conflicts fought. Once humanity knew that Paras existed, well, humanity was creative and very good at destruction, and the Paras were losing the new war, even though it cost the Norms—catch-all term for anyone not “Para”—dearly. Then came the advent of deep space travel and that was the answer to everyone’s problems; population pressure decreased by using Para crews, and the Paras could do what humans could not—live for decades, even hundreds of years on the sub-lightspeed ships. Zombies were rebranded as the politically correct Reboots, and put into useful roles where they weren’t a danger to Norms. One politico had anguished at the time, “What in God’s name can you do with twenty billion Zombies?” It turned out, if you were a corporation, creative, with no scruples, and had a lot of jobs too simple even for a bot, you could do a helluva lot.

  It wasn’t all wine and roses. There was a deep rot within the system. Corruption at the highest levels of government and corporate structures, and the fusion of both into the Home Service. Still, it worked while it was needed.

  But nothing lasts forever, not even a truce. Now there was FTL, and some of the old tensions between Norms and Paras were boiling up again. It was an interesting universe, especially for a Boggart tryin’ to make a few bucks.

  Or, as the old French saying went, plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose. He’d been hunted or exploited in one way or another for much of his long life, and at least in the modern age, he was his own boss. After the last gig he had done for remnant Home Service, he had been able to set up his own firm and bigger office, quickly followed by wiping his hands of anything attached to ol’ HS. Part of that was that it was too much hassle working their jobs and running their errands, anymore. With FTL becoming widespread and affordable, Home Service seemed to think that a PI like Humph could trot from one end of the known ’verse to the other on a whim. That, and Home Service had lost the importance that they had once held. No longer were they in charge of exploratory expeditions and charting unknown systems for settlement, keeping a tight leash on their Para crews. Everything was outsourced to private companies now, with mixed human and Para crews that were much less dysfunctional. Well, except for the Fangs. The Fangs put the “fun” in “dysfunctional”.…Increasingly, Fangs were happy snugged down in their nest-Stations and really didn’t want “the adventure of space travel,” which just meant more jobs for the other Paras. The profit margins were better and the liabilities were lower for everyone involved. In some systems, there was still a “boom town” sort of feeling, with lots of new wealth ready for the taking.

  Not that everyone was pleased that Paras were becoming wealthier and more mobile. Political advocacy groups calling for stricter sanctions on specific types of Paras coupled with an increase in high-profile news stories featuring Paras as the villains…

  After the job for HS, he had sat down and had a powwow with Fred and Skinny Jim. Earth was too hot for their little gang, and there wasn’t nearly enough action there besides the never-ending job of chasing down deadbeat dads and cheating spouses. They had to find a place to set up shop; somewhere that they wouldn’t stand out too much, but where they would still be able to sell their services for a decent price. Humph had a reputation for keeping his word and getting the job done, which meant something—namely credits—in a universe where a lot of beings would sell their own grandmother for the time of day. With that commodity, they shopped around. Stations were out, since there was always too much Were and Fang activity on those; the dens and nests would always want a slice of the pie, so to speak. Resort or garden worlds never had all that much going on for them; sometimes jobs would land there, but hardly did they ever start there. After mulling over the problem over a few bottles of whisky and a few pickled brain fungi for Jim, they finally found their new home: Planet Mildred.
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  Planet Mildred was perfect for Boggart, Barkes and Bot. It was a mid-sized industrial world, with grav that was Earth-Norm and no moon besides one that was tidally locked and never went full. Fred still had to stay indoors on “bad nights,” but otherwise was relatively comfortable. As an industrial world, it had more than its fair share of spaceports and orbiting refueling platforms; combined with its location as a waypoint between anywhere someone would want to come from and anywhere someone would want to go, it made the quintessential travel hub. Everyone came through Mildred on their way to something else. It was never called Mildred, of course. The story Humph heard was that some drunken transport captain had named the planet after his waitress girlfriend. Most people just called it the Hub.

  Basically, in terms of the old Noir Films, this was the Waterfront, the Warehouse/Industrial complex, Skid Row, and the Tenderloin districts from those old movies all combined. Maybe some Chinatown thrown in. And the whole planet was like that. Perfect for the three of them, they didn’t stand out overly much, and there were always new marks with new tidbits of information, new crimes that the victims didn’t want the cops to know about, new crimes that the cops couldn’t or wouldn’t solve, new gossip, and new job opportunities. Lots and lots of smuggling, which always opened up a job or three on a regular basis. And what they got was “petty” by crime standards. That was always good for keeping the money coming in while also keeping their profile low.

  Humph had quite the cozy little setup; he had tossed his old place—the only thing he had kept was the ancient wooden desk—and bought a “business suite” near enough to one of the major spaceports that things were just comfortably shabby without being run down enough to scare off customers. Office in front, living quarters behind it—not that he needed much in the way of living quarters. Fred the Werewolf needed a room with no windows and a good, solid metal door, period. The few nights out of the year that there was enough moonlight to cause Fred to go all hairy and wild-eyed, he was able to lock himself down in the room without worrying about the door getting busted down. Skinny Jim the Zombie needed a corner; they’d found an old robot, gutted it so there was nothing but a shell and a couple bits to make him look authentic, and installed him inside with a disinfectant system to keep him from rot, and another to keep his skin properly oiled and pliant. When he wasn’t at the computer…scratch that, he was always at the computer. And Humph himself needed somewhere to keep some clothes, a shower, and a bed. He’d initially thought having partners would drive him insane, and sometimes the other two did force him to retreat to the Other Space connected to his pocketwatch, but for the most part, they were almost eerily an ideal fit. Maybe it was Fred and Jim. They had spent the better part of a century and a half learning how to tolerate a hell of a lot, cooped up in an exploration ship with some of the biggest douchebag Fangs in the known ’verse, (which was saying something) and by contrast, the firm was Mellowville. And neither of the boys were exactly going to set the world on fire with their looks. Despite the reputation for charisma that oozed from the very pores of Weres, that only applied to Alpha Weres, and Fred wasn’t even a Beta, he was a Lone. He looked exactly like what he’d been before he got chomped; a balding, middle-aged engineer, though he had lost a few pounds and bulked up in the muscle department when you compared him to his Home Service mugshots. As for Jim, well, in disguise he looked like a second-hand bot. And out of disguise he was a Zombie, and an aged one at that.

  Or maybe it was a match made in…wherever such matches were made. Probably someplace where virgin sacrifices were still a tolerated cost of doing business.

  On the whole, things were comfortable for the trio. Their expenses were relatively low, and the jobs were steady, or at least they had been until a bit less than two months ago. The planet they were on was like that sometimes; usually an even flow of cheating spouses, embezzling partners, runaway teenagers, something being smuggled gone missing, someone needing something “taken care of” off the books, custody cases, and the odd bounty gig…the usual thing for a PI, even in the modern age. Humans—and most Paras, for that matter—never changed. Despite that, there had been slim pickings for longer than usual. The office wasn’t hurting just yet, but the expense account wasn’t as flush as it used to be; regular shipments of scotch, cigars, premium steaks, ammo, and rehydrated brains had been slowly eating away at their funds.

  “Woman Claims Gremlin Is Stalker,” Humph read aloud from the news twits. “Wrongful Death Ruled in Fur Silver-Poisoning Case. Self-Defense Verdict Sends Dwarf To Slammer.” He shook his head. “Not a damn thing for us in the twit feed today, and am I just getting paranoid, or are there more stories out there lately about us being the Big Bad Boogiemen?”

  Fred and Jim were seemingly lost in their own conversation; something deep and thought-provoking, no doubt.

  “…I don’t really care what studies you bring up, blondes are where it’s at.”

  “You’ve got less brains than I do, Fido. Redheads, hands down, any day of the week. If you can come up with one good argument, I’ll eat my own hand. No, really!”

  The Boggart sighed. Not that either of the boys were going to get within ten nautical miles of a woman. Not by any stretch of the imagination were either of them the answer to a maiden’s prayers. Or even a not-so-much-a-maiden. Fred even had trouble getting dates among his own kind. Being crammed in a small ship as the jack-of-all-work with a bunch of Fangs whose idea of a come-on was to just use the Vampiric hypno-power on a gal had not given him any instruction on the fine points of Picking Up Women. Humph had been trying to school him, but Fred was a slow learner on that subject, and pathetically oblivious to body language from the fairer sex. It didn’t help that he had been a lone wolf for so many decades; apparently female Weres picked up on that, through pheromones or some supernatural ability.

  The Boggart relit the stogie that he had going, leaning back in his chair. Things have gotta pick up soon. I need something to get me out of the office, and to keep these two busy. Not to mention keep all of them in brains, steak, and booze.

  Secretly he’d always wanted to have the sort of shabby-film-noir detective office that was right out of one of his favorite PI movies. Preferably including the wise-cracking, gum-chewing secretary with a great pair of legs. Well, you couldn’t have everything. He had the office now…just the secretary wasn’t what you’d see in a movie. Instead of a leggy bleached blonde, Jim served in that capacity, usually sitting in the outer office when he wasn’t playing cards with Fred. Humph had the bigger desk of the two in the second room, facing the door. Fred’s desk was behind him, facing into the wall, as befitted the “junior partner.” Since this was a securitized building, you had to phone when you hit the vestibule of the building to get in, which generally gave Jim plenty of time to get back into place.

  “Wish that damn phone would ring,” Humph grumbled aloud.

  As if it had heard him, it did ring.

  “Goddamnit boss, why didn’t you wish for a lottery win instead? Or a baker’s dozen of sexy, sex-starved blondes…” Fred mumbled, as Jim answered the phone. The light on the unit indicated that it was a call from the front door.

  “Boggart, Barkes and Bot, how can I direct your call?” Jim was saying, as he trotted to his place, feet only clanking a little on the bare floor. “Yes, Mister Boggart is in, but he’s on the phone with a client. He should be finished by the time you get up to our office; I’ll buzz you on through.”

  “Mister? Been awhile since anyone tried throwing that one at me,” Humph said to no one in particular. Glancing around his desk, he saw exactly how cluttered and messy it was, and clumsily began sweeping things off the top of it into drawers and under the chair. Fred watched Humph’s efforts, shrugged, and kicked his feet up onto his own desk. Humph sighed. “Classy, jackass.”

  “It makes you look better, boss. Professional.” Fred paused thoughtfully for a second. “Or what professional would look like if it were a few hundred years old and pickled in whisky
.” Well that was more what he wanted from Fred. Once a Lone Wolf didn’t always mean a Lone Wolf; with the right circumstances, Fred could change his position in life, much as he had already done with his former crew-mates. Furs preferred to deal with their own kind when things got complicated enough to need the services of a firm like BBB. Having Fred play Chief Detective when a Fur case came up could cinch them the job that might have otherwise slipped through their fingers. Now, if only he’d learn all that a little faster…

  “You’re a laugh riot, mother—”

  The door swung open then, cutting the Boggart off. He had just enough time to snatch up a file folder and open it, posing as if he were casually studying it instead of cleaning off his desk and cussing out his partner moments before.

  “Mister Boggart is waiting for you, sir,” Jim said brightly. “Go on in.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Boggart had pictured the client to be what they always were in the old vids…a curvy blonde with legs up to there, red, red lips and a voice that sounded as if she was always a little out of breath. At least that’s what he always hoped for in clients, even if it was exceedingly rarely the case. It certainly wasn’t in this instance.

  Well, he’d gotten the blonde part right, but that was about all. Thin, mousey-blonde, with a face that looked as if he was simultaneously eating lemons and thinking about the pineapple someone had recently shoved up his ass. A conservatively cut gray business outfit. This dude wasn’t money himself, but Humph’s seventh sense told him that he represented money.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The suit said that word in such a way that it sounded like it pained him to associate it with Humph and Fred, even if only to keep custom. “My name is Bevins. You may refer to me as Mister Bevins. I represent Ms. Catherine Somerfield, who has requested me to acquire your services.” Humph stood up for a moment, gesturing with one hand for Bevins to take a seat. He did not sit down.