Plague Planet (The Wandering Engineer) (19 page)

“I know, but we need something to fill in the gaps. Gossip
attracts all sorts of interest,” Cat said, cozening up to him and smiling to
him. She had a nice bright smile he realized as she stroked his tie. One that
made him feel very vulnerable.

“I'll ah, see um, see what I can do?” his voice rose as her
beautifully manicured hand stroked his thigh and then reached up to touch his
tie again.

“You do that,” she said smiling now like her nickname. “And I'll
show you a night you'll never... never, forget,” she said huskily, stroking his
tie.

He gulped as she turned with a slight leer and hip walked away.
Slowly he let out his breath, feeling a bit dazed by that. His 'other head' was
now rather painful in his pants.

“Boss,” he said, gathering up his courage to confront Perry. Perry
stopped in his doorway, hands on his hips. “Um, I've got a proposal for you...”

...*...*...*...*...

“Admiral, can you pick up a paper?” Sprite asked, sounding
exasperated.

“Problem Commander?” Irons asked, cracking an eyelid open. It was
nearly dawn. He didn't have a lot to do, but he'd find something. Lazing around
on this mud ball was getting old. If he was going to have time off he'd prefer
it doing something he enjoyed doing. Watching the rats scurrying in the dark
and his nanites killing any fleas in the bed that the delousing spray had
missed wasn't it.

“Well, you organics tend to trade information in rather slow
methods,” she replied dryly. “I think I understand why you invented the
internet. The sheer appeal at getting information quickly and accurately versus
relying on a piece of wood pulp... There are times I've wondered about your
species,” she sighed.

Irons closed his eyes briefly. “Too much before coffee,” he
finally said and turned in place. “Any ideas?”

“A vendor somewhere would do,” Sprite said, sounding eager. The
admiral snorted. He'd seen a lad down the street selling papers. “All right,
let me finish cleaning up here and we'll go get one,” he said. “Since you can't
order one,” he teased.

“If I could order one I would have already. I was tempted to order
one by calling the front desk but they don't have a working phone in this
place, what a dump,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing at his back. He flicked a flea away and
then got up. It hadn't bit him of course, but it had tried. “Fine then, I'm
guessing a shower is out. Just let me get dressed”

After he was cleaned and presentable he left the building
whistling. He looked left and right, then oriented on Sprite's directions.

Irons went down and picked up a paper from the overly brightly
eyed and bushy-tailed kid. The kid smirked as he handed a couple coins back.
Irons could tell he was being gypped but didn't care. “Kid you know a good
coffee place?”

The kid silently pointed down the street. Irons sighed and then
nodded. “Thanks, keep the change,” he said. He turned and went in the indicated
direction. As he walked he flipped the paper open to the front page. “'The
Epsilon Daily Planet' cute. EDP for short. I take it this is what passes for
media here?”

“It is one of the largest newspapers and media outlets on the
planet,” Sprite replied, quickly scanning the text. “Admiral, Biscuit's body
was found last night.”

The admiral slowed and then stopped. “Okay,” he said, looking for
himself. There wasn't a photo, just a sketch of a crime scene. A back alley.
“The article...” he scanned it quickly. It amounted to Biscuits getting two
bullets in the back of the head at close range. No leads, no suspects.

“I believe his attempt on your life was unauthorized and the
protection racket was a side project... also unauthorized. In other words they
weren't giving their bosses a cut and the bosses decided to make him an
example. If I'm reading this right his 'known associate' aka Mr. Books has
disappeared as well. Some say he is either on the run, some said he had to kill
Biscuits and was now keeping a low profile. Just the same he left the county
capital for a while.”

“Where are you reading this?” Irons asked, scanning the paper. He
didn't find it.

“It's not in the paper. I just overheard it from two people
talking nearby.”

“Ah. So was this really about me getting up and getting a paper?
Or you just wanting to gossip?”

Sprite shrugged on his HUD. “Both.”

“There is another matter to consider admiral, your security,”
Defender interjected. The admiral raised an eyebrow.

“Explain.”

“According to protocol, after an attempt on your life or threat to
your life it is deemed prudent to change sleeping quarters.”

“He has a point,” Sprite responded. The admiral grunted.

“Deal,” Irons replied.

“Admiral,” Sprite started in and then paused. “Did you mean yes?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, sorry. My mistake. That was easy,” Sprite replied, sounding
suspicious.

“That's because I wanted out of there the first time I saw the
rat. If I'm paying for the room I like my privacy,” he growled. Since the place
he had slept at had rats and fleas, no coffee, and cold porridge Irons readily
agreed with the move.  Even he had standards.

...*...*...*...*...

Hank had gotten cagey with his replicator. He'd come to his senses
now, realizing that telling Helen was a strategic mistake. Already he was
getting paranoid, knowing that others who found out about the device would
become a possible source to someone interested in stealing the precious device.

He was starting to curse Irons for giving him the thing. Yes it
was heaven sent, but damn it didn't the man think of what position it put him
in? Never mind the good it could do! It didn't do him or his patients any good
if someone came around, killed him and took it!

And what would they do with it? Make some fancy shiny object? A
bauble? Forgery? Yeah, and then some idiot would try to make another
replicator, or try to make a weapon and poof! Useless.

He needed to find a better place to hide the thing, somewhere
safe, but with power and materials. He shook his head and hunched over his
beer.

“Thinking deep thoughts Hank?” Maggie the waitress asked. He
looked up to her. “What the matter Hank, usually you are tinkering with something
or other,” she said, indicating his empty hands with her free hand as she
swapped his empty beer for a new one from her tray.

“Taking a break,” he mumbled.

She eyed him for a moment as she set a basket of fried fingerlings
near the beer. “Well, if you want to talk, you know when my shift ends baby,”
she said, turning and waving to him with her tail as she strutted off.

He watched the small cougar go and touched the beer stein with a
claw, watching the foam dribble down the side. Yeah, he had a lot to think
about he thought.

...*...*...*...*...

According to the gossip on the street, someone in Fat Larry's mob
crew put a hit out on Irons. Most likely it was a relative of Biscuits or
Books, but no one was talking. As he sat in his booth Ole Blue heard about the
admiral's encounter with Fat Larry. Intrigued he took the contract despite the
standing warning that had come in a month ago from the guild not to harm Irons
and to report his whereabouts. He didn't care, he was invulnerable. They'd get
over it.

“The man's days are numbered. Location?”

“He just changed hotels. Word on the street he's um, moving
around. Maybe leaving town soon.”

“Interesting,” the Veraxin croaked. The mechanical edge in his
voice made his informant shiver a little. The Veraxin  picked at his proboscis.
“Track his movements. When he settles down, let me know where,” he said.

“Yes sir,” the informant said nodding.

“And Jimmy,” Ole Blue said turning. “Next time get my right side.
It's my good side,” the assassin said.

Jimmy gulped. He knew better than to publish photos of the
assassin while he was on the planet. No one did that and lived long. The chief
had killed any story on the assassin, he didn't want to lose reporters.

“Yes, I mean no sir. No photos. I remember,” Jimmy replied, backing
away.

“Get,” the alien said, raising his drink. He'd arrange for a meet
when he felt the time was right.

...*...*...*...*...

On a whim Irons traveled to the north, renting an air car to get
to Landing. It was a two seater passion red thing, back in its hay day it had
been a sporty model. It badly needed a tune up now though, seven hundred years
later. Someone had taken good care of it over the centuries though... or they'd
recently found it and restored it. Barn find maybe? He thought to himself and then
shrugged. What mattered to him was that it had pretty good range, so he signed
off on it despite the outrageous expense.

It was interesting that it had been used recently. It took someone
with implants to key the ignition, someone had been careful to leave that in
place. Sprite checked the computer, she reported a Tom Magnum had been using
the vehicle for years. He made a note to look him up... that was if he was
still on the planet. Only a sleeper could have implants after all, it would be
interesting to compare notes. He took the time to fully service the vehicle,
even replacing her worn repulser emitters, and then fueled it before he took
off.

He stopped for the night in one of the suburbs between Landing and
the massive Delta River. The Delta River was connected to the great lakes that
had been formed by glaciers or possibly even by the asteroid and comet impacts
during terraforming. Either way they served as a major water way for goods to
flow to and from the cities around it.

The suburbs were nice, almost quaint. He'd had his fill of big
cities in his youth, now being in a small town seemed like the thing to do.
This way he wouldn’t have to tune out anyone around him. The bed and breakfast
he picked out was nice, white paint, red trim, a brick wall around the
perimeter topped by a wrought iron fence. It was clean and neat, and seemed
like the best place in the area. The admiral smiled and paid in advance for his
room.

“You're lucky we had a recent cancellation. No one tries to travel
without a reservation this time of year Mr. Irons,” the receptionist said,
pushing the ledger over for him to sign. He jotted out his name with the pen
and then she handed him a room key. “Second floor, fourth door on your right.
There's a closet on your other side so you shouldn't get much noise from that
direction,” she said.

The admiral nodded. “Thank you,” he said moving off with his
duffel.

...*...*...*...*...

Helen dealt with issues with the thanksgiving, including no show
staff members and people who were injured playing with fire or fireworks. She
didn't suffer fools of either stripe lightly and she tore a strip out of all
concerned when she had the time to do so, drunk or not. All thoughts of Hank
and his situation were temporarily forgotten. “How the hell did you burn your
ass?” She demanded of a whimpering Gashg. “Never mind, just... ugh!” She wasn't
looking forward to this little project. He must have sat on a box of fireworks
or something. He had a deep tissue burn, most likely second degree, going from
his left Gluteus Maximus muscle along his spine above his beaver like tail to
his right Latissimus dorsi muscle.

“It will make an impressive scar for the ladies come mating
season,” the Gashg said.

“Okay,” the doctor said, dabbing at the burns. “Have fun trying to
sit for the next several weeks though,” she growled. She made a note not to
give him a pillow as he lifted his beaver tail. She felt her eyes water at the
smell. “The things you do to help people,” she muttered, wishing she had a
surgical mask.

...*...*...*...*...

At breakfast the next morning Irons sat at a small table, nursing
a half decent cup of coffee while he waited for his 'Proper' English breakfast.
It was a nice day out, he was outside with the other patrons of the bed and
breakfast, each sitting in cast iron chairs padded with handmade cushions. Each
group was around a small round table under the trees. A brick and wrought iron
fence shielded them from the traffic out on the main street. A red and white
fabric awning covered them. It was already warming up out now that the sun was
up.

His eyes casually scanned the area. A pair of women were talking
quietly at the table next to him. Other diners were nearby, some talking,
others reading newspapers. “I hope it's a sprain,” the female behind him said. He
turned to see the woman in a yellow sundress cradling her right arm. He scanned
it and then his eyes narrowed just as her table mate murmured reassurances to
her.

“It's not a sprain,” the admiral said, one hand on the back of his
chair. The two women looked up at him. The black portly woman with the red
dress set her tea cup down.

“I do say, this is a private conversation sir. Do have some
manners,” she said haughtily.

“Sorry, just thought she'd like to know,” the admiral replied,
nodding to the woman's table mate. “I'd suggest you get that checked out soon
miss.”