Enemy Mates: A Science Fiction Romance

Chapter 1

Bravel

No  matter how hard the driving rain pounds the seedy streets of Traxis’s  underbelly, it can’t wash away the stench of lowlifes and degenerates. The streets are old here, buildings too, some of their metal facades changed from steely gray to orange and brown rust.

Traxis may be one of the largest cities on the human planet of Titanus Vox, but it’s got its share of bad areas. Sure, there are plenty of gleaming skyscrapers and fancy joints that are famous throughout the galaxy. But there’s some grime in the city. And hopelessness. And crime. 

Hover traffic drifts by far overhead. No one’s going to risk the lower lanes in this hood. And it would take a damn crazy fool to actually traverse it on foot. 

That’s me, the damn crazy fool, Bravel to my friends, Detective to others. This isn’t the first time I’ve walked through this neighborhood, ostensibly a human dominant city and yet this place teems with other sapient life. But it is the first time I’ve paid this particular crew a visit.

The Rising Sons fancy themselves a smuggling syndicate, but the truth is they’re just a glorified street gang, the type of scum you wipe off of your shoes when you accidentally step in it. Normally they’re not even on my radar. With sapient trafficking, weapons dealing, and illegal drug trading, I have enough on my plate without having to stress over a two bit group like the Sons.

Besides, unlike my usual suspects they only hurt the profits of far away mega corporations, rather than actual living sapients. Guess some folks might think  my priorities are messed up. A crime is a crime, so they say down at the precinct.

The Sons have a warehouse, owned by their leader’s aging aunt and protected by law from my attention without a warrant. But my need is urgent, and I don’t have time to wait for the red tape to fully unravel itself.

Two days ago, traffic cams about two blocks down picked up a nasty wreck. A hover truck slammed into a bike, with the expected result. The driver of the hover bike got turned into street pizza, and the men in the truck fled the scene.

But not before they’d stopped, exited the truck, and retrieved the cryo pod which slipped out the back during the accident. No one knows who or what species the occupant of the cryo pod was, but there are strict regulations and laws inflicted upon the transport of cryo stasis patients.

My department’s homicide, not missing persons, but I can justify this as being related business. Besides, I can’t stop thinking about that poor cryo patient, at the mercy of dick heads who won’t even stop when they smear a guy all over the sidewalk.

The warehouse has a heavy metal door, old style with hinges rather than modern hydraulic mechanisms. That suits me just fine, since I’m not exactly invited, and the type of door that slides into the ceiling or wall is a pain in the ass to get past.

This, though, this I can work with.

As a Vakutan, I’m blessed with certain attributes. Being well over seven feet tall and four hundred pounds is just the tip of the iceberg. I lash out with my boot and strike the middle of the double doors, snapping the chain holding them shut.

“Knock, knock,” I say as I boldly stride in. I’ve yet to identify myself as an officer, being as this isn’t an official visit. And my human style suit and tie don’t exactly proclaim it either. So I really can’t complain when the dozen members of the Rising Sons who are present rush to the attack.

“Waste this fool!” Larro bellows, his mustachioed face contorting into an angry sneer.

His mostly human gang bangers are already on the move, wielding melee weapons and their fists. Getting caught with a projectile weapon of any kind in Traxis results in an automatic one year prison sentence. The laws got tighter after a terrorist bombing and assault on the courthouse last years. Nasty business, that. Stirred up a lot of anti-alien sentiment among the human crowd, even after the accused sapient was found innocent.

Ducking under a poorly timed right hook, I slam my scaly shoulder into the attacker’s ribcage, then stand up and flip him over my head—right on top of the punk who was about to kidney punch me. 

Another man manages to land a solid right, but I barely even flinch. My hand snaps out and grabs him around the throat,  holding him fast while I bash my ridged forehead into his nose. Blood fountains from his ruined proboscis, shards of bone jutting out of his skin.

All in all, it’s good exercise, but the outcome is never really in doubt. The mohawked leader, Larro, knows me too well to try his luck once I mop the floor with his men.

“Where’s pretty boy M’artel?” I growl as I stalk toward him.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was you, Detective Bravel,” Larro says, grinning. “If I had, I’d never have sicced the boys on you.”

“Water under the bridge, Larro. Just tell me where you’re hiding the living merchandise and I’ll go easy on you.”

I grab his shirt front and cock my arm back, and his eyes widen to the size of small moons.

“Hey! Come on, Bravel, you know we aren’t scumbag body merchants. We only deal in cyberware. C’mon, man…didn’t I finger that pimp who was burning his girls with a plasma cutter?”

“Yeah, you did.” I let him go. “And it’s true that  you punks know better than to get on my radar. But you got  fingered by a trusted source, and I’m gonna have to take a look around. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“No, I don’t mind, not at all.” Larro grins ear to ear, but his eyes remain fearful. 

Unfortunately, all I find are boxes stuffed with yinnot flakes, and below the bags of flour are a few cyber limbs, a couple of circuit boards. Small potato stuff, not worth my time, and no cryo patient. You need a pretty elaborate set up to maintain one of those pods, and there’s no evidence of that anywhere.

Angry and disgusted, I storm out the broken doors, ignoring Larro and the groaning, injured gangbangers alike.

I pick up my hat at the entrance and wedge it down over my head before going back out into the driving rain. It’s tempting to break into a run, because I’m pissed at the dumbass who gave me this bogus lead. I settle for a rapid, stiff legged angry walk. None of the urchins who brave the rainstorm give me the slightest bit of grief. I’m pretty well known in these parts, and even if I wasn’t the sight of an angry Vakutan has its own power.

Nestled between two foundries is a nasty little donut shop, more of a stand with four walls, really. The greasy, cheap donuts are revolting, but almost no one who buys them actually consumes one. It’s the little bag of rainbow hued herbs that come with the overpriced confections that are the real seller.

I’m not about to get hot and bothered by some Rainbow peddler, even if the mild hallucinogenic is technically illegal on IHC worlds like this one. I see it as a victimless hobby. But it’s nice leverage on the owner-proprietor, Peaches.

Peaches is an Alzhon, but not one of the fancy ones. Slovenly, uneducated, and a war orphan, he grew up on the fringes until he stumbled onto this little enterprise. When he sees me coming, he tries to run out the back door, but bounces off of it. Good thing I dragged the three hundred pound dumpster in front of it to seal it off.

“Going somewhere, Peaches?” I ask, pushing open the door to his tiny shop. The smell of old grease assails my nostrils. Peaches’s guard dog, a half hairless scrawny Odex named Chops, doesn’t even lift a finger. He knows better.

“Detective,” Peaches says, his face splitting in a gap toothed grin. “What can I get for you? I’ve got some fresh sugar glazed still piping hot.”

“You know why I’m here, Peaches,” I say, leaning over the counter and glaring down at him. “And it’s not for no goddamn donuts. Why did you point me at the Sons?”

“T-that’s what I was told, I swear,” he says, lying his ass off. I casually reach out my finger and flick him on the nose.

“The next time I hit you, I’m using my fist, not my finger.”

“Calm down, Detective,” Peaches says. “Look—maybe this time, you should just walk away? I mean, stay healthy, you know?”

I snag his shirt and lift him bodily from the floor, putting my nose against his.

“Is that a threat, Peaches?”

“NO! By the Pontiff, no! I’m not stupid. It’s a warning. All right? A warning. Some powerful people are moving the pieces on Titanus. You don’t want to get caught up in their game.”

“Explain yourself, Peaches.”

“I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

“Peaches, I’m here right now, right in front of you. I’m going to kill you if you don’t cough it up.”

Peaches twists his face into a frightened grimace.

“You have to promise to protect me, Bravel,” he says.

“Fine. I’ll protect you.”

He spills the beans at last. A couple days ago, right after the wreck, a well dressed human with IHC marine bodyguards entered the shop. They shook him up pretty good, strongly hinted that the IHC government on Titanus Vox was onto his drug dealing operation without explicitly saying so.

Then they dropped him five K credits and said that if the Detective assigned to the recent vehicular homicide case stopped by, to point them at the Sons.

“You should have just come clean from the get go, Peaches,” I say, dropping him to the floor. “Don’t worry. Once I crack this case, the perps will have way more to worry about than revenge on you. This fancy human have a name?”

“I-I don’t remember,” Peaches says. I crack my knuckles, loudly. “Lupe! Armitage Lupe. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“You had better have been straight with me, Peaches,” I say, turning to leave. “Otherwise, I’ll be back.”

I head back out into the rain. This case just got a whole lot more complicated.