Murder on the Stellar Schooner by Brian Heming (part 1)
His head had been blown clean off, as he worked in the lee of the foresail.
A dead crewman of the hull-repair caste normally excited no investigation. A freak meteorite, a bit of space debris, the wrong angle... It was rare, but happened, hence the need for the hull-repair caste in the first place. The total conversion sail normally blocked debris, converting all particles of the stellar winds as well as all meteorites to reflected photonic energy to propel us. But we were slowing as we approached planetfall, and a small particle at stellar speeds could have angled its way past.
The dame who sat before me wasn't buying it, and I was having trouble concentrating on her story instead of her looks. She had long blonde hair, red lips, a large natural sapphire set in the ring on her finger, and the sort of upper body that in Earth-bound times would be called antigravity. Certainly, she would need special supports for the front of her chest whenever she did the daily 1G exercises.
I tore myself away from her chest. "You say you suspect foul play, but what's a hull-scraper to you? You're obviously a girl from an officer-caste family." The crew-castes typically had more practical physical attributes, even on their women.
"He always treated me right. He'd been saving up his money, planning for his future. Then started spending it on me. He always took me to nice places, bought me nice things. Two days ago, he was a nervous, furtive wreck. Of course, I suspected something, but I never expected his proposal. He popped out this ring, and of course I said yes." She waved the enormous sapphire in front of me.
Tears came to her eyes. "Then the next day, my man, headless on the hull! We were going to pool our savings, make planetfall together, start a new life! And he's gone!"
She sobbed onto my desk. At the talk of her savings, my eyes lit up. This one could pay. After giving her a minute to regain her composure, I launched into detective mode. "You're a beautiful girl. Any jealous ex-suitors? Protective parents who think you could do better? I know one easy way to end an engagement."
She shook her head. "I'm a good girl, but I'm no fool. I didn't show anyone the ring till his head was blown off. My parents didn't know. No one knew. We were going to elope, quietly together, and leave this life behind."
"Any funny business he was involved in? The fella seems to have more money than your average hull-scraper," I said, staring pointedly at her ring.
"All I know is that he treated me right, and every crew member we met together treated us friendly."
I sighed. "Perhaps you should've hired me before you said yes, you know. You can't get a rock that big on a hull-scraper wage. But speaking of cash, my fee is 1000 shipscrip in advance, 2000 more on completion. Pay up, and let's head over to his place and see what he's left behind."
She slammed a handful of hundos on the table like she was trying to slap me in the face with them. Standing and tossing her head contemptuously, she began to walk out. "Let's go, Sherlock," she said without looking at me. I grabbed my hat and followed.
His berth was locked, but opened to her thumb. Officer's override, or had he given her the keys? I wondered. I stepped inside and beheld a spartan setting. Unmade bed, equipment locker with suits and tools, not a book or note in sight. Not a lot of leads. I looked in the suits. I looked in the tools. I looked under the bed. Nothing.
Something caught my eye as I stood up. The light reflected off one panel in the bulkhead, more than typical on a roughed up old ship. It was much the same as its neighbors, but cleaner... smoother. I gave it a sharp rap with the palm of my hand, and it tilted open.
Inside were a couple neatly packed decks of cards, and some grey contact lenses of the type worn hullside to protect one's eyes from high-energy sail conversion photons. I opened up a pack and thumbed through it. 52 cards, usual suits and ranks, good as new. No notes, no marks, no order.
"Big into card games, your boy?" I asked.
"Not around me, but that's not unexpected. I remember a crewmate slapping him on the back and congratulating him on last night's game. Maybe it was cards. I don't think he said."
I thought a bit, then played a hunch. I riffled through the pack and watched the backs. No movement, all the same. I pulled out the Ace of Spades and the Seven of Diamonds, turned them over, and compared the backs line-by-line. Identical.
I looked at the contact lenses and remembered something. I grabbed one and slid it over the back of the Ace of Spades, looking. Just a grayish circle, moving over the card. Nothing. But then I hit the central strip. Jackpot.
Under the lens, the red pattern on back was greyed... mostly. But certain parts showed through as red as a planetary sunset. Simple marker. One slash on the top left of the central strip. One slash in the bottom right. For the ace? \/ in the top right of the central strip. /\ in the bottom left of the central strip. For the spade, no doubt.
"Narrow-wavelength inks. Card marks invisible without narrowband lenses. Your boy was a card sharp," I said to her. She raised her eyebrows. I could see I was well on the way to earning the rest of my fee.
My next port of call was the crew gambling den that evening. Technically illicit, but tolerated. Crew had to blow off steam somehow, and the officers looked the other way. I knew the password, though I never played. I knocked, and at the "Hello?" replied, "Kitty."
The door opened and I walked in. Blackjack was on my left, poker was on my right. Two rough-looking crewmen played dice at a table to the side. Then one of the burlies looked me over, and yelled, "A flatfoot! You ain't welcome here!"
He leapt at me, his fist swinging straight at my head!
Murder on the Stellar Schooner by Brian Heming (part 1)
His head had been blown clean off, as he worked in the lee of the foresail.
A dead crewman of the hull-repair caste normally excited no investigation. A freak meteorite, a bit of space debris, the wrong angle... It was rare, but happened, hence the need for the hull-repair caste in the first place. The total conversion sail normally blocked debris, converting all particles of the stellar winds as well as all meteorites to reflected photonic energy to propel us. But we were slowing as we approached planetfall, and a small particle at stellar speeds could have angled its way past.
The dame who sat before me wasn't buying it, and I was having trouble concentrating on her story instead of her looks. She had long blonde hair, red lips, a large natural sapphire set in the ring on her finger, and the sort of upper body that in Earth-bound times would be called antigravity. Certainly, she would need special supports for the front of her chest whenever she did the daily 1G exercises.
I tore myself away from her chest. "You say you suspect foul play, but what's a hull-scraper to you? You're obviously a girl from an officer-caste family." The crew-castes typically had more practical physical attributes, even on their women.
"He always treated me right. He'd been saving up his money, planning for his future. Then started spending it on me. He always took me to nice places, bought me nice things. Two days ago, he was a nervous, furtive wreck. Of course, I suspected something, but I never expected his proposal. He popped out this ring, and of course I said yes." She waved the enormous sapphire in front of me.
Tears came to her eyes. "Then the next day, my man, headless on the hull! We were going to pool our savings, make planetfall together, start a new life! And he's gone!"
She sobbed onto my desk. At the talk of her savings, my eyes lit up. This one could pay. After giving her a minute to regain her composure, I launched into detective mode. "You're a beautiful girl. Any jealous ex-suitors? Protective parents who think you could do better? I know one easy way to end an engagement."
She shook her head. "I'm a good girl, but I'm no fool. I didn't show anyone the ring till his head was blown off. My parents didn't know. No one knew. We were going to elope, quietly together, and leave this life behind."
"Any funny business he was involved in? The fella seems to have more money than your average hull-scraper," I said, staring pointedly at her ring.
"All I know is that he treated me right, and every crew member we met together treated us friendly."
I sighed. "Perhaps you should've hired me before you said yes, you know. You can't get a rock that big on a hull-scraper wage. But speaking of cash, my fee is 1000 shipscrip in advance, 2000 more on completion. Pay up, and let's head over to his place and see what he's left behind."
She slammed a handful of hundos on the table like she was trying to slap me in the face with them. Standing and tossing her head contemptuously, she began to walk out. "Let's go, Sherlock," she said without looking at me. I grabbed my hat and followed.
His berth was locked, but opened to her thumb. Officer's override, or had he given her the keys? I wondered. I stepped inside and beheld a spartan setting. Unmade bed, equipment locker with suits and tools, not a book or note in sight. Not a lot of leads. I looked in the suits. I looked in the tools. I looked under the bed. Nothing.
Something caught my eye as I stood up. The light reflected off one panel in the bulkhead, more than typical on a roughed up old ship. It was much the same as its neighbors, but cleaner... smoother. I gave it a sharp rap with the palm of my hand, and it tilted open.
Inside were a couple neatly packed decks of cards, and some grey contact lenses of the type worn hullside to protect one's eyes from high-energy sail conversion photons. I opened up a pack and thumbed through it. 52 cards, usual suits and ranks, good as new. No notes, no marks, no order.
"Big into card games, your boy?" I asked.
"Not around me, but that's not unexpected. I remember a crewmate slapping him on the back and congratulating him on last night's game. Maybe it was cards. I don't think he said."
I thought a bit, then played a hunch. I riffled through the pack and watched the backs. No movement, all the same. I pulled out the Ace of Spades and the Seven of Diamonds, turned them over, and compared the backs line-by-line. Identical.
I looked at the contact lenses and remembered something. I grabbed one and slid it over the back of the Ace of Spades, looking. Just a grayish circle, moving over the card. Nothing. But then I hit the central strip. Jackpot.
Under the lens, the red pattern on back was greyed... mostly. But certain parts showed through as red as a planetary sunset. Simple marker. One slash on the top left of the central strip. One slash in the bottom right. For the ace? \/ in the top right of the central strip. /\ in the bottom left of the central strip. For the spade, no doubt.
"Narrow-wavelength inks. Card marks invisible without narrowband lenses. Your boy was a card sharp," I said to her. She raised her eyebrows. I could see I was well on the way to earning the rest of my fee.
My next port of call was the crew gambling den that evening. Technically illicit, but tolerated. Crew had to blow off steam somehow, and the officers looked the other way. I knew the password, though I never played. I knocked, and at the "Hello?" replied, "Kitty."
The door opened and I walked in. Blackjack was on my left, poker was on my right. Two rough-looking crewmen played dice at a table to the side. Then one of the burlies looked me over, and yelled, "A flatfoot! You ain't welcome here!"
He leapt at me, his fist swinging straight at my head!
TO BE CONTINUED at brianheming.substack.com
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