#
Back at my apartment in Buzzville, I waited to get the call from Black telling me that his lab-bunny Tessa had all my answers for me.
Black’s analytical teams – forensic and strategic – were unmatched by any other agency in the Coalition. I knew I could count on the vellym’s secrets being revealed – but I had little patience.
I didn’t have much to call my own, and someone wanted what was mine. That made me mad.
I wasn’t your crybaby victim type, but so much had already been taken from me in this life that I had zero tolerance for this kind of crap. There just comes a time when you draw a line in the sand.
And the idea that Sal Franklin could be involved made my blood boil all the more.
That piece of work had been a thorn in my side for years, always turning up behind shady schemes, and always managing to hide behind his lawyers, paid-off government cronies, and team of hit men.
If this situation could result in me getting my peace and quiet and Franklin finally getting taken down, then this would all be worth it.
“Broadcast, video only,” I said, and a floating holoscreen shimmered into existence, hanging in the air between my lay-back chair and the opposite wall. At the same time, the lights in the room dimmed a couple notches. A game of hoverpuck played out silently on the screen. Aldrin University was kicking the butt of my alma mater, Mars U.
I played hoverpuck my freshman year at Mars. Took a stick to the face that busted out two of my upper left molars and left me with a headache that lasted till my junior year.
Rough game.
My earbud gently chimed.
“Quince.”
“Black here. Tessa’s done with the analysis. You’ll want to see this.”
“I’m on my way.”
I shut down the game, the lights automatically came up, and I threw on a jacket on my way out.
Most people these days wore Hextrex or Billadium outerwear, but I always wore the denim. It had served people well for hundreds of years – who was I to argue with history? Besides, I looked dang good in denim.
I also insisted on driving a classic truck – a ’44 Global Motors four-ton ultra-cab retrofitted with autodrive and highway float. Today’s vehicles lacked character – and structural integrity. You never knew when you may need to plow through one of those plastic shoeboxes on a job, and old Bertha was sure to come out of that kind of engagement in one solid piece.
So what if she used pre-neutrino carbon filaments? At least she had some get-up-and-go, unlike these gutless wonders on the road these days. A little radon exhaust never hurt anyone. Well, as long as you weren’t sucking it directly out of the tail pipe.
Within a half hour I was back at DSI. Black sat me down in his office and handed me a copy of the analysis on a flatcom.
I tapped at the screen of the nearly weightless device and scrolled through the results.
“Interesting,” I muttered as I read through the data.
“Wait till you get to the end,” said Black, leaning back in his chair.
I finished the report and said, “What?”
“Read the last part again,” he said. “Out loud.”
“Ink is F-934-J Indigo Grade 4 by Shinseki Corp. So?”
“Don’t you see? The rest of the report shows that the vellym itself was produced at New Chicago on Mars, brought to Earth, then taken here to Dome 1. But that ink is only available on Ganymede. Phenolate-9, the chemical used to produce it, is banned in the inner planets because the Coalition government believes it’s damaging to terraformed environments.”
“And?”
“Well, the conclusion is simple. Since the vellym never left the Inners, the scribe was in possession of illegally obtained Shinseki Indigo. Right now, there’s only one known operation smuggling liquid contraband out of the Jovian moons.” Black tapped at his interface and a three-dimensional mug shot appeared in the middle of the room, hovering between us. “It’s Jasper Bust’s syndicate.”
I stared at the rotating image of a tan-skinned man of about forty with short white hair. His eyes were black as coal, and his left ear appeared to have been sliced off above the ear canal.
“Bust. I hate that guy.”
“So does DSI,” said Black. “We know about his operation, but we’re in the middle of a longitudinal op that’s designed to take down Bust, or at least his second in command, Victor Rado. We have no intention of blowing the investigation on a simple ink smuggling rap.”
“Fine. Thanks for the lead. I’ll see ya.”
“Wait! What are you gonna do?”
“You don’t want to know. Too much paperwork for you.”
I strode out of the office, ignoring Black’s pleas for self-restraint.
Following DSI rules was not exactly my forte.
And that’s probably why they kept hiring me for “one more job.”
READ THE REST
MORE BOOKS AT WWW.MICHAELDBRITTON.COM
All content of this anthology ©2012 Michael D. Britton/Intelligent Life Books
All rights reserved.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends