The first thing Pakchikt did, after securing a fast ship from his government, was to get pictures of B-4ST327R. He did this by remotely searching the employee database of Apical Mining and Recycling Company of Ordoron.
He was already on the way toward the system within which Ordoron orbited. His government ran the assassination guild Pakchikt belonged to, which also provided him with training, contracts, contacts, ships, weapons, trade goods and a bank account, data, and personal needs. Pakchikt’s government’s subspace net of informants - “subspace” is used here in similar slang as the phrase “black market” - included a recently bent Apical employee corrupted specifically for this job. This employee not only provided still and moving pictures, but B-4ST327R’s entire profile, which was quite large. The creature was very long-lived, and liked to be called “Buster”.
Pakchikt stared at the recording which he’d chosen as the best representation of the animal. Buster was picking up crates stacked in a staging area and loading them onto a type of moveable stage. They had something similar to this on the assassin’s planet. Moving goods was pretty much the same on every advanced planet. The moving picture showed the thing in motion, so Pakchikt memorized a search image to increase the likelihood of noticing the mammal before it saw and started to wonder about him. Noticing it first would be ideal, since his species was quite remarkable to most other beings, and not easily missed. Also, there was always the very slight chance that someone might figure out his plot and tip off his prey.
The second was a close up still image of the face. The creature was plain by the standards of its kind. The alien’s outer covering had only one basic color, a light brown, which resembled a certain native peat plant of his planet which Pakchikt was particularly fond of grazing on. It had hair, as so many creatures did. This hair was brown and its growth seemed restricted to its head, not its face, ears, throat, or the back of its hands. The eyes were brown as well. Two eyes, two nostrils - not obvious ones, beneath a protrusion - one mouth, two ears: a symmetrical appearance.
Pakchikt studied again the moving pic. Two arms, two legs, five digits on each hand, and, he reasonably presumed, on each foot. Pakchikt called up data on human anatomy and so checked the body parts with their descriptions and names as he memorized the features. “Cheeks”, now that was a fun word, though impossible to say. Pakchikt’s mouthparts could not, though the databank pronounced the word for him in “English”, the creature’s native language.
“Again,” he demanded.
“Cheeks.”
Very funny!
Pakchikt always enjoyed learning about his quarries. He’d studied alien cultural anthropology to supplement his work for the government. There’d been choices, and he’d chosen alien cultural anthropology because he’d thought the hunt would be more stimulating were he able to track and kill his targets using their own innate behaviors and anatomical differentia rather than a more blunt approach. Pakchikt’s skills had made him something of a celebrity. No, not a celebrity, more like a venerable character among his peers and the up-and-comers. Often, though, his handlers warned him to get the job done efficiently, and gave him a tight timeline, since he tended to do too much studying and not enough killing of the prey in a timely fashion. Clients tended to get antsy.
The assassin traveled for many of his planet’s rotations, eventually nearing Ordoron. A mature species, Ordorons lived on a planet supporting many orbital stations, and they did a brisk business. Their primary business seemed to be building and servicing large vessels.
Business must be booming. The ships were mostly gigantic miner-recyclers, some enormous passenger transports, with many smaller transport vessels whipping among the orbiters and to and from the planet itself. Pakchikt enjoyed the intricate ballet as his ship communicated its I.D. to their traffic control monitors, received directions, and altered its course the assigned moorings.
The ship settled into its berth as Pakchikt read the ship-translated instructions on conduct for both the orbital and the planet. Once he indicated his understanding of what was expected of him, he was allowed to disembark into the station, which was functional, but not pretty. Plenty of metal, plastic, and other recycled products dominated the construction.
Pakchikt walked rapidly to the line of aliens waiting to be sent through the biological (pathogens) and security (weapons) scanners. His curved, segmented legs moved in waves, his iridescent grays and blues shimmered in the artificial light. On all hundred “feet”, Pakchikt was short, but long, and somewhat wide. He was ventrally concave and dorsally convex. His mass was approximately a quarter more than those creatures who seemed most proportionately exhibited in the orbital, presumably, the Ordorons. They were all labor types, male and female, with a few supervisory types scattered here and there. They wore sturdy protective clothing and smelled of long periods spent cooped up in ships. Even ships with state-of-the-art scrubbers managed to permeate their biological members with that peculiar odor. Some smelled more pungently than others. Pakchikt’s olfactory senses were acute, but he was not offended. His ancestors had lived their entire lives in offal and muck, after all.
Once in line, he affected an upright posture, but kept his head somewhat below the average head height of the Ordorons represented in the line. This caused him to bend in an exaggerated curved shape. Most of the others turned to give him the quick once-over. His scimitar-like mouthparts gave a few of them some concern, but after all, the scanners had let him land and disembark, so he couldn’t be a criminal type. You never knew, though, mistakes had occasionally been made.
The line moved quickly. Ordorons and a few alien types lined up behind Pakchikt. The one directly behind spoke to him. Pakchikt’s translator, belted around his mid-segments, translated into the receptors in his inner auditory canals.
“You’re an interesting looking creature. Haven’t seen your kind around here.”
Pakchikt turned, careful not to touch the poison tips of his mouthparts against the Ordoron’s chest, throat, or face.
“I am Pakchikt,” his translator pronounced clearly, having already accessed the database regarding Ordoron language. “This is my first time into your space.”
“Well, welcome, then. Can I help you find anything?”
“In fact, yes. I’m looking for a bar. For those like us, you know, who work for a living?”
“Of course. When we’re done here, you come with me.” The Ordoron nodded. “I’m headed for one myself.”
Pakchikt lowered himself and walked through the scanners. By the time his front was cleared, his hind had yet not gone in. Once through, another machine gave him a pass. He pressed the tag onto one of the segments on his ventral side below the fierce pincers, while he reared up again to just below the Ordorons’ average height.
“C’mon, Pak,” the Ordoron said as he stuck his own pass to his clothing, “Let’s get that drink. My name’s Kortinkaemanur, by the way. Kort for short.”
They walked in companionable silence to a nearby bar. Together they entered, and Kort wondered aloud how Pak would like to arrange himself, as far as the seating went. Pakchikt demonstrated. Then Kort chose a stool at the bar after pushing away the one beside his choice to make room for his new companion.
Pakchikt settled in next to him, in the exaggerated ‘s’ curve he’d shown Kort a minute ago. Kort ordered for himself and proceeded to discuss the various available drinks with Pakchikt, while the server provided several small samples until the insectoid creature decided on one. They sat and drank while Pakchikt listened to the story of Kort’s latest recycling run, which was not as boring as you might think.
“Here I am babbling on about myself, not letting you get a word in sideways,” Kort said after a while. “Tell, me, brother beast, what are you all about?”
“Well,” Pakchikt pulled some mouthparts out of his drink and made soft clicking noises while the translator spoke for him, “I’m looking for a particular alien worker for a client. I’m a headhunter for a jobs agency. T
his alien has some skills the client needs for a mining operation. The client wants to rent the alien, who is a slave of Apical, for a time, so I’m here to talk to Apical about a possible contract.”
Pakchikt contorted himself a bit to get the pointed end of one of his many limbs into his pack. He plucked out a device displaying the still pic of Buster’s face and handed it over to Kort.
Kort stared at the image for a short while.
“Can’t say that I’ve met this one.”
He scanned faces around the bar. “There’s Jernod, from personnel. Hey, Jern!”
The Ordoron named Jern waved, made his way over to Kort, and stood next to him eyeballing Pakchikt.
“Kort, good to see you. Who’s your friend?”
“Jern, this is Pak.”
“Good to make your acquaintance, Pak. You’re quite an unusual fellow.”
“Thank, you, Jern.” Pakchikt’s translator said. “I’m pleased to meet you as well.”
“Jern,” Kort said, “Pak is looking for a slave owned by Apical. Do you recognize this one?”
Jern took the photo.
“Why would you be looking for this, Pak?” Jern asked politely.
“A client of my company desires a temporary contract for the use of this slave in a mining operation. The being has the needed skills.”
“I understand. Do you have some identification I might take with me to the informer? I’m afraid I’ll have to check your credentials before I can comment further.”
You haven’t commented at all, Pakchikt thought to himself, careful to bypass the interior translator pickup. He contorted himself once again, retrieved a data packet from his purse, and handed it to Jern.
“Of course I comprehend,” Pakchikt said to Jern. Agents in his government would pretend to be the jobs agency for him. The packet would connect Jern to them, and Apical could check out the fake agency on any legal roster - it would be there. The dummy company was a long-standing cover, as were many others.
Kort and Pakchikt continued to drink. A three-piece band was setting up with their musical instruments on a small stage in the corner. They tuned and tinkered.
Pakchikt felt calm, and what there was of the lighting began to blur. The noise blended most melodically. He peered at Kort and noticed that the Ordoran’s neck muscles had relaxed. His head was dipping toward his drink on the countertop, which was made up of multicolored, recycled material.
When Jern returned and spoke, Kort’s head bobbed back up. His eyes were watering.
Sorry, Kort, didn’t mean to startle you,” Jern gently gripped Kort’s shoulder. “Here’s your kit, Pak,” he said, handing back the packet. “You check out and the Company confirmed a potential contract, provided all legalities are satisfied, of course. But the choice of whether to do the work is up to Buster, since she’s only still a slave by choice or omission. She worked out her contract, you understand? She only has to pay the Company some profit, and they’ll let her go, but she’s continued on the same. So I boosted a message to her ship, which she’ll receive in time, I can’t tell you how much time. Wouldn’t want you to calculate the distance and possibly the region and go harass her. We protect our personnel. If she’s interested, she’ll contact you. You’re welcome to stay here on this orbital and wait if you like, meet with the lawyers and work out the details.”
“This is very kind of you, Jern. I appreciate your time and effort. And Kort, you as well. You’ve both made my job somewhat easier.”
“My pleasure, but now I must leave you. It’s been a pleasure serving you, Pak. Goodnight, Kort.”
Kort mumbled something and managed a wave.
Pakchikt clicked his mandibles at the bartender. “Friend,” he said, “Kort here seems quite numb. Is a safe place nearby where I can take him so that he may sleep off his intoxication?”
“Oh, don’t worry about Kort,” the bartender said. “He’ll snap up in a while and take himself off to his dorm. But you need a bunk for the night, eh? If you go out the bar and turn right… ” and he gave Pakchikt directions. Pakchikt thanked him and paid for both his and Kort’s drinks, and made his way out.
Pakchikt turned right and flattened out on all hundred because the foot traffic seemed light and he felt sure he wouldn’t trip any of the tall ones. He found the bunkhouse the bartender had mentioned, skittered over to a shadowy spot and paused for a while, keeping an eye on the passersby.
After some time passed, he moved back toward his ship’s berth and plugged his I.D. pack into the port in the wall beside the hatch. When the machine was satisfied, the hatch slid opened and he entered the tube. His ship stood open, but he knew security was tight, though thoroughly hidden. The station would sustain too much liability otherwise. He went into his ship and closed its hatch behind, went through the myriad undocking authorization procedures and his preflight checklist, and undocked. Flying with care, he transversed the bay, cleared the structure, and headed out to open space. He piloted the ship straight away as the computer worked on decoding the path of the message Jern had sent to Buster. His equipment was tricky this way. It was able to override Ordoron security even when physically removed from their system, and could track the path of the message through space from one signal booster to the next. Pakchikt directed the ship to plot a course following the message path until the destination was found, and then to head straight for that. He increased the ship’s speed, set everything on automatic, and went to the galley for a meal. After a pleasant lunch, he took a long nap.