The Reporter (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

  The Leekee chittered something in Quyth. Yolanda shook her head and shrugged.

  “English?” the shopkeeper said, and she nodded.

  “Then in English, I say welcome-welcome.” He suddenly seemed to notice the Worker. “You! How did you get in here? You are drunk! Get out before I call the cops!”

  The Worker stumbled to the door and opened it, again sounding the chime. He shuffled out onto the sidewalk. The door closed behind him.

  The Leekee walked up to her. “Well, I can scarcely believe my failing eyes. Are you Yolanda Davenport from Galaxy Sports Magazine?”

  For once her semi-famous face might pay off. “That’s me.”

  “And shopping in my store.” His little arms gestured to the racks of goods. “Please, let me know if I can help you!”

  She took a quick look out of courtesy. All across civilized space, one thing most cultures had in common was that they just needed stuff: snacks, food, beverages, things for cars and apartments and homes, little items that always seemed to be out. “Convenience store” was a Human term, but a universal need.

  “I’m not here to shop,” she said. “I came to see you. I’m afraid I have to invade your privacy, just a little bit. Are you Barnacle Scraper?”

  He spread his little blue-gray arms. “I am. And you are only invading my privacy if I don’t give you permission. What is it you want?”

  “I have reason to believe you might have some security video that could help prove a sentient innocent of a murder he did not commit.”

  “A recent crime?”

  Here it was, the moment of truth. “No, the crime is a year old.”

  He stared at her, his yellow eyes blinking slowly. “A year ago. And you are a sports reporter. You are here because of the Grace McDermot murder?”

  She smiled. “That’s very good.”

  “It is nothing,” he said. “The loss of Ju Tweedy was tragic for the Death. I am a fan of the new quarterback, but I liked watching Ju run sentients over much more than watching a pretty pass.”

  She wondered how Whykor was faring. Was he even alive? Was Parmot on the way? And how long until the extraction team arrived?

  “I am sorry to be rude, but I am in an extreme hurry,” she said. “Do you think you’d have video from that long ago?”

  “Storage costs nothing,” he said. “I will have everything that happened in and out of my store that day, so the only question is if the cameras caught what it is you seek. This way.”

  Barnacle Scraper walked her into the back of the store. The place looked neat and clean, the kind of clean that takes constant work. Barnacle wasn’t the kind of sentient that let things slide — the place reeked of efficiency and ritual.

  He stood in front of a door that automatically slid open for him. Inside sat six holoscreens, three up near the ceiling and three mounted below them. The screens switched through various camera angles: the store’s front door, the aisles, behind the cash register, the bathrooms and shots from outside the store: the back alley, the front sidewalk, and …

  The image switched to another angle before she was sure. She leaned in close and pointed to a screen. “Was that the front of Grace McDermot’s building?”

  “It was.” Barnacle called up controller icons and made the holoscreen switch back to what Yolanda had seen — the front of the building across the street. “This angle is actually so we can watch the hooligans loitering out front, but it catches that building as well.”

  “And your system is time-locked?”

  “It is,” he said. “Double-verified and satellite linked. What times do you need to look at?”

  Yolanda opened her palm-up to check her notes. She found the exact time and held up her hand for Barnacle to see. “Start here, first fade of artificial dusk, please.”

  Barnacle started to move through the footage but stopped when the front-door chime sounded.

  “Customer,” he said. He pointed to the floating control icons. “That one on the left controls screen selection and camera angle — don’t touch it. The one on the middle works as a time dial — turn right to go forward, left to go back; the faster you turn, the faster the time goes. If it’s easy enough for a cop to learn this system, I’m sure you can handle it.”

  She almost couldn’t wait for him to get out of the way. She reached out and made a spinning motion with her hand. The footage shot by, a fast-forward view of grav-cabs, trucks, lev-drives and sentient pedestrians.

  And then, there he was. She stopped the playback — Ju Tweedy, entering the building. Yolanda looked at the time display: five minutes after Grace’s time of death.

  Her hand formed a fist that she shook twice. “Got it,” she hissed. “I got it!”

  She looked at the icons, searching for a download-enable. She found it, activated it, then reached to the holoscreen, made a grabbing motion, then slapped her hand against her storage bracelet. Floating lights above the bracelet blinked red, then green — the footage had downloaded.

  Yolanda laughed. Barnacle was right, the system was so easy a cop could use it.

  A cop …

  That little voice at the back of her head told her something was wrong. But what? Oh, of course! She could scan the footage before the killing and see if any of her suspects had entered. She spun the dial, watching closely. Dozens of people entered and exited the building in a hyper, fast-backward motion.

  There: Miriam. Yolanda rewound and played back at normal speed. Miriam entering the building. She wore a shirt, but the prosthetic arm looked normal. It could be any arm, though — Yolanda wouldn’t really know the difference between models.

  Yolanda checked the time code: Miriam was entering the building exactly when she said she had. Again, Miriam’s story checked out. But Miriam had said Grace’s apartment door was closed when she got to the hall and that no one had entered or left until she heard a struggle. So the killer had already been in the apartment when Miriam arrived.

  Yolanda started spinning backward again, looking for big bodies of Ki or HeavyG.

  There, the back of a HeavyG wearing an Orbiting Death jacket, entering the building. Yolanda slowed the footage, moving it through second by second.

  “Come on, you big sucker, turn around.”

  As if on cue, the HeavyG stopped and turned — she saw his face.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  She felt a cold spot of metal press against the back her head, then the voice of Barnacle Scraper.

  “You are not to move,” the Leekee said. “If you say anything, I will kill you. Remove all of your recording devices and set them in the trash below the holotanks.”

  Yolanda thought about shouting out a name, but she’d probably have a bullet in her brain before she spoke the second syllable. She slid off her bracelet and dropped it in the trash.

  “All of them,” Barnacle said. There was fear in his voice, and she understood why — he was in as much trouble as she was.

  The fact that she wasn’t already dead meant she had at least a chance to live. And if she was killed, the body and everything she had on her would be dumped anyway. She made a split-second decision: all of her recording and uploading devices went into the trash.

  “The trash can,” Barnacle said. “Pass it back, but do not turn around.”

  Yolanda did as she was told. She heard big feet smashing down, breaking plastic and bending metal.

  The stomping ceased.

  Yolanda tried to breathe. “Can I turn around now, Joey?”

  “Go ahead,” said a deep voice.

  She turned slowly, fear clutching at her stomach. The face in the holotank and the face she now looked at were one and the same — Detective Joey Clark. He had a gun in his hand, a gun pointed at her. In front of him, a blue arm twisted in his thick, HeavyG hand, was Barnacle Scraper.

  Yolanda shook her head. “You? You killed Grace McDermot?”

  Joey shrugged. “These things happen.”

  “But why?”

  “Money,
why else?” he said. “I gamble a bit. I owe Anna Villani a lot of money. Owed, I mean. I’m square with her now.”

  “And all it took was the murder of a sentient?”

  “All it took was the murder of a whore, Yolanda. Grace McDermot used everyone around her. She won’t be missed.”

  Yolanda felt so stupid. “That’s why you were first on the scene, because you were already there.”

  Joey winked.

  She tried to look at his eyes, not at the gun. “Did Anna give you the door code? Is that how you got into the apartment?”

  He nodded. “Anna owns the building. She gave me an all-access code. I was told exactly what time to be there. Anna told me that Miriam would come rushing in, and she was right.”

  “But Ju got away.”

  He shrugged. “That isn’t my problem. I did what Villani asked me to do, and I was out of my debt. Everything was fine until you wrote that article, then came digging around again.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me earlier?”

  “Because I don’t want to kill you, dammit. You’re a good person, not like McDermot.”

  She saw the look in his eyes: regretful, but still cold. “You don’t want to kill me, but you will anyway.”

  Barnacle let out a chittering sound, a sound of pure terror.

  Joey pressed the barrel of the gun against his blue head. “English.”

  “This isn’t my business,” Barnacle said. “Just let me go!”

  Barnacle panicked. He started thrashing, trying to pull free. Joey drew back the gun and brought it down hard into Barnacle’s head, dropping the Leekee to the floor.

  Yolanda saw her one chance — she stepped up and kicked Joey Clark right between the legs.

  He groaned, then backhanded her with the gun. She flew against the holoscreens and fell hard to the floor. Holofluid started dripping on her — the impact had cracked one of the screens. A wave of pain washed over her face.

  She pushed herself up, trying to ignore the pain. Joey was doubled over at the waist. Barnacle tried to rush by him, but Joey swatted out a heavy backhand that knocked the Leekee into the wall.

  Yolanda panicked: she had to get away. She ran at Joey, hoping to slip by him and into the hall, but he kicked out hard. His foot hit the front of her foreleg — she felt and heard something snap.

  She dropped, clutching her leg. The pain was overwhelming — she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Joey stood, still holding his privates. He stared down at her. “That was a good shot,” he said. “Typical of you, Yolanda. You’re a fighter, right up until the end.”

  The front-door chime sounded. Yolanda and Joey both looked up at the holoscreens. The middle one on top showed the front door. Standing in it was a Quyth Leader.

  Parmot the Insane.

  And behind him, a Worker: Whykor.

  Joey looked to his right, down the hall that led into the store and to the front door. His face went white. He had the gun at his side.

  Yolanda looked at the screen again — Parmot’s gun was still in its holster.

  “Put down the weapon, Clark,” the Leader said. “Let’s talk this out.”

  Another piece clicked into place: at the Two-Eyed Mutant, Parmot hadn’t been following Yolanda — he’d been following Joey.

  The HeavyG cop shook his head. “Talk? Kind of late for that, don’t you think?”

  Yolanda saw Whykor slide to the side and move out of sight.

  “That’s a decision you have to make,” Parmot said. “We can end this the smart way.”

  “With me in jail?”

  “Maybe your gangland connection can get you out of it,” Parmot said. “At least that’s possible — Villani can’t get you out of a coffin.”

  Joey’s hand shook just a little. Yolanda tried to sit very, very still.

  “Your gun is still in your holster,” Joey said. “So why don’t you just turn around and walk out, Parmot? You never saw any of this. Nothing has to change. You know you can’t draw that thing faster than I can point mine.”

  On the screen, Yolanda saw Parmot’s pedipalp fingers flexing. “If you’re wrong about that, Clark, that mistake will cost you your life. I won’t be aiming for your gun hand.”

  Joey’s breath came faster, shallower. Yolanda saw Joey in a second screen — she could see both cops, side by side.

  “Turn around, Parmot!” Joey said. “Just walk out!”

  “I will count to three,” Parmot said. “On three, I’m going to shoot you in the face.”

  Joey shook his head. “No! Just get out of here!”

  “One … ”

  “Parmot! Don’t make me do this!”

  “Two … ”

  Joey raised his gun. He raised it fast, with the speed and confidence of an expert, but it wasn’t fast enough. The little Quyth Leader was a blur of motion — one fraction of a second, his pedipalp hands were near his sides, and the next, he’d drawn and fired.

  Joey Clark’s head rocked back in a spray of blood and brains. His big body landed hard. It did not move.

  She closed her eyes. She heard little feet rushing in.

  “Miss Davenport!” Whykor said. “Miriam’s LifeLok showed that you were under duress. I changed tactics and talked to Parmot since it was obviously not him that was hurting you. He was following Joey Clark, not you! Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “No. I need a hospital.”

  “I will take care of it. The extraction team should be here by now. Parmot, stay with her!”

  Whykor rushed off. Parmot was talking to Barnacle Scraper. The Leekee hadn’t moved since he’d hit the wall — he was hurt as well.

  Parmot walked over. “You look horrible,” he said.

  “Thanks. And thanks for saving me.”

  “I knew Joey was bad, but I could never prove it,” he said. “I followed him here. I lost him but saw Whykor walking around outside. He ducked me for a couple of minutes, then told me you were in trouble. Good thing I got here when I did, or you’d be dead.”

  “About that,” Yolanda said. “I’m getting the hell out of Madderch. Maybe you could just let people believe I’m dead until I’m safely away? I’m tired of Anna Villani coming after me.”

  “I’ll just leave your whereabouts unknown,” Parmot said. “Means the same thing as dead around here. How would that be?”

  Yolanda’s eyes felt very heavy. “That’s fine,” she said. “Now would you be a dear and find me a pillow? I’m so tired. I think I’ll just sleep until … until the hospital … ”

  Her body had had enough. Yolanda Davenport rolled to her back as sleep took her down.

  • • •

  Yolanda had hoped that her first look into the mythical “hospital” of the Regulator would be as a journalist, not as a patient. Since she was not a football player, she figured she’d never have need to be treated there. She also never thought she’d be the target of both a dirty cop and a crime lord, so there you go.

  The interesting thing was that she’d assumed the Regulator’s hospital was that in name only, and it was a chop shop of flunked med students and drug-addicted doctors. Now, however, she knew the difference — the place was an honest-to-High-One hospital, complete with different partitions for privacy, medical equipment and doctors of all races.

  “So, people come out of here alive?” Yolanda asked Whykor, who sat in a chair by her bed, serving her dinner.

  “Some do,” he said noncommittally. “Some don’t.”

  “Some don’t?”

  “Most don’t,” he admitted. “But having legitimate doctors on staff is good for any ship of this size, and the medical bay is well stocked in case we have visitors. Perhaps you should focus on your healing and not worry about this facility?”

  She had a shattered shinbone that would take a while to repair and a cracked cheekbone that was purpling her blue skin beautifully. A week, two at the most, and she’d be good as new. Her face — that source of advantage for her chosen career — woul
d now show permanent marks.

  Commissioner Froese walked into the room. He smiled at her with his red teeth and motioned Whykor out of the chair. Whykor quickly got out of the way.

  Froese sat in the chair. “You look pretty good for a dead lady,” he said.

  “Oh, is it official?”

  “Just a rumor that you’re gone,” he said. “No one was paying attention to it until Tarat started running with it. There’s been no comment from the Madderch police and yet half the galaxy thinks you’re dead.”

  “Tarat, reporting on a rumor,” she said. “Imagine that.”

  “He’s helping,” Froese said. “You’re safe here, but there’s another level to this. We need Villani to be off guard.”

  “For?”

  Froese pointed at Whykor, then at Yolanda’s bag where it sat on a table near the wall. Whykor scrambled to fetch it. The action made Yolanda sick: both Froese’s casual and disrespectful command and Whykor’s eagerness to please. She thought of Joey Clark’s comments about the Quyth culture. Maybe this was the way Whykor wanted it.

  He brought Froese her bag. Froese pulled out her messageboard and handed it to her.

  She looked at it. “What do you want me to do with that?”

  “Write,” he said. “That is your job, isn’t it?”

  Yolanda blinked. “Now?”

  Froese raised an eyebrow. “You were thinking perhaps next week?”

  “I was thinking perhaps I would recover from my injuries first, or at least get out of this hospital that — I imagine — has a very low patient-survival rate.”

  He waved his hands. “Your hands are fine, your mind is clear of drugs, and I need this story soon. The Orbiting Death are hosting the Ionath Krakens tonight, and I will have Anna Villani, Gredok the Splithead and Ju Tweedy in the same room. It is an opportunity to put this murder thing behind us and move on with the season.”

  Was it all about him? Four sentients were dead, including one at Yolanda’s own hand, and Froese was still worried about football.

  Froese tapped the messageboard. “If you write the story now, I’ll let you be the one to tell Villani about it.”

  That sent a surge of excitement through her body. “Does she think I’m dead?”