The Reporter (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

  She slipped down the wall until her butt rested on the floor, her head spinning with adrenaline and pain. The old Harrah drifted over to her in concern.

  Yolanda stared up at the floating creature. She could finally take a good look. The Harrah’s skin was dry, a little scaly and shrunk so tight to the body it showed dips between the ribs that surrounded its air bladder and internal organs. Yolanda had never seen a Harrah this old before.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me, just pay me,” the Harrah said. “You also look like you need medical attention.”

  The Harrah again floated over to the cabinet, her wings undulating in graceful waves. Yolanda noticed the backpack had the logo of the Orbiting Death. Was this another agent of Anna Villani? Well, if it was, it was too late to do anything about it now. She had to trust Tarat — she just couldn’t run anymore. Hell, she was barely able to stay sitting up.

  The Harrah returned, her mouth-flap holding a metal vial. “Take this for pain,” she said, putting the vial to Yolanda’s lips. Yolanda took one sip of the sickeningly sweet liquid and passed out immediately.

  • • •

  Yolanda awoke scrunched up on the cot, which was long enough for a Quyth but not quite for a Human. Her arm was in a sling and wrapped against her chest — not ideal, but it seemed secure. Her head felt fuzzy, and there was a distinctly odd taste in her mouth. Whykor sat beside her on the floor. When he saw she was awake, he passed her a flask of water. She drank gratefully.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “You’ve been here five hours.”

  She blinked. “Don’t you mean we?”

  “I have since run two errands for Doc Izzy and made sure she had compensation from an account that would not be traced back to the GFL or to you.”

  She drank more water, deeply, trying to kill the taste in her mouth. “So you guys have slush funds? I bet those come in handy for those donations you told me about at Gilliland’s office. Man, Whykor, I thought you were a goner.”

  “I was gone,” he said. “I told you, I was running errands.”

  “Not gone, a goner. As in, I thought you were dead.”

  “I am not. The Warrior had hit some key points on my body. I am still in significant pain. If I hadn’t had treatment, I would have died. But once the damage was reversed, I was able to go back to work.”

  Yolanda closed her eyes. “And that’s your ultimate goal.”

  “I am a Worker.”

  She swallowed again. “What medicine did she give me? This taste in my mouth, it’s nasty.”

  “Doc Izzy said it would kill the pain and help you heal. She does not have facilities for a full nanocyte repair to your shoulder joint. Her method will heal you just as well, but it will take a little longer.”

  She drank more water. “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

  “That is a ridiculous statement,” Whykor said. “How is damaging your shoulder making you stronger?”

  She stared at him. “Well, it’s a figure of speech.”

  “The figures do not add up. I once heard a Human say that to a Sklorno after the Sklorno had lost a leg. The injury ended her career and destroyed her ability to earn income for the only job she knew. She had to get a prosthetic and had continued complications. It did not make her stronger.”

  Yolanda rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Whykor, I won’t use that figure of speech anymore. Where is our good doctor, anyway?”

  He stared at her, and in a flash of memory, she saw the eye of the Warrior just before she plunged the crystal pick into it. She saw him falling away, dropping to a certain death on the city streets below.

  “Miss Davenport, are you all right? Your blue skin tone just lightened by a few shades.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking about those guys that attacked us. That Warrior … I kind of killed him.”

  Whykor looked away. His eye swirled with purple — Yolanda didn’t know that color.

  “I am also thinking of the crawler driver,” he said. “I had to act, Miss Davenport. I did not want to hurt him, but we struggled, and we … we were near the edge of the cliff. I hit him. He fell and then … then I pushed him.”

  Whykor’s lid closed. Now she knew: purple was a color of regret.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “They kidnapped us,” she said. “It was self-defense.”

  The eye opened, once again clear. “Yes. I know that you are correct, yet I will never forget the way he screamed as he fell or how his scream stopped suddenly when he hit a crystal outcropping. I have never taken a life before.”

  She shook her head. “Neither have I.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Yolanda’s entire job involved words: talking, interviews, writing, editing, and an endless stream of communication. It was kind of nice, for once, to just be with another sentient and say nothing at all.

  Whykor broke the moment. “Doc Izzy said your scalp will heal without a scar.”

  Yolanda touched her head and found a bandage where she’d banged into the toolbox. The bandage was warm — the nanocytes inside were doing their work. Her shoulder would heal, her head would heal, and she knew the pain in her lower back would eventually fade as well. She and Whykor had almost died, but they had made it out.

  “I think we should go,” she said. “I’d rather not be here when the doc gets back.”

  “I have taken the liberty of booking a suite at the Peking Hotel,” Whykor said. “The hotel is known for its private security force of ex-military personnel and has guaranteed secure communications.”

  She whistled. “Yeah, I’ve heard of the Peking Hotel. You sure you want to do that? Galaxy Sports Magazine won’t even let us keep protected sources there because it’s too damn expensive.”

  “I have decided that this is not a time for monitoring budgets,” Whykor said. “If the Commissioner were here to correct my decision, that would be fine, but since he is not, it seems that I am in control of discretionary spending. A secure location is a logical expenditure.”

  Did she detect a little bitterness on Whykor’s part? Froese was off somewhere in the galaxy, taking care of GFL business, and his Worker was getting throttled by Warriors and killing his own kind to stay alive. Yeah, Yolanda could see where that would make even the most dedicated employee a tad annoyed. She wished she could see the look on Froese’s face when he saw the expense report.

  “You think we’ll be seen? The Peking is great if we can get there. I know it’s a city of fifty million, but still.”

  “I have arranged transportation,” Whykor said. “The Peking is familiar with situations like this one, apparently. They are sending an unmarked wheel-truck to this building’s parking garage. We will ride in the cargo area, where there are no windows. The wheel-truck will take us to the secure parking area of the Peking, where hotel security will see us to our suite.”

  Five hours earlier, the Worker had been on the brink of death. Now here he was, taking care of business.

  “Whykor, I think you can be my reporter’s assistant any old time.”

  His eye swirled with light red, and Yolanda nearly cried — light red was the color of friendship. The Quyth did not show that color often.

  She gathered up her satchel, which had somehow survived the crazy crawler battle. They slipped into the hall and headed for the elevator.

  “Miss Davenport, you must be starving. May I call ahead and see to it that you have food waiting for you? If the hotel does not have the dish you like, I will find a way to procure it for you.”

  She was hungry. “Yes, please. I could really go for some kung pao shrimp.”

  “Shrimp,” he said. “If that is your choice, I will arrange it. What is kung pao?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s the name of some chef who invented the dish. Oh, and since price seems to be no object, do you think you can arrange for a room with a holoprojector system? I need to start drawing out all of these connect
ions, see if we can figure out how the pieces add up.”

  Whykor made a valiant attempt at a Human nod. “Of course, Miss Davenport.”

  They rode the elevator down together. They rode in silence, and neither of them seemed to mind.

  • • •

  Arrival at the Peking finally allowed Yolanda to relax.

  Three black-jacketed sentients were waiting for them in the parking garage: a Human, a HeavyG and a Ki, each tougher-looking than the last. They all had a monocle display over one eye and occasionally whispered to some unseen entity. They all had rather obvious bulges under their jackets.

  The security team took them up a service elevator straight to the top floor. There was no one in the hallway. In minutes, Yolanda and Whykor found themselves in a suite: a wide living room, a kitchen and two attached bedrooms.

  Yolanda walked around, taking in the room’s finery. A girl could get used to living like this.

  “A suite at the city’s most expensive hotel, Whykor? Isn’t Froese going to flip out when he sees the bill?”

  “Most expensive because it is the most secure,” the Worker said. “Perhaps if the Commissioner had allocated more funds for trained security personnel to join us on this assignment, we wouldn’t have to stay in this hotel at all. I am sure that next time, he will take that into his decision-making process.”

  Yolanda tried not to laugh, as laughing made her shoulder hurt. She moved toward the couch to sit, then remembered that her clothes were bloody and greasy.

  Whykor saw her pause. “I have arranged for new garments to be brought up for you, Miss Davenport. If you wish to remove the ones that you have, I will see that they are destroyed.”

  New clothes? A suite at the Peking? Yep, a girl could definitely get used to this.

  She went into a bedroom and got out of the ruined clothes. She stood in the shower and let the nanite cloud scrub her clean, taking away all the blood, dirt, grease and sweat. Hair nanites cleaned her scalp and conditioned her hair. She finally stepped out and put on a soft Peking Hotel robe.

  When she walked back into the living room, her food was waiting on the table. There were five full-sized holotanks sitting in the middle of the room, and Whykor was unpacking a box full of electronic equipment.

  “Ah, Miss Davenport,” he said. “Your stewed sea maggots have arrived.”

  She laughed. “They’re called shrimp, buddy.”

  “To the tastes of a Quyth, this must be one of the most putrid dishes ever concocted anywhere in the galaxy, but I am happy it is pleasing to your Human palate.”

  “Putrid? You guys eat living bugs, for crying out loud.”

  Whykor turned his attention back to his box of equipment.

  She sat at the table. He’d left a messageboard next to her plate, so she could get right back to work. Did he already know her that well?

  The first bite told her the shrimp was artificial, but it was pretty close. The dish wasn’t spicy at all but still tasted delicious.

  “Miss Davenport, you are pleased? It is what you wanted?”

  “It’s perfect,” she lied. “Best I’ve ever had.”

  His eye swirled with bright orange.

  “Whykor, what’s with all the gear?”

  “They did not have a full holosystem as you requested, so I am rigging you one.”

  She ate and picked up the messageboard. She felt Human again, although some of that was probably from the painkillers.

  What was their next step? No autopsy report, Joey Clark seemed out of reach, and she couldn’t exactly walk around in public. There had to be another angle here … but she couldn’t think of one.

  As a last resort, she started reading articles from other reporters who had covered the murder. She ate as she scoured the net, looking for follow-up articles, and editorials on Ju Tweedy’s escape into the arms of the Ionath Krakens and interviews with McDermot’s family. Before she knew it, her plate was empty and her belly felt so full she could barely breathe.

  Something about the articles was calling to her, but she couldn’t nail it down. Maybe something about Ju’s brother John? There was little about him, and that was no surprise — Gredok was keeping reporters away from the Krakens, unless those reporters were doing basic game reporting or pre-approved puff-pieces.

  She found one of those puff-pieces, an article from the Ionath City Gazette that talked about Ju joining his brother’s team, how their mother was moving to Ionath so that they could be one big, happy family.

  Their mother. Carol Tweedy had lived on OS1. Maybe she knew McDermot? Since she’d lived on OS1 for many years … maybe she still visited.

  “Whykor, see if you can find the address of Carol Tweedy, Ju’s mother. She used to live here.”

  “Very well, Miss Davenport.” He started working on another messageboard.

  Yolanda read more. Carol Tweedy, or “Ma” Tweedy as she was known, had raised her boys as a single mother. No details about the father, but the article spoke of the boys’ slavish dedication to their mom. She had been the president of both the Orbiting Death fan club and, of course, the Ju Tweedy fan club. She attended every home game but didn’t like to travel for away games.

  “Miss Davenport, I hope this will not fuel your primitive religious beliefs.”

  She looked at Whykor, who walked around the holotanks toward the table. “What are you talking about? I’m not religious.”

  He stood at the table. He held the messageboard out where she could see it.

  “Religion is superstition. Is not the luck you so often talk about also a superstition?”

  She looked at the readout. It was a GFL diplomatic immunity file. The name on the file: Carol Tweedy.

  “She is in Madderch,” Whykor said. “She is apparently selling her residence here. She was granted a GFL travel pass due to conflicts between the Orbiting Death and the Ionath Krakens.”

  “She’s here? Why wouldn’t Villani just snag her or something?”

  “Because of the pass,” he said. “Because Villani is the owner of the local franchise, as soon as Carol Tweedy arrived with a GLF pass, Villani is responsible for her safety. If anything were to happen to Carol Tweedy, the fines would be staggering. This policy ensures that players, staff and family members can travel on personal business, without the safety of their team, and not be threatened by the local owner. But Miss Davenport, this is coincidence — there is no such thing as luck.”

  “Whatever it is, I like it,” she said. “Whykor, get us that wheel-truck again. We need to go visit Ma Tweedy.”

  • • •

  The cargo compartment of a wheel-truck wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel, but it sure beat being tossed around in a smashed-up crawler.

  Yolanda read articles on her messageboard as the driver took them into the city’s northeast quadrant. It was supposedly a good part of town, which loosely translated to there are all species and not just Quyth Workers. Madderch was huge, granted, but fifty million people living underground meant that some parts of the city had to be densely populated. Those parts were where the millions and millions of Workers lived, packed in so tightly they lived ten or even fifteen to a tiny room, slept in alleys or milled about aimlessly on the streets.

  Many of those poor souls were unemployed. Workers without a shamakath were called kathalorr. It was a word that didn’t translate well into Human languages. Workers weren’t exactly “slaves” — the dynamic between a Worker and a shamakath was more like a serf/lord relationship from the ancient days of Earth. Without a shamakath, most Workers couldn’t do what they were bred to do: work.

  Yolanda didn’t really understand the culture. Whereas most Humans would strive for independence, to control their own destiny in some way, Workers seemed lost without a boss.

  She shook her head and focused on the article. She wasn’t here to ponder the inequalities of the Quyth culture — she was here to see if Ju Tweedy was innocent of murder.

  She read more of the puff-piece on the T
weedy family. Much of it focused on the rivalry between Ju and his older brother John.

  John Tweedy glances at his brother Ju, the innovative tattoo above his eyes betraying his thoughts. When discussing a broken lamp, the tattoo words read, ”Ma always said, ’Don’t play ball in the house,’” as he looks at his brother. Ju keeps his eyes off his brother's accusations and continues with the story, and then a pet is mentioned and the brothers almost come to blows.

  An aside: never mention ”Boxy the Turtle” within earshot of John Tweedy. This reporter still has the scar ...

  Yolanda rolled her eyes at the ridiculous phrasing but did wonder if she should investigate John Tweedy for this murder as well. She had never considered him a particularly original thinker, but McDermot’s murder could have been an elaborate plot designed to frame Ju and then let John show up as a hero and rescue him. Granted, if Ju Tweedy wasn’t strong enough to twist a woman in half, then John certainly wasn’t, but the fact remained that there was a well-documented rivalry — anyone could hire a Ki or a HeavyG thug to do the dirty work.

  The most bothersome part of this hunt was that she’d found nothing that cleared Ju of the crime. Miriam hadn’t seen someone else commit murder. Despite her claim of Villani’s orchestrations, Miriam’s statement — if it could be trusted at all — didn’t get Ju off the hook. What if Ju was behind the crime? Then Yolanda was risking her life and Whykor’s for nothing.

  The suspects: Ju, of course, but also Miriam and Anna Villani. If it was none of those three, then who? John Tweedy? Gredok the Splithead manipulating the puppets in a clever ploy to get Ju Tweedy on his team? Yolanda rubbed her temples.

  Whykor handed her a bottle of painkillers without being summoned.

  She took the bottle. “Your efficiency is impressive,” she said gratefully as she palmed some pills and chased them back with her water bottle. “You know, Whykor, if, when this is all over, you are interested in finding other work, I certainly would be able to find room for you at Galaxy Sports Magazine. My editor has been offering me an assistant for a while. I always thought one would get in the way, but you manage to do just the opposite.”