Yet another aborted attempt at a sci-fi novel.
The Space Detective
By C. Randall Nicholson
Xebron studied the instruments for the fifteenth time in three minutes, but the object up ahead still failed to register on them. He looked back out into space and there it still was, growing larger by the second, no longer mistakable for a star or planet. It was something made by intelligent life, he was certain of that now. And his ship's scanners were the best available; if it could fool them, its creators were something to be reckoned with. His throat tightened ever so slightly.
Then again, he thought, it could be a hallucination. He'd been careful on this voyage, but one never knew. It could even be a flashback, but he doubted that. It wasn't nearly exotic enough.
“Computer,” he whispered.
“Yes, Captain,” it said in its sultry feminine purr that always gave him goose bumps. “Why are you whispering?”
“No reason,” he said, raising his voice. He didn't want to admit, even to a computer, that the thing out there was giving him the heebie-jeebies. “Eh, computer, would you tell me if there's something in front of us? Besides space, I mean. Something big and metal for instance.”
“Sir,” it said, sounding miffed, “I've been scanning for the last five hours like you told me to. You can see by your instrument panels that there is nothing to report.”
“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled. “In that case, what about my brainwaves? Are they normal?”
“Your brainwaves, so far as I can ascertain, have not been normal for one of your species since at least when I was installed. However, at this moment they are as close as they have ever been.”
“Great. Thanks.” So, then, there was something there, probably, and the scanners weren't picking it up. He'd have to upgrade when they got back. If they got back. Something told him it wouldn't be easy.
Having been orphaned for as long as he could remember on a planet that wasn't his, Xebron wasn't even sure what his species was, and he had never had any burning desire to find out. He referred to himself simply as a “six-foot-four six-limbed red salamander” which is what he essentially was, aside from some anatomical, metabolic and behavioral details he didn't know or care about. Someday, though, when the sexiness of the computer's voice lost its thrill, he would look around and pick up a mate. He figured it would be simple enough and there wasn't any rush. After all, he was an interplanetary private eye, and a great one at that.
His ship was a beauty, too.
“Computer,” he said after a moment of contemplation, “hail them on the radio.”
“Hail who?”
“That thing that's in front of us.”
“Sir, we just went over this. There's nothing –”
“Right, right. Just turn on all frequencies.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
He scrutinized the object as it hove ever fuller into view. He could see now that it was a space station shaped roughly like a cube, with a pair of docking bays set into one face and an array of solar panels over its entire surface. It was dotted here and there with what could have been communications arrays. Or weapons emplacements.
“Ahem,” he began his message. “Private starship Vengeance of Justice hailing unidentified space station. I am lost and seeking shelter. Please acknowledge. Over.”
“There's no one there, sir,” the computer insisted.
“Shhh!” he hissed. But a few minutes later, it appeared to be right. Xebron tried again but was only met with silence. He got so close to the space station that he had to go into orbit while he waited. Measuring the view against his ship's speed, he mentally calculated its size and frowned. “It's far too small to be self-sufficient, and the location makes steady traffic from anywhere quite unfeasible,” he mumbled.
“What are you talking about? Do I have to tell you –?”
“Spare me,” he snapped. “If I wanted nagging I'd get a real woman.” Feeling a twinge of guilt, he added, “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted, Captain.” And there was silence once more.
He tapped his fingers on the dashboard, waiting, waiting. “Screw this,” he said finally. “I'm going in.” He broke from orbit and veered towards the nearest of the docking bays, ready for evasive action at the slightest hint of danger. “They think since they're practically invisible they can be silent, too, and we'll just ignore them. But not me. I'll just bet this is where we'll find our friends.”
Some friends, he mused. He hadn't known they existed until a few days ago. But with how much the Zuldoonian Consulate was willing to pay for their rescue, he'd be happier to see them than his own mother. He thumbed a switch and reviewed the holograms one more time, though he was sure he had them memorized. Three Zuldoonian diplomats and two civilians. Some kind of giant crab-thing, bodyguard and sidekick to the last one, a human freelance pilot.
A human. He winced in distaste. Well, it was just a job.
They settled to the floor of the docking bay, a blank room which appeared completely devoid of other ships. It also lacked the debris and stains of long-term use, looking as new as the day it was built. Only a few tools lay scattered in one spot near the door. He was relieved to see them; they meant that the atmospheric shield around the entrance, at least, was operational and he wouldn't have to get out his spacesuit.
“How curious,” purred the computer. “We seem to have landed on a very solid nothing.”
“Funny old thing, that,” Xebron agreed. “I'm going to go check it out. Send the Consulate our coordinates in case I don't make it back.”
“What could happen?” said the computer.
“I've stopped bothering to ask that,” he said as he fastened his gun belt, “because the answer is usually something not so good.” He popped the hatch and stepped out. He looked around the bay, but his initial assessment that there was practically nothing here seemed correct. Only one way to go, towards the door, and so he did. After only a few steps it opened and a robot marched out towards him.
It was a copper-colored humanoid robot of a type that looked familiar. Although he couldn't exactly place it, he relaxed. It had no weapons out and looked about as threatening as a mechanical mouse. He stopped walking and waited until it was eye-to-eye with him.
“Identification please,” it droned in a grating and slightly hostile voice, as if striving to prove him wrong.
“Just a lonely space traveler thrilled to be happening upon your little joint here,” Xebron said. “Do you suppose you could spare some fuel, and maybe a tune-up? It's a long way to the next place. Wherever that is. Oh yeah, and a map?”
“Identification please,” the robot repeated, and it seemed slightly more hostile this time. But that must have been his imagination.
“Fine, the name's Bob,” he said. “But don't tell anyone. Speaking of which, did you know your radio's busted? I tried to call you for like ten minutes.”
“Identification please,” it fairly growled.
“You want identification? I'll bloody well give you identification,” he said, whipping out his gun and aiming straight between the robot's visual processors. “I'm Xebron, private eye, and I want to see the folks you're holding in this god-forsaken hut. Now.”
[gap]
He'd kept his pill consumption to a minimum on this flight, and taken care to avoid mixing those varieties that were particularly volatile together, but one never knew. It could even be a flashback from some earlier episode, but this last he doubted.
Then again, he thought, it could be a hallucination. He'd been careful on this voyage, but one never knew. It could even be a flashback, but he doubted that. It wasn't nearly exotic enough.
“Computer,” he whispered.
“Yes, Captain,” it said in its sultry feminine purr that always gave him goose bumps. “Why are you whispering?”
“No reason,” he said, raising his voice. He didn't want to admit, even to a computer, that the thing out there was giving him the heebie-jeebies. “Eh, computer, would you tell me if there's something in front of us? Besides space, I mean. Something big and metal for instance.”
“Sir,” it said, sounding miffed, “I've been scanning for the last five hours like you told me to. You can see by your instrument panels that there is nothing to report.”
“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled. “In that case, what about my brainwaves? Are they normal?”
“Your brainwaves, so far as I can ascertain, have not been normal for one of your species since at least when I was installed. However, at this moment they are as close as they have ever been.”
“Great. Thanks.” So, then, there was something there, probably, and the scanners weren't picking it up. He'd have to upgrade when they got back. If they got back. Something told him it wouldn't be easy.
Having been orphaned for as long as he could remember on a planet that wasn't his, Xebron wasn't even sure what his species was, and he had never had any burning desire to find out. He referred to himself simply as a “six-foot-four six-limbed red salamander” which is what he essentially was, aside from some anatomical, metabolic and behavioral details he didn't know or care about. Someday, though, when the sexiness of the computer's voice lost its thrill, he would look around and pick up a mate. He figured it would be simple enough and there wasn't any rush. After all, he was an interplanetary private eye, and a great one at that.
His ship was a beauty, too.
“Computer,” he said after a moment of contemplation, “hail them on the radio.”
“Hail who?”
“That thing that's in front of us.”
“Sir, we just went over this. There's nothing –”
“Right, right. Just turn on all frequencies.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
He scrutinized the object as it hove ever fuller into view. He could see now that it was a space station shaped roughly like a cube, with a pair of docking bays set into one face and an array of solar panels over its entire surface. It was dotted here and there with what could have been communications arrays. Or weapons emplacements.
“Ahem,” he began his message. “Private starship Vengeance of Justice hailing unidentified space station. I am lost and seeking shelter. Please acknowledge. Over.”
“There's no one there, sir,” the computer insisted.
“Shhh!” he hissed. But a few minutes later, it appeared to be right. Xebron tried again but was only met with silence. He got so close to the space station that he had to go into orbit while he waited. Measuring the view against his ship's speed, he mentally calculated its size and frowned. “It's far too small to be self-sufficient, and the location makes steady traffic from anywhere quite unfeasible,” he mumbled.
“What are you talking about? Do I have to tell you –?”
“Spare me,” he snapped. “If I wanted nagging I'd get a real woman.” Feeling a twinge of guilt, he added, “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted, Captain.” And there was silence once more.
He tapped his fingers on the dashboard, waiting, waiting. “Screw this,” he said finally. “I'm going in.” He broke from orbit and veered towards the nearest of the docking bays, ready for evasive action at the slightest hint of danger. “They think since they're practically invisible they can be silent, too, and we'll just ignore them. But not me. I'll just bet this is where we'll find our friends.”
Some friends, he mused. He hadn't known they existed until a few days ago. But with how much the Zuldoonian Consulate was willing to pay for their rescue, he'd be happier to see them than his own mother. He thumbed a switch and reviewed the holograms one more time, though he was sure he had them memorized. Three Zuldoonian diplomats and two civilians. Some kind of giant crab-thing, bodyguard and sidekick to the last one, a human freelance pilot.
A human. He winced in distaste. Well, it was just a job.
They settled to the floor of the docking bay, a blank room which appeared completely devoid of other ships. It also lacked the debris and stains of long-term use, looking as new as the day it was built. Only a few tools lay scattered in one spot near the door. He was relieved to see them; they meant that the atmospheric shield around the entrance, at least, was operational and he wouldn't have to get out his spacesuit.
“How curious,” purred the computer. “We seem to have landed on a very solid nothing.”
“Funny old thing, that,” Xebron agreed. “I'm going to go check it out. Send the Consulate our coordinates in case I don't make it back.”
“What could happen?” said the computer.
“I've stopped bothering to ask that,” he said as he fastened his gun belt, “because the answer is usually something not so good.” He popped the hatch and stepped out. He looked around the bay, but his initial assessment that there was practically nothing here seemed correct. Only one way to go, towards the door, and so he did. After only a few steps it opened and a robot marched out towards him.
It was a copper-colored humanoid robot of a type that looked familiar. Although he couldn't exactly place it, he relaxed. It had no weapons out and looked about as threatening as a mechanical mouse. He stopped walking and waited until it was eye-to-eye with him.
“Identification please,” it droned in a grating and slightly hostile voice, as if striving to prove him wrong.
“Just a lonely space traveler thrilled to be happening upon your little joint here,” Xebron said. “Do you suppose you could spare some fuel, and maybe a tune-up? It's a long way to the next place. Wherever that is. Oh yeah, and a map?”
“Identification please,” the robot repeated, and it seemed slightly more hostile this time. But that must have been his imagination.
“Fine, the name's Bob,” he said. “But don't tell anyone. Speaking of which, did you know your radio's busted? I tried to call you for like ten minutes.”
“Identification please,” it fairly growled.
“You want identification? I'll bloody well give you identification,” he said, whipping out his gun and aiming straight between the robot's visual processors. “I'm Xebron, private eye, and I want to see the folks you're holding in this god-forsaken hut. Now.”
[gap]
He'd kept his pill consumption to a minimum on this flight, and taken care to avoid mixing those varieties that were particularly volatile together, but one never knew. It could even be a flashback from some earlier episode, but this last he doubted.