Pet Noir (25 page)

“Hi,” Devin said, leaning across the red-edged black counter to grin at her.

She was dressed in gold satin tunic and pants with green piping and those knotty fastenings up one shoulder. She glanced at Devin with a smile, but it was kind of a harried one.

“Got any spring rolls tonight?” Devin asked.

Ling2 shook her head. “Ran out of the wrappers. This morning's shipment didn't come in, so we're out of a lot of stuff,” she said, looking annoyed. “Could make you some lo mein?”

“No, I need something portable,” Devin said.

I walked across his feet. That's what they have the little paper cartons for, I yelled at him silently.

Unfortunately, psychic communication is not our strong suit. Devin didn't order anything from Ling-Ling's, though he chatted Ling2 up a little, sympathizing about the missed shipment.

“Hope tomorrow's comes in OK,” he said.

“Me, too,” said Ling2, “or I'm going to have to go through Galactic Express, and they charge an arm and a leg! I'll have to raise my prices.”

Devin told her goodnight and moved on to the Mex-Sector stand. They were out of stuff too. He settled for a taco-wrap from Mex Sector and ate it as we walked back to the apartment. I snarfed up the crumbs as they hit the deck. At home, he turned to me.

“What were you doing in Pulsar, anyway?”

“Just cruising. Butch wanted to go.”

Devin tossed the crumpled paper from his wrap at the wastebasket in the corner. It bounced off the trash already piled in there. I went over and proceeded to lick the taco grease and stray bits of cheese off the paper.

“You sure it was Skanecutter you saw in there?”

“Positive.”

“Hm.”

Devin lay back on his bed, fully clothed. Taking my nap suggestion seriously, he was soon sawing logs. I finished cleaning up the taco paper, then pulled apart the laundry pile, spreading it into a comfy bed for my own nap.

At oh-three-fifteen we were back at Pulsar. The bouncer this shift was a mungo.

While Devin was flashing his security badge and talking his way out of the cover charge, I slipped between him and the mungo and went on into the club. It was already starting to fill up. Chief Wright was there, at a ringside table toward the back, a good place from which to observe the crowd coming in. I made my way over to him and jumped in his lap.

“Oh—er, hi Leon.”

He gave me a few hesitant pats, the way a first-time uncle pets his newborn niece or nephew. I got a kick out of making him uncomfortable, but I didn't want to jeopardize my bonus so I jumped down again and curled up by his feet.

Dev wandered up and sat down long enough for the chief to buy him a beer. A dancer came over to wiggle in front of them for a while. She was a hopper, her green skin set off by a fluorescent yellow bikini with red spots.

Why hopper girls wear bikinis when they don't have any tits is beyond me. Maybe it's just convention, or maybe club rules. Anyway, she was not much of a distraction for Devin and the chief. They were busy talking strategy and throwing suspicious glances at the customers coming in. Finally the hopper figured out there were no tips forthcoming, and wriggled off to bug somebody else.

As the club filled up, the music picked up tempo and volume. Ralph and Sheila came in. Sheila was looking cranky, but Ralph looked pretty cheery. This was his regular shift, and he was the type who would enjoy Pulsar. The chief sent them and Devin off to different parts of the club, with instructions to keep an eye on the patrons.

Yeah, right.
That
was going to work. Devin was already distracted. A tanned blonde dancer with legs up to her ears had zoned in on him, and he had a silly grin plastered on his face.

I was going to have to keep a sharp lookout because the rest of the team, except maybe Sheila, were not going to be at their best in here. Deciding to fortify myself before Firefly came out, I ducked under the tables to run crawfish patrol. Found a few fries and some onion rings that had been stepped on, took a pass and kept looking, then scored a whole crawfish someone had dropped. I gobbled it down and felt ready to take on the job.

When the show finally started I came out and cruised the club, watching the clientele. As before, there were those who hooted and hollered, and those who just stared. I paid closer attention to the latter. Some, including Devin, were just watching quietly, but others had the slack-jawed, glassy-eyed look that I'd seen on Albert in the conference room.

I sat down next to Devin and put a paw on his knee, carefully poking a single claw through his nullsuit, just enough to get his attention. He shot me a dirty look.

“What?”

I jumped on his lap and stuck my head next to his ear. With Firefly's music throbbing, no else one would hear me.

“See that guy in the blue clingsuit? And the one by the stage with long hair?”

“Yeah,” Devin said.

“Remind you of anything?”

Devin was silent for a minute, then he absently ran a hand down my back. “Yeah, I see what you mean. But it could just be the music and the flashing lights.”

I glanced at Firefly, who was going like a zipball game by now. “Exactly,” I said. “It's sending some of these guys into hypnotic trance.”

I kept scanning the crowd, and noticed that not only were the glassy-eyed ones without exception male, they were also all human. Granted, humans probably made up over half the crowd, but there were plenty of others in there, and I didn't spot a one of them who was zoning like some of the homo sapiens crew. Well, hard to tell with hoppers, but still.

I leaned toward Devin's ear again. “Get a load of the chief.”

“Hey, quit it,” he said, brushing me away. “That tickles.”

I backed off and watched him look over at Chief Wright. Seemed our fearless leader was susceptible to hypnosis. He was staring slack-jawed at the Firefly, and looked like he wouldn't have noticed a bomb going off in his French fries.

“So, what?” Devin said, his gaze drifting back to the Firefly, “they go into a trance and wander under the bushes to sleep it off? It doesn't make sense.”

“Nope, it doesn't,” I agreed.

There had to be more going on. I kept watching the crowd, trying to memorize the faces of all the zoned-out guys. If one of them turned up missing, my theory would be confirmed.

Firefly wound her show up to a high-speed, spectacular climax. She struck a final pose, then went dark as the music suddenly ceased. The crowd roared. I peered at the stage, able to see her dim shape hurrying straight offstage.

She wasn't pulling guys out of the crowd, then. She zoned them out, but something else happened to them after that.

The lights came up and regular dancers took the stage again as the normal music started up. Devin got up, caught Sheila's eye, and strolled over to her. I followed, and Stan joined us.

“Anyone see anything unusual?” Devin asked.

They shook their heads. Then Sheila piped up.

“Hey, where's the chief?”

Devin's head turned toward the chief's table and he frowned. Being on the floor, I couldn't see squat. The team started en masse toward where the chief had been sitting, and I got a bad feeling in my gut. Could be the crawfish, but I didn't think so. I took a shortcut under the tables.

A half-finished beer sat in front of the chief's empty chair. I jumped up on the chair and sniffed around, smelled the chief's cologne and the general funk of sweaty nightclub customers, but nothing else.

Devin snagged a waitress and Stan went to check the john. No luck. The mungo bouncer hadn't seen him leave, either.

Devin made a call to HQ. Absent the chief, he took charge of the team and led us through a curtained doorway to the backstage. We were greeted by a high-pitched, feminine squeal.

“Security!” Devin said loudly, brandishing his ID. “Everyone stay where you are!”

We were in a narrow, dark and stuffy hallway. Two dancers flattened themselves against the wall and stared with frightened eyes. Devin threw a door open, evoking more squeals from inside. Lights and mirrors—looked like a dressing room. Devin nodded to Sheila to check it out, then sent Stan down the hall.

Another door, another dressing room. This one was empty, though the lights were on. Devin was about to turn away when I heard a vague sound from the back of the room. I growled and started toward it. Devin stayed in the doorway, frowning, while I prowled around the wall toward the closet.

“Anyone here?” he called.

A sudden rustling was followed by a naked woman half-stumbling out of the closet. She was petite, with short brown hair and a face that would have been pretty if it didn't look so weary. Took me a second to realize I was looking at the Firefly.

“Oh, geez,” Devin said, turning away. “Ah—you want to put on a robe or something?”

Funny, he hadn't been embarrassed to stare at her when she was on the stage. Humans have wacko hangups.

Firefly took a robe down off a hook and put it on, then sat down at the counter. Vases of flowers were crammed to either side of a large mirror, dozens of notes pasted on the wall around it. Firefly gazed dully at Devin, her face tired and sad.

“Ah—um—” Devin said.

I shot him a look intended to suggest that he pull himself together. Stan joined us and with a shake of his head informed us that the chief hadn't been behind farther down the hall.

“Er, ma'am?” Devin said. “By any chance, have you seen Chief of Security Wright?”

The Firefly's eyebrows twitched. “Who?”

Something was tickling my nose. I glanced toward Firefly's closet, then started easing my way over there while Devin continued to ask questions. There it was again—a hint of the chief's cologne!

I let out a yowl and ran into the closet, sniffing all around the floor. The smell of cologne was strongest at the back. I started scrabbling at the baseboard, looking for an opening. Devin came in and thumped on the wall, which gave a hollow sound. After some fumbling he got it to swing open.

Darkness. Devin stepped through the door.

“Hello? Chief?”

His voice echoed. I went in, hurrying away from the light and straining to see. The room was gigantic, and I could see cargo containers marked “Galactic Express” at the far end.

“It's the Galactic Express warehouse,” I said.

Nearby was a shape that looked like a dentist's chair. Must have been owned by a very bad dentist, because it had restraining straps. I jumped onto the seat, which was warm and held a hint of the chief's cologne. I let out a low, unhappy howl.

Devin turned his flash on, spotlighting the chair and a few other bits of furniture and equipment around it. I hopped down, following the chief's scent toward the back of the warehouse. In the distance I heard a door slap shut.

“Devin,” I yelled. “Send someone to cover the front entrance!”

I ran, following the scent to a closed door. Stood up on my hind legs and punched at the controls, but it was locked. Devin caught up and slid his security ID into the override slot. I made a mental note to request one of those as the door opened, then I heard the buzz that precedes discharge of a stunner.

“Get down, Dev!”

He ducked, and two high-charge bolts slammed into the wall where his head had been a second before. Before the stunner could charge up again, Devin and I dashed down a hallway and found ourselves in the front offices of Galactic Express.

“Freeze! Security!” Devin yelled, bring up his own stunner.

Three struggling figures swayed in the middle of the reception area. Devin strode toward them, even as the front door burst open and Stan and Sheila stepped in.

“You're surrounded!” Devin shouted. “Hold still!”

They held still, sort of. One of them slid to the floor. I hurried over and confirmed that it was the chief, in a zoned-out stupor but otherwise no worse for wear.

The other two put their hands up. One, a weasely guy in a dingy green nullsuit, looked nervous. The other was a big jock in a Galactic express flightsuit. His face was expressionless.

“OK, against the wall, you two,” Devin said. Now.”

I went over and licked the chief's face, trying to wake him up. No good, he was deep under. Just like good old Albert.

Devin called for backup. The team combed the warehouse and Pulsar, but except Firefly, who came willingly, we didn't pick up anyone else. There were more involved, though. Lots more.

It was Firefly who helped us sort it all out. She'd been a pawn, it turned out. Not only were the Galactic Express goons using her to pinpoint candidates for rapid, deep-induction hypnotic programming, they were using her to do the programming itself, her flashing abdomen being a remarkably effective tool. Between that and her shows, she hadn't had much sleep lately.

She got immunity in return for testifying. Really, she was a victim, as much as any of the poor slobs who fell for her.

“But what were they programming them to do?” Elsa asked over a five course gourmet meal at Ling-Ling's.

The chief glanced at Devin. Dev popped a fried wonton in his mouth and crunched it, then grinned.

“Setting up a coup. They wanted a monopoly on Gamma's shipping contracts, and they damn near got it. They'd already succeeded in disrupting Tristar's shipments.”

The crooks from Galactic had programmed Albert to cancel all shipments from Tristar Transport, which he'd done before reporting to the bushes for his snooze. That was what had screwed up Ling2's supply order. Skanecutter, who turned up sweetly sleeping on a sofa in the port's outgoing passenger lounge, had been hypnotically prepped to give Galactic Express preference in scheduling new shipments.

“They got greedy, though,” Devin added as he spooned some shrimp in lobster sauce onto the plate Leila and I were sharing. “When the chief came into Pulsar they should have laid low, but they saw he was responsive to Firefly's induction and thought they'd hedge their bets. They almost got away with it, too.”