The Tau Ceti Transmutation (Amazon) (3 page)

Perhaps I wouldn’t mind the heat so much if I dressed more similarly to Miss Meeks, but ever since embarking on my private eye gig, I’d gone on a bit of a vintage clothing kick. Call me old-fashioned, but after skimming through old vid-docs on P.I.s, I got the impression guys in my line of work needed to wear slacks and a trench coat. After carefully weighing the risks of heat stroke and stacking them against my need for credibility, I compromised by outfitting myself in a pair of pants and a guayabera, the shirt made from a delicate, lightweight Hempette blend and the pants from a heavier Linenesse.

I could tell from the look Valerie cast me she’d noticed my rather eccentric choice of wardrobe. Either that or she was sizing me up for a roll in the hay, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up after having been disappointed with the baked goods bartering miscommunication.

“It’s typical detective’s gear, if you’re wondering,” I told her.

Valerie tilted her head. “Is that so?”

“Sort of,” I said. “I improvised a little. For health and occupational safety reasons.”

“Hmm. Well, regardless, it looks good on you.”

I raised an eyebrow and my palms started to sweat again. “Really?”

“Yeah. The shirt manages to be formal and casual at the same time. It gives you a cool, professional vibe.”

I struggled to formulate a coherent thought as I absorbed Valerie’s compliment. “I…uh…”

Car’s here, lover boy,
said Paige.

The front doors winked open, and we ventured outside, through a brief patch of balmy Cetie heat and into the cool confines of the cab. Valerie and Carl settled themselves on the front-facing bench seat while I took the rear-facing one. Once we’d strapped ourselves in, the car whirred off soundlessly.

I’d never been particularly adept at making small talk, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least make an effort to engage the lovely Miss Meeks in pleasant conversation.

“So,” I said. “How’d you get into baking anyway?”

The Spandette-clad one shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve always loved it. Part of the joy comes from crafting something out of nothing with my bare hands, something people enjoy on a basic, fundamental level. But I also love the finished product. That unique sensory explosion, a mix of tastes and textures and temperatures as a freshly baked treat hits your tongue…”

Valerie paused, stared at the floor, and blinked.

After a moment, I spoke. “Is everything ok?”

Valerie lifted her head back up. “Um…yes. Sorry. I got distracted. So, how about you? How did you get into investigation?”

I leaned into the cab’s plush bench. “That’s a long, boring tale. I doubt you’d be interested in hearing it.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Valerie. “I’m sure there’s a compelling story behind it.”

I snorted. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but I assure you there isn’t. My job isn’t nearly as exciting as you seem to think it is.”

“What Rich is trying to convey,” said Carl, “is that he’s struggled to find a profession that evokes the same passion in him that baking has evoked in you.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose I can understand that,” said Valerie. “But private investigation seems like a rather odd back-up plan.”

I shrugged. “What can I say. I’ve always loved mysteries. I just expected there to be more of them in this gig, and for them to be less pet-oriented.”

Valerie raised an eyebrow, but I didn’t elaborate. Stories about my occasional cat-scapades weren’t exactly the panty-dropping tales of action and adventure women craved from potential mates.

Got that right,
said Paige.
I’d almost rather rehash your Smashblocks high scores. Almost…

Carl took the lead, quizzing our client about a few more details related to her apartment and the state of it post-break-in, but the ear which I half-lent toward the conversation didn’t pick up anything of interest. Soon enough, the car slid to a stop in front of a glossy, steel high-rise.

“This is it,” said Valerie. “I’m on the fifth floor.”

We unbuckled ourselves and followed Valerie into the residential tower, a sleek, retro-style building with polished black marble floors, chrome light fixtures, and muted grayscale paint choices. A lift zipped us up to the fifth floor, where we stopped in front of a snow-colored translucent Pseudaglas door. Valerie pressed her thumb into a small reader at the side, and the door winked open.

A vacuum bot buffed the speckled tile floor as we entered, but upon spotting us it spun off and hid in its charging alcove in the corner. Unlike the modern, austere entryway and hallways of the apartment building, Valerie’s place was warm and inviting. To my right, plush sofa chairs lounged over a thick, fuzzy rug, one with a swirled floral pattern full of bright yellows, muted oranges, and earthy browns. To my left, padded highchairs rubbed elbows at an eat-in bar outside the kitchen—a roomy, modern space filled with stand mixers and gadgets giving credence to the idea that Valerie actually prepared her own food. Light flooded into the open-concept living space, streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the entrance.

“Nice digs,” I said. “From your choice of apartment buildings, I was afraid you’d be the modern décor type.”

“Thanks,” said Valerie. “I find traditional stylings are more aesthetically pleasing even if they’re harder to maintain, but the bots take care of that, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“I don’t care much about the looks,” I said. “But I do prefer a seat to have a cushion on it. Maybe on planets that pull less than a couple Gs people can survive on unpadded chairs, but it’s an unnecessary cruelty around here.”

“So, I’m guessing you’ll want to look around?” said Valerie.

I nodded. “Carl, you want to start with the kitchen?”

“Seeing as I’m better suited to the task than you are, I probably should,” he said. “Miss Meeks, could I see your palm?”

“I suppose,” she said, extending her hand before her. “What for?”

Carl took her hand gently, glancing at each of her five fingers before releasing her. “Well, I can cycle my optical sensors to filter different wavelengths of light into my detectors. By varying the filters, I can see fingerprints on surfaces—something Rich isn’t able to do given his organic limitations. While we don’t have the authority to access fingerprinting databases, I can at least see if any prints I find in the kitchen differ from your own and later try to match those to potential suspects. Not that I expect to find any if your intruder cleaned up after him or herself. By the way, have you had any visitors recently?”

“No,” said Valerie.

“What about cleaning?” said Carl. “How often do your bots operate?”

“They’re set to run while I sleep, every third cycle, but they haven’t run since earlier this morning when I found out about the break-in,” said Valerie.

“And when was that, exactly?” I asked.

“About four hours ago,” she said.

I had to ask because traditional designations such as ‘morning,’ ‘evening,’ and ‘night,’ while still used in common speech, were something of an anachronism. Cetie’s day lasted just over 172 standard galactic hours. That didn’t pose much of a problem from the standpoint of the human circadian rhythm—people worked in eight hour shifts, and smart windows on residences performed twenty-four hour tint cycles—but it did pose a problem for plant life.

Photosynthesizing organisms transplanted from Earth didn’t exactly prosper in week-long cycles of light and dark, and due to Cetie’s high insolation, the planet’s terraformers desperately needed a thriving, tree-heavy ecosystem covering the majority of the planet’s exposed landmasses. The solution was to place six dozen enormous solar reflectors in orbit around Cetie to provide light on the planet’s backside, making night time more of a soft twilight from a visibility standpoint. Having grown up on Cetie, I found it all quite normal, but interstellar travelers always seemed amused by the regular, partial eclipses caused by the reflectors.

“Well, that’s all good,” said Carl. “If there’s any evidence from the intruder, it should still be present.”

As my old android friend wandered over to the kitchen, Valerie gestured down a corridor. “Care to join me in the bedroom?”

What a loaded question… I nodded and followed my new gal pal down the hall to her sleeping quarters, which were dominated by a king-sized canopy bed adorned with rich, velvet drapes and a puffy, overstuffed comforter that made me want to curl up and take a quick catnap. Sleek, white built-ins bookended the room.

I’ve got to hand it to you Rich,
said Paige.
This is by far the fastest you’ve ever weaseled your way into a lady’s private chamber.

I ignored her jeering as Valerie walked to her bedstand. She pressed a finger against a flat control panel, and the room sprang to life. Closet doors on the far side of the room slid apart, and twin wardrobe racks rolled into the empty space. The built-ins shifted up and back, pushing out dressers with dozens of drawers and angling them toward the bed for better accessibility.

I raised my eyebrows and blinked. I wasn’t a stranger to automation—most appliances in my house maintained themselves, and the few that didn’t were serviced by Carl in the wee hours of the night—however, my own closet’s flair was limited to self-sliding doors. Then again, I was a dude. Before my decision to emulate the great private detectives of yesteryear, my wardrobe had mostly consisted of athletic shorts and T-shirts.

“The sock drawer is this way.” Valerie put a tender hand to my elbow and guided me to a dresser that had popped out from the wall.

I hesitated before diving in. “Um…there’s just socks in here, right? I’d feel awkward if I had to sift through any of your, you know…
unmentionables.”

“Relax, Mr. Weed. This drawer only holds socks, but even if it didn’t, I’d be perfectly alright with you searching through it. You’re here in a purely professional capacity…
aren’t you?”

I tried to keep a straight face. “Me? Of course I am. But please, call me Rich.”

“Only if you call me Valerie. Formality is a two-way street.”

I nodded and pressed a finger to the corner of the dresser drawer, which slid out at my touch. Inside, a cornucopia of patterns and fabrics greeted me: fuzzy wool, hand-crafted cotton argyle, and nylon hosiery, of all different colors. Each pair was folded and tucked back in on itself, and the drawer as a whole was arranged by both color and style.

I swallowed hard. If the sock drawer was so diverse, I shuddered at what it implied about Valerie’s shoe closet.

It’s not that extravagant—certainly not for a woman,
said Paige.
You’re biased because your entire sock drawer is filled with bland white cotton. What is bizarre, however, is how tidy it is.

I silently agreed with Paige before turning to Valerie. “This intruder really did a number on your socks—and that kitchen of yours looked pretty close to spotless, too. Maybe you should instruct your Brain to leave the door unlocked to see if the criminal comes back to sterilize the bathroom.”

“You jest,” said Valerie, “but this is serious. I didn’t leave the socks like this. Someone’s been in my apartment! How would you feel knowing someone had access to your home and had rifled through your belongings?”

I swallowed hard. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make light of it. But it’s a rather odd situation, wouldn’t you agree?” I scratched the back of my neck. “Have you checked your cleaning bots’ logs? I’ve heard they can go haywire sometimes. People come home to find silverware polished down to nubs or entire wardrobes bleached. That sort of thing.”

“My bots have never malfunctioned before,” said Valerie. “And they’re not even programmed to organize socks.”

I grunted and turned back to the stockings. Wool and other animal blends were on the left, organics plant-based weaves in the middle, and synthetics on the right. Each section had been sorted from lightest to darkest, flowing in a serpentine pattern from top to bottom. One bundle in the bottom, right-hand corner caught my eye, however. Both light and dark toes peeked from its fold.

“Well, whoever did this missed a couple,” I said, pointing to the pair in question. “I don’t think these two go together.”

“Huh?” Valerie followed my finger. “Well, that’s odd. I didn’t notice that one before. And I certainly didn’t pair those two together when they left the wash. I wonder where their mates are?”

She reached a hand into the drawer, grabbed the socks, and pulled them apart. As she did so, a flash of something shiny flew, spun, and clinked as it made contact with the floor.

“What the—?” said Valerie.

I was similarly curious. The object—a shiny metal disk—spun end over end on the floor, making a faint ringing sound. I leaned over, palmed it, and stood. It was roughly the same diameter as an eyeball and only a few millimeters thick. Its edges were crimped, and on its face shone an image of a free-standing cabinet or cupboard with laser beams shooting out of it.

“It’s an…honestly I have no idea what this is,” I said.

It’s a coin,
said Paige.
They’re archaic units of currency.

I glanced at Valerie, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I assumed her Brain had informed her of the same thing mine had, but knowing what the metal disk was didn’t help explain what it was doing in one of Valerie’s socks.

I flipped the coin over. On the backside, the words ‘Keelok’s Funporium’ had been stamped around the edges, and in the middle, an embossed bovine face, that of a Tak, smiled at me in unnerving fashion.

Scratch that,
said Paige.
It would appear it’s a token, not a coin. Subtle difference. Tokens were never considered legal tender.

I mentally stumbled over the last part.

Legal tender,
said Paige.
It was a term used in the stone ages for anything that legally qualified as payment for a good or service. Before everything went digital, people exchanged these metal disks, or even slips of paper, for products.

Paper?
I thought.
You’re telling me money literally grew on trees?