| Zzzzzt. Zzzzzt. Zzzzzt.
I leaned against the tree trunk in the shadows from the gas
lamp and watched the church across the street. Our Lady of
Perpetual Scientific Inquiry stood conspicuous in
inactivity, but I got to enjoy the wee hours on a cold, dark
morning watching it because the Watch got a tip that someone
planned a heist of the St. Otter icon. Fog wrapped itself
around me in tendrils like the arms of a damp, dead lover.
Hunching my shoulders and turning the collar of my duster
up, I wished I had some hot coffee. But the coffee house
behind me was still closed, only the neon sign flashing and
buzzing, Skippy's Chemo, Skippy's Chemo, Skippy's Chemo.
The garish light washed over a derelict
drunk sleeping under a newspaper tent on the cable car stop
bench. His intermittent snoring provided my only diversion,
wondering if his presence betokened the neighborhood
slipping in status, or only that Captain Zompus told the
Night Watch to be inconspicuous around Our Lady and the
stakeout. I’d seen a couple of the lads from a distance
about the churchyard.
A soft, rhythmic ticktick ticktick
ticktick broke the quiet. I peered around the edge of the
trunk to the left, couldn’t see anything through the gun
smoke drifts of fog. That ticktick grew steadily louder and
closer, and suddenly got clear: metal on stone. A mech. Holt
City has a fair number of Mechs. Most of them belong to the
Civic, either with the Fire Brigade or the Watch. Enough are
privately owned that you’ll see them about, but nobody in
this neighborhood needed or could afford one. And all the
Civic Mechs are wheeled, they didn’t make ticktick sounds.
The little Voice that got me through
Belleau Wood and a couple score other spots started nudging
the back of my mind. Squatting, I doffed my round brown hat,
pulled my Mauser C96 out of the shoulder holster and worked
the bolt five times, carefully ejecting the rounds into the
crown of my hat. Locking the bolt open I scooped the five
cartridges out of my hat. Dropping them into my left duster
pocket I snagged the five-round stripper clip of my special
hot loads. Reloading the magazine, I pulled the clip out,
closed the bolt, and put it back into my pocket. Setting my
round brown on my head I stood, holding the big broomhandle
Mauser beside me finger alongside the trigger guard, and
looked back around the tree.
A big, blocky fog-shrouded shape walked
steadily down the street. As it approached Our Lady of PSI
it turned toward the church and I counted four legs. On this
side. Two bulky-tipped appendages were suspended in front.
As it crab-walked towards the big church doors I stepped out
from behind the tree and fast-stepped after it. Even with my
ready special loads I’d need to be closer to this thing. I
could make out a blister on the top of it as I neared, and
it settled slightly closer to the ground and swung those big
pincers.
The wooden doors boomed like drums,
echoing through the expanse of the big church. Behind me I
heard a Watchman’s whistle as the lads started converging. I
stopped 20 feet off the back of it, catching a whiff of hot
alcohol. Good. That would help. Even squatting, the Mech
stood taller than my six even, and I raised the Mauser in a
careful two-handed grip, aiming at the center of the back.
The 10 mm Mauser roared in time with the
second drumbeat of those pincers smacking the church doors,
and a solid TINK without sparks showed the armor piercing
round did its job. The blister on top started turning toward
me. I could see a gun barrel glinting in the gas lamplight
as I brought the broomhandle back to bear from the recoil of
the hot load, and squeezed the second round off. Another
TINK, and the smell of hot alcohol grew stronger. As the
machine gun in the blister turret started to bear on me the
Mauser roared a third time.
With a WHUMPH that blister rode the tip of
a blue-flame tongue into the darkness, tumbling back into
sight and clanging on the ground like a church bell. Blue
alcohol flames gouted out the sides where each leg joined
the body, and the Mech sagged to the left as those legs
relaxed. The pincers drooped to the ground. No other noise
than the crackle of flames came out, but the stench of
burned meat took me on a brief flashback to Bastogne.
I shook it off as Sergeant Smudge trotted
up to me. His mouth moved, and I waved at my ears with my
left hand, holding the Mauser in port arms, trigger finger
again in register while I thumbed on the safety.
“Sor, are you OK?” he shouted through the
ringing in my ears.
“I will be. Any of your lads hurt?”
“No, sor.”
“Post a couple men here to keep anyone
clear, and keep an eye out. Oh, and maybe someone to tell
the neighbors to stay inside. I’m going to check something,”
I ordered, and Smudge saluted as I set off around the corner
of the church to the side door. That mech was big and
obvious and just the thing to provide a diversion if someone
wanted a more covert entry to the church. The ringing in my
ears from the gunfire faded as I trotted toward the side
door.
“Hold. Who’s there?!” came a cry and I
paused.
“Chief Inspector Zoektochtmann.”
“Come forward.” I walked into the dark of
the recessed entry and found another Watchman just under the
overhang.
“Anyone tried this door?” He shook his
head.
“No, sor. There were some movement over by
that gate to the alley there, but then the sky lit up to the
front o’the church and it stopped. Were that your hand
cannon I heard, sor?”
“Yes. Wait here.” I walked straight to the
gate and tested it; it was latched. Opening it I looked
either way in the alley but couldn’t see anything and there
weren’t any loud noises. A quick check a short distance in
both directions turned out no one and nothing. I went back
to the church door, past the Watchman and to the front of
the church.
The Fire Brigade scrambled purposefully
about stowing their hoses, but I knew they’d been too late.
Whatever had been in that fuel tank was about burned off by
now, and the smell of burnt barbeque let us know there
wasn’t anyone alive in there. Captain Zompus stood beside
the wrecked mech, looking up to the side where a round hatch
now stood open. He turned to me as I walked up.
“Well, Dutch, looks like I owe you an
apology. Seems you did need those hot loads you made,” he
said, grinning. Zompus and I are equal rank, though as a
Chief Investigator I report to him when I work his precinct.
I nodded, dimly noting my hearing was back to normal.
“Yeah. Well, me too. I thought we’d be
here all night for nothing. Who the hell gave you this tip,
anyway?”
“Excuse please,” a gravelly voice came
from inside the Mech., and a sleek brown-furred shape
weaseled out through the hatch opening and landed in front
of me. As otters go, he was a giant. The way he’d moved said
he wouldn’t be there if I rushed him; the way he stood said
if he was, I wouldn’t budge him. “Tip would be from own
self,” said that gravelly voice from that furry face, with
bare hints at an accent I’d not heard in ages.
“Chief Inspector Zoektochtmann, meet
Kawauso Ofuroyama,” said Zompus.
“Ohayu gozaimasu,” I said, bowing to him,
“Shokuji o sumasemashita ka?” His whiskers twitched and he
bowed back.
“Good morning to you also. No, I’ve not
eaten rice yet, perhaps soon. Your Nihonese is excellent.”
“Thank you, but not nearly so excellent as
your English.” His whiskers twitched again and he cocked his
head, making me wonder if that deerstalker cap he wore would
fall off. He pointed to the doors.
“They do not seem to have breeched entry.”
“No. I checked the side door, the Watchman
there reported some movement but there wasn’t anyone there
by then.”
“Have you checked Icon, Zoektochtmann-san?”
he asked. I shook my head. “Then let us do so now.” We
walked up to the big front doors, where he grabbed a door
knob and pulled. The door swung open. “As you see, doors not
locked. They need not break them down, merely enter humbly.”
We walked down the central aisle to the apse, turned, and
looked up on the wall.
He looked out at us quietly from the
painting, a golden-haloed otter in blue robes, holding a
fish-bladed spear in his right paw and offering an egg in
his left. The look on his face said I know which came first
and much more besides. I felt warm standing in front of him,
as if there were no fog-shrouded corpse-filled Mech outside.
Ofuroyama stood centered in front of the
Icon and bowed, then raised his forepaws and clapped them
together once, twice, then bowed again to the image of St.
Otter. Turning to us, he nodded. “Good. Kawauso-kami is
undisturbed. For now.” And with that he turned and headed
out in that weasel-walk otters use on land. I like otters.
They’re fun to watch and the ones I’ve met are honest, even
if sometimes you need to sort through their senses of humour
to be sure.
This one seemed more straight forward than
most, something unusual given his country of origin. Just
outside the door he stopped and turned to me. “You stopped
this attack?” he asked, his tail pointing to the ruined
Mech. The Forensics Team was just starting to check it out,
one of the Coroners climbing in through the round hatch.
“Yeah, Dutch and his hand cannon took them
out,” said Zompus. Ofuroyama looked at me.
“Might one be permitted to view weapon?”
I pulled the Mauser out of its holster
again and cradled the magazine in my left hand, working the
bolt twice, and catching each cartridge as I ejected it.
Locking it open after the second round, I held it out for
Ofuroyama. He took it in both paws, not aiming but as if it
were a samurai sword he examined. His nose twitched about
the breech and he looked in the chamber, then handed the C96
back to me.
“This not standard broomhandle Mauser,” he
said as I fished the five rounds out of my left duster
pocket and started reloading them one by one.
“No, it isn’t. Near as I can tell it’s a
custom-made piece. Previous owner didn’t need it any
longer.” He cocked his head at me again, then his whiskers
twitched and his tail thumped the ground a couple times. I
closed the bolt and holstered the weapon.
“Those are not cartridges which killed
this mech. Is permitted to view cartridge?” I pulled one of
the hot-loads out of my other pocket and handed it over. He
looked it over carefully as I retrieved the empty stripper
clip and reloaded the other cartridge.
“Ah! Discarding sabot, armour piercing
design. Imperial Navy uses this for battleships. Never see
this small an example.”
“Yes,” I replied, taking the cartridge
back. “That’s where I got the idea. The bullet is a
lead-core steel jacket. The sabots are machined from
aluminum.”
“Must be difficult find ammunition for
such unusual caliber?”
“Oh, Dutch reloads his own,” said Zompus.
“Reminds me, Dutch, I let Grissom know to return your brass
after the Forensics team is done.”
“Thanks. Anything else we need here?”
Zompus needed to stay and supervise the scene, but we could
leave the team on hand to watch over things. Zompus led us
over to his mech. I paused before getting in. “What?” he
asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “There was a drunk
sleeping it off on the cable car stop there, but he’s gone.
I thought he was truly passed out, but I guess the racket
woke him and scared him off.”
“A drunk?” asked Ofuroyama. He trotted
over to the bench, sniffed at it some, and came back. “Most
curious.” He climbed in and wouldn’t say any more. Zompus
gave his driver instructions to take us back to the Watch
Station, then turned back to the crime scene as we rolled
away.
“What’s curious about a drunk?” I asked.
“Was female. Perhaps mistaken, but is
unusual for female drunks to sleep on public benches, neh?”
“Yeah. But this drunk didn’t look like a
women.” Ofuroyama considered me, stroking his whiskers.
“What do you know of St. Otter,
Zoektochtmann-san?”
“Call me Dutch, it’s easier. Not much. He
was an otter. Someone painted an Icon of him. Now someone
wants to steal it.”
Ofuroyama nodded. “Driver, please to
change destination. Please to go to Hobart House.” He turned
to me as the driver turned the mech at the next
intersection. “Someone you need to speak with, Dutch-san.
Good thing is now day, though maybe we still wake him.”
Lord Phogg Pontificates
Hobart House is a large Jacobean style
brick mansion up on one of the hills along the bay. We drove
up to the front of the house, gravel crunching under the
mech’s tyres, and stopped before a tall square turret with a
big oak door. Ofuroyama and I got out and walked up to it.
There wasn’t any doorknob. I pressed the call bell button
and heard the first four notes of Westminster’s chimes. “Who
lives here?” I asked Ofuroyama.
“Professor Phogg-sama,” he replied. “He
knows much about St. Otter you need to know.” The latch of
the door clicked and the thick oak swung open. A young lady
in a maid’s uniform stood there looking out at me. “Kawauso
Ofuroyama and Chief Inspector Zoektochtmann to see
Phogg-sama, please,” Ofuroyama said.
“Yes, sirs. Please step in,” she replied
in a bright Australian accent. We stepped through the door
into an entry foyer. Nihonese swords and spears lined the
walls, and in each of two corners sets of red-lacquered
Nihonese armour, fierce mempo face guards glaring out at us
from under kabuto helms stood guard in the early morning
light. In the corner on the opposite side of the entry arch
to the house stood a blue-lacquered otter-sized suit, the
mempo a snarling face with bristling whiskers.
The massive door thudded closed behind us.
“This way.” She stepped through the inside door into a large
great hall, cheery fire in a hearth as tall as I taking the
chill off the air. The maid took my round brown hat and
coat, hardly giving the shoulder rig for the Mauser a
glance.
Ofuroyama hopped up into an overstuffed
wing chair. I stood in front of the fire, looking up at the
balcony running along the opposite wall from the entry foyer
to a grand staircase at the end of the great hall. A crystal
chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Over the
fireplace a wide mantle bore two ceramic fishes. Directly
above the mantle hung an oil portrait of a rather
distinguished otter. Grey streaks shot through the fur
between his whiskers, and a Union Jack behind him. He
reminded me somewhat of another I felt I knew.
A small otter, a younger spitting image of
the one in the portrait, bounced briskly down the stairs
into the room. Ofuroyama slid off the chair, the two faced
each other and bowed deeply, exchanging greetings in rapid
Nihonese. Then Ofuroyama nodded his nose towards me.
“Phogg-sama, please to present Chief
Inspector Zoektochtmann of Holt Civic Watch.” The small
fellow turned to me and we nodded to each other.
“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” he said
in clipped Oxford tones. “Could I offer you something to
drink? Whiskey perhaps? It’s a bit chill, and I surmise
you’ve been out all night by the hour you are calling and
your manner of dress.”
“Please.”
“Kawauso-san? Chai for you perhaps?”
Ofuroyama nodded, and Lord Phogg stepped to a long pull-cord
by the fireplace and pulled it once. The maid entered the
hall. Phogg requested the chai and whiskey on ice.
“Pardon me,” I said. “No ice, please.”
Phogg glanced at me, then nodded to the maid who retreated
out of the hall. She was back in short order with a tray, a
small bowl of green tea and a short glass with dark amber
fluid, which I took and sipped, after toasting our host. I
rolled the liquid over my tongue, gauging the peatiness of
the fiery spirit. Phogg watched me intently, his whiskers
perked forward unmoving.
“Not Islay, nor any of the Highlands,
m’lord. Nor Lowland. One of the other islands perhaps?”
Both otters twitched their whiskers
rapidly, Phogg’s eyes sparkling. “Quite right, old chap. I
must confess I’m rather surprised a Yank might know.” I
grinned back at them, sharing the humour.
“For a time, I served with some Prince
Royals Own Highlanders,” I said, “and to be frank, I prefer
my vices remind me they are vices when I indulge.”
“Just so. How may I help you, old friend?”
Phogg asked, turning to Ofuroyama.
“Do you know that someone attempted to
steal the Icon of St. Otter and Egg last night?” Phogg’s
tail stood out, an otter negative, and Ofuroyama continued.
“Kawauso-kami’s Icon is safe, for now. However, the Chief
Inspector needs some of your insight to explain why someone
would want the Icon.”
“Ah. Tell me, Chief Inspector, what do you
know of St. Otter?”
“Not much, m’lord. I know he is held in
some esteem by otter-kind.”
“Yes, yes. There are some who hold that he
taught St. Francis of Assisi to speak with the animals, you
know. Certainly his actions are critical to otter-human
interactions. Please, be seated.” Phogg climbed into a
smaller chair across the low table from the one Ofuroyama
again sat upon. I sat on the davenport. “St. Otter is
generally believed to be the one who first revealed to
humans our ability to understand and communicate with you.
He certainly was instrumental in the Interspecies Accords of
1223. His wisdom and compassion are fabled. He is the patron
saint of those in crisis. Does that help?”
“Yes, it does, though I’m still not sure
why someone would want to steal the Icon.” Phogg nodded, his
tail curling about his legs.
“There are numerous documented instances
of people and otters recovering from severe illness, or
financial disaster, by praying before the Icon. Consequently
many people believe the Icon embodies his spirit and thus
possesses mystical powers.”
“How long has this been the case, m’lord?”
“The Icon was painted 300 years ago, by
Ursula V, the 23rd Headmistress of the Order of Our Lady of
Perpetual Scientific Inquiry. Some believe she received her
artistic talents from St. Otter, though that seems
far-fetched. I’ve seen evidence Ursula herself believed she
received the inspiration to paint the Icon from St. Otter.
Certainly the first documented occurrences of miraculous
cures occurred within a year after she completed the Icon.”
He turned to Ofuroyama. “Tell me, if you can Kawauso-san, do
you suspect anyone in particular?” It was obvious from their
greetings and demeanor that the two knew each other well.
“There are indications, but it is
difficult to say specifically,” the big otter replied.
“Well, I do hope you find whomever before
they manage to abscond with the Icon. It’s disappearance
would devastate many, many otters and people who look to St.
Otter’s Icon to provide hope for the future. It may interest
you to know I’ve seen quite a few Hotaru class freighters in
the harbour over the past few days.” That did interest me.
Small and fairly fast, Hotaru freighters can be easily
operated by a crew of six or so, and are large enough to
carry sufficient freight to make a profit. Mostly there’s a
lot of places to hide things aboard them. Smugglers love
them for that reason. Customs agents hate them.
“If there’s anything else I might do to
assist, please let me know. Wish I could visit with you
longer, chaps, but I must deliver a lecture this morning at
the University. Miss Delahney will let you out when you’ve
finished your drinks. Will you excuse me please?” He hopped
out of his small chair and we bowed to each other. He turned
and walked through a door by the foot of the stairs.
I took another sip of the whiskey,
enjoying the burn as it crossed my tonsils, and set the
glass down. Turning to Ofuroyama I said, “Whoever is after
the Icon commands a good deal of resources. That mech this
morning for example; something like that would cost more
than the budget for Zompus’ precinct for a quarter. Not to
mention that there’s a significant international presence
here, that being yourself and this egghead professor lord.”
“Just so, Dutch-san. Just so,” he replied,
his whiskers twitching in a chuckle. He set down his cup of
chai and stood. “And Phogg-sama’s comment about the
freighters also points to this. Perhaps now we should
adjourn to the Watch Station, neh?” The maid entered the
room with my coat and hat. I donned my coat, and she smiled
as she handed me the round brown, highlights in her
twinkling brown eyes matching gold threads of the scarlet
and gold twisted cord hatband. She led us to the big front
door, swung it open with a surprising ease for her petite
stature.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said as we
stepped out and I placed my hat on my head, grasping it at
the peak of the crown formed by the four indentations in the
crown.
“Good morning, Miss,” I replied, and our
exchanged smiles drove away the last mournful fragments of
the night’s fog.
“Come, Dutch-san. We must go to station
now.” The driver closed the doors of the mech behind us, and
we set off into the sunny morning, diamonds sparkling on the
waters of the bay beneath us.
International Relations
The ride to the 6th Precinct took little
time, traffic moving briskly and mostly being the cable-cars
and delivery wagons. Our driver deposited us at the main
door and drove off to the garage. I motioned Ofuroyama
through ahead of me. We nodded to Sargent Feuerschmidt at
the desk, talking to an otter carrying a big camera. The
otter bounced over in front of me.
“G’day, Chief Inspector. Got anything on
that burned-out mech over in Littleton? And who’s the bloke
built like a brick outhouse?”
“Kawauso Ofuroyama, humble self. And you
are?” Ofuroyama said, bowing to the smaller otter.
“This is Phil Aussie, works for the Sydney
Herald branch office here in Holt City,” I said, completing
the introductions.
“Popper,” said the smaller otter.
“‘Streuth me name’s Phil, but I goes by Popper. So, Dutch,
anything?”
“No, Popper, just some drunk driver is
all.”
“Wouldn’t lie to Popper now, would you?
Words out someone’s lookin’ to nick the St. Otter Icon.”
“And who would be saying that, Popper?”
“Oh, it’s all over the street, mate.”
“Who do they say is ‘lookin’ to nick’ as
so colourfully stated?” Ofuroyama asked him. The two otters
looked at each other, then Popper’s whiskers twitched.
“Why, they say Ramaji is in town, mate.
Ever hear of him?” Ofuroyama’s whiskers twitched back.
“They may be misinformed.”
“Well, let me know if you hear anything,
eh? Be some dinkum piccies, if it really is Ramaji.”
“Got to go, Popper. I’ll let you know if I
learn anything.” We climbed the stairs to my office next to
Zompus’. I smiled at our Admin officer as we came through
the door of the squad room.
“Morning, Cronopio. The Captain in yet?”
“No, Dutch,” she replied. “He’s still over
at Our Lady of PSI. He’s making some site checks. Seems
there’s going to be a festival tonight, it’s St. Otter’s
Eve.” Ofuroyama’s ears perked.
“Ah, so desu neh! Then tonight will be the
main attempt.” I looked at him.
“What makes you sure?” I asked. He
motioned towards my office door, we turned to go in.
“Well, look what the Dutchman dragged in.”
I turned to face Detective Brad Weisman at his desk across
from my door. “Think he could be wearing an otter hat than
that?”
“Great pun, Weisman. Keep that up and you
might live up to your name.”
“Is this the visiting dignitary the
Captain mentioned, Dutch?” he asked.
“Yeah. Detective Weisman, meet Kawauso
Ofuroyama.” Weisman looked over the big otter, showing a
smarmy grin.
“Nihonese, eh? You some kind of martial
arts hotshot?” Ofuroyama bowed.
“Yes, actually. Once Southern Honshu Sumo
Grand Champion,” the otter replied, his whiskers twitching.
“So what’s the best technique to use if
you’re trapped in a dark alley at night, Sumo Champ?”
“Juni kakkouhou,” Ofuroyama replied, his
tail briefly thumping the floor in time with his whisker
twitches. He turned to me. “Excuse, please, Dutch-san. Is
lavatory nearby?”
“Yeah, actually I’ve got one I share with
Captain Zompus. Go on in, I’ll be right there.” I turned
back to Weisman.
“So what’s with the tail thumping,
Dutchman?” he asked.
“He’s laughing, Weisman. Guess he finds
you amusing. Now, if you got nothing better to do, find out
who’s imported a walking mech recently, in particular off a
Hotaru type freighter, will you?” I turned and closed the
door to my office behind me and sailed my round brown onto
the hatrack in the corner, hanging my duster on the hook
underneath it. Ofuroyama was sitting in the chair next to my
desk. I sat on the davenport against the wall to the next
office over. “Time to give out some information, Ofuroyama-san.
You weren’t at all surprised when Popper mentioned Ramaji.”
He shook his head, mimicking the human
gesture. “You know of Ramaji, neh?”
PART TWO |
