BOOK SIX - !ARBATAX¡
CHAPTER TWENTY
TWO - “CONSULTATION!”
Back at the Andromeda, the Detective waits with medics unloading
their equipment preparatory to taking the deceased downstairs, out to the
street and into their hover… arguing with his men over his com. The situation outside has deteriorated – the
jims and janes are angry and two of the harried
medics have to rush back out to guide the eviscerated moodbox
quiffette into a seat on the hover, leaving a single
owl-eyebrowed supervisor to deal with Lyca.
“Where's Brabander?” the Detective
grunts, demanding that his second-in-command be put on the com. “What the jam's
going on down there?”
“Sir,” the shurt squeals back, “Brabander twisted his knee and they put him in the hover
after they moved the quiff. There's a riot going on
outside. Sir, the people in this neighborhood don't like us much…”
“Tell me something I don't know!
Who's behind all the roor causing jammers to bool all over town?”
“It’s on the qubes,” the shurt replies.
“Every dank in town is streaming over this way, looking for a little
excitement. They’re throwing rocks…”
With another oath, the D. squelches his subordinate and punches
in Headquarters. “Copy!
This the armory?” he asks, receiving only a garbled
reply. “If you can understand me, send a
wagon and some hose to the Baawl… we got a
situation. Andromeda
Hotel. Officer down already, quiffette in critical and… oh yeah,” he sneers, glaring at
the shurt standing helplessly just within the door as
the sole remaining medic wrestles the corpse onto the gurney. “Help the jim! Think they hate us now,
watch what happens when the wagon gets here! And what the jam you lookin' at?” he grunts as Al-from-down-the-hall rests both
hands atop his walking stick at the front of a crowd of residents whom the shurts have told to remain in their rooms, but they don’t
have the manpower to enforce this demand.
“Happens sometimes,” Al
tosses his two centisols in. “Fine lady from a good neighborhood… married for the house and the
car and clothes, but nothing left inside. Wants to die, but doesn't want to offend. So she takes for some little Baawl-hole to crawl into and kiss Rassoul.
Jammin'
shame!”
“Well that it is!” the D. sighs. You're probably right about
that!”
And the Detective's rage has been suddenly extinguished, as
though Al were an angel of death, spreading his wings over the Andromeda;
reconciling the soul of Mrs. Arbatax, as it wafts gaseously upwards from the gurney that the medic Supervisor
and the shurt have laid her out on while Al keeps…
well, not exactly speaking but transmitting his thoughts, as if from amongst increasingly
remote, distant stars of the future.
Shame about Mrs. Arbatax, but what
does a jim say? That
Andromeda constellation and galaxy got their name from a princess this hero, Perseus saved from a monster, once? Heroes ain't always so heroic, once the spotlights go down.
In Tao City’s decaying financial centre, Arbatax
wheels round and up a high rise parking garage, raising sparks, swiping parked hovers…
but manages to park without scraping adjacent vehicles. They take a dirty lift
down.
“Turpin's new in town,” Rats volunteers. “A snaker.
Just passing through…”
“Then he wouldn't know…” the financier says… when not screaming
or crying, Arbatax emits a sort of hissing sound… “and you wouldn't remember. Used to be the
social district hereabouts. Cock o’ the walk. Forty, fifty years ago… Tao City was more
fashionable then, all Doobydie was. Hardly anybody
slept. Work all day, party until dawn. Money to burn. Shurts kept out of the people's way…
“Different, now,” Turp observes mildly
as they hit the ground floor and stroll beneath a district of tall, though
dilapidated buildings – mostly of a sort of red sandstone with flaking, peeling
walls. Most storefronts are closed, but
there are plenty of beggars and peddlers.
Arbatax
pauses to light a kackle, takes a single puff, then
lets it dangle between his fingers.
“Every civilization has its beginnings, flowering and then it's decline. Some danks are born
to work the methane yards until they die or retire, others aren't. Nothing
forcing them to be here except the price of a ticket, so the bright young ones take off. We got maybe half the population we did forty
years ago. Look at these…” he points.
He stops by a party favor stand tenanted by a bowing, chattering
simihyde in a dirty jeel;
buys a couple of paper hats, whistles and streamers.
“You stayed…” Turp reminds him.
“Die's been good to me. Until today…” he adds, lifting the kackle to his lips to take a longer drag…
“Plenty of gals dyin'
to… I mean, eager to meet good lookin' guys wit'
money,” Rats apologizes for the malapropism.
“They're not Lyca.”
The meth king’s glum expression sobers Rateyes
up, and they enter Yan Tao, a dark but upscale gentlemen's club hidden behind a
discreetly black door. While Arbatax shuffles in sadness and Turpin lingers, marveling
at the antiquated furnishings and geriatric clientele, Rateyes
fairly skips along – the snaker realizing that he’s
been here before and often, another layer to the mystery cake that is his new
employer.
“Lawyer's name's Mushnovarian,”
Rats says out of a corner of his mouth, “but if he takes our case, call
him Mooshie. Everybody does. He'll charge, but he's
good. Works a jury like you wouldn't believe.”
“This is from your personal experience?” Arbatax
inquires as Turpin wonders… our case?
“Lemme say I wouldn't be here if he
weren't any good,” the gambler agrees with an enthusiastic nod. “That's him at
the bar… tall jammer in a blue suit. Always dresses sharp…”
Makes the skilk to, Turpin thinks, but
doesn’t voice…
Mooshie
motions to one of the waiters and picks up his drink.
“Rats, Mr. Arbatax… George Henry Mushnovarian, Counselor.”
He extends a hand, then glances towards the snaker. “And…”
“This here is Timur Turpin, off the Aegelweiss. Works
for me…”
“I’ve heard of that case, terrible what the Regency does here,”
the lawyer shakes his head – he shares some rodentine
characteristics with Rats, but not all… more of a larger, slower fellow. Woodchuck, hedgehog, maybe a bit of badger
Turpin guesses as he shakes the attorney’s hand, after which Mooshie leads his visitors to a table.
“I hope the both of you are free to join me for dinner. Business always goes better when transacted
among friends over a calming adult beverage and a proportionate meal, faq?”
“Aay!”
Rats agrees; Turpin
intercepting a glance that passes between him and “their” attorney…
“While we are awaiting service,” Mooshie
proposes, softly, “I would like to discuss matters with Mr. Arbatax
in confidence. I'm sure you understand.”
“I owe my life to these gentlemen,” the meth king answers,
stubbornly. “I have nothing to conceal
from then; however,” and his voice drops half an octave, “…anything that you
desire, if I can help you, I shall!”
“Admirable, Mr. Arbatax.
But those things of which one has no knowledge cannot be used against him,
correct? So if you will just let me hold your unilators
for the time being…” he adds, extending a hand to Rats, another to Turpin,
“I've taken the liberty of ordering drinks.
A fine khegma… imported,” he adds, “Denebian.”
And as if summoned from one of the lamps upon their table, the
Yan Tao waiter places cocktails before the newcomers…
“Sure, Mooshie, we'll wait…” Rats
answers and picks up the snifter with both hands,
“Anything!” Arbatax concurs.
Turpin follows Rateyes' example in
removing and handing over his unilator, and the
lawyer-client conversation transpires in a wave of clicks and cheeps and
gibberish that the snaker tries to pay attention to
but finds impossible – possibly owing to the effects of the very, very good khegma. Rateyes stretches
back… lolling in his seat, eyes rolling, dozing. A high, snickering snore breaks his lips and
the attorney shoots Turp a rueful smile… one that he
doesn’t require a unilator to understand…
“We’ve all been working hard,” he explains.
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