REBOOTS Page 8

  First stop: the Den where he had a contact.

  Nearly all of the Packs, and certainly all the Nests, had their own front-club. These helped pay the bills, and were what the tourists came to see; to get to the Den or Nest proper, you always had to go through the club, running the gantlet of bouncers and less-obvious security. Lots of flash and plenty of distractions to keep the looky-lous occupied. Costume de rigueur for a Den-front club was always more-or-less rough-trade. Punk, “tribal,” and industrial styles predominated; but of course here in The Tenderloin it had to look expensive. So the Boggart strolled out of the hotel in an outfit that looked a lot like a couture version of mining gear, minus the safety helmet.

  Fangs and Furs both had light-sensitive eyes, so the hallways—two-story hallways, in an odd reflection of the mine—were shadowy. It helped play up the image, as well. But unlike the miner “town,” these walls were alive with advertisements and images of what was behind them. It made the hallways seem more crowded than they already were. And there were a lot of people here. Most of them were tourists, often wearing outfits that would have made a stripper blush, or costumes that made them look as if they had just come from some alien party. Which…they likely had. With the most wealthy were their guards, in sober black, not even trying to blend in; oftentimes the hired help that one carted around with them was as much of a status symbol as one’s clothes. Occasionally some of the Fang Thralls or Pack Pups wafted through the crowds, on their way to somewhere. The groupies. This was heaven for them.

  There were Reboots here, and a lot of them, but you would never see them. They were all behind the scenes, doing the crap-work it took to keep a place like this running. Way more Reboots than bots; Reboots were cheap, bots were expensive. Eventually that game would dry up; couldn’t be more than a couple billion Reboots left from the ol’ Outbreak. It was legal…and considered highly desirable by some…to get Turned into Fur or Fang, but no one that was sane wanted zombification; no payoff. But by the time the Reboots ran out someone would probably figure out how to make cheaper bots. Or they’d discover a planet full of stupid aliens and turn them into the next exploited class. If there was a resource out there, the Home Service and the Norms in charge of it would make sure to squeeze every last drop of usefulness out of it.

  The “Den of Iniquity” was where the Boggart was headed; most Fur clubs called themselves “Den of” something or other. The place wasn’t any more “iniquitous” than any other Den, and considerably less so than the Fang “Lounges”, but he supposed it made the Beinn Bhan Pack feel tough and wicked. They’d originated in Scotland, but if there was a single Pack member here with so much as a patch of Scottish hair on his carcass, the Boggart would be shocked and amazed. Still, they all assumed Scottish names, and his contact was Fergus MacDubh. Time to rattle ol’ Fergie’s cage.

  The shadow-play outside the Den of Iniquity was of wolves running over hills in the full moon, then meeting up with what looked like a porn-vid idea of a witch’s coven, morphing into half-state and grabbing them and the whole thing dissolved into mist before anything graphic occurred, leaving the onlooker to make up his own mind about whether the Furs tore them to bits or merely tore their clothes off. Always classy at these sorts of establishments. The Boggart nodded at the bouncer at the door, and made his way inside.

  At a Fang Lounge you’d probably be hit with a wall of sound with whatever electro trash music was popular this decade, but Fur ears were very sensitive. Still, the zen-thrashno made him wince. The first bar was pretty crowded with a mix of Pack Pups (mostly male, as the Fang Thralls were mostly female) and tourists. The decor was pseudo-hunting-lodge-look, all faux unfinished logs and hides with the hair on, light fixtures made of faux antlers and mounted trophies on the wall, which were themselves probably holograms. The only Furs he spotted right away were a couple at the bar, and they weren’t wearing Beinn Bhan colors. And as he got closer to them, he realized they weren’t Wolves anyway; both were Tigers.

  He headed for the next room; same decor, it was still a public room, but there was another bouncer at the door who eyeballed him carefully before letting him pass. The outfit and his Para status would let him that far without a challenge—or a bribe, for that matter.

  The next room was more of the same, but quieter; same music, but dropped down a couple notches. Fewer tourists, more Pack Pups, and now, more Furs. All of them were Wolf except for a Panther and a Leopard who were shooting an old fashioned game of pool against a pair of Beinn Bhan Furs. It appeared to be a friendly challenge match. The Boggart always found it curious that there was less hot-blooded rivalry between the feline and canine Furs than there was between the various canine packs. Would’ve made for an interesting study for the sociologically inclined.

  A careful survey of the room showed him what he was looking for; a Fur in Beinn Bhan colors of dark green and charcoal gray, leaning up against the wall by the bar, but not drinking. This would be the one that a would-be Pack Puppy would come to in order to apply for entrance. And this would be the one a stranger like the Boggart would come to if he happened to be looking for a Pack member. A “gift” would be expected in either case.

  With Wolves you were expected to be direct; with the Cats and the Foxes, you had to dance around the subject a good bit. With Coyotes…you never got a straight answer. Ever. Bears…well the Boggart hadn’t met any Bears yet, but he’d heard you had to be even more direct than with the Wolves. So he just strolled up to the contact and laid it out. “Need to talk to one of your Pack, brother.”

  The Fur eyed him. “Law?”

  The Boggart shook his head. “HS. But not interested in him. Looking for a Loner gone AWOL.” He was wearing one of his “professional” human faces, but when he grinned all of his very sharp teeth were exposed. “Let’s just say I’m the kinder, gentler version. If they send one of their own…” He let the sentence trail off. They both knew the punch line. Home Service didn’t care about anything but the bottom line, and if they sent an agent—a real agent, and not a pen pusher like that Púca—there’d be raiding squads and interrogation rooms involved.

  “Info is a fin. Access is a benjamin.” Strange how the old nicknames for money had stuck long past the time when “dollars” were something no one saw outside of a museum.

  Ah, the lupines. So easy. The Boggart passed over a fin. “Fergus MacDubh in the Den?”

  The Fur consulted his data cuff. “Not yet. Due in five.” He held out his hand. The Boggart crossed his palm with the benjamin. And how many people knew that name was actually the name of the man whose face had been on that denomination of bill? Damn few, outside the Paras.

  A door behind the contact slid open, and the Fur stood aside long enough to let the Boggart enter a third bar. “I’ll let him know you’re looking,” the Fur said, as the door slid closed again. The Boggart could literally feel the envious glances of the wannabe Cubs burning holes in his back as the door closed them out.

  This was a bar set for the sensitive eyes and ears of full Furs. Not faux-hunting-lodge this time, this was the real deal. Furs liked real wood and real hide around them. Even the trophies were real, and probably harvested by the current Alpha or his immediate predecessor. The Boggart had to chuckle at the memory of how many anti-hunting and vegetarian societies had dried up and blown away once all the Paras came out of the broom closet. It was one thing to throw fake blood on a mink-wearing woman who’d never lifted anything heavier than her handbag. It was quite another to confront seven or eight feet of snarling muscle when you picketed his favorite raw-meat restaurant. And the Fur packs took the idea of cutting into the food supply…personally.

  The music was down to a whisper, the lights no brighter than moonlight. It suited him just fine; immortals tended to have similar tastes after a time. This was where the She-Furs were, but one look at him told them he wasn’t their kind, so they ignored him; that also suited him. All of them were Wolves, though not all were in Beinn Bhan colors; She-Furs had a bit more int
er-pack mobility than the boys did. They all had a similar sort of look, though; fashionably scruffy, tough, and muscled. Not elegant. Not particularly pretty by human standards. Your Cats, now…those oozed glamor and sex appeal. The Boggart’s eyes darted around the room. If I know ol’ Fergie…there: the knot of women vying for attention.

  Fergie was the Pack Beta. The Alpha was the Fur that enforced the rules and the pecking order, and did (or led) the fighting when it needed to be done. The Alpha was generally monogamous with the Female Alpha, the Beta got all the rest of the women. That was particularly true of Fergie, who was a Politician, nevermind whatever scams he was running on the side. Not the kind that got elected to office—the kind that ran the office, kept everything running smoothly, knew where all the skeletons were.

  The Boggart worked his way over to the knot of She-Furs who had converged on someone just entering the bar from the Den side. Under the mock-growls and teeth-bared play-threats, the Boggart heard Fergie greeting each of the girls by name, and the occasional smack of a play-slap on the rump, followed by the obligatory squeal and teeth-snap. A human feminist would have been outraged, but there wasn’t one of these women that couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take on any of the boys in this bar in a straight-on Fur Fight. This wasn’t macho chauvinism; this was pure Fur instinct translated into human behavior. Sniffing asses in public just wasn’t done…unless you were in Fur Form. Fergie immediately picked the Boggart out from the crowd. Not a big deal for a Fur; the Boggart wouldn’t smell anything like anyone else in this room. And, of course, he’d been warned by the contact. It wouldn’t have surprised the Boggart if Fergie knew about him the moment he set foot on the station, despite all of his precautions; the Fur was just that sort of wolf.

  But Fergie being Fergie, he couldn’t just manage a simple greeting. He made an elaborate thing of throwing his head in the air, sniffing loudly, and exclaiming, “Och weell! Be that one of the Fae I scent?” Then peering between two of his She-Furs and exclaiming, “Boggie! Faith, and I’d know that particular English leather-and-heather smell anywhere! How’s my favorite Sassanach?” As if his data cuff hadn’t been buzzing all along.

  The Boggart simply nodded. “Fergie. I see you’re still doing well on your particular rung in the ladder.”

  “Now, is that any way to talk to an old mate?” Fergie feigned a hangdog look. “An’ after all we’ve done for each other too.”

  “Oh, I remember all we’ve done for each other, Fergus. I’ve still got the scars from some of the things you’ve done for me. Last I recall, you burned me, Fergie. Which means you owe me.”

  “Burned ye, lad? Only thing I recall burnin’ was London Bridge…” Fergus grinned toothily. “Oh now, don’t tell me ye were holed up in some tart shop or other when I did that.” He tsk’d. “That sweet tooth’ll be th’ death of ye, lad. Ye should stick t’ the Water of Life.” To underscore the comment, Fergus downed a double shot of what passed for single malt around here.

  “Funnily enough, someone said the same thing ’bout you and precious metals.” The Boggart patted his jumpsuit lightly where his revolver rested in a pocket. “We need words, private-like.”

  Fergus’ eyes narrowed, though he kept his jovial tone. “All right, lasses. The boys need t’be talkin’ borin’ business. Not Pack, just a wee bit of palaverin’ regardin’ our Corporate would-be leash holders. Off wi’ ye.” There was more butt-slapping and squealing and giggling—She-Furs were easily overcome by hormones and instinct in the presence of a strong Beta—and Fergus led the way to a booth that he quickly privatized.

  And as quickly dropped the accent. “Hamish said you’re tracking a Lone for the Home Service. What’s that got to do with us?”

  The Boggart snorted. “What do you think? There are two currencies that you deal in, Fergie: favors and information. You owe me a favor, and I want information.”

  Fergie shook his head. “You’re not helping here. I need a little more data on what you’re looking for. I’m not going to spew random Pack info at an outsider.”

  The Boggart relaxed, and steepled his hands together in front of him, clearly signing that he wouldn’t be reaching for the gun anytime soon. “You’ve got your fingers stuck in a lot of pies out here and beyond, Fergie. The Lone I’m looking for is a probable hijacker. Evidence, what scant little there is of it, says he might be working with Fangs, since he’s not affiliated. Since your business doesn’t really care about species loyalties, I figured you were the guy to see.”

  Fergus pursed his lips, and nodded slowly. “Last ’jacking I heard of was a Nest. And that was a good six months ago. Since there’s no love lost ’tween us and the Fangs, I’m happy to tell you it was four Fangs out of the Le Fevre Nest and they spaced their Lone and all the Reboots as soon as they realized FTL was a going proposition. Of course, good luck to the Company trying to prove that or track the ship down. She’s parts now.”

  “Got a ship name attached to that gig?” It almost certainly wasn’t the one the Boggart was looking for, but after having spent enough time as a P.I., one learned to fish out extra creds from information wherever one could.

  “Mourning Glory.” Fergus grinned. “With a ‘U.’ From what I heard on the jungle telegraph, she was parted out and the skeleton fired into a red dwarf in just under a week. Le Fevre set a new record.”

  The Boggart allowed himself a small smile. “They are getting better an’ better with each passing year. Sure you’re not just fishing to have me help you take out some competition, Fergie?”

  Fergus clasped his hand to his heart. “I am pained. Pained, I tell you. You strike me to the heart to even suggest I would consider such a thing!”

  “Uh huh. You got anything else for me? Or ought I come back here again sometime to keep you company?” The Boggart raised an eyebrow, inviting a little more—if there was any more.

  Fergus snorted. “Seriously, Boggie, ’jacking those old pre-FTL ships—not a lot of that anymore. Most of the ones still missing weren’t ’jacked, they’re out there floating dead thanks to crews that went medieval on each other. That’s where I’d look if I were you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll keep your tip in mind.” The Boggart stood up and got out of the booth, and turned on his heel before calling over his shoulder, “Until next time, Fergus.”

  Fergie was already heading for his Shes. “Only if I don’t smell you coming first, Boggie me lad.”

  At least he wasn’t in the hostel. And the “budget” tourist digs were pretty plush for a Were-run establishment. The real money was made in the clubs, on booze and drugs and the careful taste of the Fang and other vices, so the Boggart figured the hotel rooms were intended to make sure you were well rested so you could run right out and repeat all of them as often as possible. This of course didn’t apply to high-rollers; they were milked of every cred they had in as many ways as possible. It was as much status as it was privilege for that sort to spend all they could.

  The Boggart had to focus. He needed to at least seem professional for this part. Time to check in with the nanny.

  He checked his sidereal time; the Púca would be in the office. Oh well. Might as well give him something other than a message to listen to. Benefit number two: the call went through lightning-fast. Evidently they wanted folks here to be able to brag about the good time they were having to the folks back home as quickly and often as possible to entice other full pockets and empty heads to try the fleshpots as soon as their vacation days came up.

  The call connected with a flicker after the third ring. So the Púca had him on forward-direct rather than talk-to-the-secretary-bot. Interesting. Fewer records that way. There was probably a grift with this entire deal; he’d suspected it in the beginning, but hadn’t seen the angle and still couldn’t. Not yet. There was always a grift, in his experience, when you got close-and-personal attention from whomever was passing out the creds.

  He nodded at the Púca’s image. “It’s me. Ready for the update? There’s not terribly much, yet.”


  “Looks like you’re coming up in the world. You actually have a room, and not a coffin wired for net.” The Púca smirked.

  “Needed to justify the expense account you gave me, after all. Besides, places like this require certain behavior in order for somebody like me not to stand out more than necessary.” The Boggart glanced at his pocket watch absently before looking back to the Púca’s visage on the screen. “Anything new on your end of the wire, before we get into what I uncovered?”

  “Sorry. The Cenotaph is still missing, and the crew hasn’t turned up anywhere that there are DNA scans. So?” The Púca didn’t look terribly sorry. But then, by his standards, this room was probably on the scale of a no-tell mo-tel. He probably thought the Boggart was still slumming.

  “Kicked over some rocks, had words with some beings that I know. The line is quiet on this one.” The Boggart scratched the bridge of his nose, and looked thoughtful. “If it was a ’jacking, then they’ve done really well and really shitty at hiding it.”

  The Púca looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look at it like this. Whatever crew was in on this, they were dumb enough to trip up with the emergency beacon, after setting down on a planet for a good long while.” He waited while the Púca nodded. “Should’ve been an easy pickup for some unhappy men with heavy weaponry by that point; duck soup. Yet they’re able to skate through all the possible scans, information nets, and gossips without a peep. It’s strange, and hijackings are usually pretty straightforward affairs in my experience.” Time to drop the bomb. “Like the Mourning Glory; soon as the crew found out FTL was up and running, that ship vanished from all the radar.” There. If the Púca looked that one up and found out it was still listed as “missing,” he might figure the Boggart knew where and how it went missing. And that would mean another check.