Obscurocious
by Ray Aldridge
(«Whatdunits» Anthology 1992)
Ray Aldridge is a relatively new writer, but his name is no stranger to those who peruse the Nebula ballots, and his first novel has just come out to enthusiastic notices.
A chlorine-breathing ambassador from the Sirius system is found dead in his hotel room in an orbiting, multi-environmental hotel. He is alone in his room, the door is locked, and there are no marks on the body. The Sirius system is at peace, but they have a formidable military force, and since the hotel is owned and run by humans, they have given the human authorities twenty-four hours to solve the problem before declaring war.
1. Was he murdered or did he die from some other cause?
2. If he was murdered, how was he murdered, who did it, and what might the motive be?
* * *
The nameless messenger had come to Natty Looper an hour ago, terrified and carrying the chop of the Osiris Grand Hotel's security chief. The messenger had revealed nothing of the matter to be discussed, but he displayed the sort of barely-suppressed hysteria that Natty associated with major disasters. He had handed over a huge retainer, collected Natty's mark on a nondisclosure form, and left without a single informative word.
From the size of the retainer, Natty suspected that he was about to be asked to perform some impossible feat of detection. Find a way to save the universe or halt inflation. Find an honest person.
Natty Looper waited patiently, under the watchful gaze of a heavily-armed receptionist. He recrossed his legs, adjusted the straps of his ancient and authentic coveralls, scratched at one hairy shoulder. He did these things in a measured and unhurried manner, hoping to conceal a slight degree of nervous anticipation.
He sighed and got up, causing the receptionist to recoil fastidiously, as if she expected Natty to commit some unspeakably uncouth act. Spit tobaccy on the carpet. Ask for the outhouse. Comb a bird's nest out of his beard.
Natty sighed again, and wandered over to the great observation port that curved halfway around the reception area. He stood looking down at the old Earth below, at her deserts and still-blue seas, at her scattered fading patches of green. He looked up at the main hull of the hotel, which stretched forward of his vantage point for several kilometers, a mirror-smooth alloy surface dotted with thousands of glowing windows, nav lights, illuminated signs. In the middle distance, twenty kilometers past the Osiris, he could see the gleam of the small habitat where he kept an apartment–for those happy times when business brought him up to the Orbital Domains.
«Purty,» Natty said to himself. Several of the nearest signs sensed his regard and rotated their image planes toward him; he found himself looking at a trailer for a performance of the Original Kachinadroid Dancers, an ad for a pheromonic hair tonic, and an ad for a new memory stimulant–»Now You Too Can Remember Those Important Things You Were Too Stupid to Notice When They Happened!»
Against the blackness of space, a huge free-floating holofield ran an advertisement detailing the delights of vacationing in the Caribee Enclave. A delicately beautiful woman balanced a huge hat on her head, and smiled at Natty. The hat was full of an implausible amount of tropical fruit; the woman reached up and plucked a banana. She peeled the banana in a languidly suggestive manner.
Natty turned away, just as the receptionist rose and said,. «You may go in now, Mr. Looper.»
He nodded pleasantly as he passed the receptionist, who looked as if she were holding her breath, just in case Natty smelled bad.
Natty walked along the fortified ingress, passing three sets of blast doors, which opened before him and closed behind him. The corridor doglegged twice before he reached the office.
The Osiris security chief rose behind her desk to greet him; her henchman was already standing. «Mr. Looper, welcome,» she said in a pleasingly soft voice. She was slender, she wore her long black hair in a tied-back cluster of thick braids, and her green eyes had a Eurasian tilt. She wore an expression of professional nonchalance.
From an array of subtle signs–a tightness around the eyes, an artificial stillness, the way her bloodless hands gripped the edge of her desk–he could see that she was very frightened. «I'm Annadelle Rostov,» she said.
He thought her dangerously attractive–but who wasn't beautiful, in the Orbital Domains? He reminded himself that the Osiris Grand. was a small autonomous kingdom, and that this woman was its Lord High Executioner. He shook her hand gently and said «Howdy,» as politeness demanded. As he held her hand, a moment longer than was entirely polite, her smile grew marginally warmer. «Call me Natty, Miz Rostov. Everybody else does.»
«And I'm Annadelle,» she said, sinking back into her chair.
The henchman was a huge man, whose hard face seemed set in a perpetual glower. He did not return Natty's nod.
«This is my assistant and personal guardian,» Annadelle said. «He prefers not to use a name. Nor does he speak.»
Natty shrugged. «Fine by me.» He sank into a deep upholstered couch, which jackknifed his tall gangly body into an awkward position. He decided to ignore the discomfort.
She made a gesture and a thumping music filled the air, chopping away at «Okie From Muscogee.»
Natty winced visibly. She waved her hand again and the music cut off.
«I thought you might be more comfortable with music from your own Enclave,» she said, apologetically.
«Well, I appreciate the thought, Annadelle, but I ain't much of a fan of that cowkicker music. Heard too much of it as an impressionable youth, I guess.» If she weren't eager to discuss the job, Natty Looper was willing to make small talk. «Buncha mean old drunks, singing through their nose hairs, all 'bout how their babies done left 'em–no damn wonder–and they feel like homemade shit, which is approximately what they look like, in most cases.»
He was overstating the case, but not by much. Any talented new performers who did not hew to the narrow esthetic standards of the Appalachian Enclave had to choose between starvation and emigration to one of the few eclectic Enclaves. Or else they changed their music to conform. «Oh, it ain't all that bad,» he admitted. «But you know what I mean.»
«I suppose so,» she said, and Natty thought that she might have been amused, were she less worried. «I should have known better. After all, you specialize in investigations across Enclave lines, so you're bound to have broader tastes than your fellow Appalachians.»
There was just a hint of condescension in her manner, so Natty grinned and said, «Oh, only in some respects. Why, I can chug 'shine with the best of 'em. Ain't nothing I like better'n possum pie.» He waggled his bare feet. «Cut my toenails ever six months, whether they needs it or not.»
She laughed, and it was a far more pleasant sound than he had expected. «All right, Natty; I take your point. Now, let's get to business.» She swiveled her chair and touched a dataslate built into her desktop. A screen on the far wall lit.
A Sirian bull's chitinous gray face filled the screen; his crimson scalp tattoos indicated a noble lineage and a high military rank. A brassy light gleamed on the alien features. The tiny silver eyes glowed with some intense emotion.
«He's a little pissed off, ain't he?» said Natty.
«Correct. This is Eternal General Lisefgethmeor. We received this transmission some five hours ago.»
The image jolted into life and the bull showed his long incisors. «Earth cowards! Attention! Your doom is upon you. You have destroyed a great soul; now you will pay with your world's life!» The bull paused, seemed almost to be panting with rage.