Junkyard — Part 2 (a free science fiction novella)

Here’s the next installment of Junkyard!

That’s a picture of a wolfhound down there, so not quite the mixed-breed mutt that Junkyard is, but that’s how I imagine his face. And his height!

If you need something to read after this, Fractured Stars, the novel that’s set a couple of years later, is officially out.

Junkyard Part II

McCall felt much more comfortable back on her ship, sitting in her office with the search algorithms she’d refined over the years spitting out data on the displays floating over her desk. Thank the suns. Her nerves were frayed after the tour of the noisy, cramped, employee-filled sugarhouse, and her nostrils were still protesting the cloying scent of maple syrup that had clogged the air like pollution in Perun Central.

Analyzing data in her quiet odor-free office soothed her.

The names and faces of Dunham’s employees hovered in a row in one display. The names and addresses of black marketeers known to handle agricultural products floated in another. None of them had offices on Dasos Moon, so Dunham’s assumption that a thief would have to take the stolen syrup to the spaceport to ship off-world was reasonable.

The traffic logs from the spaceport, information that wasn’t public but that she knew how to get, currently hovered behind the other displays. She was in the middle of trying to convince the local traffic cameras that she had the right to see the vids from the last two months of comings and goings on this rural street. Skimming through such logs would be stultifying, but she doubted whoever had doctored the warehouse’s security cameras would have been able to diddle the county’s recordings, and if a vehicle large enough to tote away two hundred tons of syrup had arrived, it would be noticeable. She might even get lucky and be able to magnify the image to identify the people, androids, or robots that had loaded the cargo.

A knock sounded on the closed hatch.

“Come in, Scipio.”

He stepped inside and got straight to business, something McCall appreciated about him.

“I have performed short interviews of all the employees that were at the warehouse and sugarhouse today,” he said. “I have also visited two who reported in sick this morning and were staying in a boarding house up the street. A third sick employee was not in his domicile, nor did he answer his earstar.”

“That’s a lot of people sick for a staff of twenty.” McCall assumed the three employees had caught wind of an investigation and had reasons to feel guilty. Given Scipio’s stolen status, she found she could empathize with those people a lot more than she once might have. But if they’d taken syrup to get rich, she wouldn’t empathize. She’d taken Scipio because his previous owners had treated him so poorly it had broken her heart. An android might not have feelings, but Scipio managed to have a kind of dignity, and it shone through now that he was his own person. Or at least his own mechanical being. “Can you give me their names?” she added.

“I’ve already transferred the information.” As he said the words, three names and faces enlarged on one of her displays.

“Good. I’ll prioritize looking up their backgrounds. Thank you.”

“There is one more matter I must discuss before leaving you to work.” Scipio lifted his hand in Apologetic Gesture Number Three. He had already learned that when she focused on work, she tended to do so for hours and hours and loathed interruptions. “The local law-enforcement agency commed the ship while we were out.”

“Oh?” McCall hadn’t gone to NavCom to check messages. “Do they object to our presence in the investigation they haven’t bothered to send anyone out to start yet?”

“No. They informed us that parking a spaceship outside of the port is grounds for a fine. If the Star Surfer remains here, we will be subject to a thirty-morat-per-night fine.”

“They can keep track of illegally parked spaceships, but they’re too busy to help Dunham recover millions of morats in syrup?”

“Traffic control is the responsibility of a different department than theft.”

“A more efficient one, apparently.”

“Shall I prepare to move the ship?” Among Scipio’s other talents, he was a pilot. A better one than she, not surprisingly. She didn’t have the best spatial awareness, and she’d had to take her pilot’s exam more than once before passing. It had been worth it to have the freedom to fly herself, to not have to rely on public transport clogged with people who insisted on sitting entirely too close to each other and touching.

She curled a lip at the thought of riding a ground transport out here each morning during the investigation, complete with a long walk at the end, since nothing would go directly to this rural dead end.

“Send them the fine, enough for three nights.”

Scipio tilted his head. “Is there a reason you wish to remain on the premises against the wishes of law enforcement? Do you believe the thieves may make a nocturnal appearance? Shall I send out hover-cams to monitor the facility?”

All she’d been thinking about was loathsome shoulder-touching with strangers, but the suggestion sounded like a good one, and she wished she’d thought of it.

“Yes,” she said. “Program them to ping us if there’s any activity in the middle of the night.”

McCall didn’t expect anyone to return to the scene of the crime, especially with her ship parked out front, but it was always possible.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Scipio?” she said as he turned for the hatch.

“Yes, Captain?”

“McCall.”

“Captain McCall.”

“I mean, you can call me by my first name instead of adding a rank.” Especially since it was a de facto rank she only held because she’d had the morats to buy her ship.

“I was programmed to maintain a servant-master relationship with my human owners, and it is against my protocol to be, as you would say, on a first-name basis with people.”

“That’s disgusting. Can’t you download a patch or something?”

He stared at her, then, after a long hesitation, issued his rarely used Laugh Number One. It was, in fact, the only version of a laugh she’d heard from him, and it usually came when he was attempting to give the expected response to a joke. She’d been serious, but she smiled in complete understanding. She’d faked a lot of laughs to give the expected response—or cover up that she didn’t understand the joke.

“But I don’t own you, right?” McCall attempted to clarify. “I just assisted you in leaving your previous owner. So I’m not your master.”

“I do grasp the concept, Captain, but it is difficult for me to override my inherent protocols. As I admitted to you, I am able to perform numerous types of combat and bodyguard duties because I downloaded new routines, but my need to perform my basic functions will always trump them.”

“All right, I understand.” She wagered that having him address her as a superior—or dear suns, a master—bothered her more than it did him. “What I wanted to say is thank you for your help. I had some… doubts about whether I’d made the right choice after I assisted you in escaping that facility, especially since your treatment there seemed to bother me a lot more than it bothered you, but I’m glad I did so. And that you refused to leave afterward and wanted a job.”

She smiled at the memory of her attempt to free Scipio, who had been, at the time, Model DuraSky 3636, serial number 73837-D4. It had been something akin to opening the door of a birdcage and receiving a puzzled chirp from the parakeet inside.

“I am pleased that my service has satisfied you.” He issued Nod Number Seven. “I do find this work more fulfilling than retrieving beverages and performing sexual acts.”

“Right. Good.” McCall waved, not wanting to discuss all the demeaning uses that his previous owner had had for him.

Scipio left, and she perused the files of the “sick” people who hadn’t been at work.

 

* * *

 

McCall was still at her desk when a soft chime floated through the ship. She frowned at the interruption. What was that? Not the comm or the exterior hatch buzzer.

“Scipio’s alarms,” she blurted with realization.

She glanced at the two clock displays to the side of the desk, one ship’s time and one local time. Going by local time, it wouldn’t be fully dark out yet, but the warehouse’s work shift had ended two hours earlier. She jogged up to NavCom to see if Scipio was up there monitoring the cameras.

He was. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he observed the Star Surfer’s surroundings, both on NavCom’s wrap-around display of the exterior and on a holodisplay showing the hover-cams he’d set up outside. Birds’ eye viewpoints showed the warehouse, the sugarhouse, some of the trees out back, and the front and side parking areas. She could also make out some of piles of metal scrap, appliances, and rusted vehicles in the near side of the junkyard.

Two men in dark clothing stood out front of the now-closed rollup door to the warehouse. They pointed at each other, at the warehouse, and also at her ship.

“This is the first activity since the work day ended and the employees left the warehouse,” Scipio said. “No security guards were left on duty tonight. I have been observing.”

“We set up the alarms so you wouldn’t have to observe.”

“I have completed choosing cufflinks to match my new suit, so I am able to devote my ocular receptors to this task.”

“Cufflinks? Is that what you’re buying with your share of the money if we recover the stolen maple syrup?” McCall slid into the pilot’s seat and swiped her fingers in the air to zoom in on the two men.

“We will recover the syrup. My current salary is sufficient for the purchase of silver cufflinks. You did not mention shares.”

“Well, there’ll be a share if we make that much. But I’m glad to hear your tastes aren’t overly extravagant. Given that you were in that drab butler’s uniform when we met, I admit to being surprised by your flair for dress.”

“I have decided to individualize myself from the other androids in my line by wearing atypical garb, thus to make it less likely that I’ll be recognized and scanned by imperial law enforcers.”

“And cufflinks will accomplish this?”

“Most assuredly.”

“That’s the security guard with the bionic hand, right? Mahajan?” McCall pointed at the larger of the two men. She might not be good with faces, but she remembered his lack of a glove, and he still didn’t have his left hand covered. Did he special order single gloves or donate all of his lefts to the junkyard dog to chew on?

“I did not ask him about the status of his limbs,” Scipio said, “but that is his name. I am not familiar with the second man. It is possible he is the third sick individual, the one who was not in his domicile.”

“He doesn’t look that sick.”

“He may also be someone from outside the organization. Let me adjust the camera to better see his face.”

“Don’t get too close,” McCall warned. “My hover-cams are a lot smaller and quieter than imperial spy boxes, but they’re not invisible.”

“Yes, Captain.”

McCall leaned forward as the camera slowly shifted its position to give them a view of the newcomer’s face. Since it was positioned so far above the men, and twilight was creeping in, she had a hard time telling if it was one of the employees from the roster. She’d looked at the faces, bios, and background information on them all already and had been queuing up the footage she’d acquired from the traffic cameras when the alarm chimed.

“That is Erik Pottinger,” Scipio said. “The missing sick man.”

“I’m glad you’re better at faces than I am.” She decided she had been right to hire Scipio, even if he hadn’t yet figured out that she didn’t want to take on bizarre assignments that took her out of her comfort zone. “I wish we had audio.”

Unfortunately, the cameras weren’t that sophisticated. She would have needed to purchase larger, more noticeable units if she wanted extra features, and she’d thought stealth might be more important than sound.

“We could go out and question them,” Scipio said. “With my speed, I could catch them before they could escape.”

McCall grimaced. Running down people and questioning them was even less in her comfort zone than searching for syrup.

“We don’t have the authority to do that, and somehow, I doubt you’ve been programmed to effectively interrogate people.”

“This is true. My programming would suggest I make them coffee after capturing them.”

“Unless you make it so hot it scalds their throats on the way down, I don’t see that as an effective interrogation method.” She understood why Scipio had chosen a name for himself instead of going by his serial number, but it amused her that he’d named himself after an Old Earth general. Maybe he aspired to overcome his programming and become a master military tactician someday.

“Perhaps we should simply observe them,” he said.

“I think so.”

The two men walked to a door, unlocked it, and went into the warehouse.

“It’s possible they don’t want to be observed,” McCall said.

“Their body language did not suggest they were aware of our surveillance. It is possible they represent the night-shift security guards. I thought it unusual that Dunham did not leave employees at the warehouse since, earlier in the day, he said he was doing so now.”

“Maybe they’re the ones responsible for the heist, and they’ve come to cover some tracks.”

“I did not observe any tracks on the floor when we were inside.”

McCall looked at him, wondering if that was one of his attempts at humor, or if he was being literal. He wasn’t wearing one of his expressions that she’d identified to give her any clues.

She leaned back in the seat and twisted her bracelet on her wrist, barely aware of the bronze charms tinkling. “From what’s in their files, Pottinger is a security guard, like Mahajan. They were both infantry in the fleet and served for one enlistment term before getting out and seeking civilian work. Infantry specialize in ground warfare and also getting into enemy ships, rushing through the corridors, and subduing the foolish souls opposing the empire. They had a lot of training on how to kill people with their pinkies. None of the courses listed on their resumes suggest they had computer or electronics training, so I’m skeptical that either of them could alter the security cameras. It’s always possible one of them has a hobby though, if not any formal training.”

“Killing people with their pinkies? Even an android would find a single diminutive digit insufficient for such a purpose.”

“Never mind. It’s just a saying. Do you think we could maneuver the camera and try to get it into the warehouse? We should have done it when they had the door open. Damn. Wait.” McCall leaned forward in her seat again and made a hooking motion with her finger to draw the display from the other camera to the forefront. “Who’s this?”

A man wearing a fur cap hurried out the rear of the warehouse, glancing over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. There weren’t any exterior lights back there, so she doubted even Scipio would be able to make out his face.

Instead of heading toward the lot near the sugarhouse where a couple of ground vehicles were parked, he followed the back of the building toward the junkyard. A few lightposts along its perimeter shed illumination near the fence.

“I am attempting to angle the camera so that we will be able to see his face if he walks into the light,” Scipio said.

“Good.” McCall tapped her foot and twiddled the unicorn charm on her bracelet. “Do you think the dog is barking at all this activity?”

They couldn’t hear sound through the thick, insulated hull of the ship.

“I have not yet detected its movement,” Scipio said. “It may be asleep.”

McCall hoped it had a cozy den somewhere in the junkyard and that someone fed it regularly. Even so, she imagined the existence to be lonely. No wonder it got cranky at the denizens next door.

A dark blur ran through the shadows inside the fence as the man approached from the outside. He stepped into the light, and Scipio worked the camera down closer. The man pulled something out from inside his jacket and unwrapped it. The blur—the dog—arrived on the other side of the fence, a mass of gray, black, and brown fur. Thanks to the perimeter lighting, his wagging tail was visible.

“Not quite the monster Dunham made him out to be.” McCall didn’t like calling anything it, so she assigned the dog a sex based on its—his—size. She had no idea if it was accurate.

As the man slid pieces of a sandwich through the gap between the fence boards, the camera drew close enough for his face to be visible.

“Louis Desmarais,” Scipio said, identifying him. “He effectively evaded my questioning earlier, so I have not spoken with him. Also, I believed he had left earlier when he went into the woods, so I did not consider him when I was counting employees as they left the building. He must have returned before I set up the cameras.”

“I spoke with him briefly earlier.”

“Did you find it appealing to speak to one of your kind?”

McCall blinked. “My kind?”

“When I interviewed one of his colleagues, the man mentioned he was autistic. He grew up on a border planet and was not taken to a hospital as a child for the empire’s normalization surgery.”

McCall blew out a slow breath and pointedly unclasped the charm she’d been twirling. “It’s not really a kind. It’s not like we share a cultural background or both go to the same church and sing Sun Trinity hymns together.”

“Do you not have the common upbringing of having been born on a border world?”

“No, I was born on Perun. My mother had access to imperial hospitals. She just didn’t trust them. She never went herself, which resulted in her dying far younger than she should have, and she never took us—my sister and I.”

Louis finished feeding the dog, patted him through the fence, then tugged his collar up against the breeze and headed toward the vehicle lot.

“Scipio, why don’t we take a tour of that junkyard?” McCall suggested.

“The gate is locked, and the junkyard is not owned by the Dunham family.”

“No, it’s owned by Jacob Hyssop who has been off-moon for the last year. I checked the tax records for the neighboring properties.”

“Wise. Do you believe it possible the missing maple syrup may be stored over there until such time that security lessens at the spaceport?”

“That would certainly be convenient for us, but I’m not going to get my hopes up.” She worried the maple syrup was long gone, that it had been stolen, despite the supposedly undisturbed door locks, during the quiet of winter and that filling the containers with water had kept Dunham for discovering the theft in a timely manner.

“I will get a stun gun in case we need to handle the dog.”

“I’ll get a steak.”

Scipio gave her Curious Head Tilt Number Two.

“For the same reason,” she explained and headed to the ship’s kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Technically, it wasn’t a steak. It was a cranberry-turkey ration bar purchased because the ingredients did not upset McCall’s stomach. She did not tolerate grains or dairy from either cows or jakloffs and assumed dogs wouldn’t object to the lack of such things. Just in case, she had heated it so it would smell more enticing.

Scipio, his stun gun in hand, did not look like he believed the meat bribe would gain them entrance to the junkyard.

They walked quickly across the cracked pavement, the frosty air encouraging briskness. It was easily ten degrees chillier than it had been that morning when they landed. McCall knew nothing about maple sap but was surprised it could flow when the temperatures were barely above freezing during the day.

Maybe this was a cold snap, or the end of one. Or maybe Dunham was trying to get production going early in the year because he feared the imperials would descend upon him if he couldn’t come up with the tax money due on the stolen syrup. A legitimate fear, unfortunately.

The government tended to be draconian in their tax collections, as she knew since she had been late a couple of times. Not because she didn’t have the money but because she’d been focused on her work and had forgotten—or maybe forgotten to muster the enthusiasm—to open the warning messages sitting in her inbox. Now, she had a bookkeeper to help out and ensure she stayed in the empire’s good graces.

A deep baying echoed from within the junkyard. The sound of claws on pavement followed and heavy pants emanated from behind the fence. A thud came, and the closest boards rattled.

McCall jumped, clenching her ration bar tightly while worrying that her bribery plan might not be sufficient. Just because Louis had befriended the savage beast over who knew how many months didn’t mean she could do the same thing.

“If the owner, Jacob Hyssop, is not located on the moon, who is caring for the dog?” Scipio asked, not noticeably fazed by the shaking boards.

Was the dog jumping against them to try to get out and devour them whole? Or maybe he was so eager to play that he was bumping his huge body against them.

More barks sounded. He wasn’t growling, at least.

“I don’t know. Maybe just Louis. If the poor dog has been in there as long as Hyssop has been gone, I’m going to use your stun gun on him if I ever see him.” McCall forced herself to keep walking until they reached the wide front entrance, which consisted of two chain-link gates that could be rolled to the sides so vehicles could drive in. The rest of the fence was made from wood. There wasn’t any barbed wire along the top and certainly nothing as high-tech as a forcefield. A stiff wind could have thwarted the rusty padlock holding the gates shut.

The dog appeared, leaping in from the side and startling McCall anew with his size. He barked ferociously at them, and this time a few frustrated growls escaped.

Scipio raised his stun gun.

“Wait.” McCall lifted a hand to stop him, then tore off a chunk of the ration bar. She had two more in their wrappers in her pocket should a more substantial bribe be required.

She tossed the piece over the gate to land between the dog’s paws. He snapped at the air and scurried back, leaving the treat untouched on the ground.

McCall lifted the rest of the bar to her mouth and simulated eating it, complete with nom-nom sounds of enjoyment.

Scipio looked at her, and she felt silly.

“It worked on my college roommate’s dog,” she said.

“Are you sure the stun gun would not be preferable? If it continues to bark, the noise could alert the two men in the warehouse.”

“I get the feeling he barks a lot and the employees ignore it.” McCall backed up a few paces in case that would help the dog relax.

Scipio did the same.

The barks stopped, and the dog came forward and sniffed the treat. A tongue almost as big as McCall’s forearm came out and lapped it up. She was fairly certain he consumed it too quickly to taste, but he tilted his head, big furry ears flopping, in a gesture that reminded her of one of Scipio’s curious expressions.

McCall ripped off another piece of the bar and tossed it inside. The dog ate it promptly, and his tail wagged slightly.

“Shall I break the lock while it is distracted?” Scipio asked.

“He.”

“Pardon?”

“While he’s distracted. And I was thinking we could just climb over the fence. We don’t need to drive a vehicle inside.”

“How can you ascertain its—his?—sex? The dog’s genitalia are covered by fur.”

“Just a hunch.” McCall didn’t want to explain why she thought it dehumanizing—dedogizing—to call him an it. “Will you let me climb in there with you, boy?” She tossed another piece of meat and went to the gate and put her hands on the chain links.

She was tempted to try to go over the fence farther away from the dog, so he wouldn’t see her as a threat, but the planks didn’t offer sufficient handholds.

Scipio stepped closer to the gate, pointing the muzzle of his stun gun through one of the gaps. The dog stopped wagging his tail, and he backed up, sniffing the air.

“I’m still hoping that won’t be necessary.” McCall climbed slowly to the top. She paused, sitting aside the cross bar, and tossed the last piece. As she pulled out another bar, she asked, “Do you have a name, buddy?”

She kept talking in a soothing voice as she descended down the inside of the gate. The dog didn’t have a collar or any visible identification, so she had no way to guess his name.

His tail wagged uncertainly, and his eyes focused on her second bar. As she unwrapped it, she walked inside, looking at the scenery as she continued to talk soothingly. She’d grown up with a fluffy mutt and had always liked animals, so it wasn’t difficult to “talk dog” so to speak. If a spaceship were a good environment for pets, she would likely have a cargo hold full of them. She decided not to point out to Scipio that she was more likely to consider animals her “kind” than another human being, autistic or not.

Scipio leaped the fence with an inhuman bound, barely bending his synthetic knees as he landed.

“Show off,” McCall said.

The dog growled, his tail going straight out like a rigid flag.

“It’s all right, boy,” McCall said. “He’s with me. We just want a quick tour, eh?” She tossed him a piece of bar. “Care to lead the way?”

The dog trotted over to a stack of moldy clothing and lifted his leg.

“He appears uncooperative,” Scipio observed.

“It’s possible he doesn’t speak System Standard,” McCall said dryly, heading deeper into the junkyard.

Only one aisle down the center was wide enough to accommodate vehicles. Elsewhere, narrow paths were framed by massive stacks of robot parts, broken appliances, tires and wheels, and cardboard boxes half-disintegrated from the weather.

A mouse scurried out as she approached one, and the dog sprang into motion, catching it before it could scurry back under cover. He devoured it in a gulp.

“I’m guessing you don’t get enough food, boy.” McCall walked toward a dented, rusty drum that looked like the drums inside the warehouse. She withdrew her netdisc from her pocket and pulled up the flashlight application. The Maple Moon logo, a tree with a spherical silhouette behind it, was stamped on one side, as faded from the elements as the cardboard boxes. “This has been here a while.”

When Scipio did not comment, she looked over at him. He stood, his stun gun put away, and his hands clasped behind his back.

“It looks far too old to have been stolen this year, right?” McCall knew things could be weathered prematurely, but it was hard to imagine someone bothering. Besides, the drums weren’t what had been stolen. Their contents were missing.

“Forgive me,” Scipio said. “I did not realize you had stopped communicating with the dog and were speaking to me. Yes, I estimate that has been outside for ten years.”

The dog headed to Scipio and sniffed his leg.

“If he urinates on my handmade jakloff-leather Taglio loafers, I believe it will be within my rights as a consumer and appreciator of fine footwear to stun him.”

“I disagree. Anyone who wears shoes with pretentious tassels deserves to have his foot peed on.”

“My tassels serve an aesthetic function. They are not pretentious.”

McCall waved another piece of the ration bar. “Come on, boy. Show me where the stolen maple syrup is.”

As the dog bounded toward her, Scipio headed down another aisle. “I will search for condemning evidence on this side,” he called back.

“That’s his way of protecting his tassels,” McCall murmured.

The dog took the treat from her hand with a surprisingly gentle mouth, and wagged his tail as he jumped away again. He was younger than she had first guessed. Maybe only a couple of years old and still playful. He bounded in again, and by the light of her netdisc, she noticed the fur on his right side was matted and had something stuck to it.

“What’s wrong there, boy? Got tar or something stuck to you?” She held out a treat but kept it in her fist as he approached.

He grew still as he sniffed at her fist, and she got a better look at his side. Her jaw sagged open in horror.

“Not tar,” she whispered. A shard of metal thrust out of his side like an arrowhead but much larger. His fur was matted with dried blood. She leaned in, trying to see better, but he scurried back. “No wonder you have tendencies toward crabbiness,” she murmured. “Who did this to you?”

She supposed it could have been an accident, given the amount of sharp debris in the junkyard, but it looked more like someone had thrown something at the dog. To scare him away? She clenched her teeth, tears threatening to film her eyes, and tossed him the treat he’d been sniffing.

He plucked it out of the air, then sat down ten feet away, as if to say he wasn’t going to let her get any closer if she was interested in his injury.

“You may have to get stunned anyway,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve got a canine tranquilizer on the ship. Unless I can convince you to come voluntarily? How would you like to see my sickbay?”

Her earstar chimed softly, and Scipio spoke over the comm.

“Captain? I have located a suspicious hole in the fence near the warehouse. I’m coming to get you, so I can lead you to it.”

“I’m still in the same spot.” She lowered her voice. “Just give us a few minutes, boy, and I’ll take you to see if we can fix you up.”

Scipio appeared, carrying his shoes in his hands, his black socks covered in dust. Chewing gum stuck to one of them, but he appeared disinclined to have the shoes within canine reach.

The dog’s eyes brightened when he saw the tassels flapping, and McCall didn’t know if Scipio had improved the situation.

“Follow me, Captain.” Scipio glanced at the dog but did not extend the invitation to him.

“You can come,” she told him.

The dog trailed them as Scipio led her toward the fence adjacent to the side of the warehouse. Less than a foot separated it from the building, and she found that she had a view of the wall and also a gap in it. A large square had been cut in the boards, rather than someone removing a section of the fence entirely, and she wagered the perpetrator had hoped it wouldn’t be noticed that way. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d peered into the gap between fence and building earlier. And she certainly hadn’t noticed the round hole sawn in the warehouse wall, but that wasn’t surprising since stacks of drums on the inside completely blocked it. She didn’t know how deep they went, but she couldn’t see any light through them.

“Got an age estimate on this?” she whispered to Scipio, more conscious of her voice now that she knew there was the equivalent of an open window here.

“Recent.” He pointed out freshly frayed splinters in the wood where the boards had been cut.

McCall nodded in agreement. “Why make a hole here instead of simply taking things out one of the doors? Do you think this is an area not covered by internal or exterior cameras?”

“That is likely. Perhaps the footage was not doctored, after all. Perhaps the perpetrators simply knew the blind spots in the warehouse and worked within them.”

McCall shone her light on the ground, looking for signs that heavy drums—or had the thieves syphoned the syrup from the drums into smaller jugs?—had been dragged out recently. The packed dirt didn’t show much. Maybe a real tracker could have distinguished more, but the ground was too hard for tracks to show, and it was also possible snow had covered it when the theft had occurred.

“And where did the thieves take the syrup from here? Through the front gate of the junkyard to a vehicle waiting there?” McCall scratched her jaw as she thought of the rusty padlock. It hadn’t looked like it had been disturbed in some time, but someone could have cut it and replaced it with an equally rusty one. “I haven’t finished skimming through the footage I snagged from the traffic cameras yet.”

She grimaced at the idea that she might have to. Even playing them on fast-forward, it was a mind-numbing task. She was tempted to write a search algorithm that she could apply, then simply have the ship’s computer scan the footage and pick out significant events, but it would be a challenge to teach it to distinguish regular vehicles from nefarious maple-syrup-stealing vehicles.

“Away,” Scipio said. “Away, junkyard beast.”

McCall looked over her shoulder in time to see Scipio waving a hand and raising his loafers overhead. The dog jumped up, trying to get them, as if this were a fun game. As McCall had suspected, the shoes were even more appealing now that they were off Scipio’s feet and had gone from being a part of him to being a toy, at least in the dog’s mind.

“…be the ones to get in trouble,” a distant voice said, someone speaking from within the warehouse.

McCall held a finger to her lips and scooted closer to the hole in the wall. That sounded like one of the security guards.

“We didn’t do anything,” a second speaker growled.

“But we didn’t catch who did.”

“There wasn’t a nightshift then. How can we be blamed for that?” McCall thought that sounded like the guard with the bionic hand, Mahajan.

“I don’t know, but somebody’s going to get blamed, and the boss doesn’t like me. I appreciate you letting me in to get my stuff, and if you’re smart, you won’t come back to work tomorrow either. He doesn’t like you any more than he likes me. Can Opener.”

“That’s because he’s an asshole. Isn’t there a rule against mocking your employees?”

The voices grew more distant, as if the men were moving.

“I don’t know, but I’m quitting, and you should too.”

“That’s going to look suspicious, you idiot,” Mahajan said. “That android was already asking about people who commed in sick today. You’re on his radar.”

“Shit.”

A door clanged, and McCall heard it both through the hole and from around the corner of the building. The men were leaving out the front.

She bit her lip, half-tempted to send Scipio up there to stun them to drag them onto the ship for questioning. If she’d been a law enforcer officially on the case, she might have, but she was simply an imperial subject privately hired to look for missing syrup. If she started stunning and questioning people, she could end up in trouble with the law herself.

Thunderous barking came from right behind her, and McCall thunked her head on the edge of the hole.

The dog took off, running along the fence line, or as close as he could manage around the piles of junk. He reached the corner and barked at the men who were likely walking to the vehicle park.

McCall rubbed her head.

“He is a noisy junkyard dog,” Scipio observed quietly.

“Yeah.”

“It sounds like those two men are not responsible for the crime.”

McCall almost nodded in agreement, but… “Are we sure they didn’t know we were listening? We weren’t keeping our voices down before we saw the hole. They may have heard us first and staged their conversation there, pretending they hadn’t.”

“It is possible. Do you wish to snoop inside next?”

“No. We would have to break a lock for that since Dunham didn’t give us a key. We can snoop around some more tomorrow.” McCall was tempted to suggest they snoop further in the junkyard, but the dog returned to them and flopped down on the ground, not on the side with the jagged piece of metal sticking out. “We need to help our new friend, first. Have you, by chance, ever downloaded a veterinary routine?”

Scipio lowered his loafers and issued her Displeased Expression Number One.

~

Part III is now available!