Chapter Text
Dames come in all shapes and sizes, but they're all trouble. I learned that shit the hard way back in the lower reaches of the Greater Space Elevator. You know the place, sunlight and moonlight is unknown. The only warmth can be found in whiskey and another body. The places below dirt, where men can live and die of old age without seeing another sentient soul. Still got the scars. So I don't take work from dames no more. I don't get as much money. You know how many dames just waltz in showing gam and expect the big, bad, hard-boiled, monologuing -you get the picture- Private Eye to take care of their problem of the week? It's a thrice damned Trope! A stereotype. It happens all the time.
My work name is Sam. Never mind my real name. It's not hard-boiled. It's not the one that signs the checks or pays the rent on the office. My mother called me my real name, but my dad called me 'Champ'. That's where the work name comes from. Sam Champ. As pretty a detective named as this gumshoe could ask for. I'm an ugly six-foot-two with a size fourteen shoe and a super-broad shoulder that's intimidating to tailors and thugs alike. My gun is the police-man's friend, a modded MCP-8-700, with settings for lethal, stun and 'screw everything in a straight line'. Not quite a living weapon like what the Templars have, but dang close.
I make rent by being a bull in one of the loading bays around the elevator. I keep out riff-raff, bouncer style. Stow aways are spaced or shang-haied, as a rule, so it's better to catch someone sneaking on than letting them burn up in the atmosphere. I still get plenty of time for detective work, though. The meteor showers are really going at it this time of year and the big shippings slowed down a bit. What's the use of profit if you spend it all repairing the ship, eh?
The place I call home and business is a two room, one full bathroom suite that's almost made for bachelors like me. One small room is your bed and boudoir. A place to take the ladies and take off the shoes, if you get me. Got some books in there. The old Sam Spade novels and some of the other detective greats. You know, monkey read, monkey do. I'm a simple guy like that.
This world I live in is a giant tower that reaches up about a hundred thousand miles, depending on how you count it. From bedrock to pinnacle. I haven't seen the proper sun in two years. I'm due for a vacation and I hate eating ersatz food and real cabbage. A man needs his hobbies. He could go crazy and start monologuing. Good thing I have an excuse. Being a detective has perks.
My office is in a decent place. On spine 13H, between a rich neighborhood and decently well off neighborhood. Space Elevators bring wealth, and those who are smart or lucky enough to capitalize on it don't do badly. I got this as a favor for clearing the landlord's name for murder. It's only twenty minutes via escalator and elevator to my bull work, and five by walking to the nearest Liquor and Sundries and Liquor Store. Ain't bad at all.
The walls hold a series of pictures with clients I sucessfully helped, on a white background. Paper, it's expensive but so's holograms in the long run. A mantlepiece with a turned off hologram fire holds momentos from all my cases. My desk is faux-wood, not ersatz-wood, thank you very much, and only feels fake, but looks real enough. Behind my ersatz-leather chair is a hologram window I do keep on. When I expect clients, I set it to 'gritty noir' but I keep it at 'Family Friendly park' otherwise. It's all about appearances. A detective who doesn't have a desk or chair or gritty noir window viewing isn't a very good detective at all.
So, during my time off I sit my chair, sit back with a good pulp, good whiskey, and smoke a cigarette. When someone comes in, I toss the book away and get a far-away look in my eye. As if I'm remember dames who died in my arms taking a bullet for me, or far off and foreign wars where I lost my innocence. Really intimidating to the soft and the needy. Gives me an edge in negotiating.
The door creaks, I toss down Sam Spade and get the look. I detect a feminine, but heavy step and put a slight smolder in my eyes. I'm still going to reject her, but I got to do it gentle like, can't get bad feeling from clients.
The dame walks in. She's a trans-human. You can tell. She holds herself ramrod straight, always. Even the proper ladies can't keep the spine a straight line for long. Her eyes are too closed, but not squinting, for normal sight. Her shoes have a slight metallic clang. Besides that, she's got a long coat as the Silicon Soul where like a second skin. The coat melts into some sort of skirt that falls to her ankles. It's elastic, and probably retracts if in combat, if I'm judging it right.
The real tells are her head piece and her arms. The head piece is a giant tentacle. The hair, gray, is slicked back into it, as if the thing is just moving follicles. It ends in a gripping hand, with fingers for more delicate work. Or, rather, the fingers turn into the grip. There's bangs and hair infront of her ears, giving it a human look. But trying too hard. Her hands are slick, black and carapaced. Green veins pulse in the joints and the metal is shiny. They twitch every time she moves, like the nervous system isn't quite sure how to treat them yet. They are cold and alien. I will not be shaking her hand. The points of her nails glittered.
"I don't serve dames. I don't serve Silicon Soul. Get out."
She doesn't react. It's getting well known I don't work for women, for reasons I mentioned earlier.
"I need you to find someone, Mr. Champ."
Uh-huh. Probably some punk who knocked her up or stole bail money. Or is a Silicon Soul.
"No. I have it on the sign outside." I do. In bold letters in English-standard and E-deviant. Black on white poly-plastic.
"I am not a Silicon Creature yet. I am trying to prevent it. I need you to find the mad scientist, 'Sawbones' Barbados Slim. He has a cure."
Now that caught my ear. A mysterious person running from an evil to find the one person who could save her? This wasn't a jealous wife or suspicious matron. This wasn't a blue milk run, oh no. Sounds like the exact sort of adventure I needed. I said, tipping my hat back in just the right way, "Aight. You got my attention...?" Play it cool.
"Sally Broider."
"Sally, well, this will be a difficult one, but it's right up my case. I'll expect my travel costs covered, as well as living costs, besides my retainer. First. give me the details. Take a seat."
Sally sits in one of the low chairs infront of my desk. They're ersatz leather, and decently comfortable. They're lower than the desk so I can look down at them. I didn't realize how tall this girl was until she came close. I wondered if it was her shoes, which were thick heeled, but cut in such a way to give that high heeled look. She moved sinuously. Like a wave. One foot forward, then the other infront of it. Some girls do it on purpose to snare the poor schmuck I aint, but on her, it was liquid. The dress moved up a bit to get out of the way, letting me look at the shapely leg.
I could see the appeal some had to become a Silicon Soul. Sudden perfection. A foot never out of place... but at the cost of sanity and soul. What a cost. Her skirt had hiked up to above her knees. She crossed her legs. The skirt deliberately kept the length at a modest level. Modest doesn't mean showing nothing, though.
"I was part of the Jaspers Silver incident fifteen years ago. Remember that?"
I did. "A kid was used as an experiment that the Silicon Soul group wanted. Didn't he become a sky pirate on Jupiter?"
She didn't react. "I helped him escape from Barbados, who did the first experiments on him. Turned him into something more than a human, with growth and flaws, but without silicon soul rewriting the soul. Used Nanotechnology, which is why I'm in this predicament. Last year I was captured by the resurrected Silicon Soul Baramia, who remembered I'd defied her during that time. She injected me with a nanotechnology that is slowly but surely turning me into one of them."
"Unless you find Barbados Slim, get whatever he did for Jaspers, and turn yourself back to being human."
"Yes."
This place is terrible, but for those who love adventure, it certainly has its perks. "I'm your man." I pulled out some legers. Taxes are crazy. "Lets talk about pay..."