Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

The BBC office was above a shipping insurance broker. The window of the latter was dominated by a large holovid screen and Fornax paused to watch a surreal sales pitch aimed at those importing sheep to the high-gravity world of Taotie, Epsilon Eridani. A noise behind made her turn and she was startled by the appearance of a bizarre and ancient-looking wheeled robot, somewhat reminiscent of a laboratory bench on wheels, trundling up the road with its camera mast pitifully outstretched. She watched as the robot stopped outside the shop opposite and cautiously extended a probe to knock upon the closed door. Fornax jumped as the robot suddenly spoke in coarse metallic tones.

“Photographs!” the robot warbled. “Please print my photographs!”

“Weird,” muttered Fornax.

She turned to continue her own mission and accidentally stepped into the path of a young Chinese woman bustling towards the BBC office ahead.

“Whoops!” said Fornax. “Sorry about that, kid.”

“I should watch where I am going!” apologised the woman. “Clumsy me!”

“Hey, no problem,” said Fornax. She nodded towards the robot. “What’s with that hunk of junk?”

The woman smiled. “A friend told me it’s an old rover some jokers lifted from Mars a few years ago. They fixed it up and programmed it to roam the city taking photographs.” She gave an apologetic grin and stepped away, then hesitantly followed Fornax to the door of the BBC office. “Are you a reporter? I mean, do you work here?”

“Yes and no,” Fornax replied. She held out her hand. “Felicity Fornax, from Weird Universe . You may have seen me on the hit holovid show Cosmic Cooking ?”

“Err… no,” the woman admitted. “I’m Ostara Lee, private investigator.”

Fornax raised a surprised eyebrow, then gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”

Ostara was blocking the doorway. With a nervous smile, she pushed it open and held it for Fornax, before following the reporter up the stairs beyond. At the top was another door, upon which a simple sign read: ‘BBC ASCENSION’.

The first thing Fornax saw when they entered the office was the holovid screen. An entire wall was covered by a single expanse of illuminated glass, dwarfing the man who stood before it with his back to the door. The screen displayed a variety of moving images, text documents and photographs, which the man was scrutinising and rearranging by waving his hands in front of the motion-sensitive screen. The tiny room was otherwise furnished with a desk by the window and a couple of easy chairs that left little space to stand. Fornax tried not to look too disappointed when the man turned to greet them, but there was no denying she had expected the BBC’s only outpost in the Barnard’s Star system to be a tad more impressive. The reaction of her companion took her by surprise.

“Wow!” exclaimed Ostara. “The BBC newsroom! How exciting!”

“Can I help you?” asked the man. He was a twitchy, pale-skinned figure with thinning dark hair, who stood short of both Fornax and Ostara. He wore an uninspiring brown suit that did not quite fit. “Are you here to fix the molecularisor?”

“Do I look like an engineer?” Fornax remarked sarcastically. “I’m a journalist.”

“What’s up with the ’risor?” asked Ostara. A faint mechanical voice, warbling ‘Reboot me!’ over and over again, drifted through a nearby open door.

“Does it matter?” Fornax said, irritated. Her days on Cosmic Cooking had instilled in her a hatred of food molecularisors, which were able to produce a wide variety of food and drink almost instantly. In her mind they were to blame for the unimpressive ratings for her so-called ‘hit’ show, for she never really believed her producer’s assurance that there was a big difference between wanting to watch cookery programmes and actually wanting to cook.

“It won’t make hot beverages,” the man said sadly. “I really miss a nice cup of tea.”

“You don’t need a ’risor for tea!” chirped Ostara. “Allow me!”

She stepped gaily through the open doorway and moments later the sound of running water and rattling crockery filled the office as she got to work with the materials on hand. The man’s look of bemusement became one of curiosity.

“A journalist?” he asked Fornax. “With Five Systems News ?”

“No, I’m not,” Fornax confessed. “I’m a roving reporter for Weird Universe , here to do a piece on the Bradbury Heights archaeology department.”

Ostara returned to the kitchenette door. “She’s a proper holovid star!” she exclaimed.

The man rolled his eyes. “And you are?”

“Ostara,” she replied. “Are you Teiresias? I sent you a message, asking to speak with you about the Dhusarian Church. We arranged to meet for lunch?”

“One o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” the man pointed out. “You’re twelve hours early.”

Ostara glanced at her wristpad, tapped the screen and sighed. Fornax gave her a look reserved for idiots. Teiresias appeared more amused than annoyed.

“I still haven’t got used to the long days and nights,” Ostara confessed. “Do you take milk and sugar?”

“Yes please,” the man replied. “But you won’t find any tea in there.”

“I always have a few sachets of Yuanshi blend in my bag!”

“Yuanshi tea?” Teiresias smiled at the sound of a clinking teaspoon from the kitchen, earning him a puzzled look from Fornax. “We ran a story last month about how some of that stuff was found to be tainted with egg. Do you think I should tell her?”

“The mood drug?” she asked. “If it gets me through the day, I won’t complain.”

Ostara emerged from the kitchenette, carrying a tray upon which were three mugs of steaming tea and a small plate of biscuits. Fornax caught Teiresias’ frown at the sight of the packet of ginger creams and guessed he had not planned to share them with guests.

“Are you not local?” Fornax asked Ostara, taking the offered mug.

“I’m from the hollow moon,” she replied. Fornax responded with a blank look. “The Dandridge Cole ? It’s an old asteroid colony ship, where we have proper days and nights. Well, not any more. Not since we crashed the Platypus into the sun.”

“A moon? Which planet does it orbit?”

“It orbits Barnard’s Star,” Ostara told her.

“Hardly a moon, kid.”

“Poetic licence!” snapped Ostara.

“And now she’s just one of the hundreds of refuges who have poured into Newbrum begging for food and shelter,” added Teiresias, taking a mug and a couple of biscuits for himself. “They had to abandon their asteroid, you see. It turns out that living inside a small rock is no better than squatting beneath a dome on the big bad rock that is Ascension.”

“I am not begging!” Ostara retorted. “I have my own business!”

“Yes indeed. What did your message say? Newbrum’s premier detective agency.”

“Are there any others?” asked Fornax.

Teiresias smiled and shook his head.

“You’re both being horrible,” complained Ostara. “I made you tea and neither of you said thank you. I’m here in good faith, trying to find out something about the Dhusarians for a friend of mine, who is worried his sister may be involved in something not quite right. Perhaps I was expecting too much when I came here for help.”

Teiresias pursed his lips and frowned. Fornax wandered to the holovid wall display, bemused that the man seemed moved by the trace of a tear in Ostara’s eye. Fornax imagined Teiresias was more used to dealing with journalists, holovid crews and other hard-headed broadcast professionals who had cashed in their morals long ago.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said. “The tea is rather good, thank you. You are welcome to what little information I have on the Dhusarian Church. As I recall, there was a lot of interest around the time of the peace conference on Daode. A colleague of mine started to put together a report on the Dandridge Cole and your altercation with that Yuanshi priest, but the network controllers did not want to run any upbeat news stories about you refugees. They err… only wanted the bad stuff. What she did is still on file though.”