Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

“Good idea,” he said. “I’m glad someone from your family is trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful?” exclaimed Wak. “You’re as mad as each other!”

The job of retrieving the mining boosters from the hangar on the far side of Dockside took Quirinus longer than he would have liked. The bulky rockets had to be transported through the main cavern, where the oxygen content had dropped to virtually zero and the air was cold enough to freeze his blood. Not only did he have to wear a survival suit, but he also had to stop the cows from wandering outside whilst winching his cargo onto Professor Wak’s battered blue hovertruck. The vehicle was not really up to the task and could only carry one booster at a time. The cows, bred for low gravity and freakishly huge, did little to help.

Quirinus had just made his third trip back to the Platypus when he was interrupted by a beep from his wristpad. He was surprised to see he had a message from Administrator Verdandi, requesting that he contact her as soon as possible. The thought that it may be news of his missing daughter immediately led him to fear the worst. He quickly extracted himself from the bulky suit and hurried to Wak’s workshop to use the holovid booth.

Verdandi had not expected him to respond so quickly and Quirinus suffered several minutes of tedious conversation with her apathetic secretary before the Administrator herself came to the screen. The chickens clucking at his feet did little to ease the tension.

“My dear Quirinus,” she greeted, looking solemn. “You are not an easy man to track down. I’m afraid I’ve had a rather disturbing message passed to me regarding the excavation on Falsafah and I wondered if you’d heard from your daughter.”

Quirinus gripped the arms of his chair and braced himself for bad news. “I was hoping to speak to Ravana earlier today but she missed our regular holovid chat,” he said slowly. “What have you heard?”

“Your daughter went missing from the expedition a fortnight ago. Her colleagues thought she had returned to Ascension the last time the ship was at Arallu. It was not until one of the students asked the pilots where she was that they realised no one knew.”

“Two weeks?” exclaimed Quirinus, then remembered that the pilot of the Sir Bedivere had said pretty much the same thing. “How do you know all this?”

“A student called Xuthus raised the alarm when he spoke to his father earlier today,” Verdandi replied. “His father didn’t know how to get hold of you and so contacted my office instead. I’m making further enquiries, but I’m having to go through Que Qiao police channels on Aram. As yet, they’ve heard nothing back from their agents on Falsafah.”

“Two weeks,” he murmured. He had never been to Falsafah but knew it to be a hostile, unforgiving place. On those sorts of worlds you were lucky to survive two minutes outside without protection, never mind a whole fortnight.

“I’m really sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she said and gave a sympathetic smile. “I must say you’re taking it all rather well. You must be worried stiff.”

“Believe me, I am.” Up until then, Quirinus had not appreciated the depth of his fear and for a moment fell silent. He absent-mindedly pushed away a chicken with his foot. “Could you send one of your own police units? Or get the expedition’s ship to return ahead of schedule? You could pick me up on the way.”

“You know better than that,” said Verdandi. “My jurisdiction barely reaches to the end of the runway at Newbrum! Even if I could sanction such action, all our officers are tied up with the Sky Cleaver investigation. By the way, if you have plans to send your tanker, I strongly advise you to wait until the new crew arrives. Fuelling operations are suspended.”

“Sounds like there’s trouble all round,” Quirinus said thoughtfully. He decided not to mention that Momus and the Indra were already on their way. “I may as well tell you that I intend to take the Platypus to Falsafah. It’ll take another day or so to finish repairs but I mean to be on my way as soon as possible.”

“I can’t stop you, of course. I will take it for granted that you are not flying without a licence as long as that pilot you hired is with you.”

Quirinus managed a smile. “Thank you. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“Just one more thing,” said Verdandi. “Is it me or can I hear a chicken clucking?”

Momus gingerly pulled himself through the Indra ’s outer airlock door and shuddered. The dimly-lit steel corridor that ran the length of Sky Cleaver ’s docking pontoon creaked ominously. The cloud-mining station was one of the oldest human constructs in the Barnard’s Star system and Momus tried not to think of what would happen when the years spent orbiting in Thunor’s fierce gravity well finally took their toll.

The passageway was deserted. Directly opposite was another hatch, with two more on either side of the corridor several metres away to his left. Momus drifted across to peer through the small viewing port in the door opposite, then gave a startled yelp as the Indra ’s hatch suddenly hissed closed behind him. He grabbed a handrail, pulled himself along the corridor and paused. He had heard a distant clunk and murmur of voices.

“Hello?” he called. “Is there anybody there?”

The quiet groaning of the superstructure was unnerving. His heart racing, Momus strained to listen for signs of life, but all he could hear was the omnipresent murmur of life-support systems and occasional beep of a control panel. Then he heard another thump, this time from the far end of the pontoon. His glance darted from one end of the corridor to the other, but saw nothing. A muscle on his face seized the opportunity to develop an annoying nervous twitch. He pushed back a floating lock of hair with a trembling, clammy hand.

Momus cursed. In his startled movements back and forth, he had lost all sense of direction and forgotten which of the four hatches led back to the comforting familiarity of the Indra . It was then he heard a scratching noise, followed by another thud as something soft bumped against a nearby airlock door.

“Who’s there?” he whispered. “Stop playing frigging games!”

The scratching came from the hatch behind him. Momus turned, slowly raised a hand to the nearby control panel and pressed the switch to open the door.

A black bundle of fur shot through the opening towards his face, hissing violently. Momus released a blood-curdling scream and leapt away from a sudden onslaught of flailing paws and claws. The electric cat shot across the corridor, bounced off the opposite wall and with another hiss wrapped its limbs around a convenient handrail.

“Crappy frigging cat!” yelled Momus. “You evil spawn of a waste-disposal unit! You mangy heap of fake fur! You scared the bloody frigging life out of me!”

He heard another series of thumps from behind him and in a panic turned again.

“Stop right there!” came an angry voice. “Put your hands where I can see them!”

Momus grabbed the edge of the airlock door to stop himself spinning and stared at the two police officers standing at the far end of the passage. The men were clad in matching pressure suits in starless black, with the only concession to high visibility being a fluorescent yellow stripe up the arms and legs. They had removed their helmets and carried them in a net fixed to their bulky backpacks, ready within arm’s reach in case of unexpected depressurisation. Both wore magnetic boots and stood firm in the pontoon corridor, leaving Momus feeling distinctly at a disadvantage as he bobbed uncertainly before them. The eyes of the men were concealed by enhanced-reality shades; only police-issue visors worked on the various networks in the Barnard’s Star system and the god-like omniscience it gave officers unnerved Momus. He knew their unprofessional smirks were for his benefit.