Alien Gifts Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Front Matter

  The Ambassador's Staff

  On The Road With Fiamong's Rule

  Encountering Evie

  The Cache

  Alien Gifts

  About the Author

  Alien Gifts

  Five Short Stories

  by

  Sherry D. Ramsey

  First Published as a collection in 2018

  Compilation © Sherry D. Ramsey 2018

  Cover © Sherry D. Ramsey 2018

  Photo by Joel Filipe at Unsplash

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, entities or settings is unintentional, coincidental, and entirely attributable to the vagaries of the multiverse and fluctuations in the space-time continuum.

  Ramsey, Sherry D., 1963-, author

  Alien Gifts: Five Short Stories / Sherry D. Ramsey

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.sherrydramsey.com

  Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada

  Alien Gifts: Five Short Stories

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7752608-1-3

  All work reprinted with permission of the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment only--please do not share, duplicate, or re-sell it. Thanks for respecting the hard work of the author.

  "On The Road With Fiamong's Rule" first appeared in Neo-opsis, September 2003

  "The Ambassador's Staff" first appeared in Thoughtcrime Experiments, Sumana Harihareswara and Leonard Richardson, USA, April 2009

  "Encountering Evie" first appeared in Destination: Future, Hadley Rille Books, USA, February 2010

  "The Cache" first appeared in Unearthed, Third Person Press, Canada, 2012

  “Alien Gifts” first appeared in 2016 Young Explorer’s Adventure Guide, Dreaming Robot Press, 2015

  The Ambassador's Staff

  I considered the kid in the threadbare armchair on the other side of my desk. Shaggy-cut brown hair, clothes on the edge of shabby, two dull metal earrings looped through one ear and a stud in his lower lip. Sitting up straight, though, and looking worried. It had been a while since I'd had much to do with teenage boys—not since I was a teenage girl. I didn't remember them being this quiet.

  "Most people come to see me because they're in some kind of trouble," I prompted.

  He shook his head. "No—at least, I don't think so. I'm just—I want to do the right thing."

  "That doesn't usually require the help of a private detective."

  "No." He chewed his lip for a second, the stud clicking against his teeth. "I need some advice."

  "Fair enough. What's your name, kid?" I tapped my temple to activate my implant, blinked through the heads-up display options, and started a recording. Implants were pricey, but this one had been worth it.

  "Seetharaman Warren, but everyone calls me Seeth. I live out in the Crops, with my mom." The rest came in a rush. "This morning I found this out there. In the street."

  He reached inside his jacket and came out with something wrapped in a thin beige towel. My heart ramped up for a second, adrenaline reaction. He set the towel gently on the desk and glanced at the window, the walklane outside in full view.

  I shook my head. "Don't worry. It's one-way."

  He nodded and unwrapped the contents. I stared, not comprehending what I was seeing, and then it clicked and the adrenaline shot off another round. A big one this time.

  "Is that," I breathed, "the Ambassador's staff?"

  "I think so. What's left of it, anyway," he said, staring, like me, at the three jaggedly-broken crystalline shafts. My eyes put them together easily enough—there's the bottom, look at the way one end is capped, and it broke apart from that middle section there, and here's the top, with the curved head, perfectly polished to fit into a man's—a particular Martian man's—hand. It was really more of a cane or a walking-stick, but the Ambassador himself had always called it his staff, and who was I to argue? Whole, it had appeared pearly and luminescent, as if lit up from the inside by some arcane alchemy. Broken, it was dead white stone. Scattered dark stains marred the surface.

  "They said on the tri-V," I said slowly, "that the Martian Ambassador died in his sleep. In his hotel." It had been the only news on any channel all morning.

  Seeth must have felt my eyes on him, and looked up to meet my gaze, reading the question there. He nodded. "I know, ma'am, I don't understand it, either. I found this on my way home from work, and I knew right away what it was."

  I believed him. Anyone who'd ever seen the Martian Ambassador would recognize it, the way he wielded it like his staff of office.

  I frowned at Seeth. "So how does the Ambassador's staff wind up broken on a street in the Crops, when the Ambassador is dying peacefully in his hotel room?"

  "I guess that's what I need you to find out."

  "Me?"

  He stared at me, his eyes blue and clear and as absolutely honest as any I've ever seen. "I can't take it to the police. They'll think—I don't know what they'll think, but it won't be good. I haven't heard a word on the news about this thing being missing."

  I nodded. "You've got a point." The police wouldn't be falling over themselves to believe a story like this from a kid from the Crops.

  "But—there could be a reward or something." He almost whispered it, like it was too much to even hope for, like he shouldn't even say it because it would somehow become less likely if he gave it voice.

  "Okay," I said briskly. I folded the broken bits of the staff back up into the towel and shoved them into the bottom drawer of my desk, and locked it. "They're safer here, right? I'll write you a receipt."

  Seeth nodded, although I could tell it worried him to let it out of his hands.

  "I'll see what I can find out first from the police, and we'll decide where to go from there."

  "But you won't tell them where it came from." Trusting strangers doesn't come easy to folks from the Crops. It had obviously taken him most of the morning just to decide to come and see me.

  I smiled. "I'm not even planning to mention it," I told him. "I'm just going to see what they know and what they don't know. And what they're keeping quiet, maybe. I won't get you into any trouble."

  "Great," he said, getting up. "Thanks, Miss Thompson." He hesitated. "We didn't talk about money—"

  I shook my head. "Don't worry about it yet. Now that I've seen that—" I gestured to the locked drawer and grinned, "I won't sleep until I know a little more, anyway. And please, just call me Rachel."

  "Great," he said again. "If it turns out there's a reward—"

  "We'll work something out." I followed him to the door and he headed into the street. I watched him through the window, weaving his way through the folks milling around the spaceport, a few going to or from jobs, more just wandering—the street vendors, the homeless, the dealers and the Levelers.

  One of those was sprawled in the doorway of Kugar's video shop across the walklane, and I could tell the way he just stared, not moving, not blinking, that he was Leveled 'way up. Kugar wouldn't like that, but if he wanted the Leveler moved, he'd have to pick the guy up and carry him away. Once that white liquid finds its way down their throat or into a vein, they're living in an alternate reality, and they don't see, hear, feel or care anything about this one until they come back down.

  I sighed and turned away from the window. The joke is that Levelin
g is the furthest you can get from Earth without actually boarding a ship. If I'd gone off-planet when I'd had the opportunity—well, who knows what would have happened. But chances are I wouldn't be living in a tiny apartment above my office in a place like Cape City. Even if it was my own office.

  The tri-V was on in the outer office, still squawking about the dead Ambassador, and I stopped, intending to switch it off. They were replaying yesterday's speech, where he was trying to sell us on the benefits of Marseramic. He stood on a dais in the heart of the spaceport, unmistakable in his red and gold robes and one of those little square hats the Martians love, waving his staff around for emphasis as he spoke. The crowd, as usual, looked enthralled. The man had oozed charisma.

  The benefits of Marseramic can indeed stretch all the way from our red planet home to yours, our kindred of Earth. A Free and Fair Trade Accord will allow the people of both our planets to share technological advances and improvements. Advances in medical equipment. Advances in manufacturing. Advances in space transportation.

  His pearly staff was made of Marseramic, so it was pretty as well as useful, but it could mean trouble for a big sector of Earth's economy. For that reason, it was subject to a massive tariff, and the Martians were pissed. The Ambassador's number one job seemed to be rousing the rabble to put pressure on the governments to change that.

  According to the endless coverage on the tri-V, a heart attack in his sleep last night put an end to that undertaking.

  I listened to him for a minute more with my finger on the power button. He was animated and passionate, waving the staff around for emphasis, the light catching on the swirling substance inside it, making it look like a living thing in his hand. His color was good, energy was practically sparking off him, and he looked like he'd never been sick a day in his life. Watching him there, I just didn't buy it. If that guy had a heart attack, I thought, I'll sell out and leave the Cape. Hell, I'll move off-planet. Really, this time.

  Which left me with two big questions. If it wasn't a heart attack, what was it? And like I'd said to the kid, how did the staff end up broken in the street?

  Seemed like a good time for a walk. I switched on my avatar to take calls and mind the office, and headed down to the community police kiosk to see if my old friend Singh was around.

  ~o~

  Arturo Singh wasn't overjoyed to see me. Reception at the police kiosk was full: at least three Levelers sprawled in various states of their highs, a too-young kid in garish gang colors darting scared glances at a big guy who must be his father, a couple of hookers not even bothering to try and sweet-talk their way out of trouble. I was trying to convince Carmel, the receptionist, to buzz Singh for me when he happened to open the door of his office and glance out. Too late, he saw that I'd noticed him. He frowned, and motioned me over. Carmel rolled her eyes.

  "I'm busy, Rachel-ji," Singh said as he shut his office door behind me, barely waiting until I was inside his office. He's a tall man but thin and wiry, no telltale coffee-and-doughnuts bulk for him. There's some grey peppering the dark triangle of his beard now, but he's still years from retirement. I knew if he was using my first name he could spare me five minutes.

  "Quick question," I promised, and it was his turn to roll his eyes.

  He didn't invite me to sit but I did, and waited until he settled resignedly in his own chair.

  "What happened to the Martian Ambassador?"

  Singh leaned back in his chair. "Heart attack. Don't you watch the news? Or did you have to pawn your tri-V to pay the rent?" He grinned at his own joke, his teeth very white in his burnished-copper face.

  "Haha. I mean, what really happened to him? He wasn't heart-attack material."

  Singh shrugged. "You can tell by looking now? Maybe you should have been a doctor."

  Even with a room full of problems waiting for him outside, Singh could make jokes at my expense all day. Maybe I could shock him a little.

  "You know that staff the Ambassador always had with him? It's sitting in a locked drawer in my office. It's broken. And maybe bloodstained. Kid found it in the Crops this morning. I still have my tri-V and I have to say, I haven't seen anything on it all morning that would explain that."

  Singh narrowed his eyes at me. "Straight?"

  I nodded.

  He shook his head. "Official word is heart attack. His people are looking after everything—we're not involved at all. No need. No autopsy, nothing. Diplomatic blah-blah, they're taking his body home to Mars, end of story. No doubt his replacement will show up in a month banging the same gong about Marseramic and fair trade."

  Now it was my turn to frown. "But it doesn't make sense. How'd his staff end up in the Crops, smashed?"

  "You're sure that's what it is you've got?"

  "Absolutely. You ever see him without it?"

  "As a matter of fact, no." Singh looked through me for a minute. It's a weird habit he has, like when there's something on his mind you just fade into nothingness and he can't see you anymore. I used to think he was trying to politely let me know it was time to leave, but I've discovered it means he's thinking deep thoughts. And it's usually best to stay quiet and let him think them.

  The phone buzzed and he picked up, listened for a minute, sighed and said "I'll get on it," and hung up. "Body in a dumpster out in the Crops. Head bashed in. How unusual. You want to take odds it's a Leveler? Or a dealer?"

  I grinned and shook my head.

  He stood up to let me know he had to get back to work. "Go. Promise you'll come to me if you find out anything I should know about the Ambassador, okay?"

  I barely kept my mouth from dropping open. "Aren't you going to tell me to stay out of this?"

  "Nope. Like I told you, we're not involved in the Ambassador's death. So I have no reason to tell you to stay away. Far as I know, there's nothing for you to stay away from." He didn't even crack a smile.

  "No warnings, nothing you're holding back. I can just go and investigate on my own?" I asked, incredulous. "This isn't my birthday."

  "Try to stay safe," he said, "Just in case there is anything—wrong. I doubt it, but you never know. And if staying safe means coming back to me—"

  "I will. Thanks."

  He shrugged again. "I didn't do anything."

  "You didn't tell me to stay out of it. That's something."

  He shook his head while he opened the door. "Well, don't make me regret doing nothing, okay?"

  Out on the walklane, I realized I didn't know a single thing more than I did going in. Except that the police weren't involved. Which didn't seem like much of a lead.

  ~o~

  My next logical stop was the Ambassador's hotel. If I got lucky I might find someone there who'd be willing to talk to me. And if I didn't get lucky, I could bring up the matter of the missing staff. Surely that would get someone's attention.

  The ambitiously-named GalaxyPort Hotel is one of the oldest buildings in Cape City, built in the first concentric ring of businesses that sprang up around the original spaceport when it became obvious the port was going to be a success. The GalaxyPort has managed to maintain itself well, despite its age, and it's got that stately, cosmopolitan air that suggests old money and impeccable service. The young desk clerk looked frazzled, no doubt in part because of the milling crowd of tri-V and Web and HUDnet reporters dirtying up her nice clean lobby. And of course, an Ambassador dying here the night before.

  I didn't waste any time, just quietly showed her my PI's license and told her I was here to speak with the members of the Ambassador's staff. Her eyes got big for a second and then she nodded, told me in a low voice which descender to take and how far to go down. Naturally buildings this close to the spaceport were built down, not up. You don't want to get any closer to landing spacecraft than you have to, and you don't want to stick anything up in their way.

  Getting in was just that easy. None of the reporters gave me a second glance, since I was careful not to look like anyone important. And I guess the desk clerk di
dn't consider that I could have been a reporter pretending to be a detective. Well, she was young. She'd learn.

  The descender stopped at the tenth level and I followed the clerk's directions to the Ambassador's suite. There were only three suites here, so they all had to be pretty big. I knocked, and the door opened surprisingly quickly. A young blonde woman with eyes red and puffed from crying said, "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry to bother you, I know what a difficult time this must be," I said in my most sympathetic tone. I meant it, too, because she was obviously distraught by the Ambassador's death. I pulled out my license again and showed it to her. "Is there someone on the Ambassador's staff I could speak with? It's important."

  Confusion showed on her face for a moment, followed quickly by a flash of something else I couldn't identify. But she opened the door wider and I stepped inside. "Mr. Olara," she called into the recesses of the suite.

  I'd expected the suite to be nice—no, I'd expected it to be really nice—but I wasn't prepared for such lavish elegance. Cape City is a spaceport city, after all. Most of the people who lived here were on their way somewhere else or stuck here, like me, for reasons personal or financial. Even before it had turned out to be a perfect geographical spot for a spaceport, it had been a poor area. I know I gaped for just a second before I caught myself. I really didn't think places like this existed in Cape City.

  Mr. Olara came hurrying out from the depths of the suite, looking harried and annoyed. He ran a hand distractedly over his salt-and-pepper brush cut. His eyes were not red from crying.

  "Yes?" he asked, clipped and brusque. He shot the red-eyed woman a dirty look.

  There'd be no point trying to impress Olara with my license, so for him I took a different tack. "I'm a private investigator, Mr. Olara, and I'm sorry to bother you. But there's a matter involving the Ambassador's death that I think we should discuss." I let him see my eyes flick towards the young woman. The glance said, alone.

  A frown creased his face and I saw the internal struggle. He didn't want to talk to me, but could he risk not knowing what I was talking about? "I don't have long," he said, "And honestly, I don't see—but all right. Follow me." He turned on his heel and headed down the hallway, apparently expecting me to follow. Not wanting to disappoint him, I did. The young woman slipped off to another room without a word.