Original Research

“Okay, so what’s wrong with these?”  Kitra zon, this one was pushy. I have a great distaste for interacting with mammals. Correction: the dead ones are less irritating. But the live ones; their words skitter, and then they become confrontational, and -- “Seriously. You’re not giving me a lot to work with here. I usually deal in, ah, new hardware. You get my drift? Collector’s items ain’t my thing.” I flexed my ommatidia upward in consternation. Humans call it ‘eye-rolling,’ and while it doesn’t have the same visual effect on the recipient, I derive pleasure from the act. This entire conversation has been frustrating, and some minor rebellion is useful in assuaging my temper. “Your effortzz have been appreciated Mzzr. Brooklane.” I took a sip of my beverage. It was terrible. Far too astringent, missing crucial sugars. The inebriating effects were positive, however. My focus wandered. Three holoscreens were devoted to a primitive sporting event. Two more displayed Unionist war-mongering. A final screen purported to sell an odor-reduction cream. The man huffed. “It don’t seem like it, okay? You didn’t like the coins –" “Too common.” “You didn’t like the stamps --“ “Uninteresting.” “Uninteresting? Uninteresting? People like stamps, I like stamps. What’s wrong with stamps?” My beverage was rapidly being consumed. Another would ease the aggravation, but would require more time spent in this establishment. Additionally, the attention of the bar keep was occupied by a trio of ill-behaved Almorians, engaged in a fervent complaint regarding alcohol-to-mixer ratios. Several oblivious Kraeth mingled behind them, participating in rudimentary courtship rituals. An unerringly polite Havros waited its turn while badly blocking the flow of traffic. To summarize: retrieving a supplemental drink would be difficult. Prudent to conclude this conversation instead. “While zztamps are aczzeptible az a curiozity, they are hardly worthy of academic zztudy.” My antennae twitched to the right. The profiteer would have been immensely offended had he been knowledgeable of Neuroptrian social cues. “They historic, ain’t they?” He glared down at his own drink, and the pile of cast-off relics he had brought. “Not like there’s been a postal service in a thousand years.” I cleared my thoracic cavity. “Be that az it may, it iz not of interezzt to my department chair. Az you were briefed, I require zzomething unique and worthy of zzcholarly publizzing.” I despise non-insect languages. A puzzling surplus of serpentine sounds. “If not, I will be forzzed to return to… lecturing.” I shuddered. A universal reaction. It was Brooklane’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, and I can confirm that no one wants that.”  I moved to stand, two legs out of the booth. “Mzzr. Brooklane, if that concludezz our buzzinezz, then I muzzt go.” He sighed. “No, wait, fine. I got something else. I usually keep these kind of things for my regulars.” I halted. He motioned me to be seated again. “Come on, come on.” I reclined again. “My normal customers tend to want things with a little range, ya’ know? Go ‘pew pew’, ‘boom boom’, right? And usually not so… ah, old?” From under the table he produced a soiled cloth sack. This held minor promise. “But this one’s exotic. If your brainiacs back home know what’s a good thing-of-things,” he said as he slid the cover down, “this’ll do it for ‘em. And it’s real old. Like… decrepit.” Brooklane pulled from the sack a blade, a sword, finely wrought and exquisitely preserved. An Infantry Sword, of a design I had never seen in person, but knew intimately. I recognized the maker at once. “Elravian,” I buzzed. “Genuine 10,000 year old Elvarian -“ “Elravian,” I corrected. “And likely 20,000 yearzz old. Or more.” He sighed. “Even better. Still sharp as the Spire. You want?” My mandibles clicked with excitement. There would be no point in attempting to disguise my interest. “Where did you get thizz? How?” “Belonged to a guy named Fitz. Owed me money for some warheads. He dead, who cares?” I snapped my secondary digits in Brooklane’s direction. “Very important. A find like thizz could indicate a repozzitory of other, related artifactzz. I must know the zzource.” Brooklane leaned back, keeping his hand resting on the blade. He smiled for the first time in our conversation. His bared teeth reminded me of a hungry animal. “Well, that’s good to know. Ol’ Fitz was a grade-F pirate with expensive tastes. Wonderful combination. He ended up pulling most of this junk off derelicts floating in null.” My antennae drooped. “Zo there iz no way to trace the origin point?” “Ah, no, I didn’t say that. I’ve still got his flight comp sitting on my mid-deck. Tell you what: we tack on an extra… ten-thousand Shanix, I boot the box up and pull you some coordinates to try. You gotta’ do a little exploring, but… that’s your bag, right Professor?” Ten-thousand… converted to Credits, that was still an objectively large sum of money. Funds were already low, that was the crux of the problem. I could sell Melton-4, but then who would pilot the ship? Or provide maintenance? Or run spectral analysis? Or take dictation? Or skirmish with brigands? Or… Conversely, the University would likely extract additional funds from their coffers once provided evidence of a genuine Elravian Empire artifact, particularly one in such excellent condition. The historical worth would be monumental. Also, and most importantly, I would not have to return to the campus. Nor interact with students. An intrinsic value not to be discarded lightly. I pulled out my data pad and entered a code. “Mzzr. Brooklane, I aczept your propozzal. The fundzz will be tranzzferred to your account block immediately.” Brooklane looked relieved, and pulled out his own device. “Hey, alright, that’s great.” He smiled as the money appeared in his account. “You know, I had you pegged as a real SOB, but you’re cool.” He removed his hand from the artifact, and leaned closer. “You, uh, want those coordinates, too?” Additional entries made on the data pad. “I will provide you two-thouzzand now, and the remainder upon rezzeiving the detailzz.” “You got it, boss.” Brooklane smiled again. An unsettling mammalian custom; I wonder if the Elravians comported themselves in such manner. Sliding the sword into the bag, I stood, tucking the sack under my lower arms. “Thank you for your azziztance in thizz matter. I antizipate hearing from you zortly.” “No problem, Professor.” He leaned in and lowered his voice again, eyeing the room for eavesdroppers. “And, hey: if you know anyone that needs some weird weapons from this century, the Sarkissian Pirata’s got ‘em covered, right?” He pointed his thumb at himself, and leaned back, self-satisfied. Repugnant. “Yezz, of courzze. Good day.” Maneuvering in the close-confines of the bar was hazardous, made more difficult by the inclusion of an exceedingly dangerous melee weapon. Rounding the Havros, still awaiting his libations, I made a less pleasant, but far more urgent, discovery. Local law enforcement had entered the establishment, and were hurriedly scanning the room. Whether I was the target or not, prior acts would not predispose them to be in my favor. The choice was clear: the back door would have to suffice. I pivoted, prepared to sprint -- And collided forcefully with the Havros. Despite its girth, I had rapidly forgotten its presence directly behind me. The impact loosened my grip, and the blade and myself tumbled to the ground. The Havros, unmoved, regarded me with disdain. “Impolite. Return to the queue!” In an unfortunate twist of irony, the commotion caused by my impulsivity had made the constabulary aware of my presence. I made haste to gather my things and stand before they could find a route through the masses. “Apologiezz,” I muttered. Several quick steps, and I had circumnavigated the indignant Havros, putting its bulk between myself and my would-be detainers. This revised path had the unfortunate effect of intersecting with the location of my most recent business partner. I hurried past. “Eh, uh, you decide you want the stamps after all?,” he called out after me. “No, just me then? Okay.” 

***

  I made my way through the dilapidated commissary, and was gratified by my decision not to partake in any goods produced within. The ‘chef’ never noticed my presence, likely due to the effects of the probaritol chloromystic being ingested through his nostrils. The rear door was, predictable for such an unseemly establishment, set wide ajar. I burst through to the alleyway at speed, and in doing so nearly ran into Melton; my Automata assistant had been assigned to provide perimeter checks at regular intervals. He had assumed that to mean ‘watch holos on my data pad in a back alley.’ I again consider selling him. “Ah, Professor, sir, didn’t expect to see you come this way. I, uh, can assure you that this dank alley is… uh, dank. And secure.” Melton has an unfortunate series of personality defects, ostensibly put in place to enhance its social reasoning. These often manifest as misguided attempts at expanding his consciousness beyond base programming. The most regular result is a tendency to do anything but what is asked of him. I wonder if he could be traded in for a different model. “No time, we muzzt go! Now!” I began sprinting down the alley. The robot quickly followed. “Yes, sir. And I see you have successfully purchased some new, ah, uh, crap?” “Yez, yez, Melton. Zzomething new and extraordinary!” We burst on to the main thoroughfare, barely avoiding another hazardous impact with bystanders on the walkway. With machine precision, my Automata deftly rebounded off a passing taxi, which retorted with a blast of its horn. The multitudinous neon lights of holo screens flashed overhead as we continued running towards the landing pad. “Oof! And is this amazing acquisition of personal or academic interest?” I detect sarcasm. Automata intelligence was a mistake. We cross into another alleyway. If anyone was tracking us, they have failed to follow us properly. “Both, Melton,” I huff. “Prezzervation of the pazzt - huff - and zelf-prezzervation!” The landing bay was in sight. No further impediments to liftoff awaited us. “The thingz one muzzt do for tenure!” 

***

 “You! Where’d he go?” The cops looked pissed. They hadn’t slammed me on the table, so at least I wasn’t gettin’ thrown in the hole. Not yet, anyway. “What, the bug with the antique sword gizmo? I don’t know the guy, but he went thataway.” I throw a thumb towards the bathrooms. Wrong way, and I don’t know if the Professor even uses a bathroom, but I’m bettin’ the cops don’t know either. “Stay here! We need to talk!” They both stormed off. I grabbed most of my stuff and started to bolt. Thought better of it. Like this joint. Good soup. Dropped the coins as a tip for whatever mess I just caused. Threw the stamps in my bag and turned tail. “I’m a keep these stamps. Uninteresting… pfft.”