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Part 1: Yaw

"Are we done here, Doc?" The metallic clank of a lighter joined the hum of machines and soft of wheeze of rubberized pistons.

"Son you really shouldn't smoke in here. The oxygen..."

"Its all I can do to mask the smell. When was the last time your sterilized this meat shop?" The lighter slid back into a pocket, snuggling in close to the crumpled package of lho sticks that they were betrothed to for the day.

"We're done here. You can go." The voice was both urgent and disappointed.

The man slid off the glaringly illuminated operating table and buttoned his power blue shirt back up. "Send the bill to the precinct like last time." He said through his teeth as a wispy grey serpent lazily draped itself across his shoulder. There was no response as he claimed the long black coat from a polished hook near the door and departed.

A single orange ember marked where his face was in the half light of alley. Steam and exhaust intermingled with the coil of smoke from the lho stick as the man's heavy boots plodded across the chipped and fractured ferrocrete. After a few minutes of trudging through the gloom of the underhive the man stepped out onto an honest street. The clean white glow columns bathed the street in a silvery light like the glow of a winter's moon. Down here though the very concept of winter or a moon was something strange and foreign. The loving caress of spring never strayed this deep nor did the vengeful claws of the leaner months. In this winding metallic cavern it was always the same level of cool. Just past the point of comfort and always with enough clinging humidity to force pearly strands of sweat from the brows of all but the most acclimated residents.... and grow the most unique strains of mold.

He glanced down the road and oriented his feet across the boulevard to where thick loops of tangerine tape blocked off the road. Others were gathered around, some in coats like his and others in ebony armor. Lurking nearby like an overfed wolf was a jet black Chimera. At the center of it all though was a sleek grav sedan, it's pearly veneer reflecting those around it and the haze of the glow columns and fragmenting them into scintillating stripes like an animal that couldn't decide if it wanted to be camouflaged for the arctic or a bog. "Who's the vic?" the man asked as he flicked his lho stick away.

One of the coated figures turned slightly. His duster bore a pair of scarlet eagles on the biceps and was fastened up from his belt to his collar bone with thick brass buttons. The man himself was like a rapidly antiquating gun. His aluminum-grey hair was creeping back across his head and forming a close fitting crown of unkept bristles. Deep creases had been carved into his cheeks and brow over decades of service. Altogether they were very reminiscent of of a weapon that had since been updated... more accurate, greater capacities, more reliability... but in the hands of someone that truly knew how to use it just as lethal. "Novak...." The aging man said with tiger's smile. "I thought you were on the Miklesohn case."

"I was." the other man said. He patted his chest with a loose hand and added "It got wrapped up."

The older man's eyebrows perked up and in a coy voice he said "Well that explains why you don't have your Aquilas."

"Thank you Terrence." Novak replied with a sarcastic smile as he plucked another lho from his pocket and lit it. With measured calm he released matched streams of noxious fog from his nostrils and asked "So who's the vic?"

The pair walked closer to the grav sedan as Terrance cleared his throat. "Doyle, Carter J. Was arrested about eight years ago for trafficking xeno artifacts."

"Shouldn't that have gotten him fried on sight?" Novak asked as they wandered towards the sedan.

"Not quite. He wasn't dealing weapons or technology, just art. So he got a trial. He jumped world before the hearing though."

"I think I remember hearing about that back when I was in the academy." Novak said. "Didn't he try to give up the names of his buyers?"

"Correct" Terrence replied. "But since his hearing didn't merit a priority date he must have gotten cold feet and bailed."

"So why did he come back?" Novak asked. "Eight years isn't nearly long enough for people to forget something like that. Especially the people that he was selling to."

Terrence gave half a laugh and replied "That's your job. I've got other things to deal with."

"Like what?" Novak said with another drag of his lho. "They finally promoting you to full Judge?" Terrence just smiled his half smile, it made his face look like a cross between withered jack-o-lantern and hyena. "So what happened to him?"

The pair turned to face the driver's seat where the body was still slumped. Streaks of coagulated crimson covered the side window. Terrence pointed to the wind shield where three neat holes were clustered, long spider-web cracks radiating out from them that caught the light in streaks of pure platinum. "He was shot, three times to the chest. According to the Medicae team none of the shots were kills and he must have bled out. Judging by the holes here we're looking at something low caliber, maybe .30. We found some plasteel shell casings about twelve yards away. Valhallan markings which would fit with the caliber."

"Hired hit?" Novak asked.

Terrence shrugged. His left shoulder barely moving half as much as his right and jutting unnaturally to the side. "Could be." He said with a yawn to mask to tendrils of pain that caused a vein in his neck to bulge. "None of the surrounding business owners said they heard or saw anything."

Novak slid his hands into the broad pockets of his coat and said "Well if this was a robbery they would have taken his ride. That's worth seventy easy." He glanced over to Terrence and asked "What was he doing down here?"

"What?" Terrence asked as he folded his arms against the damp cold.

"Well this guy used to deal to high rollers. What the hell is he doing down here in the underhive? No one down here has the money to spend on xeno art and the ones that do wouldn't need to go through a ratling like Doyle to get what they want."

"Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."

Novak turned to leave but paused. He looked back to the venerable Arbite and added "When the Medicae investigators finish their sweep could you have then forward their report to my dataslate? I'll also need a list of any of Doyle's contacts from eight years ago.... not just the ones that would be the sort to kill him either. Everyone."

"Certainly." Terrence replied with a nod. "Where are you headed?"

"The Drip Pan."

Part 2: Crude

It was easy to what kind of place The Drip Pan was simply by walking in the door. A haze of smoke hung like long dead Chrysaora, floating near the ceiling limply with long spindly tentacles curling down beneath. The light was dim and not just from the smear of grey that blurred out the fine details of everyone's face. The lights hung in the darkness like willow wisps and all around lumpy black shadows could be seen lurking. Some propped up against walls and others encircling tables like the stains of an unwashed bathtub. Each murmured in its own dull chant, a practiced and nearly feral form of communication. But when Novak walked in everyone went silent.

He stood in the door for a moment before stepping up to the bar and straddling one of the bulky stools. The barkeep was a tall man with long, spindly limbs. His skin was dark as fresh beat and his eyes were large spheres of ivory. He wore a loudly printed floral tunic that hung off his gangly like a small tent. In a pastel blur he shuffled down towards Novak. In a hushed voice he said "Officer all my paperwork is in order and all my sales are on the books."

Novak raised a veined hand to silence him and stated "I'm not here to bust you, Umberto. I need information." He slid a hand into his coat and flipped a pair of bills out on the counter top.

Umberto looked at the numerals in the corner of each and gave a nod of approval. He flashed a maw of polished white teeth and said "What can I do for you, officer?" His deep and lustrous baritone filled the air with the same volume and body as an expensive amaretto.

Novak waved to a shelf behind the bar and said "First grab me a carton of those Elysian Cools, the gold filters." Umberto twisted on his angular heels and stretched a stalk-like limb up to the shelf. He pulled a carton of lhos down and placed it beside the officer. Novak tucked a leathery finger into one end and ripped it open. He hastily removed one of the ten packs kept within and slid it into one of the pockets of his duster. He folded his hands and leaned heavily on his elbows. In a low voice he said "Who's dealing Valhallan guns these days?"

"Valhallan?" Umberto repeated in the tone of a boa constrictor. "What're you looking for exactly?"

"Slug thrower, low caliber. Something hearty enough to run plasteel cased ammunition." Novak continued "Something that can actually hit the broad side of a Rhino as well."

Umberto placed one of his tarantula hands up to his chin. "Sounds like you're looking for an M33, officer. Not you're run of the mill gutter-trash either but not the kind of thing Munitorums would be pushing." He took the hand away from his chin and placed it on the bar beside the bills. "There's a woman two levels up, Irina Vanko. She set a gentleman's club..." Novak raised a suspicious eyebrow. Umberto laughed nervously when he saw the Arbite's harsh gaze and hastily said "Nothing illegal or heretical but she makes sure all of her employees are looked after. Most of them seemed to be using Valhallan equipment...not that I would know or anything."

"No... I bet you wouldn't." Novak replied with more than a little mistrust in his tone. He lifted his hips off the stool and tucked the carton of lhos under one arm. He glanced at the bills on the counter and back up to Umberto's glimmering eyes. "Keep the change."

Novak stepped outside and peeled open the fresh pack he had slipped into one of his pockets. As his dry sardonyx lips closed around the golden filter a soft chime came from within his duster. He carefully shifted the carton over and pulled a dataslate from his interior breast pocket. He tapped one of the pulsating keys and the screen sprung to life. Novak blinked once and then again as his eyes adjusted to the stark glare. In neat, illuminated script was scrawled:

N-

Came up with Doyle's contacts, most went into hiding or moved off world after he vanished the first time~

Saul Peck Underhive, two outstanding warrants for smuggling Imperial goods from a sanction repository and another warrant for illegally trafficking Imerpial citizens for criminal reasons. Last seen near the old Medicae Clinic in Sector Zeta. Considered to be armed and dangerous but has no convicted history of violent crime.

Julia Verlag Current residence in midsector level 60. No criminal record. Former romantic partner of Doyle's.

Wentworth Oxbrook Current residence in midsector level 87. Employed as the personal porter to the Cavill household. Fromerly convicted on racketeering and fraud but charges were waived due to confidential testimony against his cohorts. Was known to have helped Doyle forge transportation documents.

Home this helps

-H
Novak smiled and jotted the addresses down. It wasn't much to go on but Terrence was good at dredging up things out of the archives. He slid the dataslate back into his greatcoat and began the long walk back to where he had parked.