Arnold sighed as he shredded another application. He felt as if he read nothing but joke applications written by the dumbest people in Sirius. As the Chief Divisional Filtration Master of Planet Erie, this was actually exactly what he was supposed to do. The Board didn't want to waste their time on meaningless paperwork, so they hired people to do that for them.
The lives of these people were generally not a whole lot of fun, unless wasting their time as their idea of a good... Anyway, Arnold had a miserably average life. He disliked his job but the thought of quitting never crossed his mind so he kept on reading, even though he disliked everything he read.
He picked up the next application.
Quote:Name: Alexandra Hart
Age: 19
Two sentences about growing up: Rough childhood on Eerie. Otherwise uneventful.
Two sentences about your schooling: I've over-achieved since kindergarten, and just got my pilot's license not long ago, but I can fly up to a transport.
Two sentences about your work: Unemployed. I was considering freelancing before seeing the recruitomercial.
Two sentences about your family: My parents worked for DSE and I have a huge family, with relatives everywhere in Sirius. Even, or so I've heard, in the Nomads.
Two sentences about your friends: The only real friends i ever had were mary idaho and her brother Duncan. I've heard that Mary's in the LPI, and Duncan is in The Order.
Three sentences about the recruitomercial: Could have been a bit more colorful. Makes me feel that I have the skills I need.
Do you wear glasses?
Yes.
Do you have any close relatives or friends in the Independent Miners Guild?
My uncle David just retired from there.
Do you have access to a Starflier?
I got one as a present after getting my pilot's license.
Two sentences about the interior decoration of your Starflier:
It's mainly decorated with goth-type stuff. There's a gun handy, but I don't think I'll need it.
'Hart? Pah. Can't even spell her own name...
Mmf, can't spell the planet either...
Relatives everwhere in Sirius, huh? Well, duh.
... in the Nomads.
Nomads?'
Arnold scratched his head and lost consciousness for a few short seconds. He stared blankly at the application, then decided to ignore it and read on.
'Copper friend, not too bad. And... terrorist friend. Okay. A little strange, though.'
He shook his head dejectedly. His bureaucratic mind was unable to properly process the contents of this application, full of nonstandard replies as it was. None of his protocol documents covered any of this, something he had made sure to check twice now.
'Wears glasses, good.' He marked Ms Hart down on a list.
'Uncle in the IMG! Recently retired...' This was fishy, according to protocol. Arnold didn't know what they did with people with IMG connections, but it was in the protocol and the protocol was important. He smiled with satisfaction as he did exactly as he was supposed to do: he filled out a NIA-23B form, sealed it in an SPE4 envelope and fed it into the bulky machine in the corner.
"Bloop," said the machine as it systematically disintegrated the envelope with a blue lazer. Two seconds later, a clerk on Pittsburgh began following the instructions printed on his screen. Twenty minutes later, the envelope had been reconstructed and was heading toward a slot next to an unmarked door. The airconditioning in the empty hallway leading to the door had been tweaked to run chills down the backs of anyone who approached. It was a very effective method of keeping unwanted questions to a minimum.
In the Board room there was a machine very different from the one in Arnold's office, most importantly it didn't say "Bloop."
"Joop," said the machine as it efficiently informed the present Board members of something they could care less for. Only one of them even heard the "joop," since the rest were currently yelling at each other about Synth Paste.
By the end of the day, the Board had decided to send a notice of inquiry (of type Q-45T) to Ms Hart.
* * *
Q-45T was a designation, and like all other designations it was accompanied by several forms and documents. These documents were compiled in the Personel Department offices on Pittsburgh where they were subsequently processed by filing clerks. These clerks were tasked with filling out the forms and attaching additional forms and documents pertinent to the file. Eventually the file would be placed in a cabinet and eventually the whole thing would turn into a case. At this point, it was assigned to an officer: a case officer.
A graying, retired police chief ran a well-lit and bustling office down the hall. It was his job to assign cases. This man had been born with a frightening ability to know exactly who to call, a skill that had served him well throughout his careers.
He barely glanced at the case in front of him before taking a smoldering pipe out of his mouth and looking dramatically in an indeterminate direction. "Get me Moore of T.H.I.S."
* * *
Senior Investigative Detective Envoy Tim Moore of The Heavy Investigations Squadron was not like other case officers. He did not follow rules, he did not follow regulations. He was an ex-Private Investigator with a hat and sense of style. The perfect man for the job.
"Susan," he remarked to his secratary, sweeping his legs off the desk and his coat off the rack, "we've got a job to do."
Susan looked up from her terminal as Tim walked out the door, she sighed and shook her head in resignation as she resumed typing. 'He'll be back.'
Alexandra was reading a message from Duncan as a letter slipped through the door. I'll look at that later. She picked it up and opened it. It's from DSE. I hope it's not rejection... 'Q-45T' was printed rather ominously on it. After reading about various concerns like a friend in The Order and a Nomad relative. Alexandra thought back to when Alicia announced that she'd decided to becoma a Nomad. Alexandra had heard about a place called The Shrine, aparently some kind of Nomad construct that served as a temple of sorts. But humans becoming Nomads? May as well fly into the badlands in whatever battleships Corsairs used. She thought to herself: Just better fill out the form.
Two hours later, the form was filled in and in the return evolope when there was a knock on the door. Alexandra went to open it, and a man in a stylish suit and a hat came through. "Who are you?" she asked.
"Senior Investigative Detective Envoy Tim Moore of The Heavy Investigations Squadron," he began. Haha, Moore of T.H.I.S! "And you must be Alexandra Hart?" he finished.
"Yes, that's me,"
"We have some questions about the recruitment form you sent us," the man said. "There were some things we have expressed concern about,"
"I've filled in the form you sent me," Alexandra said in defense.
"Then I hope you'll be sending it to DSE HQ soon," he said.
"If there's anything you need clarification about, then the relative in the Nomads is just a rumor I've heard. Nothing more. And my friend in The Order; I believe he has perfectly legitimate reasons for it. And I personally don't think they're terrorists,"
"Why not?"
"Edison Trent, who saved us all from the Nomads, was my childhood hero. He's actually a member of The Order,"
"Understandable," said the man. Alexandra gave him the letter. "I'm sorry, Ms Hart but you'll have to post it later. Bureaucratic nonsense that I have no control over," The man looked over at the lone cupboard. "What's in there?" he asked.
"Nothing to worry about. Just some stuff I found in the garage when I moved in. I've got someone from Manhattan University coming to try and identify it. I'll show you, if you'd like," Alexandra said.
"I'm interested," the man responded. Alexandra opened the cupboard, and got the objects out.
"I think it's some old Earth stuff. Might be quite valuable," Among other things was a small grey plastic box. A wire led out of it to something that had buttons on it. There were START, SELECT and buttons that seemed to go in different directions and buttons marked A and B. There was another grey box. The sticker on it was quite worn, but you could just make out 'SUPER MARIO BROS' on it. The man looked enlightened.
"I had one of those.Very old. Ancient, I'd say. Definitley predates the War of Sol," he said. "So, aside from this stuff, why did your uncle retire from the IMG?"
Alexandra looked uneasy. "He says he was getting old but a lot of people have said it was his daughter's... dissapperance that did it," she responded. Better not say what really happened.
"Did she say anything before going missing?" the man said. Alexandrastarted to say something, but said something else.
"Alicia said that she was going to free herself. From what, she never said,"
"Hmmmmm."
Tim took off at a brisk pace away from Hart's house.
He knew there was something fishy going on. He could smell it. Or maybe it was just last nights dinner. In any case, something was definitely not quite right. Why did Hart not mention her parents? Why didn't she have a pet? Everyone had a pet. Why did she discount her Nomad relatives as rumors and what were they really up to? Was Hart still in touch with Mary and Duncan? Was this even the right way to the shuttle-station?
There was no way of knowing. He would need to find someone to ask for directions.
* * *
"Any messages, Susan?" He asked as he opened the door to his office two hours laters. "Hold all my calls. Cancel all my appointments this week. This case is big. Don't cancel the party on Saturday."
He threw his coat and hat on the rock and leaned back in his small and brown Synth-leather office chair. He frowned pensively. "Call headquarters and get me the last transmission sent to Hart's home terminal."
After the man had left, Alexandra finally had time to look at the message. Hey, Alexandra! Been a long time.
Sending this from my ship. I'm on Freeport 11 in Omicron Delta. A couple of Zoners have asked my to watch the Kappa jumphole for slavers. Also, I'll be getting what I can back to the Freeport and calling in support for the rest. I'd much prefer to be blowing up Nomads, but Mary would get mad at me again. Sorry I couldn't send a video call. That'd keep me out of a bomber for good.
See you soon,
Duncan. So, he's in the Omicrons. Huh. Thought Alexandra, as she went to get a drink.
Tim poured over the printed transmission in front of him for many minutes.
"Ahah!" He exclaimed jubilantly. Susan nearly choked on her Synth-gum. "Zoners! That's the key! Those degenerate misfits are the only people capable of the kind of nefarious conspiracy required to tie all the pieces together."
He glanced back down at the transmission. "Hmmm. But Mary is in the LPI, what business could she possibly have with Zoners?"
He mumbled as he once again swept his coat from the rack and walked out the door. He mumbled as he walked back in to pick up his hat. He mumbled on his way out again, and all the way to the local LPI precinct headquarters.
He walked toward the man in the reception area. "Is there a Mary here?"
The police officer didn't look up. Bored and uninterested he said, "Check with Manhattan."
"Yea we have a few thousand Marys here, who's askin?" The receptionist at the Manhattan Police Headquarters was at least slightly more helpful.
"I am Senior Investigative Detective Envoy Tim Moore of The Heavy Investigations Squad. Deep Space Engineering, Personel Department. I am here on offical DSE PD business. I need all your material on a Mary Idaho, yesterday." He turned 90 degrees and began lighting his pipe, but the receptionist interrupted him.
"Sir, we are the POH-LEESE," she posited pointedly, standing up, "you don't come in here and investigate us. Officer Norris, please investigate this punk's face out the door."
* * *
The investigation was going nowhere fast and time was running out.
Alexandra was in the bar with a few friends. one of them, a woman nearly in her 40's said "So, how's the DSE thing going?"
"Badly. I'm being investigated heavily just because of a rumor that my cousin Alicia is now a Nomad," replied Alexandra. A guy about the same age as Alexandra said:
"You sure it's just a rumor? I've heard about this place called The Shrine. And I suppose you have as well, Alexandra?"
'Yeah, I've heard about it. But how many of us have actually SEEN the place?" said Alexandra. A young man dressed like some of those transport captains walked in with his crew.
"I have. Captain James Tarn of the Bishop's Green, at your service," he announced. "It's in an uncharted system. Haven't managed to land there yet, though. Working on it,"
"Hey, Mister Tarn, I've heard about you from Mary," said Alexandra.
"And I've heard about you, Alexandra. Hear DSE's giving you a bit of trouble,"
"You don't say,"
"Well, I'm here to help." One of his crew, a rough-looking 40-year old who looked like a Junker started speaking.
"What about us?" he said.
"And my crew, of course," Alexandra almost smiled.
"So," she said, "here's what I need doing,"
//Contains random improvisation <strike>that may make people regret reading it</strike>//
After a lenghty discussion, the crew of the Bishop's Green understood what to do. They would stage a daring raid on DSE Headquarters and 'pursuade' the board to give Alexandra a position in the security department of Deep Space Engineering. "All set?"said Jamie, as he maneuvered the Train out of Eerie's orbit and over to the Trade Lane.
After heroically fighting off a Lane Hacker in the Badlands and telling an Order ship that they had a friend of an order agent aboard and finishing off destroying a Nomad by Fort Bush, the Bishop's Green moored at Pitts. The crew plus Alexandra beamed down to the surface. Showing them the tentacle that Yasmin, Jack (the Ex-Junker)'s girlfriend had grown in a place I will not mention was enough to terrify the guards into letting them through (The thought of what else could be there was enough to give some of them heart attacks). By the time they had reached the board office, the guards just filed out of the way after hearing the stories. Jamie sent a large woman, namely Alexandra, straight through the door without much effort on his part. The bureaucrats seemed to be on the verge of hitting Alexandra Hart's application form with a largeACCEPTED stamp when...
...Our old friend Moore of T.H.I.S walks in calmly with the case. The stamp hit the form anyway.
Tim Moore stood, a frown evolving on his face, in the door to the Board room.
After realizing how off the right track he had been with his inquiries with the LPI, he had quickly gathered three pounds of printed material proving Hart's guilt. It was clear as day -- a Pit- Los Angeles day... no a Denver day -- that Hart had not only held the blaster that fired the shot but could not possibly have been at the library between 9 and 11 on that fateful Saturday, since she had used a Creditomatic several parsecs away at 10:38. She had withdrawn the same credits that were used to pay off the loan she had taken out two weeks earlier to pay for the baby stroller that was covered gastronomical residue from the deceased.
Alex Hart had murdered his ex-wife's child in cold blood.
The Vice Presidents, Directors, and the various other Board members present were unanimously impressed with Tim Moore. So impressed, in fact, that Alexandra Hart's application quickly became long forgotten in the pile of ACCEPTED applications.
Had Hart's application not been forgotten, Tim Moore would likely have been unemployed within short time, but as it went down he remained employed and lived a long and exciting life solving mysteries for the DSE PD, in outfits such as T.H.I.S. which was eventually replaced by The Heavily Automated Taskforce.