Hidden City

Absorbed in testing circuits on a hover car lift-crystal unit, Alf did not realise anyone else was in the workshop until a shadow fell across his workbench. He turned to see an attractive woman in perhaps her late 20s, dark hair cut short in the fashion of the time. She wore a white shirt with a gold chain at the throat and black pants that clung to her figure in a way that Alfonso, or just Alf, admired. A brown, knee-length jacket plus a few touches of makeup underscored the general air of street chic, but with a grim underlying message of a shoulder holster containing a police issue Glock nine millimetre with a laser sight, barely concealed by the jacket. Despite all the technological advances, this classic weapon remained a reliable way to blow holes in people should the user decide to do so, as Alf knew well. Another problem was that the newcomer’s otherwise bright eyes regarded Alf with a potent mixture of official disdain and feminine contempt.

“This is an honour, sergeant,” said Alf. turning around and getting up. Police sergeant Ellen Pullen was model-tall, but Alf still towered above her. “I didn’t hear you come in. You’re looking good; figure’s trim. You’ve been working out.”

“Shut up, scum,” she snapped.

“Ooookay,” said Alf. He nodded at the second, auburn-haired female police officer just behind the Sergeant and said, “Senior constable.” That police official, Samantha Pye, was not blessed with the same cheekbones or figure as her superior but was somewhat friendlier as she nodded back and almost smiled. “If this is about stolen spare parts again, I told you the last couple of times it’s really Julian who buys and sells, and I’m pretty sure he’s not into anything.”

“It’s not about parts,” snapped the Sergeant. “I have questions for the hired slime. Julian’s not in? We’ll use his office.”

“The boss’s out on a job at the spaceport,” said Alf. “Even us slimy mechanics get called in to help with the orbital shuttles from time to time.” He eyed the police officer’s figure again as they walked to the office. “Looking good, Sergeant. You’ve been putting that rowing machine in the gym to good use.”

Ellen rounded on Alf.

“How do you know I’ve been using a rowing machine? You been stalking me, you creep?”

“Not at all, sergeant,” said Alf, mildly. “We use the same gym, but I mostly stay on the boxing side, so you haven’t seen me. I only saw you because some of the other gentlemen in the boxing gym made – um – admiring comments about a woman using the rowing machine, and I looked for myself.

“Ha!” she said. They went into the office, where she took the padded, swivel chair, leaving Alf and the senior constable to take two chipped, plastic stacker chairs used by guests. The office’s large glass window looked out onto the cavernous workshop filled with ground and hover vehicles of all types. Both sides of the office were fitted with shelves crammed with equipment, including discarded, faulty parts and a couple of testing units Alf sometimes used. The only decorations were drawings done by the boss’s very young children tacked up on the back wall. He also kept a framed picture of his family on the battered desk next to the computer. The Sergeant’s eyes softened when it looked at those family items before switching back to Alf at full glare.

“Would I appreciate these ‘admiring comments’?” she asked.

“They were raw compliments,” said Alf judiciously, “that would have to be translated from male-speak to be suitable for mixed company.”

The senior constable just managed to transform an emerging giggle into a snort, earning a glare from her superior.

(In fact, the cleanest of the comments made to Alf was that the girl on the rowing machine was a “prime piece".)

“Getting back from the gym,” said the Sergeant, “I’ve been told you’ve been doing work on the star freighters in orbit; you got ferried up there for two days.”

“Maybe I have, and maybe I haven’t,” said Alf carefully. “Is it a crime to do repair work? This business is called in for jobs at the port, as Julian will tell you.”

The spaceport was, in fact, close enough for the occasional rumble of departing orbital shuttles to be heard and felt in the office. The suburb of Marshland where the workshop was located mainly existed to supply services to the port, ranging from machinery repairs to the less savory entertainments for visiting crews and the port’s small garrison of Imperial auxiliaries, as well as housing many of its workers. However, those who could afford to do so lived on the other side of the port, in Creaghville proper, and pretended that Marshland and the adjacent marshes that gave the area its name did not exist.

“No crime in itself,” said the Sergeant, “but when I heard about it, I took another look at the criminal record of one Alfonso Grego Martinez, a petty thief from the Sulu system.”

“I’m flattered that you should take an interest in me, Sergeant,” said Alf, inwardly cursing that someone had talked, although he’d asked for his involvement in the repair mission to be kept quiet.

“You don’t want this sort of attention, scum,” said the Sergeant. “The record of the petty thief that goes with the tracker embedded in your arm by Imperial law shows that he just scraped through school before being arrested for a series of crude smash and grabs. But I’m told you need at least a master’s in space drive engineering to work on the engines of those big ships.”

“What can I say, Sergeant? A man learns a lot knocking about the galaxy.”

“The record also shows that you’re supposed to be shorter than me, but I would barely come up to your shoulder, even in high heels.”

The senior constable raised one eyebrow over that remark but remained silent.

“I guess being out on the rim made me grow in many ways, Sergeant and you’d look really great in high heels.”

“Do you seriously want to spend the night in a jail cell?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then stick to answering my questions. The listed weight is way off.”

“I’ve been eating well,” said Alf. “Those records can be inaccurate.”

“The physical description doesn’t match, nor does the picture.” She leaned forward. “Who are you, Alfonso?”

“Just a mechanic trying to get by in this grand universe of ours.”

“Right!” she snorted. “Here’s the thing, Scum, I was all for dragging your arse down to the station and sweating some real answers out of you instead of the crap you’ve been handing me. Whoever you are, if you’ve taken this petty criminal’s identity, your actual identity must be way worse. There’s also the question of what happened to the real Alfonso. But my inspector says to just ask for now.”

“Nice of him.”

“He also says to say you can earn some points for yourself by keeping an ear out about this crashed ship.”

“Crashed ship?”

“Sure, a big ship meant to have gone down somewhere on the other side of the marshes.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” said Alf. “They were trying to get to the port. Wouldn’t port control just track the transponder?”

“It’s not like that,” said the Sergeant.” Whoever was on the ship must be lowlifes like you. They didn’t want to check in at the actual port, but they still need facilities and mechanics to fix the ship.”

“This is why you started asking questions around the port and checking records?”

“Why I started asking questions about your past isn’t relevant, Scum,” she said. “What you want to think about is your future. Help out the police on this, and we may just decide that you’re not worth our time and the taxpayer’s expense of a jail cell.”

“I can certainly keep an ear out as you say, Sergeant,” said Alf, “but it sounds wild to me. There’s no place to hide a ship out there. Even a small escape pod would be picked up in any scan. Sounds almost as wild as that city that’s supposed to be in the desert.”

“Never mind the hidden city crap,” said the Sergent.

“We’ve chased a few rumours on that one,” said the senior constable, speaking up for the first time, “And come up with nothing. No trace on scans either.”

“Let’s concentrate on the crashed ship,” said the Sergeant. “Here is my card with the station’s number. Someone there will listen to your report and replay it to me, any time of the day or night.”

“You’re giving me your number, Sergeant?”

“Work number,” said the Sergeant, standing up. “Use it for anything other than business, and the city has a dark, cold jail cell with your name on it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Out on the street of downtown Marshland, Sergeant Pullen asked Senior Constable Pye if she had planted the bugs.

“Sure, one in the workshop, away from the electrical equipment, and another in the office under the desk. He was so busy looking at you he didn’t notice what I did…” She giggled, “Admiring comments… Maybe we’ll get something from the bugs, but otherwise, apart from learning that you’re drawing attention at the gym, we didn’t get much from that stop.”

“Um, well.” Ellen stopped to open her jacket and appraise her figure in the reflection of a glass shopfront. We learned that he noticed I’d been working out.”

“Divorce finalised?” said Samatha who was a friend as well as colleague of Ellen.

“Yep.”

“Going to do the dating scene?”

“Guess so, eventually,” said Ellen.

“You know the talk around the girl’s lockers in the station was that we should arrest Alf on the grounds that he’s way more interesting a guy to question than the drunks we get from the strip clubs.”

“The other girls know Alf?”

“Mostly by sight. I told them he’s got personality and presence as well as looks. If you’re going back on the dating scene, you could do way worse than ask Alf out, especially as he seems interested. But if you’re going to date a guy, maybe calling him Scum, slime and creep is not the best way to start out.”

“I call him that because I may yet have to arrest him,” said Ellen, “and I don’t know who he is. What’s our next stop?”