Beware the Killer Outfits
an excerpt

Quincy felt her cheeks burning. The small gullarian's mother looked decidedly embarrassed herself as she tried to hush her gawking offspring and put some distance between them and the apparently deranged human who made conversation with the native vegetation. Too late, Quincy realized the short bucket she'd mistaken for footwear of some kind was nothing more than a pot of soil and that the "feathers" were only tiny, fluffy leaves. These were the observation skills of a crack AID? Maybe Tobias was right. Maybe she needed to call it quits altogether and return to New Earth and find a job back home. Her grandmother had said more than once that Coca-Cola was always hiring in their Columbus Razors Bayside Beach plant. And lots of Atlanticans had seen great success with the drink-maker. Quincy still had the newscast her grandmother had sent her almost two years before with a report on Sten Chansky's promotion to Head of Sales, Andromeda Quadrant, a position that had given him the opportunity to relocate to Wells Titus IV. Quite an accomplishment for a nobody from the United Corporations of Atlantica, and something they were all very proud of.

Quincy wanted very much to redeem herself from the catastrophic events of The Incident and possibly even give her grandmother something else to be proud of, something the elderly woman could take to the salon and vegetable market - bragging rights about her only granddaughter, a distinguished Assistant Investigator-Detective. But that would only happen if Quincy could pull herself together, forgo any more humiliating scenes with plant-life, and convince Chief Investigator-Detective John Smith to give her a chance.

She found the baggage-claim arena with little effort. She simply followed the crowds. She accepted a claim number from a passing 'bot and found a relatively quiet corner to wait to be called. All around her were signs that the spaceport, and Jarvis-Hilton-Overnighter's Paradise Pryan in general, was not on the highly prosperous end of the spectrum for a Conglomerate-Member planet. But then, the hotel and night stays business had been struggling for sometime, ever since the prices bottomed out on sub-space cruisers and even modest families could afford their own. Now people mostly slept on their ships while traveling, leaving the costly resorts to the few and powerful who could still afford them.

Quincy made note of the outdated wall-screens, the worn walkways, and the way the advert signs flashed and blinked as if not receiving enough power to operate properly. There was a shabby, seedy air to her surroundings, not at all unlike her hometown, and she drew a slight comfort from the familiarity.

"Passengers wishing to board Shuttle 10965 bound for the Eastern Technologies Peninsula are reminded that all luggage must be pre-screened. Please proceed to Security Check-point Gamma. Clear Vision Eye Care Products reminds you, have you cleansed your eyes today? Pollution, radiation, and daily reading can all lead to permanent eye damage. Don't wait until it's too late! Flush your eyes every day with our Renewing Cleanser. Order now. Welcome refugees of the Bollar System War. Please see our hospitality kiosk for your free gift from Neptune brand toiletries. We make traveling more sanitary!"

Quincy tuned out the virtual assistant hologram as she continued to stroll up and down the concourse, her dialog rolling on without any cessation, though she did momentarily consider posing as a refugee for the free products. With barely 700 credits left to her name, she would gladly welcome anything she could acquire without charge.

The baggage 'bots were working with as much efficiency as possible, but still it took almost an hour before Quincy's number was finally called. She went through the search-and-seizure process, thankful that the guard at her booth found nothing in her kit he objected to or wanted to keep for himself, and finally, cranky, hungry, and out of patience, she made her way to the taxi bay.

Air taxis weren't cheap, not even the public ones that could be shared by up to twenty people. Quincy would never have even considered using one, except the Offices of Special Investigations had sent her a pre-paid chit which she gladly handed over to the desk clerk the moment he'd mumbled, "And how will you be paying for your flight?"

He nodded, bored, as he scanned the chit through and confirmed it was legitimate. "Right, then. Have a seat. You'll be on a Class F taxi. Won't have one of those leaving for another forty minutes or so."

Quincy stifled a groan. Class F? It was better than nothing of course, but not by much. The OSI hadn't exactly rolled out the red carpet for her here. And probably she was going to be late after all. It was a depressing thought.

The flight to New Crafters' Alleytown was quick and uneventful. The taxi, like everything else she'd seen so far, was older, a bit banged up, and probably not one hundred percent safe. The overhead adverts were endlessly looped, and after only a few minutes, Quincy was able to block out both the excessively cheerful spokes'bots and the annoyingly bright bursts of light and color.

She spent the flight time alternating between studying the other taxi passengers, including a storn she was pretty sure had been on her transport, though sometimes it was hard for her to tell one storn from another, and rehearsing in her head what she would say during her upcoming interview. There was an overweight businessman who had tried, quite obviously, to maneuver himself into the seat next to hers, but he had been outdone in his quest by a younger man dressed in Pryan monk robes, for which Quincy was silently grateful. The monk had no interest in her whatsoever and made no attempt at meaningless small talk, leaving her to her thoughts. She was relatively sure she had an answer for any question Chief Investigator-Detective Smith might toss at her, except, of course, the biggest one. Exactly how was she going to explain The Incident in a way that wouldn't have her bounced right out of the office with a "We're sorry, but we don't feel you're a qualified candidate for the job."?

New Crafters' Alleytown's main source of income was the manufacturing of threads, yarns, and fabrics. Quincy could still remember trips as a small child to the Minutemaid New Miami's Crafters' Alley with her grandmother. The older woman was a talented and determined hand-stitcher who created lovely crocheted items she sold one day a week at the vegetable market. It was so difficult to find anything anywhere that wasn't 'botmade, some people were willing to part with an astonishing amount of money for one of her grandmother's blankets or pull-ons. Though she could only make a small number of pieces to sell each week, Grandmother had still managed to earn enough money to keep them in relative comfort in their three room apartment in the Marvelous Instant Soups Towers. Though comparatively speaking, there was only a small market for the products Crafters' Alley sold, as opposed to the pre-made goods found in places like Intergalatic Wal-Mart, they still did enough business to merit plants on no less than five planets and storefronts on dozens of worlds. Quincy vowed that whether she landed this job or not, she would visit the Crafters' Alley plant samples store here and find a gift to send back home.

The Offices of Special Investigations were located in a high-rise in the center of town. The building, as the flashing three-story advert proclaimed, was property of Pryan Global Enterprises and Banking. It was nothing particularly remarkable to look at, except for the startling and unexpected gigantic statue of what looked suspiciously like a well-endowed male Hawthorne goat in the middle of a mating dance, standing tall and proud on the rooftop. Quincy stared at it momentarily in stupefied amazement before recalling herself and hurrying through the main doors. She dragged her kit along behind her as she passed through the security scans and approached the data-bank.

"Inquire. Offices of Special Investigations. Floor Number," she said, a little breathlessly. Maybe she needed to slow down just a bit. She was late, of course, but rushing into the interview gasping for air like a glowfish out of water was probably not going to win her any points, either.

"Offices of Special Investigations. Floor 12. Suite 16B," a mechanical voice chirped. "Brought to you by Snorefree Nasal Inserts. Are you plagued by-"

Quincy didn't bother to listen. If she was a snorer, no one had ever told her before, and that wasn't something Grandmother would've politely refrained from commenting upon, and since she was, sadly, still without a life-partner of any kind, no one else was keeping her up at night. She moved over to the lifts and waited for an available car.

She scanned the wall-adverts, wondering about the other businesses and operations housed in the building, until finally, she was in a lift and on her way up. A new wave of nervousness struck her. This was it, then, her last chance to make it as an AID. She self-consciously touched her hand to the side of her head. She hadn't even so much as brushed her teeth since exiting the transport hours before. She would have to stop in the private rooms before going in for her interview. She could check her appearance, and besides, relieving herself before meeting her potential new boss wasn't a bad idea either.

She spent four minutes and eleven seconds in the privy, then feeling she'd stalled long enough, she made her way to the OSI.

The door was brown. The paint, chipped. The sign was faded and hard to read. It was such a far cry from the gleaming chromo-plex and steelmesh OSI back on Mazda-Toyota Mars, Quincy had to resist the urge to laugh. Oh, how far had she fallen?

She passed her hand before the bell scan and only moments later the door slid noisily open.

"Quincy Tellermann?" a voice demanded.

Quincy swallowed and nodded, turning her head toward the speaker.

"It's about time you got here. We're very late."

Quincy regarded the man blankly. He was on the tall side, though with a slender build. His hair was fair, his eyes a magnetic blue that she thought might actually be genuine. He was dressed in a beige suit with a khaki-colored overcoat and he held a tan Morvian hat in his hand.

We're very late? Not you're very late? Quincy was sure her confusion was written across her face.

"There's no time to get you settled right now," the man continued. "You can stow your bag here. We'll worry about getting you housing later. I hope you already had lunch because we won't be able to stop. We've got just enough time to catch the Highland 616 if we leave right now."

"I - I'm sorry," Quincy stammered. "Chief Investigator-Detective Smith?"

He frowned at her. "Well, of course. Who else would I be?"