Chapter 153: I Skreem Fer I-Keem

Chapter 153: I Skreem Fer I-Keem

The old Terran winced as she surveyed the scene laid out in front of her.

Not even a “raider” deserved this.

“Do we have an ID?” she asked the uniformed Terran Peace Officer holding a scanner.

“Those guys over there aren’t in the system,” he replied, gesturing to a pile of formerly living threen, “but the guy strapped to the chair is Khakaron Harkeen, the owner of this place.”

“Good job identifying... that,” the old detective replied.

“He was receiving regular medical treatment,” the officer shrugged. “His genome matches.”

“Harkeen?”

“It’s listed as his official last name,” the officer replied.

“An actual Harkeen family member?” the detective replied, “Oh, they aren’t going to be happy about that.”

She turned and grinned at the peace officer.

“Oh no! Do you think this will turn into a gang war?” she smirked.

The peace officer laughed and shook his head.

“Perish the thought,” he replied.

“So, what’s your call, boss?” another peace officer asked. “This legit or what?”

“Well...” the detective mused, running her fingers through her silver hair, “One confirmed Harkeen family member and half a dozen-ish... Do we know how many are in... that... yet?”

“Eight,” the other officer replied, “... we are pretty sure it’s eight.”

“Close enough,” the detective replied, “Eight undocumented young adult male threens, several of which are bearing Harkeen tattoos, combat scars, and the like... I don’t like to profile anyone, living or dead, but we got a verified Harkeen family member, a loose assortment... literally (heh)... of likely gang members, in a laundromat that has a suspicious number of credit transactors and a pile of bootleg drugs in the back room?... What’s the estimated height of the shooters again?”

“(snort), Around 135 centimeters,” replied the officer holding the scanner.

“So, unless one of the Tiny Tyke paintball teams has decided to go pro... Some of those goddamn Chuckies that the frog princess is using dropped by... And who would ever have thought that sentence would make sense,” she added with a chuckle. “Those little guys have been one hundred percent accurate thus far... So, yeah... Just scan ’em and tag ’em. No sense burning overtime over this one.”

“How the hell are they finding them?” a Kalesh officer called from the adjoining room. “We had no idea this was here.”

“You know all those people who were too scared to rat out these assholes?” the detective smiled, “They won’t talk to us, but they have no problem talking to the frog. Can you blame them? We promise them due process and ask them to have ‘faith’ in the system. Sheloran promises results and only asks for names.”

“Yeah, but isn’t this just replacing one thug with a worse one?” the Kalesh yelled back. “and what about when some innocent threen gets a visit from these guys?”

“These ‘people’ that the frog hired are professionals,” the detective yelled back. “The only non-Harkeen target they have visited are a couple of people who gave them bad intel. Turns out you don’t want to do that. It pisses them off.”

“Still, this is not... Oh, Gods... There are more of them back here!... by the void... One of them is still alive!” the Kalesh shouted.

“Medic!” the detective shouted into her communicator. “We have a live one! Repeat! We have a live one! Get your ass in here!”

***

Bergaron sighed as he idly polished the genuine silica glass counter of his empty establishment.

He had tried. He really did.

He had tried so hard!

Tired of watching his family starve, he had accepted inescapable debt to the Harkeen in exchange for passage off of their homeworld to somewhere, anywhere.

Turns out “anywhere” was Terra of all places...

It wasn’t his first choice, his second... or even his last choice, for that matter...

Still, it didn’t matter. He worked as a slave for those thugs for years, trying to pay off the unpayable...

But at least he didn’t have to be one of their thugs, not that they hadn’t offered. He was exactly what they wanted in a foot soldier, big, tough, strong, and dumb...

Or so they thought...

Oh, he was big and tough, even tougher than they thought, tough enough to work not only the back-breaking labor they assigned but tough enough to work even more when they weren’t looking...

Enough to actually pay off his debt, something his “masters” certainly did not expect.

Oh, they weren’t happy, but one thing about the Harkeen is that they were one of the established families, and as such, they had a reputation to uphold. That included sticking to their agreements.

So, he was actually “free”... almost.

You were never actually free of those bastards. They always dropped by to collect “insurance” or “taxes” or “charitable donations” or whatever they felt like calling it that week.

He had to pay. He had family back home, and they knew exactly who they were and where they lived.

Even so, he was free, and Terra was the land of opportunity with jobs for everyone, right?

Yeah... about that...

Still, he was strong and tough and an insanely good worker, and there was always something that needed picking up and moving or a shop that liked having a huge scary-looking floor sweeper.

It was all for his family, who he hadn’t seen in years except for the few moments of screen time he could occasionally afford or were given to him by a sympathetic boss. The Harkeen were what the Harkeen were, but the protection money he paid was actually protection money. The word was put out that his wife and daughter were “paid for”, a source of income for the Harkeen, a pretty good source of income. Bergaron paid them quite well.

The few remaining credits were a pittance on Terra but for his wife and child? They were mana from heaven.

It was enough for most Threen but not for Bergaron. He managed to learn from everyone and everything, and he learned how the places he swept and carried for operated. Terrans were what Terrans were, but they appreciated hard work, and most were all too happy to answer his “stupid” questions.

One of them, his last “boss”, a small woman by the name of Maly, even started letting him ‘run’ her business, a small take-out place in Startown favored by Porkie free-traders.

Terrans were what Terrans were, but they love their families. Once Maly learned of his, she just smiled and told him that she had a little feeling that things would work out for them.

Two months later, he showed up to work and burst into tears. Standing there was his wife and daughter. Standing beside them was the local Harkeen boss with a strange, very uncomfortable look on his face.

Maly just looked at the fidgeting gangster, smiled, and said, “Thank you, you can go now.”

And that’s exactly what the Harkeen did... and never returned.

Maly never explained, just told Bergaron “not to worry about it”. Bergaron had long ago learned when not to ask any questions, questions like why some porkie traders picked up their orders around back.

The months turned to years, and Bergaron never left Maly’s side. A Threen knows a good “boss” when they see one, and a Threen knows loyalty. What Maly did for him could never be repaid, not that Maly ever asked. She didn’t have to.

One day, she called him into the office and told him that she had decided that his services were no longer required.

A child-thing with long pale yellow fur on the top of her head stepped forward. The other one backed away, carefully keeping his distance from her as she moved.

She looked at a tablet and then up at him with huge, impossibly blue eyes, making the blood freeze in his hearts.

“Chil, zeno,” she replied in a strange, barely comprehensible voice. “U r knot on da list. No pay, no slay,” she added with a smile that made his bladder clench. “Didn’t kno U Threen.”

She stepped forward with that same unnerving smile. Bergaron clenched his eyes shut in terror. He had gotten quite used to humans during his time on Terra. They no longer frightened him...

...but that child-thing was definitely NOT human!

“P.... please...” Bergaron whimpered. He had seen pictures of what these things did. They would have to burn his body... He couldn’t go to heaven... Oh, ancestors....

“I say chil!” the child-demon hissed. “U r knot Harkeen, rite?”

“I’m not... I promise I’m not...” Bergaron whispered. “I just run an ice cream parlor... I just make ice cream... That’s all...” he whimpered. “... that’s all...” he added rigid with terror.

“An’ dat’s Y we r hear,” the child-fiend replied. “I wan’ ta tri sum an the ’puter say u r da best.”

“... You want... ice cream?...”

“Yeh!” the thing replied. “Nevr had real i-keem befor. Wan sum.”

He heard something hit the counter. He cracked open one of his eyes.

It was a data crystal.

“...Ice cream...” he gasped, “s-sure th-thing... Which flavor would you like?”

“Dunno,” the ‘child’ replied, gazing up at him with those unnatural eyes. “I saw on vidya dat dere’s dese tinny spoons? Ta tayste wit?”

The little monster looked over at a tray of small plasti-wood paddles.

“Yes! Of course!” the threen bleated. “Samples!”

He scrambled for the tray.

“W-what would you like to try—“

The front door flew open, causing his ‘customers’ to whirl unnaturally quickly as an oddly shaped submachine gun appeared from beneath the male Chucky’s trench coat, and two thin rods magically appeared in the blonde “girl’s” (Bergaron wasn’t sure she was a child anymore) hands.

“Hold on!” an old creaky voice hissed.

It was Maly!

Behind her were several members of her family and a few regular customers, all holding firearms.

“Bergie, here isn’t Harkeen!” Maly growled, holding a sawed-off auto-shotgun at the ready. “You got no business with him.”

“Mutherfuk!” the blonde snarled. “I jus’ wan’ i-keem!”

“Giv uz sum kredit,” the other “Chuckie” snarled. “Only Harkeen, no kolatral damage. Kontrakt klear as void. Boi not on lyst. Boi iz sayfe. ‘Puter only say best i-keem. Know say Threen run playce. We knot kome if we no dat.”

“Now start sumthin’ or put da toob away,” the blonde sneered. “I buy you i-keem... or send sum to ur wayke... whicheva...”

“You are just here for ice cream?” Maly asked in confusion as the barrel of her shotgun wavered.

“dyd I skutter?” the blonde sneered.

She dismissively turned her back to Maly (the other didn’t).

“Now joyn me or fuk off,” she said as she turned to the still terrified Bergaron. “I’ll tri dat one!... Dat chokalyat? Rite?”

“Y-yes it is!” Bergaron replied nervously as he scooped up a small portion on one of the paddles.

The tiny blond merc took the paddle and excitedly put it in her mouth.

She gasped.

It was even better than she had imagined.

***

Over the afternoon, the number of Chuckies grew from two to nearly twenty, all excitedly sampling every flavor and then promptly being “too full” to actually order anything.

Bergaron didn’t mind. He wasn’t being horribly killed and mutilated.

He considered it a win.

Maly and a dozen locals were also there, just in case, which made him feel better.

Some of them even bought something.

As he was rapidly scooping up samples and handing them out to tiny grasping hands, an old grizzled “Chuckie” walked up to the counter.

“What flavor would you like to try first?” Bergaron asked pleasantly.

“None fer me, thank you,” he said in a surprisingly understandable voice. “I no what these idjts don’. We r not built for things like i-keem. Dere buttholes will be screamin’ tonite... Here.”

The Chuckie pulled out a transactor, and Bergaron’s register beeped.

Bergaron’s eyes bulged in surprise.

“Fer scarin’ the shit outta U and eatin’ up all your free samples.”

“T-thank you!” Bergaron stammered. It was a LOT of money, several weeks’ worth of business back when he actually had one.

“If any other Chuckies show, U charge them for... sumthin’, right?” the grizzled Chuckie said with a smile (that still made Bergaron clench).

“I... I could make a ‘sampler’... price it the same as two scoops...” Bergaron replied, “and if you tell me more about your digestive requirements, I could try to make something more agreeable.”

“U wuld trayde wit’ uz?” the old merc asked in surprise, the shock rattling his “perfect” Terran.

“I’m a Threen,” Bergaron replied, “This isn’t my first gang war or my second. At least you aren’t shooting up the place, burning down the neighborhood, or killing innocent people. If you want ice cream, I’ll sell you ice cream... Just put in a good word for me with Sheloran, ok?”

“Ok!” the old “Chuckie” grinned.

The door suddenly flew open as duster-clad peace officers burst in, causing every tiny customer to whirl as oddly shaped submachine guns or telescoping steel rods appeared in their hands.

“Officers,” Bergaron said pleasantly, “Nice of you to finally drop by. Would you please not hassle my customers?”