"My feet are killing me," I groaned. Across the river the UN President's hovercade sped under the Brooklyn Bridge Museum on its way to a meeting with the Snorge Premier at the UNHQC. We stood atop the Seaport Museum Tower overlooking the old sailing ships and primitive subs making up the exhibits.
My partner, Detective Regina Delmar, sat on an air-conditioning unit and looked down her aquiline nose at me. Trim, dark-haired and striking, she seemed an unlikely transit authority cop. Her feet clearly didn't hurt but then she was half my age and one of those nuts who run even when nothing is chasing them.
"Living up to your nickname?" she asked with a distinct lack of sympathy.
Louie the Lizard had christened me 'Flatfoot' after he found an old book that referred to cops that way. I couldn't imagine Louie reading a book. Chewing the pages, yes, reading, no. No doubt, I've got big feet, as any woman who ever danced with me could testify, but they aren't flat.
"Better my nickname than yours," I muttered. That drew a warning glare from my youthful and ambitious partner. She hadn't lived down acquiring her own street handle, gained while chasing bad guys through a cyber-porno theatre after an acid bomb ate off her shirt and body armor. Topless also stuck fast.
"What are we doing here anyway? Isn't there enough uniformed security for the VIPs? We're detectives, we should be detecting stuff in nice comfy donut shops."
She stared at me. "What's a donut?"
"Ah, Jeez," I growled. "It's something cops eat. What kind of education did you have?"
Regina shrugged. "I grew up in Espana before the UN Space forces transferred Papa back to New York. I had the classics, Anglo-standard, Chinese, and several advanced degrees."
"You're Dad must have been thrilled you decided to be a cop."
"He died before then. His Spacefire was shot down in the Kashmir Pacification."
I turned to look at her. Her face was calm, almost remote. The wind from the Hudson stirred her dark brown hair.
"Sorry, Regina," I said. "I didn't know."
"Yeah," she replied, hopping off the a/c unit. "It's ok."
"Let's check in at the station," she said.
I dropped the subject and followed my partner down to the street. She'd parked our cruiser under the FDR overpass. We hopped in and rode over to the Port Authority building at the New World Trade Center.
The trip took longer than it should have through the cramped streets. We stopped at the Greek's to get a half-dozen donuts for my clueless partner. We pulled into the parking deck and entered the Towers. As in most, the interior walls bore the two-tone scheme of cream and the institutional green that's greeted generations of unionized government workers. Uniformed cops herded hoods and skells this way and that. I reached my desk and logged onto my computer.
An incoming audio message popped on the screen. The tag told me it originated from a public booth in the Red Hook area.
"McManus," said a breathy voice. "Meet me at the Red Witch at nine tonight. It's urgent. You know who it is, sweetie." The message clicked off. The caller didn't leave a visual but I didn't need one. Freddie, or as he preferred, Fredericka, the young transvestite hooker who sometimes gave me information, had a distinctive Southern whisky voice.
I'd saved his silk-clad ass from being stomped by a couple of dockers after their little party got out of hand. In the three years I'd known him he never called the station. I always had to find him. It gave me a sinking feeling. Something wicked this way came.
Regina arrived with a cup of coffee and the last of the variety of half-dozen donuts I'd bought her. "These things," she said, "are evil incarnate. Each one is a sugar-coated cardiac arrest."
"You're welcome," I replied. "Come on, Reg, we're off to Red Hook. Freddie called."
"That's Regina. And if Freddie says anything about my hair again, I'm going to beat his ass."
"Watch it, I think he charges for that sort of thing."
We headed out. The summit meeting put every law enforcement agency in NYC on government-mandated union overtime. It doesn't get better than that. I said hello to a few old-timers like myself, who were also getting close to retirement and an escape from the near constant bullshit of being a Port Authority cop in The Port of New York. With the Snorge delegation safely tucked into their embassy on the Lower Eastside, things might get back to normal now.
We took our aircar up to the police express altitude and cruised on out. The skyscrapers of New York still towered over us; some stretched into the thousands of meters. The sun never reached Wall Street anymore. Maybe it never had.
Overhead a huge starship rumbled into a landing pattern, heading in the same direction we were. New York extended far out into the Atlantic Ocean. Red Hook remained connected to the sea only by a series of canals. Cargo subs came into the region. With the subs came sailors and dockers, followed naturally by bars, prostitutes and grifters of various types. Red Hook became a wild little off-port. Let the good times roll.
Freddie's often hung out at the Red Witch while working his trade. We dropped down beside the old four-story that contained the bar and parked the unmarked cruiser in the alley nearby. Just as we stepped out, Freddie came flying up the alley. Nice trick in heels. Freddie looked more like a girl then some girls do. Surgery helped.
He skidded to a stop, long black hair in disarray. "Let's get out of here." He grabbed open the door to back seat and practically dove in. Reg had her weapon out and watched the alley with narrow eyes. I threw the aircar into gear and hit the boost. Our car headed into the normal traffic pattern. "OK, Freddie, what gives?"
Freddie looked frightened. I didn't know how old he was. I guessed early twenties or late teens. He'd probably always been slight and delicate looking, but surgery had given him a better nose and an impressive bustline. Why he hadn't gone all the way and just changed gender I couldn't figure. Freddie's mind worked in its own bizarre fashion. Right now he looked paler than usual and panted with fear.
"OK, Freddie," I repeated. "What the hell is going on?"
"I got picked up for a party last night," he said, collapsing back against the seat cushions. "Special party for a client with very unusual tastes. Turned out that they needed ten girls on short notice, could only find nine and figured I'm close enough since the client was a Snorge. They snuck us in blindfolded through a secret entrance. I don't know where but I heard a commercial garage door open-"
I looked at him. "You hooked for an alien?" I said in disgust. The Snorge might be humanoid but they certainly didn't look human to me. Black eyed from lid to lid with short bandy legs and broad foreheads, they looked kind of Neanderthal. I couldn't imagine wanting to score with one of their females.
Freddie looked defiant. "Hey, a guy's got to eat."
)
Into The Robot Harem is a sequel to Lair of the Lesbian Love Goddess and follows the further adventures of Detective Brian McManus and his sexy, ambitious partner Regina Delmar as they battle an assassination plot in 22nd Century New York. Can Reg pose as a sexbot and foil the aliens? Cover art by Kaolin Fire.
