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  DOUBLE INFINITY

  Brent Bolster Space Detective

  by

  Michael Campling

  Brent Bolster Book IV

  This book is dedicated to all the fans of Brent Bolster and the gang. Thank you for your enthusiasm and support. It’s wonderful to have you along on this journey.

  With Special Thanks to the JIT Team:

  Janette Mattey

  Gary Webber

  Saundra Wright.

  Your help was invaluable in improving this book.

  Thank you.

  Michael Campling

  michaelcampling.com

  Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

  -William Shakespeare (Hamlet).

  Table of Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Epilogue

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  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  On Earth

  At Bolster & Associates Investigations:

  Brent Bolster – PI and member of the Association of Galactic Investigators(AGI)

  Rawlgeeb – Gloabon and Ex-employee of the Earth Liaison Unit (ELU)

  Algernon – A fish who lives in an upturned diving helmet.

  Other Humans:

  Doctor Ellen Granger – Scientist, formerly employed by the Gloabon Institute of Technology (GIT)

  Maisie Richmond – A researcher employed by the UN

  Kate Swanholm - Executive at GIT and agent of the Regressive Technology Unit (RTU)

  Mrs. Albertoni - A lady who lives above Brent’s office / part-time fish minder and possible owner of real estate on Pluto

  Charlie Turner - Gloabon fan, aka Glo-Girl

  Jerry Martellini - Journalist and magazine founder

  Mr. Enderley - Former city mayor and client of Brent Bolster

  Boz - Writer of rare genius and ex-space dock worker.

  At Scarlet Fedora Investigations:

  Vince Claybourne – Trainee investigator (AGI Membership Pending)

  Mr. Budgeon - Division chief and Vince’s boss.

  Artificially Intelligent Entities with Independent Identities:

  JCN-B2.5 - An artificial intelligence originally created by GIT.

  The Gloabons

  On The Gamulon:

  Breamell – Senior administrator (Sampling Records)

  Fleet Admiral Squernshall – Commanding Officer

  Captain Gernst - Head of counter-counter-counter-intelligence in the Gloabon Intelligence and Information Corps (the Geeks), aka Moshabok, aka Germaine

  Lieutenant Melliflus - Tactical officer on the bridge

  Lieutenant Gelgamoth - Zinger operator

  Shappham - Head of Sampling Records and Breamell’s boss.

  The Black Jackets on The Gamulon:

  Towert - Clan boss on the lower levels

  Baffhunt - Towert’s bodyguard and student of ancient philosophy

  Moshabok - alias of Gernst.

  Gloabons elsewhere:

  Germaine - Interplanetary dining experience coordinator at Le Petit Voleur and alias of Gernst (he gets everywhere)

  Surrana – Erstwhile member of the Guild of Assassins.

  Andelians

  Officers and crew of The Kreltonian Skull:

  Admiral Norph – Previous Commanding Officer (deceased)

  Captain Stanch – Commanding Officer

  Commander Xander - First Officer

  Lieutenant Commander Zeb – Science Officer and cybonic lifeform

  Lieutenant Commander Dex – Chief Engineer

  Lieutenant Turm – Senior Navigation Officer

  Lieutenant Helkon - Junior Science Officer

  Ensign Chudley – Communications Officer

  Ensign Lachenko - Engineering

  Officer Cadet Nailsea – Former Chef

  Officer Cadet Cricklade – Former Chef

  Ensign Jerbon - Assigned to forward weapons bay

  Ensign Kralg - Assigned to forward weapons bay

  Ensign Kaldi - Zinger operator

  Chief Petty Officer Lainsea - Customer satisfaction coordinator

  Chief Petty Officer Raddling - Security officer

  Crewman Polkirk - Security officer

  Grulb – Barman and former Ship’s Counselor.

  PROLOGUE

  Gloabon space Station The Gamulon

  Fleet Admiral Squernshall glanced over his shoulder, but the corridor behind him was empty. No surprise there, he told himself. Very few Gloabons visited the lower decks, and certainly no uniformed officers. Down here, in the bowels of the space station, the vast halls that housed the air purification and water recycling plants thrummed with the myriad vibrations of their ceaseless work, but they required very little oversight or maintenance.

  Only the black jackets came down here, and the members of that highly specialized engineering crew were an insular bunch. They kept themselves to themselves, and though it was a prejudice rarely admitted, the rest of The Gamulon’s personnel preferred it that way. We’re a long way from home, but we carry on our daily lives as though we were still on Gloabon, Squernshall thought, and the black jackets make it all possible. But no one liked to think about the nuts and bolts of their daily existence. They were all floating in space, many miles from proper civilization, and they relied for every breath on the pipes, pumps, canisters, and whirring fans of the lower decks. But the last thing anybody wanted was to be reminded of the fact.

  Squernshall’s handset buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket, staring at the screen. The message was short:

  Take next right turn. Walk thirty paces. Wait.

  Squernshall grunted at the impudence of the sender, but he marched forward, keeping his handset ready. The next corridor on his right was narrow and unlit, its depths disappearing into the darkness, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of dripping water echoed. The tang of chemicals stung his nostrils, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Squernshall detected a miasma of swirling mist hanging in the air.

  You cannot be serious, he thought. He was a fleet admiral! How could anyone expect him to venture into such a vile place? But then again, perhaps his contact was merely exercising admirable caution. No self-respecting Gloabon would even notice this meager access route. Within the limits of the station, this was probably as close as Squernshall could get to dropping off the radar completely.

  Turning sideways and pulling in his stomach, Squernshall sidestepped into the gloom, counting his paces, each one seeming more difficult than the last. Was the corridor getting narrower as he went along? Were the walls pressing in on him? I’m as good as trapped, he told himself. But no, he could still move well enough. It was just a moment of panic, easily dismissed with a little self-discipline. Perhaps he jus
t needed to work on his waistline a little. It must be about time for a visit to the gymnasium. After all, he’d missed his last scheduled workout. And possibly the one before. Oh well, he thought. There’s always next year.

  There. He’d reached thirty paces. What now? He glanced at his handset, but its screen was dark except for a small, red icon: No signal. Squernshall blinked and tapped the screen, but the icon remained stubbornly in place. No connectivity at all. Was that even possible on The Gamulon?

  “Yes,” someone whispered in the shadows, and Squernshall gasped, stiffening his spine. “You are in what we might call a black spot,” the voice went on in a guttural whisper, its tone edged with dark glee. “No one can track you here, and the zinger cannot operate. No one can reach you. Except for me.”

  “That’s enough of your nonsense,” Squernshall snapped. “I take it that you’re Gernst?”

  There was no reply, but beside him, something shifted in the mist, and a dark figure detached itself from the shadows. Squernshall’s hand went to his sidearm. “Stay back. I can’t miss from here.”

  A sly chuckle reverberated through the narrow corridor, and a flicker of fear stirred in Squernshall’s gut. Had he been fooled? Lured into a trap? There’d been rumors of discontent among the black jackets: wild tales of unauthorized meetings, unofficial groups vying for superiority, demanding change. I’ll show them change, Squernshall told himself. Cross me, and they’ll regret it. But when the figure drew nearer, Squernshall’s bluster died away.

  The Gloabon before him was not tall, neither was he powerfully built, but he exuded an eerie sense of menace. He moved with the easy grace of a predator, his glittering eyes fixed on Squernshall, and his hands hanging loose at his sides. But it was his face that shocked Squernshall. He’d heard that some of the black jackets had taken to adorning themselves with tattoos, but he’d never taken the rumor seriously. It was not unknown amongst Gloabon soldiers, especially those serving far from home, to have discreet symbols tattooed on their upper arms, though the images were always small and completely hidden by their uniforms. But this Gloabon, whose features seemed twisted into a permanent sneer, bore strange patterns on his cheeks and neck: intricate curves and interlocking blocks of color that seemed to represent…what? Squernshall had no idea what it meant, but instinctively, he felt it was wrong. Un-Gloabon.

  The figure stopped. “I am Gernst, and I am alone. There is no need to draw your weapon.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Squernshall moved his hand away from his weapon, but not far. “I don’t have time for games. Where can we talk?”

  Gernst muttered something under his breath, then he turned back the way he’d come, beckoning Squernshall to follow. “This way. I’ll show you to my luxurious office. And no dawdling.”

  Squernshall bridled at the insubordination in Gernst’s tone, but he followed him into the darkness. He was going to need Gernst’s help. For what he had in mind, no one else would do.

  1

  Earth

  Rawlgeeb ran his fingers across his scalp. Wrinkles, he thought. I’m getting wrinkles. Wringing his hands, he crossed the office to the small mirror he’d hung by the door, then he pinched at the normally smooth skin of his cheeks, staring in dismay at the creases forming between his fingers. He’d been on Earth too long. He needed a bath: a proper Gloabon bath with a good head of mucilaginous foam and swirling threads of slime, the warm water seething with the bacterial glyphoforms that would work their way into his skin, making him feel fresh and alive. Making him feel whole. “Symbiosis,” he sighed. “Who would have thought that I’d miss it so much?”

  Squeaking on its hinges, the door swung open, and Brent marched inside. “Miss what?” His gaze flicked from Rawlgeeb to the mirror. “Talking to yourself? It’s the first sign of madness, that’s what Freud told me. At least, I think that’s what he said. It was kind of hard to tell, what with the white beard, and the cigar, and all.”

  Rawlgeeb blinked. “You believe you were having a conversation with Sigmund Freud, and you think I’m losing my grip? I’ll admit that my knowledge of Earth history could be better, but even I know that Freud has been dead for well over a hundred years.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Brent shrugged out of his trench coat and hung it from the coat rack. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he tilted his fedora back, his gaze meeting Rawlgeeb’s via the smudged glass. “It wasn’t the real guy. It was an android. AI. You know, ten credits and all your problems solved. Seemed to me like a real sweet deal. I got my money’s worth, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh really, Brent! You should know better than to waste your money on backstreet auto-shrinks. They’re no better than funfair sideshows dressed up as qualified therapists. On Gloabon, they’d be–”

  “Save it,” Brent interrupted, heading for his desk and sitting down heavily, swinging his feet to rest on a convenient stack of files. “You’re not on Gloabon anymore, Toto. Get used to it.” He sent Rawlgeeb a grin, but his smile faded as he watched Rawlgeeb hobble across the office to his own, pristine, desk. “What’s up with your leg? You’re walking like that second-hand robot that made such a lousy job of brewing the coffee. What did you do to yourself? Fall off your high horse?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Rawlgeeb smiled ruefully, sitting down with exaggerated care. “Whatever happened to that bot? It wasn’t too bad at making a flat white, though I had to keep reminding it to give me the decaffeinated coffee. Especially after…” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Sorry about all the damage. If I’d known what was in that cup, I’d never have drunk it.”

  “Forget it. I took the repairs out of your wages.”

  “On more than one occasion,” Rawlgeeb said crisply. “With what I’ve paid for that ceiling, we could’ve moved to a bigger office. Heck, we could’ve built a bigger office, complete with new computers, new desks, and air conditioning that actually functioned once in a while. And you haven’t answered my question. What happened to…what was its name? Jenkins? Vince bought it, so I suppose he took it with him when he–”

  “Ran out on us,” Brent stated. “Treacherous bastard.”

  “That’s unfair. You can’t blame him for taking a job at a proper…I mean, a larger agency. At least he’ll get a regular salary, and he’ll need the money if he wants to get a bigger place with Maisie.”

  Brent waved Rawlgeeb’s words away. “Don’t mention their names. Not today, not ever.”

  “That’s just childish, Brent. Vince didn’t owe you anything. He’s moving up the career ladder as all youngsters should. It’s only right. I wish him well, and so should you.”

  Brent scowled, but he didn’t argue.

  “Now,” Rawlgeeb began, “to prove that you’re above juvenile grievances and petty squabbles, let us carry on our discourse in a reasonable manner. Tell me what happened to Vince’s robot, please.”

  “If you must know, Vince unloaded the damned gizmo on some poor sap down in Neptune Plaza. Those guys will buy anything.”

  Rawlgeeb’s expression brightened. “The old tech market. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I never quite got around to it. Maybe we should take a trip one day and see if there are any bargains.”

  “Antiquing. I can’t stand it. But listen, Rawlgeeb, whatever you do, don’t go down there by yourself. Those tech traders are a rough crowd, and they have a taste for anything Gloabon. One look at you and every pickpocket in town will be on your tail. You’ll be lucky to leave with your wrinkles.”

  Rawlgeeb’s hand went to his cheek. “Oh, you saw those? It’s worse than I thought.” He stood, pressing down on his desk to support his weight, the wooden surface groaning in protest. “I must go home and take a bath. I’ve got a nice little culture of glyphoforms growing in a jar. I’ll collect them from the kitchen, then I’ll be off.”

  “That was yours?”

  Rawlgeeb froze. “Yes. I told you. Twice. What have you done with it?”

  “Well, it was getting kind of ripe in
here, and when I found a pot of green goop, I figured I’d caught the culprit.”

  “Don’t tell me you threw it out.”

  Brent shrugged. “Flushed it. Chased it down with a little industrial bleach. Then I put the jar in the recycling chute.”

  “But that culture took me three weeks to establish.” Rawlgeeb’s face paled, his eyes growing cold. “Three weeks of feeding it, stirring it, monitoring its temperature. And all for nothing.”

  “You fed it? What with? It smelt like hell on a hot day.”

  “Don’t ask,” Rawlgeeb said icily. “All you need to know is that it was mine. I grew it, I needed it, and you had no business throwing it away. None at all.”

  Brent managed a conciliatory smile. “Sorry. I guess I still need to adapt to all this…” He waved his hand at Rawlgeeb.

  “Gloaboness?”

  “I was going to say freakery, but whatever.” He frowned. “Gloaboness? Is that a word? Shouldn’t it be Gloabonity or something?”

  With a sigh, Rawlgeeb sat down. “Gloaboness isn’t a word we’d teach in school, but it’s the nearest human equivalent I can think of. Our name for ourselves is roughly the same as your word people, but that leads to all kinds of confusion.”

  “I’ll bet it does.” Brent nodded wisely. “You know, that goop really was stinking the place out, and our clients wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “Clients? What clients? We haven’t had a new case in weeks. Our cash flow has shared the same fate as my poor little glyphoforms–down the pan.”

  “I know, but something will turn up soon.” Brent pursed his lips. “Rawlgeeb, I really am sorry. There’s no way I would have ditched that goop if I’d realized how important it was. I must’ve missed the memo on that one.”

  “You miss all the memos, Brent. Even the orange ones, which, as you know, are the most important of all.”

  “I thought that was last week. Aren’t we on the fifteen-shades-of-purple scale now?”

  Rawlgeeb rolled his eyes. “The mauve protocol was two months ago. But what’s the point? Just…forget about the glyphoforms. It was an accident. Least said, soonest mended.”