Ashetown Blues: Three Sci-Fi Noir Stories

By W. H. Mitchell

"Nobody knows tough times until you've spent a year in Ashetown."

In the Imperial capital, the Ashetown district is where the trash flows downstream and where private detective Thomas Martel calls home.

Ashetown Blues is a collection of three sci-fi noir stories featuring Martel as he searches for m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imperium Group LLC
• Release date: Jun 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088034897

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Copyright © 2023 W. H. Mitchell

All rights reserved.

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, book reviews, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at [e-mail]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Cover design: W. H. Mitchell

Cover photo: Masashi Wakui

Published by Willbot Books

First edition, 2023

The Cold Sleep first appeared in Martel P.I.: The Cold Sleep (A Martel Novella) (2021)

Works by W. H. Mitchell

The Imperium Chronicles Series

The Arks of Andromeda, Book 1 (2017)

The Dragons of Andromeda, Book 2 (2018)

The Robots of Andromeda, Book 3 (2020)

The Dreams of Andromeda, Book 4 (2021)

The Elves of Andromeda, Book 5 (2023)

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Humor

A Little of Me Goes a Long Way (2015)

The Cold Sleep

On the planet Aldorus, the city of Regalis was divided into three districts: the wealthy estates of West End, the skyscrapers of Middleton, and the slums of Ashetown. The districts were anything but equal: the nobles of West End had the power, the entrepreneurs of Middleton had the money, and the downtrodden of Ashetown had nothing. Even the trees were different. While in most of Regalis, the branches were full of leaves, the trees of Ashetown were long dead from pollution and the rainwater flooded the gutters with garbage that ran down the streets.

At the corner of Marlow and Vine in Ashetown, a river of floating trash overran the curb and cascaded down a concrete staircase, pooling beside the red door of a dive bar called Le Sous-Sol.

Inside, a puddle grew from the dank water leaking under the door, which drew the attention of the bartender who cursed his miserable life.

Goddamn it! Red swore, grabbing a mop and bucket and attempting, with little success, to stem the tide coming from the stairwell.

Red was a Gordian, a stubborn race with a boar-like snout, tusks, and a disgruntled personality. Stout and muscular, but still appearing overweight, he was a former boxer who now spent his days slinging drinks instead of swinging fists.

We should have a robot for this... he muttered bitterly while he mopped up the water. With a grunt, he gave up and carried the mop and bucket back behind the bar.

The rest of the Sous-Sol was dimly lit and uninspiring with a few tables and a small stage in the back. Booths with seats of burgundy-colored leather lined two of the bar’s four walls. All were empty, except for one booth where a human with dark skin swirled the ice floating in his whiskey glass. Wearing a dull gray overcoat, he watched with casual interest as Red put away the mop and stood on the rail running behind the bar, making the short Gordian appear taller.

You need a refill, gumshoe? Red shouted across the room.

Sure, the man said.

Then get off your ass! the bartender replied. I ain’t no waitress!

Detective Thomas Martel slid out from the booth and sat on a stool at the bar. Red filled his glass with bourbon.

A waitress might class up the place, Martel muttered.

In case you haven’t noticed, pal, the bartender said, there’s garbage water coming in the front door, and that’s the best thing that’s come through there all day.

The private detective raised his glass in salute, downing his drink in one gulp. Then he got up to leave.

You gonna pay for that? Red asked.

Put it on my tab.

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Martel’s office was conveniently located in the same building as the Sous-Sol. On the second floor, down an unremarkable hallway, the lettering on the door read Thomas Martel, Private Investigations.

Martel had barely walked inside when a woman’s voice assaulted him with a strong Long Island accent.

Yaw shoes are soakin’ wet! Dolores yelled, her disembodied voice coming from a small box on the front desk. Take those awf before ya tread watah everywhere!

Martel closed the door and leaned against it while shedding his shoes and socks, leaving them in a damp pile. He hung his coat on the rack beside the door, revealing a shoulder holster weighed down by a brushed chrome .44 magnum revolver. Martel had affectionately named it Maxwell.

He adjusted the holster but kept it on. Happy now?

I ain’t the one cleanin’ it up, Dolores replied. I’m just a box.

Martel’s electronic secretary was all the AI he could afford, unable to splurge on a proper secretarybot. Her accent filled him with buyer’s remorse.

I’ll be in the back, he said, crossing the room in his bare feet.

Okay, hon.

The back office was the same size as the front, containing Martel’s desk and a few other items of furniture, including a worn leather couch which was also his bed. The detective sat at the desk and put his feet up, realizing at that moment that his toenails needed clipping.

Any messages? he asked loud enough for Dolores to hear.

Oh, gawd, I totally forgot! she replied through the wall. Somebawdy wants to hire ya!

Dolores!

I know, I know, she said. I’m as surprised as you!

Just play the message...

From the same box that Dolores’ voice came from, a different one began speaking.

This is the secretarybot for Lord Admiral Benjamin Bennett. He would like to meet with you this evening concerning an issue of utmost importance and delicacy. I will forward the time and place to your AI.

Well, listen to her all professional-like! Dolores remarked.

"Why don’t you sound like that?" Martel asked.

Because ya too cheap to buy a bettah one than me!

An admiral can probably afford it.

That’s a fact, hon! she replied.

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Gravtaxis didn’t normally go to Ashetown at night, not unless you paid them in advance. Using his datapad, Martel transferred money to the taxi company and, like magic, a cab dropped out of the sky outside the detective’s building a few minutes later.

The voice of the robotic driver greeted Martel from a speaker on the dashboard as he got inside.

Evenin’, pal!

You have the route? Martel replied.

Sure thing, bub. Goin’ to West End, huh? Fancy...

Martel remained silent. As a rule, he tried not to make small talk with vehicles.

The cab lifted off and merged into the line of other gravcars following the airborne traffic lanes that crisscrossed the city of Regalis, taking the express lane directly from Ashetown to the West End. Through the window, Martel watched the poorly lit slums end abruptly at the banks of the Regalis River, followed by the bright boulevards and expansive estates on the other side.

Seven hundred years ago, sleeper ships had arrived from their long journey from Earth. Since then, the descendants of  the ships’ crews had become royalty and acquired all the power and fortune that came with it. Descended from the colonists who had remained in hibernation during the trip, Martel was of commoner stock. Even so, any human was better off in the Imperium than non-humans who were little more than second-class citizens.

The gravtaxi arrived at the address and did a quick circle above before landing on the pea gravel of the driveway in front of the estate.

Thanks, Martel muttered while exiting the cab.

Have a good one, pal! the dashboard said with a flourish of lights before taking off again and disappearing into the night.

Martel walked up the driveway and rang the bell beneath the portico flanked by white columns. After a few minutes, a butlerbot wearing a tie and formal jacket opened the front door and examined the detective like something the cat had dropped on the stoop.

Yes? the robot asked.

I’m Thomas Martel, private detective.

Ah, yes, the butlerbot replied. The Admiral is expecting you.

The robot led Martel into a foyer decorated in the American colonial style. The butlerbot opened a pair of sliding doors leading into a library where an elderly, gray-haired man with a military