A study in solar… and other things…

by Trynia Merin

Part 1 The Space Resort

I don't own any of these characters, but I only recently stumbled across this cartoon, and I think it's excellent! I've followed Mummies Alive, another masterpiece by DIC, and since I've done some fanfic for that cartoon, I am trying my hand at SH22. Read and review please. I'm not sure where this will go, and it's my first shot, but having read some of the great stuff on the page already, I couldn't help but give it a try.


From the window Holmes could see the buzz of cars whirring about at both street and multi levels. The hum of hover engines had replaced the clopping of hooves on pavement and the occasional snort and neigh of a carriage horse or handsome, and it was a sound he missed sorely. As he pulled back the curtain, he saw Lestrade walking quickly to her hover car parked on the side of the street and he heard the honking of an impatient cab driver as he shook his fist and leaned out the window at Lestrade.

She shook her fist back at him and whipped out what appeared to be a citation pad, which she filled out and showed to the impatient driver before leaping into her hover car with a slam of the door. He turned at the sound of footsteps on the seventeen steps leading up to his office and reception room, and realized the lightness of the steps indicated a woman's pace, followed by the heavier vibrations in the floor from what must be Watson's stance. Pulling his momentary distraction about Lestrade's odd behavior as of late, he turned to face the middle aged client that stood and peered at him intently from over Watson's shoulder.

"May I present Countess Lorraine D' Armanda-Stuart," said Watson. Shrugging off his pursuit of Lestrade's sudden clumsiness, he turned to greet his client. Time for business again.

Watson maneuvered the hovercraft coach into position by the entrance to the shipping company's assembly shop. They both were escorted by the receptionist to the scene of the accident, and glanced around for clues. Their patron was also with them, filling it whatever she could provide to Holmes questions.

"So this is where the accident happened?" Holmes asked, glancing at a particular microcircuit through his magnifying glass. Watson had plugged his modem into the database, and was perusing the records of all the yachts and craft built in the last few months for any other such accidents.

"Oui, Monsieur Holmes," the lady nodded.

"It is the third such accident in six months," the vice president shook his head. "I must apologize again, Madame..."

"Is there anything left that you can salvage?" she asked.

"The entire craft will have to be reworked. And the solar sailcloth is suddenly hard to come by. I had decided to stop using Nusolar, and go back to my other suppliers, but unfortunately Nusolar is the only material that isn't sold out..."

"Interesting," Holmes muttered. "Is this the microcircuit of the power converter?"

"Yes," nodded the VP. "You can see the omega circuit, which controls power transfer from the sails to the solar dynamo has been fused by the explosion..."

"Holmes, this is the same sort of accident that has happened to the last three craft," Watson said as he looked up from the terminal on the engineering console.

"If this keeps up, my business will be ruined..." the VP wrung his hands.

"When did these... accidents start happening?" Holmes asked. "And were there any other bits of hardware affected?"

"The omega circuit and the artificial gravity generator," said the VP. "The more expensive models have an electrostatic generator that makes a 0.5 gee field. The inexpensive craft have a rotating drum in their midsection."

"And each one of the crafts had the same accident?" Holmes asked. "Have there been any changes of personnel in the last six months?"

"Only two. One of them had formerly worked for Solarex..."

"What made you decide to use Nusolar?" asked Holmes.

"They offered us a contract, and they provided the fastest service. The older models and amateur craft sails have never had a problem. It's only been the Chinook series..."

"The most expensive models?" Watson murmured. "I am intrigued about the names of all the craft. They all seem to be from Celtic History..."

"Good observation Watson," said Holmes. "Your choice of the Bonnie Prince Charlie... Madame. It would possibly indicate a personal interest, considering your cousin's yacht was the William Wallace..."

"Perhaps a Scottish ancestor from the Jacobite rebellion who had left for France?" Watson asked.

"Oui Dr. Watson. Most do not pick up on such a detail. My ancestors were sympathetic toward the jacobites, in fact there was intermarriage between the Stuarts and the French side of my family for several generations after Culloden Moor... it is not a coincidence that their name is tied to the Armanda..."

"When was the William Wallace constructed?"

"That was the first in the Chinook class," Mr. Crossfield said. "Three years ago... we built that..."

"And the William Wallace is till operational?" asked Holmes.

"Indeed," nodded the VP and Madame Armanda-Stuart.

"What sort of sail did it use?" Holmes asked the VP.

"Solarex," said Mr. Crossfield, typing up the file on the small console to his left. Watson moved next to him and glanced along with Holmes. "But I fail to see why that's important..."

"On the contrary, it is of significance since you stopped using Solarex two years ago," Holmes said. "And the Bonnie Prince Charlie was constructed nine months ago, and only just recently tested for full flight capability..."

"Well, I still fail to see," said the VP.

"Interesting. I've seen all I need here," said Holmes. "Thank you very much..."

"Would you like to see the dock itself?"

"No thank you," Holmes said.

"But surely where the explosion happened would be of interest?" Watson asked.

"Undoubtedly, this is why I'm asking you Watson to attend to that little detail. I have another lead I would like to pursue..."

"I'm admiring your trust in my abilities," Watson said, flattered as Holmes handed him the notepad he'd been writing on.

"A test of your deductive skills, my dear Watson," Holmes smiled. "Madame, I would be honored to escort you back to your apartment. I still have a few more questions and a request..."

"Of course Monsieur Holmes," said Madame Armanda-Stuart. The VP looked at Watson, and back at Holmes in question.

"Dr. Watson, my assistant will be continuing the investigation here, Mr. Crossfield," Holmes said. "I trust you can cooperate with any of his requests?"

"Of course," nodded Mr. Crossfield. "Deanne, show Mr. Holmes and Madame out please?"

"Sir you have another call from Nusolar," Deanna said.

"I'll take it in my office," he said as Deanne, the receptionist showed them out. Watson watched Holmes leave, and followed the VP out to the workshop. A young engineer, with streaked yellow and green hair, with the name badge Rossini accidentally brushed past, and Holmes noticed his uniform was stained on the inner parts of his sleeve. Quickly he ducked into the lab, and Holmes rubbed his chin.

As they exited to the street, the hover cabs and other traffic whizzed by, and Madame Armanda-Stuart turned to Holmes, asking, "What was that request you were to ask of me?"

"First a question. Where is the Wallace berthed?" Holmes asked as the chill of the afternoon set into evening, and the wind whipped his Inverness around his legs, and puffed out the synthetic mink coat that Madame Armanda-Stuart was wearing. She shivered and glanced back and forth, before looking at Holmes again.

"It is at the Clarke space Resort… the one with the Hilton that my family owns a share in. I sit on the board of directors… and my cousin is the charter member of the yachting club, which meets there regularly between journeys…" she said.

"Would it be possible for me to charter the Wallace for a cruise?" Holmes asked. "I am just learning about astronomy, and possibly I would like to see how such a craft operates…"

"Of course, Monsieur Holmes," she nodded.

"How can I contact your cousin?" he asked.

"I would be honored to contact him myself, and have him ready you for a cruise tomorrow morning. My Leer shuttle can be readied at the New London Gatwick spaceport tomorrow to take you to the Resort," said Madame Armanda-Stuart. "I am certain my cousin would be honored to have you aboard. He's quite a fan of yours…"

"Is he?" Holmes asked with an amused smile. There came the honk of a horn, and another cold slice of wind whipped through them, making Holmes stand gallantly between Madame Armanda-Stuart and the street to shield her from the gust. Her hat blew off, and he snagged it quickly with his cane to return it to her.

"Merci," she gasped, putting it back on. "It is windy! Those hover cars are getting worse…"

"I am sure I know the reason why," Holmes muttered as he saw the craft hairpin turn and whiz back to screech to a stop only six inches from where they stood. He hung onto his deerstalker tightly with both hands as the craft's door opened.

"THERE you are!" Lestrade said, sliding out. "I thought you'd be here…"

"Ah, Inspector… just in time," said Holmes. "Watson is continuing the investigation here… and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind terribly taking me back to Baker Street. And I must secure a cab for the Madame…"

"Inspector," she nodded.

"Ma'am," nodded Lestrade. Holmes took a step into the street, and waved at a yellow craft that was sitting nearby. It backed up and opened its door.

"Where to guvner?" asked the driver cheerfully.

"It is not for me sir, but for the lady," he indicated Madame Armanda-Stuart.

"Cor, you're Sherlock Holmes right enough. I've seen your picture in the E-Mirror!"

"Holmes get a move on," Lestrade mumbled.

"Thank you very much Monsieur Holmes," smiled Madame charmingly as he opened the door for her and helped her in. He pressed a kiss to her hand, and Lestrade tapped her foot impatiently before the cab door closed, and whizzed off down with a gentle hum of its antigravity engines.

"What was that all about?" Lestrade asked. "Wasting your time here when you should be at Nusolar…"

"These two cases are related, Inspector," Holmes corrected her as he straightened his deerstalker. "And I am investigating a most promising lead."

"Well tomorrow we're going to interview a couple of the other yacht owners," Lestrade said. "So when do I pick you up?"

"On the contrary I shall be occupied…"

"Say what?" Lestrade asked.

"I have chartered the William Wallace for a cruise… to learn more about astronomy firsthand…" Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye.

"We've got Nusolar bugging Grayson who's on MY back and you want to go sailing?" Lestrade folded her arms across her chest. "Holmes have you lost your gray matter?"

"My brain is as sharp as ever, Lestrade," he said. "I simply wish to see such a craft in action…"

"Well if you're going sailing, I'm coming along," Lestrade sighed. "Ask me it's a waste of time, but you're probably going to prove me wrong ANYWAY like you always do…"

"We shall see Lestrade," he smiled as he opened the door for her and she looked at him doubtfully.

"No, you are NOT driving," she said.

"Lestrade, you wound me… I HAVE been practicing," Holmes said, in a mock pout.

"Move over. This is a NEW hover car, and the Chief inspector has already ripped me a new… I mean he's already hassled me enough today," Lestrade sighed.

Holmes relented and let her get behind the wheel, closing the door before crossing around the front to enter on the passenger side. He gripped the ornamental handle on the side of the coach as she gunned the ignition and peeled out into the main traffic flow with a surge of ions trailing behind her, whizzing around the cab, which was taking Madame Armanda-Stuart back in the same direction.


The expansive lobby spread out in many directions, its walls lined with ultra modern pastel plastic and shiny brass. Squares of rich carpet separated by strips of astro-turf spanned the floor underfoot. Along the walls periodically of the hallways were small electronic computer terminals used for patron convenience. A resident could punch up a floor plan of any level of the hotel, could ring up any specific info pertaining to hotel accommodations, or even see videos describing activities occurring at the resort.

Guests and last minute walk-ins bustled past a long reception desk fabricated from plastic, its front surface inlaid with squares of bogus marble. Some VIP guests, such as the participants involved in the Interstellar Scottish Festival, and the Global Cricket convention already had booked reservations far in advance. They could simply just check into their suites. Other people, such as overnight visitors, or walk-ins who missed the last shuttle, had to wait in line to process a double room request. Lately, due to the number of last minute room requests, reservations took a long time to process.

Various shops and businesses lined main hallways of the first level. Video game arcades and snack bars were packed with the latest walk-ins, waiting anxiously to find out if there were any rooms vacant in the crammed Space Resort hotels. Inside of one refreshment bar sat one patron, at his table right beside the glass window.

Ye Old Malt Shop was written in swirling cursive reverse inside of the large window. Slowly he sipped his milkshake as he kept one eye glued to the long lines of people forming outside. His clothing was distinct; a brown coat half belted, a pullover sweater underneath, topped with a paisley tie. On the back of his chair hung a cane, decidedly Victorian.

Some of the travelers carried instrument cases, and drums. One or two even wore caps and bonnets with their clan pins fastened to them. They stopped to admire Holmes deerstalker and Inverness, and he tipped his hat to them. They sat down at a table nearby, next to another member, who was also dressed in a long plaid and sporran, as a young Highlander. Unlike the first two, who wore a twentieth century kilt with ceremonial black jackets complete with silver buttons, the third wore a lovely loose peasant blouse and a leather bandoleer strap. A faded gunnysack was plunked on the floor under the table beside him.

Holmes grumbled as he noticed milk splattering onto his pants. Carefully he caught the drops with his handkerchief, before they soaked into the fabric covering his thigh. Picking up a newspaper on the glass-topped table, he skimmed it hastily. "Where in the world is the technology' section?" he muttered. It was a novelty in this century to have a paper copy of a newspaper to read. This station supplied novelties by the dozen.

On the other side of the window, people hurried left and right. Across from the refreshment, court was a series of reservation terminals. Hunched over one of the terminals, a brown-haired woman intently depressed tan keys. Flashing letters on the monitor reflected backward messages on her glasses. One button rang up the floor plan of the lobby's AA wing. Another try and statistics revealed the current number of visitors presently registered in the hotel.

"They said at the desk it would be a matter of minutes," she stated matter-of-factly.

At the main entrance from the Spaceport, the transparent glass doors flew open. Several strings of gentlemen wearing multicolored cable knit sweaters and sun visors wandered in. Glancing up from her terminal, the woman noted these chattering knots of athletically dressed men. Each carried a duffel bag and a cricket bat in hand. "Could be members of the Cricket tourney? Or was it racquetball?" she thought. "Must have just arrived on the latest shuttle from Port Ghana on Earth."

One of the cricketers conversed about the weather with a man in a cherry red polo sweater. As he passed her, the cricketer raised his red-brimmed straw hat politely to her. Was it a sprig of celery she saw pinned to his lapel of his corduroy jacket with red piping?

"I tell you, Riana. It's nothing to miss! Ye gotta come to Robbie Burns tribute!"

"I'm here to relax, kid! I just met this really cool guy, and you had to come over and botch it up!"

"Do ye call someone wearing a half pound of leather and feathers, and a crazy smell cool?"

Lestrade turned from the terminal toward the direction of the two young voices. That girl wearing the silver and French braided hair was unfamiliar, but it could be a coincidence. The young teenaged boy wearing the kilt and cable-knit sweater was unfamiliar though. From the Hotel Lobby with the shops they walked, arguing. "There'll be plenty of bonnie gents at the Festival, Riana. Besides, some of the women think men in kilts are, sexy?"

"That may be, but they aren't my type."

"How do ye know?"

"I think Scots culture is cool, and all. But mixing and mingling with a bunch of grown ups in suits and ties just strikes me cold."

"Okay. I should have guessed. But make sure ye dinna miss some of the other great stuff! Like the Games."

"I promise I'll go to at least two events at the Fest, okay?"

"It's a deal," she nodded, and headed off from the redhead. Both of them stopped when they saw Lestrade at the terminal.

"What's a Yardie doing here?" the red headed woman asked the Scottish gentleman standing next to her. Her eyes fell on Lestrade as if trying to recall who she was. But Lestrade was already on her way to rendezvous with Holmes at the coffee shop.

"Someone you know?" Hamish Cameron asked Melanie Rush.

"That looked like Beth Lestrade, my college roommate," she muttered. "Wait here…"