A Little Emotional Vice

by Demus

Scifi AU, slash. K. Hutchinson leaves his reclusive planet for the life of a police ranger. His destination- the LA Spaceport, where the crimes are as varied as the lifeforms. For Det. Starsky life is about to turn upside down! Co-authored Azzy/Demus

2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The great Spaceports of this Galaxy are well known - the Europe Interchange, M'Ssentir 4, Mondrassac Shining light, Tokyo Ascendant and Los Angeles; of all of these, Los Angeles is the most squalid, the most vulgar and the most interesting.

- T'leek Santor, 'The Slow Drift Outwards'

"Today's the day, huh?" Starsky said brightly as Hutch approached, straightening from his slouch against the gleaming side of the Torino. They'd agreed to meet in the hangar this time, now that Hutch could navigate his way there on his own, and the purebreed was interested to see that his companion was chewing on a large slice of flat bread covered with reco-cheese and circles of meat. "You eaten yet?"

"Yes," Hutch said firmly, suppressing unpleasant memories of the blintzes. Nutrient mixes might not be to Starksy's taste, but they were a far safer option than unidentifiable pastries. "You, er, would you like to wait until you've finished?"

Starsky grinned around his mouthful, amusement rolling off him. Hutch noticed that his tail was moving in loose, undulating waves and made a mental note between the correlation of mood and limb-movement. "Nah, s'okay. I can drive one-handed, a couple of years out in the black'll teach you that much. You ready to pick up our first case?" As he spoke, the mongrel made his way around to the driver's side by way of the roof, hopping casually up and disabling the alarms with a quick breath on the hidden scanner.

Hutch waited for his partner to get in before attempting to open the door. After a late night spent studying the cityscape's holomaps in an attempt to commit them to memory, he wasn't sure he could trust his reflexes to keep him safe from the sentient cruiser's distaste. "As I'll ever be," he answered, sliding inside. "Do you mind if I put the seatbelt on?"

Starsky barked a laugh. The mongrel seemed to be in a good mood this morning; there was a concentrated eagerness to his thoughts and movements, zinging with a kind of energy Hutch had never encountered before. "Sorry, pal, but I disengaged 'em," he said, bringing the cruiser to life by stroking the dashboard; thrusters powered up around them, the floor shuddering slightly as they rose into the air. "Can't you just - hang on?"

Who would ever disengage basic safety equipment? Hutch locked the disapproval away hastily before remembering that Starsky had no way of sensing it. "Surely that contravenes several -"

"Hutch, she's an Interceptor cruiser with an ASI Torino sub-core. We don't need that stuff," Starsky said with a fair show of patience. He was already powering the Torino forward towards the dizzying drop down into the lower levels from the residential area, idly flipping switches as they sped up; glancing down, Hutch watched the thin mesh of the parking bay give way to the floor of the hanger, at this point no more than great unrefined duranium beams arching from wall to wall. A brief haze of cloud scudded across below them, then the Torino was shuddering as a buffet of wind caught it on its emergence from the hangar proper. "She'll catch us if we go flyin'."

There was a brief susurration of what felt like smug agreement from the strange machine-mind. Hutch made an unobtrusive grab for a strap that dangled promisingly beside his right ear. "I'm - glad to hear it," he said, hoping his disbelief didn't show. "I I doubt either of us have hidden capabilities for unaided flight."

The mongrel chuckled, sliding the control column back to engage manual; the Torino twitchedas he did so, a shudder running from the elongated nose to the snub rear end, and Hutch watched Starksy's fingers stroke over the living black matter of what he persisted in calling the 'wheel' despite the fact it was clearly a cruiser-standard joystick. "Better hold onto your stomach," Starsky advised, his tone leaping with excitement. "The gravitational stabilisers don't work as well as they used to." Hutch barely had time to tighten his grip on his strap before Starsky rammed the control column forwards, sending the cruiser into a nose-down vertical plunge with an ear-splitting whoop; for a good three seconds, Hutch felt his entire body slam backwards into the seat, unbelievable pressure dragging at him before the stabilisers caught up with the freefall, and miles of sky were whizzing past them at colossal speed, other vehicles passing in blips and flashes of colour, then Starsky was hauling the cruiser level, thrusters whining in protest as he dragged it out of its dive. There was a moment of internal uncertainty, then Hutch slumped forwards as the Torino slowed to a putter and turned, gently, in through the gaping doorway to another parking lot. Something on the dashboard bleeped to indicate a scan, then Starsky was easing the cruiser into a space, powering down and sliding the control column back into place as the magnetic clamps sealed. The whole journey took less than two minutes.

Hutch blinked, and cautiously let go of the strap, noticing as he did so that his fingers had cramped. "Starsky," he said tentatively.

Starsky turned to him with a grin. "Yeah, partner?"

"Could -" His companion's mind was definitely, definitely self-satisfied, and he sighed, taking a certain amount of fulfillment from the outward sign of irritation. "Am I right in thinking that we could have walked?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Well yeah, sure, we could. If you fancied a twenty-minute walk and five grav jumps full of people runnin' late." He rolled out of the Torino, stretching luxuriously and waiting while Hutch extricated himself from an inexplicable tangle of wiring. "And ain't more'n a couple of floors up from here. And," slamming his own door shut with a flourish, "if we get there early, Ranin might've gone bakin' again and there might be somethin' left over."

"Ranin?"

"Uh-huh. Kit Ranin, Detective Sergeant First Class. You'll like her, we were in uniform together – she's from the same system as me, but one planet over. She..."

Starsky kept up the chatter as he made his way to the grav jump. Hutch fell into step beside him, happy for the chance to steady himself. He was beginning to wonder if his partner had actually acquired a driving license. If he had, it didn't say much for L.A.'s traffic laws.

The jump was as crowded as Starsky had feared. The mongrel sighed as they reached the line, his flow of gossip finally stemmed, and he exchanged a knowing glance with the uniformed ranger just ahead of them. Hutch kept half a pace back, a little uncertain of the correct procedure at this point, and studied the line's occupants; it appeared to be mainly mongrels of various shapes and degrees of animal-likeness. There were more uniformed officers than plain clothes, the uniforms themselves resembling two-piece versions of his own jumpsuit, and he was careful not to catch anyone's eye; the info-packs had been unclear on how much eye contact was deemed acceptable with strangers.

"Come on, Hutch," Starsky said, and actually reached back to grab his arm and tow him forward; Hutch stiffened, unsure how to respond to the sudden increase in physical contact, but Starsky seemed not to notice. ""Y'use a freighter line before?"

"My home planet is a civilised one," Hutch said after a bemused second, stepping forward behind him in line while the light glowed amber, and Starsky raised an eyebrow, twisting to look back over his shoulder.

"Hey, okay, I only asked. What, grav jumps don't break down on Minnesota?"

"Oh, are you the purebreed?" asked the being just behind Hutch; he looked as if he had some kind of Silurian ancestry, a vaguely reptilian slant to his nose and eyes at odds with a round, cheerful face. "Heard y'got partnered with Starsky; he still drivin' like a mad Drassetti on hormones?" There was a ripple of amusement from the surrounding crowd. "Good luck there, mate, you'll need it to keep up with that one."

He had just enough time to say, "Uh," before Starsky grunted, "Knock it off, Norl," and yanked him into the jump. Unlike the civilian grav jumps, the freighter had a solid platform that stood at rest for the cargo to be loaded before transportation. It was already half-full, the mass of rangers jostling good-naturedly for space, and Hutch reinforced his shields against the teeming morass of emotion.

The cheerful Silurian stepped in behind him, peering up interestedly. "So, you just got here, huh?"

Hutch glanced at Starsky, who let go of his arm with a start, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. "Um, yes," the purebreed said, after a moment. "A – actually, I arrived two days ago, but -"

"Callin' in sick already?" Norl grinned; his amusement was a palpable thing despite Hutch's shields, fizzing in the air. "Landed yourself a real pro there, Starsk, he's going to go far with that attitude."

"No, I -"

"Sure is, Norly," Starsky interrupted, nudging Hutch gently in the side. "Been teachin' him all my tricks."

Norl's grin widened as the last ranger stepped in and the entrance sealed itself in preparation. "Only took him two days to learn all your tricks?"

"Like you said, the boy's a pro."

The gravity drop came with more of a kick than Hutch was used to, and the rush of upwards air was stronger; he grabbed at the nearest thing for balance and found that Starsky was there again, bracing him from behind with both hands on Hutch's shoulders as they sped upwards. The mongrel seemed to feel no real need to hold on; his mind was unperturbed by the movement, his muscles relaxed. The benefits of a tail? Hutch wondered, and then almost lost his balance again as gravity returned without any gradual increase; there was a thump and some raucous laughter behind them as someone landed back on the platform.

"This's us," Starsky said, patting him on the shoulder before letting go again, and Hutch stepped forward, through the invisible scanners - a spike of interest from somewhere nearby as his data was recorded - and into what a bright blue sign proclaimed to be Metro Precinct, Ranger Division: 24 C.

His first impression was one of space, but every inch of it filled with chaos. There was a blue-skinned child wailing at the top of its lungs while its parent shouted demands in some unknown language to a harassed officer in uniform; the noise of conversations both official and unofficial ebbed around them in bewildering complexity. Hutch tried to grasp at the emotions roiling around him, and after a few seconds put up as many shields as he possibly could, but the impression of brightly-coloured chaos remained. Even the walls were lit up with swiftly-changing images, rotas, maps, memos flashing past. "Starsky," he said, trying to regain some sense of order. "Where - where should we -"

"Y'okay?" Starsky had been exchanging greetings with a tall, thin humanoid, and now he turned to face his new partner. "Bit of a rush, huh? Kind of mad in here this time o' the mornin'; don't worry, it gets a bit more peaceful when everyone knows what they're doin'." He glanced up at a holo-imager displaying the time above their heads. "Look, I'll go'n try to find Dobey. Why don't you just -" he sidestepped a crowd of short, four-armed beings; Hutch thought they might be Talerii, "just - have a look 'round? Th'caffeine shots taste like Dracorn dung, but they'll wake you up," and Starsky disappeared into the crowd with a brief wave, ducking away into the middle of the room.

The crowd was, as promised, beginning to thin. Hutch opted to stay where he was, reasoning that Starsky would need to find him again, and leant cautiously back against the wall. Passers-by eyed him with open curiosity, some of them mumbling a brief greeting, some of them just staring with either hostility or confusion; he couldn't see why he was any more of interest than the blue-skinned child, now hiccuping quietly to itself.

"Hey, pure-breed!"

Aggression, fear-driven, the fear rolling under that furious spike like a riptide. A bitter tang of morbid curiosity, almost swamped by anger. Hutch turned to face the source of the emotions; it was a Jilfey. She loomed over him, an eight foot tall insectoid with two arms folded across her chest, four muscular legs tapering down from a lilac thorax. Protruding behind her was a swollen, bee-like abdomen on which glistened the hook of a sting. Wickedly-curved mandibles twitched as he studied her, a low hiss rattling from between them.

The polite approach, then. "May I help you, ma'am?" he said, attempting what he hoped was a casual stance.

The Jilfey's hiss grew louder. "Ain't room on this station for egg-stealers," she snarled, a single drop of corrosive venom forming at the tip of her sting as her abdomen quivered with rage.

Egg-stealers. Just one more title to add to the tarnish coating his racial memory - the Jilfey, as industrious a race of architects and builders as the universe had ever produced, had once been thought a viable option for enslavement on his homeworld. Given a few genetic modifications, of course. The laboratories responsible were long since gone, written out of pure-breed history as a simple failed experiment, but a hive-mind rarely forgot the atrocities committed against it.

Hutch squared his shoulders, meeting the creature's gaze with every ounce of bravado he thought a ranger ought to possess. "If you wish to report a theft -" he began, aware of the rapid increase in emotional activity from the crowd; they were drawing attention to themselves. He would do well to diffuse the situation before -

"Hutchinson! Report to my office immediately!"

"Captain Dobey," Hutch acknowledged, glancing over his shoulder, and felt Starsky's approach before he saw it; his new partner prowled into place at his side, eyeing the Jilfey with dislike. "Ma'am, I - I hope you'll take any complaint to the Commissioner."

"I will," she hissed, and turned her glare abruptly on Starsky. "What you doin' hangin' with this type, mongrel? Got a taste t'go killin' innocents?"

"No more'n you want to go and nest in a hedge," Starsky retorted, and clamped one arm over Hutch's shoulder; he was quivering with indignation so heartfelt it needed no psychic probe. The loyalty was oddly appealing, if baffling after such a short acquaintance, but Hutch was learning to anticipate the unexpected. "Y'got somethin' against him, y'got somethin' against me, capiche?"

"Excuse us," Hutch said, as politely as he was able, and steered Starsky in the direction of Dobey's office.

The mongrel went easily enough, walking with the taut, bouncy stride of one attempting to contain his emotions. It was a fairly weak attempt at concealment. Hutch hesitated, calculating the probability of causing offence, then projected a slim tendril of reassurance, stroking over the jagged teeth of Starsky's aggravation; his new partner jerked in response, spinning to face him with the speed of instinct, and Hutch immediately withdrew. "Er, sorry," he said, in answer to Starsky's obvious surprise. "I, er, you - didn't want you to get a tension headache, partner."

Starsky's mouth relaxed into a grin. He dropped his shoulders, aggression leaching out into bemused fondness, and his arm found its way back onto Hutch's shoulders. "Gotta teach me that magic trick some time," he replied, bumping Hutch with his hip. "Might save us gettin' our heads chewed off if any bein' starts a riot."

Hutch shook his head. "I couldn't teach you. And I couldn't reach more than one, one person." It should be shameful, to explain his faults to another, but there was no disgust, no pity; it was likely that Starsky had no idea what a fully-trained high-level empath ought to be capable of. "Going to have to rely on our native charm and intelligence," he added, trying for a lighter tone.

"Piece of cake," Starsky said, as the door to Dobey's office slid aside. "Hey, cap'n, what's new?"

Dobey was standing at the window; he gestured them both to a seat, and Hutch lowered himself into one of the two chairs. Starsky hesitated, and then perched on the arm of the same chair, ignoring the perfectly serviceable alternative, his tail winding around the back for balance. "Dust," Dobey said without preamble, stomping back over to the desk. "The Hydrean that Ranin and Coles brought in? She's in the cells screechin' like she has twelve heads, not three, and she was talkin' about something big goin' down. I know it's Ranin's case, but I want you two on it. This operation's bigger than two officers and Vice ain't got anyone to spare. Starsky, get a hold of your snitches, see what y'can find out about a big shipment due in in the next few cycles."

"That ain't much to go on," Starsky said; the quick rush of emotions had gone, and now he was all concentration. "Any clue what quadrant -"

"Do I look like I know which quadrant?" Dobey snapped, and the mechanical arm extended two data pads to them in a faintly irritated hiss of hydraulics. "Reason the Hydrean's talkin' is because she was so strung out on the damn stuff herself."

"Three times the heads, three times the fun," Starsky said dryly.

Hutch picked up one of the data pads, scanning the crowded reams of information with a practised eye. Minnesota's premier university might have left him with a keen awareness of his own irredeemable flaws, but it had at least moulded him into a quick study. Starsky ignored the second pad, choosing instead to peer over his shoulder; this close, his musky alien scent was far more prominent, almost to the point of distraction, and Hutch buried himself in the scrolling words, all-too-aware of the mongrel's breath against his cheek.

"Starsky, have you lost the use of your hands?" grumbled Dobey. "The last thing Hutchinson needs is your ugly hide crowding him."

"Way I see it, cap', he was gotta get used to bein' crowded by far uglier hides than mine," Starsky retorted, amusement curling from him like a snigger; it was so vivid that, for a moment, Hutch wondered if the feeling was his own. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come - it was, of course, ludicrous - and returned his attention to the duty sergeant's report on the Hydrean, scratching absently at a niggling itch in the centre of his chest. It had been present since the day before, but he suspected that any suggestion that the cause might be a Tinnexan flying squirrel would be met with severe indignation.

Dobey's cybernetic lens whirred irritably as it sharpened its focus on Starsky, the cyborg's living eye narrowing alongside it. "A couple of cycles in that flashy cruiser of yours should be more than sufficient to acclimatise him. Hutchinson, have you been supplied with an emergency respirator?"

"Er -"

"You're a funny man, Captain," Starsky groused, before Hutch could reply, and he flung himself upright in a rush of slighted air. "C'me on then, partner, let's hit the skies."

x

The Torino was not pleased to see him. Hutch sighed, and tried to project something calming at the vague alien intelligence; it rejected him briskly, with a slight edge of disdain. "Hey, baby," Starsky crooned, sliding into his seat and stroking the console. "We got work t'do - c'mon, Blondie, this ain't sight-seein'." His grin took the sting out of the words. "I figure we need to start with the best, if we're going to bust this one."

"What's the best?" Hutch slid gingerly into his own seat, which point-blank refused to adjust around him, and the cruiser rumbled towards the drop. "Or, uh, who?"

"Who," Starsky confirmed, squinting at the nav panel and making minor adjustments with his fingertips. "Least, I think he's a who. We're goin' to see the Bear. Chances are if anything's stirrin', he knows about it." A pause, while they emerged from the hangar into the murky sunlight. "You ever meet a shape-shifter before?"

"No," Hutch said. "No, we -"

"Don't have those on Minnesota, sure," Starsky murmured. "Go figure," and he powered the Torino out and down the drop before Hutch could draw breath to reply.

They passed an uneventful half an hour on patrol, with no sign of a shape-shifter (not that Hutch was entirely sure how one might identify such a being in the first place), but Starsky seemed largely unconcerned. They had abandoned the Torino at a docking bay a few corners back, and once up to sidewalk level Starsky had proceeded to meander along as if entirely without a care in the world, nodding in a friendly fashion to a pair of mongrel girls who returned the look with interest; Hutch, for his part, was a little more concerned with absorbing the sheer level of sensory information in the vicinity. The drop was a sharp void to his left, where in this rundown district security beams were only activated during the busiest hours, and walkers tended to avoid the edge; further in, street foodsellers provided a cacophony of sound and a variety of different smells that made his stomach, already a little uncomfortable from the flight, clench uneasily.

He took the opportunity to distract himself by watching Starsky. The mongrel's strut was almost more pronounced, out here on the street, tail lashing gently with an economy of movement that seemed to draw the admiration of more than one passer-by. By contrast, there was a barrage of constant confusing emotion directed towards himself from those same passers-by; suspicion and confusion, tempered with a healthy dose of what could very well be amusement. At least one of us is making a positive impression.

Starsky glanced back over his shoulder and Hutch, caught looking, hastily glanced away. Suddenly finding the graffiti on a nearby shop doorway fascinating (Starsky would, in all probability, find it offensive to know that he was being studied), he was about to make some mundane comment about the local folk art when Starsky stopped so suddenly that Hutch would have run into him had it not been for his mind, constantly scanning the world and halting his clumsy limbs when the mundane five senses failed to do so. This time, telepathy halted him in mid-step, freezing him in place before he could run into his new partner's back; Starsky's head was tilted back, his eyes closed in deep concentration, and he was drawing deep breaths in through his nose. Surely he isn't-

Before Hutch could finish his disbelieving thought, blue eyes snapped open and Starsky yelled, "Huggy!" before bounding forwards in a leap that carried him into the chest of a large blueish-purple reptilian being. The creature caught him easily, enormous talons settling a little too close for comfort, and a thoroughly-unlikely voice emitted from the lizard's mouth to say, "Hey, hound-dog, will I ever fool that nose?"

"Try 'kitty-cat' some time, y'never know," Starsky said, grinning, "Hug,this's my new partner. Hutch, meet Huggy Bear."

Hutch looked up, and up, and tentatively held out his hand to shake. "It's, uh - it's a pleasure," he offered.

The reptile's eyes crinkled with amusement, and then it was suddenly several feet shorter and more approximately man-sized. "Good t'meet you," Huggy said, smacking one large taloned hand into Hutch's. "What's up, m'man, you ain't never seen a shapeshifter before?"

"Hug's a bein' you want on your side," Starsky put in, as Hutch tried not to let his shock show. "Runs a bar just down the street. Great oxygen shots." He waggled expressive eyebrows. "How 'bout a date, huh? Jus' you'n'me?"

"What am I, the spare wheel on that space junk o'yours?" Huggy demanded, glancing back and forth between them; his mind was silent, Hutch realised with a jolt. In the chaotic heave of L.A.'s thoughts, the shapeshifter was a blank, blessed void. "C'mon Starsk, you can't go ditchin' me for every new face," Huggy was saying, either oblivious to or ignoring Hutch's tentative probing of his thoughts.

Starsky snorted. "Show me your real face and I'll see if I can stick with it."

"No can do, bro." Huggy said, leaning back on his mauve tail. "You know how the Big A feels about droppin' charades."

Apparently this sentence made perfect sense, because Starsky was nodding with a resigned air. "Guess you've got to follow one law, since you don't like any of the others," the mongrel said, his tone light but slightly brittle; he was using humour to cover his genuine feelings on 'Big A', Hutch realised. "Speaking of which; any word from beyond about a big delivery comin' in? We ain't ever seen the dealers so twitchy."

Reptilian eyes narrowed. Huggy's tongue flickered out to taste the air, tail shifting against the pavement, and Hutch found himself pondering the wisdom of having this meeting out in the open, where anyone could hear it. The pedestrian traffic might be sparse in South Current, especially compared to the rampant bustle of East Drop and Little London, but the ranger training had clearly stated that the utmost discretion was required during investigations. He'd have to ask Starsky to clarify the standard procedure.

Huggy spoke, distracting Hutch from his musings. "Can't say I've got anything duranium. My little birds ain't been singin' so loud the past few cycles. Want me to set a cat in with 'em?"

"Hell, set a few, pretend it's Founders' Day," Starsky replied, wryly. "That all you've got?"

The shapeshifter shrugged, expansively. "Like I said, no one's talkin'. You tried Gillian? Last I heard, she was workin' the real food section of the Dust crowd – that girl always did like millionaires."

"Gillian?" Starsky's thoughts sharpened with concentration and he nodded. "Thanks, Hug. Don't be a stranger, huh?"

Huggy's gaze settled on Hutch for a moment, dark with unreadable intent, and his lips curved with a smirk. "Count on it, whiskers. Be seein' you."

Something twitched against his ankle as they said goodbye to Huggy, and he fought the urge to jump backwards. Starsky's tail wrapped itself lightly around his boot in what was almost a caress. "Hey," his partner murmured, something soothing in his voice as if he sensed Hutch's confusion. "If y'promise never to call me 'whiskers', I'll buy you a burger."

Whiskers? Hutch stole a sideways glance at Starsky's whiskerless face. It seemed mongrels were not the only species keen on bizarre nicknames.

Starsky tried to insist on the burger when they reached a vendor a few minutes later, but gave in with a bad grace when Hutch pointed out that it would only go to waste if Starsky were to buy it for him. "No wonder y'look like a beanpole," Starsky said disapprovingly, licking his fingers clean before wiping them on the napkin provided with his greasy snack, and then brightened. "Hey, talkin' of which, when're we goin' for a round, partner?"

Hutch hesitated. "When would be convenient?" he asked cautiously.

"Well, not right now," Starsky said with a gleam of irrepressible humour, jerking his head at the crowds of squabbling, exclaiming, busy inhabitants around them; he seemed to find so much amusing in life, Hutch thought, and wondered how many different shades of the same basic feeling there could be, glittering elusive beyond his imagination. "But how 'bout we go over to the gym after we finish up catchin' bad guys for the mornin'?"

"Sure," Hutch agreed, falling into step beside his partner as Starsky set off in the direction of the Torino; it would, if nothing else, be a chance to prove that he possessed other skills, useful skills, beside less-than-perfect psychic abilities. He fought off the peculiar sensation of uncertainty; it was becoming all too familiar, he decided, and reached into his pocket for the infopad. At least he could continue his research while in the cruiser.

x

Gillian Ingram didn't look any different from the last time Starsky had seen her (a fancy dinner held by the Commissioner, where she had been on the arm of one of the quadrant's wealthiest businessmen and Starsky had been on security duty as penalty for his latest misdemeanour). Immaculately dressed, smiling, something warm about the way she greeted them and invited them inside the brightly-lit apartment - she ought to have been an actress, Starsky thought, accepting the tiny glass of fragrant tea with a distinct sense of unease. Sirens always made him edgy.

"What race does the lady belong to?" Hutch had asked in the cruiser, tapping something into his info-pad, and Starsky had actually had to think for a moment.

"Sylenian," he'd replied eventually, hoping he didn't blush.

"Ah," Hutch had said, skimming rapidly through the possibilities and pausing when he evidently reached the correct entry; Starsky could see the frown out of the corner of his eye. "I - I see."

Hutch, however, was perhaps the only humanoid (and non-humanoid; such things were rarely discriminatory) Starsky had ever seen who wasn't turned into some kind of horny imbecile when first introduced to a Siren. In the face of gentle allure and seduction - Gillian might have morals, but she couldn't help her nature - Hutch merely took a meditative sip of the strong tea and asked its origin.

"New Montrassak," she said, her smile warmly pleased. Oh, Blondie, very smooth. "It's lovely to see you, gentlemen, but to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Starsky put his glass down on its saucer, the tiny clink drawing Gillian's gaze. "We've got problems, Gilly," he said, sprawling back on the couch, happy to play the schmuck to Hutch's refinement. "We've got questions to ask and it seems like the whole city's gone deaf. You hear me?"

The Siren tilted her head, a single lock of hair falling across her face, and Starsky thought very hard about the joins in Dobey's cybernetics. "I'm not sure that I-"

"Ms Ingram," Hutch said, leaning forwards in his chair; his voice had softened, though the tone was still firm and serious, and Starsky resisted the urge to look at him. "We have reason to believe that there is a large shipment of Dust due to arrive in the city, big enough to supply all of L.A.'s major dealers. If you have any information, any at all that might help us trace it, we'd be very grateful."

Starsky affected to snort. "Yeah. So grateful that we won't even think about callin' up any of your clients. I ain't spoken to Gaertew since we closed down that joint over in Nightside. Bet he'd love to know which of his ladies clued us in."

Gillian's perfectly made-up lips quivered. Guilt washed over Starsky in seconds, blind, nauseating guilt that he could even consider using such words against such a beautiful, delicate creature, how could he possibly -

Hutch coughed, pointedly. The heady rush of self-reproach stopped abruptly, filtering away as if it had never happened, and Gillian folded her hands in her lap with a smile. "So the rumours about you are true, then, Mr Hutchinson? A purebreed in the L.A.P.R., how fascinating. Tell me-"

"Dust, Ms Ingram," Hutch said, patiently. Starsky smirked. Leaning on Rolly had been a better idea than he'd thought, if the mutterings on the rumour-mill had already reached so high. He flipped open his notebook, switching it to 'record' as Gillian began to speak; he liked it when a plan came together.

x

Starsky was bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with eagerness. Hutch let borrowed adrenaline flow through him as he studied his opponent; he was fairly sure cut-offs that short would be illegal back on Duluth, and it was almost a shock to see that Starsky's skin was a warm, living colour, marred by a few faint scars but reassuringly human in appearance.

"C'mon, Blondie," Starsky said. "I'll go easy on you." The tail flicked from side to side. "Don't want t'break you."

"Break me? Ah, come on, Starsky. Where I come from we wrestle for fun."

"Promising," Starsky said, with a feral grin, and with barely a nod they closed. Starsky thought left and Hutch moved right, turned the swing to his advantage; Starsky twisted out from under him, too quick to predict, and Hutch barely caught the inclination before he was having to lunge to avoid the leg that swept out to unbalance him. They caught and held, struggling strength-for-strength together for a few seconds, and then disengaged, both panting, both considerably more wary.

The second time he didn't catch the thought, but he did catch a tell-tale twitch of well-defined muscle and ducked the charge, rolling them both over onto the mat. Starsky actually snarled in dissatisfaction and Hutch had the sudden bizarre thought that he was glad Starsky didn't mean to hurt him, followed by the most disconcerting thing of all; they were evenly matched, he realised. Perfectly evenly matched.

Starsky took advantage of his distraction to shove him down by his biceps, the breath knocked from his body in a rush. "Gotcha," he said, that grin still in place, and Hutch knew that despite the advantage they've both come to the same conclusion. "Y'fight good for a pure-breed."

Hutch didn't say anything, still catching his breath; Starsky was a hot, solid weight pinning him down, and that strange half-alien scent caught him at the same time as a stray shift of some kind of new emotion, one that sneaked out from under the surprisingly firm guards he knew Starsky had in place; it was alien in its complexity, and he put it aside rather than attempt to analyse it. "You fight good for a mongrel," he said, hoping the term would not be an offensive one, and to his relief Starsky laughed.

"You'd better believe it," his new partner said, and rolled off him, sprawling on his back on the mat. A light blinked at them from the wall, signifying their time in the gym area was up, but Starsky ignored it. "'s good t'blow off some steam," Starsky added a little hesitantly. "This, is - we should do it again, sometime."

Endorphins were buzzing pleasantly through Hutch's body, an illusion of well-being and contentment, logical and definable; he centred himself firmly, letting out a long, slow breath. Exercise had always helped him to make sense of his world; it was gratifying to find that things were no different on a spaceport, and after visiting Gillian and completing the rest of their beat he had felt badly in need of some kind of relief. "Not right now," he suggested, and Starsky laughed, turning his head to grin, his arm still pressing warm and damp against Hutch's.

The call from Dobey came while Starsky was still changing clothes. Hutch answered the comm link, glad for the distraction - Starsky used the muscular relaxation unit with a hedonistic air of abandon - and found that it was impossible to judge his new captain's tone without mind-to-mind contact. "He's - either very angry or very busy. Or both," he said cautiously, ending the call and turning just in time to see Starsky tucking in his shirt. "He said he wants us to report- five minutes ago, does that mean-"

"It's both," Starsky said, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and sauntering out of the changing area; Hutch fell in beside him. "Don't worry, pal, he's not too bad. Guess it just ain't easy, him being - y'know. Around here it ain't usually so bad, folks're used to all kinds, but some o'the people livin' up on the Heights -" he trailed off, shaking his head, while Hutch tried to think of a way to ask what he was talking about. "Hey, should've known our life of leisure couldn't last for ever. Let's hope someone got coffee."

There were four other beings in the small meeting room when they reached it. One, a tall, muscular mongrel with short dark hair and fingers that showed a slight webbing between them as she shuffled her papers, nodded to Starsky; the others all eyed Hutch with blatant curiosity, some of it turning to amusement when Starsky dropped down into a chair beside him. "Glad you two could join us," Dobey barked, fixing them with a glare. "Anything to bring to the table? Starsky, report."

"Not much to go on," Starsky said, leaning easily on Hutch's shoulder. "Whatever's goin' down, it's got the bottom-feeders in a tangle. We tracked down one of Gaertew's girls, the one who plays for all the high-rollers? Seems there's a group that meets in an old ranger post over in East Drop; you remember, Cap', uniform had it before the gaseous rights riots?"

There was a murmuring of agreement from the rest of the room; Hutch made a mental note to read up on L.A.'s history of violent demonstration.

"Well, the word is that anything big in the supply line hits there first, but there's no way of knowin' which gangs are using it. The big names use intermediaries and chancers just go for it. That's all we've got so far."

Dobey's oddly-clipped, machine-straight thoughts gave the impression of whirring as he considered the information. "It's all we've got," he said, drumming metal fingers on the desk, "and it's what we'll go on for now. I want you all on watch and watch, rangers. Four hours on, four hours off -"

"Nothin' like a stakeout," Starsky muttered, almost too quietly for Hutch to hear.

"How long do we keep it up, cap'?" asked one of the other rangers, his ear twitching impatiently.

"As long as it damn well takes," Dobey said with a healthy dose of righteous indignation. "This isn't a holiday camp!"

A lengthy speech ensued, the angry gist of which was that they were beholden to a sense of professionalism at all times, the end of which saw Hutch sitting alone at the conference table, Starsky having slipped off to the bathroom. The big female mongrel who had nodded to Starsky was sat nearby and she turned to face him with a smile and a burst of bright interest. "M'name's Ranin," she said amiably, holding out her hand. Hutch took it, feeling the callouses between the slightly webbed fingers; her mind was curious, nothing more. "The fuzzball over there's Coles, my partner. So you're kitty-cat's new boy, huh?"

"That's right," Hutch said, cautious.

"Well." She looked doubtful. "Just - make sure y'keep an eye on him, yeah? I went a week paired up with him once. Crazy hair-brained stunts; luckily I forgave him. Some haven't."

"Thank you," Hutch said coolly. "I'll bear that in mind." The advice appeared contrary to his observations; while informal, Starsky was very far from being irresponsible, unless his choice of transport was to blame (Hutch's shins still ached from the bruise the Torino had given him the night before). "I hope to stick around a little bit longer than a week."

Ranin grinned. Unsurprisingly, given that she came from the same solar system, her thoughts held the same chaotic non-patterns as Starsky's, turbulent even behind her inexpert shields, and Hutch tried not to read too closely. "Well, sure," she said, nodding as Coles passed her a caffeine shot. "See if you can keep him out of trouble, huh? Dobey's the only reason he hasn't been kicked over the drop after his last stunt; d'they tell you? Wound himself up on a child rapist case, went wild when a lead witness threatened to back out." The mongrel paused, taking a sip of her reco-coffee, and fixed Hutch with a serious look as he struggled to reconcile Ranin's words with the gregarious figure of his partner. "Word is he would've broken more than the guy's arm if his last partner hadn't got there first, so you stay close. Don't tell him I said this, but he's one of the best detectives we've got; he was out of uniform before the commissioner could spit. Not that he stays in any of his clothes that long, but I guess you already know that, huh? He tried it on with you yet?"

Hutch gaped, stumbling over the sudden change in tone. "Tried - tried it - on?"

"He hasn't?" Ranin's tone was disbelieving and Hutch was aware, once again, of a vague sensation that he was speaking from an entirely different lexicon to the rest of L.A.'s inhabitants. "Man, are you welded into that suit thing? He only ever gives up on truly impossible - oh, hey Starsk."

"Bad-mouthing me again, drippy?" Starsky said, from somewhere behind Hutch; the purebreed turned to see him leaning on the door frame, tail waving slowly in the air. "C'mon, we've got a long boring shift of house-watchin' to get to. This is where we sort the rangers from the thrill-seekers, partner," Starsky added, smiling when Hutch raised a quizzical eyebrow in his direction. "Guess you didn't complete the surveillance training, huh? Well, I don't know if you can get bored, but I sure do, so I hope you're up for a few hundred rounds of 'Twenty Questions' and some protein fondue."

x

The Torino grumbled around them as they sat there, a hurried hour or so later, her engines silent but the low-level thought patterns ever-present. Hutch leaned back against the console, visualisers trained on the building opposite; it was cold here on the upper levels, and there was a thin frost starting to form already over the sidewalk beside them. "Only twenty questions?" he asked.

"Yep. And then we play it again," Starsky said, sprawling with feet propped on the nav unit. "Otherwise we'll be eatin' each other alive by dawn. Least, I'll be twitchy, and you'll just be - do you get bored?"

Hutch blinked rapidly. "No," he said cautiously. Boredom: dissatisfaction, to be uninterested in one's environment. It seemed improbable that Starsky would suffer from it, Starsky whose mind seemed always to have something new to flit to. "Doesn't seem like that'd happen on - on the job."

Starsky stared at him. "Hutch, anyone ever tell you your dedication levels're kind of scary?"

"I'll bear it in mind," Hutch said, a little bemused by this; surely dedication to duty was of prime importance? Starsky seemed to attach far more importance to more distracting factors than he had previously thought could be wise, in a ranger.

The mongrel continued to stare for a moment more then shrugged, ripping the wrapper off a protein bar. "I go first," he said, mouth full of beige crumbs, "Then you. Okay, number one: what'd you make of Gillian?"

Hutch blinked, thinking back to the morning's interview. "Uh," he said. "I - an interesting species. Low-level instinctual suggestive impulses to trap weaker minds. Is she carnivorous?"

Starsky choked, spraying protein mix across the dash, and was suddenly and inexplicably convulsed with laughter. Hutch studied him in some alarm. "Carnivorous," Starsky gasped. "Oh, for - she doesn't eat people, Blondie."

"Survival, then?" He felt unaccountably worried in the face of Starsky's easy laughter, and busied himself with looking around; all was quiet outside, however, a natural result of the late hour in this neighbourhood. "She wasn't lying," he added, in an attempt to be helpful, while a still-grinning Starsky wiped his eyes. "I, uh, I couldn't - couldn't tell how truthful she was being, but it wasn't a lie."

"Good to know," the mongrel said. He settled back in his seat with a deep breath, as if to school himself, and reached out to pat Hutch's knee. "Sorting the lies from the truth is what we do."

Hutch wasn't certain, but there was a lurking sense of contrition beneath the words, slowing Starsky's amusement-quickened emotions, and he nodded. Starsky's hand withdrew. "Your turn, then."

Only twenty questions. "Um. What's it like, having a tail?"

Thankfully, Starsky didn't find any humour in that question. Instead, he lifted his tail into the air, reaching out to coil around Hutch's bare wrist. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, perhaps a little tougher than the skin of Starsky's hands, and the surface was only very lightly-furred, the hairs thin and fine. "Probably about the same as you having hands," Starsky said, his eyes trained on the building opposite as Hutch studied his tail. "It's handy for grabbin' stuff and I guess it helps me balance; gives away my mood if I'm not thinkin' about it, though. Gotta tell me if it's doing that, Hutch, I don't always notice. Hey, you warm enough over there?"

Hutch suppressed the next shiver, and nodded. "Don't need to see your tail to read your mood, uh - buddy," he said, touching the appendage with cautious fingertips, feeling the unfamiliar yet familiar texture; his own forearm felt surprisingly similar. The tail tightened around his wrist, a gentle squeeze, and then withdrew. "But I'll try."

Starsky grinned at him. "Okay. Question number two -"

"You had question number two," Hutch pointed out.

"No I didn't!" Starsky paused, and his eyes narrowed. "Aww, Hutch, that's not fair!"

"Question number three," Hutch said firmly, overriding this objection - it was perfectly fair; he was only following the rules. "How - how old are you?"

"Older'n you," came the prompt reply. "Not by many moons. My turn." He squinted, considering, out into the darkness. "Didn't you even - hey, y'know what I'm talkin' about, right? With Gillian, all those - urges. Didn't you get them?"

"Urges," Hutch said, hesitantly copying Starsky's movements and slouching deeper into his seat. There was a curious reticence around Starsky's thoughts, something that might be embarrassment. "N-no. Can't say I did."

Starsky gaped. "But," the mongrel began, "how can you not -" and then checked himself, evidently not at ease with the subject. "Okay, give it another go, Hutchinson. Let's see what you've got."

x

Sitting out on stakeouts always left Starsky feeling kind of like he'd wasted an evening, a guilty-frustrated sort of buzz that would last all the next day, driving him to heights of activity that would usually mean whoever was currently partnered with him ended up either threatening to rip his head off or (on one memorable occasion) handing in a strongly-worded letter of resignation to Dobey. Starsky was aware of this, but it wasn't until the morning after their third night on watch that he realised the fizzing frustration was missing.

He actually stopped dead in the corridor, four doors down from Hutch's room. "Huh," he said.

A young Jilfey who had nearly run into him gave him a wide berth, eyeing him with a degree of suspicion (not unusual; deep mistrust was some kind of evolutionary defence mechanism). Starsky allowed himself a few seconds to dwell on the possibilities - Hutch didn't bore him, wasn't likely to try to make insipid conversation for four hours and didn't have many annoying habits that Starsky couldn't either cope with or divert - before shaking his head and continuing on his way, breathing on the scanner to let himself into Hutch's rooms. They'd agreed that it made sense to grant each other scanner access; Hutch had suggested it, to Starsky's surprise.

"You're unlikely to steal all my possessions," the purebreed had said in a matter-of-fact tone, and then his forehead had creased, just slightly, in that way that Starsky thought probably meant his new partner wasn't sure if he'd misjudged something. "Is that -"

"'s fine," Starsky had assured him, patting him on the arm. And it really was; he liked to think that it gave their partnership an appearance of - permanence? Starsky snorted, stepping inside as the door hissed open. Guess I'm gettin' used to you bein' around for the long haul.

Hutch left things lying about like he expected something to come along after him and pick them up. As he retrieved an info pack from halfway under a pair of shoes, Starsky wondered if they had automatic cleaning droids on Minnesota. Probably the kind you don't even have to slip credit to, he mused, clambering onto the windowsill - the suns were warm at this time of the day, and he saw no sense in wasting opportunity - and drawing a finger over the slim device to activate it; Hutch was in the shower, and there wasn't anything to do in Hutch's rooms when Hutch wasn't there.

"A Guide to Other Species," he read aloud, and raised his eyebrows.

By the time Hutch emerged from the shower, already zipped into yet another charcoal grey jumpsuit, Starsky was halfway through the second chapter, his disbelief mounting with every sentence. "Mornin'-"

"Please don't tell me you've been reading this," Starsky said flatly, before Hutch could complete his greeting. "Hutch, c'mon, this has got to be a joke, this - 'The resemblance between humans and their so-called 'mongrel' counterparts is barely cosmetic, at best'," he read, skipping back a chapter. "'Whilst it may initially appear that human traits have remained intact, further study will immediately reveal these traits to be mere echoes of former greatness; beyond the Western Arm, humanity is fallen and may, at best, aspire to the designation sub-human.' Sub-human, Hutch? You believe that?"

He'd thought that would sound angry. He had every cause to be angry; the fierce burn behind his eyes and in his gut had certainly felt like anger, thousands of years of evolution driving the hackles that stood up on his neck, the snarl that threatened in his throat. He hadn't stared into the endless darkness of the Infinerion Cascade, hot blood coating his mouth and smothering his skin, to see his entire race summed up in a single, derisive word, one amongst hundreds of clinical, analytical repulsion.

But it wasn't anger that made his fingers tighten against the oily smoothness of the info pack or made his voice rise in question; it was disbelief, pure disbelief, and a single look at his partner was enough to validate it.

Hutch was staring at him with quiet bewilderment. "Course I don't," he said mildly, in tones that suggested Starsky was being utterly ridiculous; his hands jerked up as he spoke, reaching between them as if of their own accord, and the purebreed halted the motion with a confused glance. "Starsk, how could I – that - I brought that with me from Minnesota, it's the only guidebook published -"

Starsky let out his breath in a rush, shoulders slumping with relief, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Jeez. I gotta tell you, your people are nuts. They honestly believe this crap?" He gestured with the pad, still showing the chapter entitled 'Mongrel Society; Similarities Insidious and Erroneous'.

"They have no reason to believe anything else," Hutch shrugged, pulling the chair out from his desk and dropping into it. "Only those hand-picked to join the diplomatic missions ever encounter other races. We don't even receive news from other systems, and interstellar trade is conducted through diplomatic intermediaries. I'm the first citizen leave Minnesota since - well, er, since the Founding, as far as I know."

"Rasstressak." Starsky stared at his partner, trying to imagine a classroom with one sort of face, or a neighbourhood where everyone wore the same shape, spoke the same languages, ate the same food. Tried to imagine Hutch surrounded by tall, expressionless humanoids, a sea of grey and bland, empty faces. "Sounds hella dull, partner."

"Dull," Hutch repeated, and paused as if tasting, testing the word. It was exactly the same reaction he'd had when Starsky mentioned boredom. "It's - safe. Our minds are extremely vulnerable during youth, before we can efficiently govern our psychic resources. Chaos is - difficult. Damaging, in fact."

Starsky tilted his head, saw blue eyes track the movement, and considered Hutch's words. "That makes sense," he said, gruffly. "Encouraging your kids to travel when they ain't got shields, must be sort of like sendin' ours into wa- into gang territory."

"Worse." Hutch shook his head, resting his hands neatly in his lap; he always sat like that, straight-backed and still, as if the notion of fidgeting hadn't occurred to him. "Attempting to process that much random information, without any sort of focus or filtration, can tear a psychic's mind apart. Our governments prioritise logic above all things; the more severe the threat -"

"The wackier the prevention method, I get it. Keep the pups afraid, stop 'em wanderin'." Starsky waved his hand to cut off Hutch's lecture before it could begin. He hopped off the windowsill, landing easily and tossing the info pack carelessly over his shoulder. "Ignorance isn't what I'd choose, but I guess your government knows its people better than me, huh? Hey, you ready to go? We're on the next shift at the ranger's post. Hope you thought of some good questions, pal."

x

The voluptuous female who came sauntering up to the Torino's was a surprise; not that there weren't plenty voluptuous females around the neighbourhood, but they tended to stick to the better-lit areas, not the shadow-filled bays and undercuts. Starsky unscreened the window, and she leant in, smirking, long dark hair carrying with it a hint of exotic spices; skin the colour of warm honey barely restrained by skin-tight scarlet material filled Starsky's vision and he swallowed, painfully. Hutch, beside him, coughed politely. "Ma'am?"

"'sup, my rovin' brothers," the newcomer said cheerfully, winking at Starsky; Starsky groaned at the familiar tones, slumping down further in his seat. "I got a name for you; Darraxi the Elder. Word is he's shakin' in his customised booties."

"Thanks, Hug," Starsky said to the breasts still filling much of his vision, and then curiosity won out. "You - uh, you got somethin' special on tonight?"

Huggy laughed, tossing his hair back over his shoulders – and boy did he ever like to mess with pronouns – before leaning in again. "'Side from finally fooling that nose o' yours? This liquid lady has some business to attend to that'll run a whole lot smoother with some honey upfront, y'dig?"

"I get you, but I'm not sure that front could get any further up," Starsky replied, truthfully, eliciting another busom-quaking laugh from the shapeshifter.

"Can't get perks without perkiness," Huggy said, grinning when Starsky groaned at his 'pun'. "Come by the bar tonight, hm? That means you and your tall drink of huulin."

With that and a wave of exquisitely-manicured hands, Huggy was off, sashaying down the street with all the subtlety of a cat mongrel in heat.

Starsky tried not to stare. Hutch shifted in his seat, drawing Starsky's gaze away from the pert bounce of Huggy's rump. "What's huulin?"

"He means you. 'Tall drink of water' is Old Earth slang for a being and huulin is shapeshifter talk, means 'water-that-is-dead'." The mongrel caught the purse of his partner's lips and, before he could ask, said, "It's cause they're a liquid species, they have to distinguish between huulin and 'water-that-is-life', huunine. You won't see Huggy drinking anything when we hit the bar. It ain't something they do."

"Seems a funny kind of way for him to make a living," Hutch said, after a short, thoughtful pause.

Starsky shrugged, still trying hard to banish some unquestionably erotic images from his mind. He didn't really have any interest in ending up in Huggy's bed these days, but sometimes the shapeshifter would throw out a form that pushed all the right damn buttons; he suspected that a knowing Huggy took great delight in making him squirm. "Huggy's different," he said. "Actually quite likes bein' around the rest of us; reckon he thinks if he can get enough liquid into us we'll end up a tiny bit less huulin. What, y'didn't have him pegged for an idealist?"

"Anybody hoping to blend in with that form would have to be an idealist," Hutch said cautiously, and Starsky grinned. "So, uh - who's Darraxi?"

"Darraxi? Small-time boss, big-time loser," Starsky said, checking the viewscreen and seeing nothing but darkness. "Always seems t'get hung out to dry. I'd feel sorry for him if it wasn't for the blackmail, rape and horrible taste in shirts."

Hutch raised an eyebrow. "You police attire as well as behaviour?"

"How else would I look so good?"

The purebreed's lips twitched, just a little, then settled back to their usual bland line. "I'm not sure you'd appreciate my answer to that."

Picked up teasing, huh? Starsky moved to prop his feet up on the dash; even with the new information, they'd have to wait for their relief to arrive before acting on it. Dobey might be an understanding sort of captain, but running out on a stakeout because of new intel was just the sort of behaviour that had earned Starsky his somewhat dubious reputation for reliability. In truth, trying to hide his delight at Hutch's increasing willingness to play his verbal games; unsuccessfully, it seemed, because the purebreed gave that odd little head tilt that meant he was receiving an emotional signal. "Just be glad I ain't picked up a warrant for you. How many times can you wear that thing before washing it, anyways? My nose won't stand for a stinker."

"My clothes regulate body temperature with pinpoint accuracy," Hutch replied mildly, tapping the grey material. "Any unpleasant bodily odour will certainly not come from me."

"You know what the sentence is for giving lip to a ranger?"

Hutch continued to peer out into the darkness. "Well, according to subsection 27 of chapter 4 of the Los Angeles Laws and Ordinances-"

"All right, all right!" Starsky laughed, defeated. Hutch didn't look at him, but his lips twitched a second time. "Just my luck to partner up with a photographic memory. Hope you didn't pay too much attention to that book, Hutch, none of these lowlifes got past the first page. Especially Darraxi."

"You're - personally familiar with him, then?"

Always so careful, Hutch's phrasing, like he'd learned how to speak from a manual. "Busted him a few times, never got anythin' to stick," Starsky said, remembering prostitutes with broken limbs, families desperate to pay out rather than testify. "It's the little fish that've got more to lose, y'know? He can't afford to go under so when he can't cover up, he throws us another little fish to keep us busy. A guy makes enemies, behaving like that."

"Enemies," Hutch said, thoughtful. "I thought, before, that all- criminals- were on the same side." A little smile. "Sounds like a stupid idea, but we don't- y'know, we don't have crime on Minnesota, as- as such."

Starsky stared at him, not sure if he'd heard right. "You don't- have crime. You don't have crime?"

"No," Hutch said; he sounded weirdly regretful in the wake of this revelation. "The- well, the Corps is more for - making sure everyone knows the rules; sometimes people- forget the rules, and then they get- reminded, I guess." A little crease crept in between his brows. "But we don't kill each other. Or steal, or- or fight, really. Not even a disturbance of the peace."

Starsky looked down at his hands in order to help hide his shock; he had a feeling he didn't succeed, because Hutch shifted uncomfortably, much less at ease than he had been a few minutes ago. "Hey," he said, and cleared his throat. "I'm all for not killin' and not stealin' things that belong to other folk, but between you an' me- I think we all need a bit of a disturbance of the peace sometimes."

"Yes," Hutch said doubtfully. "But what I mean is, it's not- it's- different, hearing about all these things that people, that they'll do to each other when it's something we, they, don't ever really- contemplate." He was a shade less pale when Starsky glanced sideways at him, as if the stumbling speech was more difficult than usual. "It's- fascinating. Disturbing, but fascinating. And I never- I never thought it would be this- varied."

"Varied," Starsky repeated, dumbly. Crime, he'd always believed, was as endemic to society as disease to the swamplands. It was a symptom of life itself, one amongst thousands both good and bad, as crucial as the inclination to form social groups and hierarchies. What was that Old Earth saying about promises and pie crusts? You couldn't make a rule without somebody breaking it. If all you had was nothing, that was all you had to lose. "It, er- I never heard it called that before," he said, after a moment's awkward silence.

Hutch didn't say anything.

Starsky was glad, for once, that he was sitting on his tail; no matter what Hutch could read from his mind, at least his extremities wouldn't be giving too much away. The purebreed was staring determinedly ahead, his eyes unreadable in the gloom, and Starky had a distinct feeling that his partner was hoping for some sort of violent disturbance to occur in the building beyond, to shatter through the tension. "So, you guys don't have poverty or anything?"

"Not...as such," Hutch said, not moving an inch. "Each student is allocated a programme of study based on their native intelligence, personality and family resources, which in turn determines their career path. Everyone leaves school, uh, useful. Everyone contributes. If someone fails to complete their assigned education -" Hutch hesitated, his brow furrowing. Starsky noticed that his hands, so tidily clasped in his lap, tensed, the muscles bulging slightly under the skin. "Re- Re-conditioning is a-always available," the purebreed finished. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, straightening up. "Everyone contributes," he repeated, softly.

Ah. Starsky was struck by a sudden urge to touch, to comfort; Hutch didn't look vulnerable, tall and sleek and hard with muscle, unassailable, but Starsky's instincts were tickling at him, ordering him to move, to touch, to cover Hutch over with his warmth and not let go until- No, he thought, with a touch of amusement. He probably wouldn't appreciate that. "Doesn't sound like you get a lot of choice over there."

Hutch blinked. "Choice is not always- It is seen to invite disorder. It's not- it's not vital to- Starsky, you have to understand, some of my people possess abilities that- well. It's best to say that should they choose to act in an ungoverned manner, there would be little to be done to stop them. It's not- not wrong to act for the whole of society, right?"

There wasn't much Starsky could say to that, for all that high school history had taught about the dangers of blind, unquestioning subservience. He made some sort of meaningless noise in answer, hoping that he didn't sound too weirded out, and swiftly began a conversation about the various sports that were played professionally and which were, in his opinion, a complete waste of everyone's time and energy. Hutch joined in, seemingly relieved at the change in topic, and Starsky found himself relaxing as the conversation went on; their relationship, their friendship, was far too new for this. The dissection of purebreed society and identification of its myriad flaws would have to wait for another time.

x

The droid on duty at the foot of the anti-grav jump to the 94th floor had actually tried to stop them from going up, some garbled message that clearly indicated an amateur hack of the core directive; Starsky had rather gleefully shot at it with a low-range laser beam, thereby rendering it inactive. "It was faulty," he said glibly when Hutch mentioned it, about halfway up. "Can't have that hangin' around, someone might get hurt."

Darraxi's apartment was tiny; it was rank with the smell of unwashed bodies and alcohol fumes, to which Darraxi himself was contributing. Hutch had kept his face slightly averted; Starsky's thoughts held a not-so-thinly veiled undercurrent of disgust. "I don' got it," Darraxi was whining. "I don't got the stuff, Starsky, what, y'got a warrant, comin' in here like -"

"Warrant?" Starsky asked, letting some of his distaste show; slit-pupilled eyes glanced around the squalid room before returning their unwavering gaze to the Alterian's face. "Forget warrant, we should be gettin' a pay rise. Right, Hutch?"

"That's right," Hutch agreed. "And Darraxi, if you so much as touch the blaster under that chair..." Threats didn't come naturally, not yet, but at least it held the ring of truth. There was a blaster under Darraxi's chair, a little wicked spider-gun; Hutch concentrated a little harder. "Or the neuron gas," he added, sensing the intent under the roiling heave of the being's sordid mind. It was amazing what a little Dust did to the brain.

Vivid yellow eyes moved restlessly in the little being's face as he scanned for exits, the dexterous tentacles that served as fingers twitching against the arms of the chair. "Wh- what d'you mean?" he asked, artlessly. "I wasn't- I wasn't gonna-"

"Save it," Starsky said, brusquely. His tail was beginning a slow, measured swish through the air, catching Darraxi's wavering attention; it was predatory, Hutch realised, as Starsky's emotions sharpened with a beat-pulse of instinct. It was predatory, and the drug-dealer was beginning to sweat. "You think I can't smell where you're keepin' it? Got enough stashed away to keep all of your little girls leashed. They ain't changed the law about sellin' drugs to kids, y'know."

Fear lanced out from the Alterian's mind, laced with memories of thin, half-starved faces and little hands grabbing for Dust cannisters; Hutch took a deep breath, blocking the images as best he could. Darraxi shivered. "You got no proof," he whined, the unhealthy gleam of Dust-sweat oiling his skin. "You got no proof and I got rights, you-"

"Rights?" Starsky snarled, starting forwards; Darraxi yelped and the mongrel halted with obvious effort, hands clenching. Hutch caught the ricochet of his aggression, bringing with it the memory of Ranin's warning, and he moved closer to his partner. "Your rights begin and end with us, th'iaou," Starsky continued, his tail lashing in earnest now. "And they're gonna end in this room if you give us what we want."

"Dust shipments," Hutch cut in hurriedly, as the Alterian shrank back in the filthy chair. "Word in the skies is that something big's headed for the city."

"Something big enough to make the top dogs play nice," Starsky added, folding his arms. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I don't got anythin' you wanna hear about," Darraxi said sullenly, but the words lacked conviction and his eyes lingered on Starsky's blaster holster. "All my business, see, I got it all legal and y'can't take -"

"Come off it," Starsky snarled. "Dust shipments."

"Hey, man, y'think-" Darraxi swallowed nervously, the mind-images flickering. "If I was involved in that sorta game, man, would I be sittin' here talkin' to the law? A bein' don't get far tryin' to climb to high, y'gotta stick to what y'know."

"You're just an honest supplier," Starsky said, heavy on the sarcasm.

"I got what people need," Darraxi said, flat eyes glinting dully, squirming about in his seat. "What they need. Ain't none of us don't need somethin', Mr High-Flyin' Ranger."

"So give it," Hutch said, sorting through the mêlée of thoughts, impressions, whirlwind images flickering in and out of focus; he'd grown too used to reading only Starsky, maybe, and the jump from almost soothing familiarity to this nauseating thread of bad intentions was disconcerting in the extreme. "C'mon, Darraxi, who's supplying you these days?"

The Alterian's gaze slid onto him, fresh sweat breaking out on oily skin. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

Starsky's aggression, which had subsided to a low, grumbling flicker, flared beside Hutch, so sudden that the purebreed winced. "Wrong answer," the mongrel growled, then in a blur of movement he had Darraxi by the throat, dragging him up from his prone position to slam, him against the wall, leaning in with head cocked to one side, teeth bared almost to graze against glistening skin. Before Hutch could react, Starsky's hands tightened, strangling Darraxi's panicked whimper. "One more try," the ranger said, the muscles of his shoulders swelling against his thin jacket as he kept the drug-dealer pinned. "Answer my partner's question."

Wide, abscess-yellow eyes slid closed as Darraxi hung in Starsky's grip, limp and motionless with fear. The Alterian's murky greenish skin had drained of all colour, leaving him grey and gasping, his terror a bright, bludgeoning scream that ripped through into Hutch's mind. Hutch, disorientated by the visceral punch of emotion, wavered for a moment; it was all the time Starsky needed to pull Darraxi forwards and ram him back into the wall, the Alterian's loose sack of a body hitting the wall with a wet smack."Where are you getting the stuff?" Starsky demanded.

Darraxi was whining in earnest now, thin tentacles coiled helplessly around Starsky's wrists, and his pain echoed sharply across Hutch's nerves. "V- Van- Vaneen," the dealer stammered, choking against Starsky's grip; the mongrel loosened his hold a little. "Her new p-place at St- Sterrin's Walk."

Starsky's lips twitched, though Hutch would have been loathe call that expression a smile. "Thanks for your time," the mongrel said mockingly, and carelessly dropped the wheezing Alterian to the floor. "Don't go swannin' off anywhere, huh? Got our eyes on you."

With that he turned, the bitter whirl of anger and ferocity dissipating with swift suddenness, and strolled out of the dingy apartment. Hutch lingered for a moment, trying to process what he'd just seen; he couldn't have imagined such intense anger from his equable partner, had never thought to see him exhibit such casual, easy violence with so little provocation. Aware that Darraxi was staring at him, his skin already darkening with bruises where Starsky had grabbed him, Hutch hurried after the mongrel, his thoughts in uncomfortable disarray; there was much more to Starsky – easy-going, cheerful, self-assured Starsky – than he had expected.

"See, way I see it," Starsky said as Hutch caught him up, his mind apparently having settled back into its usual chaotic mix of various vague desires, case-thoughts and swirling contentment, "we got nothin' to pull him in on, 'less he does a lot more'n talkin' about it."

Hutch frowned, thinking. "He's not just dealing," he said.

"Really?" Starsky slowed as they reached a vendor; this one advertised Real Food! in lurid flashing projections. "Hey, d'you want a burrito?"

Hutch peered into the interior of the booth; the drone stationed there was grease-stained and looked none too clean. "Uh," he said. "Maybe another time."

"You'll starve, eatin' that nutrient mix all the time." Starsky eyeballed the reader, which bleeped in acknowledgement of an optical ID; seconds later, the burrito swung out on a thin tray. "Go on, have a bite. Put some meat on you."

"Starsky, I'd rather eat space dirt." Starsky shrugged and took a bite himself, eyes half-closing in appreciation; bliss leaked through, probably deliberate. "That Darraxi? He's relieved we're following up on the deal. Really relieved."

Starsky, chewing, blinked in surprise. "Think he could be hidin' something bigger going down?"

Hutch considered this, taking his time to sort through the memory of nebulous feelings; nervousness, guilt, relief - "He's got some kind of big connection," he said, concentrating. "Something he's afraid we're going to find."

"Whew." Starsky swallowed. "We thought he was small fry, but if he's a small fry that knows what's feedin' off the top -" He shook his head. "Could bust this deal wide open." A warm arm was flung around Hutch's shoulders. "You're as useful as you are pretty, partner, y'know that?"

Hutch tried to sort through the sudden morass of meaning being sent his way and foundered; he gave in. "Is that a compliment?"

"You better believe it, blue eyes." Starsky grinned at him fondly. "Hey, you sure y'don't want a bite of this -"

Hutch sighed, made a grab for Starsky's left hand and took a bite from the burrito it held; to his surprise, it tasted almost like real meat, laced with spice and sweetness from whatever sauce Starsky had put on the top. He took his time chewing and swallowing, aware that Starsky had trailed off and was watching him, his fingers sticky under Hutch's. "Not bad," he said, and Starsky's thoughts veered quickly into a confused tangle of sharp hunger and animal jealousy, and away again; he released the hand. "Not bad at all."

x

"East Drop's a dud," Starsky announced, breezing into Dobey's office the next morning with his coffee in one hand and a large Danish in the other. No amount of wheedling had induced Hutch to even consider eating the second one, so Starsky dropped it on top of Dobey's in-tray with a grin and flung himself into a chair. "We took tea with Darraxi the Elder last night, seems like Gillian was spinnin' us a yarn."

His captain growled, the robotic in his right arm buzzing as he picked up the pastry, and bushy eyebrows lowered in displeasure. "Either that or Gaertew ain't rollin' as high as he'd like – Founders, Hutchinson, sit down before I get neck strain!"

Hutch startled, stammered an apology, and sank awkwardly into a chair next to Starsky; the mongrel hid a grin, unobtrusively hooking his tailtip around the purebreed's ankle. Dobey's brusque approach to captaining could take a little getting used to. "It's not Gaertew that's got Darraxi scared, that's for sure. Took a little shakin', but it was Vaneen's name that fell out. He said she's got a new place over on Sterrin's Walk that might be worth our time."

Dobey's frown darkened and the muscle in Hutch's leg tightened for a moment, as if with a flinch. "Starsky, do you have any idea how thin this department is stretched? I've already got you two on loan to Vice and if you think we've got the manpower to set up another stakeout-"

"Not another one, the only one; switch the surveillance from the ranger's post. You've got to admit,even this is a stronger lead. It'll be the same duty roster, just a different view. Me an' Hutch'll put the squeeze on Darraxi, see if we can get something more concrete. How's that?"

"Sounds to me like you've squeezed hard enough for now," Dobey said, narrowing his eyes at Starsky; the mongrel shrugged. Pressuring lowlives like Darraxi had never weighed too heavily on his conscience. It's not like he hurt anyone, right?

"Darraxi was hiding something, captain," Hutch piped up, unexpectedly. He tended towards reticence in Dobey's presence, as he did with most people, and Starsky rubbed his ankle in thanks. The purebreed's shoulders shifted under Dobey's gaze, somehow contriving to shift even further back. "His mind was- He was definitely keeping something significant hidden. It...it scared him."

"Fine," the captain said, after fixing Starsky with a significant look. "I'll talk to Captain Jennings, see what she thinks. Meanwhile, you and Hutchinson can do some preliminary reconnaissance; cruiser-positioning, municipal surveillance pods, general ranger presence, the works."

"Aw, cap', scope work?"

Dobey's scowl metamorphosed into a grin, though the lines in his forehead didn't lessen, and he sat back in his chair. "Scope work, ranger. Maybe it'll give you second thoughts about sending the whole department on a wild Floon chase next time, huh?"

Starsky stalked out of headquarters, heading automatically towards the Torino; Hutch paced silently along behind him, a worried crinkle in his forehead that Starsky knew meant he was perplexing his partner. "Let's go find Darraxi," he said, wrenching the door open manually.

Hutch blinked at him over the cruiser's hood. "Uh, didn't Dobey say we should-"

"Sure," Starsky said, impatient. "After we do this. Come on, Hutch, we have to go find Darraxi 'fore the bastard skips the port. I want to question him."

"Yes, but our assigned task-"

"Bend the rules," Starsky said, and Hutch's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Look, Blondie, I got things I want to find out, and then we should-"

"Go back and begin our assignment," Hutch said implacably.

That hadn't been what Starsky was going to suggest; he swallowed his words and nodded tersely. "Sure. Back. 'scope work and- yeah. Hey, think y'can read his mind again?"

In answer, Hutch raised an eyebrow. Starsky's irritation put up a good fight, but he couldn't hold onto it when Hutch was being almost feline in his disdain. "Okay, hotshot," he grinned, dropping into the driver's seat. "You're the master psychic, I won't ask again."

"I'm not-"

"Sure y'are. Is there anyone else in this Interceptor who can read minds?"

The purebreed sighed. It was becoming something of a habit, Starsky had begun to notice, a little audible tick that Hutch either hadn't noticed or simply didn't bother to suppress; the mongrel made a mental note to be as aggravating as possible whenever he thought Hutch had wound himself up too tight. "Just because I am genetically inclined to the task-" Hutch was saying, as Starsky powered up the Torino.

"Whoa there, Blintz, you got a dictionary over there? Ain't sure I'll be able to follow this."

"...You're being deliberately facetious."

"How can I be something when I don't know what it means?"

"Starsky."

"You're cute when you're mad, Hutch."

"I'm not mad."

"Aww."

"It would be biologically impossible for me to feel such an emotion," Hutch said stiffly, running a hand back through his hair; and that, Starsky thought, was clearly untrue, because Hutch was flustered. "You think Darraxi needs to know we're on to him?"

"He knows," Starsky said, and grinned. "Least, he always thinks he does."

x

"- and the damn place was empty! Cleared out! And we go in there and there's some Midorian gang using it as a hideout and Blondie here just starts tellin' 'em why they're unhappy livin' there-"

"Genius," Coles said, hugely amused if the tone of his thoughts was any indication; it had taken all of Hutch's hard-won calm from the morning's meditation to sort through the clamour of two families of an unfamiliar species, and he was feeling stretched. "Any hint where the little bastard's gone?"

"Not much of a one, but to my way of thinkin', if he was clean he'd not have moved." Starsky pulled up a chair and sat down on it back to front, resting his arms on the back and grinning at Hutch; Hutch wondered at his good humour. "Then of course we run into a robbery, and who the hell runs a store and doesn't at least hire in a droid?"

Coles raised a single furry eyebrow; his alien ancestry was a great deal more apparent than Starsky's, the animal features far more pronounced, but he seemed positively normal compared to the Midorian gang members they'd had to move on. "C'mon, Starsk, you've been working Nightside all this time and you don't know why bein's don't trust droids?" he was saying, with a scornful click of his fangs.

Starsky shrugged. "Droids are droids, man. Ain't like A.I.s, they ain't capable of independent thought. You set it to guard, it guards. What's to be scared of?"

"Robophobia is common to illogical species," Hutch put in, hoping to distract himself from his weariness. "The irrational fear that proven-reliable machines will develop sentience or malfunction in a dangerous fashion-"

"Whoa there, Blondie, put your textbook away!" Starsky said, with a flash of affection so strong that it had to be a projection. Teasing again, Hutch thought, pleased to have recognised it immediately.

"You're just jealous 'cause his mama taught him how to read," Coles said, serenely, winking at Hutch.

Starsky's tail lashed. "Oh yeah? Well your mama-"

A bellow from the direction of Dobey's office made them both jump; Hutch winced. "Starsky! Hutchinson! Why aren't you scoping Sterrin's Walk?

x

That night, they didn't take the Torino, for once; Starsky would admit to being fond of the walk to The Pits after dark, when the sunsets turned the long strings of interweaving traffic into jewelled threads of light through the emptiness and the cooler air felt a little more like home. Hutch hesitated at the first shortcut Starsky took - an unauthorised grav jump with little more than thin steel railings - but followed willingly enough, his eyes wide open now and bright with interest.

"It ain't far," Starsky said as they reached the thirty-second level, pausing to let a family of Dar slither past. "Just around the corner - hey, mind the trash droid - and here we go, what d'you think, huh?"

Hutch was staring at the neon-sprayed, flickering building with a look of distinct alarm. "In - there?"

"Sure is. Most happenin' place on LA, if you believe Huggy. Come on, Blondie, 'less you just wanted to admire the architecture?"

"Does that count as architecture?"

Starsky chuckled. "Cut Huggy some slack, Hutch, shapeshifters are fluid, remember? How was he to know what buildings are meant to look like?"

The purebreed paused at the main entrance, studying the permeable membrane that Huggy had installed instead of a door. "But the laws of physics-"

"Bend around him, just like every other damn law. Come on," Starsky insisted, taking Hutch by the arm and towing him in; there was the usual moment of morphic uncertainty, a not-unpleasant twinge that came from somewhere near the base of his spine as his bones struggled to remember what they had evolved into, then they were in. The Pits was pretty tame as far as most LA clubs went, existing across only two floors and three dimensions, but judging by the way Hutch was staring, nothing on Minnesota compared. True to his heritage, and in defiance of unwritten shapeshifter codes about blending in, Huggy had brought the concept of stability to a grinding halt. Almost every surface shimmered with inconsistency, walls and floors constantly shifting and reshaping according to the proprietor's whims. The bar itself was a single constant surrounded by an eternal state of flux, something that Huggy had once drunkenly described as 'life, man, that hep-cat groove we keep failin' to dig'. The dance floor seemed to be everywhere, even up in the not-quite-anti-grav gaming level, and the booths, far from being stationary, seemed to lap around their occupants like gentle, teasing waves.

It had nothing on the gaseous bars, or the starclimber pubs, strung like festive lights at the furthest edge of the atmosphere, within spitting distance of space's vacuum, but it was fresh and lively, lowlifes and do-gooders rubbing shoulders and swapping bodily fluids, and it had the coolest proprietor this side of Mexxilal's ice moons. Starsky had never found a better place to relax.

Hutch, by contrast, looked even more alarmed than he had by his first freefall in the Torino.

"Hey, look, here's law and order," crooned Huggy's voice, and the shapeshifter appeared from behind them (Starsky wasn't sure how). "But which is law and which is order? What it is, brothers."

"Keep somethin' clear for us, will you, Hug?"

"The Bear aims to please." Huggy's sharp look sideways indicated that he'd registered Hutch's confusion; one of the booths ceased in its attempt to morph into a rock formation, instead settling back into a mass of white plastic and trailing vines, reassuringly static by comparison to the rest of the room. "If I serve you at my humble bar, Starsky, you goin' to pay your tab?"

"Someday, when you find the scanner," Starsky said, laying his hands on Hutch's shoulders to gently steer him forwards; he couldn't resist rubbing the nape of Hutch's neck in a passing caress, and felt the purebreed relax unexpectedly. "Whatcha want, Blondie?"

Hutch took a deep breath, leaned back against cool plastic and the vines now sprouting tiny yellow flowers and said, calmly, "Surprise me."

Huggy's eyebrows, large enough in this body to count as extra limbs, climbed to beyond his hairline. "This your first trip to a bar, tauktak? You don't never give a bartender thatkind of power."

And before Hutch could stammer apologies at him for incorrect social protocol, the shapeshifter was gone. Starsky elected to sit on the actual seat of the booth, rather than its back and tapped Hutch's hand with a tailtip. "Don't worry, he won't bring you somethin' awful – Hug's good like that."

"I..see." The purebreed settled a little further down in his chair, actually slouching for the first time since Starsky had met him (had it really only been four days?). He looked more comfortable with a stable surface underneath him, scanning his surroundings with interest. ""So this is how you socialise?"

And back to the lectures. Starsky prepared himself for a great deal more than twenty questions.

x

"Kind of cute, isn't it?" A'jak mused with a teasing eye on Starsky. The other two eyes were fixed on Hutch, who was at the bar; they'd met A'jak by accident and Starsky was already wishing she would leave. "Gotta say, when you said you found something tall and blond, I thought -"

"Paws off," Starsky snapped, bristling. "None of your – techniques."

"My, someone's protective."

"Give me a break," Starsky said, still disgruntled. "And while you're about it, skedaddle off home."

A'jak raised an eyebrow, leaning provocatively closer. She smelt good, and she looked good (couldn't really fail to, what with only some strategically draped clothing hiding pale green skin that Starsky had, at one time or another, probably had his hands all over), and there was a hint of impatience in her voice when she said, "Starsky, aboya, you're no fun tonight."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "I'm plenty of fun," he said, nettled. "I just ain't in the mood for - that kind of fun."

A'jak glanced pointedly downwards; Starsky fought the urge to cross his legs. "That all for your blond bit of fluff, then?"

Starsky sputtered on his drink. "Bit of fluff?" he managed. "Oh, man, please call him that. Actually, don't, I don't want to mop up the blood." Okay, so maybe he was exaggerating; Hutch would probably just frown and say something bland, one of those comments that didn't seem to mean anything much but then turned out to be a little but cutting when you thought about it later. "He's my partner, yeah? It's somethin' - different. I think."

A'jak shook her head, translucent curls flying. "Whatever you say, boy," she murmured, the corner of her full lips curving in a smile as Starsky sighed in frustration. "Whatever you say."

Starsky watched her sashay away, not without a tinge of regret - which she was, he thought, probably pretty aware of - and then turned to smile at Hutch, who was making his way carefully back to the table with a tray balanced in one hand; it tipped precariously and Starsky made a grab for it. "Hey, y'got me a Bingotian Breath? Aw, Hutch, this stuff's the best!"

"You said that about the last one," Hutch said, sitting down carefully. His cheeks were still flushed from the cocktail, Starsky noticed, and he was sitting even more upright than usual as if having to concentrate hard to remain in the unnatural position. "Uh, Starsk, can- can I ask you a, a question?"

"Shoot," Starsky said, taking an appreciate inhalation of the Breath and shifting around on the broad seat slightly; now, if he slouched, their knees were touching. "Y'okay, Hutch?"

"Sure. I just-" Hutch cleared his throat. "Gillian. I was just, I was wondering, how- why do you feel inclined to- mate with her when it's biologically impossible for Sirens to breed with a mammalian being?"

It was lucky he'd opted for a gaseous drink. If it had been liquid, he'd have been choking on it right now. As it was he merely spluttered, his throat catching on the last wisps of Breath, and had to take a moment to clear his throat. "Well, first of all, we don't call it 'mating'," he said, hoarsely. "Founders, we're not animals. It's sex, okay?"

"Sex," Hutch parroted, obediently, and Founders damn whichever Bingoth came up with Breaths; Starsky's head was beginning to swim and Hutch's voice was far too soft and sensual a thing to say that word...

"Right," the mongrel said, trying desperately to order his thoughts. "Right, so...Sex. Er. You- You didn't feel anything when you were there? No, ah...stirrings? Or, like, warmth?"

The purebreed's left eyebrow quirked, only by millimetres, but on Hutch that was like a full-on scrunched-up look of confusion. "Warmth," he repeated, again. "Not that I noticed. Is that how ma- sexual desire manifests itself?"

Starsky stared at him, entirely confused. "For most species, yeah, I guess it does, 'less you're a long way away from anythin' humanoid or- somethin'."

"I had wondered," Hutch said, apparently unaware that he was making no sense. Starsky had sort of got the message by this point that Hutch had an iron grip on any reactions that might display anything other than calm ordered reasoning; he'd lumped together hunger, tiredness and sexual desire into the same category, and since he'd seen Hutch both eat and look like he was about to fall asleep on his feet he'd been assuming- "Other species do it too, huh?" Hutch continued, rubbing knuckles lightly over his chest in an absent gesture that drew Starsky's eye. "I mean, I hadn't- hadn't thought much about it, but it seems as if it takes up a lot of- emotion. A lot of thinking."

It was far too late for this conversation. Starsky took another long suck from his drink, wryly musing that at least it was good practice for whenever he decided to 'breed' and had to give The Talk. "Emotion, yeah, but not thinking. Your body tends to overrule your brain when it comes to this sort of thing."

Hutch's eyebrow twisted further. "Emotion without- withoutthought?"

He sounded like he'd never even heard of such a notion, let alone experienced it, and Starsky needed a lot more drinks for this to make sense. "Hutch, are you telling me that you never-"

The purebreed's hand stilled and his mouth softened, growing a little slack – would any other being be gaping at him by now? "Not- Not sex, no, but I have...shared...with someone."

"...Shared?"

"Starsky, we're empaths. Psychics. We use our minds to be intimate."

"So you're tellin' me," Starsky said, fixing him with a look of extreme doubt, "that if some lovely bein' made a pass at you, you'd just- not want to-"

"We don't all have tendencies towards the hedonistic," Hutch said in that stiff tone that meant he didn't like the subject. "It's just a pointless exercise, Starsky. We rendered it obsolete."

Starsky clamped down relentlessly on the shock of - what, pity? Or just a need to prove Hutch wrong? - that swept through him. It seemed to work, because Hutch didn't wince. "Guess it makes the mornin' after easier t'deal with," he said instead. "If all you've done is thinkat each other."

The purebreed sighed, that long, deep sigh that meant he was carefully suppressing a negative emotion; Starsky wondered, off-hand, if he would ever be able to bypass that suppression instinct. Probably shouldn't make that an ambition. Hutch cleared his throat, distracting Starsky from his speculations. "There's more to it than basic thought-processing," the blond said, one long finger tracing idle loops across the tabletop. "It's like - It's like sinking into a pool of hot water, you immerse yourself in every nuance of the other empath's being, you let yourself drown in them as they drown in you... It can take days. I-" Hutch hesitated, his hand stilling in its motion, and his mouth tightened. "I only ever- I..."

"There was only one special lady for you, huh?"

Hutch looked sideways at him, eyes pale in the even lighting. "Yeah," he said, and then huffed out a breath that might, in another being, have been called a laugh. "It's not a recipe for happiness, even then." He must have sensed Starsky's burning curiosity, because one corner of that tempting mouth (do you people even do kissing, or is that too low-brow?) lifted a little. "It's clean, at least."

Clean? Starsky shook his head. "You're a headcase, Blintz," he said fondly. "See, you're missin' out on- on holdin' someone, on-" words failed him; he'd never had to describe what he took for granted. All he knew was that he wanted to be there the day Hutch discovered that that body of his could be played like an instrument, the day he lay there naked and sweat-soaked and begged to be touched, the day he let someone past that scared-empathic block on emotion. Starsky swallowed and forced himself to forget those images even as they presented themselves to him in lurid detail. Don't push it.

"I've got you to hold onto," Hutch said with a more natural smile. "So, how do you-" he waved a hand. "If not for procreation, then why- why go through with it? Do you just trust to chance?"

Starsky dropped his head into his hands. "Huggy," he said, muffled, and Huggy materialised at their sides. "Another drink?"

'The lease to be held by Mr Bear until the disintegration of the Unified Systems, collapse of the relevant planetary system or until such time as he should choose to leave the Unified Systems Spaceport Los Angeles: whichever should occur first.'

- Lease for 'The Pits'