Walther Thompson: Galactic Private Investigator

By J. Don Wright

Walther Thompson is the most feared Private Investigator -  and the first human - to ever graduate from the Astro-galactic Space School for Private Law and Urban Guerrilla Security. His high school sweetheart, Rhonda Gillespie, is mostly dead from a hiking fall. Salvaged by a galactic biological researcher and trader, she is reanimated, improved, and intended for sale. After she saves the trader's life in an unexpected confrontation, he sponsors her to the same school where she breaks all of Walther's records. Reunited, the fearless duo must defeat the Callaxion horde. With Walther's sidekick, Millie, and Rhonda's new friend, Tess - a ship's AI - the foursome must stop the decimation and subjugation of every sentient species in the Galaxy. With a little help from their friends…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Front Porch Associates
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393573746

J. Don Wright

J. Don Wright has been a public servant for over 45 years as a member of the US Military, Law Enforcement, Emergency Management, and being a general  Renaissance Man. Many of the details in his stories come from first-hand experience.

Book preview

Prologue

AS WALTHER PULLED TO the curb in front of the tiny Tudor, he marveled at the difference a few cosmetics could have on a place. The bungalow had been severely dilapidated when he'd bought it six months earlier. A fresh coat of paint and replacing the few missing stones out of the façade had been a good start.

Repairing and painting the white picket fence had added to its quaint charm and replacing the crumbling old sidewalk with natural red slate paving stones had completed the storybook image. Add the idyllic setting of the quiet suburban neighborhood, with its stately Elms lining the median dividing the inter-urban two-lane, and it was darn near perfect.

The image was only slightly marred by the automatic sprinkler system which clicked on as Walther strolled up the walk from the curb. His wife would be home soon and he liked to leave the space in the driveway for her; besides, she had the newer car.

The sprinkler heads were misting the immaculately manicured Bermuda lawn, Walther's pride and joy. He kept it trimmed edge-of-the-green short, but the denseness of the growth was testimony to his loving care. The turf was as soft as wet sea sponge.

As he closed the gate behind him, he barely registered a slight scraping noise. It reminded him of fingernails run lightly over a chalkboard, and it betrayed the presence of something else in the immediate area. Pretending not to notice, Walther whistled as he ambled up the walk, pulling his house key from his left coat pocket.

He always kept his house key there and his car key in his right front pants pocket. That way if he lost one he would still have the other. He also kept his wallet in his right inside breast pocket with an emergency $40 tucked in a secret inside pocket. A money clip with cash was also in his left front pants pocket, so he was never without cash.

Damn, he thought, they found me again; and quicker this time. Twisting the key and the doorknob simultaneously with both hands, Walther leapt through the doorway. A five-point Giska death star imbedded two of its razor-sharp tips into the door frame where his head had been an instant before.

Sloppy, Walther thought as he heeled the door closed with his right foot. as he cross-drew twin Alpha-Photon pistols from the clamshell holsters under either armpit. These were not just any APs, but the most advanced, state-of-the-universe weapons. They had been built with deep cycle rates, select field of fire/focus and form molding with biorhythm ID. As the weapons cleared his coat the front picture window imploded.

Accompanying the brilliantly scintillating storm of glass shards was the unmistakable form of a Zorgat, foot soldier to Cor-Gorat, General of the invasion army of the Callaxion. The hideous, genetically-modified creature’s body resembled a three foot tall sea terrapin. That image was marred by Conch shell ram horns for ears with eagle claws at the end of its flippers. It turned its omni-directional head to glare balefully at Walther from malevolently intelligent yellow-green cat eyes. Unhesitatingly, Walther pointed both pistols at the despicable creature even as it still fell toward the parlor rug.

That glass will be hard to get out of the antique Persian rug, he thought detachedly as he touched both triggers. Twin bolts of bright cyan blazed instantaneously across the narrow five-foot gap between the Zorgat and its intended prey. The soldier had already drawn another Giska and had cocked its flipper-like appendage to hurl the tiny death-star at Walther. The twin beams from the Alpha-Photons put a stop to that. There was a sizzling hiss - like someone dropping a steak onto a preheated skillet - and the Zorgat vaporized.

With only an instant's hesitation, Walther tossed his left-hand weapon into the air. Reaching out he grabbed the doorknob, twisting it and yanking the door back open. Catching the pistol with his still outstretched hand as it fell toward the floor, he leapt back outside.

Two more Zorgats were waddling up the slate walk. Their claws were making the telltale scrabbling noise which had betrayed their presence moments before. As their flippers came up to whip five-pointed death into his soft, unprotected body, Walther's arms aligned with his twin assailants and fired. Again the sound of frying meat accosted his ears. The air became redolent with the odor of rancid bacon grease, accompanied by subtle undertones of garbage.

The Timmula say they taste like chicken, Walther thought as he scanned the still quiet suburban street for further danger. Zorgats always travel in triads - their cell size - and in packs of nine. Their basic counting structure was three, based on the number of talons on each appendage.

They were not too distantly removed from the seas of their home world and their flippers had yet to evolve. Still, they could accurately and effortlessly flip a Giska with surprising dexterity. They would trap the dull gray, razor sharp weapon between the two parallel outer talons. It was easier than pinching them between one of the outer and the opposable claw.

Three more foot soldiers burst around the corner of the cottage, mere feet from where Walther stood. Two had Giskas prepared to throw, but the third, a Zorgaka, brandished a vicious Zindu. The three-foot long sword-like affair had twin razor-sharp edges running the length of the blade. It terminated in a three-pronged fork at the tip. I must be getting more important now for them to send a Zorgaka, Walther thought. Three lightning flashes of cyan dispatched the second cell.

Now where could the other cell be, he wondered. A hair-raising whine was, indeed, causing the hair at the nape of his neck to stick straight out. This reaction was not from the noise but rather for what he knew it represented. The whine continued to escalate in pitch and volume until it split the silence of the quiet neighborhood asunder. A flight of three Neka class fighters burst into existence less than a quarter-mile away and no more than 200 feet off the ground.

Getting a little more daring aren't we guys, materializing this close to the planet? he wondered aloud.  Walther knew the Neka's navigation and tracking systems were only accurate to within half a kilometer and they were notoriously miscalibrated. As if in answer to his thoughts, one of a normal cell of six fighters materialized in the trunk of the large Elm in front of the cottage. A second one appeared momentarily sticking halfway out of his neighbor's driveway two houses down. No sooner had its shape begun to solidify than it burst into millions of star-brilliant specks. These fizzled and skittered away like the grand finale on a Fourth of July fireworks display.

Walther spoke aloud if only to himself. Apparently trees aren't dense or large enough to completely disrupt the matter/anti-matter drives on board. I wonder how they'll get that out of there? Now where is number six?

While these thoughts were flickering rapid-fire through his mind, Walther had already pounced on the trigger plate next to the walkway. It had been cleverly disguised as a misplaced paving stone. His left heel stamped the trigger and the lawn between path and driveway neatly folded in upon itself. A gleaming, three-foot diameter titanium gray sphere began rising from its underground cloaking chamber. Concealed there, it was undetectable by any sensors know to man or Callaxion.

Once the sphere was completely topside, which took all of three seconds, the top hemisphere split in half, descending into the lower half. Before it had moved more than halfway down, Walther had vaulted into the 38 inch bowl and landed, neatly and squarely, in the conformal seat. As soon as his biorhythms were identified by the onboard computer systems, instantaneously by human standards, the 12.5 kilojoule twin cannons energized. The seat automatically restrained Walther, placing him within the precise pre-programmed location for access to the controls. Abruptly, the Artificial Intelligence awakened.

Hel-lo Wally, it's been far too long. How have you been? The system’s artificial brain queried in a voice slightly tinged with a Cockney accent.

Can it, Murrey, we've got company, Walther snapped. Give me full power, selective fire range and multi-cycle capacity.

My, my, aren't we testy in the heat of combat? Nice to see you, too, the AI said, sounding snubbed. I'm not certain selective range is wise given the population density of the area and the proximity of the industrial airport less than ...

System; disable AI and place control interface in manual override, Walther barked, cutting the computer’s personality off mid-statement.

Very well, you don't have to get all in a snit about it. Systems nominal, with parameters as requested. Proceed at will, the speaker in the back of the seat grumbled darkly.

Good. And my name is Walther. You know I don't like being called Wally. He grunted as he pulled the crosshairs of the zoomed out Heads Up Display over the image of the nearest fighter.

The sight had no more settled on the ship than the air around the gun emplacement crackled with static electricity. Twin beams of brilliant cyan blue stabbed skyward. The short bolts of light struck the craft dead center and pinned it to the sky, where it hung momentarily like a butterfly impaled upon a powder blue cloth by bright blue needles. Then the fighter dissolved in a horrendous shower of sparks, accompanied by an enormous pop like a giant bottle of champagne being uncorked.

Good show, Wally, I see your shooting skills are as sharp as ever, chirped the AI.

Walther chose to ignore the system as two of the remaining three fighters loomed directly overhead. The sphere rotated Walther’s torso nearly horizontal as the auto-track system drove the barrels straight up into the vicinity of their targets. Its target discriminator circuits weren't always perfect, but this time they were spot on. Walther selected single pulse with a twitch of his thumb as the HUD once again centered upon the left of the two aircraft.

In rapid succession he triggered the left barrel and gently nudging the track to the right. Coolly, he snapped the right barrel off as the target centered in the crosshairs. The left fighter did exactly as the first craft fired upon and popped out of existence. The second one, however, ricocheted off into the ionosphere like a bad air-hockey shot.

Tsk-tsk-tsk. Bad form there, Wally. What will the neighbors think? chided the obnoxious AI.

Walter could only grunt again as the tracking system spun him around like a carnival tilta-whirl gone mad. His vision blurred momentarily and as it cleared, he found himself aimed directly at the final ship. Two day-glow orange globs belched from orifices near the leading edge of the fighter.

Close up, NOW! Walther barked and the shell halves of the upper hemisphere snapped closed with a teeth-jarring clack.

Outer perimeter system, flood sphere, he barked a second command; even as the sphere was still ringing from the shell snapping closed. His ears popped painfully from the sudden change in pressure. Outside, the automatic sprinklers were doing a very good impersonation of an alcohol warehouse fire suppression system on full bore. Except of course, it was from the ground up.

Time to purge? Walther asked the AI in a crisp, no nonsense tone.

Three seconds, Murrey responded sullenly. Apparently getting no rise from its ribbing of Walther, the system was now pouting.

Open sphere, Walther snapped. And nothing about violating purge protocols. I've got to get that last ship before it decides to cut and run.

The upper half once again split, folding into the lower as Walther was instantly on the alert for the remaining Neka. Specks of day-glow orange goo were still scattered across the yard but dwindled rapidly under the onslaught of the sprinkler system.

Purge to normal, Walter commanded.

Almost simultaneously the AI reported. I'm afraid the final ship has departed the area.

Damn, now it'll run home to its bastard father and tell the whole blasted Callaxion Empire where I am. Walther fumed.

Well, Wally, look at the bright side. The area is clearing up nicely and just in the pinch of time. I believe I detect your wife's conveyance approaching, Murrey chimed in a jaunty, unperturbed voice.

Walther watched as the vague outline of the remaining fighter, still embedded in the tree, dissolved into nothingness. The last vestige vanished as his wife's car rounded the corner and pulled into the drive. He sat there as she walked past on the matching red slate path he had installed from the drive to the front steps.

Don't you ever get tired of mowing the lawn? she inquired as she moved past where he sat on his 38" cut, twin-bladed, 12.5 HP riding lawn mower. As she opened the front door, Walther just shrugged. They'll be back, he thought.

One

AS WALTHER ENTERED the house behind his wife, Rhonda, she began her litany. Oh, look, Wally, you've hit something with that big old mower again and it put a little chip in the window pane. I'll have to get down on my hands and knees to make sure I get all the glass out of the rug.

And have you been eating bacon again? You know the doctor said that's not good for you. Your cholesterol is 210, and that's way too high for someone as sedentary as you. If you got more exercise, like maybe using a push mower instead of that big old monster outside, it might go down. Rhonda seemed to always find something to complain about whenever she returned from one of her outings.

Did you get the garbage disposal fixed? I really can't see how you expect me to prepare a decent meal if I can't use the garbage disposal. And could you please take the trash out like I asked you to this morning? It's got the whole house smelling something awful. Pausing for a breath, Rhonda continued her fusillade.

Did you remember to get your blue suit from the cleaners? You know that's the one you wear when we go out to dinner, because you're always spilling something on yourself and it hides the stains best. You did remember we're going out with Fred and Millie for dinner tonight, didn't you, Wally? And do you have to water the lawn so much? You've got the street flooded all the way past Jefferson's and that's eight houses down. Wally, are you listening to me?

Walther had been doing his best not to. Yak, yak, yak, he thought, nag, nag, nag. Is that all she knows how to do? Of course, he kept all that to himself. Instead, he tried a different tact.

Rhonda, why do you insist on calling me Wally? You know I hate that name. My name is Walther, He said rather plaintively.

Oh Wally, don't whine. And hate is such a strong word for something as silly as a name. You know why I don't like Walther. That's the name of a gun and I despise guns. All they do is kill innocent things.

Yeah, like Callaxions, Walther muttered under his breath.

I'm sorry, dear; did you say something? Rhonda asked sweetly.

Walther walked back into the living room, leaving his wife and her nagging in the small kitchen. He pulled his right-hand AP out of its holster and pointed it in the general direction of her voice, screwing up his face in anger. Then he momentarily touched the still warm barrel to his right temple, before returning it to the holster.

It would take her at least five minutes to realize he wasn’t there and wasn’t listening. Then she’d just be embarrassed that she had been talking to herself again. Besides, he had work to do.

Whistling a seemingly tuneless trill, he summoned the vacuum cleaner from the closet where it kept itself. The vacuum had a serious self-esteem issue and Walther prepared to deal with it...him ...whatever. The door opened and Kirbie came rolling out, stopping frequently; in fact, every six inches or so. Walther waited patiently until it stopped just beyond the edge of the open door before he spoke. Taking a deep breath to calm his voice after the recent events, he gently spoke to the machine.

Kirbie, why didn’t you finish restabilizing the front window? he asked. There’s a spall point missing from right near the middle and Rhonda saw it. Now I’ll have a tough time convincing her she didn’t see a chip.

A soft whine issued from the rear of the machine housing before a tinny, jerky, metallic voice spoke. It sounded like an AM radio slightly off station-frequency. I’m sorry, mister, I was unable to locate the final pieces. They may have been atomized by your weapon, or the tip of a very sharp object traveling at great speed. I had insufficient time to locate all the components.

It continued without encouragement. I suppose I could have made the spall appear elsewhere, but you have been such a stickler for restabilizing objects back to their original configuration... Its voice faded off to nothing, followed by the soft whine again. Walther couldn’t tell if it was a sigh or just a malfunction.

HE RECALLED, AT MENTION of his request, the reason for his seemingly unyielding demands. It had been about two months before, when the cat had gotten into the heater closet and somehow managed to climb into the air handler. The air turbine, often referred to as a squirrel cage, had been stationary. The system had yet to respond to the thermostat to lower the air temperature in the house.

It had, of course, been triggered at that exact moment and had begun to turn. The frightened cat, unsure of which way to run, had attempted to run inside the round turbine. The results had been...catastrophic.

Alerted by the hideous cries from the closet in the hall, Walther had approached, APs drawn and ready. He had first thought the screeching and wailing had been a Betelgeusean Warbingger. He had dealt with an injured one once, while doing a job on the seventh planet of the system. With a wingspan slightly less than a Beechcraft Baron, the large winged reptiles were friendly enough and vegetarian. When they were frightened, usually by predators much larger then themselves, they rent the air with cries which sounded like a cat being tortured.

The cat. Instantly, Walther had quickly concluded two things: a Warbingger wouldn’t likely fit in the heater closet; and the cat was missing. Hurriedly shutting the system down, he waited with growing dread for the squirrel cage to stop spinning.

Upon opening the access plate on the front, two very pissed-off cat eyes glared back at him between two vanes. There was a lot of loose fur everywhere. Walther had immediately retrieved the vacuum cleaner and instructing Kirbie to restabilize the distraught creature. He then had turned it on and pointed the energy wand into the metal basket.

It was apparent from the first results that Kirbie had never paid much attention to what the cat looked like. When the energy chrysalis had stopped throbbing and the greenish-blue light faded, what stood in the center of the living room couldn’t really be called a cat. The legs and head were in approximate symmetry to the body, but that’s where any resemblance ended.

The ears looked like tiny wings set high on its shoulders; twitching as if preparing for flight. The greenish-yellow eyes were set far too close together and squarely in