The following story, inspired by a challenge on the PROSFanfic list, is episode five of the The MMCI5 Files.

Tales of herring doo? There's something distinctly fishy about this...

Day 1
     "But sir..."
     "I said NO, Bodie." Cowley glared at Doyle, who feigned innocence and wrapped his heated towel closer to his blue and green wavily-striped body. "And ye can shut your mouth too, Doyle. I'll no' have my men parading around showing they've been on the Bottel."
     "It was only a small one..." muttered Bodie, glowering at Cowley's back. The Cow swivelled a little more briskly than was really appropriate for a man of his advanced years, scowled smugly (it was a talent) at Bodie and tapped his ear. It was, Bodie noticed with a sinking heart, new, a top of the range bionic Stereophonic Quadcore Uplinked Induction Device – SQUID for short. When had the miserly old sod had that fitted? And where had the cash come from? Bodie couldn't believe he'd pay for it himself...
     Cowley caught the thought and smiled tightly.
     "Business expense. Now I can keep an ear on all o' ye, as well as an eye."
     Great. Just what they needed. Bodie pasted on his 'reasonable' face and tried again. "Sir, you understand that it was necessary for the case?"
     "Aye, it was, I'll gi' ye that. But the party afterwards was no'."
     "But..."
     Bodie subsided as Doyle kicked him unobtrusively behind Cowley's back.
     "We're sorry sir. We apologise for bringing the good name of CI5 into disrepute. We won't do it again."
     Well, not til the next time anyway... Bodie added silently.
     The Cow harrumphed and almost visibly softened. Bodie glowered at Doyle.
     *Brown nosing sycophant.*
     *Hey, if it get us out of 'ere quicker, I'll dance the two-step with 'im.*
     *Have you seen him dance? It's worse than his bagpipe playing!*
     Doyle winced, then smoothed out his features: Cowley was regarding them both suspiciously.
     "Ye hae something tae add, Doyle?"
     "No sir. Not me sir. Just lookin' forward to getting' out of here and back to work." He offered his customary cheeky grin. "Anythin' good comin' up?"
     "I'll see whit I can do." Cowley glared briefly at Bodie. "And ye can behave yersel', or ye'll be on observation cases for a year."
     "I'll make sure he does, sir." Doyle was conciliatory. "We work best together. Wouldn't want to split your best team, would we?"
     "Aye, well, see that ye do." Cowley ran a hand up his pressure suit, sealing himself inside. His voice was muffled through the integral hood. "I'll expect ye back in three days."

Day 3
     "Glad to see the back of that place."
     Doyle absently cut the boosters and gazed at the rapidly-vanishing rehab centre in his rearview mirror. The building, and the asteroid on which it sat, had been designed and decorated by Gautier the 16th, and wasn't exactly the most attractive location in the system. But it had at least been peaceful. Well, if you ignored the purple and bile yellow interior décor, anyway.
     "Oh, I dunno. Copped us a few days off."
     "What's the point of days off unless you can enjoy yourself?"
     Doyle rolled his eyes.
     "No women, no booze, you wouldn't like it, would you?"
     "Yeah, well, not all of us have your fortitude for Kierkegaard."
     "Existentialism. It's where it's at."
     Bodie stared bemusedly at his partner for a moment, then shook his head and changed the subject.
     "So... pub?"
     "You buyin'?"
     "I paid last time."
     Doyle frowned.
     "You did?"
     "Yeah... I think..."
     Doyle chuckled.
     "Losin' your memory? First sign of old age, that, mate."
     Bodie pouted.
     "Ha bloody ha. Who was it who forgot that Jnginglgbbb extract made you look like a deckchair on steroids?"
     "You could 'ave looked up the effects just as well as me."
     Since this was perfectly true, Bodie ignored it and turned the mirror in his direction, peering at his face.
     "At least there's no residual effects."
     "Nah. Wouldn't want that mug all stripy now, would we?" He paused for a moment. "Though... Prupnoms are partial to stripes. But you'd 'ave to shave your 'ead. Not fond of hair, the Prupnoms."
     "Well since I'm not stripy any more it's no longer relevant. Which pub shall we grace with our presence?"
     "Dunno... Dog 'n' Gristle?"
     "Too noisy."
     "Prognopper's Arms?"
     "Food's horrible. Beer's not much better."
     Doyle flicked a couple of switches as the small interlunar ship approached the landing pad on the top of the CI5 building, slowing their speed dramatically, then glanced at his partner.
     "What about that new place, the H-Bar? Got some very nice servers, they say. Good beer too. Dunno about the food."
     Bodie considered it, then nodded.
     "Let's risk it. Couple of hours? I want a shower and change."
     "I'll collect you at" Doyle glanced at his timepiece "26.15? That give you long enough?"
     Bodie unlatched the door as the ship settled silently onto its struts then sank to ground level.
     "It'll do..."

Bodie had just rinsed Boar Musk (shampoo for the seriously studly) from his hair when the ablutional vidphone buzzed. Annoyed, he slapped the activation button and was confronted by his partner, water and pink bubbles cascading off his curls and down his face.
     "I'm in the bloody shower! What's wrong now?"
     Doyle grimaced, then spluttered as power-shower water filled his mouth. He spat it out noisily.
     "Yeah, sorry, Cowley called. Gonna have to cancel tonight. He wants me up north. Somethin' to do with a kidnapped Borgerorger diplomat."
     "Oh for... Can't he send someone else?"
     Doyle shrugged, flicking liquid all over the vidphone's screen.
     "I know the species, an' had somethin' similar 'appen when I was with the police. I'm best man for the job."
     Bodie sighed gustily.
     "And of course you've no idea how long it'll last."
     Doyle finished wiping water and bubbles from the screen and shook his head, rendering the activity of the last few seconds redundant. Bodie peered at his partner's image through the pink iridescent haze, managing to make out that he was scowling.
     "'Course not. You know what it's like."
     "Yeah. I don't have to like it though. Stay safe and stay in touch."
     As Doyle waved and fuzzed out, Bodie irritably punched Murph's number into the 'phone...

Bodie spotted Murph's tall, slender form as he strode angrily into the H-Bar. As he seated himself the Lipidan handed him a drink and glanced at the chronometer.
     "Yeah, I know, I'm late. Old bugger caught me just as I was leaving." Bodie pouted, downing the potent ale in one and holding the mug out for a refill, then nursing the pint of something green and faintly frothy to his chest. "Wants me on obbo duty first thing tomorrow."
     Murph's feathery antennae twitched in sympathy as he shifted the protective sheath across his back. Earth's gravity was far too heavy for him to use his wings, and they were too delicate to risk in the capital's bustling metropolis, but Lepdop Almighty he hated the thrice-damned thing! It itched intolerably. He drained his mug and handed it to the very cute Hafnan behind the bar for a refill.
     "Cayssss iss what?"
     Bodie leaned a little closer: Murph's voice was whispery and even in a quiet bar he sometimes had to strain to hear it. It didn't help that the 460 proof hyper nokyoklin had hit his brain like an orca on speed.
     "Posssossible drug traffkickers, down at docks. Damn I hate it down there. Stinks. Bloody typical – Doyle gets to swan off negotiatinin' ransmoms, bet he gets a comfy hotel, I get to stew 'n a sewer. I swear th' old bastard hates me."
     Murph offered his version of a grin.
     "Isss cosss he jaloussss!"
     Bodie face fell as he considered how unfair life could be.
     "Nuthin' to be jealous of..."
     Murph bowed his head gravely and appealed to Bodie's vanity.
     "But can not look ssso good asss you. No can, even with ssssssurjuree."
     Bodie heaved a sigh. Not even that thought could cheer him.
     "Doyle's his fav'rite. Always has been. Always will be. S'not fair."
     Murph's compound eyes would have narrowed, had they been capable. Bodie in a strop he could deal with: Bodie tired and emotional... that was Doyle's job. The Lipidan ostentatiously checked his chronometer and made regretful noises about having to be up early the next day, but Bodie was staring into his pint and didn't hear. Murph crept quietly away, leaving him to his misery.

Day 4
     Doyle stared at the rain out of the bullet train window, grumbling to himself under his breath. Just his bloody luck! Sent off to Shieldaig, up the backside of beyond with nary so much as a bottle of whisky to keep him company. No doubt Bodie would be at the pub and getting himself all set up for the night. Sometimes Doyle regretted having quite so much prior experience in the civil forces.
     And the bloody train was nearly full, and noisy. There was some sort of festival taking place at Shieldaig to coincide with the old celebrations of Yule and Xmas – he'd heard one of the would-be revellers mention Herring-fest. Most of his fellow-travellers were carrying both fishing-rod cases and large bulky objects that looked suspiciously like the cases for musical instruments. He hoped to the Powers That Be they weren't going to be sharing his hotel...
     But of course they were, he thought impotently to himself in the early hours of the morning as he gripped his pillows tightly over his ears to drown out the sound of the bagpiper next door rehearsing something that might, just, be mistaken for an ancient Christmas Carol by a deaf-mute who'd never heard one. This whole case was going to be a nightmare. A fish-scented one, no less...

Day 5
     Bodie was pissed off. No, actually, Bodie was extremely pissed off. In the struggle to lose the hangover he'd woken with yesterday he'd forgotten that it always had to rain at the docks, a weather control regulation to contain the smell and prevent it seeping into the residential sectors. He'd been standing in the shade of the gutting-shed for five hours now, and all he could smell was rotting fish. Silently damning the policy that decreed that everything had to be properly recycled these days, he pulled his collar a little higher against the rain.
     The bloody corneal cameras were making his eyes itch too. All in all he was not a happy man. And there'd been no sign of activity from the suspects in the last five days.
     He thought longingly of his shower and his bed and the smell of something else – anything else – but fish, checked his blaster was ready for action and resigned himself to another two hours before Anson came to relieve him.

Day 7
     Cowley frowned at his new aide, sitting at the other side of his desk. Maybe he was old fashioned, but STUART looked altogether too lifelike for him to feel entirely comfortable. Although he had to admit the machine was exceptionally efficient. Not prone to error, like its human counterparts, either. Nor did it have tantrums, need sick leave, or suffer injury. You couldn't enjoy a pint with it, though.
     STUART offered a smile. It couldn't reach his eyes, but it would pass for friendly enough, if you didn't look too closely. Cowley leaned forwards slightly.
     "So, report, if ye please."
     "Anson has replaced 3.7, who is now on sick leave. It would appear that he forgot to take his anti-pneumonia medication before his dockside observation."
     "Och, that's just typical!" Cowley threw himself back in his chair and glared at the cyborg. "I swear he does it deliberately."
     "I respectfully disagree, sir. On this occasion I believe it was an oversight. His scent and body language suggested that he is very annoyed with himself for his mistake."
     Cowley wasn't mollified.
     "How soon 'til he's back on duty?"
     "The medics say three days."
     "Aye, well, not too long then. Gud. Have him report to me the minute he gets back."
     "Yes sir."
     Cowley waited expectantly for STUART to resume his report, but the cyborg simply sat silently, watching him. Of course, that was the problem with artificial humans – they didn't have the same responses as the real thing. "And what of Doyle?"
     STUART tried a frown. It wasn't quite as convincing as his smile.
     "4.5 appears to have disappeared, sir."
     "Whit d'ye mean?"
     "That he reported to the undercover agents at his hotel in Shieldaig, spent the first two days researching the situation, then left his room to investigate his surroundings – and never returned."
     Cowley stared for a moment, then pushed himself upright. His bellow echoed off the walls and had Bettee sticking her head around the door to see what was happening, although she withdrew abruptly when she saw the colour of her boss's face.
     "And ye did not think to tell me?"
     "4.5 has done this in the past. It is consistent with his usual modus operandi, sir. It was not considered important enough to inform you, given the other high profile cases with which you are currently dealing."
     "I decide what I need to hear! In future, ye'll tell me as soon as one o' them does ANYthing oot o' the ordinary."
     STUART regarded him emotionlessly, then nodded its head.
     "Very well, sir. Will there be anything else?"
     "No. No. Get oot o' here." As the cyborg left the office – somewhat ponderously and with alarming creaks from underfoot, Cowley thought, might be best to check the machine's weight and the load the old flooring could take, just in case – the man slapped his hand down on the desk's communicator.
     "Murph, my office. Now."

Day 8
     Doyle blinked and looked around to get his bearings – tried to, rather, as his head seemed to have been stuffed into some sort of archaic sack-like container: he could feel the texture of rough Hessian against his cheek, and make out light and shadow through the loose weave. He took a shaky breath, and immediately gagged: it stank of fish, with a tiny hint of prawn – and a soupçon of octopus, which instantly brought back pleasant memories of a holiday on the waterworld of Hg and the tentacled young beauty who'd swept him off his feet and spent the next two local weeks teaching him all the interesting things one could do, and have done, with suckers and a beak... he shook himself. Reminiscing at a time like this? He needed his head examined...
     He tried moving his hands, and found that they were stuck together behind his back. As were his feet. It was not the most comfortable of positions.
     "Oi!"
     His indignant cry was met with a resounding silence. Grumpily he tried again, a little louder.
     "OI! Captive returning to consciousness here!"
     Still no sound, but he could feel the faint vibration of ambulatory limbs on the floor – which he belatedly thought might be wood – and a shadow passed between him and the lightsource over to one side. The sack was abruptly yanked from his head and he found himself blinking up into the damp scaly face of a Borgerorger.
     He frowned to himself. He was here to negotiate the release of a Borgerorger diplomat, and a Borgerorger was keeping him captive? Something very fishy about that.
     The Borgerorger offered its version of a smile, which would have had most humans scattering in all directions screaming in terror, and burbled at him. Doyle shook his head.
     "Sorry mate, no translator. You speaky English?"
     The Borgerorger grumped and blinked at him: Doyle never had been able to get used to the species' eyelids closing horizontally. Still, a blink usually meant yes, so he soldiered on hopefully.
     "CI5. Here on assignment, get kidnapped kin freed. Who you?"
     The Borgerorger squatted back on three of its nine legs and whistled towards the door. Moments later a reassuringly humanoid figure entered. For a minute Doyle was subjected to an incomprehensible dialogue between the two, then the humanoid turned towards him with what might be called an ingratiating smile.
     "CI5?" The Scottish accent was so close to Cowley's it was frightening. Doyle nodded, at which the figure (female, Doyle noted) pulled a knife-like instrument from its holster and slid it between his palms, releasing the molecular bonds and allowing him to pull his hands apart. Seconds later she'd done the same to his ankles, and with a sigh of relief Doyle pulled himself up to a sitting position.
     "Ta. Was getting' a bit stiff lyin' there."
     "We are vera sorry." The female wasn't quite human; the webbing between her fingers and the seaweed that served as hair were a dead giveaway. That aside, she was pretty, and at the moment her skin was pulsing in shades of aquamarine and chartreuse in a pattern that Doyle recognised as acute embarrassment. "Thought you were with kidnapper."
     "Nah. Here to negotiate release – and hopefully catch the bastards who did it." He regarded the two aliens appraisingly. "Who are you?"
     The female gestured to herself . "Norna. This be Hrgargarg, spawnmate of kidnap Diplomat Garg."
     "Pleased to meet you." Doyle nodded to them both, then hauled himself upright and over to a study, human-formed chair. The others followed him, and within moments they were all seated and facing each other.
     "Right." Doyle leaned forwards a little. "I know that Garg was kidnapped six days ago from the Alien Embassy in Glasgow, and that the kidnappers demanded we meet them here, where we would be given more instructions. Neither the local police nor CI5 have been able to find out anythin' more. What d'you know?"
     Norna glanced at Hrgargarg and sighed gustily.
     "It be a sorry tale..."

Doyle raised his hands.
     "'ang on a mo. Are you 'avin' me on?"
     Norna tilted her head, frowning.
     "On what? We do not normally eat humans, even on toast."
     "No, I mean – all they want is whisky?"
     "Is vera valuable on Orger. Is powerful narcotic."
     Doyle stared at her.
     "But... whisky. You can buy the stuff anywhere. Why the 'ell kidnap one of your own just to demand whisky as a ransom?"
     "Is not legal on Orger."
     "Not legal?" Doyle paused and frowned, then chuckled wryly at the ramifications. If they gave whisky to the Borgerorgers, would that make them, technically, drug dealers?
     He shrugged mentally. His brief was to get Garg back. The legalistas could sort out the finicky bits. Whisky was legal here: its status elsewhere was elsewhere's problem.
     "How much whisky do they want?

Day 9
     Cowley had not been amused at the thought of thirty cases of particularly fine Scotch whisky going to Orger. It was well known by those whose business it was to know such things that the Borgerorgers didn't have the ability to taste anything other than fish. This was sacrilege as far as Cowley was concerned, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He did, nevertheless, send a strongly worded letter of complaint to the Glaswegian embassy.
     Doyle relaxed back into his seat on the bullet train and closed his eyes. He hadn't seen anything of the Herring-fest, and had been spared the dubious joys of the accompanying music festival – but he did have Norna's location-tracer and a promise that he'd always be welcome to visit. He might even be able to make it to her world, one of these days...
     He tapped Bodie's contact number into his personal communicator. Cowley had mentioned the pneumonia, but said as far as he knew Bodie was on the mend...
     It took rather a long time for the call to be picked up, and when it was the voice that answered was unfamiliar. Doyle frowned.
     "Where's Bodie?"
     A brief pause, then the voice dropped in both volume and tenor.
     "I'm sorry. Mr Bodie is no longer with us."
     Doyle struggled for a moment with imminent panic, managing to wrestle it to the floor.
     "What you on about? Get 'im on the blower right now!"
     "I'm sorry, I can't do that. Mr Bodie is no longer with us. He fell victim to the pneumonia."
     "Yeah, I know, and he should be over it now!"
     "I am sorry for your loss."
     The communicator went dead, and Doyle frantically tried to get the number again, only to be met with the 'disengaged' tone. He slapped in Cowley's private number, getting it right on the fourth attempt.
     "Cowley..."
     "Where's Bodie?"
     "Doyle? Why are you..."
     "I just rang Bodie – whoever answered it said he was... dea..." He couldn't bring himself to say the word.
     There was a startled silence at the other end, then Cowley's voice again.
     "The last I heard he was recovering nicely. I'll check." Doyle could hear him bellowing orders to all and sundry: a minute later he was back.
     "Keep this channel clear. I'll speak to you as soon as I know what's going on."
     The communicator went dead, and Doyle stared at it. Then, pulling himself upright, he began to pace tensely up and down the train.

"STUART!!" The bellow was enough to rattle the windows, had there been any to rattle. The cyborg had been at the other end of the building, so it took him a good two minutes to reach Cowley's office, by which time the man was puce with frustration.
     "Where's Bodie?"
     STUART paused for a moment, checking his internal databanks.
     "3.7 was discharged from the hospital facility yesterday, sir. He was collected by a female person and driven straight to his domicile. He is due in tomorrow, being now fully recovered."
     "So why the blazes did whoever answered his comm say he was dead?"
     "I do not know sir."
     "Then gae and find oot!"

STUART cross-referenced the location against the one listed in the records: had he been human he'd have shaken his head ruefully. Surely Bodie couldn't afford such luxury, not on his salary? But the address was correct...
     He tapped at the door and waited. And waited. And waited.
     He tapped again, a little louder. Still no response.
     He yanked the door effortlessly from its runners. put it carefully to one side, and stepped into the domicile.
     The spacious place was silent, but he picked up an energy field emanating from a chamber at the centre of the apartment. He paused at the outer, code-locked door and peered in through the viewport.
     Hm. So that was what sex in anti-gravity was like. For humanoids, at any rate.
     It did not, in his opinion, look very comfortable. Or dignified, come to that. It did prove, however, that Bodie was very much alive.
     He tapped on the door. Not surprisingly, the three humanoids inside didn't hear him. He offered the cyborg equivalent of a sigh and contacted Cowley...

Day 10
     Doyle slapped Bodie across the back of the head. Bodie winced.
     "It was just a joke. I told her that if anyone tried to get hold of me, just tell them I was dead! You can't blame me for trying to grab another couple of days downtime!"
     "Oh, an' you think lettin' everyone think you're dead is a good excuse?"
     Bodie grinned.
     "Well, it's probably the best excuse ever, really..." He flinched as Doyle raised a fist. "OK, OK, I said I'm sorry. How many times do I have to repeat it?"
     "Oh, at least twice a day for the next bloody week. AND you can write up me reports for a month."
     "But..."
     Doyle glowered.
     "Cowley's orders."
     "Fuck."
     "Yeah. An' it didn't get you anywhere but up shit creek, did it?"
     "Oh, I dunno. It was a pretty good way to recuperate. You'd like them both. Perhaps we should fix up a foursome?"
     Doyle was tempted, Bodie could tell. He'd come 'round. And in the meantime...
     "Pub?"

Settled at the bar, Bodie took a long draught of his beer (ordinary XOX this time, he had no plans to repeat the pain of the last hangover, even if Doyle would let him) and regarded his partner with a grin.
     "This reminds me of that time on Lolaloosa."
     "Yeah – 'cept we didn't stink of fish, there." Doyle sniffed at himself, grimacing. "Never gonna get the smell out."
     "Lemons."
     Perplexed, Doyle eyed his smugly-smirking partner for a moment.
     "An' coconuts to you too."
     Bodie snorted.
     "Lemons. Lemon juice gets out the smell of fish."
     Doyle frowned.
     "You 'avin' me on?"
     "No. Learned it from me dear ol' gran. You rub it on the offending surface, leave for a few seconds, then rinse off."
     Doyle winced.
     "That's gonna sting..."
     Bodie decided not to ask.
     "Could always ask for help. Think your two new 'friends' might be willing?"
     "Oh, they're up for anything, them two! In fact – I could give 'em a buzz now, see if they're free to join us."
     "Sounds good to me."
     A suspiciously short time later two slim figures made their entrance, and Doyle beckoned them over with a grin. They both returned the smile and then gazed at Bodie with open curiosity.
     "Oooh, he's pretty."
     Doyle chuckled and gestured to his partner.
     "Gingers, this is Bodie. Bodie, Gingers Encrypted."
     Bodie shifted uneasily, estimating the distance to the exit and how long it would take him to reach it.
     "Encrypted what?"
     "It's 'er name." He winked. "And yes, she is a she."
     Relaxing, Bodie extended a hand. Gingers promptly licked it. Startled, Bodie glanced wide-eyed at his partner.
     "S'OK. She's from Blorth. That's their standard greeting for new acquaintances." His eyes twinkled. "Their greeting for a friend is a bit more... illegal in public."
     Bodie swallowed.
     "Oh good. And she's not going to turn all Prognopper on me, is she?"
     "Nah mate. All female all the time. With a few interestin' extras humans don't 'ave. But you'll find out about them later."
     Not entirely reassured, Bodie invited Gingers to sit beside him. She slid onto his lap instead, undulating gently: he jerked in surprise when something firm and cool that wasn't a hand – both were currently around his neck - ran caressingly over his groin. He grinned at Doyle.
     "Friendly."
     Doyle grinned back.
     "Very."
     "We... could always go back to mine."
     "We could..."
     At that moment a small band of diverse sentients tumbled into the pub, grouping themselves around the virtual fire in the virtual hearth and breaking into song.

Doyle sighed and gestured to the bar, where the manager was rapidly turning a nasty shade of red. Unfortunately for him, the Constructionists were a protected cult, and despite the fact that his pub was rapidly emptying, he could do nothing to expel them until they had finished their Carol. And it was rumoured that some of their Carols could last for two whole days...
     "I think we can do better than listen to this crap." Doyle glanced at Bodie. "Got drinks in?"
     Bodie put on a wounded expression.
     "Is Cowley Scottish?"
     Doyle smirked and gathered up the petite Knaper who had been groping him for the last five minutes.
     "Your place then." He dragged on his jacket, then regarded his partner. "How long's it take to fire up the anti-grav chamber?"
     Bodie smirked at him.
     "Whatever made you think I ever turn it off?"

One of the members presented a list of things she would like to see in a fic. I didn't make a note of who – for which, my apologies – and while I did copy the list, I did rather mix the items up:

.. I can't resist a challenge.