The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries)

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “They trashed my reputation pretty well as it is.”

  “On Earth, sure. In the services? Absolutely. That’s why the fact that Maxwell City and Mars have taken you in, given you a home, given you and Aames authority—”

  “Nick is a private citizen. No authority.”

  “Sure. He’s just a founder. Nobody listens to him, right? Nobody except the old hands, the second generation, some of the third, everyone on the Aldrin, and half of Luna. Every malcontent who thinks the Initiative needs a black eye, well, Nick Aames is a hero to them.”

  I did not try to hide a smile. “Sometimes black eyes are instructive.”

  Hogan shook his head. “Not at the top levels. You know, you were an admiral. You might swallow a dressing down from above, but no admiral likes being shown up by the lower ranks. You know that.”

  “What does this have to do with Horace Gale?”

  “I’m getting to that. There’s another side of this, though, outside the Admiralty. There are investors, business interests, lots of those in commercial space who are no big fans of the Admiralty either. Maybe even on Aames’s side. But more important, some of them have money and influence. Particularly the folks at São Paulo Mutual and a few of the other big insurance companies. Word is spreading through the industry about the fraud, and they want to know what we’re doing about it. They complain about our rules and restrictions; but when they’re facing a loss, they come yelling to us. And so they’re putting pressure in the other direction: they don’t care about your crimes or your internal matters, but they want lost items accounted for and responsible parties identified and made to pay. They don’t want to be responsible for any losses.”

  “And so . . . ?”

  “And so we have a lot of pressure to identify, locate, and confiscate items from your manifest report. To treat those items as stolen property, and to treat those in possession as felons. And we found some of the items.”

  “With Horace Gale?”

  Hogan nodded. “With Horace Gale.”

  I shook my head. “Gale has not been inside Maxwell City.”

  “You can’t know that. The city’s too large. There’s too much traffic, ship and surface.”

  “I could not know it an hour ago; but after our call, I ran a check for entry and exit records. There is no record of Horace Gale entering the city in over four years.”

  “Unless he used a fake ID. Or an unmonitored access. You know those exist.”

  I sighed. “Yes, they do. Our access control is imperfect. If we tried to monitor every airlock, there would be open revolt. So he might have been around. But I have my computers interrogating security systems and bars, restaurants, hotels, shops . . . So far no matches. Certainly no financial transactions. As best we can tell, he has not been there.”

  Hogan looked at his comp. “All right, let’s assume that. But he definitely had items in his possession that were part of the insurance claims you’re investigating.” He swiped at his comm, and then he grinned. “I forgot: we’re cut off. But I’ll send the records to you later. He was found with chemical sensors, an analyzer, and a terahertz scanner, all with serial numbers from your manifests. He was trying to sell them in the Well.”

  “Of course.” The Well was a free-form bazaar on the north edge of Port Shannon. Spare parts, surplus cargo, used equipment, and more could all be bought or traded in the Well. It did not surprise me to learn that stolen goods were trafficked there, but there was little I could do about it. That part of the port was in the Initiative control zone. “So does he say how he came to possess them?”

  “He didn’t say much.”

  “That is surprising. Gale was always a talker.”

  “Oh, he talked plenty, but he didn’t really say anything. He tries to be really smooth with any guards or interrogators he talks to, show them he’s cooperative. But on the subject of the goods in question, he’ll only say he came by them honestly, and there’s no evidence to say otherwise.”

  “That is an interesting claim,” I said. “What jurisdiction is he claiming? The laws on stolen goods vary from one to another. In some, possession of stolen goods is presumptively a crime, with the burden of proof on you to show legitimate chain of possession.”

  “Uh-huh,” Hogan answered. “And in others, you’re presumed innocent, and the authorities have to show that you knowingly acquired stolen goods. But it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t cited the Compact.”

  “He hasn’t?”

  “Nope.” Hogan shook his head. “So he’s still under Initiative jurisdiction, with no instructions from anyone on Earth. I don’t know if he’s lucky or smart, but Inspector General Rand tells me that there’s a loophole. The question of culpability for possession of stolen goods is never specified in Initiative regulations. There’s case law on it, but conflicting opinions. So until I get an official IG opinion, Gale’s in a gray area. And if I do get an opinion and he doesn’t like it, he can press for an appeal.”

  “I never trusted the man, but no one ever said he was stupid.” Then I thought back to the comm call. “But you said he wants to talk to Nick?”

  “Yes. He was very insistent about it. I ignored him at first, but he didn’t let up. Then I thought maybe it would make him cooperate if I at least asked.”

  “So you are asking me, not Nick.”

  “He’s your husband, ma’am. I don’t even know him, except by reputation. I thought it made sense to get your opinion first. I don’t like it.” The way Hogan said it, I knew he really meant, I don’t like him. “And my authorities won’t like it either. But the business interests are getting loud. So I thought I’d ask.”

  “And you have him here?”

  “I can have him here in a minute. Should I?”

  I nodded, and Hogan tapped his comm. The recording light came on. As I activated mine as well, he tapped the call button. Not long after, the door slid open, and I heard a clanking sound of metal on tile.

  I turned to look, and Horace Gale stood in the doorway, an Initiative Security officer behind him. Gale was thinner than I remembered, especially his face, and older. He had less hair, and it was grayer, though the same could be said of me. But worst was his body: his frame was scrawny, like he had been working hard and eating poorly.

  And the one thing that had not changed was that he was still wearing an assist suit. Five years after the accident that had crippled him, he still wore the metal frame that supported his legs and arms and kept him upright.

  “Gale . . .” I paused, but curiosity overcame courtesy. “What happened? More injuries?”

  “No,” Gale said. He smiled, but his tone was bitter. “Same ones.”

  I shook my head, but then I got up and held out the third chair for him. The man was a rat, but also disabled. Even rats deserve common courtesy. As he sat, I asked, “What happened to your rehab after the accident on the Aldrin?” I politely avoided mentioning that he had caused the accident.

  Gale hesitated. “It . . . ended, Admiral.”

  “Ms. Morais,” I said.

  “Sorry, Ms. Morais. When we came down to Mars, I was bound for the Azevedo settlement, you might remember?”

  I did. It had been a long time between Nick’s hearing and our arrival at Mars, nearly four months. In that time, Gale had become, well, almost a fixture in the Aldrin City rings, as if he was unwelcome in the Admiralty space in G and H Ring. Which he certainly was. He had testified against Admiral Knapp, ending Gale’s career just as surely as Nick’s and mine had been ended. The Admiralty had not discharged him at the time, but it was inevitable. And so Gale had come to Dr. Baldwin and her team for his rehab after the accident that had crushed his spine, destroyed his spleen, and broiled his lungs. Not to mention the damage to his legs. Connie Baldwin is one hell of a doctor, with one hell of a Hippocratic oath. The same accident—for which Gale was largely at fault—had almost killed her husband Chuks; and yet she had made sure Gale got the best rehabilitation that Aldrin City could give him. Just never whe
n she was in the infirmary.

  “Working for Azevedo was great, for a while,” Gale said. “They knew me there. Margo and her team had work for me, a good-paying job. It was . . . I belonged, Ms. Morais. You know what that’s like?”

  “I think I do.”

  “But they’re a small settlement, nothing like Maxwell City. Their hospital facilities . . .” He laughed dryly. “A clinic, no more than that. They did what they could, but I lagged behind.” He swallowed. “And then Margo passed away. And their board appointed a new chair, someone who was more interested in commercializing than in the science. And someone with closer ties to the Admiralty, I suspect. It wasn’t a week after she was gone that I was told my services would no longer be needed. And the air charges started mounting.”

  “I am sorry, Gale.” And I was. Nick always said that Gale was a capable spacer, just a social and career climber. It almost sounded like once he had nowhere left to climb, he had gone back to what he was really good at.

  Gale shrugged, and his harness rattled. “Mars doesn’t care. You produce, you contribute, or you don’t breathe.”

  “Or you go home.”

  He shook his head. “I have no home, now. What did they used to say? A man without a country? That’s me. If Mars doesn’t want me, no place does.”

  I could see how rough that life would be. Gale was not exaggerating. Aside from tourists, everyone on Mars learned it soon enough: nothing in the environment was free, you had to earn your way. The only biosphere Mars had was the result of hard labor.

  But at the same time, I felt like I was being played for sympathy. The Gale I knew always had an angle. And I was reluctant to get played.

  So I changed the subject. “Tell me about these goods in your possession.”

  Gale shook his head, and Hogan glared at him. “I just . . . pick them up,” Gale said. “Scavenging, you know.”

  I stared at Gale. “Scavenging? This is not Earth. There are no dumps just lying around.”

  “There are more than you would think,” Gale answered. “Ma’am, have you paid attention to the Earth–Mars traffic? Once, missions here were pretty restricted. That was when the Saganists had real influence in the Initiative. There were so many levels of approval and review, putting together a Mars expedition was expensive and difficult to push through channels.

  “But that was old Mars. Today, we have Maxwell City, and Tholus Under, and Alpheus Base. Plus the Azevedo settlement, and dozens of other small settlements. There are many bases for expeditions to operate from. Not only that, but new voices in the upper echelons of the Initiative are more interested in permit fees, licensing, and other commercial considerations. There are at least twenty new expeditions a month arriving, some as small as a single person in a mini crawler, prospecting for water fields. But some are large enough to rival the Azevedo expedition, with plans to build new cities.”

  I had not realized. Nick and I had mostly worked insurance claims in and around Maxwell City, the most highly developed region on Mars. When an area gets that big, everything has to go through channels. There are plenty of layers of local bureaucracy to fight through.

  I looked at Chief Hogan, and he answered, “Gale may be underestimating. Last month there were thirty-five expeditions that arrived. And twelve that gave up and left for home, plus five lost, for a net of eighteen new teams to monitor.”

  “You monitor them?”

  Hogan hesitated. “Not as much as we used to,” he finally said with a sigh. “There are just too many. We monitor traffic and distress bands, certainly. But we don’t have the manpower to keep eyes on every mini crawler out there.”

  I nodded. No wonder the Saganists were becoming more vocal. “Five lost?”

  “That’s . . . complicated,” Hogan said.

  “What he means,” Gale said, “is the Initiative doesn’t much care. Mars has become routine. The public’s not paying attention anymore, so neither are the politicians. If some settler never comes back, it might be big news here in Maxwell City, but it’s barely a yawn back on Earth. Could you tell me how many people went missing in Hoboken last week?”

  I looked Gale over. “So you . . . scavenged these parts?”

  “It’s what I do, ma’am.” Gale spread his hands wide, as if asking for acceptance. “A man must breathe. It’s not just scavenging, though. I’m . . . I’m old Mars, still. Nick beat that into me: you don’t abandon people. You don’t give up while there’s a chance, and you don’t forget that there are people behind those numbers, and they have people back home. So sometimes alone, sometimes with a partner if I find one I can rely on, I hang around the ports and the locks, following the news of lost expeditions. I’ve done a little search and rescue, when I could. Report and recovery more often, sad to say.”

  “And salvage.”

  “And salvage. Whatever it takes to keep air in the tanks.”

  I shook my head. “It is a wonder you’ve never gotten lost.”

  Gale smiled broadly at that. “Might happen someday, but I doubt it. Nick taught me better than that.”

  I paused, looking at Gale. “You keep bringing up Nick. What do you want from him?”

  Gale shook his head. “I’d rather discuss that in private,” he said. “Can you arrange that?”

  I frowned. I did not know what Gale was up to; and through long habit, I did not trust him. His whole story seemed designed to garner sympathy. “I cannot promise anything.” Then I had another thought. “But if you can be cooperative, maybe I can help. Tell us where you found these tools.”

  Gale looked away. “I . . . can’t, ma’am.”

  “You do not remember?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just . . .”

  “You just don’t want to give up a bargaining chip, eh? Same old Gale.”

  “If that’s the way you want to see it, ma’am . . .”

  I turned to Hogan. “So what now? Am I taking him into custody?”

  Hogan shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ve made no charges against him. And even if you had, there’s no extradition in place. I wanted to give you a chance to talk to him, but he’s ours for now.”

  “So you are charging him?”

  “We’re still going through the paperwork, trying to figure out who has jurisdiction. For now, though, he’s going back to the stockade.”

  18. ARGUMENTS

  I argued for several more minutes, but Hogan was not budging. Orders from above, he said. While I argued, he summoned a trooper, and Gale was led away.

  Finally, I returned to the city, stopping by district offices as I did. They were lightly staffed, only a desk sergeant and a patrol officer in each. All of these arrests and seizures had my new department unexpectedly taxed.

  And my messages reflected that: confirmation of five persons arrested, notifications of three still missing, and court notices of seven who had filed for stays. Two of those came from Magistrate Montgomery’s court, but the rest came from other courts. Worse, these suspects were higher up the chain of the conspiracy, and hence more influential. They were raising more challenges in the courts. This case was overloading the system. I was not sure how I could keep on top of it.

  And that was not all: there were requests for interviews from nine different media outlets, including three different requests from Tara Rockford. I sighed. When I had been an admiral, we had had a media liaison’s office to handle this sort of thing. I had come to Mars to simplify a complicated life. Now I could use some of that complexity. I wished I could be out on the surface with Nick, exploring and building.

  But I knew that was not to be. Mars was at a crucial stage of human settlement: we had growing pains, and we could not run away from them, or the whole project would collapse. Gale had gotten that part right. The growth of settlements made it possible for more people to explore and build a home on Mars, but somebody had to maintain the settlements. I had volunteered, and that meant it was my responsibility.

  But I did not have to like it. And th
ere was nothing wrong with asking for help. I called Anthony’s office; but it was Alonzo who answered. “Yes, Ms. Morais?”

  “Hello, Alonzo. I was hoping to talk with Anthony about media requests.”

  “I’m sorry, the mayor’s tied up in his own interviews. And in city council meetings. There’s some screaming going on in there.” His eyes narrowed, and I could see he was irritated.

  I let a little of my own irritation show in return. “What do you expect me to do, Alonzo? Turn a blind eye? Keep the corruption quiet? If that is what you want—If that is what Anthony wants, I serve at his discretion. He can fire me.”

  Alonzo shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ms. Morais! I didn’t say that. It just would’ve made my job easier. You could have been more discreet.”

  I counted to three before answering. “Once the media had hold of it, we lost control.”

  He glanced from side to side. “Never say that! If anyone heard—”

  “It is true! Pretending does not change it.”

  “But that’s—” He quieted and leaned closer to the comm. “That’s not a message we want getting out to the public. If the damn journos heard something like that, it would be on every stream for the next week: ‘Chief of Police says city is out of control.’”

  “Space the journos.”

  Alonzo’s eyes grew wide. “Do you want to lose this election, ma’am? Hand Mars back over to the Realists? Hell, why not to the Saganists? Shut down half of Mars!”

  “I want to do my job, and my job is the truth, not good messaging. Shall I tender my resignation now?”

  He actually flinched at that. I think he could tell I was serious. “Oh, God, no! That would be a scandal that would last through the election. ‘Chief of Police resigns. Demands the truth.’” He shook his head. “No, Ms. Morais, I’m sorry. It’s just tense here. Our numbers have really dipped overnight.”

  “That is your job, not mine.”

  “But you don’t have to make it worse. You could . . . you could help out.”

  “Campaigning is not in my job description.”