The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries)

by Martin L Shoemaker

  I smiled back. “Yes, I suppose that is one way to look at it.” I took a deep breath, trying to regain my calm. “I am sorry, Anthony. It is too early in the morning for me to cope with politics.”

  “I wish I could say the same. Lately, it’s twenty-four hours a day.”

  “So you get a whole thirty-nine minutes free?” I said.

  “On a good day. But I’ll try to give you a little more. So are we good?”

  I frowned. “Anthony, we are good for now. But you wanted a police force. You need the force, and not just politically. Do not let politics get in the way of that.”

  My next appointment was a stop down in Digital Investigations to visit with Moore and her team. Things were progressing well there, better than I might have expected. Digital forensics was not my expertise, but it seemed that they had locked up most of the records we were going to need, at least the records from Mars’s side, and were making good progress on the rest. It would take a lot of time and effort to sift through those, not to mention some court battles to get files unlocked; but we had the start of a digital case coming together. Already Moore had found additional instances of the fraud that Nick had identified. I thanked her and her team, and I left them to their work.

  I wanted to cut around the Concourse to my office and look in on my team; but I saw on my comm that Magistrate Montgomery had added two early-morning arraignments to our docket. Vile had noted that she would attend, but I canceled that. She had been up all night. I sent her a note: My turn to nag. Get some sleep. Then I went to the arraignments.

  Those ran longer than yesterday’s. It looked like defense counsel had learned from the previous proceedings, and they mounted more effective objections and delaying tactics. Magistrate Montgomery had to spend more time tearing them apart and shooting them down; but shoot them down she did. One by one, the objections were overruled and set aside. And the arraignments went through.

  So it was 1220 when I finally got to my office. My squad was busy manning comms and consoles, with only Wagner, Monè, and Ammon out. Vile was there, so I approached her and said, “I thought I told you to get some sleep.”

  “I did,” she said. “Three hours under the desk in your office.”

  I left it alone. She really should have gotten more. But at the same time, while I was unready to concede the age factor, she was a lot younger. I had worked longer hours on less sleep when I was her age. She would survive. And I was certainly grateful to have her on duty.

  Then I had to check myself in the mirror and head back around the Concourse. It was the middle of the day, so the place was thronged with tourists and shoppers and shopkeepers, about as busy as it ever got. The three levels had to have two hundred people crossing back and forth between the shops; and the slidewalks looked pretty packed too.

  So it took longer than I expected to get back to Admin. I barely had time to duck into the lavatory and check my hair before hurrying over to the conference wing, where Alonzo waited impatiently, checking his comm. “You were almost late!”

  “Almost late is still early,” I answered. “Are they here yet?”

  He shrugged. “No, but I expect the first one any minute. Pat Knighton. He’s sympathetic to our cause, so try to be polite.”

  I was about to snap back at that; but just then, a thin, bearded man approached down the corridor. “Mr. Gutierrez,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Sorry I’m a bit early. Can we get set up?”

  Alonzo smiled, concealing whatever he had been about to say to me. “Good to see you, Mr. Knighton.” He turned to me. “You know Ms. Morais.”

  “I know of her.” He held out his hand, and we shook. “We haven’t been formally introduced, but I was at your press conference last night. And also at your debut, of course. It’s nice to meet you, ma’am. Pat Knighton, InterplaNet.”

  “We’re glad you could take the time to talk to us,” Alonzo said. He keyed open the conference room door. “Right in here.”

  We stepped in and found a room with six chairs around an oval table. As was typical for Martian architecture, no cubic was wasted. There was just enough room to squeeze around the chairs. I waited for Knighton to find a seat; but he pointed at the table and said, “Please, have a seat. There at the end will do. Let me set up.”

  I sat while he did something with his wrist comm. He looked at the wall opposite me, found a spot, and attached a comm pickup. Then he slid between the wall and the chairs until he stood near me, and he looked at his comm. “Not quite,” he said. He went back to the pickup, moved it a few centimeters, and came back over by me. He checked his comm, and he said, “Good.”

  From the door, Alonzo said, “Can I get you any coffee or tea?”

  “Water would be good,” Knighton said.

  “Water,” I agreed.

  “Sure,” Alonzo said. “Just a moment.” While Alonzo was gone, Knighton ran through some tests on his setup: sound check, transmission check, image check, tracking check. Alonzo was back with the glasses before the final check was done.

  He set them down in front of us and then stood there quietly.

  When the last check was done, Knighton said, “All right, I’m ready to begin. So . . .” He looked at Alonzo.

  Alonzo raised his eyebrows. “So?”

  Knighton smiled. It was a warm, broad smile, framed by his beard. I could see he was a charmer. “Mr. Gutierrez,” he said, “I wanted an interview with the police chief. Not, my apologies, with the campaign.”

  “I won’t say anything,” Alonzo protested. “I just want to know what’s said.”

  Knighton pointed at the pickup. “You can watch the live stream along with everybody else. And I’ll get you a copy as well. I don’t edit, not during the interview. Maybe in the analysis piece after. But I also don’t need distractions. Unless you want me to mention in my report that you think Ms. Morais needs a minder?”

  I could not contain a slight laugh at the look on Alonzo’s face. “No!” he said. “Not at all. I . . . I’ll go watch the live stream.”

  “Good,” Knighton said to Alonzo’s retreating back. When the door slid shut, he turned to me, eyes almost twinkling. “He seemed nervous.”

  At that, I did laugh. Then I looked at the pickup. “We are not live, are we?”

  “Not yet,” he said with a bit of a laugh himself. “He won’t see that part. If you look at the pickup and you see a red light, we’re reporting. Solid red means we have a good signal out; blinking red means signal trouble, but we’re still recording. But relax. Concentrate on me, not the light.”

  I did not relax, exactly, but I felt more at ease. The man was a good interviewer. I told myself not to let my guard down; but so far, at least, I did not feel attacked. Knighton glanced at the pickup, then back to me. “All right, just like I promised Gutierrez, this is going to go out live exactly as it plays out here. Later, we’ll do an analysis and summary; that will include your background, your accomplishments, and so on. And it will also include discussions of the background of some of the things we mentioned, the political situation and so on. I don’t want you surprised later when all that comes in. The summary piece will have context, I owe that to my audience. But that would be dry, boring stuff here. Right now, it’s going to be live video, uncensored, a chance for the audience to hear from you. Understand?” I nodded. “Good. We go live in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .” He tapped his comm, and the red light came on. “Good afternoon, according to the Maxwell City clock here; or good morning, good evening, good night, depending on where you’re seeing this. This is Pat Knighton in Maxwell City, Coprates quadrangle, Mars. With a welcome to my audience on Mars, and a time-delayed welcome to you folks back on Earth, Luna, Aldrin City, and wherever else you’re picking up the sound of my voice. I’m here with Police Chief Rosalia Morais of Maxwell City to discuss the astonishing revelations coming out of the city in the past two days. Ms. Morais, welcome.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Knighton. I am glad to have a chance to ta
lk to you.”

  “To me, and to the whole solar system,” he said.

  I smiled. “Your ratings are that big?”

  That got a smile from him as well; and I could guess now that he had staged the scene so that the audience could pick up his expression, even though I was in the focus of the frame. “We do all right,” he answered. “By now the audience has seen a lot about the big story out of Maxwell City, and maybe some of it is even true. Certainly the verifiable facts have come out on InterplaNet. But there are also a lot of rumors and questions and confusion. So Ms. Morais, I wanted you to get a chance to talk to the viewers directly and explain exactly what we know and what you can say about how things are going to proceed.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot explain everything, Mr. Knighton. There are privacy concerns. There is evidence that might not yet be confirmed; and if improperly revealed, it might incriminate innocent people.”

  “Or it might tip off the guilty and tell them how to evade the law,” he said. “I understand. But tell us what you can—what’s public.”

  “I shall try,” I said. And I did. I had thought pretty hard about this: how to satisfy public curiosity while respecting privacy and the demands of the case. I had gone through what evidence we could not discuss, or should not, and I had come up with a bullet list of things we could safely discuss. It was all public information, things that could be pulled from court dockets and arrest reports. Anyone could have given the same briefing; certainly Knighton could. He seemed like a competent person, and I am sure he had a research team. But I guess he wanted to put a face to the information.

  And I knew Alonzo and Anthony wanted to get the story out with a single face and a single narrative as well. Better to have one consistent version on record. It would not stop all the rumors, but it was the best damage control we could do.

  So I told what I could, simply and truthfully, starting with the fire and the death of Ramos, and how that had raised questions that had inspired a follow-up on insurance claims. And how that, unfortunately, had led to the discovery of possible wrongdoing by one of my own force.

  Knighton stopped me there. “You had to take that a little personally,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Getting personal is a bad idea in an investigation. It will cloud your judgment. I have had a lot of experience in this business. You put the personal in a little box, and you take it out later. Otherwise you will miss things. Or you will give people an opportunity to manipulate you.”

  “You’re not a machine, Ms Morais.”

  “No, I am better than a machine. I am a professional.”

  He smiled at that, but only with the half of his face away from the camera. I think he liked that line. I continued on, explaining how we found the evidence against Flagg, and how that had led us to additional evidence and additional arrests. “I am not going to go into particulars about individuals. Arrest records are all public, of course, so anyone who is interested can look those up. But right now these are charges, not convictions, so it would not be right to discuss individuals outside of the court.”

  “I understand,” Knighton said. “But it does seem to me”—his eyes grew a little more eager, as if he was searching for something—“that there is a piece here you haven’t mentioned. You’ve talked about the police force, and it sounds like your people have done a very good job in their responsibilities; but my sources tell me that a lot of this work was done by the founder.”

  I did not frown at that, but I held my face still. “I would not say a lot. Nick Aames brought some facts to our attention at points along the investigation. And yes”—I held up my hand before Knighton could speak—“full disclosure, if anyone in your audience is unaware of it, that is Nicolau Aames, my husband. A civilian,” I emphasized, “but with expertise in some of these areas.”

  “A civilian,” Knighton said, “and the founder of Maxwell City.”

  I chuckled. “Let us not exaggerate his story. A founder, one of many. But he holds no official role within the city government.”

  “No,” Knighton replied. “Not within the city government. Not anywhere, after the Aldrin mutiny.”

  “The inspector general ruled there was no mutiny,” I said, my voice growing cold.

  “I’m sorry. I used the popular term so my audience would get the reference. You’re right of course, there was no mutiny. There were only allegations of mutiny. Just like there are only allegations of insurance fraud at this time.”

  “That is correct,” I said. “An investigation was done then. An investigation will be done now. A court will get a chance to decide what to do from there. Until then, we have to let the process continue.”

  “And how will that play out?”

  I shook my head. “I cannot see the future, Mr. Knighton.” I checked my comm. “Well, not far into the future, anyway. My comm says that I have appointments in the very near future. So is there anything else?”

  Knighton shook his head with a smile. “No, ma’am.” He turned more directly toward the pickup. “So there’s the straight story out of Maxwell City, folks. Remember, you heard it here first. And accurately. Thank you.” He tapped the comm, and the red light went out. Then he turned back to me. “I’m sorry about the end there, ma’am.”

  “No apologies necessary,” I said. I hoped I sounded congenial.

  He shook his head. “You have a right to be upset. It’s never fun to be on the hot seat. But I have a responsibility to bring out all the facts that are public.”

  “And the facts that will draw an audience,” I said.

  “And that,” he answered. “Your husband’s story is old news, but it’s not forgotten. It is an angle people are curious about, so I had to bring it up. I hope you understand.”

  “I do,” I said. “But I have some advice: if you ever interview Nick, do not bring up the founder business. He thinks it is a foolish title that he has not earned. He spent decades off Mars. There are people who earned the title, and he does not think that he is one of them.”

  “I understand,” Knighton answered. “But legends take on a life of their own, and you can’t stop them.”

  After Knighton was gone, I told myself that it had not been too bad. He had not been hostile, just thorough. He had given me the chance to say everything I wanted, and he had asked informative questions. And he was right: there were still those for whom Nick was a legend who added interest to a story.

  That was the easy one, I told myself. I had only twenty minutes before my scheduled interview with Tara Rockford. That was going to be a challenge. So I ducked out to check my hair and makeup, even my teeth. Image was everything in media, and I wanted to show no weakness.

  Unlike Knighton, Rockford was late. And she was not alone: she came with a videographer, a lighting technician, a sound technician, a legal assistant, and a producer. When Alonzo saw the size of her retinue, he shook his head. “My apologies,” he said. “Let’s find a larger room. If you could all follow me.” I stood up and followed him as he led us down the hall to a large meeting room at the end.

  As soon as we arrived, the technician set to work, mounting lights and cameras and microphones, rearranging chairs to get them out of their way. The producer looked at the big table. “This won’t do, won’t do at all,” he said. “It’s too big, dominates the space with a useless object. Can we get this out of here?”

  No one moved. The producer looked expectantly at Alonzo; and finally, Alonzo said, “I’ll get someone.” He tapped on his comm. “Someone from maintenance will be right up.”

  Rockford checked her comm. “I hope they hurry,” she said. “The key ratings window is coming soon.”

  I thought about pointing out that she was the one who was late, and her people were the ones creating further delay; but I bit my tongue. Be nice, Rosalia, I said to myself. Smile for the camera.

  Once two maintenance workers had removed the table, the producer smiled. “Much better. Let’s set up a two shot against that wall.”
/>   “It’s a big empty space,” Rockford said.

  The producer shook his head. “It won’t be on the stream. We’ll blend in a video feed there, it’ll look like you’re talking in front of a monitor.”

  Rockford smiled. “Always taking care of me, Freddie.” She pointed at the right chair. “Ms. Morais, have a seat.” After a pause, she added, “Please.”

  I believed the “please” was phony, but I sat. I knew her work. She was good at sincere prodding, innocently provoking the subject into rash statements, all while she smiled as if she were doing nothing. I would not take the bait. I would match politeness with politeness, smile with smile, and I would stick to facts.

  As I sat, the producer—Freddie—held up all ten fingers. “Here’s our window,” he said, and Rockford sat. She checked her long red curls on a monitor—a sure sign that she was from Earth, spacers tended to keep their hair shorter—and she adjusted herself, holding a tablet in front of her as Freddie’s fingers slowly dropped. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”

  “Thank you, Bob, for that introduction. This is Tara Rockford coming to you live from the Administration Center in Maxwell City on Mars, for an important interview with Police Chief Rosalia Morais about the Libertist controversy. Ma’am, welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The words were barely out of my mouth when Rockford continued, “Ms. Morais, as regular viewers know, is at the center of today’s big scandal out of Maxwell City. The Libertist coalition is crumbling due to corruption in the highest ranks. Campaign leaders have been arrested. Accusations fly back and forth among others. Mayor Holmes has lost control of his own party. Ma’am, my sources tell me you’re getting political interference in your investigation. What can you tell me about that?”

  I kept my cool. “There has been no interference,” I said.

  “That’s not what my sources tell me,” Rockford continued. She turned slightly toward the camera. “Viewers, you’ve seen the leaked report from last night’s Libertist Steering Committee meeting. It’s getting bad here in Maxwell City. Top citizens are at each other’s throats. There’s a demand for action. A delegation from the Red Planet League met with Mayor Holmes and Ms. Morais just this morning. The League is part merchants association, part investment fund. Popular with small investors, it’s run by some of the richest citizens of Mars. What transpired at that meeting, Ms. Morais?” She turned back to me.