Last Train To Nowhere (The Chronicles of Inspector Thomas Sullivan Book 2)

by K. C. Sivils

  Again he ventured out the cab door and down the ladder. The engineer and conductor watched the orange glow in the distance as the brakeman melted the ice from the track, allowing him to move the lead rails. Ignoring the prohibition against using his comm, the brakeman informed the engineer the train could pull onto the main.

  Setting the control in a higher run notch, the locomotive's prime mover began to rumble louder as the train began to move onto the mainline slowly. In just a few minutes the short train, consisting of only three flat cars with standard shipping containers tied down on them, was on the main line.

  “I hate this,” the engineer mumbled. “No running lights, no train orders, no dispatcher’s clearance. This is a wreck waiting to happen.”

  “It’s okay,” the conductor said calmly. “Nothing is moving till tomorrow morning.”

  “Still, I don’t like it. I’m with Ed. I’m booking off this run when we get back to Capital City.”

  “No, you’re not. And neither is Ed,” the conductor sternly replied. “We all took the money.”

  The comm buzzed again, indicating the short train had cleared the switch. Another couple of minutes passed before the brakeman returned, his face red from the cold, his breath coming quickly from the exertion. He stored the de-icer in silence and again ventured out into the cold, walking to the rear of the train to lead it while it backed down the main line toward the Brownstown yards. It would be another ten minutes before the crew could safely tie down for the night, nobody the wiser about the clandestine switching operation.

  ---

  “Show me,” I said firmly. “Make me see it too.”

  Sarah didn’t say a word. Taking both hands, she felt gingerly on the back of her skull. Dividing the long hair as if intending to part it, Sarah suddenly bent at her waist, letting her long, dark tresses fall to either side of her head.

  Uncertain of just what it was I was supposed to see, I leaned over and adjusted the vision in my right eye, zooming in and enhancing the image. I stood up quickly and took a step back.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t have a doctor look at that?”

  Standing up and finger combing her hair back into place at the same time, Sarah responded with another hateful glare. Her response to my question, a legitimate one I thought, was to unfasten the belt of the new great coat I'd given her as an advance on her pay. Opening the coat, Sarah promptly pulled up the several thin cotton shirts she wore, displaying a flat, smooth, muscular abdomen. Right in the middle of the toned midsection was a belly button.

  A perfectly normal looking belly button.

  "They do it surgically. I was a week old when the surgeon gave me a bellybutton."

  Suddenly, I understood what it was Sarah had shown me.

  I turned our dead SP on his side again. A quick glance at the exit wound in the back of his skull showed a small, but identifiable indentation in the scalp. Exactly like the one Sarah possessed.

  “He was tank grown like me,” she explained. “Some of us are grown inside a human mother. The rest of us are grown in tanks. The ones grown in a human mother take nine-months and then have to grow up like a regular human.”

  "Let me guess, tank grown clones hatch full grown, whatever that means, when you’re born.”

  Sarah nodded. "I don't know why they use human mothers. It's a lifetime before the clone is fully grown. It only takes three months for a tank grown clone to reach full development. The only way you can tell is what's left of our umbilical connections."

  “Why the head? Why not your abdomen where the nutrients need to go?” a bewildered Josephson asked.

  Sarah shrugged. “I’m just a clone. I don’t have any idea why they do what they do.”

  Cold air hit a crown on one of my molars, letting me know my mouth was hanging wide open. I shut my mouth and looked at the young woman before me. Her infantile behavior and uneven social skills suddenly made sense.

  “How old are you Sarah?”

  Busy buttoning her great coat back up, Sarah didn't look at me as she answered softly.

  “I can appear to be as young as my early twenties or as old as mid-to late thirties.”

  “How old are you,” I said with greater firmness.

  Sarah looked up at me with her big brown eyes, her expression one of deep sadness.

  “I’m five, almost six. But I’m a woman,” she insisted. “I can have children, just like a regular human female. I feel all the emotions an adult woman can feel. I can’t help the fact I’ve only been out of the tank for five years.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I made my way across the empty street. It didn't matter which direction I was walking; it seemed like the night wind was blowing directly in my face, seeping down my jacket, freezing me to the core.

  I am never going to get used to living on Beta Prime.

  Turning down the road toward the military base, I stopped to scan the shadows. Who or what I was looking for I wasn't certain. Annoyed with myself, I shook my head, pulled the collar of my great coat up and headed into the icy wind. I had about five minutes before I was supposed to meet Major Kilgore.

  I just couldn’t shake the sensation someone was watching me.

  This time, I stopped in the middle of the street and turned a full 360-degrees, using all the capability my cybernetic right eye possessed. Nothing.

  “This is stupid. Sarah’s got me looking for things that aren’t there.”

  When this case was over I was going to insist she talk to a professional about the constant fear she experienced. There had to be an explanation and a solution to her constant need to be ready to flee, to never trust anyone.

  In order for Sarah to agree to stay the night, I had the hotel cancel the single room Josephson had booked for her and move a cot into our double room. A cot she had instantly designated as Josephson’s.

  When I left the pair, Sarah had just finished dragging Josephson around in the cold, scouting every possible escape route from our room and the hotel complex, such that it was.

  I couldn’t blame her I suppose. It’s not like I didn’t have an advanced security system I’d custom installed myself in my apartment building.

  After one final visual sweep, I turned back into the wind. I'd have to hurry to arrive on time for my meeting with the Kilgore.

  ---

  Sitting in his usual booth, Markeson watched the cute waitress bring his second drink of the evening. She smiled while leaning over, letting her blouse fall, giving him as much of a view as he wanted.

  “Your meal will be coming right out, sir,” she informed him in her best flirtatious manner.

  Markeson watched appreciatively as the waitress walked away, adding just a little more roll to her hips than usual for his benefit.

  Vibration in his jacket pocket broke his concentration. Pulling out his comm, Markeson realized it wasn’t his work comm vibrating. He returned the first comm and pulled out the second device.

  Glancing at the Caller ID, he was surprised by the lack of any information. Very few individuals knew how to contact him with this comm. Truthfully, the fact there was no ID information caused him a bit of alarm. Curiosity finally got the better of Markeson, and he opened the link.

  “Who is this?”

  “Why Detective Markeson, or should I say Captain Markeson, is that any way to greet a new friend,” a sultry female voice purred from the device.

  “Well, it is a bit rude,” Markeson answered with his usual charm. “For someone to block their ID information when that person calls this comm.”

  “But Captain, a lady must have her secrets,” the voice replied.

  Markeson grinned, enjoying the banter. “Yeah, but I don’t usually associate with a proper lady.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to seek out a new, higher class of lady to consort with.”

  In the corner of his eye, Markeson saw the cute waitress approaching with a broad smile on her face, carrying his meal on a tray. He smiled at her as she laid his meal out be
fore him. Noticing he was using his comm, she left without saying a word. She did, however, glance over her shoulder as she sashayed away to give him a flirtatious wink.

  "Yeah," Markeson mumbled, still watching the waitress wiggle her way back to the kitchen. "I'm not so sure I want to do that. Now, you called me. Unless you expect me to break this link, you need to tell me who you are and what you want."

  The voice sighed over the link. "Has anyone ever told you, Captain, that you can be quite rude."

  He laughed. “Yeah, they have. I’m breaking the link. Goodbye.”

  “Stop! You’ve made your point.”

  Markeson listened to the voice sigh, giving away a hint of tension.

  “I’m afraid I can’t identify myself over a comlink. But I do want to arrange a meeting,” the voice paused seductively. “A business meeting.”

  “And why should I agree to meet you, assuming it’s you I’ll be meeting?”

  “Because you have skills, and information, I need. And because my good Captain, you need money. Or at least you want money,” the voice told him with an assuredness Markeson found irritated him in its arrogance.

  “Where then, just where am I to go to meet a stranger who is nothing more than a voice on my unlisted, secure comm?”

  “Brownstown. By tomorrow morning.”

  “Brownstown! Why there? It’s more godforsaken and frozen than Capital City?”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more Captain Markeson. But the location has far too many positive aspects to overlook, simply because it’s, as you say, godforsaken and frozen.”

  He sat and thought for a moment. Markeson might be a bent detective, but he was still a detective, and when motivated, a very good one. Like all good detectives, he did not believe in coincidence.

  “This has something to do with one of my Inspectors,” he stated simply, listening for a tell from the voice.

  “Right you are, Captain, but not in the way you think,” the voice cheerfully replied.

  "Seriously," the voice continued, growing business like and cold. "I will compensate you for your time, regardless of whether or not you accept my proposition. How does the price of a first-class ticket on the morning flight and a thousand credits, hard money, sound for a consultation?"

  Markeson thought for a moment. He had nothing pressing that couldn’t be handled for the coming day. Looking down at his cooling meal, he noticed a small white card next to his plate. Turning it over, he noticed the cute waitress had written her name and the time she got off work along with her comm number.

  His habit was expensive. But then, women always were.

  “Make it two thousand credits, any form you like, and I’ll meet you.”

  “Very well, Captain. Your ticket will be waiting for you. I will have my associate greet you at the airfield and take you to lunch so we can discuss business,” the voice answered cheerfully.

  "Good, now, please, tell me how I will recognize my new," he paused for effect, "how shall I say this…my new, high-class lady friend?"

  "Oh, don't worry," the sultry voice whispered. "You'll know it's me when we meet."

  ---

  Sullivan did not seem to be overly bothered by the cold the man thought resentfully. He had to remind himself. If this operation weren't so important for the future, his future; he wouldn't be in this frozen, forgotten town on this miserable planet.

  Sticking to shadows and often scurrying for cover, the man followed Sully, keeping enough distance to avoid detection. He stopped to adjust the earpiece he wore, the cold making the device uncomfortable to wear. Not daring to remove it for fear of not picking up any conversation Sullivan might engage in, the figure tried to ignore the irritating sensation.

  Emerging from the shadows of the building where the dead SP had lain was a Space Marine, an officer by the looks of his bearing and manner in approaching Sullivan. Neither man spoke, much to the frustration of the watcher.

  Ignoring the cold wind, both men vanished inside the building and stayed for several minutes. Sullivan exited and stopped, waiting for the officer who had stopped and turned to shut and secure the door, making sure it was locked.

  Still without speaking the pair started walking again, this time making their way to the snow covered rail line, following it with little trouble. After waiting several minutes, the watcher moved out from the shadows and hurried down the icy sidewalk, slipping and sliding clumsily on the slippery surface. Moving to the road to avoid a nasty spill, the man rushed to catch up with the pair before losing them. An earlier search of the area told the watcher the rail line paralleled the road he was on.

  Slowing to take a glimpse between two buildings to his right, the watcher caught a glimpse of Sullivan and the officer, walking quickly down the rail line. The shadowy figure scurried to take cover by the building, stepping on the sidewalk to avoid detection. A quick check of his listening device confirmed the pair still had not spoken to each other.

  Staying in the shadows, the watcher seemed to vanish from sight as he silently followed the unwitting pair.

  ---

  I'd been up over twenty-four hours, and I was tired. I was also not about to let the Major know I was tired. Not when he had to have gone without sleep for what had to be close to forty-eight hours.

  Making our way along the rail spur to the military base, it was evident there was no indication if the dead SP had walked along the rail line to the small building where he’d been murdered. Any trace he’d used this route had been covered by the fine, misty powdered snow the cursed wind swept over the barren, frozen roadbed.

  As we neared the now visible perimeter security fence of the base, I stopped looking for any signs of how the dead SP had traveled.

  “He could have been transported there some other way,” I said out loud, more to myself than the Major.

  “How do you mean,” Kilgore asked.

  "Hovercar. The train that passed. The victim could have been on it when it made the run to the base. Any number of ways."

  Kilgore just nodded and said nothing.

  “You didn’t give me a lot of time with his file. What’s the SP’s name again?”

  Kilgore just laughed once without humor.

  “John Brown. But I doubt it matters what his name is… was.”

  I didn’t like this bit of news.

  “John Brown? Really? You’d think the military could be a little more creative in coming up with a new identity when they wipe a guys record.”

  “Unless he was only a couple of weeks old.”

  I stopped and turned my back to the wind, motioning the Major to do the same. He glanced at the sentries at the post entrance we’d been heading for and slowly turned as well.

  “You don’t really believe this Brown is a clone do you, Major?”

  Kilgore’s cheeks moved as he ground his teeth in silence, thinking. Turning his head to me slightly, Kilgore squinted as he spoke.

  “What do you think Sullivan? You saw the body, up close before we had it moved to the town morgue.”

  I didn't know what to think, and I wasn't ready to let the Major know that. Not until I knew more about what was going on. And not until I knew I could trust the man who'd destroyed my military career.

  "I know Sarah; my assistant believes he's a clone," I admitted.

  I did not share the fact she healed unusually fast and could deal with extreme temperatures that would kill an ordinary human. Oh, and things like she could hide in plain sight, move like a cat and sense things a regular person couldn't.

  “She should know,” Kilgore said quietly.

  I laughed, hoping to draw something from the Major. “What makes you say that?”

  This time, it was Kilgore’s turn to look paranoid by doing a 360-degree scan of the area before leaning close and whispering, “because she’s a clone herself.”

  “What?” I exclaimed, hoping to get Kilgore off that idea. “You think because she has a scar on the back of her head she’s a clone?”

/>   "No, I believe she's a clone because she's not affected by the cold like we are. She's unduly observant Sullivan. It gives her away. Instead of focusing on staying warm, she watches everything, never looks down to avoid the wind."

  “So Sarah likes cold weather. That’s not proof she’s a clone.”

  Kilgore smiled knowingly.

  "You don't believe in charity cases, Sullivan. I know you. That girl doesn't have a clue about police work. You would never have hired her as your assistant unless she was trained, had at least studied criminology. She's never been to school. I'd bet a month's pay."

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You hired her to keep an eye on her.”

  Grimacing to display a sense of irritation, I replied sarcastically, "I did no such thing," trying to stay calm, not letting Kilgore see he was right.

  “Sure you did. You only need that young detective they saddled you with to carry stuff. He might be a promising detective and I’m sure you’ll do a good job training the pup, but you work better alone. You always have.”

  “Seriously, Major. None of that is evidence that will hold up in court.”

  “No, Sullivan, it isn’t. But I’m willing to bet you’ve seen something unusual. Like the fact she heals faster than she should.”

  “And how would I see something like that?”

  Kilgore suddenly looked tired, bored with our verbal game.

  "Sullivan, your lovely little Sarah is a clone. Just like her sister Maria was."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Markeson watched the waitress to the door of her building. Typically he would have pushed things by walking her to the door. Not tonight. He was worried about the strange conversation earlier in the evening. Worried enough he'd decided to cut the night a bit short. Shauna, the woman's name, turned and smiled as she waved before slipping through the door into her small apartment. Like so many others in the southwest part of town, a converted shipping container from when the planet's first colonists arrived.