The Genius Asylum: Sic Transit Terra Book 1

by Arlene F. Marks

  “A temptation?” The puzzled silence that greeted his question told him he’d better try again. “They gave him a — a bribe?”

  “Call it what you like,” said Ruby. “It worked. The Nandrians have followed the rules ever since.”

  “Of course, our crew was pretty upset about being flattened on the deck for nearly an hour,” Jensen added, chuckling. “Karim hadn’t warned anyone beforehand, but he did explain everything later on. That was another reason why I liked him. He never gave us the mushroom treatment — you know, keep ‘em in the dark and pile on the manure? — and we never had to wonder about his priorities. Daisy Hub always came first for him.”

  Ruby had finished her java. As she moved the empty mug deliberately to the middle of the table, Drew summed up, “So, Naguchi was intelligent, but Karim was smart. Naguchi cared about discipline and learning, and Karim…?”

  “Karim cared about morale,” Jensen supplied. “He knew how important that was, especially to people like us — stuck all the way out here and incredibly overqualified for most of the duties available. Well, if you can’t laugh, you’re going to cry, right? So he did what he could to make life bearable, if not enjoyable. He encouraged us to develop our interests, use our imaginations, make our own fun. And it worked. Kept us all sane, at any rate.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ruby scolded playfully before adding, “Karim was into sports and fitness. He spent a lot of time in the SPA room. He even tried to organize virtual reality baseball games and soccer matches among the crew. He failed, unfortunately. Still, he cared enough to make the effort, and you have to respect him for that.”

  Drew’s gaze wandered once more to the wall behind Jensen’s seat, where someone had apparently painted a mural. About one meter square, it depicted a deep space hub, much larger than this one, amid a swarm of docking and departing ships. The style was impressionist, and the colors were richly metallic golds, platinums, and bronzes, with the occasional splash of Chinese red or peacock blue. But the most impressive color was no color at all — it was utter blackness. The artist’s depiction of space held not a hint of blue or brown. After staring at it for several minutes, Drew was half-convinced that there must be a breach in the hull. “And whose interest does that represent?” he asked, pointing.

  “Nobody knows,” said Jensen, shaking his head. “And no one seems anxious to step forward and take credit for it, either.”

  “There are pictures like it all over the Hub,” Ruby added, “and they’re making our Structural Integrity Specialist crazy.”

  “How does a painting affect structural integrity?” Drew wanted to know.

  “It isn’t a painting,” Jensen replied. “Take a closer look at it. That isn’t smart paint — it’s plaincoated metal, and nothing has been applied onto it. Someone has found a way to change the refractive index of the individual molecules of that bulkhead.”

  Ruby pursed her lips. “It’s probably the work of an alien device. Some kind of molecular paintbrush.”

  “The only way to know for sure is to catch the Midnight Muralist in the act.” Jensen’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “But you can never be sure where he — or she — will strike next.”

  “Well, we’d better let you get back to work, Fritz,” said Ruby. “I want to show Drew the SPA room, and then take him down to Med Services to meet the Doc.”

  “Meeting the Doc on his first day? Her bite is even more venomous than the Nandrians’,” the chef observed with a grin. “As a condemned man you’re entitled to a last meal, Mr. Townsend. Any requests?”

  Drew returned the smile. “As a matter of fact, yes. Does your—” He wrestled with his memory for a moment. “—your hydroponics unit. Does it grow citrus fruit trees?”

  The other man stiffened visibly. “For consumption only, sir. My fruit is not for bartering.”

  “Good. Because it’s been years since I had a fresh orange with my morning meal.”

  Jensen glanced uncertainly at Ruby. “Years, Mr. Townsend?”

  “Citrus is scarce on Earth these days, Fritz. A Jaffa orange costs almost as much as a video wall.”

  Suddenly sober, the chef told him, “They’re clementines, sir. I’ll see that you get one every day.”

  “We had no idea, Drew,” Ruby apologized as they left the caf. “We don’t get much news from Earth out here. And anytime I’ve requisitioned lemon juice, it’s arrived, no problems. What happened to the citrus crop?”

  He wanted to tell her. He wanted someone else aboard Daisy Hub to be as angry as he was. As angry as Jovanovich had evidently been when he first arrived. But Drew had no hard evidence yet, only circumstances and conjecture, and it could be fatal to his mission if anyone aboard the station acted prematurely.

  So he ducked the question. As they strolled along the gently curving corridor rimming D Deck, he asked Ruby instead, “When did the Nandrians make first contact with Daisy Hub?”

  She shrugged. “It happened before my time, and I’ve been here longer than I care to think about. With all their comings and goings, they were bound to stumble on us eventually, I guess. But we didn’t become a regular port of call until shortly after Gavin Holchuk arrived.”

  “Why then?”

  “Naguchi was the station manager at the time. Nayo valued order and discipline, and Gavin was grieving and angry. Not exactly an ideal fit. My guess is that Naguchi wanted to give him something difficult to do that would distract him and maybe dissipate his rage. Learning all about the Nandrians was the perfect assignment for Gavin. He threw himself into the work and, over the years, has compiled an enormous amount of data on them. He can even speak a little of their language. Just the fact that a Human would devote so much time and energy trying to understand their culture seems to have impressed the dickens out of them. So when I told you the Nandrians liked him, I didn’t mean—” Abruptly, she stopped walking. “Uh-oh!”

  There was another mural on the wall, a moonscape with planet ascendant, this one just as artfully drawn as the last.

  “Let me guess — this wasn’t here yesterday?”

  Ruby found a wallcomm and thumbed the blue button.

  “Spiro? This is Mom, honey. Check out D Deck thirty degrees clockwise of the SPA room. The Muralist has struck again.”

  An agonized cry drifted out of the speaker as Ruby turned with a grin. “Like the man said,” she reminded him, “we make our own fun around here.”

  Chapter 8

  The SPA room looked like a torture chamber. Dimly lit, it was filled with metal frameworks resembling chairs, at least a dozen of them, each with a rainbow of wires cascading off its back and sides, some tethering it to the floor, some leading to a light-studded metal column in the center of the room, and the rest ending in interface plugs that seemed to sprout like bulrushes out of the armrests.

  “So where’s Doctor Frankenstein?” Drew wanted to know. “Out having a java?”

  Beside him, Ruby was chuckling. “Doctor Petroff says this room sends a chill down his spine — reminds him of the examining lab at his old dental college. Nonetheless, he’s in here for three hours every few days, playing a round of virtual golf. Lydia put together a SPA wafer for him, containing the twelve most challenging courses on Earth. Sometimes Devanan Singh joins him — he’s our electrical and field maintenance expert. You know, I’ve heard that a lot of business gets conducted on golf courses. If you have questions about the Meniscus Field, going eighteen holes with Singh might not be a bad idea. The skins are stored in individual compartments in the bulkhead, and there’s a change room, over there,” she added, pointing to the wall right behind them.

  “Skins?”

  “The body suits that interface with the chairs. We call them skins because you have to strip down and wear them next to your skin to get the full effect of the program.”

  “Do you know whether Khaloub spent any time in here the day he
died?”

  Ruby frowned suddenly. “Why?”

  “You said he was a sports enthusiast. If he had some kind of medical condition that contributed to his death, and if he perspired inside one of those skins close to the time of his death…?”

  She shook her head wearily. “Are you sure you’re not a Ranger, Drew?”

  “If I were, I’d be working on Zulu. Answer my question, Ruby. Did Khaloub log any SPA time the day he died?”

  “Yes, but you can forget about finding any evidence inside his skin. For health reasons, SPA suits are sterilized between uses.”

  “And who is responsible for making sure that happens?”

  A beat, then, “The wearer. Each suit is custom-fitted to a single user. When it’s replaced in its compartment, the lockpad activates an automatic decon cycle.”

  “What if someone isn’t feeling well at the end of an exercise period?” he persisted. “What if he leaves in a hurry, still wearing his skin, and forgets the cycle?”

  “Lydia doesn’t let that happen. Her console monitors the vital signs of anyone wearing a skin, whether they’re running a program or not, and alerts her at the first indication of medical distress. If the alarm goes off, she terminates the program and summons Med Services. She’s programmed the monitor board to do that automatically if something happens while she’s off-duty. And, to answer your next question, Lydia was at her console during Karim’s SPA session that morning, and Karim was in no distress whatsoever. He pitched nine innings, then showered and went to the caf and had an early lunch. Several crew members have already testified to the Rangers that they saw him there, and that he appeared in excellent health.”

  Drew heard the unspoken warning in her voice and realized that this was why she was called ‘Mom’. If the day ever came when he was wounded and in need of solitude, he hoped someone would protect him as fiercely as she was obviously shielding Lydia Garfield right now.

  Poor Lydia. Had she been so easily rattled when she arrived on Daisy Hub? Or was her nervousness a recent development? Had she sensed that he was a cop? Perhaps the shy little nerd was more involved in Khaloub’s death than anyone around here was prepared to admit.

  Meanwhile, Ruby had pinned a smile back on her face. “Decks E, F, and G are living quarters, nothing interesting there,” she declared. “Next stop, Deck H — Medical Services.”

  The tube car door opened for them as if on cue. Drew let Ruby step through first. She thumbed the pad beside the door and waited for the car to begin descending before she spoke again. “Marion Ktumba is a walking database. She knows more than the rest of us put together. So, word to the wise, whatever you do, don’t argue with the Doc. She always turns out to be right, and the last thing a station manager needs while making a first impression is to look foolish.”

  “I’m not another Jovanovich,” he assured her.

  “You’re no Naguchi, either.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  She made an exasperated sound.

  According to the floor plan, Med Services took up all of H Deck, at roughly the midpoint of the station. Unlike Deck C, however, it had a circumference corridor, with entrances leading off it to a variety of storage and work rooms in the central area of the deck. All the corridor walls were smooth and plaincoated pale green, and the air smelled clean and faintly antiseptic. As he walked with Ruby past closed doors labeled Radiography, Pharmaceutical Supplies, and Regeneration, hearing nothing but the humming of air purifiers and their own footsteps, Drew felt as though he’d been teleported back to the fifth floor of Mercy Hospital in New Chicago.

  “Here,” said Ruby, gesturing toward a door marked Clinics and Consultations. He paused and let her precede him into the waiting room.

  Now they were in a triangular space that reminded him of the triage area of a family health clinic. The decor was definitely Earth Institutional, from the imitation rosewood walls to the beige falsahyde chairs with their bent-pipe armrests. Most striking, however, was the smell in the air. Drew sniffed experimentally. “Strawberries?”

  “It’s her favorite,” Ruby confirmed.

  There were four doors providing access to four different clinics, according to the lettering beside each one: Trauma, Rehab, Counseling, and Dental. Drew would have guessed that a medical professional who knew everything about everything would probably spend her time in Counseling; but it was the door marked Trauma that slid aside just then for the most formidable female he’d ever seen in a white coat.

  Marion Ktumba was a tall, sturdy black woman with a helmet of densely curled hair, piercing dark eyes, and an air of authority that would have made a charging rhino stop and rethink its plan.

  “Is this him?” she demanded.

  Yes, Trauma was definitely the appropriate place for someone like this.

  “Doc Ktumba, meet Drew Townsend, our newest fearless leader. He has many questions,” Ruby added with an impish smirk.

  “And I have many answers,” said the Doc, her faint smile eloquent with disdain. Drew had seen the same expression cross his division commander’s face five years earlier when he had informed her of his plans to reapply for full Eligibility status. Now, as then, all it did was stiffen his resolve.

  He met the Doc’s gaze with a challenging stare of his own. “And I would like to hear those answers. Let’s begin by going into your office,” he said, keeping his voice steady.

  “Yes, let’s do that,” she agreed. As she turned to lead the way, Drew couldn’t decide whose brand of condescension was more infuriating, Bonelli’s or the Doc’s.

  The Doc’s office was a doorless cubbyhole off one side of the Trauma room, little more than a desk and some chairs in a pale green alcove. After waving her guests into two of the chairs, she went behind her desk and sat down. “Now, how can I help you, Mr. Townsend?” she inquired.

  He was her superior and she was treating him like a patient. Understandable, but unacceptable. Under Jovanovich and Khaloub there had clearly been a power vacuum that the Doc had moved in to fill. Now that Townsend had arrived, with “more mileage on him and a lot more savvy”, according to Ridout, things would have to be different; and she needed to realize that sooner rather than later.

  “Let’s start with this place,” he said briskly. “I’ve been looking over the deck plans, and you have an impressive arrangement of space here. A complete hospital, including a pharmacy, a burn treatment unit, and a state of the art medical laboratory. What do you do with it all?”

  “I treat patients, Mr. Townsend,” she replied tartly.

  “Yes, of course, but how many Human patients can you possibly get here? One trained physician for—let’s see, there are forty-six adults on Daisy Hub, and about fifteen Rangers over on the Zoo, assuming that their infirmary is only equipped for first aid. That comes to just over sixty people. There are places on Earth that are lucky to have one doctor for five thousand children and adults. And all your patients are Eligibles. That means they’re genetically resistant to most of the common Human diseases and conditions. You can’t be treating the passengers of arriving or departing vessels, since very few ships stop here for inspection, and the ones that do stop have their own doctor aboard. Aside from the occasional accident, then, since Khaloub put an end to the Nandrians’ drunken violence aboard the station, you must have a lot of spare time to fill. I’m curious, Doctor — what do you do with it?”

  That wilted the corners of her smile. “I stay up to date, Mr. Townsend,” she informed him in a voice that could have doubled as a scalpel. “I read medical journals. I reproduce experiments that have been done elsewhere and confirm the findings for myself. I also conduct my own scientific research. I do what a mentor of mine once advised me to do — I never stop learning.”

  “That sounds like Nayo Naguchi.”

  “Yes. A great teacher. I knew him before he was assigned to Daisy Hub. He showed me his design for this Me
dical Services Unit and I came here hoping to work with him again, but he’d already—” Surprised, Drew heard a catch in her voice as she concluded, “He was a brilliant and very honorable man who cared about the future of Humanity.”

  “And so you took his place on Daisy Hub?”

  “No, I took mine. I would never presume to be his equal in anything.”

  Humble words from the infallible Doc Ktumba? Perhaps Jensen was right, and Naguchi really was a saint.

  Okay. Drew took a breath and zagged. “When you examined Karim Khaloub’s body, what did you find was the cause of death?”

  “I didn’t get to perform an autopsy. The Rangers removed the body directly from the scene to the morgue on Platform Zulu.”

  “So they have a medical examiner over there?”

  “No.” A faint smile again.

  “Are you saying there was no autopsy done? A man died under strange circumstances and the investigators simply took custody of the body and stored it, without ordering a medical examination?”

  Still smiling, she nodded.

  Prison mentality, Drew realized. No way are you moving up, so you do what you can to bring the warden down. Volunteer nothing. Make him drag it out of you, one detail at a time. One syllable at a time is even better. If he gives up in exasperation, you win. If he loses his temper and smacks you around, you win.

  Drew had never been good at that game, in or out of detention. He’d never had much patience for anyone else who played it, either. But he’d spent enough time behind tall fences to learn the rules, and he had a possible murder to solve. As long as the crew of Daisy Hub insisted on acting like inmates, they gave him no choice but to behave like a cop.