Marlowe and the Spacewoman

by Ian M. Dudley

  Marlowe had other jobs queued up, for some of the other, smaller cases he was working on. But this took precedence. “Top priority, House. Top priority.”

  House dispatched a fist-sized mechanical ornithopter from a heating vent to collect the samples on the table. The thing buzzed over Marlowe, its mechanical gripper snapping open and closed, before scooping up the mushrooms. The thing gave Marlowe the heebie-jeebies – it looked like a giant, demon-spawned dragonfly with a claw.

  Marlowe shook his head and moved to the front door. “I’m going out. Paying a visit to a bar of soap who needs to clean up his act. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Cíao, baby,” said Hassel.

  “Don’t hurry back,” muttered Gomer.

  CHAPTER 4

  YOU CAN ALWAYS RELY ON FAMILY

  A flock of birds flittered up from under an awning across the street as Marlowe stepped out of his modest brownstone abode, the front door sliding closed behind him with a sharp hiss. He walked down the three steps to the sidewalk, eying the neighborhood cautiously, wary of any potential danger. Marlowe lived in an unassuming home in a somewhat, but not quite completely unassuming neighborhood. Houses crowded in on either side, all built from the same design. Tall and narrow, two stories with lots of, well, brown stones. But not the crumbly, 50/50 limestone/Styrofoam simulated brownstone you couldn’t avoid today. It was the good stuff, pre-Fall when the Big Fed still ran things and the North American continent had been one united country. Too well-built to be torn down, or so Marlowe told himself, the redevelopers stayed away, leaving the neighborhood static, something generally unheard of in the City.

  Marlowe smiled as he thought about his little neighborhood, an oasis of stability in a City of change. He loved the City. Every year it was the same, every year it was different. In most parts of the City, buildings went up, buildings came down. Streets were paved, streets were torn up. Unemployment was almost nil, what with all the construction and demolition work. The City didn’t really need all the constant construction work; in fact, it was downright disruptive, but as urban pacification went, nothing was cheaper than a low unemployment rate. And after all the construction jobs had been filled, anyone still needing money sold maps of the ever-changing streets. Of course, some buildings and streets were left untouched. Mostly the ones with toxic waste buried illegally under them. Hate the super-genius parrots all you want, but when they wrested control of the teamsters from the mob, they’d put an end to a lot of environmentally hazardous practices like illegal dumping and mixing radioactive waste into the asphalt.

  His neighborhood, Marlowe kept telling himself, wasn’t left untouched for those reasons. His neighborhood had historical value. The City merely wanted to preserve their landmark homes.

  Marlowe’s trusty magno-converted ‘73 Studebaker awaited him at the curb, a fresh coating of parking tickets plastered on the windshield. He’d fallen in love with it the instant he saw it on the lot, which was a problem because he’d been hired to steal the car back for the legitimate owner. She had been caught up in a financial dispute with her sister-in-law, who owned the lot. The car had been seized as collateral, and the sister-in-law was attempting to recoup her losses by selling it. It had been a complicated carnival of misunderstandings, deceptions, and outright lies, but in the end, Marlowe owned the car with a clear conscience.

  What he hadn’t figured out until weeks later was that there was no such thing as a ‘73 Studebaker, and the original “owner” and the sister-in-law were in cahoots, the whole “case” a scam to trick him into buying the car, an otherwise unloadable vehicle because of its illegally modified provenance. One of the oldest tricks in the book, and he’d fallen for it. Still, this did not diminish his deep, abiding affection for the vehicle. He especially liked the missile-shaped hood, which he had custom painted to look like a giant, bulging eyeball. The perfect ride for a private eye. And damned intimidating to see staring back at you in the rear view mirror. Not so great for discreet tail jobs, though.

  Marlowe had just shoved a stack of news flimsies aside and settled into the foam-spewing, cracked red vinyl bench seat when House pinged him.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the Governor is on the line for you.”

  Damn, thought Marlowe. What did his brother want? “Better put him through. You know how absolute power has gone to his head.”

  The voice of Marlowe’s older brother, His Most Honorable Governor of the City, barked out from the audio implant in Marlowe’s right ear. “Gervase?”

  “I changed again. It’s Marlowe now.”

  “Marlowe? Dear God in Heaven. Can’t you just settle on one name? I suppose you’ve changed your face again too. No matter. I need you down at City Hall pronto.”

  “Look, dearest broth-”

  “This is an open line!”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor, but I’m rather busy right now. A bar of soap-”

  “Made contact with your skin? Wonderful! God knows your hygiene could stand improvement. Now get down here on the double. That is an order.”

  “You don’t understand-”

  “An executive order, Marlowe.”

  Failure to comply with an executive order was punishable by ten years imprisonment in the Ministry of Policing Maximum Security Detention Facility. Or, if you were lucky, death.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’m on my way.”

  “Good. Gwen and Artemis are on their way to escort you. In fact, they should just be arriving.”

  In the rear view mirror, Marlowe noticed a large, black stretch tank pull up behind him. The plexi-sheen armored windshield was mirror-tinted, but he had no doubt that the large, shapeless forms of Gwen and Artemis, the Governor’s two goons, were in the front seat, grinning mischievously. Probably hoping Marlowe would resist the summons so they could practice their shock-baton swings on him. Again. But Marlowe didn’t make the same mistake more than two or three times. That was the hallmark of a truly talented PI.

  “Bro-”

  “Open line!”

  “You know, you could encrypt the calls you make to me.”

  “People would wonder why I bother. I can’t afford that kind of speculation.”

  Marlowe rolled his eyes. “Am I in my car, or do I need to board your limo?”

  “A ride in the Gubernatorial limo? Are you insane? What would the taxpayers think?”

  “Alright, I’ll follow Gwen and Artie.”

  “You know the way. They’ll follow you. And don’t call him Artie. He hates that.”

  “I had no idea. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The Governor disconnected without even saying goodbye. Marlowe started up the Studebaker, listening with satisfaction as the eight coil overhead magnetron purred to life. The car lurched slightly and then lifted, almost imperceptibly, off the road. A puff of black smoke shot out of the back, engulfing the stretch tank. Marlowe smiled. He didn’t know where the smoke came from, but he had yet to come up with a reason to fix it.

  “House, pipe in my favorite music.”

  That was code for “Encrypt our connection.” Using one of the one time cipher pads he’d downloaded before leaving, all additional exchanges with House would now be encoded and masked by music, so any casual electronic eavesdropper would think Marlowe was just listening to his favorite tunes.

  “Our conversation is now private,” said House.

  “Thank you.” Marlowe programmed the Studebaker for City Hall and leaned back as the car pulled into the street. Gwen and Artemis followed close behind.

  “Any ideas what this summons is about?”

  “I’m working on that. As soon as the call came in, I checked comm traffic coming into and going out of the Governor’s office. Not the usual moderate morning traffic, but extremely heavy volume among City Hall, the Civic Defense Guard, and the Ministry of Policing. All using high level encryption.”

  “Uh oh. I smell Obedere.”

  “No doubt you will have another encounter with him.”
r />   “Well nuts to that.”

  Obedere was the Chief Minister of Policing. A power hungry authoritarian, he ran the City Constabulary with a fist almost as tight as the Governor’s grip on the City administration. Marlowe’s brother had only reluctantly installed Obedere in the Ministry of Policing, and Marlowe himself had suffered more than a few unpleasant run-ins with the man. If Obedere was involved, not just Marlowe’s life was in danger, but quite possibly his brother’s too.

  “Why the Civic Defense Guard?”

  “I haven’t been able to ascertain that as yet. They’re being very careful on this one. However, I have noticed a very peculiar correlation. While I may not be able to tap into the messages themselves, I can study the traffic patterns. I slipped into the City Switchboard server and perused the logs. They didn’t switch over to the heavy duty encryption until shortly after a seismic disturbance which had its epicenter at the collective farms on the outskirts of the City. News vid reports of an earthquake started going out on the wire two minutes before the frantic messaging commenced.”

  Marlowe leaned his head against the window. The Studebaker had just pulled onto one of the main arteries in the southern district of the City. Sleeker, newer cars zipped past on both sides. All part of the economic stimulus laws. Every year, each citizen had to buy a car. Every third year that car had to be brand new. It kept the auto factories running around the clock, the financial institutions in the black, the used car lots hopping, and unemployment low. Even the recycling yards were doing a booming business, melting down old cars so they could be made into new ones. Marlowe, by promising to keep his family ties quiet, had managed to finagle one of the rare exemptions to the annual purchasing requirement.

  “And I have just discovered that four Civic Defense Guard jets were scrambled six minutes after the seismic event.”

  Marlowe grunted at this revelation, still watching the cars go by. Each car that passed offered him a glimpse into a completely different life. A life that could have been his, maybe, if he had made different decisions. A happy couple napping head to head, a businesswoman reading a newspaper, a suited businessman shaving his lantern jaw, a mom yelling at her two cowering kids. All enshrouded in the Plexiglass and plastisteel housings of their automobiles, all oblivious to the outside world around them.

  “An earthquake at a farm causing all of this? No, it can’t be that simple. Something else must have happened at that farm. Ideas?”

  “I have a number of ideas, ranging from the somewhat plausible to drug-induced fantasy.”

  A brand new Zest minivan swept across three lanes of traffic and cut past the Studebaker. Marlowe watched it pass, the woman behind the wheel shampooing her hair. Apparently this year’s model had an indoor plumbing option.

  “Go ahead and lay ‘em on me, from most to least likely.”

  “A covert Ministry of Policing munitions dump exploding, a covert Civic Defense Guard munitions dump exploding, a covert anti-City militia munitions dump exploding-”

  “I thought there was no such thing as resistance to my dear brother’s administration.”

  “Please.”

  “Man,” said Marlowe, “Who doesn’t have a covert munitions dump these days?”

  “The Girl Scouts. Maybe.”

  “OK, is that it?”

  “No, if not a munitions dump, it could have been an old and forgotten Big Fed missile silo. An underground nuclear detonation, most likely not full yield, given the age of the warhead. Or a meteorite impact. Or the return of the Lost Martians.”

  Marlowe laughed at the last suggestion. The Lost Martians. If someone had told Marlowe the Governor was planning to restore all their old, Big Fed civil rights, he would have replied, “And I’m a Lost Martian!” A story told to frighten children, they were a team of scientists sent to Mars as part of the Big Fed space program right before the collapse. They had arrived on Mars, set up camp, and then been unable to return because Earth forgot them in the chaos that ensued when the city secessions began and the federal government collapsed. The whole idea was preposterous; who in their right mind would go on a journey to another planet with the only ride back a mission planned for the near future. Insanity. Of course, that’s what gave the myth such power – the possibility that the legend was wrong and they DID have a way back.

  “Any other possibilities?”

  “A carefully coordinated and planned attack on one of the City’s larger food sources.”

  “I vote for that or a covert munitions dump. Not City affiliated, though, because His Honor would have no reason to bring me in on something like that.”

  “Unless he doesn’t trust Obedere to investigate.”

  “And he shouldn’t. Not that Obedere could get to the bottom of any mystery, even if he wanted to. Which collective farm?”

  “Northeast Rural District One. Brussels sprouts, kale, Lima beans. Genetically enhanced for winter growth. Not the City’s most popular selection of vegetable matter.”

  “But our most plentiful. If someone blew that all to kingdom come, they’ll be facing a death sentence for sure. And quite possibly martyr status if word is ever allowed to leak out.”

  The car had entered the heart of the city. Skyscrapers stretched up into the clouds, which were artificially generated at low altitude in order to give the appearance of majestic buildings and to hide the zeppelins and guy wires that held up some of the more poorly constructed structures. The Studebaker bobbed and buckled with each pothole in the road, which was ridiculous. Riding on the magnetic fields of steel lines buried under the roads, the car didn’t make any contact with the uneven, battered surface. But the City Road Works Department, in order to justify their huge budget and constant road work, had deliberately introduced wobbles into the magnetic fields. This was done to make the general populace, by and large ignorant of the workings of the vehicles they so depended on, think the improvements were not only necessary, but long overdue. Anyone smart enough to realize the work was not necessary, and stupid enough to say something about it, ended up in the Ministry of Policing Maximum Security Detention Facility. Those with enough City scrip might manage, if they were lucky, to bribe their way into a job in the City Road Works Department instead, where they then had a vested interest in staying quiet.

  Marlowe reached Main Street. Twelve lanes across, but that was just northbound. There were only eight lanes southbound, primarily because many were summoned to City Hall, but few left. Gold and silver veined marble blocks, delicately and intricately carved and etched, made up the facade of the Great Hall of the City, as City Hall was officially known. The pillar and wall sculptures depicted marvelous acts of human bravery and ingenuity. The only failing, in Marlowe’s mind, was that the human performing these acts bore an uncanny resemblance to his brother. The sculptures had once borne an uncanny resemblance to their father, but after his coup attempt had succeeded and Father had disappeared, the Governor had hired the original artisans to touch up the faces and replace the father’s visage with the son’s.

  Marlowe had to grudgingly admit that the marble reliefs were stunningly good; his brother had spared no taxpayer expense. The only thing marring the artistry of that facade was the line of stark, oversized black and white wanted posters, printed on NevaFade SynthaVellum and affixed with archival grade glue that would adhere to any surface for at least forty years. The Governor was a law and order politician, with an emphasis on order, but he had no soft spot for criminals, especially his most hated nemesis, the dreaded Lafayette, fabled leader of the Avian mob, whose gray visage adorned most of the posters.

  The wall of the facade was only thirty centimeters thick (and that only in the thickest portions). Hiding behind this grandly ornate front was a heavily fortified two story bunker, made of the drabbest but most resilient stone and rock that their father had been able to salvage from the old Big Fed military installation to the north. It was common knowledge the structure could withstand a nuclear attack. It was also common knowledge that common
knowledge had little reflection in reality. But the Governor certainly felt safe.

  The inside was pretty much what you’d expect to see in a salvaged bunker. Thick walls, rough concrete, a gravel-and-lead mixture sandwiched between the outside ring of walls. And elevators. Elevators that ran down deep into the Earth, into situation rooms, illicit rendezvous chambers, even a home theater system with a sub-woofer so powerful that certain movies registered as earthquakes on the surface. And tunnels. Myriad tunnels, twisting and turning everywhere, some leading to secret exits, some leading to certain death, some leading to nowhere in particular. Marlowe had dim childhood memories of running down those tunnels, usually pursued by his brother and his mastiffs. Of course, when father found out about those pursuits, and he almost always did, he got terribly upset. Marlowe had been cloned as a set of spare parts for his older brother, the first born. The thought that any of those spares might be damaged by the dogs tormented dear old father, and soon his brother was only allowed to keep goldfish as pets. Goldfish and the occasional hermit crab.

  But once medical technology (regen gel, synthetic blood, artificial organs, tissue cloning and regrowth, and, of course, nano probes) had minimized the need for a working set of spares, Marlowe had been allowed to wander in larger and larger circles away from the concrete nest of City Hall. As his jabbed veins healed and the blood “donations” ended, he felt a strength and clearheadedness he hadn’t known for the first fifteen years of his life. He found an old library in one of the underground rooms, filled with all manner of mystery novels and short story collections. He inhaled them, discovering new worlds inside the books just as he began to explore the new world outside the bunker. That was the seed that had taken root, nearly twenty years ago, and had grown and blossomed into the man he was today. Marlowe.

  The Studebaker beeped its horn gently twice, and Marlowe’s reverie ended. The car was circling the Great Hall of the City, trying to find a place to park.

  Oh sure, there was the large James K. Polk Memorial Parking Structure right next to the main entrance. Very large, and with a sign that said, “Plenty of parking. Come on in!” And it looked like such a fun parking structure. Painted in bright orange and yellow tones, with pictures of smiling suns and happy children stenciled across every square meter. Only a fool would enter. A fool who had been summoned to City Hall and wasn’t destined to leave. It was, in actuality, camouflage for a large impound yard. They had to put the leftover cars somewhere, as having derelicts dotted around the perimeter of City Hall was deemed unsightly and a dead giveaway as to who was responsible for the disappearances. An underground highway ran from the impound yard to a recycling facility that melted down the vehicles and sent the extracted raw materials to an automobile factory. A few cars managed to escape though. As teenagers, Marlowe remembered following his brother on his birthday as he walked up and down the rows of nicer cars, deciding which two he would get for that year.