On the Shores of Titan's Farthest Sea

by Michael Carroll

  “The other bad news, of course, is that they want me here to help. In a way that’s good news, because I want to get him back into custody as badly as I’m sure you do. Don’t worry, kid. I’m going to do my very best, and Sanjay Rao says I’m the best for the job. I’ve always thought of him as an excellent judge of character.”

  Despite her trembling shoulders and shallow breathing, she chuckled.

  “So bottom line, I’m not coming to Titan. Not in the foreseeable future, anyway. So sorry. But I know I’m probably right where you want me in the grand scheme of things, right? Send me a message and let me know how you are and what you’re thinking about all this, okay girl? Signing off.”

  Abby didn’t know how long her screen had been blank when she finally realized the message was over. The replay icon was blinking away, asking her whether she wanted to see her message again, but she ignored it. Her cheeks were wet. Demian Sable was free. The monster was on the loose. She tried to calm her breathing. Which was worse: the news that Jeremy couldn’t help with Kevin’s murder, or the news that her parents’ murderer had liberated himself from Morrow to curse the worlds again?

  Worse yet, did Demian Sable harbor hatred toward her, after all these years? What if he had found out where she was? What if he was on his way to Titan to exact revenge? That sounded too Victorian, she told herself. Abigail Marco was undoubtedly the least of Sable’s worries now. He probably remembered her as a gangly, naïve teenaged girl. That’s just the way she wanted to be remembered by him. Forgotten would be even better.

  Her door chimed. She checked the ID on her screen; it was Piers Wellington. At this hour? She stood, ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, wiped her cheeks, and kept the lights low as she opened the door.

  “Hello, Abigail. I hope I’m not too late. I was just hoping you had good news from your friend at—oh, dear.”

  Abby waved off his concern. “No, no, I’m fine. Come in, Piers. Sweet of you to ask. Would you like some tea? I know you like Earl Grey.” She said the last in a mock cockney.

  “You remembered. Sure, I’ll break my water habit just this once, just to be polite, of course. I like it as you do: piping. Now, tell me your problems and let me share your burdens.”

  “He’s not coming,” she sniffled as she padded barefoot into the kitchen, her pajamas swirling loosely around her athletic figure. She called over the island, “My former cop friend—former cop, not former friend—has been put on a case to track down somebody. But it’s a good news/bad news thing. I hope he gets his man.”

  “You have an investment in his new mission?”

  “You could say.” She returned with the cup of tea and sat beside Piers on her couch, crossing her legs beneath her.

  “Abigail, you know how us Brits worry. I know you and Kevin were close. I know it hit you hard. How are you doing with all that?”

  “You ‘Brits’ don’t worry any more than anybody else, silly.”

  “This one does.” He gave her a hug.

  “They say time heals. I just wish it would hurry up.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. It took me a very long time to get over the loss of my father. People kept asking me if I wanted counseling, as if I wasn’t hitting an unspoken timetable or making psychological milestones when I should. But it’s different for everyone, Abby. Take your time. Let it run its course. Grief is like that. A very personal thing.”

  She looked at this man sitting on her couch with his mop of blonde hair and his glacial blue eyes. What a kindness he had shared at just this moment. And before she could control herself, her eyes brimmed.

  “Oh, now I’ve done it,” Piers said.

  Abby wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You didn’t do anything but what was needed.”

  “Well, about your friend’s mission …”

  “Right,” she sniffled and smiled. “Do you remember a guy named Demian Sable?”

  Piers scrunched up his face. “Sable? No, sorry. Geologist?”

  “Murderer. Among other things. Big-time corporate business tycoon into lots of interplanetary investments. I guess the authorities suspected him of being into more profitable things, like smuggling and piracy and such, but they couldn’t prove it. And Sable was the spiritual leader of a movement on Mars called Ishtar, who eventually turned to terrorist tactics.”

  “I do remember them.”

  “Me, too. They killed my parents.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Piers didn’t say it automatically, as Troy had. This was no reflex social action. There was compassion in his voice and on his face. It was a nice face, actually. A scattering of pleasant stubble provided a textured frame for the carefully pruned soul patch crowning his chin. That chin was firm, too. It didn’t need any soul patch to obscure a firm cleft. She realized how tired she was, how distractible. And it was at just these times, when she was drained and her energy was low, that she returned to the dark time. She seldom talked of it anymore, but sometimes it just felt like the right time. And Piers felt like the right person. So she said, “Sable was there, in the aftermath of the quantum explosion.”

  “They used quantum? That’s low.”

  “The injuries were grotesque. It’s probably a blessing my parents didn’t make it. They were minding their own business at home. The thing went off at a nearby shopping hub. Killed lots of people. And I felt it, Piers. I felt it. The whole fire-and-ice thing. It was like I was standing in a vat of molasses and this wave of ice moved through, but when it hit the side of my face it burned. And the tingling down my back and arms and legs, you just can’t describe how it feels. And I could hear the neighbors. Screaming.”

  “How—how did you and your sister make it out?”

  “Janice wasn’t home. We had a garden-level basement, and I was in a far corner room that happened to be dug into a lot of quartz rock in the side of the hill. I got out with minor burns. But I suppose I had more lasting wounds. It was dark, of course, with all the power drained. The only light was left over from the blast, this eerie blue. When I went outside it was like walking through one of those infrared photos of houses. I could see the plumbing glowing through the walls of the neighbor’s house, and I remember the roots inside the hill behind our house, how they looked like somebody’s nervous system. And I could see tunnels in the hill with dead animals inside them. It was gruesome. And I saw our neighbors. I tried to get to them, but the emergency crews were there fast. This big guy grabbed me. I tried.” She choked on the words, shook her head, her voice quavering. “I tried to go back in. To help. They wouldn’t let me.”

  Piers sat very still, completely silent.

  “They—the ones who did it—they shut down all the cameras and electronic feeds. But I saw him. I saw Sable. There in that terrible cobalt blue firelight. Smiling. Grinning, actually. Looking down the hill at the melted shopping hub, at the fruits of his labor.”

  “What was he doing up on your hill?”

  “Keeping himself at a safe distance, I suppose. He was probably as surprised as I was at how far the effects of the blast reached. They say he usually keeps himself well isolated from his dark works of art.”

  “And you never quite got over it,” Piers softly offered.

  “Well, I may still have some things to work through.” She felt his hand on hers, gently prying it from his leg.

  “I’ve got the bruise to prove it.”

  “Piers, I’m so sorry!”

  He grinned, and began to laugh. So did she. It felt good.

  “I promise not to hit that little hot button again, my dear,” Piers said. “Something like that is not easily worked through. Besides, I bruise easily.”

  “It’s the second time somebody’s hit that particular button in as many days. There must be something to it.”

  “Sorry to have opened an old wound. Of course, some old wounds need opening. Perhaps it’s festering.”

  “Maybe so, but with good reason. This slime got a slap on the wrist and a fifteen-year reservation at a fi
ve star maximum-security resort where he’s still doing all his interplanetary trading and buying and selling from the comfort of his own suite. Is that justice?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” Piers said, looking down at the floor.

  In that moment, seven hundred million miles from her Martian home, Abby wanted more than anything for Piers to comfort her. It had nothing to do with gender roles or the isolation and loneliness of a remote living situation. Maybe all those things played into it, but mostly it had to do with simple companionship, with human kindness. Piers was a kind man. She had seen his kindness in how he treated others, in how he reacted to the stresses of his job. Could he not send some of that her way?

  A pounding startled them. Somebody was apparently trying to remodel Abby’s front door. The heaviness of memories weighed her movements, but she keyed her monitor again. The ID came up Tanya Yampolskaya. Abby jumped up and grabbed the door. Tanya stood just outside the threshold, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She vibrated her hands at her sides, trying desperately to control them. The tendons in her neck showed.

  “Abby, they did it, they did it!”

  “Shhh! It’s late. Why don’t you come in?”

  Tanya rushed past her. “Da, da. Oh, hello Piers.” A barrage of Russian flowed from her as Abby sat down on the couch next to her.

  “Wait, Tanya.” Abby smiled and gently put a finger to Tanya’s lips. “English, please.”

  Tanya grinned, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath. “Okay. Okay.” She locked eyes with Abby. “It’s our rig. The drill. They broke through. To the ocean. Just forty-two kilometers. They are through to water!”

  Both women let out a whoop, and gave each other a high five. “Congrats, my little Russian genius. What did they find?”

  “Oh, too early to tell. It will take hours just to get first samples back up, but the change in drill speed confirmed. Also, we can tell the water is deep, not just lake. Big. Really big!” “This is exciting. Really good.” Abby hugged Tanya. Tanya leaned away and looked into her eyes, suddenly serious.

  “Are you okay, my little Anya?”

  Was she okay? Could she ignore the aching emptiness in her gut, the weight of a decade of history? Could she look around the room and see anything but the headstones of her father and mother on a little green hill in a little Martian valley? Piers came into view, looking at her expectantly. She looked back at Tanya.

  “I’m fine. Hey, I’m happy for your news.”

  Tanya sprang to her feet. “Me also. Tomorrow, we do water tests for first time. That’s me! Good night.”

  “Good night, Tanya. Sleep well and dream of Evian.”

  “And I will say goodnight as well,” Piers said in his best clipped British accent.

  “Thanks for coming by, Piers.”

  “Abby, you know,” he began. He looked at the floor. He looked at her. He looked at her bare feet. “Well, I’m always sticking my nose in. Good night.”

  He left before he could say anything, but she could guess what was on his mind. Something about revenge, about old wounds, about letting go. She didn’t need to hear any of it again. Not until someone had caught up to Sable. Not until the cosmic balance had been restored. Not until he had paid. Finally paid.

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_19

  19. New Lead

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  Sanjay Rao ran his fingers through corkscrews of salt-and-pepper hair. “We aren’t getting anywhere,” he groused.

  Jeremy Belton snorted. “By now, Sable could be anywhere from the air outposts of Venus to the Titan settlements.”

  “Could be, but I don’t think so. I think he’s still right here on Ares firma. One thing we’re good at is watching traffic on and off world. If he launched, even without traffic control registry, we would know it. No, he’s got to be here somewhere.” Rao looked toward the horizon. A breeze feathered his hair. In the distance, the suburbs of New Tucson gave way to vermillion hills. Farther north spread Solis Planum, the plains of the Sun. Rao had always considered the name appropriate. Clear skies usually graced those golden flatlands, along with the occasional dust storm, reminders of Mars’ pre-terraformed days. Now, forests grew along the northern edge of Solis Planum, along the rainy corridor set up by Valles Marineris and the Nereidum Mountains to the east.

  “Mars is a big enough place to get lost,” Belton said. “We have to look for patterns. I figure Sable has his best contacts right here in New Tucson—which is why you’re here, I’m assuming—”

  “You got it,” Rao interjected.

  “—but he’d never show up at his Villa. Sable is a smart cookie. My money’s on him being somewhere as far from New Tucson as he can get, just because of all his friends here.”

  “What does that leave?”

  Belton shrugged. “Lowell, maybe. There’s still an SEN retreat center there. Or maybe Acheron.”

  “Where his former girlfriend was from.”

  “Right. Circe something. Circe Mbiraru. How well do you know Acheron?”

  Jeremy Belton rubbed the back of his neck. “I spent many long, dark nights of boredom there on various stakeouts. And a few weeks now and then exploring a couple vineyards around there.”

  Rao let out a long breath. “Oh yeah, I forgot about your wine thing.”

  “Wine thing?” Belton laughed. “There’s an art to winemaking and wine tasting, you Visigoth.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you told me. Okay, maybe while I’ve got all these guys here, you can surveil Circe Mbiraru’s home in Acheron.”

  Belton smacked his gum. “Just what I love,” he grinned.

  “Just what you’re good at,” Rao said. “Is that gum chardonnay-flavored?”

  “Tooty Fruity. Rich, yet full bodied.”

  (*)

  Jeremy Belton sat in his car, lurking in the shadows of a tall hedge of desert mahogany. From his perch, he could see into the front and side windows of the Mbiraru household. Using an infrared device, he could even make out how many bodies were rummaging around inside. In his days with the bureau, if he had caught someone doing what he was doing now, he would have locked them up.

  Years ago, he had stopped feeling like a voyeur. When he observed homes, he didn’t get any kind of thrill at all. In fact, without coffee the activity always put him to sleep. He could probably sleep in his rental car more soundly than on the lumpy mattress at the King’s Bridge Hotel on Wells Street. It wasn’t Acheron’s finest, but the price was good, and this wasn’t a luxury trip.

  In infrared, the structure of the home glowed as a gridwork of pipes and beams. Only two people were in the house, and after a grueling hour they both came out the front door. Circe was first out. She was as beautiful as Belton had remembered her. From this distance, at least, it looked as though the years had been good to her. He was struck, once again, by the grace of her tall, dark frame. Beneath that caramel skin flowed the blood of Masai warriors. Even in the dim evening light, her skin had an ethereal glow to it.

  Circe led an eager-looking man—obviously the wrong build to be Demian Sable—to her aircar, and they lifted off into the evening twilight. Belton could follow, but he really wanted to know if Sable had been in the place. Still, even if he had, he was not there now. If Belton did a search, he’d lose Circe.

  He lifted off the pavement, spun the aircar around and took off after them. Enough space lay between him and their car so as not to arouse suspicion. Belton crested the guide poles and turned slightly to parallel them. Several other cars were cruising the night skies at about the same level, providing plenty of protection from prying eyes.

  Circe banked toward the south, and Belton followed at a discreet distance. She was heading for the edge of town. Following the vehicle through the countryside would prove to be far more difficult than a city drive. Thankfully, the aircar settled
on the roof pad of a dilapidated home on the outskirts of town. Belton overflew it, passing far beyond. He made a wide circle. By the time he was back, driver and passenger were inside the building.

  Belton parked on an open pad across the street, behind a hydrodumpster. His infrared scanner showed four figures. One was clearly a child. In moments, Circe’s passenger and the smallest figure came through the front door, accompanied by what must have been the child’s mother. Circe gave them both hugs, stepped into her aircar, and headed back in the direction of her home. Demian Sable was not here. The trip had been a dead end.

  (*)

  Belton was just climbing into his lumpy bed when the phone rang. It was Sanjay Rao.

  “No joy here, Sanjay,” Belton said, anticipating his question.

  “There may be some here. Actually, not here specifically but in Syrtis. We got a tip.”

  “An anonymous tip?” Belton asked skeptically. Belton thought about all the wild goose chases he had embarked upon, triggered by those invaluable anonymous tips.

  “Yeah, but sometimes these things pan out. We’re scrambling a team there now.”

  “Good luck on that, Sanjay. I’m not that crazy about anonymous tips. I think we should forget it.”

  “Just let it drop? Like that?” Rao sounded flustered.

  “Don’t you remember how many tips we got that ended up being plants from Ishtar? I think they’re up to their old tricks again. I think Demian Sable’s long gone from this planet.”

  “He’s still got to be here, somewhere. We’ve just got to track him down.”

  Belton sighed heavily. “Okay, have it your way. But I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “Good idea. Maybe you won’t be so grumpy when you wake up.”

  “Unlikely,” Belton said, disconnecting. “Anonymous tips,” he grumbled to himself. “If I jumped every time I got an anonymous tip I’d start talking to myself.”

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015