by Devin Hanson
Andrea nodded. “It must have been quite a feat to get so much water to Mars, no matter what your budget was.”
Marcus smiled, remembering. “I had a launch window for a slow-burn cargo rocket that was coming up in six days. I still don’t know how I got my container on board.”
“It’s variety that adds spice to life,” Andrea said seriously. “I find growing things to be fulfilling, but if I did nothing but grow jalapeno peppers, I would quickly go insane.” She gave a wry smile. “Puns aside, an eternity spent distilling potato vodka would be a nightmare.”
Marcus nodded and coughed into his hand. Beneath the blanket of analgesic numbness, he felt the stirring of pain. “What is it that you find variety in? I imagine it isn’t simply different peppers.”
“Trees, Marcus. More than anything else from Earth, I miss having trees.”
So that was how it was. Marcus suppressed a sigh. For all of Dr. Bannister’s existential philosophies, she wanted what everyone else did. Wealth. It wasn’t credit wealth, he imagined she had plenty of that. It was the material wealth that water represented. It was the potential for opportunity.
His parents hadn’t taught him much, but they had ingrained in him a sense of conservation about the family fortune. Andrea’s angle of holding his treatment ransom for his water wasn’t the first time someone had tried to talk him out of a portion of his wealth. It was, though, the first time that he had seen it coming and been entirely unable to do anything about it.
“I could find solace in trees,” he said carefully. “Apples make many beverages. There would be variety there, and, I suppose, in the trees themselves. One could find purpose in building up an orchard on Mars.”
Andrea’s eyes glittered. “Have you had a chance to visit the Womack clinic here in Vastitas?”
Marcus shook his head.
“I propose we go together. We can discuss terms on the way.” She held out her hand for Marcus to shake. “I must say, Marcus, I’m glad you walked into my farm.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Police report from December 22nd, 2130, in conjunction with case code 10136954.
Victim is Dr. James Womack, aged 52. White male, with brown hair and brown eyes. Cause of death is multiple GSWs to the head and chest.
Witnesses report an agitated man rushing up to the victim and screaming, “This is for my daughter!” before unloading a small-caliber handgun into Dr. Womack from a distance of three feet. Dr. Womack had just left his vehicle and was preparing to approach the U.N. Assembly Hall where he was scheduled to make his defense of the Womack Process before the world court, when the suspect burst through the security cordon and approached Dr. Womack.
Video footage of the event confirms the suspect to be Alan Macovich, whose daughter had gone missing in a suspected egg-harvesting kidnapping six months prior. Mr. Macovich is still at large, armed and presumed dangerous.
Min Yang rode up the escalator and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming down. Olympus Cluster was that last cluster that had a functional and occupied glass dome. It always came as a shock to Min. Every time he rode up the escalator he had to fight down the nagging agoraphobia. It wasn’t as bad at night, but during the day, the view stretched from the slopes of Olympus Mons down south across the plains and foothills of Amazonis Planitia. On a clear day, you could look out through the glass panes for hundreds of miles before the gradual buildup of atmospheric dust obscured everything.
As always, when Min reached the top of the escalator, he hurried to his destination. He kept his head down and tried to ignore the gaping nothingness above his head. His job took him out into the open often enough, but he always wore a space suit. He felt naked, and the feeling of the sun shining on his exposed skin, even through the filter glass, felt alien.
Living in glass domes had been, at one time, the preferred way of life for the wealthy residents of Mars. Gradually the population had moved underground where the safety and security of the clusters greatly improved the quality of life for the general population. Residents of the domes had eventually concluded that the danger and cost of the domes wasn’t worth the risk.
The Olympus Cluster dome was the last of the city domes on Mars. The others had been deconstructed or simply abandoned when their seals started to fail. The Olympus dome was kept active out of a sort of civic pride, though nobody lived in it anymore. Government buildings filled the space instead, including the Colonial Marshals headquarters.
Stepping inside the front doors felt for Min like sloughing off a heavy backpack. Being in a hallway with a solid ceiling over his head once more was a relief.
“Morning, Jan,” Min greeted the woman at the sweeping front desk.
“You’re back already, Min?”
He shook his head, waving at her as he passed by. “Nope, strictly temporary.”
“Oh! Min!”
Min stopped and sighed.
“Director Rosario wants a word. Said if you were to come in you should go meet with her, as soon as fucking possible.”
“That sounds like a direct quote,” Min said with a grin.
“I’m paraphrasing.” Jan smiled sweetly. “You didn’t do anything to get in trouble again, did you?”
“Not that she would be aware of. I’ll go see the director. Consider your message passed on.”
“Sorry!”
Min waved. “Not your problem. See you around, Jan.”
Min got into an elevator and stared at the panel for a moment. He really wanted to visit the armory and stop by Enrique’s office, but Jan had probably already pinged the director’s tablet, letting her know Min was in the building. If he was in trouble, it would only be worse if the director thought he was avoiding her.
With a sigh, he pressed the button for the top floor, holding his thumb down on the button long enough for it to scan his print. The panel chimed and he took his hand away.
“Marshal Min Yang,” he said clearly.
The panel chimed once more and the elevator hummed as it shot upward to the top floor. The elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors pinged open. Min stepped out into the penthouse suite. Originally, the building had been designed for a multi-billionaire who had wanted a place to throw parties during vacation visits to Mars. The penthouse had been designed with all the subtle taste of a child checking off a list of expensive things. The gold plating had been removed, but the inlaid hardwood in the walls and floor remained. Most of the interior walls had been stripped out, leaving the sweeping panoramic windows open to the morning sun shining in.
Director Clara Rosario was striding toward him. She was a wujin, a handful of inches taller than Min, and made taller still by her tasteful heels. Curling white hair was gathered high behind her head before falling down in a long cascade. She wore a business suit cut from imported silk.
“Marshal Yang.”
“Madam Director,” Min bowed his head politely.
“Do you know why I called you here?”
Min suppressed a smile. “No, I can’t say I do.”
Director Rosario looked at him for a moment, tapping a finger on her hip before coming to a decision. “Come, sit.”
She led Min over to a recessed lounge near the windows. Uncomfortable with the view, Min selected a seat that put his back to the Martian expanse.
“Tell me about your current case,” she invited.
Min frowned. The director was several layers above him in the organization chart. Min was an investigator, but above him, he had a lieutenant and a captain. “My lieutenant–”
“Isn’t here,” she cut him off. “And doesn’t need to be, does she?”
“No.”
“Oh, good. You were telling me about your case?”
Min shrugged. Something seemed off to him. There wasn’t any harm in the director asking about a case he was working, but it was something akin to the captain of a space frigate checking in with the deck hand to make sure the floor was being mopped.
“Strange. You don’t usually work the MP ring. There are units that specialize in it.”
“What can I say? I got back from the Esperalda assignment and my lieutenant put me on it right away. There was a bounty on the case, so I took it.”
“And how are you doing?” she asked delicately. “Do you, ah, need the bounty?”
Min shook his head. “No. Not after bagging Esperalda.”
The director nodded. “That was good work, you know. You’re up for a promotion. Off the back of that action, you could rise to be a lieutenant. Command your own unit.”
Again, Min shook his head. “No thank you, ma’am. Desk work isn’t for me.”
“I see.” The director looked at him, her eyes unreadable. She tapped her knee unconsciously, considering. “How long have the girls been missing for?”
“Six days.”
“Six!” she exclaimed. “That’s a long time for an MP trail to be cold. Most people would have written the girls off as a loss. The bounty must be large.”
Min noted the lack of surprise in her eyes and the contrast between her words and facial expressions. The director already knew these things. Why was she pretending?
“It’s sufficient,” he hedged.
“There must be better things for you to do than chase down a trail a week old,” she laughed. “If it’s the bounty you’re after, I could point you at three other cases with twice the bounty. Ones that you could actually collect before you die of old age.”
“To be honest,” he said, “the bounty is just an excuse. Every century or so I like to do a good deed. Keeps me balanced.” Min chuckled, sharing in the director’s laughter, but he felt no more amusement than the cold eyes of the woman sitting across from him.
“I just don’t like to see my people wasting their time,” she said, her amusement fading. “You should find a case you could actually complete. It’s good for morale.”
“Is that an order?” Min asked. Lucien’s mocking words echoed in his mind. You think the marshals don’t get their cut of profit from our business? Min had dismissed his words at the time, but looking about the penthouse, at the director’s imported clothing, he had to wonder.
“Of course not,” she waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “Your lieutenant is the one that gives you orders. I’m just offering a friendly suggestion. The more cases you complete, the more likely a promotion is. You pull off a few more like that Sarah Esperalda case, you could be looking at Captain. Or you could waste yourself looking into dead-end MP cases. I’m telling you this for your own good. You don’t want to be dodging bullets forever, do you?”
That sounded remarkably like a threat to Min and he hesitated before answering. On the surface, the director’s words were purely supportive. Was he reading something into them that wasn’t even there? Anyone listening to a recording of their conversation would hear it as a pep talk given to a promising investigator.
It was Lucien who had thrown doubt into Min’s mind. Who was he to believe? A scumbag criminal who kidnapped and murdered teenaged girls, or the director of the Colonial Marshals?
Min rubbed his brow. “Sorry, Director. I’ve had a rough trip. Thanks for the advice.”
Director Rosario leaned back, her posture relaxing and she smiled. “You’re welcome, Marshal Yang. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
Min recognized the dismissal and he stood, giving her a short bow before returning to the elevator. He reached for the basement button where the armory was, then changed his mind and hit another one. He needed someone to talk to. Hopefully Enrique was in his office.
“That’s all she said?”
Min nodded, stirring the leftover broth in his ramen bowl despondently. “Pretty much word for word.”
“You’re off your nutter, mate. Ain’t nothing to it.” Enrique drained his bowl and set it down with a clatter.
“I know.”
“Seriously, though. If Director Rosario called me into her office to offer me a promotion, I’d be thrilled.”
“You’re a tech, Enrique,” Min pointed out smiling despite himself. “Only thing you’ll get promoted to is another computer.”
“Bigger toys, mate.”
“Whatever. Look, I know it’s crazy, but there are pieces here that don’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I had a run-in with one of the goons that grabbed the girls. He said something that stuck in my mind.”
“Shit, criminals cream themselves every time they think a marshal is dirty. It’s like fairy tales and warm milk to them. Helps them sleep at night.”
“You’ve never had milk in your life, Enrique.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true. What’d this guy say?”
“He implied that the marshals took a cut from the kidnapping rings to look the other way or drop the cases early. How many girls go missing every year?”
“Hell. Hundreds? I don’t have the records in front of me, Min. What’s your point?”
“How many of these kidnappers get caught? How many Womack clinics using black-market eggs get shut down?”
Enrique grunted. “Not a lot, and none.”
“That’s right. Doesn’t it bother you that so many eggs being sold to clinics are illegally collected?”
“I’m not a wujin, mate. Not a thought that crosses my mind much.”
“Yeah, well.” Min pushed away the last of his ramen. “It bothers me.”
“So what are you going to do? If I was you, I’d give some serious thought to the director’s offer.”
“Not you, too! I’m not going to abandon Angeline and Jasmine.”
“Give it a thought. You said it yourself, these guys are playing hardball. There’s a lot of wealth on the line. Someone’s looking the other way to let it happen. You’ve got forever in front of you; don’t throw it away for nothing.”
Min sighed and rubbed his face. “I need to get going. You ever consider getting the treatment? Becoming a wujin yourself?”
Enrique laughed. “I look like a fucking idiot, mate? No. I’ll leave that shit for you crazies. One lifetime is plenty for me.”
Min unlocked the door to his flat. He had to put down his load of packages to free a hand to operate the scanner, then kicked open the door and carried everything inside. Recessed lighting came on as the flat’s sensors detected his presence.
“Good evening, Min,” a disembodied contralto voice greeted him. “How was your trip?”
Min ignored it. An ex-girlfriend of his had programmed the flat’s AI to be chatty and he hadn’t found the time yet to tinker around with it and turn it off again.
“What would you like to eat for dinner?”
“Surprise me,” Min said. He carried his packages into the next room and grunted as he heaved everything up onto the workbench that ran around half the wall space. Behind him, the autochef started chopping vegetables. Min slid the partition closed and turned his attention to the packages.
One of the perks that came with being a marshal with a long tenure was he had access to everything the armory had in stock. Some exosuit powered armor the marines jealously kept out of the hands of enforcement agencies, but besides that, Min had his pick of every piece of hardware that human ingenuity could invent.
For all that, what he ended up bringing home was limited. He could tool up in full rapid assault gear, but he was alone. If they saw him coming, he was as good as dead. That eliminated all the more flashy weapons and visible armor.
He unboxed a form-fitting suit of ablative armoring, light enough to be worn under his clothes. The armor felt slick under his hands. Having it made him feel much more comfortable. Even though it lacked head protection, the armor would turn away even short-range shotgun blasts. It would still kick like a mule, and the armor didn’t protect against broken ribs. While the ablative coating lasted it would protect him handily from gunfire.
&n
bsp; Frying sounds from the kitchen distracted Min for a moment and his stomach growled. The autochef was a luxury and the fresh vegetables a decadent expenditure, but he had had a long day, and it was nice to eat some good food every once in a while. Besides, at least for the moment, he was flush with credits. If he was going to get shot at in some swampy back-alley, he’d rather do it on a full stomach.
Min didn’t think he had many emotional weaknesses. Three centuries of life had dulled the edges of most of his desires and longings, but he still harbored a childlike awe in unwrapping a new gun.
On Mars, there were too many places and circumstances that made solid rounds impractical. The danger of rupturing a pressure vessel with a poorly aimed shot made the standard marshal load-out exclusively monomol. It was standard practice to not even supply pistols with solid-shot ammunition. All it took was a marshal forgetting which round he had chambered to kill himself and hundreds of people.
Min disassembled his gun and cleaned everything, piece by piece. The flat’s AI said something that Min couldn’t hear and he rolled his eyes. It was probably talking to the autochef or something. He started putting the gun back together again.
“Min, you have visitors,” the AI announced.
“Tell them to wait,” he replied.
“I did. They were disinclined.”
Min heard the heavy ratchet slide of a gun being cocked and threw himself to the floor. Sound hammered into Min’s ears and bullets ripped through the partition. These were not monomol rounds. Ricochets screamed over the chattering crash of the gunfire. Intermittent booms, punctuated by explosions of concrete dust told of a second gunman firing through the walls with a shotgun.
Keeping his head down, Min crawled across the floor as debris rained down on him. He made it to the other side of his workshop and shoved open the partition to the next room. He crawled around the corner and put a heavy concrete wall between himself and the gunmen. After a moment the machinegun ran dry with a clunk.