by Alex Thomson
“Leila.”
“That’s the one.”
He closed his eyes, shutting off further conversation. I had to bite my lip to stop myself making some comment about the photographs.
I THINK BACK to seeing him in the airlock, the cycle after Lily’s death. That awkwardness—was it just the reaction of an emotionally incapable man, unsure what to say to a grieving girl? Or the embarrassment at coming face to face with someone he’d just killed a few hours earlier? I need to speak to someone from Earth about the photographs, but the Overseers will protect their own—even Mr Lee, though he despises Mr Reynolds. I try to detach myself from what I think of them all on a personal level, and picture them, their hands round Lily’s helmet, grappling with her. An Ay. A Bee. A Jay. Two Ays. Three Jays. Mr Reynolds. Mr Lee. Mr Ortiz. I replay the scene, time and time again, but I’m no closer to knowing which of them it was.
IN A COUPLE of hours, I’m going to be sharing a jeep back to base with Mr Reynolds, Jupiter, Aaron and Andy. The thought of sitting among my prime suspects, oblivious that they’re all being weighed up as murderers, makes me giggle. I lean back on the bed of swag and sit up again immediately, as it bites into my shoulder blades.
I think and think—I feel like I’m on the verge of figuring something out here, but it’s just out of reach. I’m aware that the clock is ticking: just 590 cycles, and then the killer escapes. Marple, what would you do now? The interrogations are complete, I’ve explored any suspicious circumstances, I’ve found some clues… usually at this point, she’d bluff the murderer into making a mistake, like trying to kill someone else. But how do I do that, without getting killed myself?
I brought Mr Lee’s reader with me, so I take it out now. I find Sleeping Murder—written during World War Two, kept in a vault until Christie’s death, when it could be published posthumously as Marple’s last case. I skim through the last few chapters—she didn’t have any proof either, but she knew, because of something the killer had said; so she laid her trap accordingly.
I skip the epilogue of Sleeping Murder and bring up the first Marple novel, Murder at the Vicarage. Something about St. Mary Mead reminds me of Hell—a small, enclosed society; the stifling claustrophobia and social stratification; and all those secrets lying beneath the veneer of respectability.
It’s a strange story in some ways—told from the perspective of the vicar, who couldn’t stand the victim, and who looks on in a detached manner as Marple investigates. Nobody is sorry to see Colonel Protheroe dead, but justice must still be seen to be done. The vicar is so bogged down with the how—the clock that is fifteen minutes fast, the various exits and entrances to the vicarage, the sound of the gunshot—that the why is almost incidental. Griselda, the vicar’s wife, reminds me of a Bee. I do this quite often with characters—thinking to myself he sounds just like Mr Ortiz, or classic Ay behaviour.
My attention is wandering, and I can’t focus on Vicarage. My attention is caught by a big lump of swag, it looks almost too heavy to lift. It triggers a clear memory: an Ay holding some swag, threatening to throw it—we’re outside somewhere, but I can’t place exactly where. He’s backing away, watching two Overseers, grey stripes down their suits, approaching him in a pincer movement. I’m standing with a couple of others—Bees, I think, though it’s not clear. We’re all watching and patched in to one channel, but it’s just a wall of noise and shouts and crackling. I can see the fear in the Ay’s eyes, darting side to side. He suddenly lurches forward and hurls the lump of ore at one of the Overseers, and there’s a cry on the channel, but the Overseer ducks, the rock brushes off him and onto the ground. The other Overseer charges and the Ay grasps at him, clutching and stumbling, and the two of them tumble in slow motion to the ground. Then the vision fades away, the shouts still ringing in my ears.
What was that about? Which Ay was it, which Overseers? And why am I only remembering it now? I really, really hate it when this happens.
MR ORTIZ HAS informed us that there’s going to be an Asteroid General Meeting next cycle, one of the tedious gatherings that take place every 100 cycles. It’s been scrawled in thick black letters across the Rota. If the Overseers had their way, it would just be a chance for them to recite figures at us and try to motivate us—but occasionally it livens up when brothers and sisters start bickering with each other over some petty complaint. Lily and I, we would generally keep a low profile at the meetings—whenever I spoke, I could feel forty or so eyes directed on me, I could sense each one, as though there was a laser beam running from each eye to me. I’m not intimidated by any of them one-to-one, but when they’re all together, my whole body just clams up and I can’t speak.
I sit in the Community cabin, and survey the Rota. I could do without the Meeting now, if truth be told. Seeing all the Families there together—six Bees, six Jays and five Ays, while I sit on my tod, trying to look as though I’m perfectly happy by myself, picking my nails and looking out the window. Maybe a Jay will take pity on me and talk to me.
Inside, my headache has built to a crescendo. I can sense it pulsing—it feels as though my head is a giant glass ball—a single rash movement and it will shatter. I’ve got to figure out who killed my sister, and soon. I lean back on the sofa, and close my eyes. For some time I lie there, people coming in and out, minutes ticking by, a scream building inside my throat. These twenty people, sharing this rock with me, cycle after cycle. One of them the killer. This dam must burst.
9
ASTEROID GENERAL MEETING
Mr Ortiz: Right, everyone present? Ays?
Aaron: All here.
Mr Ortiz: Bees?
Brenda: Present.
Mr Ortiz: Jays?
Jolly: Yeah.
Mr Ortiz: Ells?
Leila: Er, Ell, singular?
Mr Ortiz: Right, of course. (Pause) Now, there’s a couple of issues to discuss at this meeting. First off, Lily’s death. Sorry, Leila, but it’s got to be discussed, it affects the whole colony—and our productivity. Now, we’re not here to discuss the circumstances of her death, or the various rumours—
Beatrice: Why not? Surely that’s exactly the kind of thing that should be discussed here?
Mr Ortiz: Because …
Beatrice: Why doesn’t Leila tell us what she’s learnt from her investigations?
Jolly: Too right. It affects all of us.
Reynolds: They’ve got a point, pal. Better now than a lot of bad feeling and suspicions.
Mr Ortiz: I’m not sure this is the right place for it.
Mr Lee: This is a forum for debate, not just for us to give announcements and monologues. Let the girl speak.
Mr Ortiz: Very well. Leila can share her fascinating insights with us, after I’ve done my bit.
Leila: Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t ask to speak.
Mr Ortiz: Anyway. What I wanted to say was—we’ve got a real problem in the depots. It doesn’t matter how much swag we mine, if it’s not sorted and tested, it’s not going to be collected.
Andy: We already have to waste our time doing some Ell work.
Mr Ortiz: I realise that, but now we’ve got half the manpower. We were using a system with two Ells, now we’ve got to cope with just one.
Brenda: Meaning?
Mr Ortiz: Meaning we’re going to have to seriously adjust the Rota. I’ve discussed it with Mr Reynolds and Mr Lee, and we’ve got a proposal for you. Either one of each Family volunteers to do half their shifts working with Leila in the depots—
Alistair: You expect one of us to waste half our time down the depots? When we could be cutting ore? Come on!
Mr Ortiz: Or, or, the work is split between everyone. It would work out as roughly an extra shift each, every fifteen cycles. But that won’t be so efficient a system, since everyone is doing the work sporadically instead of getting into a routine—so we might have to increase that to every ten cycles.
(Muttering, discussion)
Jeremy: I’ll do it. I’ll be our part-time Ell.
>
Mr Lee: Thank you, Jeremy.
Aaron: It’s a waste of our strength, putting us on depot duty—let the Jays do our shifts, they’re good at that kind of thing.
Mr Ortiz: Now, lads—
Aaron: And you know how our quotas have got more difficult without Avery.
Mr Ortiz: Okay, we’ll talk about it later. Bees?
Reynolds: What I want to know first is—we’re talking about everybody pitching in, but is she going to do her share?
Leila: Me?
Reynolds: Yeah, you. I checked out the depot after your shift. Still a complete mess—piles of swag dumped everywhere.
Leila: Yeah, well. I’m on strike until I solve this murder.
Reynolds: On strike?
Mr Lee: Leila…
Mr Ortiz: Striking is an option for workers who are being paid: you’re a sister, you’ve been bonded here, and you’re not finished until we say you’re finished!
Joseph: That’s an interesting interpretation of your level of responsibility here.
Mr Lee: This is really not a helpful discussion…
Joseph: No, I’m interested to hear more. Is Mr Ortiz the arbiter of our productivity now?
Mr Ortiz: Don’t piss me off, sunshine.
Barbara: Why doesn’t Lily tell us if she’s cracked the case? Then we can get on with finishing the job here.
Mr Lee: Yes, go on, Leila.
Leila: Well, if I have solved it, I’m not going to announce it here, am I? I mean, I’ve done all the interviewing and investigating—now I just need a bit of time to put it all together.
Reynolds: In your own time. I’m not having my girls working extra shifts in the depot ’cause you’re too busy playing detective to pull your finger out.
Mr Lee: It’ll be on her own time, won’t it, Leila?
Leila: All right, all right! But it’s not fair that—
Aaron: There is no ‘fair’ on Hell. We didn’t like it when Avery died, but we’ve got to hold it together. There’s less than six hundred cycles to go.
Ashton: For the community, Leila. We stand or fall together. You going around accusing people ain’t going to end well.
Jeremy: It may not be a palatable fact, but one of us is a killer. I, for one, want to know who.
Mr Ortiz: There’s no proof of that, it could have been an accident.
Judas: Accident!
Mr Lee: Can we agree that, provided Leila stops her strike and returns to shifts as usual, she is allowed to conduct her investigation as she pleases? Mr Ortiz?
Mr Ortiz: Fine.
Mr Lee: Mr Reynolds?
Reynolds: If she does the work, then yes.
Mr Lee: And if she comes to any conclusions, we’ll hear them out respectfully and decide what action to take.
Mr Ortiz: I’m so glad that’s all settled. Now, to get back to serious business. Extra Ell shifts: Jeremy will represent the Jays. The Bees…
Brenda: The Bees will split the shifts.
Mr Ortiz: The Bees will split the shifts. And the Ays…?
Aaron: The Ays will split the shifts too. It seems there is no other choice. But we’re not fannying around with the tests and the acid. We’ll shift the crates, sort them, and that’s it.
Mr Ortiz: I’m sure that’s fine. Leila, is that all to your satisfaction?
Leila: Super. I’m not holding anyone’s hand, though. I know you all think my job’s so easy, you can prove it now.
(Long pause)
Jupiter: So what next?
Reynolds: Well, the next item on the agenda isn’t going to improve the mood much.
Brenda: Why? What’s the next item?
Reynolds: Mr Ortiz?
Mr Ortiz: Yes, well. It ties in with what we were talking about at the start. Productivity. Fulfilling our quotas. Not good news, I’m afraid.
Ashton: Well?
Mr Ortiz: Mr Lee, do you want to…?
Mr Lee: Very well. A few cycles ago, the three of us finished a thorough inventory of the swag that’s been mined and sorted. We haven’t done one for more than a year—nearly half an orbit. The results were… disappointing.
Becci: We’re under?
Mr Lee: Quite significantly, I’m afraid. If we had kept up our rate, we would be fine. We were just about on target when we checked last time. Part of that is down to losing Avery. More importantly, we believe it’s down to where we’ve been digging. In the early cycles, we found the rich seams, and should have been getting ahead of our quota. Now, we’re mining lesser quality areas, which means less swag. That’s the big factor dragging us below quota, we think.
Andy: How far below?
Mr Ortiz: It’s about 15% under at the moment. Without Lily, the rate’s going to slow that little bit more. So to finish 15% under in five hundred and ninety cycles’ time would be a good result—10% under would be amazing.
Ashton: But we’ve all been working to the bone! I don’t understand how we can be under?
Mr Lee: In a way, it doesn’t matter why. The most important thing is that we’re not going to make quota when the Collection Ship gets here.
Reynolds: And unfortunately, Earth’s not going to be happy. They’re not going to say “There, there,” and give us a chocolate biscuit.
Joseph: So what? What are you telling us?
Mr Lee: We hoped not to have to tell you this, that it would never be an issue. But Earth won’t accept 15% under, even 10%. When we were first sent here, they told us they might accept 5% in special cases—and given that we never had a full Family of Ells, I think we could have made a case.
Beatrice: But what do you mean, they won’t accept it? They’ve still got to take us to Earth, that’s the deal.
Mr Lee: Actually, they don’t have to do anything. The way it works—they’ll drop off supplies and take what we’ve mined; they’ll give us replacement brothers and sisters, Overseers—all starting their term early. But nobody will be permitted to board the Collection Ship. They return an Earth year later—about a thousand cycles—by which time we will have made up the shortfall.
(Hubbub, shouting)
Reynolds: All right, one at a time!
Aaron: You cannot be serious! You know how hard we’ve worked!
Joseph: And the quota is just an arbitrary figure they set—they’ve got no idea whether it’s a realistic target or not!
Juan: So they’re punishing us for falling short of their own arbitrary target!
Mr Ortiz: This may be true, but—
Brenda: We will not allow it. You promised. You promised.
Reynolds: Do you think any of us are happy about this? I want to go back to Earth as much as you do!
Mr Lee: Unfortunately, this isn’t a situation where any of us have any choice. They will come here, the tally will be short, and what we’ve told you will come to pass.
Alistair: We won’t let them. We’ll—
Andrew: We’ll fight this.
Andy: If we stand together.
Reynolds: Don’t be daft. They’ll have guns. You won’t have a choice.
Bess: Don’t underestimate us.
Mr Ortiz: And if, somehow, you overwhelm them, then what next? Will you fly the shuttle back to the Collection Ship? Will you fly the Collection Ship back to Earth?
(Silence)
Judas: They’ve got us over a barrel, the bastards.
Brenda: You should have told us. You’re as bad as they are.
Reynolds: Come on, Brenda. We had no choice.
(Pause)
Aaron: Is it possible to make up the shortfall, if we push ourselves to the limit?
Mr Ortiz: In five hundred and ninety cycles? No. You might make it to 10%, but you’re already working to full capacity. You’d just burn yourselves out.
Mr Lee: What we all need to do is be pragmatic about this. None of us has to like it. But the fact is, we’re not going to be able to avoid another Earth year here.
Beatrice: It’s not fair.
Mr Lee: It’s business. None of this is
happening for personal reasons. There’s not some evil genius chuckling madly as he screws us all over. There’s just a computer with some algorithms, examining the financial viability of Mizushima. It looks at the costs of the programme and the revenue brought in by the swag, and works out what the profit margin is. And, in five hundred and ninety cycles, it’s going to tell the corporation who owns Mizushima, that we do not yet meet the profit margin that is required. (Pause.) Just business.
Joseph: Nice speech. Doesn’t change the fact you should have told us from the start.
Mr Ortiz: We’re not allowed to. Too much risk of it being demoralising.
Beatrice: Whereas now we’re just peachy keen, are we?
Brenda: You Overseers. You like to think you’re such big men. But you’re here, alone on Hell, in charge, for nearly three orbits… and you don’t even have the balls to say the right thing.
Reynolds: Brenda …
Brenda: Don’t. Just don’t.
(Silence)
Mr Ortiz: So. Any other business?
10
CATALYST
LILY’S FAVOURITE BOILER suit (grey) is up to my waist, and I’m sat on my cot, trying to think of ways to make myself look more like my sister. I’ve swept my hair back in a way she liked to do. I’ve rolled around in her sheets, ’cause I once read in a book that smell was the most powerful of all the senses.
It’s a classic gambit: dress up as a murder victim, and see if it provokes a reaction from the suspect.
I toy with the idea of smearing some ore dust over my cheeks, to give off a ‘fresh-from-the-grave’ vibe. But that’s a bit… macabre.