Armstrong Station

by D. M. Pruden

  Seeming to recognize me, he steps forward.

  “Melanie Destin?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Peeved, he fishes ID from his breast pocket and flashes it in my face. “I’m Inspector Carson Willis. May I have a word with you?”

  A youth spent dealing with law enforcement taught me to appear disinterested in what he wants, but my imagination is awhirl. The MPs in Armstrong have a reputation for arresting first and sorting out the facts later. That this guy employs a measured, semi-civil tone with me tells me this is not a routine visit.

  Offering a well-practiced smile, I say, “Sure, Inspector. Why don’t you come inside?”

  I press my palm to the scanner and bid him to enter ahead of me after the door slides open.

  My apartment is not yet in its usual state. I haven’t spent much time in it since my return. It is still relatively uncluttered and retains the mild pine scent of the cleaner the maid service uses. Still, I self-consciously pluck some dirty socks from the couch and invite him to sit.

  He inspects the cushions before he condescends to accept my invitation. At first, I wonder if, being the morally constipated type that chooses his kind of career, he is just uncomfortable being alone with a real woman who isn’t his sister or mother. Then I realize he wants to spend as little time as possible in my apartment, probably afraid he might catch something from the furniture. It isn’t new, but it is clean...mostly.

  I am more than mildly insulted by his manner. It is true that my housekeeping leaves something to be desired—it’s why I use a maid service—but the state of the place isn’t that bad.

  Despite my pounding skull and the sudden urge to show this guy the door, my curiosity is piqued. I decide to let this play out a bit and see where it leads.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Inspector?”

  “No, thank you. I won’t be taking much of your time.”

  With a nod, I plop in the chair opposite him. Realizing I’m still clutching the socks, I ball them up and stuff them under the cushion, just to enjoy the trace of a sneer that flashes on his face before it returns to the stern expression he’s worn since I first saw him outside.

  He produces a data pad from his jacket and passes it to me. “I’m looking for this young woman.”

  Chloe’s portrait stares at me. She is a couple of years younger in it, her mocha complexion freshly scrubbed and made up tastefully for a girl her age. Mischievous dark eyes twinkle in the face of a naive youth, very unlike the haunted visage of the young woman I met who bears only a passing resemblance to the princess in the picture.

  Shaking my head, I hand the data pad back to Willis. “What has she done?”

  “A sad case, I’m afraid. She is a runaway who got caught up in an unsavoury life of drug addiction and prostitution.”

  I really want to kick this dipshit in the balls.

  “I would think that every young person the Morality Police ‘rescues’ from such a life is a sad case, Inspector.”

  “Quite true. Compassion for these unfortunates is our chief motivation.”

  “Which is why you hunt them down with your renowned efficiency; so that they can benefit from government sponsored moral re-education.”

  An amused smile turns up the edges of his mouth. “That is our mandate. This unfortunate young woman, however, is a unique case. I am searching for her on behalf of her father.”

  “What? No reprogramming?”

  His brow creases. “I simply wish to return her to her family.”

  “Did you consider the possibility that she ran away for a reason?”

  “I’m sure her intent was not to descend into a life of depravity, Doctor Destin.”

  “Life really doesn’t lead us anywhere near where we want to go, Inspector. It tends to want to shit all over us where we stand. I truly doubt most of the beneficiaries of your program planned to fall into the lives they did.”

  “Poor decisions result in moral compromise. We merely provide the opportunity to set them back on their feet and point them in the right direction.”

  Arguing with a zealot is pointless. This is a debate I’m not going to win, and at this stage I just want this asshole out of my place so I can deal with my headache.

  “So you think the family she ran away from is the proper place to put her back on the straight-and-narrow?”

  “Not everyone has a family that goes to such lengths to locate them. Such concern—love, if you will, can be far more efficacious than even our most advanced methods.”

  “I see.” I nod, pretending his bullshit makes sense. “This happens often, does it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Concerned and loving parents contact your office regularly and engage a person of your rank to help them find their wayward children? You must get a lot of calls, Inspector.”

  An oily smile spreads across his lips. “This is as a personal favour for a friend.”

  “Ah, I see. Who is your friend? You haven’t told me the girl’s name. Perhaps I’ve heard of her?”

  The smile evaporates and his back straightens, like he’s felt the foot I so desperately want to jam up his asshole. “Revealing that confidential information can lead to all sorts of complications.”

  “Such as extortion of the family by unscrupulous people who learn that a little rich girl is missing?”

  “That is one possibility, yes.”

  “Why me?”

  I enjoy watching his head snap up at my sudden change of topic.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you come to me with her picture? Is there some reason to believe I may have seen her?”

  “She was spotted in the old city on security cameras. We are canvassing any individuals who were identified in the same area around that time.”

  “I see. Well, Inspector,” I stand, “if there is nothing else, I’ve had a long day.”

  He rises. “Of course, Doctor. I’ve taken up far too much of your time.”

  Before he steps through my doorway, he abruptly turns. “Just out of interest, Doctor, what were you doing in the old city at that time of night?”

  “I went to provide medical treatment to a family who can’t qualify for government health support.”

  “I see. Do you often engage in such charitable work?”

  His bullshit is starting to annoy me. Had he read my file, he’d know where I first started working on this grey dust ball.

  “Whenever I can. Thank you for your visit, Inspector. If I spot the girl, I’ll be sure to call you.”

  With a wry smile, he produces a holo-card from his pocket and hands it to me.

  I smile sweetly, snatch it from him, and close the door.

  Leaning against it, I squeeze my eyelids tight and grind my teeth to keep from screaming in rage while he might still be within earshot.

  Crumpling his card, I go to the kitchen to get myself a beer from the fridge. A couple of long gulps later, I belch and sit at the table.

  His story is total, unadulterated bullshit. Chloe was in hiding on Requiem when I went to see Vostok, so he has no legitimate reason to connect me to her at all unless he knows about Vostok’s connection to her. The son-of-a-bitch saw me meet with his men and put the two together.

  He is no dummy, that is certain.

  I am also convinced that his reasons for searching for Chloe are a lie.

  How could he possibly know about her addiction and being sold as a sex slave? If what she told me is true, Carson Willis might be involved with her abduction.

  We need to get her off Luna as soon as possible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carson Willis looks up from the monitor and rubs his tired eyes. Rising, he goes to the ceiling-high window to peruse the galaxy of city lights arrayed below him. For all her beauty under the black, star-studded sky, he can’t help but feel it is all such a waste.

  Government House is an imposing, modern, twenty-storey structure positioned in the geographic centre of Arm
strong. Like the axis of a giant wheel, it is the focal point of the growing metropolis that radiates from it in a perfect circle. The transparent, plastcrete dome that encloses the city is the pinnacle achievement of Lunar technical innovation; the same innovation that permitted Luna to wrest her independence away from centuries of Terran domination.

  The dome is meant to protect and inspire, but Carson views it as a confining prison; a purgatory imposed on him by petty bureaucrats who amuse themselves by setting obstacles before him, testing him, forcing him to prove and re-prove his abilities before they might one day magnanimously offer him a plumb position in the Capitol.

  Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply and attempts to quiet his mind.

  His control is infinitely better now. He hasn’t repeated his youthful mistake in almost twenty years. His performance in all that time is acknowledged as exceptional, and though the commendations on his record are now multiple, he cannot find a way out of this backwater posting.

  Just outside of the dome is the ancient spaceport and customs station. Its preservation is a testament to nothing more than human sentimentality. Since they are only a few hundred metres from the historic site of humanity’s first, toddling footsteps on the Moon, they survived the bombing raid that took the rest of Armstrong.

  The only reason his prison exists at all is because of that same sentimentality. Following the Lunar victory, the government initiated a reconstruction program designed to elevate Luna to her rightful place in the solar system. Resources were dedicated to reconstruction and modernization. Hard choices were made about which bombed cities would be salvaged and which ones abandoned. Armstrong, due to its relative isolation and distance from the polar water supplies, should have been among the latter. It was sentimental weakness for her historical significance that saved her. If that had not happened, Carson is convinced he would be in Artemis or one of the other major cities.

  The grinning sycophants above him—those who seem to take delight in his continued humiliation—offer reassurances that it is his demonstrated capability that makes him the only choice to run the bureau in Armstrong.

  He knows otherwise.

  He realized long ago there is no intention ever to offer him a promotion. They will ensure he spends the rest of his career where he can be no threat to anyone.

  When he first accepted that conclusion, his old rage returned for a brief time. Fortunately, with considerable effort, he managed to keep it well concealed.

  It was during that time that he fell into the orbit of Anthony Cabot, and his life became tolerable while his prospects improved in ways he’d never imagined. It only required a moral compromise, which, it turns out, he was perfectly capable of making; willing, even.

  Carson rubs his eyes again. Until recently, he’s rarely regretted his choice.

  If that woman had not dropped into his lap, his life would be much simpler and safer. If he had only known who she is, his decisions would have been different; he’d have spirited her back to her father on Terra and ingratiated himself to one of the most powerful men in the solar system.

  Now, all he can hope to do is salvage his own survival, and that effort is currently encumbered by irritating roadblocks.

  He returns to the terminal and reopens the file. Despite the detail contained in her record, Melanie Destin presents a mystery to him. Under normal circumstances, the interview with her would have been another dead end.

  But something about the woman bothers him.

  His consternation only increases as he studies her background details.

  Her simultaneously earned doctorates in both medicine and nanotechnology should have guaranteed her any choice of lifestyle she could want on Terra. Yet she abruptly abandoned it all to come to Luna and hire herself out as a medic on a battered old freighter.

  Why?

  He turns to the second monitor and scrolls through the list of video feeds the AI culled from months of surveillance records.

  As expected of a spacer, Melanie Destin spends far too much time in the bars, but that is not what attracts Carson’s attention.

  Outside of her excessive consumption of alcohol, the rest of her behaviour is atypical; even eccentric.

  She spends a great deal of time in the lower levels of the old city. On multiple occasions she was recorded meeting with the indigents of the slums. Every time she went, she carried her easily identifiable medical bag. She was obviously rendering medical aid to them. His only question is around where she gets the supplies for her apparent charity work.

  Her employer, Canto Corporation, is the likely source of any medicines she dispenses, rendering further inquiries about the matter off limits for him. Digging too deeply into any corporation’s business has ended more than one career.

  Whatever her reasons, her activity, though altruistic and irregular, is far from immoral or illegal. If that was all he’d found, she would be of no further interest.

  But she lied to him, which is cause enough for him to have her brought in for more vigorous interrogation. Her connection to Vostok might be for charitable purposes, though. His people are clearly in far worse shape than most. Perhaps she also dispenses aid to them. Maybe she lied simply to protect Vostok’s confidence. Or there is something more.

  He can’t prove it, but he is convinced she lied about never having seen the girl.

  He closes his eyes and brings his breathing and heartbeat under control. Slowly, he allows the memory of his interview with her to float up before his mind’s eye. His nose wrinkles at the smell of the cleaning solvent in the apartment. His fingers rub across the coarse weave of the fabric on the couch. Multiple old stains from spilled food. Dirty socks; her embarrassment.

  There is fatigue in her eyes. Pain, perhaps? She may have a headache. No, there is alcohol on her breath; she’s been drinking. She hides it well, but there is something else that compounds her discomfort. Resentment?

  Yes, that is it. She is not unfamiliar with law enforcement.

  He didn’t identify them at the time, but he now recalls tell-tale tics she displayed of someone with something to hide. Their level of subtlety tells him she is a practiced liar.

  She almost fooled him about never having seen the girl, but it is there, engraved on his subconscious memory—the oh so subtle flicker of recognition when she looks at the picture.

  There was a chance that she didn’t consciously realize she’d recognized the girl. Perhaps she’d seen her briefly while visiting Vostok’s compound on a previous occasion, but Carson is not willing dismiss the possibility that she knows the location of Chloe Cabot.

  It is time to conduct a more thorough interview with Melanie Destin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The small, windowless room measures maybe eight metres square. It is brightly lit, and an awful modulating hum, just loud enough to be annoying, grinds down my nerves.

  I have no idea of how many hours I’ve been confined to the interrogation room at Morality Police headquarters. On my arrival, they did something to disable the chronographic function of my cortical implant. Naturally, any comm functions or access to the omni-net are also out of commission, so I have nothing to occupy myself with except my own thoughts. They grow darker and more murderous with each passing minute.

  The two goons who arrested me were none too nice about it. They made a show of stopping and cuffing me as I exited my apartment in the late afternoon. I’d risen late, having spent the day sleeping off the effects Oskar’s vodka. Humiliated, I endured the gawking stares of other residents and passersby as I was hustled into a marked ground car.

  So much for my efforts to keep a low profile.

  After taking retinal and brain scans, they hooked me up to something that looked like a medieval torture device to pull a record of my CI activity for the previous twenty-four hours. I was grateful to learn that the very expensive anti-scan overlay hack I’d recently installed in my implant was worth every credit I paid for it. They only saw what I wanted them to, but by the tim
e they were finished rooting around in my skull, I had a blinding headache, now only exacerbated by the conditions of the room I occupy.

  By the time Carson Willis enters, I am ready to tear him a second asshole.

  “Doctor Destin, we meet again,” he says, a smug expression on his pale face. He pulls up the only other chair in the room and sits across from me at the table.

  I suppress my temper and discard my first choice for a response. “You asked so nicely, I just couldn’t refuse.”

  “Indeed.” He places a data pad on the tabletop and scrolls down the screen. Finding what he searches for, he glances up at me.

  “You have not been honest with me, Doctor.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realize we were in that kind of relationship.”

  His smile is insincere. “Shall we try once again?” He shows me the same image of Chloe. “Have you seen this woman?”

  I pretend to study it then look up as I slide the device back to him. “Yes.”

  My answer seems to jolt him. “Where?”

  “In my apartment when you showed me this same picture. What the hell is this about, Willis?”

  His eyelids narrow momentarily, then he closes them and inhales deeply. After holding the breath for a couple of seconds, he opens his eyes and slowly exhales. When he is done, any trace of anger on his face is replaced by a frigid calmness. I get the distinct impression that he could gut me with a butter knife and not experience any more emotion over it than if he squashed an ant. He scares the shit out of me.

  “We need to be honest with one another. May I call you Melanie?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  The edges of his mouth turn up in an amused smile. “Very well, Doctor, what was your business with Oskar Vostok?”

  “Who?”

  He shakes his head and fiddles with his pad. Turning it, he shows me security feed images of my meeting with Gregor and Vassily in the old city.

  I sit back in my chair. “I provide medical assistance to him.”