The Jovian Run: Sol Space Book One

by James Wilks

  “Don is right,” Staples interjected. “It’s not entirely safe. However, I’ve spoken with a friend on Mars who might help us get to the bottom of this. It is my great hope that if we can gather some evidence, then we can let Libom know what sort of man is in charge of their multi-million dollar facility. I doubt they’ll press charges-”

  “Damn right,” Templeton snorted. “Probably sweep the whole thing under the rug and make him disappear.”

  “That suits me just fine,” Evelyn said. “Gone is gone. I can stay here and keep an eye on things. You let me know if you get that evidence, and I’ll let you know if my new boss gets transferred to someplace even more remote than this.”

  Templeton shook his head. “I still don’t like it.”

  “I’m not sure I do either,” Staples added, “but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea. You took a job and signed a contract. You might have been chosen in part for your hair color, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a fine computer scientist. You certainly helped sort Gringolet out.” Her hands gestured airily to the ship around them.

  Evelyn leaned forward. “And I can always leave later.” Templeton nodded reluctantly, a grim look on his face.

  Several minutes later, they all stood about in a loose and awkward circle as Evelyn made her way to each of them to say her goodbyes. She hugged Templeton enthusiastically, and shook hands with Charis and John. When she came to Dinah, the engineer put her hand out preemptively to stave off the hug, but Evelyn pushed past it and embraced her fully. Dinah wrapped an indulgent arm around the woman and pressed her palm against the small of her back. She pulled back, her hair a bit wild around her head, her hands on Dinah’s bare shoulders, and looked her in the eye.

  “What can I say to you? You changed the course of my life, maybe saved it. Thank you.”

  Dinah offered up a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t mention it.”

  Evelyn moved next to Bethany, who stood with her head held unusually high. Staples noted that she had not taken her eyes off the departing woman for the past several minutes. Evelyn took her shoulders in her hands, much as she just had Dinah’s, and looked at her.

  “Thank you for your plant. It saved me too.” She embraced the woman’s small frame tightly and murmured in her ear so that the others could not hear. “And thank you for what I suspect you tried to do. It wasn’t right, but thank you anyway.” Bethany’s eyes went wide for a moment, then her arms flew around the other woman and she squeezed her almost violently for several seconds. The others looked politely away, and Charis and John took advantage of the opportunity to exit together. Finally, Bethany released her and she sucked in a deep breath. Evelyn drew back a bit and looked at her meaningfully. “It will get better. Trust me.” Bethany nodded and lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again and smiled. A moment later, she turned and walked out of the room as well.

  “And you, Doctor,” she addressed Jabir. “Are you sure I can’t at least buy you a new pair of shoes?” He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Then how can I thank you?”

  “You can remember to take your medication without fail.” Over the past few days, Jabir had been successful in removing the sacs, but the modifications to her glandular system had been more complex. Jabir suspected that the alterations would fade with time as the cells of the endocrine system were replaced naturally, and he had prescribed a medication that would speed up the process, but he was not, he declared vehemently, a doctor of genetics, and he refused to tamper with her system. Though Evelyn abhorred the violation that had been done to her, she had smiled when she stated that she would just have to live with being more attractive for a time.

  “That, I promise.” She smiled, hugged him, and planted a kiss on his cheek. His embrace was as professional as possible, but there was a warmth in his face that betrayed his feelings. He left the mess hall, and Templeton finally got the hint and departed as well. At last it was just Staples and Evelyn facing one another.

  It was clear that Evelyn was close to tears as she faced the captain. “I can’t believe I’ve only known you for a month. A little more than that, if you count the time I spent asleep.”

  “Don’t get too weepy on me,” Staples replied with a smile. “This isn’t goodbye. You and I are going to be talking a lot over the next month as we try to sort this thing out, and it is my sincere hope that we’ll find excuses to keep doing so long after that. We don’t get charters out here that often, but when we do, I think that the crew would really love to pay you a visit.”

  She sniffled and said, “I’d really like that. Do you really have a lead on Mars from… what’s her name now, Jordan?”

  Staples nodded. “A very good one, actually. She’s located Brad Stave. I’m greatly looking forward to having a chat with him.”

  Evelyn’s countenance darkened. “If you have to beat the hell out of him in the process, let me know. I’d like to hear about that.”

  “I’d rather turn him over to the authorities, but maybe we can work out a way to do both.”

  Evelyn laughed her deep and throaty laugh, then a long moment of silence passed. Finally she said, “Goodbye, Clea.”

  “Goodbye, Evelyn.” She put a reassuring hand on her elbow. “We’ll be talking soon. I promise.”

  Chapter 17

  Though he could certainly afford a rickshaw up to his door every day, Brad Stave preferred to be dropped at the end of the tube that was essentially his street. It gave him time to walk down the rounded corridor. There was nothing particularly appealing about the steel construction; indeed, it made him feel a bit like a mouse in a heating duct at times, but there was something classic about walking past the neighbors, up to one’s house, turning the key, and saying “Honey, I’m home,” or some equivalent. He practiced the names as he passed the doors that let into tubes that let into homes. “Chipman,” he muttered under his breath as he walked, “Crawford, Chow, Hillegas…” Through the small windows that punctuated the tubes between the doors, he could see the red of rusty iron and dirt as one of the periodic storms that moved across the surface of the planet raged. It had no particular effect on his life, but he stopped to contemplate the tempest through the window for a minute before moving on. Finally, he came to his door. It was painted black like the rest of them, the number 126 standing out in silver letters nailed to the wood. Attached to the wall beside it an expectant mail slot sat with the name Stave printed across it in matching silver. He turned the key and opened the door into the smaller five-meter tunnel that led to his house proper. Jackets and a few assorted sweaters hung on a coat rack just inside the door.

  Like many things in the largely artificial Martian city, the need for warmer clothing was an affectation of the human populace. The temperature in Tranquility was carefully controlled, but some liked to keep their homes colder or warmer than others, and the entire city was a few degrees cooler in the winter months and a few warmer in the summer. Psychological testing had shown that this artificial homage to seasons helped with human adaptation to life on the red planet. Two hundred thousand years of seasonal programming was not easily cast aside. Brad kept his sport jacket on for now; its home was in the bedroom closet next to Cynthia’s dresses. He let himself into the house.

  “Honey, I’m ho-” The words died on his lips when he saw the woman standing against the wall by the door to the kitchen. Her chin-length blonde hair, which was parted on the side and pinned to her head by a barrette, framed a face that was hard but passingly pretty. She had a medium build, a bit stocky, and Brad would have guessed she was in her early forties, though it was difficult to tell these days. This intruder had her arms crossed on her chest, and she was wearing grey slacks and a grey jacket over a plain white tee shirt.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing in my house? Where’s my family?” He looked around the room, but found no sign nor sound of anyone else. “Cynthia!” he shouted. There was no response.

  “Relax, Mr. Stave. Your family is fine. I just
want to talk to you. If you answer my questions, no one will get hurt.” Her voice was high, steady, and confident; it reminded him of board meetings and sales analyses.

  “Is that a threat?” He could feel the blood burning in his cheeks, and he fought down the urge to yell his wife’s name again.

  She appeared to consider for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is. Not to your family, just to you. I don’t believe in using others to do my dirty work.” He thought there was something accusatory in that statement.

  He drew himself up. “Well, I don’t respond well to threats.” He reached for the watch on his right wrist, intending to call the authorities. Suddenly, strong dark hands gripped his left wrist, and he turned in shock to see a black woman with closely cropped hair and a grimly determined look on her face standing next to him. She must have been behind the door when he entered. He glanced around the room quickly to make sure that he hadn’t missed anyone else, but it was just the three of them. The woman holding him was perhaps thirty years old and looked little more than half his weight. He decided he could take her.

  He wrenched his left hand away from her, but amazingly it moved only a few inches. She was stronger than she looked. He began cursing, trying to pry her fingers off with his other hand, but they clamped down even harder, and he could not move them. His fingers began to tingle as they lost circulation.

  “Please calm down, Mr. Stave,” the blonde woman was saying.

  “Calm down, hell,” he muttered, still trying to pull the other woman’s vice-like fingers from his wrist. Finally, he drew his right hand back, made a fist, and launched it at her face. A second before it connected, the face moved, and he nearly toppled over following it forward. His attacker shifted her grip to his extended right arm, clamped down on his right wrist, and tore the communicator watch from his arm. In a second, it was gone, and he found himself free of her altogether. He took another swing, but it was in vain, and his fist sailed through the air helplessly. Somehow the infuriatingly strong woman was still standing in front of him, not quite a meter away. It was evident that he couldn’t hit her, but she didn’t seem to be moving to attack or restrain him any further, so he turned his fury on the blonde one on the other side of the room.

  He began to walk towards her as he spoke, pointing his finger. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you can’t-” He never understood how it happened. He was in the middle of his second step towards her, and then he was abruptly on his stomach, his arms pinned behind his back, his chin grinding into the carpet. The couch loomed up beside him, and there was the black woman’s weight on his back, holding his arms painfully crossed. He realized that she could quite easily break them, and despite his frustration, he was grateful that she had not.

  “Okay,” he said into the carpet. “I’ll talk to you. Just tell me where my family is.”

  He could no longer see either woman, but the blonde’s clear voice floated down to him from above. It sounded as though she were standing behind the couch. “They’ve been diverted on the way home from Cassidy’s school. Just a routine ID check that will take an unnecessarily long time. They’re fine, I promise. Are you ready to talk now, or do you want to try hitting my friend some more?”

  Brad tried to nod, but his chin hurt, so he muttered, “Talk,” through gritted teeth. A moment later he was sitting in the recliner across from the couch. The woman who had thrown him around like a human rag doll stood next to him, silent and menacing, and the blonde continued to stand behind the couch.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know, and then you can fill in the blanks.” He nodded dumbly. “Your name is Brad Stave. You work for Teletrans Corporation as a senior programmer. You’re married with two children, and you’ve lived on Mars for the past ten years. You relocated here when you were hired by Teletrans. You met a woman at a bar called O’Kelly’s on March eighth, nearly two months ago.” She paused for a moment when he flinched briefly, then continued. “There is no security footage of it. Oddly, the cameras that monitor pedestrian traffic on that street failed to record for several hours that night. No one seems to know why. However, several patrons of that establishment can testify that they saw you speaking with her for over two hours while you shared drinks. Then you left together.”

  “I don’t pick up women in bars. I’m married. I don’t cheat,” he protested. He began to rise, then with a glance at the severe looking woman standing over him, settled reluctantly back in the recliner.

  “No, I don’t think you did have sex with her. What you did do was drug her, subject her to illegal genetic modifications, and hypnotize her. A month later, she slept with someone, I expect you know exactly whom, and that person died. That makes you a murderer.”

  He was silent for several moments, then a theatrical look of realization came over his face. He pointed at the blonde. “I know how to clear this up. Let me first say that I have no idea what you’re talking about. I never met this woman you’re talking about. I don’t go to bars much, and I certainly don’t leave them with women. You might have a few people who say they saw someone who looks like me, but I’m going to guess that since they were in a bar, they were drinking, and maybe you don’t want to haul them into a courtroom or a police station. In fact, I’m going to guess that you don’t have any solid evidence, or you would be talking to the police and not me. I certainly don’t know anything about any illegal genetic modification or hypnotism. But the funniest thing happened the other day. An envelope was dropped in my mail slot. It had no return address. When I opened it, it contained a letter addressed to someone named Clea Staples. I thought it was a mistake, so I was going to throw it out, but I haven’t gotten around to it. That wouldn’t be you, would it?” He looked hopefully at her.

  “You know he’s lying.” The woman standing over him spoke for the first time.

  “I know,” the blonde, Staples he assumed, responded. “He’s playing it safe. He’s afraid we’re recording him, so he isn’t going to admit to anything.” She looked at him directly. “We’re not, by the way, but I don’t expect you to believe that. Why don’t you tell me where this mysterious envelope is and I’ll go get it.”

  “Down the hallway, last door on the left is my office. The envelope is in the top left drawer.” She walked quickly down the hall and reappeared a minute later with the manila envelope with her name on it. After she opened it, she pulled out the letter inside and read it. Brad and the woman next to him looked on.

  “All right Mr. Stave,” she said when she had finished, “I think we’re done here. We’ll be going. This-” she held up the letter, “is supposed to provide the answers we’re looking for. If it doesn’t, we’ll be back to talk to you.”

  “I don’t think you will be,” he said with a smirk.

  He expected them to leave, but Staples continued to stare at him. “You know, I’d really like to ask my assistant here to kill you. I’m sure you’ve realized by now that she could with very little effort.” His smirk faded. Staples put her hands on the back of the couch and leaned forward, her brown eyes boring into him. “You drugged a woman and paid some crackpot doctor to violate her body, then you violated her mind. As a result, an innocent man is dead.” She continued to look at him, and it was obvious that her desire to see him hurt or dead was quite genuine. She was not bluffing. “It would be so easy. I could change or end your life with a word.”

  “Please,” he heard himself say, all his confidence gone. “I have a wife, kids.”

  “Shut up,” she said coldly. “They might thank me for it if they knew what you helped do. You ruined lives.”

  “I didn’t know,” he protested weakly. “I didn’t know what would happen.”

  “Then you’re thoughtlessly cruel, not deliberately so. I should tell you that this does not help your case.” She looked down at him, and he felt the woman at his side move an inch closer. Involuntarily, he sank deeper into the chair. Just when he was wondering whether he would make it if he ran for his life, she l
eaned back from the couch. “I’m not going to hurt you. I am, however, going to do everything I can to see that you pay for your crimes. Enjoy your wife and your children in the meantime. Maybe you can find a way to prepare them for the day when the police come knocking on your door.” She crossed the room, stood in front of him, and regarded him with undisguised revulsion. Then the spell broke, and she looked at her accomplice. “Let’s go.”

  And just like that, they were gone through his front door, and Brad found that he was shaking uncontrollably.

  “If I may ask, sir, what is it?” Dinah said as they walked back to the ship side by side, indicating the letter in her captain’s hand.

  She looked the paper over again. “It’s a job offer from Owen Burr, the president of Teletrans Corporation. It’s a request to come to his office on Earth to ‘consult about a possible future charter flight,’” she read directly from the paper.

  “Your friend’s files said that Stave works directly for Burr. You think Burr gave him that envelope as insurance in case we came asking questions?”

  “I think that’s a fair assumption,” Staples replied. She stopped speaking for a moment as two businessmen, wearing suits and deep in discussion, walked by. “We could hardly expect a signed confession, but this means that Stave was working under orders. I’m actually rather surprised that Burr would protect him, call us to Earth to answer our questions. I figured they’d cut him loose, let him take the fall for what happened to Evelyn.”

  “Do we really not have any evidence?”

  Staples smiled grimly. “It’s spotty at best. A few drinkers who think they saw Evelyn leave with him. My friend managed to get the surgeon to talk to her, but he’s not going to waltz into a police station and confess to illegal genetic modification on a drugged and unconscious woman. She wasn’t able to turn up a hypnotist, so I think that must have been Stave himself.”