by Howard, Paul
There was nothing the Phoenix security systems could do to stop him now. Lisa knew that. All of Phoenix’s security plans functioned to repel an earthbound attack from corporate enemies or terrorists. In spite of its distance from Earth, the threat was real.
The great door opened to space and the shuttle roared out of the asteroid on its pre-programmed course. By the end of the song Morrison could see the brilliant edge of the blue world glowing in the sunlight in front of him.
Hell was coming home.
Chapter Six: Bad News All Around
The Squad Room at LAPD Central was always a zoo, and Leonard White avoided it as much as he could, but it also had a steady supply of hot coffee and he had a terrible night. The kind that left you in the morning wondering how you were ever going to get through an entire day. He felt like that.
As he poured himself a cup and added the sweetener, he had to duck a shoe thrown by a woman picked up on a domestic violence case. The shoe missed him and took out a uniformed officer a few feet away. Typical fare for the largest police agency in the world; there was always somebody with a beef screaming or getting rowdy.
As literacy dropped, the level of violence among the poor continued to reach new highs, and those ranks were swelling along with the chantey towns and tent cities that now filled every piece of unclaimed space. In the increasing environment of corporate feudalism the role of police also increased, as it always does. The Overlords in the expensive suits viewed forty percent of the population as surplus, and they wanted them controlled.
There was nothing new about that in human history. It was a very old tale being played out again.
He took a sip, and sighed with relief as he headed out of the Squad Room to his office in Homicide Division.
White had made it to Chief Inspector of Homicide in less than ten years, in spite of his rough start in plain clothes. He was given the nickname ‘The Gentleman Detective’ because of his pension for light-colored suits, his soft voice, and gentle, boyish features. Lean of frame, with wavy brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes; he was easily mistaken for a lightweight among his peers.
But that didn’t last very long. He was a brilliant, intuitive criminologist and tireless investigator, and his reputation for running a tight criminal unit got him the respect he deserved with the Department. Making it to White’s Unit was a feather in any homicide detective’s cap. It meant that you made the grade.
LAPD Homicide wasn’t the leviathan it had been in the old days of the Republic, when people owned guns and there were a dozen killings a day, but in a city of seventy-seven million there was still enough to go around.
As he entered the main room he was immediately met by his partner, Sam Jacobson, who stood up in his eternally rumpled suit and gave him a shake of the head.
“You look like shit, Lenny,” he mused, “Bad night?” White took another sip of coffee; he wasn’t ready for this routine.
“I love you too, Sam.”
His big, rumpled partner’s facial expression turned more serious. “Well, you better get it together, man,” Sam replied, “The Captain told me to fetch you as soon as you got here!” White wrinkled his nose and scowled.
Sam had been a close friend since the old days when White first made plainclothes. Tough talking and no-nonsense, he took him under his wing until he had made a name for himself. Now White was running the show and Sam was always at his side. A veteran of twenty-two years and two failed marriages, his career had become his life.
“What’s up?” White finally asked. Sam moved in quietly.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, “The Chief has called twice this morning and Corrections has been burning up the netlink.”
“About what?” White asked.
“I don’t know,” Sam repeated, “But it doesn’t sound like something we’re gonna like.” White gulped down the last of his coffee and straightened his tie.
“We’d better get in there.” he replied.
They moved to the door of the captain’s office and gave a quick knock before opening. Captain Fred Brawly was on the phone with someone upstairs. Brawly was a big, stocky man with broad shoulders and large hands. He looked like he could take on a professional wrestler and easily get the best of him. His years behind a desk had given him a little paunch around the middle but he still cut an impressive figure, even when sitting down. He noticed the two of them and gestured to come in, pointing at the chairs in front of his desk.
It was a typical captain’s office in the LAPD, circa 2120. Brawly listened to the phone. Whoever was on the other end was talking a mile a minute.
“Yes, sir,” he finally replied, “We’ll take it up with Interpol right away and I’ll get back to you.”
He hung up the phone and looked at his two top investigators; he had a troubled look on his face. Picking up a thick case file, he slapped it down on the desk in front of White, who eyed it suspiciously before reaching over to pick it up. He gasped when he recognized what it was: The Morrison Investigation. His heart sank at the sight of it. Sam glanced at the folder and frowned.
“Remember him?” the captain asked.
“John Morrison,” White replied, “How could I ever forget him?”
“The Hollywood Strangler,” Brawly said, “Executed three days ago.” Sam looked back at the captain and shrugged.
“He’s dead!” Sam sniffed. “What about him?”
“It seems they have a mess up at San Quentin,” the captain began, “Three nights ago a hearse pulled up from Forest Rest and left fifteen minutes later with his body.”
Sam turned his palms up in a ‘so what’ gesture.
“Two hours later they found three bodies in the morgue up there,” Brawly explained, “A prison doctor, his assistant and the driver from Forest Rest, they just made the positive I.D.”
“Jesus!” White exclaimed. “What would anybody want with his body?”
Captain Brawly let the moment simmer for a few seconds.
“There’s more,” he said, “Two trustees are also missing. They rigged a fake bed-check and turned up gone at the morning roll.” He opened another folder and pulled out two sheets, sliding them across to White, who was still trying to take it all in. He picked up the pictures and stopped at Steve.
“I know this one,” White said, “Steven Romer. Copped to a Second Degree murder rap. We shoulda nailed him for First.”
“The other one is Wurshaw, Michael G.,” the captain explained, “He’s got a sheet as long as your arm. He was serving seven to ten on manslaughter. We believe that they took the body and smuggled it out of the prison. The hearse they stole turned up in a field near Ventura.” Sam just shook his head incredulously.
“How the hell could something like this happen? They have cameras and security up the ass.” He snapped. “Why didn’t we hear about this till now?” The captain sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“One word: Privatization,” he sighed, “We pay Imprompt big bucks to run the prisons, and they do a half-assed job of it with insufficient staff. The only reason we’ve heard about it now is that they’re in over their heads.”
“Meaning what, Captain?” White leaned forward and asked. Brawly sighed again.
“That’s what you have to find out!” he said. “They’re holding something back. I haven’t been able to get any more out of them.”
“They fucked up big time!” Sam suggested. The captain just looked at him and said nothing. White took the files and frowned with concern.
“I thought I’d seen the last of this asshole at the execution,” he sighed, “They did execute him, they’re medically sure about that?”
“That’s for sure,” the captain said, “You two brought him in, Lenny. Find what’s left of him and bring that in. We need this guy in the ground!”
White opened the file and turned the pages. The same horrible crime scene photos he had hoped to forget greeted his eyes. A sickening feeling came over him.
“I’ve seen a
lot over the years, Captain,” he said softly, “This guy was the worst. Everybody will sleep a lot better when he’s safely in the ground.”
The captain stood up. “Find him, Lenny.” was all he said, and the meeting was over. As they left the room Sam clicked his tongue with disgust.
“Fucking Imprompt!” he snapped. “They’ve made a real mess and we have to clean it up…” he looked at White, who wasn’t listening at all. “What is it, partner?” he asked. White stopped and stared right at him.
“What are they afraid of?” he asked. “What aren’t they telling us?”
*****
The shuttle hadn’t cleared the portal when the door to the private suite opened, and the reclusive Master of Phoenix emerged. His personal secretary and the other employees stared at him transfixed. Nobody ever saw the Great Man. Now he stood among them stone faced, and looked them over one by one.
When no one spoke he moved to the nearest computer terminal and withdrew a card from his pocket, inserting it into the slot. He input a few direct commands and the music stopped, the system reset, and order was restored.
On the video display above, he watched as the stolen shuttle cleared the portal and left on its unauthorized journey to Earth. Dr. Bell turned around and glared at his people with the same stone expression on his face.
“Is somebody going to tell me what happened here, or am I supposed to guess for myself?” he demanded. The secretary snapped out of it and spoke first.
“I was just about to call you, sir,” she said, “We have had a major security breach.”
He turned away from her and began walking down the long corridor to the Central Database. The secretary and all the others followed him.
“I already know we had a breach!” Bell replied. “I want clear information… Security!”
The screen activated next to him with the Security Chief standing by nervously. Bell continued to walk down the hall, the image transferred on the monitors to move with him. “Report!”
“It was a 1-1-A Security Breach, sir,” the Chief began, “An employee has been murdered in Unit Three.” Bell stopped and stared at the monitor. The stone face cracked a little. A hint of compassion registered in his eyes.
“Murdered?” Bell gasped. “Who was it?”
“David Valby, sir,” the Chief replied, “He worked in orientation.” Bell turned and continued to move down the hall, feeling very troubled.
“Poor Valby!” he muttered. “Who killed him? Was it another employee?”
“No, sir,” the Chief replied, “It was a client.” Bell stopped again, the stone face cracked completely. He looked like a stricken man.
“An ecto murdered Valby?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the Chief said, “He was strangled. The room is a mess.” Bell straightened himself and tried to resume his normal demeanor with great effort. He was the sort of man who never seemed to lose his composure. Clean shaven on both face and head; he was the sort of person who seemed as if dirt wouldn’t stick to him. As he continued to move down the hall his expression seemed as if he was miles away.
“This doesn’t make sense.” he said.
“Has an ecto ever committed murder before, sir?” the secretary asked.
“No,” Bell replied, “If they had, we would be out of business by now. I want Valby infused immediately. Notify Interpol and upload all the data we can give them. Do we have the shuttle on our scanners?”
“No, sir,” the Chief answered, “We lost him when the craft swung behind the moon. But they’ll be able to track him. It only takes four seconds to call Earth, but it will take at least eighteen hours for him to get there.”
“Secure Unit Three for the police,” Bell ordered, “But do it quietly. I don’t want the other clients to know what has happened.”
*****
Moving through space on the shuttle is an extraordinary experience with other people to talk to, but it can be a test of patience for someone alone with nothing to do for hours on end. The vista is stunning but static. Unlike in movies, there is no sense of motion. The stars don’t move and the approach to Earth is imperceptible, like watching the hands of a clock.
After the initial thrill of the escape, John Morrison soon found himself combatting boredom. His thoughts began to drift and he closed his eyes for a nap, but no matter how much he tried to relax, sleep would not come.
A slow, sharp pain seized his stomach and it grew worse in only minutes. Soon he felt an agonizing burning sensation like hot lava brewing inside of his guts. A sudden urge to go to the toilet came over him and he got up and ran for the head.
In only a few more steps the pain was excruciating, the most horrible he had ever felt. He was barely able to move and pull down his pants when he reached the head. Without any control, his rectum exploded into the bowl with searing pain. It was the worst thing he had ever experienced. It burned him like fire.
As he tried to catch his breath he became aware of the smell of spoiled food.
He looked down into the bowl and saw the breakfast he had eaten only a short time before. It was completely undigested. The agony subsided quickly and he moved, still shaking from the pain, back to the cockpit of the ship.
He sat back and gasped from the experience.
Valby had warned him that he could not digest food but he had not told him what the consequences of eating would be. Now he knew. Eating was a luxury for the Living. For spooks it was worse than torture, and he knew he could never try to eat again. He now knew there was at least one thing that could give pain to an ecto.
“Perhaps I killed Valby too early,” he thought, “What other unpleasant surprises will await me in the coming days?”
Being a spook was not at all what he expected so far.
*****
The next hour on Phoenix was a very busy one for Dr. Bell. He made sure the reports were dispatched to Interpol, and he restored order and morale, as best as he could, among his staff. They were badly shaken by the murder and chaos of the day’s experience.
At last he made his way to the Infusion Room to get specifics about the killer. The chief operator met him when he arrived. He ordered the killer’s infusion sequence replayed.
“What is the name of our killer?” Bell asked. The operator pulled up his file and studied it.
“The client’s name is Holt, Arnold C.” he replied. Bell gasped in shock.
“Dr. Holt?” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible! I met Holt at an Environmental Reclamation Conference several years ago. He was gentle man. Show me his file!”
The operator did as ordered. The file displayed on the main display screen overhead. Bell looked at the picture of Morrison and gasped in surprise again.
“That’s not Dr. Holt!” he declared. “I’ve never seen that face before in my entire life! Send that image to Interpol and playback the infusion sequence.”
He felt something moist under the fingers of his right hand. Looking down, he saw blue ectoplasmic ooze on the console in front of him. He raised his hand and looked closely at it. The ooze was coming from between his fingers.
“Damn!” he gasped. “Why now of all times..?”
Chapter Seven: Grabbing at Straws
After assembling his team and sharing the facts of the case with them, White opened the floor to discussion. His investigators looked at each other sheepishly and seemed clearly puzzled by what they had just heard.
The first to speak was the team’s newest member, Tiffany Morrow. She was a young, brown-haired woman, who had made her way through the ranks to detective in a very short time after graduating from the Academy. She looked at the board and said:
“What aren’t they telling us over at Imprompt? Why did they drop this in our laps after three days?”
White smirked at the question and shifted on his heels. Larsen, the tallest member of the team, standing every bit of six-foot-five with a head full of carrot-colored hair, looked at her impatiently.
“Because they screwed up!”
he snapped. “They let two get away in the hearse and they need us to get them back.”
Woods was the studious-looking member of the team, short and slender, with sandy hair and a freckled complexion that made him look younger than he really was. A really smart cop in more ways than one. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and shook his head.
“So why did they bother to steal the body of Morrison?” he asked. “What good would it be to them? Having a stiff would only complicate things. There must’ve been a reason.”
“What are you driving at?” Sam asked.
“Maybe they were trying to get it to Phoenix.” Woods suggested. This drew sighs and general disagreement filled the room. Larsen spoke first.
“Phoenix is two hundred-fifty thousand miles out in space! It can only be reached by shuttle…”
“The shuttles are monitored under tight supervision by Interpol!” David, the middle-aged Hispanic member of the team added. “Phoenix has sophisticated security systems of their own, he couldn’t get within miles of it.”
The room quieted down. Larsen moved into the center of it and looked at the picture of Morrison on the board in front of them. He smirked as he considered the idea.
“There is no way in hell that a guy like Morrison could get himself a spook-job up there,” he explained, “Phoenix has the most sophisticated computer net there is…” Four others began to speak at once, but White put up his hands to end all discussion along those lines.
“There’s no point in getting ahead of the facts, people,” he reminded, “We have two hard targets out there, and they’re alive and armed far as we know. We have good leads and plenty to start with.”
He looked at Tiffany and grinned.
“Morrow, Ventura.” He handed her a sheet from the file. “I want you to go over that hearse yourself. Talk to anybody who saw anything, and try to retrace its movements before it was ditched.” She took the sheet and nodded.