Rock Killer

by S. Evan Townsend

  “Yes,” Alex replied curtly. He picked up a round slice of kimbop. “Want some?”

  Kirsten wrinkled up her nose, scrunching together the sparse population of freckles residing there. “No, thanks. Reminds me too much of sushi.”

  ***

  Mitchel didn’t wear his full uniform very often anymore. At SRI headquarters, he wore a suit and if he needed a security uniform, he used one that had its red space-qualified color as its only pretension.

  But, standing in front of the briefing room, the same one Frank had lectured in just before he was killed, Mitchel wore the red jumpsuit with the SRI patch on his left shoulder, the SRI Security patch on his other shoulder, and his Head of Security insignia over his heart. A cluster of yellow stars under the security patch represented each trip to the asteroid belt and back. Each silver bar in a row on the right sleeve represented one year in space. The NESA emblem on his right breast showed he worked for SRI back when it was a division of the multi-government agency.

  He had eulogized Frank DeWite, speaking of his work and their long friendship. He concluded, “It’s been seven years since Theresa Gold was murdered. Until Frank DeWite, Jimmy Nakamura, and Roger Prince, she was the last member of SRI Security to die because of violence,” he said to the group. He saw Charlie Jones, in the back, staring blankly toward him. “When one of us dies we all feel the pain. When one of us is murdered we all feel the anger.”

  Mitchel left the podium. The chaplain gave a generic prayer (just about every religion was represented) and the crowd filed out slowly and solemnly. Mitchel meant to catch Charlie but too many others stopped to talk to him.

  ***

  When Charlie was a young, pre-teenaged girl, just starting to clumsily discover her own sexuality, her maternal grandmother invited her to visit her for a weekend. That wasn’t unusual; Charlie felt close to her grandmother and she often spent weekends in her apartment and they would talk about Africa and her grandmother’s childhood in the Congo. The country was going through one of those occasional spasms of violence that seemed the baptism of many emerging nations. Grandma never talked about the horror she must surely have witnessed.

  But that weekend was different. Instead of the plateaus and rain forests of the Congo, Grandma started out by asking about boys.

  Charlie flushed. She’d noticed boys and had some idea the big, goofy creatures might have some use after all.

  Grandma smiled at Charlie’s perception of the males around her. Then she talked about boys she knew as a young girl. The conversation went on late into the night and continued for almost all waking hours of the weekend.

  When Charlie returned to her parents, she’d changed subtly.

  And while other girls in her school were having abortions, or worse, babies, Charlie, with a healthy social life, made it to graduation without any biological mishaps: a major accomplishment in her neighborhood.

  What Grandma had taught her in that one extraordinary weekend was respect for and responsibility to herself.

  Grandma died while Charlie was still in high school. Charlie thought she’d never feel pain like that again. She’d learned that “heartache” is an actual physical discomfort in the chest.

  Now, for the second time in her life, she felt heartache.

  They’d sent Frank’s body to the NESA farm where it would be broken down into its constituent elements and would give life to the next generation. To Charlie that was much better than a concrete box in the ground like they did to her grandmother.

  Rodriguez insisted she not work for her safety and others’. Charlie wondered if he thought she’d be ineffectual without Frank to guide her.

  Let’s see, she thought, I’ve denied it; I’ve been angry–now it’s time for depression. Or is it bargaining? It sure as hell isn’t acceptance.

  The door to her (and Frank’s) quarters gave its annoying buzz, interrupting Charlie’s self-pitying.

  “What is it?” she asked, not really caring.

  “It’s Mitchel.”

  “Come in; it’s open.”

  Mitchel had changed uniforms to a simple red jumpsuit with a security patch. “Hi, Charlie, how are you doing?” As the door closed behind him he held out his arms.

  Charlie stood and walked to him. “I’m okay,” she said simply, slipping into his embrace. They held each other a moment.

  “Yeah, right,” Mitchel said gently, disengaging himself and holding her at arm’s length. He looked at her. “That scar...”

  He fingered her long neck.

  “A vein in my neck protruded after the explosive decompression of my suit. The doctors fixed it. As soon as it heals it’ll be barely noticeable.”

  Mitchel nodded. “Good. Listen, Charlie, when you feel up to it, come to Tokyo.”

  Charlie made a face. “Is this about the asteroid? I don’t want to go.”

  “No, it’s something else. Please?” the Head of Security for SRI asked.

  “Okay,” Charlie replied noncommittally.

  “I’ve got to catch the shuttle; it’s leaving soon. Come on the next one; call Meyoung when you get to headquarters and set up a meeting.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  ***

  “Come in, Mr. Rodriguez,” Helga Moeller said, standing.

  Moeller was a middle manager in NESA’s security office.

  Rodriguez shook her offered hand and sat in the indicated chair. Moeller was an archetypical blonde, blue-eyed Aryan with a rubenesque build that Rodriguez found attractive despite himself.

  “It was a nice service,” Moeller commented.

  “Yes, it was,” Rodriguez replied.

  “We’ve just about completed our investigation,” she said, sitting behind her desk, indicating it was time to get down to business. “We’re helped by the fact that there are so few people on the Moon.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “There are five persons unaccounted for in both NESA Facility One and Two. All are from Earth.”

  “Do you have names?”

  She tapped keys on her desk and a paper-thin screen in front of Rodriguez lit up. It had five passport pictures with data next to each.

  “You can see they are all Americans,” Moeller said. “They arrived over a period of a week. Only one, Alan Griffin, had been here before. All their visas were secured with cash deposits at the Japanese embassy in Washington, Columbia.”

  “Can I have this?” Rodriguez asked.

  “Yes.” She tapped more keys and the device on Rodriguez’s wrist chimed indicating it had received the file. SRI’s main computer was still down and everyone was relying on their personal computers.

  “Did you have any luck with the bodies?”

  “Yes. The body at your Check Point Alpha was William Fetterly. That was a relatively easy identification. The other two bodies were both male. The bodies were damaged by shotgun wounds, exposure to vacuum, and automatic weapon’s fire to the face.”

  “To slow identification?” Rodriguez speculated.

  “Yes. But we have fingerprints. The bodies were Hector Balgos and Frank Green. The last may be an alias.”

  Rodriguez nodded. “Thank you.”

  “If there’s anything else we can do,” Moeller said perfunctorily.

  “Thank you,” Rodriguez repeated and stood to leave.

  ***

  The Frenchman, Philippe Thorez, was a large man. His clothes were tailor made out of expensive, natural fibers. It’s amazing the money to be made by selling death.

  Thorez greeted the Baathist leader. “Mah’hun ah’sah’hun.”

  Faruq smiled and ignored the man’s mangling of his language.

  “The missiles?” he asked. English was the common denominator.

  “Because of the sanctions,” Philippe began, “It is very difficult.”

  “Yes, I know,” Faruq acknowledged. So the negotiations begin, he thought with glee. He actually enjoyed this part of his job.

  “Bu
t,” the arms dealer went on, “there is a shipment of ‘humanitarian items’ for the poor, suffering children of Oman from the generous people of the EU. The ship will leave Marseille in a few days. If my SRI account has grown substantially, a container full of powdered milk also will contain a crate of ten missiles.”

  “How substantially?” the Arab asked.

  “That is the question, mon ami.”

  Chapter Four

  “Marin County, wouldn’t ya know.”

  The Frenchman snored like a pig. That was a good metaphor, Karen, the American that had majored in English, thought. He had sex like a pig, also. At least he had the decency to turn over and go to sleep immediately afterward.

  What I’ll do for money, she thought ruefully. But after graduating from Columbia with a student loan obligation just under the national debt, and the government throwing defaulters in jail, and the old rich man who gave her money for her company because she was pretty and willing…well, she just fell into it.

  She slipped out of the Western-style bed. Philippe had made the mistake of keeping his luggage in this room and a short search produced his thin, paperback book-sized computer. She went to the bathroom, stopping for her one bag.

  The Baathist enclave was really like a fortified hotel in some respects. That morning, she’d flown out of Tel Aviv to Athens and from there to Damascus. She was greeted at the airport by a greasy little man who threw her into the back of an old Mercedes (it burned gas!) and drove her to the enclave. She traveled the road to Damascus laying on the dirty back seat and climbing into a black abaya.

  What I’ll do for money, she thought again.

  In the bathroom she looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was smeared by the pig’s brutal kisses. Her negligee was soiled and even torn. Karen gave herself a dirty look. What she did for money was unpleasant, and had a few inherent dangers such as disease or freaks. Still, what she was about to do could get her killed. But SRI’s money was too damn good. When that Morgan woman approached her, told her she was going to be called to Damascus, and offered enough money that Karen could vacation for a few years, she’d jumped at the offer.

  She put the toilet seat down–the pig had left it up–sat on the lid and pulled her bag onto her lap. From her bag she removed a makeup kit. Turning it over, she pried off the back with her long thumbnail. The assortment of chips was impressive; four were labeled “hack” and about ten were standard data chips.

  She chose one of the hack chips at random, slipped it into the appropriate slot, and turned on the computer.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried another chip, as Morgan had instructed.

  Again the computer refused to boot.

  “Damn,” she sighed softly. If none of the hack chips worked, she’d have to steal the computer to get her money, and that was very risky.

  But when she tried the third hack chip, the computer immediately came on, its screen lit up and it let out a frightfully loud beep.

  The screen displayed “wait” then “insert data chip #1”, and when she did the data chip light glowed a cheerful yellow.

  “please remove data chip #1 and insert data chip #2,” the screen read and Karen complied. This continued for six chips and the screen displayed “download complete.”

  Karen turned off the device and put all the chips back in the hidden compartment in her makeup kit. She flushed the toilet and washed her hands and face. Back in the room she replaced the computer where she’d found it and slid back into the bed, staying as far from the man as possible. She knew he would expect her to be in his bed in the morning.

  ***

  Charlie didn’t like Tokyo and Mitchel’s request for her to come see him had her perplexed. She thought about it while trying to catch a subway from Haneda Airport. Tokyo was too damn crowded. She’d forgotten how bad the subways were, and missed her stop because she was packed in too tightly. She finally got off the train two stops late and walked back. The mega-crowds were bad but not as bad as being a human sardine in a subterranean can.

  She was wearing civilian, casual clothes, comfortable for traveling, instead of her security uniform. The first person she met at the entrance to the SRI building was a security guard who stopped her with a raised hand.

  “Excuse me,” he demanded arrogantly. “May I ask what your business is here?”

  Charlie regarded the dirt-side security man. Like any person in any kind of position of power, he was implicitly demanding her respect. Silently she showed him her SRI identification. It was red: red for space qualified.

  “Thank you,” he said sheepishly, his whole power base eroded.

  “You’re welcome,” Charlie said offhandedly and strolled by. She passed through three detectors: metal, explosives, biological and chemical. She went to the receptionist and flashed her ID again. No power games here.

  “Yes?” the pretty, young Japanese girl asked in very good English. “What can I do for you, Ms. Jones?”

  “I’m here to see Security Head Mitchel. Would you inform his secretary I’m here? Also, I need a room. I just came in from the Moon.”

  “Fine,” the woman replied, working her computer. “Here or the Arcology?”

  Charlie was surprised. “Is the Arcology that much completed?”

  “Yes,” the woman answered. “The SRI hospital has been moved there, making more room for offices here.”

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  The girl looked sympathetic, or she was hoping Charlie wouldn’t ask that. “The direct subway isn’t finished, yet. A helicopter trip takes about half an hour. But the rooms are much bigger.”

  “Too long. I’ll take a room here.”

  “Fine,” the girl said, as if it really was. “ID, please?”

  Charlie handed it over and the girl put it in the computer.

  “Room 2356-A,” she recited, looking at her computer. “Twenty-third floor.” She held out Charlie’s ID.

  “Thank you,” Charlie said sincerely. She went to the bank of elevators, found the hostel express (floor 20 through 25), and took it to the prescribed level. Her ID card opened the room.

  She’d seen closets bigger than the room, but she’d stayed here before and knew what to expect. First she used her computer—the room had an interface—to access the SRI company store. She looked over the dresses; her attire was a little too casual to be seen on the executive floors. Something appropriate but not necessarily business-like was what she wanted.

  All the dresses had long, flowing skirts; apparently the current fashion. She picked one with a color she thought would look good on her—and was very close to SRI Security red—and arranged to have it delivered with corresponding shoes and foundation. Charlie enjoyed dressing in nice clothes but hardly ever got a chance in space. That, and Mitch was an old bachelor and friend. He’d appreciate the extra effort.

  ***

  Charlie remembered when she met Mitchel what seemed ages ago, but was in reality only about five years. It was in Boulder; Charlie was in the SRI school. She’d been there long enough that her weekends were free and a group of girls had talked her into going out with them. Near the University of Colorado was the usual series of bars aimed toward collegiate clientele, and the SRI security trainees were going to try to pass themselves off as co-eds. But Charlie grew tired of the drinking and the behavior of the college boys. Even though she was the same age, they seemed so frivolous and self-possessed. Her friends didn’t want to leave so Charlie walked to the light rail terminal by herself.

  There was an older man waiting for the train with a suitcase and a briefcase, marking him in her mind as a traveling businessman. Charlie assumed his destination was the expensive neighborhoods in the foothills of the Rockies. He was big and muscular with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Only advanced age is ever going to widen his girth, she mused. He had a large head and was bald except a circle of graying, reddish hair. His deep, intelligent blue eyes twinkled when he looked at Charlie. Charlie had
dressed in the tightest pair of jeans she owned and a low cut sweater. But he looked her right in the eye, at least when she was looking at him.

  “Hi,” Charlie said.

  “Hello,” he replied.

  “Late to be just getting in,” she offered.

  “Yes, it was a long trip.”

  “I hate to travel,” she said. “It’s arriving that’s fun.”

  He laughed. When the train came they were still talking.

  Instead of boarding they left the platform and went to a cafe. They ignored the stares and talked, so much that their food was cold before they began consuming it. Charlie was amazed that this older man–he called himself Eugene–was so interesting. He also seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. When the time came to pay the bill, Eugene used his computer to transfer the funds. As it sat idling on his wrist, Charlie noticed it displayed a familiar logo.

  “Do you work for SRI?” she asked. The subject of employment had never come up in their conversation.

  “Yes,” he said, somewhat apprehensive. “I didn’t tell you because some of the locals think SRI is a Japanese plot to buy up all the land.”

  “I know,” Charlie bemoaned. “I get that all the time.”

  “You work for SRI?” he asked more nervously.

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a trainee at the school.”

  Eugene’s eyes rolled up. “Wonderful. I thought…”

  “You thought I was a student at CU?”

  He nodded mutely.

  “I was trying to look like one. Like you said, the locals sometimes don’t give SRI employees the warmest of receptions.”

  He just looked at her.

  “What do you do?” she asked innocently.

  He hesitated.

  “Are you in security?” she prodded. The SRI school specialized in security.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m in security.”

  “So, what do you do for Mitchel?”

  He hesitated, then smiled wryly. “I am Mitchel,” he said.

  Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “You’re Chief Mitchel?”

  “Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.