Pew! Pew! - Sex, Guns, Spaceships... Oh My!

by M. D. Cooper

  “I’m checking back in to see how things are wrapping up with Dr. Schumacher. Are you finished yet?”

  Bat absently pondered how it seemed that everyone—except him—were doctors on Mars.

  “Poor Schm-Schumacher has been processed and is ready for cremation. However, I’d like to examine him a little longer.”

  She picked up a tablet and began entering details. She spoke without looking up. “I’ve run complete bio-scans and have irrefutable results that say Dr. Schumacher died from cardiac arrest.” She then looked up. “Mr. Johnson, you’re not a medical examiner. In fact, you don’t have any medical credentials. So, please tell me, why you’re better qualified to determine the cause of death than I am.”

  “I’m not saying I’m necessarily better qualified. I’m just saying that I find his death to be suspicious.”

  “I see.” She pursed her lips. “I understand that you’re new and want to do a good job, but you’re a mortician, not a medical examiner. Leave the medical science to the professionals.” She put down her tablet. “There. I’ve notified the personnel at the crematorium. They’ll be expecting you within the hour.”

  “But—”

  She shot him a hard look. “If Dr. Schumacher is not cremated within one hour, I’ll find you a new job here. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly,” Bat said with a hint of a sneer.

  She strode from the pod without another word, leaving Bat alone with Poor Schmuck.

  Bat turned to the body on his worktable. “Well, it seems that folks don’t care about what happened to you.”

  Poor Schmuck didn’t reply.

  Bat took a seat and stared at the cadaver for a long moment. With no answers, he blew out a sigh and pushed to his feet. He covered the body in a thick, opaque plastic fabric. He wheeled the cart out of his pod and into the hallway. The few residents in the small hallway gave him a wide berth as he pushed the table the short distance to the crematorium.

  “Don’t worry. He’s not contagious,” Bat said when a young woman stumbled trying to step aside in time. He paused. “At least I don’t think so.”

  She stared at him aghast before hustling down the hallway. He shrugged and continued along his way.

  Bat’s pod was the nearest of all pods to the crematorium, for obvious reasons. His first night on Mars, he learned another reason why all the cheapest pods were on ground level… all the heavy machines were on that level. And they were loud. Bat’s home sounded like a freight train—minus the whistles, of course—was running through it when the air converters fired up every thirty-eight minutes of every day, precisely.

  The heaters, also known as the crematorium, were the loudest machines of all. The air purifiers were surprisingly quiet, but the heaters were monstrous beasts. The heaters themselves were housed outside the MB, built to run off the ultra-thin carbon dioxide that made up the Martian atmosphere. The machines were accessible through a tunnel from the main colony.

  Bat pushed his cart up to the door leading to the tunnel and swiped his card to open it. The door didn’t open. Instead, a scraggly fellow with a filthy face appeared on the screen.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m Bat Johnson, the mortician.”

  “The more-what?”

  Bat sighed. “I’m the undertaker. I’m here to use the crematorium.”

  “Oh, you’re the one Doc Gould told me about. Come on then.”

  The screen went blank, and the door opened with a swish. Bat pushed the cart down the narrow tunnel. The walls were covered in a reddish soot, and he found himself breathing harder in thin air that was thick with dust. The door at the other end of the tunnel stood open, and the scraggly fellow stood just the other side.

  Bat had to stop when the man didn’t move.

  “First, the ground rule.” The man held up a finger. “Don’t touch, do, or even think about doing anything around here without my permission.”

  Bat shrugged. “Okay. What do I call you?”

  “Sir.”

  “Um, what do I call you, sir?”

  “Sir.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sir.”

  “Sir,” Bat echoed, dubious. He glanced around, though there wasn’t much to see. The large machines filled the space, allowing only a small walkway around each one. The air was hazy with red dust. “Isn’t it dangerous to breathe the air in here?”

  “No. I’ve been doing this job for going on forty years. And, I’m as healthy as an ox.”

  Bat cocked his head at the skinny man, who was covered in a layer of dust. They stood in silence for a long moment.

  Bat spoke first. “Where’s the crematorium?”

  Sir grimaced. “I don’t know why they call it that. It’s really just a venting shaft off Ginny over there.” He pointed to the largest machine.

  Sir led Bat to Ginny, and they walked halfway around. On the side was a square door. Sir hit a switch, and the light above the door turned green. He cranked open the door and pulled out a metal slab. “There. You load it up. And, I’ll show you how to do it.”

  Bat lined up his cart next to the slab. Then, he pushed the deceased from the cart and onto the metal, and found himself a bit surprised at how easily a cold body slid across smooth surfaces.

  Sir spoke as Bat worked. “NASA sure thought of everything. It’s a pretty ingenious setup when you think about it. Minimal energy waste. Once you shut that door, the Mars atmo sucks out any moisture through the vents. Then, a couple blasts from Ginny here wraps up the process. Instant fertilizer for the gardens. You know the number one rule around here.”

  “What’s that?” Bat asked as he lifted the sheeting that covered Poor Schmuck, folded it, and tidily tucked it away.

  “The rule?” Sir asked. “Don’t waste.”

  “That’s it?” Bat asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “That’s a rather dull sounding rule. A rule of any importance should have a bit of panache to it. I expected something more like, ‘waste not, want not.’ Or maybe an alliteration or something.”

  Sir guffawed. “Well, that’s just silly. ‘Don’t waste’ is simple and to the point. It doesn’t need anything fancy for folks to remember it.”

  Bat thought for a moment. “I suppose so.” He went to push the slab into place. Poor Schmuck’s hand draped over the side, and Bat paused to lift it back into place. A spot of red skin caught his eye, and he lifted the hand to examine the small patch of swollen skin.

  Bat frowned. “He has a bug bite. A rather nasty one.”

  “That’s impossible,” Sir said, bending down to look at the hand. “There aren’t any bugs on Mars.”

  Bat scrutinized the deceased’s index finger, where the swollen spot certainly looked like an insect bite.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Sir said as he looked over Bat’s shoulder. “It sure does look like a bug bite though, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe something came through in the cargo,” Bat said.

  “Impossible. A bug hasn’t gotten through the decontamination process in a hundred years,” Sir countered.

  “Do you have a camera?” Bat asked.

  “Do I look like I have a camera?”

  “Everyone has a camera.”

  “Why don’t you have a camera then?” Sir asked.

  “I don’t like them very much.” Bat shook his head. The bite was probably nothing. He lowered the hand onto the deceased’s chest, pushed the slab into place.

  Sir stepped in. He cranked the door closed. “Make sure it’s locked, and then all you have to do it hit this button. One blast should do it, but I use two to make sure. I’d do it, but Doc Gould has this whole ‘separation of duties’ thing.”

  Bat lifted his finger and eyed Sir.

  Sir nodded, and Bat pushed the red button on the heater. The heater squealed for a couple of seconds before silencing.

  “Now, hit it again.”

  Bat repeated the process.

  “And that’s all there is to it,�
�� Sir said. “You can get the stuff out of there now.

  Bat opened the door to find a pile of ash where Poor Schmuck had been. He took out a box and a hand brush from under his worktable, and swept the remains into the container he’d be taking down to the gardens. Evidently, cremains made a rather decent fertilizer.

  Bat’s card vibrated as he closed the box. He read the text. “That’s unexpected. It seems I have another client.”

  “Another one?” Sir asked after he closed the heater door. “Damn. Busy week.”

  Several hours later, Bat stood, deep in thought, over his latest cadaver. Another twenty-something man who’d died from cardiac arrest. This man, too, had an insect bite, this one on his palm. Bat certainly didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He went to his system and dialed Dr. Gould.

  A man’s face came on screen. “Dr. Gould’s office. How can I help you?”

  “I need to talk with Dr. Gould. It’s important. It’s about…” He paused to look at the cadaver’s name. “D. Williams.”

  “Please hold.” The screen blanked for a moment before the man’s visage came back online. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson. She’s busy right now.”

  “Well, tell her I’ve found something that links the two deaths and would like her opinion.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” When the other man didn’t answer, Bat continued. “That’s all.”

  The screen went blank, and Bat considered his next steps. He’d run scans on the odd wound, but unfortunately he had no medical equipment since he was no medical examiner and certainly no doctor.

  What Bat did have was access to the MB’s computer system. He sat down and researched the two most recently deceased. It took only a couple minutes of detective work—okay, all he did was search the directory—to find what he needed.

  Each man had performed a different job. M. Schumacher was a mining engineer, while D. Williams was a geologist. Each had been in perfect health, like nearly every colonist. The only thing they had in common was that both lived on the same level. In fact, they were neighbors, housed at the very edge of the residential pods on their level.

  Bat leaned back in his chair. He had a suspicion he’d be seeing more bodies, since it seemed that Level Seven had a bug problem.

  A zinger of a discovery

  Bat Johnson should’ve had the easiest job on Mars. Working in a colony of young, healthy pioneers, he’d calculated that he’d have approximately one client every two months—enough to pay his living expenses while giving him plenty of free time to spend as he pleased.

  Bat had already cremated two men this week, and was now looking down upon his third cadaver.

  Dr. Wenger, Dr. Gould’s assistant, had come upstairs, and now stood across the table from Bat. The doctor scrolled through the screen on his medical scanner. “It’s just like Dr. Gould told you. The analysis still shows cardiac arrest. The scanner is never wrong.”

  “But, look at the bite on his foot,” Bat said, swinging the large magnifying glass over to the doctor.

  Dr. Wenger gave a lame attempt at looking through the glass before turning back to Bat. “I know it’s odd looking, but I can’t ascertain that it’s a bite. It’s more likely a form of contact dermatitis. It could be adult acne.”

  “Acne? On his foot?” The last word puffed out in a little cloud in the cold room.

  The doctor shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen since coming here. Mars is a lot different than Earth. It brings an entirely new set of environmental factors, which lead to new impacts on the human anatomy. Back when the colony first started, it wasn’t uncommon for teenagers to develop both cataracts and osteoporosis.”

  “You need to run more tests,” Bat ordered.

  Dr. Wenger’s brow lifted before his eyes narrowed. “I need to do my job, or else Dr. Gould won’t be happy. And, running down an irrational theory is not doing my job.”

  “It’s not irrational,” Bat countered. “I’ve seen this same thing on all three bodies.

  “Listen, Bat. I’m not an epidemiologist. I specialize in sports medicine. But, even so, there’s no way I could defend that a small wound like that could lead to death. It doesn’t fit medical reasoning.”

  Bat shook his head. “Level Seven is infested. I know it.”

  The doctor sobered. “If there was an infestation, the drilling teams would have noticed, don’t you think?” After a moment of tense silence, he continued. “Plus, the systems constantly scan the MB for any signs of danger. All systems are reporting normal status.”

  “The systems must be wrong, or someone’s covering something up.”

  “Watch yourself. Everyone had the MB has the same goal, and that’s to see the colony thrive. No one would cover up a risk to the MB. While three deaths in one week is exceptionally high, three is still statistically possible. However, my job as medical examiner is to determine that. Your job is to take care of the deceased in a respectful manner. Dr. Stevens was an esteemed geologist. Inventing conspiracies is not respectful.”

  “I’m not inventing—”

  Dr. Wenger held up his hand. “We’re finished here. You need to watch yourself, because you’re already on Gould’s list. Do your job—and only your job—or else Dr. Gould will find a new mortician. Trust me. She’d have no qualms changing your position. How do you think we got all our janitorial staff around here?”

  Bat pondered the pros and cons. After a moment, he said, “Being a janitor may not be so bad.”

  The doctor shot a hard look at him, then strode from the mortuary.

  Bat grumbled. Everyone complained at him to do his job when he was frustrated that no one else seemed to be doing their jobs. He knew something was going on, but his hands were tied. He sighed, and took S. Stevens off to the crematorium.

  An hour later, Bat returned to his pod with an empty worktable. As he boxed Dr. Stevens’s personal items, he noticed his key card. As he stared at the thick plastic mini-computer, an idea hit him. He took a seat at his desk, and swiped the doctor’s card. Immediately, the welcome screen displayed dozens more functions than it had for him.

  “He can order catering?” Bat asked aloud as he read through the list. After the momentary distraction, he selected the Medical Files option. It took him over three hours to navigate the labyrinth of files and programs until he found the MB’s medical records. He opened one labeled “Dr. Samuel Stevens”, and skipped over the deceased’s history until he came to the final record. Entered today by Dr. Wenger, the record contained the post-mortem performed by the doctor.

  The record was brief and lacked details:

  Dr. Stevens was found dead in his kitchen. Cause of death: cardiac arrest due to natural causes.

  Below the brief statement was a note attached to the image of the deceased’s foot:

  A small mark of unknown origin was found on Dr. Stevens’s right foot. It’s small and deemed of no concern in the cause of death.

  Bat clicked on the image and zoomed in, filling the screen with an angry wound that looked far more ominous at 1000 percent zoom. He scrutinized the image for a long moment before noticing a short list of menu items off to the side. Near the top read Run image analysis?

  “Yes, please,” Bat said, and clicked the button.

  Little dots blinked across the image for several seconds until a message appeared on the screen.

  Results: Wound caused by energy pulse, similar to common electrocution. Point of entry is 0.01 millimeter in diameter.

  “What could cause that sort of wound?” Bat asked the system. The system posted an immediate response.

  The tip of a small, live wire could cause such a wound.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Bat said, reading the screen again. These three hadn’t been bitten. They’d been zapped. And, Wenger had to have known.

  A murder mystery on Mars

  After the lights dimmed throughout the MB for the night, Bat donned his extra-heavy-duty rubberized hazma
t suit. The suit was a staple in every mortician’s supply. However, the suits were generally reserved for the most unpleasant of tasks, not for strolling around the MB. It was for that reason that he waited until nearly all colonists would be tucked into their pods for the night before venturing out.

  Only he quickly discovered one big problem. He’d completely forgotten that tonight was movie night, and the movie had just finished.

  Bat hadn’t made it to the stairwell before throngs of colonists erupted from the commons. He spun around and headed straight back to his pod, but not before catching several confused glances thrown his way.

  “It’s a bit chilly out tonight,” he mumbled, and hugged himself as though fighting off the cold. He admitted it wasn’t the best response since the MB was kept at a constant sixty-eight degrees, and the excuse especially didn’t explain why his face and hands were covered.

  He hustled the remaining distance to his pod and avoided eye contact, hoping that no one recognized him. He swiped his card and stepped inside as quickly as possible. He peeled his rubber suit off, tossed it onto his worktable, and headed to his bed and waited.

  And waited.

  The door chimed sometime after Bat dozed off. He looked at the screen to see Dr. Gould’s angry face. He rolled over, ignoring the chime.

  “What are you doing, Bat?”

  Bat jumped to find Dr. Gould looking over him. “How’d you get in here?”

  She held up her key. “I have unlimited access. Now, tell me what you’re up to.”

  “I was sleeping. At least, until you broke into my place.”

  Her lips somehow thinned even more. “Why were you walking around the MB in a hazmat suit?”

  He frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t be coy with me, Mr. Johnson. Several residents saw you enter your pod.” She pointed to the worktable through the open doorway. “You left your suit out.”