Children of a Dead Earth Book One

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  “David Kimura.”

  The name didn’t hit home for her right away. Theresa’s eyes went a little unfocused as she consulted her plant for a match.

  “That David Kimura?” she asked. “But he’s dead.”

  “I know. I told him the same thing, but he wasn’t convinced.”

  Theresa gave him a sideways glance. “You know how crazy that sounds, yeah?”

  Benson gulped down the rest of his tea and poured another cup without answering.

  “When was the last time you slept?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “With excitement,” he snapped. “What’s on the tablet?”

  Theresa’s patience wore thin. “Fine, read it your damned self. I’m going home to get some sleep so one of us isn’t a zombie in the morning!”

  Benson grabbed her wrist as she passed, but she twisted out of his grip. “No, Bryan, you want to do this all on your own, and I’m going to let you.”

  “Esa, wait. I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m tired and punchy.”

  “You’re running yourself into the ground. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “I know, but I have to see it through.”

  “Why?” Theresa pleaded. “Why is Laraby so important to you?”

  “Because…” The words didn’t come right away. Benson’s muddled mind tried to find a way to articulate what he’d been feeling for days. “Because I see myself in Edmond. He was an only kid with old parents and he had to work really hard to get where he was. Because the crew is supposed to be the best of us. They are the de facto government, and we’re expected to follow their leadership, almost blindly. But I’ve gotta tell you, the shit I’ve seen the last few days, I’m starting to think that trust has been misplaced. Someone is literally trying to get away with murdering a good kid who never hurt anybody, and they expect us to just go along with it. I’m not the historian Devorah is, but it can’t be too hard to find examples where that doesn’t turn out well for the people being governed.”

  “We’re about to Flip, is this really the right time to rock the boat?”

  “I think it’s our last chance to right its course.”

  Theresa crossed her arms. “Did you practice that line, Zero Hero?”

  Benson shook his head. “No, totally spontaneous. Did you like it?”

  “Yes, I did.” She grabbed the tablet and turned it on. “You were right. About everything. The skin and blood cells under Laraby’s fingernails belong to Chao Feng.”

  Benson grabbed the tablet and scrolled through the results for himself. It was strange; the results didn’t surprise him at all, but he felt a surge of adrenaline all the same. This sealed it: the paintings established the link between the two men, Feng’s skin cells established they’d fought, and his actions since amounted to attempts to cover up the crime and intimidate a constable. He was at the scene, had the opportunity, Benson could prove everything but the motive, and that would almost surely come out now that he’d have Feng in custody and could interrogate him, not to mention do a proper search of his files. And once reality set in, Feng was almost certain to roll over on his accomplice, whether it was Mao or another member of his cell.

  Today was a good day.

  Benson linked the tablet with his own and copied the results, then he tossed it back at Theresa. “Make a copy. Make a dozen copies.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He slid his own tablet in a desk drawer and locked it with a thumb print. “To finish this.”

  * * *

  Benson grabbed Constable Korolev out of bed on his way back to the lift. He stepped back out not five minutes later in a clean, pressed uniform and perfectly groomed hair, without a trace of the sleep he’d just shaken off.

  Benson reached up and mussed Korolev’s hair.

  “Never look better than the boss, son.”

  “But you look like shit, sir.”

  Benson could only laugh. He was about to put the young man directly into the line of fire of the most powerful people alive, whether Korolev knew it or not. He could forgive a breach of decorum.

  “Do you know why I’ve pulled you out of bed, constable?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors, sir.”

  “And you’re not afraid of them?”

  Korolev set his jaw. “Not enough to refuse to do my job.”

  Benson put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at the younger man. “Good answer. Do you have your stun-stick and some cuffs?”

  “Always.”

  “Good, let’s roll.”

  Benson phoned Magistrate Boswell and had a warrant in his inbox before they’d reached the top of the lifts. Getting it was one thing, executing it would be another. Commander Feng was on the bridge, not in his quarters, so they were headed for the command module. In theory, the warrant gave Benson authority to run down a suspect anywhere onboard, but in practice he didn’t have control of the lock into Command. If someone on the other side decided to play hardball, Benson and Korolev couldn’t do much about it short of pinching a couple of cutting torches from engineering. They’d just have to see who was willing to make a bigger scene.

  Benson was pretty sure it was him, but just in case, he set up an encrypted video link through his plant back to the stationhouse. If the crew tried to pull anything funny, Theresa would stream it straight to the social net. It wouldn’t take them long to shut it down, but by then killing the stream would be the most damning thing they could do.

  Ten seasons playing Zero had taught Benson a thing or two about playing dirty.

  They drifted in silence through Shangri-La’s axis corridor. They weren’t challenged at the entry to the bio-lab module, or at the lock to the command module itself. Just as Benson felt sure news of the warrant had somehow fallen behind their progress, they hit a wall.

  “What is the nature of your visit to the bridge, detective?” asked a holo image of a squeaky clean bridge officer who scarcely looked older than the uniform hanging on his narrow shoulders.

  “We’re here to execute an arrest warrant. Please open the lock.”

  “May I see your warrant?”

  Benson grunted with irritation, but uploaded the warrant file from his plant. The young man pulled it up on his console and audibly gasped as he read the name. The cat was definitely out of the bag now.

  “I, um, I’m afraid I can’t let you in just now, detective. We’re running a very sensitive simulation related to the Flip, and the captain has ordered–”

  Benson held up his hand to cut the young officer off mid-sentence. “I’m going to stop you right there. What’s your name, son?”

  “Ensign Barta, detective.”

  “Well, Barta, you drew the short straw when they saw me coming and told you to stall me, I understand that. You probably didn’t even know what this was about until just this moment. I sympathize, really I do, but I’m in the middle of pursuing a suspect. I have a warrant signed by the civilian authority to collect that suspect, and right now the only thing between me and him is this door. So either you open it, right now, or in ten minutes I’ll be issued another warrant. Except this one will have your name across the top of it, followed by ‘Wanted for Obstruction of Justice.’ Are we clear?”

  Benson swore he could watch the young officer’s brain working its way through the flowchart, but the outcome was never really in doubt. Barta decided to just get out of the way and let the big boys fight it out for themselves. The light above the lock turned green and the door hissed open.

  “Thank you,” Benson said, as Barta’s image faded into thin air.

  Benson floated into the short antechamber and waited for the doors to cycle. Korolev bumped into him. The inner door scrolled open to reveal their welcoming committee. Three crew members floated in the opening, surrounding Captain Mahama like a flock of hawks.

  “Detective Benson,” Mahama said. “Forgive me, but I seem to be experiencing déjà vu. I could have swor
n we’d already had this conversation.”

  “These are new charges, captain. You asked me to continue my investigation, and I have. New evidence has come to light and I cannot ignore it in good conscience. I should warn you that I have a secured video link streaming this conversation. Is it your intention to continue to interfere with my murder investigation?”

  Mahama was taken aback by the implied threat, while the trio around her exchanged confused looks. Did they not know about the murder? If the official line was still that Laraby had offed himself, it was possible this was the first they’d heard of it.

  “Are you trying to blackmail me, detective?”

  Benson feigned surprise. “That’s an awfully cynical way to look at it, ma’am.”

  “You know I can have any transmission shut down and wiped from the net in minutes.”

  “Of course you could, but people will be talking about it in seconds. Cutting it off after that, well, that wouldn’t make anyone look good, would it?”

  Mahama glared at him hard enough that Korolev actually tensed up, anticipating action. Benson put a calming hand on his shoulder to try to settle the young constable.

  “Bending the rules of a new game, hey, Zero champ?”

  Benson’s face remained implacable.

  “OK,” Mahama said at last. “There’s obviously more than a little testosterone in the air here. Let’s take a step back and work through this like the professionals we all are.”

  “Fine by me. I have new evidence that puts Commander Feng in a physical struggle with crewman Laraby in the hours before his death.”

  “May I see this evidence?”

  “Sure, you can see it at the trial like everyone else.”

  “I seem to recall this part of the conversation, too,” Mahama sighed. “Come inside, I will listen to this new evidence, and I will listen to Commander Feng’s reply. If his explanation does not satisfy me, I’ll rescind my emergency authority and turn him over to you right now. And I can personally guarantee that you will be satisfied with the outcome. Deal?”

  “You know I don’t have to take any deals. The command module isn’t your personal fiefdom, the rules still apply up here.”

  “And you know that I can invoke emergency powers and we’ll be tied up in court with counter-complaints until well after landing. I’m offering to accommodate you, detective. Take it or leave it.”

  Through a force of will, Benson tamped down on his immediate reaction and weighed his options. Long term, he knew he’d win a court challenge against the captain’s actions, just as Bahadur’s challenge would eventually. But for now, the captain held all the cards, unless Benson was prepared to stun the entire bridge crew and drag Feng out by his hair.

  While that plan held a certain undeniable caveman appeal, it wasn’t very practical.

  “Fine, deal. Where is he?”

  “We can speak in the conference room. This way.” She flipped over and pushed off against the wall. The other three officers waited for Benson and Korolev to push off before following.

  Benson soared across the bridge’s enormous open space, drifting through holographic displays and work stations as he flew. Korolev’s micro-grav wings proved to be less accurate, and he drifted off course. He bumped into a holo-projector console, knocking a large image of the local comet population out of place. One of the crew shouted something about a “bull in a china shop”, followed by a chorus of mooing. Korolev ignored them, but overcorrected and hit another display a few seconds later, leading to general laughter throughout the bridge.

  Benson grabbed his spinning body and helped right his trajectory. “Don’t worry about them,” he whispered. “Just challenge them to run one lap around Avalon. See how quick they shut up.”

  Korolev snorted as they touched down on the far side of the bridge. Captain Mahama waited by an open portal and motioned them inside. It wasn’t a conference room in the traditional sense. Built in between the command module’s double hulls, the three of them drifted down through the ceiling and towards the floor, so much as those concepts applied in micro gravity. The room had no table, because anything set on it would just float away anyway. Instead, the walls had a dozen small alcoves each, with footloops and handholds to keep everyone in place, and refreshment tubes that had been hooked up for water, tea, or a variety of fruit juices and protein shakes to keep everyone from getting parched or hungry during long meetings.

  Nestled nervously into one such alcove on the far wall floated Commander Feng.

  “Ah, our resident witch-hunter has returned. Wasn’t Salem hiring?”

  “Hello again, commander. You may be less jovial in a minute or two,” Benson taunted.

  “That will do, gentlemen,” Mahama said. “This is an official inquiry, and I expect you both to act like professionals.”

  “Professionals?” Feng shouted. “He broke into my home and arrested me. I can’t believe you’re allowing this harassment to continue, captain.”

  “Detective Benson is doing his job, as he understands it, and he assures me that new evidence has been uncovered.”

  “Don’t you see what’s happening here?” Feng bit off. “This is a vendetta. You know his family’s history. That line’s been holding a grudge for generations. Now one of them gets a whiff of authority and immediately makes a suicide run against the crew. We never should have promoted him.”

  “That’s enough, Chao,” Mahama snapped. “The civilian magistrate has heard the new evidence and believed it merited a warrant, and that’s an end to it.”

  Feng’s face twisted up in desperate rage, but he remained silent.

  Mahama continued. “Good. Personally, I’ve grown very tired of this distraction, so it ends right now. Commander, I am ordering you to submit to a BILD scan.”

  Feng’s face turned white, or at least whiter than normal. “You can’t give me that order.”

  “My emergency powers go pretty far, Chao. And right now, I’m seriously questioning more than one promotion I’ve approved over the last few years. This ends in this room, right now.”

  “Wait, hold on,” Benson said. “What’s a ‘Build’ scan?”

  Mahama looked back to Benson, then glanced over at Korolev. “I’m going to have to ask your constable to wait outside.”

  “Like hell I will,” Korolev blurted out before remembering to add, “Sir.”

  Benson put a hand on Korolev’s shoulder. “Pavel, I need you to cover the door. Please.” He pitched his voice lower so only the two of them could hear. “Don’t worry, I can handle these floaters if they get too rowdy.”

  Korolev relented. “OK, chief. I’ll keep anyone from sneaking up behind you.”

  “Good man. See you shortly, and keep your stick handy.” Korolev nodded understanding, then floated back up through the hatch in the ceiling. Once the door span shut, Benson turned back to the captain.

  “Your subordinate is a loyal one,” Mahama said. “A little rough around the edges.”

  “He’ll polish up in time. Now, let’s hear it.”

  Mahama nodded. “BILD stands for Brain Imaging Lie Detection. It’s actually a very old technology, dating back to old Earth. It–”

  “Scans the electrical activity of the brain, looking for patterns that indicate recognition of pieces of physical evidence or the regions of the brain associated with creating and telling lies,” Benson said for her. She looked at him in confusion.

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s just that you have a reputation as a bit of a…” Mahama grimaced. “A Luddite.”

  “You think I’ve just been looking at sports almanacs for the last ten years? I read. I’ve just never heard that particular acronym before. I know about the tech, I also know it’s been illegal for almost three hundred years. There was a damned UN treaty against it. It’s one of the reasons I am a Luddite when it comes to stuff digging around inside our brains.”

  Captain Mahama shrugged. “The United Nations is a footnote. The software was preserved, w
e’ve even upgraded it here and there.”

  “But our laws are based on our original UN charter,” Benson objected. “They still apply.”

  “To citizens, yes. In fact, the safety interlocks prevent it from being used on citizens at all,” Mahama agreed. “But crewmembers are another matter entirely. The crew gives up quite a few of their civil rights, just as members of old Earth militaries were required to. And as I’ve already said, my emergency powers go pretty far. This is how we handle problems in the command module, detective. So, how about it?”

  Benson looked back and forth between the two of them. Feng’s defiance had melted away, replaced by a pleading expression that almost managed to generate a pang of sympathy from the pit of Benson’s stomach.

  Almost.

  “Do it,” he said at last.

  Mahama nodded. Feng cowered, sinking into his alcove as if he hoped to become incorporeal and slide right through the hull. A jolt ran through his body as Mahama activated a holo-emitter in the center of the conference room. A moment later, a much-larger-than-life false-color image of a human brain coalesced in three dimensions in the middle of the room.

  “What you’re seeing right now is a live stream of Commander Feng’s brain being fed directly from his plant. The pulsing blue netting represents electrical activity between neurons, while the red-through-green spectrum represents oxygen consumption. Green means more calories are being burned, red less.”

  The captain asked Feng a series of calibration questions, such as what day it was, what his name was, etc. Once that was finished, she turned back to Benson.

  “The BILD software will match up truthful patterns and give you a result in nearly real time, but don’t rush it. Ask specific questions, and give the system enough time in between to return to baseline. Do you understand, detective?”

  “I think so.” Benson pushed off and floated over to Feng’s alcove. Little droplets of sweat drifted off the commander’s forehead. He retreated even further as they came face to face, determined to find a place to hide.

  But whatever empathy Benson felt was overridden by the ache in his forearm and shin. This man had sent someone to kill him, and it was time to collect on that debt.