Star Cops

by Chris Boucher

  Chandri said, “There is nothing I can tell you.”

  Nathan lifted the helmet and bent his head towards it.

  “My world,” Chandri said, “the world I came from, reveres all life.”

  “This is a dead world, sir,” Nathan said and slotted the helmet into position, cutting himself off from further talk. It was not until the airlock hatch closed on him that he wondered why he had allowed himself to be so stupid, so glib. What the hell was it about Chandri that had irritated him – was it the self-pity? Or was it that the man had made him nervous? Or maybe it was all just his own paranoia brought on by blind panic about claustrophobic fucking airlocks. He looked at the vent gauge and the hatch locking mechanism. Both showed normal function indicators. There was no reason for him to look at either for a maker’s name and the thought did not even occur to him.

  On the other side of the airlock, Dr. Michael Chandri glanced at the same indicators before turning away and heading back to his office. It had not occurred to him to look at the maker’s names either but there was a reason for that.

  Nathan stepped through into the cargo bay. The MoRo door was open, and he hopped carefully up the steps and scrambled into the cab. Theroux was sitting with the controls fired up and ready. “What kept you?” he asked over the suit-to-suit radio circuit.

  Nathan set the steps retracting and slid the cab door closed. “Not sure,” he said, checking the seals and getting a green light on them. “Might have been promises of safe conduct.” Another green light showed the steps were stowed. “Steps and seals are green.”

  “You getting paranoid again?”

  “Don’t knock it. Without paranoia how are you going to know who your enemies are?”

  While Theroux began the cabin pressurization Nathan opened a main communications channel and said, “This is MoRo Seven, all checks are complete, request surface access please.”

  Moving slowly on its dustproof nylon runners, the access cover rolled aside and harsh lunar daylight spilled into the bay and overwhelmed the fluorescents. As the sharply shadowed rockscape outside the dome was revealed, Theroux said, “A view that never fails to move me.”

  The MoRo lurched gently into motion and Nathan had to swallow hard against the trickle of bile that immediately rose in his throat. “Explains one of the more pervasive smells associated with space travel,” he said.

  Theroux did his best to sound hurt. “The privileges of rank don’t extend to stealing jokes.”

  “Who’s joking?”

  “Scares the crap out of you too, huh?”

  The MoRo was still accelerating down towards the crater floor when the cabin pressure light came up. “Cabin is fully pressurized, suit systems can be closed down whenever you’re ready,” Theroux said, and began to release the seals on his helmet.

  Nathan was deliberately slower to remove his own helmet. The meeting with Chandri had been a complete shambles and once they could talk face to face he was going to have to tell Theroux exactly whose fault that was.

  Back at his desk, Chandri had reactivated the surveillance screens. He watched the seven members of his team, each in their separate cubicle, each struggling with their part of the problem. It was a good team. That was the pity of it. He had assembled them with great care. What more could he have done?

  “Have we received the location signal?” he asked.

  “The unit has been identified,” the computer replied.

  Was he justified in this? What other choice did he have? They had forced him to it. It was not his fault that they wanted him to fail. What more could he have done?

  “What more could I have done?” Theroux protested angrily.

  “It should have been less,” Nathan said, doing his best to be patient without sounding like a training school lecturer. “Chandri was hiding something,”

  “Gee, do you really think so?”

  Nathan thought, it’s odd the way Americans never quite master irony, and said, “I’m not talking about the work they’re doing there.”

  “So what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know, but if you’d talked less and listened more I might have found out.”

  The cabin lifted smoothly as the MoRo straddled a boulder and Nathan’s stomach tensed. Was the bloody thing still accelerating or did it just feel like it? He glanced at the rear screen. The Outpost still seemed quite close. Surely they had travelled further than that. He said, “Didn’t you feel how close he was to…?”

  “To what, for Chrissakes?” Nathan looked at Theroux without speaking, and Theroux nodded. “If I’d talked less and listened more you might have found out.”

  “He had some sort of guilty secret,” Nathan said.

  Theroux grinned slightly. “He’d better enjoy it while he can,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like it’s going to be possible to hide anything for much longer.”

  “And he was scared,” said Nathan. “He wanted to tell us, but finally he couldn’t bring himself to trust us enough.”

  Theroux shook his head and grinned more broadly. “What do you base that on? Reading the coffee grounds? You know what I love about your intuition? Your detective’s instinct?”

  “Nose, David,” Nathan said, tapping the side of his nose. “The preferred professional expression is ‘detective’s nose’.”

  “By the law of averages, you’ve got to be right fifty percent of the time,” Theroux said.

  Unsmiling, Nathan said, “It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it?”

  “Simple goddam guesswork.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well what would you call it?”

  “An intelligent listening system,” said Nathan. “For beginners. Failing that: just goddam guesswork. Nothing involving people is ever simple.” As soon as he’d said it he thought, More bumper-sticker philosophy, why do I trot out this trite shit?

  “How come you didn’t ask Chandri why he’s got his people’s coveralls bugged?” Theroux asked suddenly.

  “You think he’d have told me?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Nathan said, “Not much point in letting him know we knew, then.”

  “Not much point in knowing unless we use it,” Theroux said.

  In the huge production complex which Seal Sands Chemicals operated at the mouth of the river Tees near Seaton Carew in the North-East of England, the dozen or so process workers who oversaw the systems were not prepared for the non-routine. They were prepared for everything else, fully trained for every predictable emergency. They were drilled in the procedures for dealing with everything which might go wrong between the off-loading of crude feedstock through catalyzers, crackers, distillers, fermenters, separators, settlers, driers, packers and the on-loading of the sale products. They were familiar with all the various combinations and reactions of which the plant was capable and, in the unlikely event that the computer needed back-up, they were ready.

  But not for poetry. There was nothing in the manuals about poetry on the screens. There was no procedure for poetry.

  “‘That flies in the night’? What does that mean?” the shift foreman demanded, staring at the screen which should have been showing main reaction readouts but wasn’t, and then was again. “Fucking hell.” He had paid no attention to the slight shudder of the automatic doors when he came into the process monitoring suite a few moments before, and he had no reason to link it with the words, especially as he wasn’t sure he believed in the words. He scowled. “I saw it. It showed up on here. I saw it.” He glared round at the other process workers. “Alright, who’s the joker?” Nobody answered him. They often didn’t. He hadn’t asked to be put in charge. The money was useful, but he was uncomfortable telling people what to do. “Come on, I like a laugh as much as anybody, but this is going too fucking far!”
>
  One of the others said, “There’s a problem.”

  He turned on him and snapped, “You’ve got that right. If head office ever hear about this…”

  The man did not look up from his screen, and sounding nervous, he said, “The second line is out of phase.”

  The shift foreman crossed to his console, saying, “Well, balance it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I can’t. Computer’s not responding.”

  “It must be.” The shift foreman touched the man’s shoulder. “Here, let me.” The man moved out of the way, relieved to hand over the responsibility. The shift foreman deftly adjusted the flows and watched as the readouts registered. “Nothing. There’s no bloody difference.” Another man called out, “We’re losing three!” and another shouted, “Four’s running out of control!” Everyone looked at the shift foreman. It was for him to call it. He hesitated. It was obvious that if they gave up on it now, the place would tear itself apart. The readings kept on slipping. “Hit the switches,” he said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Each man flicked on a control-failure alarm and as klaxons howled and hooted in the complex they ran for their lives.

  On the main reaction screen the words: That – flies – in – the – night – In – the – howling – storm – flashed up just before the firestorm roared through and blew everything out.

  “She said she was one of yours, and she had the ISPF clearance code.” The voice of the security woman sounded slightly defensive. “We did try to check with you, but Outpost Nine is tricky to contact.”

  “Okay, no problem,” Nathan said. “Thanks for letting me know. Seven out.” He looked at Theroux. “How did she get hold of the new code?”

  “She probably used her old one as authority to ask for it,” Theroux said, choosing now to switch the MoRo to manual control and accelerate past the Moonbase perimeter checks. The excess speed icon flashed on the navigation screen and audible warnings chimed. Nathan reached out and cancelled them. He felt unable to let such an obvious diversion go unremarked. “Makes changing it a bit pointless,” he said.

  “She wasn’t suspended. Shit, she wasn’t even under suspicion – except by you,” said Theroux, then he smiled. “That’s the trouble with security. Nobody knows what the fuck’s going on until it’s too late.”

  She was watching a newscast when they got back to the Star Cop office. Pictures of billowing fire and a mid-Atlantic voice selling the news like a commercial. “The destruction of the chemical plant has been put down to computer failure.”

  She had her back to the door. “Rumours of sabotage which link this incident to the failure of the Channel Tunnel traffic computer – ”

  She stood and turned as they came in. Nathan got an impression of startlingly blue eyes and a small vivid mouth. “– have been dismissed as quote simple fantasy unquote.”

  She was slim and lightly muscled. Her hair was almost white, close cropped for free-fall, and her skin was so pale it seemed as though a bright light must shine straight through it. “Bizarre stories of poetry preceding disaster are circulating –”

  She smiled. Christ, Nathan thought, feeling guilty in some obscure way, she is beautiful. “ – though to date no-one seems able – ”

  “Pal Kenzy, Commander,” she said holding out her hand.

  “ – to pin down exactly – ”

  “Screen off,” Nathan said, and shook hands.

  She said, “I hope you don’t mind my waiting in here, only they said you were on your way back from one of the outposts.” Her voice was slightly husky with just the trace of an Australian accent.

  “Do you know David Theroux?” said Nathan, keeping it formal, coldly polite.

  Theroux smiled warmly, “Yeah, we have met,” and started to offer his hand.

  She didn’t seem to notice the gesture, just nodding and saying, “Yeah hi,” before turning her full attention back to Nathan. “I was on leave when you were first appointed, and since then I’ve been catching up on the backlog.”

  What the hell is she trying to do? Nathan wondered. Did she know? Did she expect to change his mind? “Yes, so I understand,” he said still not returning her smile, which did not falter for a second.

  “I’m currently based on the Coral Sun. That’s the fixed orbit station run by –”

  Nathan interrupted her, “The Pacific Basin Consortium, yes, I know. What is it you want, Kenzy?” It was more abrupt than he had intended, but it didn’t faze her at all. Obviously her skin was thicker than it looked.

  “This is the first chance I’ve had to pay my respects and welcome you to the Star Cops,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I realize now is probably not the time, but there was something I wanted you to see.” She picked up a small black case, opened it with a flourish and offered it to Nathan. In the padded interior was a handgun. It was about the size of a nine millimetre automatic but it was single moulded out of plastic and was clearly no sort of percussion weapon.

  Nathan left her holding the case, and with barely a glance at it said, “You’re right, Kenzy. Now is not the time.”

  Her smile was less confident, suddenly. “You don’t understand, Commander.”

  “That’s possible,” Nathan said.

  “This weapon has been developed for use on the high frontier.”

  “And your interest is?”

  “It’s manufactured in Australia by the Consortium. Commander, this really is the weapon we need if we’re to keep control out here.” She took it out of its case and began what sounded like a rehearsed sales pitch. “The wavelength of this laser can be adjusted for a variety of organic materials.”

  “You mean like flesh,” Theroux put in.

  Kenzy said, “Well, of course like flesh. You can even pick the pigmentation of the skin. And this little beauty won’t touch anything else.”

  Theroux took the gun from her, and turned it over in his hands. “Fuck,” he murmured. “The bastards finally came up with a racist weapon.”

  “We’re not interested in your gun, Kenzy,” Nathan said.

  “Think about it,” she said. “You can hardly use your police special out on the stations.”

  “I don’t usually carry a gun at all,” said Nathan.

  Kenzy said, “That’ll be good news to the scum who’ll be pouring out here to build the Big Ring.”

  “That’s three, maybe four years down the line,” Theroux said, handing back the laser pistol. “If they ever come up with the funding. Off-world space colonies ain’t sexy right now – or hadn’t you noticed?”

  For a moment she looked ready to demonstrate the gun on both of them, then, putting it back in the case she said, “So what about the people who’re already out here?” She was angry, and it made her voice sharper, her accent broader. “They’re gonna love the idea of unarmed cops looking after their interests.”

  “I’m impressed with your concern for other people’s interests,” Nathan said, thinking that his accent must change when he got angry and wondering, in passing, how exactly.

  “Meaning?” Kenzy demanded.

  “Not your strong suit, surely?” And he crossed to a workstation and punched up a playback channel onto a main screen. A close-up of Kenzy’s face appeared glaring directly at them. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about your family,” the face snarled. “I’ll heave you straight back Earthside and you can starve right along with them.”

  Just out of the picture a man said, “I’m not rubbishing you, honest I’m not. My kid’s sick. I can’t pay the hospital bills. I wouldn’t have risked my neck out here otherwise.”

  “Some things never change, do they?” the recording of Kenzy said. “And whinging poms are one of them.”

  The unseen man’s voice became more pathetic, taking on an almost tearful ed
ge, “You send me back to Earth now and I don’t know what I’ll do. My son could die.”

  Kenzy’s face showed her distaste for the man. “Tough break. He shouldn’t have picked a loser for a father.”

  “Look…” the voice said, “maybe we could come to some arrangement?”

  “Arrangement?”

  “I had to pay a recruiter to get this job in the first place. An agent’s fee, he called it. I think maybe I was cheated, don’t you?”

  “Looks a lot like it.”

  “Okay, so if I could pay someone to make sure I wasn’t cheated any more…”

  The recording of Kenzy appeared to think about this then said, “These things cost money. And we’re talking cash money, you understand.”

  “I understand,” the unseen man said eagerly. “And I’m ready. I’m ready to pay to be protected.”

  The picture of Kenzy’s face froze on the screen.

  Nathan said, “You’re already paid to protect him.” Kenzy and Theroux both turned from staring at the picture to look at him.

  “What is all this?” asked Kenzy.

  Nathan left the image of Kenzy up and switched a subsidiary workstation screen to personnel and payroll records. Scrolling through these he said, “We pay you.”

  “What’s going on here?” Kenzy demanded. She looked at Theroux. “Do you know what’s going on here? Did you know about this?”

  Theroux was tempted to say that this was as much of a shock to him as it was to her, because this part of it was, but he said nothing and, hoping his face was expressionless, held her accusing stare.

  “At least, we used to pay you,” Nathan said and amended her file. “Not any more.”