Star Cops

by Chris Boucher

  Ho said, “Come now, Colin. I am the Base Co-ordinator.”

  “That means nothing here.”

  “That is an interesting point of protocol.”

  “It’s a point of law,” Devis said and was about to make the point by offering to arrest him and file charges when the Ajax Salvage Company sidled in to register a claim on what they said was a discarded module.

  It was Devis’s view that you could trust a shit-sifter about as far as you could spit in a spacesuit, and under normal circumstances he would have been more searching in his interrogation of the cocky little pilot and her gloomy companion. He would probably have questioned how a complete module came to be unaccounted for on any of the routine databases. He might have been more sceptical about the logged retrieval position and its maximum hazard-to-navigation premium. And he would certainly not have issued an immediate license to open anything that had wound up in that thieves’ swap meet they called a workshop. But these were not normal circumstances.

  “What does the module contain?” Ho asked eagerly.

  “We won’t know until we cut it open,” the woman said, and her face brightened with excitement.

  Devis wanted to tell her to for fuck’s sake not encourage Wangley, but instead he asked her partner, “Is the premium going through the Guild, or do you want a Base Credit?”

  “Guild,” the man said, without any sign of his companion’s enthusiasm. “Please.”

  “It is necessary to cut it open. Why is this?” Ho asked the woman.

  “It’s been sealed,” she said happily. “Welded shut. It’s like a security strong box.”

  “I hope the contents are appropriately valuable,” Devis said punching out the coded hard copies which Ajax needed to proceed. “This is just routine, sir,” he added, as Ho came over to look. “There’s nothing here that could possibly interest you.”

  “On the contrary, Colin,” Ho said. “Routines have always fascinated me.”

  Marty did all the routine tests, every non-destructive procedure he could think of, without coming up with any really good reason not to go ahead and open the module. The sonic scan had showed something in there which looked suspiciously like it could be a body. But Lauter had demanded, “So what? Open the damn thing up, and we’ll know for sure.” And there was no answer to that.

  Still he hesitated. What was it about the thing? Incongruously, it seemed much bigger here in the relative roominess of the workshop than it had in the cramped hold of the cargo shuttle. It was looming and shadowy, as though it was sucking away all the light. He could barely see the remote cutting frame. Not that he needed to see it. It was set and ready to go. All he had to do was touch the start control. Still he hesitated. What was he afraid of?

  “What are you afraid of?” Lauter asked, in her most accusing voice.

  Stupid question. Death. He was afraid of death. Living might be shitty but it was better than the alternative, which was nothing. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Then let’s go, let’s go.” She was almost dancing with frustration. “For God’s sake, Marty, love of my life, hit the switch and put us out of your misery.”

  So, because he could think of no alternative, and no way to say no to her, Marty set the cutters going.

  On the other side of the workshop, the lasers flashed and bit into the weld which sealed the module’s hatch. Marty felt the darkness thicken. His throat constricted suddenly and breathing became difficult. His head began to spin.

  And then the cutters stopped. The control panel was dead. And the Chinese Base Co-ordinator was apologizing for such direct interference.

  “You can’t just march in here and stop us working,” Lauter protested.

  “It has been necessary to cancel the licence to open,” Ho said, and proffered a Central Secretariat printout.

  Marty examined it. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I found myself concerned,” Ho said, “to understand why this module was welded closed.”

  “Fucking bureaucracy,” Marty complained, bitterly enough to cover the immense surge of relief he felt.

  “Any time you want a job as a detective, Jiang Li,” Nathan said to the happily beaming Ho, shaking his hand warmly.

  Ho seemed genuinely flattered. “You are very complimentary, Nathan,” he said, “but I think I could not meet the professional standards you require.” There was no trace of irony in his voice.

  “I don’t think you’ve seen us quite at our professional best,” Nathan said, with more than a trace of it in his.

  “We are alive,” said Ho. “That is what is important.” And, turning to include Devis in the conversation, added, “Is it not, Colin?”

  “It is indeed, sir,” Devis said coolly.

  “I offer everyone my congratulations,” Ho said, “on a job most well done.” Then unexpectedly he clapped his hands in a formal gesture of applause. That done, he bowed to Nathan, and was gone.

  As the doors slid closed, Devis snorted, “Detective, my arse. He knew what was in that thing. He knew all along.”

  “He asked all the right questions,” Kenzy said.

  “Meaning I didn’t, I suppose?” Devis challenged.

  “Don’t have a go at me,” she said. “I’m on your side.”

  On his communications console, the ‘message incoming’ icon was flashing, and Nathan crossed towards it. “We were none of us very sharp on this one.”

  “Because it was a game,” Devis complained. “Chinese bloody checkers. And he outplayed us. Us and the Americans.”

  Nathan sat down at his workstation. “I don’t think so,” he said, cueing the message.

  On his screen, Odile Goodman said, “Nathan, sorry I wasn’t around when you called. I just got your message. Is there a problem, officer?”

  Kenzy ignored the call and demanded with a small rhetorical flourish, “Who was the woman, then? If the Coms didn’t set her up to expose the Yanks who did?”

  “Dilly,” Nathan was saying, “my information is they’re both on their way to Earth. For some reason they’ve chosen to use Temple Bay.”

  “We’ve been fucked over by everyone and his uncle,” Devis said.

  “Yeah, we even let those two creeps on the Ronald Reagan get away with more rule violations than I ever thought of,” Kenzy said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Devis. “Attila the Hun didn’t get away with more than you thought of.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Odile smiled. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

  Smiling back, Nathan said, “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  It was only at this moment that Devis and Kenzy realized Nathan was paying them no attention at all, but was totally absorbed with someone on his screen. And when whoever it was giggled, said, “You know where I’m at, lover,” and broke the connection, they knew they had missed something significant.

  Moriarty and Lennox strolled across the concourse of the Temple Bay Spaceport towards the intercontinental transit lounge.

  “It’s routine.” Moriarty was clearly getting bored with trying to reassure the other man.

  “It’s a full commission hearing, M-M.” Lennox was equally obviously frustrated with Moriarty’s confident lack of concern.

  “If the record showed anything less than a full commission hearing it would look like a cover-up, for Chrissakes,” Moriarty said.

  “An emergency hearing?”

  “Speed, Pete. Like teenage fucking. Over before anyone notices.” He sniggered.

  “I still think –” Lennox persisted.

  Moriarty paused to interrupt irritably. “It will not come out into the open,” he grated at him. “They won’t let it come out into the open. It is in no-one’s interest for it to come out into the open.”

&nb
sp; “Yoo hoo! Gentlemen!” Odile Goodman called from the entrance to the transit lounge.

  “Christ,” Lennox muttered. “What the hell is she doing there?”

  “Who is that bitch?!” Moriarty demanded to know. “And what the fuck is it she wants?”

  Odile waited until they got closer, and then said loudly. “Rumour has it there’s been some very secret, very nasty and very fatal experiments out on the Ronald Reagan. Would you care to comment at all?”

  “Who exactly are you?” Lennox asked.

  She smiled. “Odile Goodman. No relation, of course. You know what they say; only the name’s been changed to trap the guilty. Did you know that you can change your name quite legally as often as you like?”

  Moriarty tried to push past her, but she stood her ground. “Get out of my way, you crazy bitch,” he said.

  “You might find that a useful tip,” she continued imperturbably, “when you’re looking for a new career. Assuming you don’t go to jail, that is.”

  Moriarty moved again, and this time she stepped aside to let him reach the door. It slid open and he strode into the transit area. The waiting reporters surged forward eagerly.

  Lennox got a good look at the goat-fuck and decided, very quickly, not to follow his boss inside. As the door shut again, he said to Odile Goodman, “Which one are you?”

  “World Press Association,” she said, flashing her ID and a big smile.

  “You get my exclusive,” Lennox said, “in return for protection from that.” He nodded at the closed door. “And legal representation.”

  “Done deal,” she said, and hustled him away.

  Little Green Men and Other Martians

  Rumours of what had been discovered on Mars, during seismic mapping towards the eastern end of the Valles Marineris, seemed to have reached Earth itself almost before Tolly Jardine got back to the colony with his find. It was not clear how these stories had got started, but what soon did become clear was that there was no hard information to be had. Nothing was definitely known about the burrow at survey grid reference 77436152, or about its mysterious occupant.

  There was resentment among the rest of the colonists that Jardine, Dearman and the other four members of the Ground Team Mars Geological Survey were so close-mouthed over something which was important to everyone who had made the arduous journey to that inhospitable planet. If what was being said was true, then it was important not just to them, but to the whole human race. Only there was no way of knowing if what was being said was true.

  “That’s all you’re going to say?” The chairwoman of the colony council was scowling with disapproval, but she knew that Tolly was within his rights.

  “Look,” he said, almost apologetically, “none of us came to Mars for the climate and the ocean frontage, did we? I mean, there’s a good chance I can parlay this up into fame and fortune and a first-class ticket home. I’m not about to risk that.”

  “And the others?”

  “Get a share of what I make.”

  “They’ve agreed?”

  From the back of the meeting room, Stella Dearman spoke for the rest of the Base One Team. “Damn right we have.”

  “It could be a breach of your employment contract,” one of the council members suggested.

  “No it couldn’t,” Tolly said.

  “Anything found during the survey belongs to the colony.”

  “Anything found as a result of the survey,” Tolly corrected him, “belongs to the colony. The wording was to do with limiting the insurance you people gave us, if you remember.”

  “It was the same for everyone working outside the dome.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Tolly said. “We weren’t covered for accidental suit failures, and you weren’t covered for incidental finds.” He shrugged. “Just don’t try and change the rules now, okay?”

  As the council meeting broke up and members were folding away the table and chairs, the possibility of forcing Jardine and his companions to surrender their find came up. To her credit, the chairwoman’s angry response made it very clear that any action of that kind would be illegal and unacceptable. She was not to know that it would also have been impossible.

  Devis yawned. He disliked working the Moonbase immigration desk and he especially disliked working it on the third shift. Groundsider clearance procedures were depressing at the best of times, and when you were as tired as he was now, it was not the best of times.

  The late shuttle had brought in the usual motley collection of humanity. There were general technicians, engineering staff and maintenance workers returning from Earthside leave. There were a few replacements for injured and retiring personnel. And there was one visitor with a full sheaf of temporary access passes, all of which required the many and varied eye-crossing, tee-dotting bureaucratic formalities.

  While he waited for the computer to confirm the ID and entry permissions, Devis stared at the man in the prescribed manner. Such cold-eyed appraisals were supposed to make the guilty look guilty, but Devis knew from years of experience what bullshit that was. The only people who didn’t look guilty under the hard gaze of a copper were the ones with something serious to hide. No point telling the little smart arses in the Central Secretariat that, of course, and more than his balls were worth to ignore their stupid training briefs. Nathan would castrate him with a low-powered laser if he did anything to jeopardize the drive to extend the power and influence of the ISPF. Everything was by the bloody book these days. Empire building depended on good PR, it seemed. And good PR depended on not offending anyone.

  The man’s name was Daniel Larwood and he appeared to be English, in his forties, average height, average build, brown hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing features. He was also quite unfazed by the scrutiny. If anything, he was mildly amused by it. So: Crook? Spook? The data began scrolling up on the screen. Devis snorted. He should have guessed. “A journalist,” he said. “We’re honoured.”

  Larwood said, “Is that an instruction, or merely a pious hope?” Then he smiled a rumpled grin, just in time to take the sting out of the words.

  The mannerism reminded Devis of Nathan. “It’s not our function to give people instructions, sir,” he said flatly and without returning the smile.

  “I must have misread your shoulder flashes,” Larwood said. “I thought you were a policeman.” He produced a battered hip flask, took a long pull from it and gave a small shudder.

  “If that’s booze, Mr. Larwood,” Devis said, “it’s a big mistake out here.”

  Larwood shrugged. “It’s probably a big mistake anywhere, but then…” His voice trailed off abruptly as he saw David Theroux coming to the desk from one of the inner corridor links. Quickly recovering from his surprise, he said, “But then, mistakes are what make us human, no?”

  “Out here, mistakes are what make you dead,” Theroux said.

  Larwood offered his hand. “Hullo, David. They told me you were a top cop now, but I stuck up for you anyway.”

  Theroux ignored the outstretched hand. “Still polishing your Pat O’Brien impression, Daniel?”

  “Had to give it up,” Larwood said. “Couldn’t get the accent. Couldn’t write like Ben Hecht either, unfortunately.”

  “So you settled for the more general image?”

  Larwood nodded. “Drunken hack.”

  Theroux gestured at the hip flask. “If you please?”

  Larwood hesitated for a moment and then handed it over with a repeat performance of the shrug and the rumpled smile.

  Theroux took a swig from the flask. Showing no surprise, he said, “Water.”

  Devis let his surprise show. “Water?”

  Larwood said, “I love a good miracle don’t you?”

  “You were always a phony,” said Theroux, and he tossed the flask back at Larwood
who, despite the deliberately straight and slow trajectory which one-sixth G allowed, did not catch it cleanly.

  “What brings you to Moonbase, Mr. Larwood?” Devis asked. “Working on a particular story are we?”

  “We hope so,” Larwood said. “Though we are, in fact, not that particular these days.”

  “No change there, then,” Theroux said coldly.

  Devis frowned as he keyed in the acknowledgement codes and arrival confirmations. He was puzzled. There was obviously bad blood between these two but he had never known David Theroux to be so unsubtle about his hostilities. He hadn’t known him that long, of course. “Your clearances are all in order, sir,” he said to Larwood. “Have a nice stay.”

  Before Larwood could move, Theroux reached down and scooped up his flight bag. He opened it without a word and made a cursory search. Two bottles of brandy were wrapped in a spare jacket. He checked the labels carefully then put the bottles back and sealed the bag again. “Use it sparingly, Daniel,” he said quietly. “You won’t find another source out here.”

  Larwood looked rattled for a moment. “I liked you better as a student, David,” he said.

  “Why not? I believed what you told me in those days.”

  “I told you I was a journalist.”

  “Even that.”

  “Low blow. You were a disappointment to me, too. I was quite put down when I realized you and your friends weren’t as radical as your reputations suggested.”

  “Pity the story you sold didn’t say that.”

  “Actually it did. But the merest mention of the word ‘radical’, and your countrymen have always seen red. Comes of being the land of the brave and the home of the free, I suppose.”