Bones Burnt Black: Serial Killer in Space (3 page)

“Aha!” the medsys said as it withdrew the black snake
from Val’s throat and swung the snake’s tip around to a small and rather
delicate looking section of the examination array. Mike got the impression it
was passing something from the snake to much tinier manipulators. “I’ve found
it. I have discovered— Hmmm. No, I see that I was wrong. I thought I’d found
the remains of a poison pill, but it’s actually just a small piece of paper
rolled into a ball.”

“Paper?” Mike frowned in confusion.

“Yes. And odder still: unraveling the paper ball, I’ve
discovered a small tangle of hair wrapped inside. Wait; someone has written
tiny words on the paper.”

“What? What does it say?” Mike craned his neck as if
expecting the medsys to show him the words. It did not. Instead, it just read
them aloud:

Years of waiting are over.

All plans have been laid.

For injustices suffered,

old debts must be paid.

“Sounds like somebody killed her for revenge,” Mike
said. “But, why would there be hair in it? Is it human?”

“We’ll know in a minute. I’m running a genetic
analysis.”

“Can you? I thought hairs weren’t alive.”

“They aren’t. Hair is just extruded protein; it’s not
composed of cells and so contains no genetic material. However, there are often
microscopic flakes of skin clinging to the outside of a strand of hair. In this
sample I’ve found sixteen such flakes, and it is their genetic material I am
analyzing.”

“How long will it take?”

“It is complete. A search of available medical records
indicates these hairs belong to one Michael Tobias McCormack.”

“How can they belong to me?”

“There are at least two possibilities: someone could be
trying to implicate you in this death; or you, yourself, could be her
murderer.”

“But I tried to
save
her!” Mike spread his arms
and showed the machine the palms of his hands, as if a lack of malicious intent
could be proven by a lack of weapons.

“When you called me she was less than two minutes from
death. A knowledgeable murderer could have timed it that closely.”

“But I didn’t do it!”

“I’m not saying you did; only that there is
circumstantial evidence that supports the notion that you
might
have
done it. If you are innocent I am sure there will be plenty of other evidence
to support that fact. In the meantime, I must notify the captain. Her family
must also be notified, but that task will probably fall to the captain.”

Mike looked down and stared very intently at nothing.
“Yeah.” He sounded dazed. “I guess so.”

“And since this is a highly suspicious death, there
will be a thorough investigation once we reach the City of Von Braun. So, if
you will excuse me, by law I must begin a full autopsy.”

All this had happened less than hour ago, back before
the weird gees had kicked in. Now, in the upside-down hallway, Mike stepped
over another fluorescent light fixture.
Who could have killed her? That
skinny Arabic guy with the big black mustache? He looks pretty slimy. Maybe
even slimy enough to be a killer. Or that Russian woman with the bright red
hair? She looks dangerous in a femme fatale kind of way.
Mike frowned at
his own stupidity.
Looks don’t make you a killer; only killing can make you
a killer; and that means it could be anyone.

_____

The pain behind Kim’s eyes now throbbed in time with
her pulse. She wished she could reach in through her helmet and massage her
temples with both hands.

A length of nylon rope swung out slowly around the left
side of her body. Its loose end waved in front of her like a slow motion whip.
Striped in red and yellow, it looked to be about twelve feet long.

Safety tether?

She checked her belly ring—a three inch diameter
stainless steel ring mounted on the front of her vacuum suit just below her
belly button. Vacuum suits have a lifting harness of woven nylon strapping sewn
into them. The belly ring is the nexus of this harness, and the sole anchor
point for safety tethers.

One end of a safety tether was clamped to her belly
ring, but the tether stretched around her body so far to the right that its end
was not visible.

Grabbing the tether near the belly ring, she began pulling
it in and coiling it on her left forearm. The whip-like tether dancing slowly
in front of her suddenly jerked to the left, swung around her back and
fluttered out on her right side. It was indeed, the one attached to her belly
ring; but as she finished her coiling, she was surprised to learn it did not
terminate with the usual metal clasp. Instead, the end was frayed.

Broken?

She felt certain this must be important—another mystery
to add to her growing list of mysteries—but there were bigger, more immediate
problems to solve. This one would have to wait.

Turning her head to the left, she stretched her neck
and pursed her lips. The white plastic feeding tube’s curved exterior felt
sticky as it entered her mouth, so after sucking a few sips of the orange flavored
syrup she licked all around it with her tongue until it felt clean.

It’s dangerous,
she thought.
Awfully
dangerous.
She turned her head to the right and reached her lips for the
water tube.
It’s been tried before. Dozens of times.
She drew a mouthful
of water and swished it back and forth to rinse the thick syrup from her teeth.
I think it even worked once.

Reaching down again to the large pocket on her suit’s
left thigh, she pulled open the Velcro closure and removed one of her suit’s
two emergency patch-kits. She opened the kit and looked through its contents
until she found a small lock-blade pocketknife.

It doesn’t matter how risky it is. I don’t have any
other options.

Opening the knife, she carefully verified that its
three-inch blade—factory sharpened and never before used—was in the locked
position. Then, holding it with both hands, she pointed its tip at the center
of her belly—just above the belly ring—as though about to perform the Japanese
suicide ritual: Hara-Kiri.

Pausing a moment, she considered the fact that she
might actually be committing suicide. She searched her mind for
something—anything—to comfort her in what might be her last few minutes of
life. She was lucky; she found something.

Calmness swept through her body as she subvocalized the
ancient words.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
The words
warmed her like a favorite blanket; or like a long parental hug.
He maketh
me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters; He
restoreth my soul.

Slowly, carefully, deliberately, Kim stabbed through
the material of her suit. The blade pierced the outer covering without
incident, and began its journey through the layer of fiberglass thermal
insulation batting.

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His
name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil.

The knife met resistance and slowed to a stop. Sharp as
it was, strands of fiberglass had accumulated in an uncut mass against the
knife’s tip. She wiggled the handle from side-to-side and in small circles to
work the blade past those pesky little glass fibers.

For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they
comfort me.

Her eyes widened when she felt the resilience of soft
rubber. The knife had reached the layer that maintained the suit’s air
pressure; the layer that prevented breathing air from escaping; the layer which
was technically and unceremoniously referred to as ‘the bladder.’

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of
mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

She jerked the knife straight in toward her intestines
and heard the shrill hiss of precious air shooting out into the vacuum. A white
mist sprayed furiously from the hole she’d made. It ricocheted off the knife
handle and slapped at her hands and wrists as though trying to shove them away.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the
days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord…

Forever.

Chapter Three

Mike stopped in front of a white door with
5-B
painted on it upside-down in black. He knocked but there was no response. He
knocked again, harder.

The door opened abruptly and a woman of exceptional
beauty with shimmering gold hair—styled in one of the newer, more popular, zero-g
cuts—and a southern accent that reminded Mike of Vivian Leigh’s
characterization of Scarlett O’Hara in
Gone with the Wind
, said, “Who do
you think you are, beating on my door like that?”

Mike had seen her several times during the voyage but
was still taken off-guard—partly because of her tone and partly because of the
way she was dressed.

She wore a luxurious sleeveless blouse of pure white
with ruffles running all along the collar. The collar was open wide—almost off
the shoulder—and featured a deep V-neckline that laced in front with a thin and
rather frail looking white ribbon. The overall effect was softly feminine and
openly sensual. The white ribbon spanned the gap between the two sides of the
V-neck and drew them together. The two sides, however, did not touch and a
narrow patch of skin peeked seductively through the gap, from her cleavage down
past her navel.

Mike tried not to look at this strip of exposed skin
and immediately failed—twice. “The captain sent me,” he said, timing the
statement to coincide with a moment when he was looking her in the eye. “He
said we should go to the center of the ship.”

“Why isn’t he answering my calls?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said, as he failed again. “Come
on, we have to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I’m told what’s going
on.”

“But I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Aren’t you a member of the crew?”

“No, I just build these things. I don’t fly ‘em.”

“Well, then, why should I listen to you?”

“Because…” he hesitated, trying to think of a reason
that might make sense to a stranger. He failed at this too. “Because if you
don’t I’m going to put you over my shoulder and carry you.”

She slammed the door in his face.

He stepped forward and opened his mouth to yell through
the door but stopped and squinted.
What was her name?
He shook his head.
Doesn’t matter.
“Are you stupid or something?” he yelled, “Can’t you
feel the ship spinning? The centrifugal effect is already over a gee on this
deck and it’s getting stronger every minute. Are you going to stay in there and
wait for three or four or five gees? Or just until you pass out?”

She opened the door. “OK, I’m ready.” She had a small
pea-green leather travel case in her hand. She pulled its long strap up over
her shoulder. As it moved into position, the strap flipped part of her blouse’s
collar upside-down and crushed the ruffles flat.

Though startled at the abruptness of her turnabout,
Mike didn’t dare question it for fear she’d reverse herself again. He gestured.
“This way.”

She stepped up onto her cabin door’s lintel, and then
down onto the ceiling next to him. She pulled the door shut, then turned and
followed him along the hallway, carefully stepping over light fixtures and
other tripping hazards. Once she became familiar with the obstacles commonly
found on a hallway ceiling, she moved more easily than he did in the high
gravity. At the turn in the hall, she passed him. It was at this point that he
noticed the rest of her clothing.

Along with her white blouse, she wore white shorts and
white shoes. Her belt was white, her bracelet was white, and her earrings were
white. Only the frames of her eyeglasses deviated from this color scheme,
apparently having been selected to match her eyes. They were blue.

To Mike, the most surprising thing about her outfit was
that it had no pockets. Not one—which raised the obvious question:
Where
does she keep her computer?
One location—both convenient and erotic—popped
into his mind. He dismissed it immediately. Her blouse left that delightful
location exposed for the entire world to examine, and Mike had certainly seen
no computer there.

She reached one of the two vertical hallways, opened
its door and grabbed hold of, and stepped onto, the rungs of a ladder.

Corvus’s vertical hallways had ladders recessed into
three of their four walls. The fourth wall was occupied by a column of
doors—one for each deck. The ladders ran the length of the ship, but normally
used only when the main engines were under thrust and the ship was accelerating
at its maximum rate of one-tenth gee. In zero-g ladders were unnecessary; one
good push was all it took to coast from one end of a vertical hallway to the
other. A lot of things were easier in zero-g.

Once she’d climbed up and out of his way, Mike also
grabbed a couple of rungs and began climbing upward against the centrifugal
force.

As round and thick as broom handles, the rungs were as
stiff as iron bars. Their roughly textured surface didn’t feel cold like bare
metal, but warm like plastic. Mike knew their assembly was as simple as
slipping a hollow plastic casing over a three-quarter inch diameter foamed
steel rod smeared with adhesive.

The walls of the vertical hallway, as well as the
recessed ladders, were white; so were the closed doors located at each deck. On
the wall next to each door, large black characters proclaimed that deck’s
numerical name. At the moment these characters all appeared upside-down. Mike
and the woman in white were having to climb
up
against the gravity-like
force in order to travel
down
to deck ten.

Can this woman be the killer?
Mike wondered.
How
could she? She looks so delicate, so fragile, so helpless. And so incredibly
gorgeous!
Again, he frowned at himself.
A killer isn’t a killer by
looks. But to be safe, I’ll keep my eyes on her.

He smiled, as he independently invented an ancient cliché,
Sound’s like my kind of job,
then laughed aloud, proud of his momentary
cleverness.

He glanced above to see if she was curious about his
outburst, in which case he might have to make up an excuse to avoid sounding
stupid. He then realized that almost any explanation he might make up would
still have him sounding like an idiot.

She looked down briefly but did not inquire as to what
he found so funny.

Freed of those thoughts, he thought of Kim. Feelings of
guilt and then worry grew in him.
I wish I knew where Kim is. Maybe she’s
already on deck ten. Damn, I sure hope so.

He thought back to a few hours ago when his biggest
problem had been whether or not he should to ask Kim to marry him.
She’s so
much fun,
he’d thought.
And smart and sexy and beautiful. Should I ask
her?
He’d bit his lip and frowned.
What if she says no?
He’d stopped
biting when the pain indicated he would soon draw blood.
She might, after
all, I’m a lot older than her. Twenty-nine from forty-one… that’s… Man, that’s
twelve years! Besides, maybe it’s too soon. We’ve only known each
other—what?—not quite three months?

His doubts faded when he remembered how Kim looked at
him: a deep earnest look that was far more than friendship, though not exactly
a sensual passion. He smiled. She was such a straightforward unpretentious
woman; one who remained attractive despite her peculiar habit of never wearing
make-up.

Mike’s mind returned to the present when he noticed he
was getting lighter as he climbed toward the center of the ship. By the time he
passed the door to deck eight the climbing was easy. When he reached deck ten
he was almost in zero-g.

Deck ten’s door was open wide. He closed it after
stepping out onto its ceiling of bare foamed metal. The woman gazed around the
large room as though surprised or impressed.
Probably never been in an empty
cargo deck before.

The room was two feet taller than the passenger decks
since it had no decorative drop-ceiling to hide the maze of pipes, ventilation
ducts, electrical conduits and fiber-optic cables that wormed and twisted their
way across every ceiling on every deck. The extra height was not what made this
room large, however, it was its width. The room had no walls except the ship’s
hull.

Other than the room’s size there really wasn’t much to
see. The floor plan was circular; the only windows were small, located on the
cargo loading doors; and most surfaces were painted a light gray. In place of
interior walls, there were row after row of vertical I-beams.

The beams were stainless steel and had dozens of shiny
metallic rings welded to them. The rings were intended for securing cargo with
ropes, straps, and netting made of woven nylon. But since there was, on this
deck at least, no cargo to secure, all the bright yellow nylon ropes, straps,
and netting were rolled up and tied to their I-beams.

The floor-to-ceiling shafts of the ship’s two vertical
hallways looked like a pair of fat telephone booths with no windows. Their
closed doors faced each other from across the room. They stood stark and alone;
out of place in a sparse forest of yellow-decorated I-beams.

Mike had no idea what the woman thought of the room,
but it reminded him of the day his structural welding crews had turned Corvus
over to all the other construction crafts: those whose job it was to build
interior walls, install carpet, secure furniture, and provide all the other
things that make a ship comfortable, not just habitable. On that day, every
deck, even the passenger decks, had looked as empty as this.

The woman pointed to the gray textured floor above
their heads. “What’s that?”

Mike looked up and saw large red irregularly-shaped
spray-painted letters.
Another poem?

The ghost of Apollo

walks this ship.

In boiling blood

his pen he will dip.

Apollo?
Mike remembered an incident almost twenty
years ago; an incident he generally avoided talking or even thinking about; an
incident he wished had never happened. He and his partner, Richard Tyer, had
returned to the rough lunar mining town called Vengeance for supplies after
prospecting near the Moon’s south pole. In Vengeance they accidentally stumbled
across the Apollo 17 lunar roving vehicle hidden in the back of a mining
equipment repair garage. The historic moon-buggy was a good two thousand miles
from where it was supposed to have been, meaning it could only have been
stolen.

By international law, all the old Apollo landing sites
were strictly off-limits. To leave so much as a footprint on one was considered
the desecration of a historical landmark, and some kind of crime against
humanity. It seemed to be the universal assumption that someday each site would
be properly protected by building a museum over and around it. But it followed
that if someone had stolen a moon-buggy, they must have visited an Apollo site;
in which case there was no telling how much damage they might have done, or
what additional equipment they might have stolen.

He and Richard had immediately notified the lunar
authorities, and what turned out to be a gang of six thieves and four
accomplices were rounded-up while still trying to arrange the sale and shipping
of the precious moon-buggy to a ridiculously wealthy collector on Earth for
seventy-two million dollars.

Ghost of Apollo? Walks this ship? Could there be a
connection?
Mike read the poem repeatedly looking for something more than
just the word Apollo that could be taken as a reference to the smuggling
incident. He didn’t see anything.

The woman looked at him. “What do you think it means?”

Mike continued reading it, trying to unlock its
secrets.
Boiling blood?
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I just don’t
know.”

_____

Even before Kim removed the knife from the hole she’d
made, a squealing noise grew loud inside her helmet. It was the sound of fresh
oxygen and nitrogen being added to her suit’s air from the tanks in her
backpack. The gases squirted into her helmet—faster probably than its designers
ever intended—from a pair of outlets almost touching her shirt collar, directly
below her ears. She’d expected this. The suit’s lifesupport system was simply
attempting to compensate for the air being lost to vacuum; and apparently it
was doing this successfully: Kim’s ears felt as though they needed to pop, but
the sensation was not yet painful.

The new air felt cold and dry against her skin. It
swirled around inside her helmet blowing her hair this way and that just enough
to be annoying. She tried to ignore these little distractions while recalling
with a certain level of accuracy the right ascension and declination of a few
key constellations.
The opposite side of the sky from Orion is Ophiuchus;
which is Greek for “the Snake-holder.” Its brightest star is Rasalhague: Arabic
for “Head of the Snake Man.”

Folding the knife, she slipped it back into her thigh
pocket; then, holding her hands flat like paddles, placed her wrists at the
sides of the hole in her suit and rested her forearms firmly against her belly.
In this position, she used her hands like the steering vanes in the early
liquid fueled rocket engines: to alter the path and guide the flow of the
escaping gas.

First, she forced the streaming jet of gas up past her
face to slow her tumbling to a stop, then she pushed the jet to the left to
gently rotate herself until she was facing Ophiuchus. She then wiggled the jet
until it was pointed directly at Rasalhague. At this point she removed her
hands from the jet, checked her suit’s clock on the back of her left wrist and
relaxed for a few seconds while watching closely to see if the jet strayed from
Rasalhague. When it did she pressed two fingers diagonally into the spray and
counted out five seconds before removing them. This seemed to put it back on
target.