Mars Prime (16 page)

It consisted of a hose that led from the inside of the locker to the suit and a cable that did likewise. Oxygen and power! The very things he was looking for. But what about compatibility?

Sharma worked slowly and carefully, pulling, twisting, and turning until the oxygen hose hissed loudly and popped out of the suit. The hissing stopped and he looked it over. Not too surprisingly the fitting was totally incompatible with one on his suit. Still, with a little ingenuity and some hard work, anything was possible.

The power lead came loose more easily but represented a much more difficult problem. There was no way to tell what kind of power plant the ship came equipped with, or what would happen if he found a way to hook it to his suit. Everything might blow.

No, Sharma decided, it was far too dangerous and completely unnecessary. There was an emergency solar collector built into his suit. It would limit the speed with which he could travel, and would be a pain in the ass to use, but it would get him home. Or who knew? There was still the chance that the S & R types had followed the beacon to the ravine and were out there looking for him.

There was an emergency tool kit in his suit. It took four hours worth of filing, bending, hammering and cajoling to bring the two different fittings together, and the better part of a roll of tape to hold them in place, but the hiss of air was reward enough.

It took about forty minutes to fill the tanks, reconnect the helmet, and check the oxy readout. Both tanks were full-up. Just enough to reach home. Assuming he was careful.

Sharma felt his stomach growl and realized that the cramps had stopped. He felt hungry. Sharma reached for the pocket that should contain emergency rations and remembered that he'd thrown them out a long time ago. They tasted like shit and the exterior suit pocket was useful for other things. Like hootch and drugs.

Sharma remembered the bins of what had looked like berries. What would happen if he ate them? Would he die? Want more? What?

It took only seconds to make his way back to the galley-food center. He fumbled around with one of the nozzles, received nothing for his efforts, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was no way around it. If he wanted a berry he'd have to put his lips around a nozzle and suck it out. Just like the worms had presumably done.

One part of his mind knew it was stupid, knew that the berries could kill him, but another part didn't care. It was the part that liked to walk on ledges, that dropped pills with funny names, that blasted free from Earth when many were afraid to do so.

Sharma imagined how the worm-thing had wrapped itself around the same nozzle, pushed the thought into the back of his mind, and sucked. A berry, or whatever it really was, popped into his mouth. He swirled it around for a moment and waited for some sort of taste to make itself known. Nothing.

He would have to bite down, release whatever was inside, and take his chances. Sharma used his tongue to position the tiny globe between his upper and lower teeth and bit down on it. He felt it pop, felt some sort of liquid flood his mouth, and felt his mouth pucker when it turned out to be sour. He swallowed.

So far so good. He was alive. Alive and not especially . . . Something happened deep inside his brain. Reactions took place, connections were made, and synapses closed. The pleasure reminded him of sex, except it was centered inside his skull and was different somehow. Instead of release there was a pleasant up-welling of emotion, a feeling of contentment, and a desire to please. An upper if he'd ever experienced one.

The feeling lasted ten minutes then disappeared. He tried another berry with the same results. Then Sharma leaned forward, started to put the nozzle in his mouth, and forced himself to stop. It was clear that these things were incredibly addictive. A couple more and he'd be irrevocably hooked, a condition that would kill him just as easily as oxy deprivation, only a lot more pleasantly.

Sharma forced himself to stand, forced himself to leave the compartment, forced himself to think. This was big, bigger than the ship itself, which was like money in the bank. How would a really smart operator handle it? How could he take advantage of the situation in such a way that the suits couldn't rip him off? How could he have his cake and eat it too?

It didn't take Sharma long to come up with the answer, and when he did, the smile went ear to ear.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

 

His name was Manuel Ochoa, a welder by trade, and he had died a rather unpleasant death.

Corvan started with a medium shot of the crumpled body, then tilted up along the blood-smeared wall to the gore-splattered ceiling. There was a clump of black hair just to the right of the light fixture, held in place by a smear of dried blood, marking the spot where Ochoa's head had hit, and hit, and hit.

The reop saw a camera mount in the background but no camera. The area was still under construction so the chances were good that it hadn't been installed yet.

The shot was far too graphic for broadcast use, but Paxton had asked him to record it anyway and send the video to security for analysis.

Like many of the
Outward Bound's
computer systems, the artificial intelligence known as the "Shipboard Information System," or "SIS," had been brought dirtside and installed in Mars Prime. Hobarth had suggested renaming the A.I. "Planetary Information System," or "PIS," but had been unanimously overruled.

By comparing the latest video with the stuff shot aboard
Outward Bound,
it was possible that SIS would find some sort of clue as to the killer's identity.

Possible, Corvan thought to himself, but damned unlikely. The killer had operated with impunity so far, and barring some bad luck, would most likely continue to do so.

The reop sent the video to Kim, who looked at it, gagged, and instructed Martin to pass it along to SIS.

Paxton was the number two security person now, second only to Lois Scheeler, who'd been there from the beginning and reported straight to Peko-Evans. That's why Paxton got the nasty jobs like labor demos and murders.

The security officer wore his usual outfit of overalls, utility belt, and com set. The com set was connected to Paxton's brain via his temple jack. He turned away from a conversation with one of his security people and nodded towards the body.

"Got it?"

Corvan nodded. "Yeah, SIS has it by now. How did the killer do it?"

Paxton raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Bang Ochoa's head against the ceiling like that."

The security man smiled. "Beats the heck out of me.

Corvan frowned. "Not funny, J.D. And there's something else too ... Remember the way Havlik was taped from head to toe? And how the killer tried to immobilize Rosemary Parker?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Take a look around," Corvan replied earnestly. "There's no tape, no rope, no sign of restraints. It looks as though the killer grabbed this guy, banged him into the walls and ceiling, then dropped him like a rock."

Paxton's expression had changed from amusement to annoyance. "Come on Rex, cut me some slack. If you've got a point then make it."

Corvan spread his hands. He felt frustrated and did his best to conceal it. "The point is that you have two different M.O.'s. One in which the victims were immobilized, and one in which they weren't."

"Implying two different killers," Paxton said skeptically.

"Exactly!" Corvan responded.

The security man shook his head. "Maybe, but I don't think so. The first murders took place in zero-G. That meant the killer
had
to immobilize his or her victims in order to harm them. Here they have some gravity to work with, and comparatively light gravity at that, making it possible to lift the victim and bang him into walls. Chances are they simply like it that way, and would have done it before except for the lack of gravity. Besides, look at the timing. There were no murders until the
Outward Bound
dropped into orbit and sent people dirtside."

"Which is when we received the threat."

Paxton nodded. "Which is when you received the threat. Congratulations by the way ... it was nice of you to let us in on it."

Corvan shrugged. "Not that it did much good."

Paxton sighed. The two of them had been through this countless times before. The reop wanted a full-time guard, someone to watch over Kim, and Paxton didn't have anyone to spare. Not with a soaring crime rate, increasing labor unrest, and a murderer on the loose. Still, he understood Corvan's concern and wanted to help. He put a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Look, I'll send someone by every hour—it's the best I can do."

Corvan smiled. "Thanks, J.D. I owe you one. Let me know if SIS comes up with anything new. And one more thing ..."

"Yeah?"

"Ochoa was a big man. A welder. How could one person grab him, beat his head against the ceiling, and not take some lumps him or herself?"

Paxton smiled. "Who said it was one person? How 'bout all that 'we're gonna get you' stuff?"

Corvan shook his head helplessly and stepped into the hall. He opened the link to Kim. "Everything okay?"

Kim made a face that Corvan couldn't see, She didn't like the pictures she'd seen, didn't like being vulnerable, and didn't like the labor dispute. But it wouldn't do any good to talk about it so she lit a cigarette instead. It tasted good. Kim sucked the smoke into her lungs and let it dribble out with her words.

"Sure . . . things are fine."

"Did the Earth feed come in?"

Mars Prime received two news feeds per day. They included everything from politics to sports. It was Kim's job to edit them down, insert fifteen minutes worth of local coverage, and send the results out over the com net. And yes, the Earth feed had arrived right on time. But that wasn't what Corvan wanted to know. He might be the man that she loved, but he was a world-class reop and had an ego the size of Olympus Mons. Kim smiled.

"The landing story is still getting some play, they want more on the robots, and everyone's screaming for an update on the murders. 'Murder in outer space.' The tabs love it."

"No problem there," Corvan said grimly. "WeVe got more blood and gore than we know what to do with."

"Yeah," Kim replied soberly. "That's for sure. Now, don't let this go to your already oversized head, but your reports have topped the in-show ratings for six days running."

Corvan wanted to cheer and jump up and down but managed to restrain himself. There was no point in reinforcing Kim's already negative estimate of his ego.

"That's nice. What's next?"

"The computer story. Remember? You've got an appointment with Peko-Evans, Fornos, and Jopp."

The reop groaned. He believed in the story, but not the way Kim did, and certainly not the way Martin did. The A.I., plus their com gear, had arrived within a surprisingly short period of time. A spontaneous work stoppage had forced them to meet the shuttle, find the equipment, and transport it themselves. Something they had wanted to do any way to avoid pilferage. And, given the forklift Corvan had borrowed, plus the light Martian gravity, things had gone rather smoothly.

Until Martin had come on-line that is. The A.I. was absolutely furious. It seemed that Big Dan, and the other systems that had no dirtside applications, were still up in orbit. The moment that the
Outward Bound
was officially decommissioned their memories would be erased, their processors set aside for other applications, and their peripherals converted to other uses.

And since A.I.s had yet to acquire sentient status in the courts, no one saw their impending destruction as much of a problem. No one except Martin, that is, who like his namesake Martin Luther King thought all sentient beings should have the same basic rights. Scientists, theologians, and philosophers could debate all day long whether Big Dan, MOMS, and LES were truly sentient, but Martin knew what President Hawkins would have said.

"If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, chances are that it's a duck."

So Martin came up with a plan, solicited Kim's support, and led the effort to convince Corvan. No simple matter, since while the reop felt a strong sense of loyalty toward Martin, he didn't feel the same way about computers in general.

But by virtue of nonstop nagging, guilt trips, and appeals to Corvan's ego they had convinced him to pick up the baton and run with it. Maybe, just maybe, the suits would listen to reason. So he groaned, killed the interface, and headed up-corridor.

Some bozo or bozette had used a magic marker on a freshly painted wall: "Management sucks!"

Corvan looked, thought about it for a second, and nodded in silent agreement.

The supply room in which Ochoa had been killed was a good ten-minute walk from the admin section. It gave Corvan a chance to watch the workers without seeming to do so.

Most moved with maddening slowness, fast enough to avoid a shirking charge, but slow enough to drag things out. The interesting part was that most, if not all of the newbies had joined in. Their unblemished suits and freshly painted chest plates were a dead giveaway.

Some of the workers turned to frown at Corvan, told him to slow down, or flipped him the bird. There was no doubt about it. The mood was getting worse all the time. Something would have to give, and give soon.

The admin section was busy. People moved from room to room. Robots whirred by on errands. A neverending series of messages were passed over the PA system, and a truly formidable desk barred Corvan's way. It was made from scrap steel and appeared to be bulletproof. The person behind it was none other than W.K. Julu, defender of the chief administrator's inner sanctum, and the power behind the throne.

The only question was which throne? The one belonging to Fornos? Or Peko-Evans? It was hard to tell since the newly arrived colonists had been integrated into the existing structures and were still settling in. A process that would be repeated each time that a ship arrived.

The manner was as it had been before. Formal, clipped, and extremely British.