Read Mission: Tomorrow - eARC Online
Authors: Bryan Thomas Schmidt
Mission: Tomorrow - eARC (12 page)
I felt immeasurably sad.
Tiki had sealed Bytchkov’s apartment and made his way down to where I stood. He studied the rear of the tavern. “Not an impossible jump,” he agreed.
Satterwaithe came loping back from Fifth Circle, cutting between the two apartment blocks and ducking under the balcony. “He ran off the other way, toward Sulbertson. I found a witness, though.” She touched her handi. “The runner had a white overshirt and tan overpants. Unless the shirt was yellow and the pants brown.” She grimaced. “He’s not sure. Looked about mid-thirties. Maybe one seventy height.”
Tiki annotated his handi, snapped the sand-shield closed, and reinserted the stylus in its sheath. “I guess we should round up the usual suspects. My money’s on Edathanal. Bytchkov was going to sell the artifact back to her because he couldn’t hang it out for pickup. When he couldn’t produce it, Edathanal lost her temper and—You’re shaking your head, Mickey?”
“It wasn’t her.”
“How do you know? She was the only one we don’t know where she was at 1900 when Bytchkov made the appointment with his killer.”
I sighed. “When you’ve eliminated the impossible you won’t always like what’s left.”
Tiki put a hold on the morning lift, and brought Despina and Gloria to join the others in the departure lounge. Hot Dog had been doing the preflight checklist and Tiki assured him that Iron Planet had bumped back the official lift time. “This won’t take long,” he said. “It’s not like Phobos doesn’t make two passes every day.” Indeed, it swept the Martian sky faster than Mars himself rotated, and so rose in the west and set in the east.
Tiki placed me by the entry from the main terminal while Satterwaithe stood by the tubeway out to the shuttle. I’m not sure where Tiki thought the killer would try to run, but it’s in the nature of the guilty to flee even if no man pursueth. In moments like that a man might not think clearly. Willy gave me a quizzical glance because he had caught the posse badge on my coveralls and the knuckle bar on my right fist. He dealt in information, and the amount of information is proportional to its surprise.
“I think it is fair to say,” Tiki began, “that all of you knew that Jaroslav Bytchkov had stolen something valuable and you all wanted to get your hands on it.”
Despina Edathanal protested. “It belongs to the Visitor Project!”
Tiki nodded and said, “Why don’t you describe the artifact that Bytchkov filched.”
Five pairs of eyes turned toward her. I knew damn well one of the group already knew, but I saw no overt sign. Well, Tiki had his purpose and I had mine.
“It was a truncated pyramid of sandstone,” Edathanal said, “about the size of my two hands. In the right lighting, you can see the hints of a face. Three eyes, arranged as a triangle; a suggestion of structure scoured by untold centuries of gentle Martian sandblasting. It’s the only artifact we’ve ever found that hints at what the Visitors looked like. The weird thing is, the face doesn’t seem to stay put. It’s on one side, then it’s on another. So we think there’s also some very subtle micro- or nanotech going on with the stone.”
I spoke up. “You’ll provide a detailed sketch? I’ll make sure Goods Outbound gets a copy up on the Dogs. Aurora and Pegasus, too.” This was within my purview as an agent of the Port Authority. I wanted the thief to know that moving the contraband off Mars would not be easy. Moynihan Truth shifted in his seat, probably wondering how much we knew.
Tiki turned to me. “Mickey, you want to tell them the next bit?”
Everyone scrooched around in his seat, except Hot Dog, who was leaning against the wall by the departure tube with his arms crossed, and Gloria Iceman, who sat to the side where she could see everyone.
“Jaroslav had one very hot potato and bounced to Phobos before the word could get out to deposit the statue for safekeeping until his partner could smuggle it out. Unfortunately, that channel was cut off a couple days later.” Moynihan’s smile had grown so broad I thought it might split his face in two.
Tiki took up the narrative once more. “Each of you either wanted to lay hands on the contraband or at least find out what it was. And each of you had a very public argument with Bytchkov. In some cases, knock-down fights.”
VJ laughed. “That wasn’t no fight. We played catch. He threw a punch; I caught it; threw it back.” Willy and Hot Dog laughed with him.
Moynihan said, “He’s not the easiest guy to get along with.”
VJ said, “He was a prick.”
Tiki cautioned them, “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
That got their attention. I had been waiting for the line and had been watching their faces. Tiki’s announcement should be a surprise to all but one. I caught the tell where I was expecting it and a glance at Tiki and Satterwaithe showed that they had caught it, too.
“At first, Dr. Edathanal seemed a good suspect,” Tiki said. “She had the best motive. The statuette had been stolen from her. She had a fight with Bytchkov in which he slapped her across the face, a public humiliation. And no one knew where she was at the crucial times. But the killer was seen running under the balcony of the neighboring building. Genie over there had to duck when she chased after. The good doctor is too tall. She would have scalped herself.”
“And the rest of us?” demanded Hot Dog, so red in the face that his freckles had disappeared.
“I also wondered about Gloria, here,” Tiki continued. “She was seen in One-Ball Murphy’s keeping a sharp eye on the rooming house, but disappeared just before. But the killer jumped from the second floor window, and she’s too light to have made the resulting footprint.”
Moynihan Truth perked up. “Me, too?”
Tiki shook his head. “No, you weigh enough. Your motive . . . thieves falling out, perhaps—oh, yes, we know about your end of the smuggling operation. You came down to tell Bytchkov that your game with the parasols was busted. But the witness on the next block saw the killer from a distance, and you would never be mistaken for the age he figured.”
VJ wiped his brow dramatically. “People always say my good looks make me seem young.”
“You wish,” said Hot Dog. But an unease had fallen over him because he had noticed that only three suspects were left. He noticed Tiki watching him and protested, “I got an alibi for the whole day. I was at the Guild meeting!”
“The Guild meeting broke up at 2100,” said Genie Satterwaithe. “I talked to some Guild comrades. That would have left plenty of time to get over to the Groin.”
“But Bytchkov made a call at 1900,” I explained, “and made an appointment to see the man who killed him. You were still in the meeting.”
“So what?” asked VJ. “I seen lots of people on their handis in meetings.”
“’Cept I was
running
the muffing meeting,” Hot Dog said with evident relief. “I was sitting up on the muffing dais right in front of God and twenty-three muffing comrades, banging a muffing gavel. You can ask them!”
“I did,” said Satterwaithe. “You didn’t receive the call.”
During this exchange, Willy had grown more and more pale, and he had begun to ease away from the others. VJ noticed this and whispered, “Better make a break for it.” Tiki and I both heard it, and so did Hot Dog.
“Willy?” he said. “I don’t believe it!”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Willy has the best alibi of all. He was in custody in Minetown when Bytchkov was killed, same as three other suspects. If you’d told the arresting officer your name was Willy, it would’ve been obvious. But your legal name is Johann Früh, and it got recorded as Johnny Free on the booking sheet.”
The arithmetic was simple enough now that everyone could see the remainder. VJ gave me a pained look and said, “Geez, Mickey. This is freeping
Mars!
You know what they do to you here?” Then he bolted for the exit where I stood, hoping I wouldn’t have the heart to deck him. And I remembered how he had shoved me out of the way of that leaking pipe.
Tiki Ferrer’s hands barely twitched and his quarterstaff tangled VJ’s legs and he sprawled out. Satterwaithe was by his side with her baton ready, but there was no fight in him.
“Victor E. Djeh,” Tiki told him formally, “you are detained on the authority of the City of Port Rosario and the Groin Merchants’ Association.”
“You don’t like to hear it,” I told Tiki afterward, when Satterwaithe had marched VJ off to the cells. “You think you know people; but you never do, and sometimes you find out just how much you don’t know them.” I shook my head. “I hope it was just a fight that got out of hand. I hate to think VJ went in there
planning
to knife the guy.”
VJ was never the sharpest tool in the box. He’d been smart enough to wash his knife, but not smart enough to throw it away. It later proved to have Jaroslav’s blood in the space between the blade and the handle. Just goes to show the importance of clean-up.
Tiki turned to me. “But he had nothing to do with stealing the artifact?”
“No, and I’ll make sure Pondo understands that. I owe VJ that much at least. At least he never crossed the Bassendis.”
The next day, I tracked Gloria Iceman to a Minetown bar. She was hooching with friends, but when she saw me she separated herself and came to sit in my booth.
“Iceman isn’t your actual name,” I told her without preamble. “It’s Eismann, and someone transcribed it incorrectly when you applied for a Martian visa.”
The miner smiled at me. “I liked the sound of it. It’s a good nickname for an ice miner.”
“It is that,” I agreed. “But I think if I dig a little bit, I’ll find out that you belong to the Eismann family that makes the vaults: Eismann and Hertzog. It’s enough to make me wonder if someone at the company built a trap door into their products’ software.”
Gloria Iceman gave me a wide-eyed look. “That sounds awfully precocious.”
“I even wonder who convinced Bytchkov to leave his precious with the Bassendis in the first place.”
“Well, he had to hide it until the heat died down. The statue wasn’t just another link or valve or other bit of trash from a technological midden heap. It was important. Best to hide it somewhere secure.”
“But Edathanal knew who had taken it, and a dozen dogs knew he had brought something to the Second Dog. The Bassendis are shady, but they would not have defied a Port Authority warrant.”
Gloria nodded. “It’s harder to find something if no one knows where it actually is—or who actually took it.”
“You don’t want the Bassendis mad at you.”
“At me? Why would they be mad at me? Where’s the evidence I took it, beside a similarity of names?”
“The Bassendis aren’t anal about evidence.”
“You wouldn’t put a flea in their ear on such flimsy suppositions.”
“You’ll never get the statue off Phobos. Every cubic of luggage will be scanned at the most minute levels.”
Gloria frowned and pursed her lips. “I think that whoever has the statue will wait a long time before trying to move it off-world. Long after the hoo-rah has died down, long after the inspectors have forgotten what they were looking for. All that extra effort . . . You can’t keep that up for very long.”
Then she clapped me on the shoulder and walked lightly through the barroom and exited into the streets of Port Rosario. I never saw her again.
All that was many years ago and they’re all gone now. Hot Dog smeared himself across a hectare of Martian desert when his ballistic failed to reenter properly. Willy went down for blackmail. Satterwaithe left Mars after the baby she had with Tiki died; Tiki was never the same after that.
Tiki found enough evidence in Bytchkov’s apartment for the Port Authority to arrest Moynihan Truth when he stepped off the shuttle in Panic Town. He was exiled to Ceres.
The Martian Board of Actuaries sentenced VJ to slavery on the thermal decompositors out by Mt. Olympus for the remainder of Jaroslav Bytchkov’s natural lifetime. I did what I could for him by arguing to the Board that Bytchkov’s chosen profession of smuggler and thief put his lifespan at the low end of the confidence interval. That shortened VJ’s sentence, but he never got around to thanking me for it.
Gloria “Iceman” Eismann was killed three months later when the tunnel collapsed in Ice Mine 23. I don’t think the Bassendis had anything to do with it. I never told them my suspicions. Wherever she squirreled the statuette remains unknown, and it has never been found to this day.
Edathanal never found another artifact like it, and after a time everyone assumed she had been mistaken about the whole thing.
A writer back on Luna named Myles Hertzog possesses a replica, probably made from Edathanal’s sketches, and has achieved a modest success with exciting stories about aliens he calls “the People of Sand and Iron.”
* * *
Michael F. Flynn
is a frequent contributor to
Analog
, but his short fiction has also appeared in
Fantasy and Science Fiction
and at TOR.com. A multiple Hugo nominee and winner of the Sidewise Award for Alternate History, his novels have included the
Spiral Arm
series and the
Firestar
series. A statistician, he lives in Easton, Pennsylvania.
Next, in a break from the serious, author-scientist Jaleta Clegg helps us imagine a reality TV world gone bad—even worse than we have it now, I swear—wherein space travel is the greatest reality show of all in . . .
THE ULTIMATE
SPACE RACE
by Jaleta Clegg
“Henry! Hurry up, it’s starting.” Ethel snuggled deeper into the Cuddle-Couch(TM) (with Soruna(TM) holographic projectors and Tru-Life(TM) surround sound speakers with ThunderRumble(TM) subwoofer cushions, built-in armrest controls and auto-connect, and the optional posture-correcting lumbar support and SpaDee heated massage—Henry’s sixty-eighth birthday present, worth every dime). She turned up the volume with a squeeze of her hand.
The announcer’s handsome, chiseled face smiled from the floating projection. “Tonight, live from the Sporting Club’s docks at New Vegas, it’s the thrilling conclusion to the
Ultimate Race
. Remember, what happens in New Vegas, stays in New Vegas, the world’s first and only orbiting casino. At least for another two months.” He chuckled on cue. “Brought to you by our sponsors, Tummie Gummies, the fruity delicious colon cleanse. Chew two to refresh your life, inside and out.”
His face switched to singing, dancing, rainbow-colored candy bears waving banners of toilet paper.
Henry plopped beside Ethel, a bag of freshly popped popcorn in his hand. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing yet, just Calton Hooper’s intro.” Ethel popped a handful of the white fluff (now with 72% more fiber!) into her mouth. She grimaced. “Why can’t they leave it as popcorn? What’s this flavor?”
Henry looked at the bag. “Licorice root. It was on sale.”
The bears concluded their animated commercial. Calton Hooper’s perfect features replaced them.
Ethel tapped the massage controls as the announcer’s voice filled the air.
“Four months ago, from these very docks”—the camera cut to an outside shot full of space-suited figures, plastered with the blue and white Sporting Club logo, clambering over the space yachts of the rich and famous—“we launched seven crews into the black void of space. The crews were focused on one thing: Winning the Ultimate Race, brought to you tonight by Cheeritos, the world’s favorite cheez snack.”
The show cut to another commercial.
“I wish they hadn’t disabled the commercial skip,” Henry said through a mouthful of licorice popcorn.
“’It would have cost us three months’ rent for the premium subscription to enable that.” Ethel had been sorely tempted, but sometimes the commercials were the best part of the show. She secretly hoped that the body spray man would be featured tonight. He was her favorite, his one-minute romances clever and sigh-worthy.
Henry chewed another handful of popcorn while orange puffy triangles drifted over New York’s skyline. “Those things are disgusting. They did a study last month showing they caused cancer.”
“Mm-hm.” Ethel tuned out Henry’s complaints. She’d heard them too many times over the years. She relaxed into the Cuddle-Couch(TM) and let the massager do its work.
Calton Hooper switched to a recap of the season, cutting to scenes of the crews of the yachts as they prepared to launch from the floating station of sin, as Ethel’s friend Betty called it. Logos of all the sponsoring companies decorated the interiors of the ships. Their products filled the crews’ lives. Their commercials punctuated the reality show’s footage.
Calton walked them through the initial days of the race, when the crews fought over limited living space. It sounded so romantic, a race to Mars’ moon Phobos and back. The prize money was nothing to sneeze at, but Ethel wasn’t sure she would have survived being part of any of the crews. Especially not the college frat boy ship. She didn’t approve of their choice of interior decorations, provided by their sponsors. Beer companies and porno sites were not appropriate for such a family-centered show as the
Ultimate Race
.
“What was that?” Henry spoke through his popcorn. “You said something?”
Ethel wisely didn’t repeat herself. Henry thought the frat boys were hilarious. “Betty posted pictures of her dogs on the beach in Fiji. We should take a trip there someday. It looked lovely.”
Henry hmphed, his answer whenever she brought up her friend’s travel posts.
“Maybe we should save up for a trip to New Vegas. I’d like that.”
Calton Hooper narrated the incident of the stolen chocolate stash on board the all-female ship. The women were all middle-aged hairdressers, sponsored by every beauty product known to man. They’d dropped out and had to be towed back to New Vegas after only ten days. The show cut to a live interview of the women sitting in a casino in New Vegas. They reminisced about the show, hugging and crying. Ethel rolled her eyes. The women had done nothing but fight like wet cats.
Calton broke into the canned interview. He tapped his earbud (D-Audible, only the best sound for your delicate ears), his expression serious. “We’ve just received word that the last two yachts have passed the Moon’s orbit safely. It’s neck-and-neck between the
Butterfly Effect
and
Gone Fishin’ Today
. Who will win tonight? We’ll keep you posted.”
“Should have been the
Beer Can.
”
“Oh, please. Those boys couldn’t do anything right. I wonder if they ever got home from Mars.”
“I’m sure they’ll update us.” Henry stirred the unpopped kernels with his finger. They rattled in the bowl. “I kind of like the licorice flavor. I’ll pick up more tomorrow.”
“Tasted like cough drops to me.”
The show cut to Calton interviewing the crew of
Lucky Lady
, New Vegas’ entry that had sputtered out of the competition halfway through the show. A combination of not enough food, a leaky water tank, and faulty wiring had shut down their ship three days shy of Mars. The crew looked much healthier now. They were still at Mars, all three couples told Calton they wanted to stay and file for homesteads in the Martian desert.
Ethel fidgeted despite the massaging seat. The endless stream of commercials never stopped. Scrolling texts and pictures filled the bottom of the screen, even during the interviews. Ethel wished they’d just hurry up and get to the finale. She was rooting for her favorite, the captain of the
Butterfly Effect
. She didn’t care for his crew of engineers and scientists, they were very competent but a little too weird for her tastes. But Captain Shan Updike could give the body spray man a run for his money.
The show switched music tracks to a solemn funeral dirge while they paid homage to
Homer’s Revenge
. Two of the crew had died in a horrible explosion. Ethel closed her eyes and fantasized about the swarthy Captain Updike and Body Spray Man instead. She hadn’t liked that episode or the days of news stories afterwards. The people who signed up for the
Ultimate Race
knew the dangers. It was their own fault, anyway. Ethel would never trust her life to a ship built by breakfast cereal companies and office furniture retailers.
The show dragged on through more interviews and highlights. Calton Hooper updated them every few minutes on the progress of the two remaining yachts as they approached the final finish line.
Henry returned from a bathroom break, flopping onto his side of the Cuddle-Couch(TM). “I was talking to Harv the other day while he was out trimming his hedge. He said it takes at least a full day to get from the moon to New Vegas. They’re lying to you when they say this is live. It’s all staged and fake. Lenny at work says they film it all on a soundstage behind the casinos.”
Ethel pursed her lips. “Lenny has a few screws loose. He tried to convince you that the food industry is poisoning us into becoming robot drones by putting addictive colorings in everything.”
“That was Kevin. Lenny just thinks that New Vegas is a scam and the show is fake.”
“It’s real. Both David Lorenzo and Anita Kay had scientists on their shows talking about how it couldn’t have been faked. They said this was the future of space travel—game shows and company sponsorships. They’re talking about doing a reality show at the Ganymede mining base next year. Scientists vs. Miners. I think it sounds interesting. Calton Hooper is in negotiations to host the show, but they say he’s asking for too much money. Twenty-seven million per episode is what I heard.” Ethel secretly hoped the producers would get Body Spray Man to host it. She could watch him flex his muscles for hours.
Calton Hooper broke into a prerecorded interview. His face was flushed with excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a sighting, live and in person here at Sporting Club’s docks at New Vegas. Stay and play and make memories to last a lifetime. The winner of the
Ultimate Race
is about to be determined. Remember, the race isn’t won—”
“Until it’s won,” Ethel finished the show’s slogan. She chewed her fingernail as the show built the suspense. Would it be the ship of scientists and engineers captained by the handsome Shan Updike, a long-time competitor in the sailing races on Earth’s oceans? Or would it be the ship of bearded outdoorsmen used to roughing it for weeks at a time as they pursued the best fishing spots in the most inaccessible corners of the continents? Stay tuned through these commercial breaks.
The cameras panned over the docks while Calton recapped the last dozen transmissions from the two ships. The camera shifted to a shot of darkness with the Earth glimmering at one edge of the screen. The moon floated serenely in the far distance. Ethel straightened. The Cuddle-Couch(TM) adjusted the floating holographic projection to match her viewing angle.
Arrows appeared, pointing out two small dots.
Calton’s voice tightened with practiced excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing history today. The first ever ultimate race to Mars and back is coming to an end. And it’s going to be a photo-finish.
Butterfly Effect
and
Gone Fishin’ Today
are closing in on New Vegas. You can see they’ve just come into view now. Both ships have to slow down and match orbits with the station. It’s up to the captains and the skill of their crews now. Too much speed and they might miss the station. Neither has enough fuel to correct such an error. It would take three days for a rescue ship to catch up with them.” He paused while the cameras switched to a shot of the waiting dock workers. “One mistake at this stage of the race could cost them more than the victory. It could cost the lives of the crew and the dedicated workers you see here. Space, ladies and gentlemen, is no place for error as we’ve seen tonight. Those who don’t have what it takes, have failed. Those who do, will win. No matter which ship docks first, both of these crews”—the screen switched to the publicity photos of the two crews taken before launch—“have proven themselves worthy of this trophy. But, there can only be one winner.”
Calton’s face filled the screen. “They’ve battled against incredible odds for four months, and it all comes down to the next few minutes. Do they have the skill and the guts for glory?”
The show cut to another montage of commercials.
Ethel flopped back into the massaging cushions with a groan. “How long are they going to drag this out?”
“The broadcast has another fifteen minutes. I need a beer. Want me to grab you something?”
Ethel shook her head.
Henry shuffled off to the kitchen.
Ethel nibbled her fingernail while the commercial messages filled her screen. A chat-box (powered by Tweeble, the new face of social networking) popped up in the corner. Betty’s face grinned from the box. Ethel debated about ignoring the call, but only for a moment. Betty would make her life miserable for weeks if she didn’t connect. She tapped the armrest.
“Ethel? You’ll never believe what happened to me today.” Betty patted her perfectly set, perfectly blond hair (brought to you by Clairvoyance, for the most natural appearance artificial hair dye can give, not tested on animals, safe for the environment). “You remember Donald, down at the megamart? Well, I was there today, just picking up a few groceries for my party tomorrow. You know how it is. You think you’ve got plenty of asparagus, then find out six people are coming, not the three who responded, so now you’ve got to pick up more. Oh, that reminds me. Are you and Henry going to make it?”
Ethel refrained from rolling her eyes, although it was sorely tempting. “We live in Albuquerque, Betty. And you live in Florida. We appreciate you inviting us, but no, we aren’t coming in person.”
Calton’s face appeared on the screen, but the chat-box kept him muted. Ethel shifted impatiently.
“Bummer,” Betty said. “Anyway, back to my story. There I was, squeezing my asparagus, when Donald shows up. He’s got a cart and he bumps me with it. I made sure he would. He was so intent on the citrus that he didn’t even see me. Can you believe that?” She paused to giggle. “Well, there we were. I let out a little shriek, not a loud one, just a little oh-you-bumped-me startled one, and pretended to be hurt. He started apologizing. It was so sweet of him. Have I told you how adorable he is? Not as good-looking as that guy in the commercial you’re always posting, thanks for that by the way, now I’m addicted to his spots, but cute in his own rich-retired-dude-with-plenty-of-cash kind of way. He loves dogs, did I tell you that already?”
Ethel tried desperately to read Calton’s lips while her friend rambled. The show cut to the shot of space again. The dots were noticeably bigger and closer. They almost looked like ships now, but they were too far away to tell which ship was which.
“Ethel, I swear you’re ignoring me. Did you hear what I just said? Donald is coming to my party tomorrow and he’s bringing fresh quiche. He cooks! How awesome is that?”
Ethel bit her fingernail as the tiny ships swelled on the screen. The camera zoom was fuzzy with the distance.
“I know you aren’t listening, Ethel, ‘cause you’re chewing your nails. What are you watching?”
“Listen, Betty, I have to go. Call me later and tell me all about Donald, okay?”
Fire blossomed from one of the ships. It veered towards the other ship.
“But Ethel, I think Donald may be the one. Finally. And to think it all started over asparagus. Did I tell you he—”
