Murder At Summerset
Published by E A St Amant at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition August 2011
Copyright E A St Amant May 2006
Verses and poems within, by author.
Web and Cover design by: Edward Oliver Zucca
Web Developed by: Adam D’Alessandro
Author Contact: ted@eastamant.com
E A St Amant.com Publishers
e-Impressions Toronto
All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, e-mailing, e-booking, by voice recordings, or by any information storage and retrieval system whatever, without permission in writing from the author or his agent. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances whatsoever to any real actual events or locales to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Murder at Summerset = ISBN -13: 978-0-9780118-9-5; Digital ISBN: 978-1-4523-0271-3. Thanks to the many people who did editorial work on this project and offered their many kind suggestions including Deborah Cooke and Robbie Morra. This book would not have been possible without all the long hours of work by Val Gee, the best editor who ever put thought to pen.
Edward St Amant
How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water
Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain
Stealing Flowers
Spiritual Apathy
Restrictions
Book of Mirrors
Perfect Zen
Five Days of Eternity
Five Years After
Fog Walker
Five Hundred Years Without Faith
This Is Not a Reflection Of You
The Theory of Black Holes (Collected Poems)
The Circle Cluster, Book I, The Great Betrayer,
The Circle Cluster, Book II, The Soul Slayer,
The Circle Cluster, Book III, The Heart Harrower,
The Circle Cluster, Book IV, The Aristes,
The Circle Cluster, Book V, CentreRule,
The Circle Cluster, Book VI, The Beginning One
Nonfiction
Atheism, Scepticism and Philosophy
Articles In Dissident Philosophy
The New Ancien Régime
By E O Zucca & E A St Amant
Molecular Structures of Jade
Instant Sober
Living Animal
Chapter One - Summerset/Europa
July 12, 2105 - Inner Summerset
The ringing reached into Enjo’s sleep and pulled her awake. She rose from the couch, yawned and glanced at the time. Only three hours had passed. Still, the brief rest had done her good; her headache was gone. She paused in front of the mirror, pushed long, dark fingers through her black curls, and curved her lips into a sultry smile before she touched the control panel of her communication station.
“Hello,” she said, pushing the word out low and vibrant toward the blank screen.
An unfamiliar male voice answered, “Hello, Enjo.” The voice was medium-pitched and rather flat; not distinctive, except for the hint of an accent she didn’t recognize. “I’m not at a console; pick up a hand phone.”
“Of course,” she said. She let go of the smile, but continued in the same seductive voice. “I don’t think I know you, do I?”
She heard a transmission crackle and realized the voice was digitally altered – that explained what she had thought was an accent.
“Are you free now?”
“Yes, sure.” Enjo answered with a shrug. Her voice had lost some of its seductiveness.
“I will meet you in The Hold, Outer Summerset. The safe underground. You’ll hear the music.” The expressionless voice paused. “I have a surprise for you.”
“That’s terrific,” she said. “I’ll–” The phone went dead. She put it down on the console and went back to the mirror. She was dissatisfied with her reflection, but there was no time for a major makeover. At least, she could change. She looked at the clothes scattered around her and shook her head.
“What a mess!” She retrieved a blanket from the floor and threw it over the unmade bed.
She showered, then explored the room until she found high heels and a clinging red dress. She threw on a long, black coat and left her quarters as always without bothering to lock the door. Soon she was walking alone through an area protected from the elements that posed a permanent threat to habitation on this icy moon.
Cathy Neolar was her official name; it had been a favorite alias on Earth, but most of her clients here knew her as Enjo. Even without the heels she was a tall woman, slender, with long, smooth muscles and silky black skin. In about ten minutes she reached the Underground. The area was well lit but she was cold. Her dress was almost transparent and the coat wasn’t heavy enough to keep out the chill. The outer walls of Summerset formed an immense translucent anti-radiation shroud that veiled the inner city from the icecap-ridges and the endless glacier-crust. In places it was over ten kilometers thick. Below it sat a hundred kilometer deep ocean of slushy ice.
Inside the walls, the main housing areas and the scientific complex comprised Inner Summerset. Sections of newly-broken ice-crust of the moon’s mantle appeared here and there, but otherwise it was like a fortress with a subterranean labyrinth of storage areas, arenas, workplaces and vehicle parking, carved out of the ice and connected by a maze of heated tunnels that served as hallways. The Underground was the twilight area between Outer and Inner Summerset, and Enjo descended into its tunnels.
She heard music at a distance and walked toward it. It wasn’t unusual that the caller’s voice had been changed for one reason or another. Arrangements for a spragge meeting were often made in secret and the encounter was by definition quick, anonymous sex. Sometimes the client would be disguised or even wear a mask. In spite of the unrecognizable voice, Enjo had a feeling this was one of her regular clients. She could usually guess who it was. Sometimes they even paid with their chip cards – name, picture and all. She was approaching a storage area for mining and exploration vehicles. The pungent smell of cement and grout met her nostrils, but the place was clean. More important, there were no monitors here. The music was clearer now. A sad, resentful voice was singing a doleful lyric. The volume was muted and it was closer than she’d first thought.
“Hello,” she called. “Is someone there?”
The song ended and was replaced by a more cheerful tune.
“That’s better,” she called. She slowed, smiling, adjusting her walk to the tempo. This was more like a spragge should be; fun and lighthearted.
Enjo was delighted with her freedom here and her ability to control her own life, but not all of her past had been left behind on Earth. Part of that past had been transformed to the status of simple business transactions that, on Summerset, were making her rich. She stopped at the edge of a pool of light and listened. Her shadow rested half way between two cement pillars behind her. A sign on the wall read, Keep Roadways Clear – All Vehicles Must be Parked in the Correct Spot – No Exceptions! She moved ahead tentatively and tried to guess who it might be. It could be Kevin, her favorite client. She smiled at the thought. As she entered the storage area, she saw the source of the music. The song was coming from a low-profile ice-cruiser sitting near the far wall, one of the small hailles used by the maintenance crews. On its side was printed, Talmouth Euro-American Inc.
Enjo’s client was nowhere in sight. The most likely place for him to be waiting was inside the haille, where it was warmer. “Hello,” she called again, but there was no reply. “It’s dark over there,” she complained in a pleasant tone.
A cold draft made her shiver. Her steps faltered and she fastened her coat collar. It was no longer the right atmosphere and she was no longer smiling. There was no sign of an autobar, or of other spragges or waiting clients. The music faded and stopped. The silence and gloom made her nervous. She was starting to feel closed in. Her eyes stayed fixed on the haille while she fumbled in her bag until her hand closed around the little gun she’d smuggled in with her from Earth. Guns were forbidden here, but it had saved her from a beating or worse more than once, back home. She wasn’t about to go out alone at night without it, not even here on Europa.
She felt like turning and running, but if it was Kevin, just playing a game . . . . She gripped the gun and slid it into the front of her coat, out of sight. The metal was cold. Now she sensed someone or something there in the dark, watching her; something dangerous. She began to walk cautiously in a wide circle around the haille. Oil was dripping down from the bottom of the vehicle. For a moment or two, she watched each new drop make a shiny black ripple in the pool collecting on the pavement. She moved closer to the cruiser and peered through a window. There was a figure lying along the front seat. She couldn’t make out who it was, but it was a bigger man than Kevin. He didn’t move, even when she called again. He looked too rigid to be sleeping.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “Oh, damn it!”
Enjo fought back the panic overwhelming her. She still felt eyes watching her. No one else was inside the haille. Quickly, she looked around but couldn’t see any movement or anything suspicious.
“But there are so many places to hide,” she murmured. “So many vehicles, so many shadows.”
She moved the gun out of her coat and held it in front of her where it could be seen, then put her face to the window for a closer look at the body. The man was someone she had seen before, but it took a minute to recognize him.
“Oh, my God,” she said quietly. “Jerry Holmes.”
Blood was still seeping from a wound in his neck and running down his left arm onto the floor, where it had found some crack or opening to drip through. The far door was ajar.
“That’s the opening.” Her voice was barely above a frightened whisper. “The pool on the ground isn’t oil, it’s blood!” The pool was thicker now and the drops were heavier and denser, like molasses, and dripping slowly. “Who could do a thing like this?” she asked, fighting the panic and an attack of nausea. “And here, on Europa?”
She made a small, whimpering sound and started to back away, slowly, then spun around to make sure nobody was behind her. The unbearable cold of the moon was reaching through the thick walls, right into her bones. She knew an evil presence was here – had shown its face – and that it had come with them from Earth, like the cockroaches that, in spite of all possible precautions, had somehow found their way on board Europa-Six.
—
Several kilometers away, a ringing phone forced Sam Windsor awake. A red light blinked at him from the control panel of his comstation.
He looked at the clock. “Shit!” he complained. “It’s the middle of the night!” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Sam was worried about the clipper-pylons. The temperatures were reaching dangerous lows and if they started to crack – the metal they were made of, trilox-steel, held well up to -160˚C, but much below that even trilox got brittle . . . he hoped to hell it wasn’t a cracked pylon. Each day, he became more convinced that Talmouth should never have built Summerset so close to the heavy meteorite-deposits, and that they’d chosen accessibility over safety. He got the phone on the fifth ring.
An agitated voice said, “It’s Bob Hamlyn. Jerry Holmes has been murdered. At Outer Summerset, Sector Four. You have to come right away.”
“What?”
“Jerry Holmes has been murdered. Shot.”
“Shot? Who’s Jerry Holmes?”
“Shot, stabbed, he’s – he was – one of Walter Sullivan’s team in the mining department. A terrestrial mining engineer. Radiation specialist.”
“Whew, stabbed, shot! I don’t know what to say. I . . . do you know anything else about him?”
“I have an initial monitor reading with his human resources file from Talmouth. Mouth says he’s been with the company twenty-eight years. He holds five degrees, ranging from physics to meteorology. He must be a genius or something; I don’t think he was picked by regular selection. I mean, look’s like this guy’s not even supposed to be here. During the voyage, he was an officer in accommodations. He’s had years of experience on nuclear subs and he was a specialist on long-term confinement in closed places. See what I mean?”
Sam suppressed a yawn. “No. He wasn’t supposed to be here?”
“Mouth says he was a counterpart to the regular selection process. He had one of the highest screening scores, but his file just doesn’t fit the profile. He’s off the top of the scale for his job.”
Sam held the receiver on his lap for several seconds, then spoke into it again. He drew a deep breath and tried to remember Jerry Holmes. “Bob, are you sure he’s dead?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Okay, but . . . . Look, what does this really have to do with me? I mean, I’ll come down, but are you sure I’m supposed to preside over these things?”
“That’s the protocol.”
“They have protocol for this?”
“Mouth says that the investigation of any impropriety is to be referred to the Chief Administrator . . . in such matters he or she is to have full authority to carry out any and all inquiries until such authority is revoked or given continuance within closest transmission time, by Talmouth.”
“Oh, whatever trouble comes across Mouth’s path, it dumps on my doorstep. All right, Bob, don’t touch a thing. And wake up Cheryl Angelo. Ask her to get an unscheduled line to Europa-Six opened; a scrambled private line.” He paused, wondering what else he should say. “One last thing. Let’s keep this under wraps for now. Oh, and ask Dorrie White to come down. Tell her to bring photo equipment. The brem stuff and . . . well, anything else she has handy. Tell Cheryl and Dorrie I’ll explain everything when they get there, but keep this quiet for now.”
“Okay, Sam, got it!”
—
Sam caught sight of Dorrie White approaching them, her blond, almost white hair bouncing. She was drinking coffee–she needed the caffeine–and grumbling to herself. He saw her gaze fall to Cathy Neolar, Bob Hamlyn and him at a distance. Cathy Neolar – Enjo – was standing beside him, shivering, with her shoulders hunched and her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. She appeared to be in shock, but even under distress cut an attractive figure. Bob Hamlyn was taking aimless little steps back and forth, like a little kid. Both Bob and Enjo looked strained and nervous, perhaps depressed was a better word. Come to think of it, he probably looked that way too. What were they all doing down here? It was eerie – murder – hell, who would believe it? Sam saw that Dorrie was focusing, pushing her blond hair back and looking down at her photographic equipment.
“Hello,” she said when she got closer, but softly. Bob Hamlyn nodded but Sam frowned – her smile seemed out of place. “What’s up?” she said, obviously puzzled.
“Jerry Holmes has been murdered,” he said flatly.
She gasped, then her eyes caught the murder scene. Drawn to it, she took a few steps closer.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I know . . . I mean I knew him. He used to be a naval officer on a nuclear sub, before he became an engineer at Talmouth. I didn’t know him back on Earth, but on Europa-Six we worked together in the Crisis Center Clinic.” She peered inside the vehicle. “His throat’s slit from ear to ear.” She started to gag, to cry. “I liked him. He was a fine person, at work or off . . . he–”
“Dorrie,” Sam said. “Look away.”
“It’s grotesque! I feel sick . . . I feel hot.”
Sam walked up to her, turned her to face him and looked straight at her. A weak attempt at a smile passed over her flushed face and she wiped away her tears, after all, he knew that she was a professional. He saw that her vector monitor was picking up synchrotron radiation and pointed to it.
“I’m sorry to bring you out at this hour,” he whispered, “and especially to this. We need pictures from every possible angle and we need ten millimeter motion. Do a few brem’s photal wide-angle and then a sweep of gamma-brem for the whole receiving area, for fingerprints and the like. We’ll clear the area.”
“The like?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know–DNA, and whatever you can think of getting. Bob, we need a scientist down here for chemical fingerprinting samples, somebody discreet.”
Sam was finally hooked up to Mouth. He made a request from his verifier, “From the names of our 6229 citizens, list those who have actually recorded experience in a criminal investigation.” He waited. In the end, only a single name flashed to the screen. Sam looked again, stunned. Dorrie looked at his expression and came over and looked at the results.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispered to her. “It’s Jerry Holmes.
“There’s irony for you,” Dorrie said, “and if it’s not a coincidence, phew, there’s trouble ahead.”
Sam made another entry. “At least there are dozens of chemists,” he said, and chose a name he recognized.
Outside the Summerset structure, temperatures had presently fallen to -167˚C, a record low for the sixteen years Talmouth had been monitoring the area. Whatever they did next, the blistering cold was bound to make it harder. The chance that anyone had been down there at that time of night to see what happened was nil. He wondered how many unmonitored exits and entrances there were to each part of the area. Other things were worrying Sam. The phone call to Enjo, for instance, and the lack of physical evidence. The investigation could hardly have begun sooner, but already the mystery began to grow. Worse than that, in the coming weeks the temperatures might reach even lower levels and the regular dangers of life at Summerset would be harder to combat.
“I’ve never done any job that came close to investigating a murder,” he muttered. “We’ll need lawyers.”
“Are there any lawyers in Summerset?” Dorrie asked, filming close to him.
“Of course, there must be. They’re just doing something else here.”
He wondered how they could cope with an investigation if the power was interrupted as it had been, on and off, the previous year. Or what if one of Summerset’s structural supports cracked from the unexpected plunges in temperature? Or what if a dangerous transfer, from one part of the structure to another, had to be made in the middle of the investigation? Ganymede coming to within its closest proximity was producing electro-magnetic effects much more disruptive than predicted, and Jupiter’s colossal equatorial band emitted deadly radiation never before recorded. What did this all mean? The opportunities for failure seemed endless.
They couldn’t expect any help from Earth. Half a year would pass before anything like an emergency trip could even be attempted. Europa-Seven wasn’t even completed and then it would take a good three years for the trip. Enceladus-Three for exploration of Saturn’s ice moon was nearly done, but it was going to be a vastly smaller ship than Europa-Six. What of Earth itself? Who could say? Talmouth’s fortunes might not be riding so high right now; maybe they’d decide to relinquish their monopoly privilege in space mining exploration – that was, after all, a political matter.
Sam prompted Mouth for the names of lawyers in Summerset or on board Europa-Six. He waited for names to appear on the screen and thought about his wife, Jane, and the baby, Christopher. His home, his family, were here now. This could mean the end of the mission – the end of the life they had achieved on Europa – learned to love.
He thought about the things he enjoyed most here in Summerset. The dangerous but satisfying work, of course, and being with Jane. He was building a wooden swing-set in the courtyard for Christopher. There were the get-togethers after the tournaments and the company parties every two months, and just being with friends and neighbors. Participating in the town planning meetings, watching the basketball championship series, the marine biology research, the thrill of success with the mining tests and extractions and so much more.
Youth and health seemed to belong to them on Europa as though time had stopped. No poverty or homelessness existed here; no disease, no insanity. There wasn’t even a bureaucracy. Sam himself was the closest thing to that, but he was like a judge without a case – everything ran so smoothly there was no need for control or laws. Not so much as a shoplifting incident had been reported, much less serious injury or death. Until now. He looked up and saw that everyone was watching him, as if waiting to be told not only what to do but even how to react.
Chapter Two - Earth
July 12 - New York City
Brad Damile was physically a strong man, a little taller than average, with light brown hair cut unfashionably short. A snug white T-shirt showed well developed muscles, while the beginning of a tan emphasized the clear green eyes that lifted from his book every few minutes to look casually in all directions. He was sitting on a sunlit bench in the park near the corner of Central and Static. Now and again, from habit, his fingers touched the gold crucifix at his neck. He’d been here for fifteen minutes, but there was still no sign of Ryan.
Books were seen rarely now, but his father had given this one to him when he was a teenager. The title was Led Around Cabbage Road, and it was well worn. He bent his head back to it and gave his head a shake. No matter how many times he read it, he found it hard to believe that a tribe of Tierra del Fuego natives had once not long ago been permitted to live in their natural habitat without outside interference. Or, for that matter, that people had been able to live anywhere in the world without tight controls as for instance two or three hundred years ago.
“Where the hell are you, Ryan?” he muttered.
Two men glanced at him as they passed, but they didn’t look like Internal Security agents, or CIA either. He watched as the pair disappeared together into a secluded wooded area. A few minutes later, a tall, slender man appeared, as if from nowhere, and sat casually on a nearby bench. His dark hair indicated youth, but his features were lightly lined and his movements deliberate. It was Ryan Silone, but Brad gave no sign of recognition. Neither did Ryan. He merely sat back, calmly crossed his legs and placed one arm along the back of the bench, while he gazed up at the large, rounded clouds drifting high above as though he were a professional cloud gazer. One of the clouds was in the shape of a rhinoceros, an animal which had been extinct some fifty years. For the better part of five minutes, Brad appeared absorbed in his book while he kept an unobtrusive watch on Ryan and any strangers who came near. He tried to guess why Ryan was waiting so long. Was it some source of potential danger Brad couldn’t see? Or was it just that Ryan had been in Cato’s Faction for too long.
“You’re even suspicious of the birds in the trees,” he muttered under his breath, “and there are ninety-five hectares of them here.” Then he reminded himself that he was just as cautious as Ryan, it was just that he was anxious for news right now.
Ten minutes later, Ryan rose, strolled over and sat down beside Brad. Still, neither acknowledged the other’s presence. Both were watching for government agents to come running towards them. The only motion came from a dozen tiny swallows that dipped and folded out from underneath the branches of a nearby tree, like flitting shadows.
“Okay,” Ryan said.
“Yeah, it seems okay,” Brad said, but he was still watching the surroundings carefully. “How are you?”
“Fine. Coffee? The Central Cupboard’s open.”
They rose and walked in the direction of the coffee shop.
“You’re not originally from around here, are you?” Brad asked.
“Yes, I am, but my family fled to Los Angeles. All but my mother; she still lives here.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, my father’s dead.”
“Sorry, I forgot. So, what does your family think of your reputation as a playboy?”
“They don’t say much. They blame it on Kelly’s death.”
Brad indicated a man fifty paces off the footpath, to the west of them.
“Looks harmless,” Ryan said.
“It was what happened to Kelly that got you into this?”
“After she was killed, well, you know, her killer went through the motions – he’s walking around free somewhere today – I wish I could find him.” He looked away without speaking for a few minutes. “For years, Kelly worked for Human Rights Now. After she died I got involved in it. From there, I found the International Front.”
As they approached Static Street, Brad asked, “Have you read the Times today? This is the fourth time the Hudson regime has extended emergency rule.”
“They’re convinced they own the country and every citizen in it. They haven’t acted in anyone’s best interests but their own since they took over. Any moral legitimacy they might have had was no more than a ploy to get elected.”
Brad’s voice tightened with anger. “Now they’re taking their cues from Economic Unification. Look at the economic chaos they’ve created and the resentment among minority groups. We never used to have the inter-group clashes that happen now.”
They walked in silence for a while, keeping watch on their surroundings, then Ryan said, “Brad, I’m certain they don’t realize how much popular support we’ve gained. You can almost feel it in the air.” His expression was calm and resolute, but an undercurrent of excitement was not quite hidden. “Our time is now.”
“The Front’s finally getting impatient?” Brad’s tone was skeptical.
“The Front isn’t, no. But the Cato Faction is–they pay the bills! Something big is going to happen. I can’t say what, but it’s going to happen soon.”
“Can I be a part of it? Are they pushing the Rising Sign to act? Will it be symbolic?” He glanced at Ryan, not expecting a reply to his questions, then his words regained their usual mild tone. “Or are there just too many hotheaded Italians in Cato?” He laughed lightly.
Ryan still didn’t answer, but the hint of a smile touched his mouth. “They call us Italian Greens, but me? I’m an American of many generations who is proud of my heritage.”
They crossed the street. More bikes than cars were on Static Street, but there was little traffic of any kind. What there was moved quickly, except for the occasional dark gray patrol van that cruised by at a slow, ominous pace.
“We’re getting near curfew,” Brad said. “In a few hours the Underground’ll be out on the streets, but I bet the National Guard’s nowhere to be seen then.”
Ryan’s smile turned cynical and he lifted an eyebrow in response. “Yes; this’ll be their last sweep for tonight.”
They sat at a patio table outside the coffee shop, their backs to the street. A woman wearing a bright red uniform and a beret came and took their order.
“Two double brandies on ice,” she said into a device, as she walked away.
“Have you seen Walter?” Ryan asked.
“I heard through Bergson that he’s gone incognito. The CIA were investigating his sister and her boyfriend. A bit too close for his taste, I’d say. We heard that the agencies got leads on his family. Some neighbor or relative must have leaked information onto the Web.”
“The Subversive Information Detection Network would pick that up in a hurry. Or maybe the agencies just got lucky.” Ryan shrugged. “It’s possible.”
Brad merely looked at him. “All right, I don’t believe it either.”
The server approached and set their drinks on the table. “We’ve been at it for a long time,” Ryan said quietly, after she’d gone.
“That we have,” Brad said with a rueful smile. His fingers touched his crucifix for an instant. “If worldwide unemployment goes any higher . . . what’s the latest figure? You’re the journalist, you should know.”
“Freelance, please . . . forty percent.”
“Yikes. I heard John Yates is going to announce that United Confederate Economic Unification is being replaced by The Market Alliance League. He believes that if America can come in with the Pan Americans, Japan, Mexico and Canada, their combined strength will pull the rest of the world in peacefully, even the Euro-Union. What do you think of that?”
“I can’t agree, as much as I’d like to. There’ll be violence in America, especially here in New York City. Both sides will be ready to shoot it out at the first sign of trouble. The Christian Agorists may stay out of it, you’d know that better than I, but the International Front won’t, and that’s where Cato stands.”
“You’re right. There’s always violence in America. You know, the court system’s got to be changed. The Feds and ISA have to–”
“Listen, friend, don’t forget that right now, here in America, you and I are criminals.” Ryan looked straight into Brad’s eyes for a few seconds, then smiled. “Another round of brandies?” he asked cheerfully. “I feel the fine hint of an alcoholic buzz.”
Brad chuckled. “Not just a pessimist, but a drunk, too.”
“And you’re an unbearable optimist,” Ryan said. “But you know me, I have to live up to my reputation as the unhappy Agorist. My readers expect it. Salute. And up the Republic!”
Brad laughed and raised his glass in salute. “To the downfall of the US Government.”
Even though there was no one in sight, both men kept their voices low.
—
Boghe Block Tower, Washington, DC, July 15
The sun was low in the sky when a large black car slid to a smooth stop near an immense structure that enclosed several city blocks. A gray limousine pulled in behind the first car and screeched to a halt hitting it with a deadbolt-type thump. A back door of the grey limousine flew open and Paula Pryte leaped out. She moved too quickly and hit her head. Her hands shook as she plugged the ammunition charge into the Thompson-Meisser and pointed it at the crowd, staring threateningly at them. She stood there, trying to catch her breath as she wiped a trickle of blood from her forehead. The gun was deadly; it had laser tracking and could empty a hundred rounds in less than half a minute, without making a sound. But not today. Today, the weapon was loaded with tranquilizing ice slugs. No one must be killed, not a single soul, or they’d lose everything The Rising Sign stood for – The Sign preached against collateral damage and civilian causalities, the so called terrorist devices.
“Be careful, people, please be careful,” she prayed silently although keeping that practiced snarl on her lips. Things were happening so fast around her, but she had just this one job. She was still shaking, so she took a solid stance with her feet apart, shoulders back, head up high with continued defiance.
The other cell members had tumbled out of the limousine. Danica came to Paula’s side, the four men fanned out and surrounded the President of the United States as he was dragged out of the back of the black car. By the time he stood up, four guns were aimed straight at his heart, while one more was in the hand of his personal guard who gripped him by the arm and held a pistol to his temple. His closest body guards had been shot, but not lethally.
The crowd swirled in confusion. Paula stopped shaking and gave an exultant laugh, albeit a silent one.
For about six seconds, everything froze. No one in the security force dared move. Then the President’s secretary took a cautious step forward. “Stay calm,” he said, his open hands slowly waving the mass of bodyguards back. “Please, everyone stay calm.”
Panic started to seep into the confusion at the front of the motorcade. People began shouting and trying to shove their way through to get away from the area. Screams of fear pierced the turmoil.
“ISA agents are moving in!” one of the armed guerillas shouted and fired above the crowd of security and press. It was Brad Damile, the cell’s leader. He then fired to the ground, but the distinction was lost on the crowd. More important, they were unaware that the bullets were ice slugs. Terrified, they tried to escape, pushing, shoving, and shouting.
Paula saw people pushed aside and fall, ignored. This is what they needed, a fair bit–more than a fair bit–of confusion. Everything seemed to decelerate to slow motion, silent and dream-like, like being underwater. President Mark Hudson was suddenly right beside her, so close she could have smelled his skin and his breath, if the world hadn’t been fading away from her.
“Move it!” She nudged the President with her gun until he backed into the grey limousine. Her comrades were disabling the closest vehicles with vehicle pad-bombs as she watched, remote and detached, then the corner of her mouth lifted into a wry little smile. They had just proved how inadequate and overconfident the FBI and ISA were.
Paula raised her gun toward the press of people directly in front of her, but she was grabbed and pulled into the car. Brad fired again, this time straight into the air.
“We are The Rising Sign,” he shouted. “We take full responsibility for this abduction.” The doors slammed, the tires squealed, and the limousine practically hurled down the closest side street. Inside, Mark Hudson struggled with two of his captors, trying to reach a door handle.
“Relax,” Brad said. “We don’t want to hurt you!” He touched the tranquilizer gun to the President’s shoulder, but Hudson struggled harder. Brad pulled the trigger and the President slumped back against the seat almost instantly.
“Strip and get changed,” Brad ordered the others, as he started to peel off his own clothing.
The car shuddered, jerked to the right, slid to the left, then lurched into a roadway between two huge commerce centers. Clothes flew through the air and bare skin flashed while the kidnappers changed to everyday outfits and wiped makeup off their faces. The limousine slowed, turned right into a narrow driveway and dipped inside the Boghe Block Tower, then it accelerated, slamming to a stop after five or six downward turns.
“We’re here,” the driver said. “The decoys worked.”
Six doors flew open.
“Hurry,” Brad said, “It’s twelve minutes after seven.”
Paula glanced at him. “What? We’re three minutes ahead of schedule.”
He shook his head. They tugged and pushed the President’s body out of the limousine and it sped away, carrying the driver and Roy Hartop. The others were left beside a roped-off, underground construction area where two cars were parked side by side. One was a shiny red electric sports car, that Danica and Steve Leigh flung themselves into. It jumped to life and raced smoothly after the limousine.
“Well, Paula,” Brad said. “I thought my heart was going to give out.” He hugged her.
She kissed him on the cheek and laughed. “I can’t believe we’ve done it!”
Mark Hudson was lying on the concrete floor with his head on a blanket. He looked asleep. Paula began working on his face with makeup and false hair, as she had practiced, over and over.
“Just think,” she said, “We’re all alone with the President of the United States.”
“Calm down, sweetie.” They stripped him, then dressed him in casual clothes.
“That’s a good job, Paula,” Brad said when she was done. “His own mother wouldn’t recognize him.”
Paula started to apply makeup to her own face. “I feel so light,” she said. “I can hardly breathe.”
Brad was dressed in a bellhop’s uniform that had been acquired from Boghe’s, a hotel further down the block. Paula now wore a revealing yellow, daisy-print dress. Her black hair was down and she could have passed for a model or a dancer. She was still touching up her makeup when Brad rolled out a dolly-cart hidden in the roped-off area. The cart carried four suitcases. They were in a section of the Boghe Tower’s underground parking area that was closed for repairs. From there, they had only to transport the cases up two levels to get to the concourse and then to the hotel lobby.
“Will he be okay?” she asked.
“He’s fine,” Brad answered.
“For a man of fifty,” Paula said, “he’s as fit as a young athlete.”
“Are you ready?” Brad asked. Paula nodded.
Brad took a small box from a pouch on the side of a carry-on bag. He crouched next to the President, drew out an auto-syringe and carefully injected a clear fluid into Mark Hudson’s arm.
“This is dangerous stuff,” he said, “and I’ve got no medical training. Cross your fingers. Now, let’s try the next one.”
“What’s that?”
“Some stuff they gave me to counteract the tranquilizer.”
Mark Hudson regained consciousness within a minute. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and vomited, but not too badly. Paula gave him apple juice from a tetra package, and a painkiller tablet.
“Mr. Hudson, you have been abducted by The Rising Sign,” Brad said. “Let me explain to you what will happen. We are private contractors; our instructions are to hold you for a certain amount of days and then release you. We were not told the reasons. To be ensured of your absolute cooperation while getting you to a safe location, we have injected you with a time-released, tailor-made toxin which, if not neutralized in three hours, will cause your death. The chance that you could escape us now, get to a clinic which could identify the toxin and create the antidote, is remote. Do you understand?”
Mark Hudson looked up into Brad’s eyes for the first time and then rubbed his arm where the needle had gone in. He nodded as Brad showed him the syringe and vial.
“We will go to a hotel room. Now remember this: you have just arrived from Paris. Evelyn, here, is your wife. Here are your papers, passport and other necessities, all of which we will not need if you follow our instructions. You will be fine, unless you make the slightest deviation from our routine. Should that occur, we will escape, leaving you there to your own fate. When we arrive at the hotel room, you will be given the antidote. At that time you may refresh yourself, eat, read, watch television, and do whatever you wish within the boundaries we set, which you will soon come to understand.”
Brad looked at Paula for a second. “No embarrassing statement will be required of you,” he continued, “and, if you cooperate, neither will you suffer any deprivation. Please do not touch your face until we are inside the hotel room. For some days you will be lost to the world of politics. You have been taken by force, but if you agree to our conditions, you may return to political power in a few days time.”
Mark Hudson nodded calmly, but anger showed in his eyes.
“Good,” Brad continued, “You might even enjoy it. I understand you don’t take many holidays. Don’t mistake us though, we will follow our orders even if you must die–or even if we must.”
“You’ll never get away with this.”
“Mr. Hudson, we’re not trying to insult your intelligence. I have the authority to simply leave you to fate. Right now, you need us far more than we need you.”
“But why do this?” Hudson asked. “This will only hurt your cause. The people will turn against you. This isn’t going to further human rights.”
Brad helped the President to his feet.
“Everything I’ve told you is the truth. We can talk more in the hotel room; we will be staying with you. Do you understand your situation? Do you understand your danger?” The President nodded an acknowledgment. “Not another word now,” Brad said, “ except those that will get us into our room unquestioned.”
He took the handle of the luggage cart in one hand and motioned to Mark Hudson to walk ahead of him. The President shrugged and started to follow Paula, who led the way up to the concourse and then to the hotel lobby.
Chapter Three - Europa
July 16 -The Jukebox, Summerset
“Are you okay, boss?” Cheryl walked in the front door and over to the table where Sam was sitting, lost in thought.
He looked up and sighed. “I’m fine; just daydreaming. You’re early.”
She shrugged. “Where’s this room you’ve secured?”
“Back there.” He pointed with his thumb, sat back and took a sip from his mug. Four days had passed since the murder of Jerry Holmes.
Cheryl turned up the lights and fixed herself a cup of coffee at the bar. The florescent light picked up the glint of soft gold stripes on the gray walls. “Would you like a refill?”
Sam shook his head, no. He watched her as she walked heavily to the back of the restaurant, coffee in hand. She disappeared inside the small room, then came back out.
“I’ll get maintenance to install locks,” Sam said.
“I think that’ll do.” Cheryl sat at the table and yawned. “I’m tired,” she said, “and I feel like a tank.”
“You look fine,” he lied – she looked overweight and too pregnant to be out working, “but I guess you’d rather be at home resting.”
“No; anywhere but there. Really, I feel all right. What about you? Ready for a Caribbean holiday yet?”
Sam smiled. “You know, as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to live in a warm climate.”
“Boy, did you get on the wrong shuttle.”
Sam grinned. “Somehow, the cold seems colder these days.”
“That makes sense, boss, it really is colder.” There was a sarcastic edge to her tone. Her abrupt manner and flippant humor often rubbed people the wrong way, but her value to Sam as a secretary outweighed those traits and he ignored them.
“So, tell me again,” she said. “Why did you come here?” Cheryl’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You came because of sweet Jane, but the fish aren’t exactly jumping into her nets on Europa. If there was ever any life on this oversized iceberg, they were frozen solid long ago.”
He shrugged, he wasn’t so sure, but his wife and the whole team of Exobiologists might have to bore all the way to near the hot rocky mantle core to be sure whether there was biological marine organisms. “I know, but she’s pretty widely respected in marine biology circles back on Earth, and the challenges make great copy.”
Cheryl raised her brows. “Shit, I guess it’s true love.” She reached over and gave Sam a playful poke in the arm. “That woman must have something pretty special going for her, even at -160˚ she melts your heart.”
“You could be right; I’m under her spell.” Sam laughed good naturedly. “But you know what, I’m happy to be.”
Cheryl put her coffee on the table and sat down slowly. “You gave up your chance in the sun to be with Jane here, and you know what? I have to admire you for that.”
“Was I wrong?”
“I’m here, too. And with a real loser. At least you have Jane, and she’s as lovely as they come.”
“What? Are you jealous?”
She laughed. “A little.”
“After a while this place gets under your skin.”
“If it doesn’t kill you first.”
Sam looked toward the door – it was too early to laugh at a joke like that. “There’s Bob.” He waved. “Grab yourself a coffee,” he called.
Dorrie White came into the room as Bob Hamlyn was filling a large mug. “Oh good,” she said; “hot coffee.”
“Have a seat,” Sam said to them. “We’ll hear from Talmouth headquarters in Montevale tomorrow. They’ve only got the first transmission so far. Still, they’ll have some expectations about a murder inquiry. This investigation hits us just when temperatures have fallen to dangerous lows. The sudden winds and dissipation of the oxygen layer at Summerset’s surface area is discomforting, but the lowering temperatures around the whole moon is outright alarming.”
“It’s like Europa has turned on us,” Dorrie interjected, “but remember, Mouth told us this might happen when we were in True Lockstep on The Dark Side.”
Bob had a worried look on his face, but Sam knew that Dorrie was a hundred percent right. Even though Summerset never really had genuine darkness–they were on the Jovian latitudinal light band at the equator of Europa–they were often out of the sun for more than a day and half, and even though it was only one fourth the brightness than from earth, when it was gone, it wasn’t just colder, it was gloomier. “I don’t have to tell you that morale in Summerset has collapsed,” he said. “Worse still, rumors of a crisis on Earth are coming in on an illegal Bright Torch. These smuggled transmissions are a nuisance, but it’s always possible there’s some truth to them. Anyway, we’re here about Jerry Holmes’ murder. Let’s go over the facts. Can you start, Dorrie?”
Sam and Bob pulled out pocket verifiers while Cheryl fished hers out of her bag. Dorrie placed hers on the table, pushed her blond hair away from her face and started to speak rapidly, while her fingers and hands made quick, little illustrative movements.
“Let me state for the record, I’m an astro-physicist, not a criminologist. As you can see on your screens, there were no fingerprints, no samples of hair, no clothing fibers, and not much of anything else, other than what belonged to Jerry Holmes, that I could find and time-date to the murder.” She paused and darted a glance around the table.
“The only unusual thing were significant traces of synchrotron radiation in the immediate area of the death. This was caused by a rapidly diminishing half-life of a cold radioactive compound I haven’t identified yet, but there was a tremendous volume of it in Jerry’s blood. We’ll know the exact amount in a few days.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, discouraged. Finally, Sam said, “Let’s go on to something else. First, you all know that the results of your individual Cavanaugh counter-deception tests by Helmut Willem were affirmative. Next, it would be worthwhile to get certain matters out of the way. I believe we’re obliged to sign agreements to maintain absolute secrecy in all aspects of the investigation. We’ve agreed verbally, but I think it ought be on record.”
He passed out the documents. “If you have second thoughts, if you want out of this investigation, the best time to say so is now. Otherwise, sign at the bottom.”
Sam signed his form and sat back in his chair, deep in thought, while they read through the documents. They signed them without comment and placed them in front of him.
“Cavanaugh test results handled by experts are considered infallible,” he said, “and, although he isn’t formally licensed, Helmut is an expert. He’ll be coming by tonight to explain more about the procedure. I haven’t received the results of the tests done by Mii Wong and Betty Lim yet, but we may know that later tonight as well. For the time being, we should not let anyone else know that we have the equipment and the expert to administer the tests. In any case, it’s a miracle that we have either and I hope we’ll be allowed to make full use of them.”
“I can’t see why not,” Dorrie said.
“Legal reasons,” Cheryl said. “Human Rights. Ever heard of the concept?”
Dorrie blushed, but did not respond. “There’s Helmut,” she said.
Standing in the doorway, a little under two meters tall, robust and dressed in neat casual clothes, Helmut nodded a greeting. Sam rose and joined him. Helmut handed him a file folder.
“Thanks,” Sam said quietly. “Any surprises?”
“They both passed.”
“I know it’s not necessary to remind you, Helmut, but not a word outside our group.”
“You’re right,” Helmut said with a slight smile. “It’s not necessary.”
“What I meant was that the person responsible for Jerry’s death would be disturbed to learn of the apparatus, and that could pose a threat to you. We’ll let him know about it on our terms, and not until we’ve trained others how to use it.” Helmut nodded, unconcerned. Sam came back to the table and glanced at his watch. “I hadn’t expected Helmut to be so quick with Betty and Mii’s results. Just give me a minute.”
He touched his verifier, then spoke in a clear voice. “Mouth, locate Betty Lai Lim and Mii Wong. Ask them to please join us.”
Dorrie asked, “Helmut, why do you have this Cavanaugh equipment on Europa?”
Helmut glanced at Sam for some indication of whether or not he should answer and Sam nodded.
Helmut walked over to the table. “Well, I can’t stay long,” he said, pulling up a chair, “but I’ll give you the short version. On Earth, I was in charge of hiring for accounting and payroll employees for a multinational conglomerate based in Mexico, where such tests were routine and legal. I learned the technique and was impressed with the results. I became an ardent enthusiast and was able to get the latest in technological innovation. However, I’ve never been part of a criminal investigation so, outside of the testing procedures, I don’t know if I’ll be much help.”
Sam handed Cheryl the printouts of the test results for Mii and Betty. She slid them into another folder.
“You’re welcome to sit in on any of our meetings, Helmut,” Sam said, “but you should sign these first.”
Helmut took a brief glance at the forms while he rose to his feet. “I’m on duty tonight; I can’t stay. I’ll sign these later and get back to you.” He turned and walked quickly toward the door.
“I’ll see you later, then,” Sam called after him, then turned back to the group. “There’s another thing I should mention. We can’t secure files inside of Mouth. Nothing about the case should be kept there. If someone knows there’s a secret, then it’s sure to be found.”
The others nodded and continued making notes until Betty and Mii arrived, a few minutes later. Sam rose and shook their hands. Mii and Betty were the same height and both had short black hair and brown eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Betty had the prettiness of youth, fine features and a gaze that assessed everything around her, while neat and well-dressed, Mii’s intelligent face – though warmed by kindness – was plain.
“Mii is an astrophysicist, a chemist and a lawyer,” Sam said by way of introduction, “and Betty works as a nuclear physicist for Ben’s and Ed’s teams.”
Both women nodded and gave inscrutable smiles. Sam thought Betty was a little nervous and that Mii was more laid-back. “Please sit down.” he smiled reassuringly. “Thank you for coming. Here are the documents you will both have to read and sign if you wish to participate in the investigation. Take a few minutes to do that and then read Dorrie’s report on what she found at the scene.”
Sam fixed himself another coffee and returned to his seat. He rubbed his temples and yawned. Mii and Betty handed him the signed documents and he passed them to Cheryl.
“Dorrie’s report shows that there’s little in the way of evidence, so far,” he said. “It’s pretty obvious that it wasn’t a crime of passion, but we have to find out who Jerry worked with, who he socialized with and who he slept with, what activities he was involved in, and whatever it was that he didn’t want anyone to know about. Cheryl, you’re elected.”
She gave him a wry look. “Now’s not a good time to complain, right?”
Sam half-frowned and ignored her. “We know that murder is often committed by family members or close associates, so we have to rule out those obvious choices. Who were his friends? Who knew his secrets? Did he have any lovers or family here?”
“There’s something I want to know,” Cheryl said crisply. “Why not a crime of passion? If I decided to kill Mark, which I may yet, I wouldn’t leave any blood or hair, or any other DNA signatures.”
Sam smiled and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Whoever the murderer was, he didn’t leave us much to work with, so I assume it wasn’t on the spur of the moment. And if you kill Mark, it’ll probably be from overworking him in the kitchen.” Dorrie’s laughter rose above the others while Cheryl grinned, obviously not offended by the joke. “Jerry was shot with a kouger-twin, twenty clip automatic. It was the legal pistol on board Europa-Six and there are dozens of them but none are supposed to be in circulation. Who has access to the armory? Then, some time after he was shot, his throat was slit with a sharp knife. Can anyone explain this? The knife could have been from the kitchen at, One Stop, The General Store, or The Jukebox. Are any missing?”
“Excuse me,” Bob said. “Was Jerry also poisoned? I heard something like that.”
“More on that in a moment,” Sam said. “First, we have to ask these questions: Was the murderer one of Captain Loeke’s guards with access to an official kouger-twin? Is the weapon Talmouth issue or smuggled? Why did the killer use Enjo to tip us off so boldly? Was she a decoy for something else that was happening, something we haven’t discovered yet? Should Enjo herself be a suspect?”
“Enjo’s presence there might be incidental,” Betty offered. “Let’s say that a client, acting on impulse, phones her to meet in a spragge location, goes down to Outer Summerset in the public garage to get everything prepared, sees Jerry’s body and runs. Or, better still, witnesses the actual murder.”
“Yes, that would be possible, and I thought of it as well, but why keep hiding? There are more than six thousand of us and only one murderer. I doubt that’s what happened here, but we do need to talk to Enjo again and see a complete list of her clients.” Sam looked across the table. “Bob?”
Bob looked flustered and everyone laughed.
“Here,” Sam said. “We need to know the substance in Jerry’s blood. I think it may have been used by the killer because the synchrotron radiation distorts the time-date reading of DNA samples.” He picked up a small pile of papers and handed them around. “This is a refinement of what I found on Jerry’s computer,” he said. “It’s part of a running cryptic scramble that Mouth decoded under an emergency directive. The last entry was made the night of Jerry’s death. Much of his personal computer store was kept outside of Mouth though, and some of it can’t be unscrambled yet, even by Mouth, but I’ll make arrangements so you can have access to his files.”
Sam pointed to the sheet of paper. “This was the thing that jumped out at me. I edited and printed it for you to look at tonight and then highlighted the most important points, as I see them, and left out the chemical formulas and symbols.”
The highlights of the single page read:
EXCERPTED FROM FULL TEXT. SUBJECT: VYRA
[FIRST ENTRY]16\12\2110 Vyra meteorite rock-arbtrite graphite igneous ice-impacted, extracted at Comogourd; active chemical compound, vyralithium, (VYR.). The graphic atomic weight to component VYR. is 35. Why have we been asked to extract this?
[NEXT ENTRY...] 04\02\2110 Vyra rock is a vitreous, translucent mineral and appears white to the naked eye. It is soft, malleable, and soluble with heat and water. It imparts a blue flame to regular fire. Vyra seems to be everywhere in the slate rock below permafrost tundra depth and appears to be part of the regular surface crust of the moon. This begs a question, though. Why has Talmouth ordered ten tons of unprocessed Vyra rock?
[...] 29\04\2110 After many attempts I have found that if vyralithium is fused after a regular triturated sulphur eight solution, in liquid form with water, it will dissolve in muriatic acid. I came upon this when I realized that the purified crystal of vyralithium looks and behaves similarly to a rare, semi-medical substance on Earth called scoffal (Scofpromazine alkaloid diethylametabolite), processed from the hard granite tundra known as False Lava. Scof-lava is rare and found only on subarctic Siberian and Upper American land masses.
Scoffal is no longer used because of adverse indications in liver disease. However, for a time it was widely used by American nuclear submarine crews to help deal with confinement depression during lengthy trips. Scoffal has been replaced by the safer, but less effective, Calbole (Calbolic Panolithic Sulphate). Scoffal was swallowed or injected in conservative amounts. Its effects, according to the medical officers I served with on board the USS Serpentine, were immediate and lasted over a period of some weeks, in most cases. It appears that symptoms of paranoia and severe depression were relieved for a considerable time and regular appetite returned.
[...] 15\05\2110 The triturated substance which I will now call Vyralithium Three has some interesting qualities. I have compiled results from routine tests and alteration, and, so far, the following have succeeded. If Vyra Three is combined with freeze dried sulphuric acid, then purified by a hot water-ascorbic solution of isotonic sodium chloride, and processed in a Ceby’s globe agitator, it produces the purest substance yet from Vyra Three: V³.
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