Red Planet Blues

TWENTY-SEVEN





Iwanted to go get some clothes, but my weight was part of what was keeping Moose trapped. “Okay, big fellow,” I called out. “Let’s start with the basics. Who are you?”

“Nobody,” he rumbled from beneath us, his voice muffled.

“Captain Nemo was nobody,” I said. “Everybody else is somebody.”

“Not me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Come on. People have to call you something.”

“Trace.”

A cool name for a copy, I thought. “I take it you’re hired muscle, Trace. But hired by who?” If he corrected me to “Hired by whom?” I’d fire a shot through the couch at him.

“Actual.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s all I ever call him. Actual.”

“He a good boss?”

“You kidding?”

“No. If he sucks, maybe you want to change allegiance. Is he a good boss?”

“He’s skytop.”

I knew a lot of old-fashioned slang—old movies did that to you—but I hadn’t heard that one for a while; Trace might as well have called him “groovy.”

“And where is this . . . this skytop gentleman? Down on Earth?”

“No.”

“Here on Mars?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“Figure it out.”

I took a breath. “Fine, be that way—but don’t say I didn’t give you a chance. Anyway, the professor and I can’t very well sit here all day. So, first things first: toss the gun out from under there.”

Trace didn’t do anything.

“Well?” I said.

“I’m thinking.”

His transfer brain operated at the speed of light, instead of the pokey chemical-signaling rates used by biologicals, but stupid had its own velocity, and I waited while he weighed his options.

And, at last, he reached a conclusion. The Smith & Wesson went skittering out from underneath and came to rest beneath my framed Casablanca movie poster. I couldn’t go retrieve the gun just now, but at least we were making progress.

But then I heard that annoying ping that I could only hear when the front door to my place was open: the elevator had arrived. There were the sounds of people moving along the corridor, and then Detective Dougal McCrae and Sergeant Huxley were standing there in the open doorway, looking at us. Mac was in plain clothes and had his piece out, and Hux, in his dark blue uniform, was carrying that garbage-can-lid thing that I knew was the broadband disruptor. “We had a report of two gunshots,” Mac said, rolling the R in “report.” “And I recognized the address.”

It didn’t seem the time to point out that all gunshots make a report—well, unless a silencer is used.

Mac went on. “We sometimes let one go. But two?”

“Thanks for dropping by,” I said. “There’s a transfer behind the couch. A thug. He broke in here.”

“While you boys were having some fun,” said Huxley.

“While I was in the shower, you cretinous pinhead.”

Mac raised his voice. “This is the New Klondike Police. Come out with your hands up. And I should warn you, we have a broadband disruptor. Don’t make us use it.”

Trace had two options, neither of which was particularly dignified. He could crawl out head first on my right, or he could worm his way out feet first on my left. I could tell that he’d opted for the former by the way the couch was now shaking beneath us.

When he was no longer behind the couch, he rose and held up his hands; the galoot was big enough that his fingertips were touching my ceiling.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” I said, and I headed to the bedroom, pausing along the way to pick up my S&W. I quickly threw on some clothes—by this point, the dry air we had under the dome had sucked up all the moisture, and I was no longer wet. I put on black jeans and a T-shirt that was so dark blue you’d have thought it was also black if you didn’t have the jeans to compare it to.

I thought about taking a moment to comb my hair; in my business, it didn’t hurt to have a slightly wild-and-crazy look, but right now I was downright Gustavian. But no sooner had I picked up the comb than I heard an all-too-familiar electronic whine. I ran out of the room and saw, in the stark light spilling in from the corridor, Trace standing spread-eagled with all his limbs vibrating and a look of agony on his face. “Jesus!” I shouted. “Rory, get out! Get out right away!”

The paleontologist looked puzzled but he knew by now to heed my advice. He dashed out into the corridor. Huxley was holding the disruptor in both hands, with the disk aimed squarely—or roundly—at Trace.

Mac could have intervened but he didn’t; he simply kept his own gun trained on the transfer. After about ten more seconds, Huxley pulled out the control that deactivated the disruptor, and Trace collapsed like a skyscraper undergoing controlled demolition.

“Why’d you do that?” I demanded.

Huxley sounded defensive. “He came at us,” he said. “He came right at us.”

“Aye,” said Mac. “He did. I’d warned him we had a disruptor, Alex—you heard me. But . . .” He lifted his hands philosophically.

Normally, one of us might have rushed in to look at a downed man to see if he was still alive, but I doubted any of us knew how to tell with a transfer. Huxley put down the disruptor, leaning it against the wall that had the poster for Key Largo. I called out, “Rory! It’s safe to come back!”

Dr. Pickover appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Is he—” But even the transfer hesitated over whether “dead” was the right word.

I prodded Trace with my foot—I hadn’t had time yet to put on shoes or socks. He didn’t move. “I think so.”

“All right,” said Mac. He lifted his left arm and pointed at his wrist phone to let me know we were now on the record. “We had reports of two weapons discharges. Who shot first?”

“I did.”

“Then you’ll have to—”

I cut Mac off and pointed up. “I did—but I shot out the light, see? I agree hitting the switch would have been more genteel, but there’s actually no regulation against shooting inanimate objects. I thought my chances were better in the dark.”

Huxley appeared dubious—but then, he appeared dubious when he looked at a waffle iron, as if he suspected there must be some trick involved in getting bumps to make dents. But it was Mac’s opinion that counted, and Mac nodded. “All right,” he said slowly, looking at the downed transfer. “What was he doing here?”

“He broke in. Looking for money, I guess. I happened to be in the shower and startled him when I came out.”

“Okay,” said Mac. “And the second shot?”

“Dr. Pickover here showed up, and this goon fired at him.”

Mac looked thoughtfully at the massive heap on the floor. “Never quite sure what to do with a dead transfer, but if we keep frying them at this rate, my coroner is going to need to find another job.”

“Take him to NewYou,” I suggested. “See if they can ID him.”

Mac nodded. He began to look around my apartment. “Sorry,” I said, interposing myself between him and the wall unit he’d been about to examine. “Not without a warrant.”

“It’s a crime scene, Alex.”

“Only because Huxley fried the guy. You can’t manufacture crimes just so you can nose around a man’s home.”

“Guns were fired.”

“True. But I haven’t filed a complaint, and neither has Dr. Pickover.”

Mac scratched his left ear. “All right,” he said. “You’ll at least let me take some pictures of the body before we move it?”

I gestured toward it. “Be my guest.” While he was doing that, I spoke to my phone, asking it to find an electrician who could come in and fix my ceiling light. By the time I was done with that, Mac was ready to go. He had taken Trace’s arms, and Huxley had his legs, and they’d balanced the disruptor on Trace’s belly, and were carrying him out my door into the corridor. “Mind if I tag along?” I asked.

“About as much as you minded me searching your apartment,” Mac said.

Touché, I thought.

But Pickover spoke up. “We’re heading to NewYou, anyway, Detective. I’ve got a damaged ankle, not to mention this.” He indicated the bullet hole. “And Mr. Lomax is being paid to be my bodyguard.”

“I can see he’s doing a wonderful job,” said Huxley, pointing at Pickover’s chest.

But Mac knew when he was beaten. “All right,” he said. “Let’s all go there.”