Red Planet Blues

THIRTY-EIGHT





Imotioned for Juan to follow me, and we hustled into the back room of Shopatsky House. The doorbell sounded again as we climbed through the missing window. My first thought had been that the cops had pieced together Lakshmi’s involvement in all this, but then it occurred to me that Huxley was perhaps simply following up on the buggy joyride; Juan’s vehicle was still sitting on the fern-covered lawn.

I didn’t have time for the cops right now. Yes, Lakshmi needed medical attention, but even Hux would have the good sense to walk around the house when no one answered, and he’d doubtless find the hole where the window had been and go in to investigate.

Juan and I made our way along the edge of the dome, the alloquartz cool to the touch. I knew the clear wall next to me was curved, but from here it seemed completely flat. Juan kept saying, in a shaky voice, “My poor Diana.”

We had gone a hundred meters or so counterclockwise along the edge of the dome. Outside, on our right, we could see rocks casting shadows beneath the yellow-brown sky. In the distance, a couple of Mars buggies were going along at low speed.

To our left now was a warehouse, with cracked walls and a couple of boarded-up windows. Rent tended to be cheap out on the rim, despite it being the only place where you could get uninterrupted views of the vast Martian plain—people preferred to live near the center, if they could afford it, so that they could see something human instead of the vast unchanging monotony of the world that had crushed their dreams. “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing for Juan to pick up the pace. We headed down one wall of the warehouse and exited out onto the radial street.

A horn sounded—not as loud as the one on Juan’s buggy, but still jarring; we’d come out onto the road in front of a tram. “Come on!” I said.

We ran the short distance to the tram stop, passing a few other people as we did so: a dour middle-aged male prospector dragging a wagon that had nothing in it but mining tools; a teenage girl who glared belligerently at me, but then thought better of starting anything; and a thirty-something woman who was dressed like a banker or a lawyer—encounters with either of which usually spelled trouble for me.

We got on the tram. There were five other biologicals onboard and one transfer. The biologicals were staring at little screens; the transfer was looking off into space—or, more precisely, I suspect, was watching a movie or something that only she could see. It was generally better not to sit on the filthy tram seats. Juan knew that, but he was so shaken he plunked himself down. We were soon passing the Windermere Medical Clinic.

I managed to get Juan, who was still mostly out of it, to change trams at the appropriate point, and when that tram reached the stop closest to the shipyard, I tapped him on the shoulder. He got up, and we headed over. But Juan was still shaky, and he looked nauseous. “Take a few minutes,” I said. “There’s a kybo over there.” I pointed to the outhouse past Bertha’s shack. “Join me when you’re ready.”

He nodded and headed over to the small structure. I hustled over to the descent stage and clambered back aboard the cylindrical vessel.

“Can I be of assistance?” Mudge asked as soon as I was inside.

“Yes,” I said, to Mudge, “you can be of assistance.”

The computer sounded awfully pleased. “What can I do for you?”

“Has anybody entered since I last left?”

“No.”

“Good. First things first, then: you flew here from the Alpha Deposit.”

“Yes.”

“So you must know the way back.”

“Of course.”

“Display written instructions for returning there, please.”

“That information is locked.”

“I’m sure it was locked. And I’m sure it isn’t anymore.”

“Well, well, well,” said Mudge. “I’m surprised.”

There were four monitors in a row along the curving outer wall. The far left one lit up with black text on a pale green background. If Mudge hadn’t been so old, there’d probably have been a way to transmit the instructions to my tablet computer, but I didn’t have time to fool around figuring out how. Instead, I just pulled out the tab and took a picture of the text, checked to make sure the photo was legible, then slipped the device back in my pocket.

“Okay,” I said. “Now, erase that information—permanently.”

“Are you sure you want me to do that?”

“Yes. Wipe it. Use the strongest possible erasure method.”

“Done.”

I blew out air. “Good. Now to the matter I asked you about before. Denny O’Reilly was marooned here on Mars. Correct?”

“Yes,” said Mudge.

“Simon Weingarten took off without him. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How long did O’Reilly survive after being marooned?”

“He turned me off to conserve power for the life-support systems after seven days. I don’t know how much longer he lived after that.”

“Why did Weingarten abandon O’Reilly?”

I was leaning back against one of the walls of the wedge-shaped room. I’d expected the answer to be the prosaic one: “He wanted all the money for himself.” But what Mudge said surprised me. “The love affair between Simon and Denny had taken a turn for the worse.”

“Love affair?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

I was down on the lower floor; I stepped into the central shaft and did a quick three-sixty: there was indeed no second bedroom down here.

“What went wrong?” I asked.

“Denny had promised to leave his wife when they returned to Earth, but Simon had discovered that Denny was involved with another woman on Earth, and that he had a young son by her and intended to take up with her upon his return.”

“And who was the other woman?” I asked.

“Katsuko Takahashi.”

I nodded. Reiko’s grandmother. “Why didn’t O’Reilly blow the whistle on Weingarten?” I asked. “All he had to do was radio Earth and blab that he’d been left behind.”

“Sending a radio signal to Earth is a tricky matter,” said Mudge, “and, as onboard computer, I was in charge of such things. Before he left, Simon programmed me to not allow Denny to send any such messages.”

“Are you aware that this ship’s ascent stage was destroyed re-entering Earth’s atmosphere?”

“No,” said Mudge. “But that explains why I have been unable to contact Currie.”

“Who?”

“My counterpart; the computer aboard the ascent stage.”

“Simon Weingarten perished on re-entry, too,” I said.

“Noted,” said the computer dispassionately.

A thought occurred to me. “Mudge, did you arrange the transmitting of Denny O’Reilly’s diary back to Earth?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Three hours before Simon departed in the ascent stage.”

“So, Denny didn’t know he was going to be marooned at that point?”

“I assume not.”

“Then why did he send the diary?”

“Space voyages are risky. There was always a chance the return trip might fail. And, of course, Denny believed that he and Simon were going to spend that voyage in hibernation. He was afraid he was about to go to sleep and never wake up.”

“Who did you send the diary to?”

“Katsuko Takahashi. It was encrypted; she alone had the decryption key.”

“Did you—” I stopped and turned around. Juan was coming through the airlock. A little color had returned to his face. He nodded at me but didn’t say anything. I turned back to face Mudge’s console. “Did O’Reilly send copies to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Not to his wife?”

“No.”

“Did you keep a copy of the diary?”

“No. Denny ordered it wiped after it was sent. He was cognizant that someday this descent stage might be found.”

I looked at Juan. “Could you recover it?”

“How did you delete the file, Mudge?” Juan asked.

“Blastron protocol 2.2b,” the computer replied.

Juan shook his head. “It’s gone for good.”

Which meant that I had the one and only copy in my pocket. It belonged, of course, to Reiko Takahashi, who was still my client. I’d return it to her—after making a copy for myself, of course.

My phone played “Luck Be a Lady” from Guys and Dolls. The little screen showed Dougal McCrae’s face, the signal presumably making it in through the open airlock door. I was surprised it had taken this long for that shoe to drop. Huxley must have reported the shooting of Lakshmi Chatterjee, not to mention the discovery of Diana’s body, some time ago. I accepted the call. “Hello, Mac.”

“Ah, Alex,” said the freckled face. “Just thought I’d touch base. Make sure you’re doing okay.”

I tried not to look or sound puzzled. “Well as can be expected.”

“Dr. Pickover’s body is at the station now, along with those of the other three transfers.” He paused. “I’m so sorry it turned out this way, Alex.”

“Me, too.” I peered at him, waiting for him to go on, but he didn’t. “Um, Mac, did—has Sergeant Huxley called anything in?”

“Since when?”

“Last hour or so?”

“No. After he’d finished out by the Kathryn Denning, he went home. His shift was over.”

“Ah,” I said. “Um, he’s not a wannabe writer or poet, is he?”

Mac laughed. “Huxley? God, no. I don’t think he even reads, let alone writes.”

“Okay,” I said.

But Mac’s eyes had narrowed. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Thanks for the call.” I shook off.

The Windermere Medical Clinic was indeed near Shopatsky House; it seemed like a good bet, so I had my phone call it. Hot little pink-haired Gloria answered. “Hey, babe,” I said, “just calling to check up on Lakshmi Chatterjee. That was a nasty gunshot wound to the shoulder. She still there?”

Pay dirt. “Oh, hi, sexy,” she replied in that breathy voice of hers. “Didn’t know she was a friend of yours. Might have sterilized the scalpel if we’d known that.”

“How’s she doing?”

“We got her all cleaned up and sent her on her way.”

“She was a bit shocky earlier.”

“Oh, we took care of that, of course. She’s fine now.”

“Thanks. Is the man who brought her in still there, by any chance?”

“No. No, he left even before she did. Said he had some business to take care of.”

“Thanks, angel.” I shook my wrist again, and the screen went dark.

“Alex?” said Juan, looking at me. Of course, he’d overheard the conversations.

“It looks like Lakshmi has a friend on the police force,” I said. “And I’d bet money that the business he had to take care of was . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to upset Juan.

“Yes?” he said. “What?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time the NKPD had lost a body,” I said gently. “I bet Huxley went back to dispose of Diana’s.”