The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries)

by Martin L Shoemaker

  I shook my head. “That was a closed-door policy discussion, Ms. Rockford.”

  “Closed door? What does Mayor Holmes have to hide? Hasn’t he ever heard of open meetings?”

  I stayed firm. “I am not an elected official, Ms. Rockford. I cannot cite the finer points of open meetings law. But an executive must be able to have private meetings with citizens. Not everything is an open meeting, only those where a quorum is discussing matters and making decisions.”

  “So you keep it under a quorum to evade the open meetings requirements?”

  “If by under a quorum, you mean one public official, the mayor, with no council members present, then yes, it was under a quorum.” I had started with a calm tone; but by the time I had finished the sentence, I could feel my temper rising. That would not do.

  And Rockford had not missed that. “You seem agitated, Ms. Morais. Are you a little sensitive here?”

  I smiled. I saw how to take control back. “I am sensitive,” I said, “because you are verging into slander territory. And I wanted to make it clear that I was not going to be a part of slanderous allegations. If you have evidence of efforts to bypass open meetings regulations, I want to see it. I want to pursue it, and to charge it if the evidence stands up. So I am waiting: can you produce your evidence?”

  Rockford actually sat back at that. I do not think she was used to subjects who fought back and who took the initiative. She was used to putting people on the defensive. “I . . .” She paused only slightly, and I saw Freddie make an okay gesture. She started again. “I made no allegations, Ms. Morais, I was just asking questions that any curious viewer would ask. That’s my job, to ask questions for them.” She half turned to the camera. “For you, viewers. What you want to know.” Then she turned back to me. “But let’s move on to a topic you might find less upsetting.” I did not believe her for a second as she continued. “So your own right-hand man, Jordan Flagg, was part of this scheme.”

  “Lieutenant Flagg was not my right-hand man. I do not know where you get your information.”

  “Oh, everyone knows you were grooming him to be deputy chief. You replaced him with Vile; and hardly a day later, you appointed her as deputy chief. It’s obvious.”

  I shook my head. “What is obvious is that you have received misinformation. Lieutenant Vile was already part of the command squad from the beginning, just like Lieutenant Flagg. She was not his replacement, Lieutenant DeHaven was. And Lieutenant Vile was a natural choice for deputy chief, because of her seniority in Public Safety before joining the force, and because of her accomplished record. I had every confidence in her from the beginning, and she is already doing a capable job in the middle of an unexpectedly busy investigation.”

  “A capable job? She’s only been in it two days. How can you judge that?”

  I glanced at my comm. “Because while I am here smiling for your cameras and answering taunts like this, I am not getting a hundred comm messages and emergency alerts. Vile is handling those in my stead. Things are running smoothly, and that’s Vile’s work.”

  Rockford grinned, but with no humor. It was predatory. “Then if she’s doing the job so well, why do we need you?”

  Oh, for—but I kept my outburst to myself. “Because as good as she is, I have much more experience, particularly in investigations. I set the course, she carries it out.”

  Rockford smiled. “You do have quite a career,” she said, “if a bit . . . checkered. You were dismissed from the Admiralty in disgrace.”

  “I resigned,” I said. “It is in the public record. Anyone who cares can look it up.”

  “Yes,” Rockford said. “Misappropriation of material. Issuance of unlawful orders. Creating a threat to shipping. That’s quite a list of charges.”

  I took a breath and carefully answered, “That is all in my statement with my resignation. The inspector general closed the matter.”

  “Yes, but it’s not really that simple, is it? Admiralty sources tell me that you took responsibility to shield Captain Aames from the consequences of his own decisions.”

  “That is not what the inspector general found.”

  “No, it isn’t. My Admiralty sources tell me that’s yet another example of the corrupting influence of Nick Aames. He has quite a past. Losing the Bradbury expedition. Kicked out of the International Space Corps, until he found a loophole to get back in via the Aldrin. And his career there, well, he certainly cut corners and did things his way. I hear they’re still auditing the books to try to understand where some of the money went to when he first led the mutiny and then stole the Aldrin from its rightful owners.”

  “He did not steal it, the inspector general granted it independence. And told him he could have no official duties there.”

  “Yes, thus bringing him to Mars, the site of his first big failure.”

  “He saved that crew.”

  “Most of them. If you don’t count a few deaths here and there, and the loss of a $500 million spacecraft. And so he’s back here where his chosen protégé is the mayor.”

  “Mayor Holmes is a respected, experienced Mars explorer who was duly elected by the people of this city and who serves at their pleasure because they trust him.”

  “A trust that some think is misplaced. And now here Nick Aames is again, right in the middle of this investigation. With his own wife in charge, where she decides what’s evidence and what isn’t. Who gets charged and who doesn’t.”

  “Nick has no role in this department.”

  “Oh, I’m sure, you’ve practiced that line quite thoroughly. Some even might believe it.”

  “But you do not.”

  “It’s not what I believe,” Rockford said with a smile, “it’s what my viewers believe. They’re pretty good at seeing through lies. I just point out the truth for them, and they decide for themselves.”

  “The truth . . .” I paused. Rockford was getting to me despite my efforts. “. . . is that yes, Mr. Aames, a private citizen and my husband and an expert in the exploration and governance of Mars, discovered and turned over some of the evidence in this case. And cooperated in retrieving more evidence from his employers on Earth, São Paulo Mutual. That is the extent of his involvement with this case.”

  “Oh, really?” Rockford said, glancing at her comm. “Then perhaps you can explain the announcement made by Chief Hogan at Port Shannon Lopez?”

  “What announcement is that?”

  This time Rockford’s grin showed teeth. “That your husband’s longtime associate, Horace Gale, suspected of trafficking in stolen goods, has cited the Compact. And for his citizenship, he has claimed Aldrin City. And Chief Hogan has confirmed jurisdiction with Aldrin City, and they have designated as their representative to handle Gale’s case . . .” She turned to the camera. “. . . Nick Aames.”

  20. AMBASSADOR AAMES

  The interview went downhill from there. Despite my best efforts, Rockford had scored her big point, knocking me back. And from there, she had me on the defensive. She worked to put words in my mouth, question my motives, and paint me in the worst possible light. And I was unable to think quickly enough to stop her, because my mind was distracted. What the hell was Nick up to?

  I could tell from Alonzo’s face just how badly it was going; but there was nothing either of us could do. Rockford was uninterested in facts or logic. She was out for blood. And ratings.

  Finally she wrapped up with a sneering allegation. “There’s a lot more dirt buried here, Ms. Morais. If you can find it, we’ll want to talk to you about it again. This is Tara Rockford, signing off for Maxwell City.” And with that, the camera shut off. Without a word of farewell, she left the room; and as quickly as they could pack up, her technicians followed.

  It was bad, I could tell that from the morose look on Alonzo’s face. But I did not wait around to talk to him about it. I had to see Nick.

  This time I went through Customs. The agent there, a young Initiative trooper with a Dutch or German accent, scrutinized m
y credentials thoroughly before letting me through. “They’re expecting you at Fort Hudson, Ms. Morais,” he said.

  Having no luggage, I bypassed the package inspection line and went straight to data inspection. The agent there took my comm and my comp and plugged them in for screening. When she declared them clean and handed them back to me, I proceeded to the slidewalk juncture. I took the right-most slide, and I headed toward Fort Hudson. A sign at the entrance to the slide said, You are now entering Fort Hudson. All persons and packages are subject to search. Weapons will be confiscated. I reflexively patted my holster, where I carried my pistol. It was an old-style semiautomatic, manufactured in one of the finest shops in Maxwell City. It had been a gift from Nick on our first anniversary on Mars; and I wore it now as police chief, just as I had promised the journos I would.

  So when the slide deposited me in front of the big doors to the fort, I was ready. Three guards stood there in full matte-black Rapid Response Team armor. The closest stepped forward while the other two stepped aside for better coverage. The one near me said, “Hold. I’ll need that weapon, ma’am.”

  I shook my head. “You know who I am. I am expected. This is my personal weapon that I carry in my duties. I am not turning it over without a receipt.”

  “I have no special instructions here, ma’am,” he answered. “I’m supposed to confiscate all weapons that come through, save for Initiative forces carrying as part of their duties.”

  “And I am carrying this as part of my duties as police chief of Maxwell City. If you intend to confiscate it, then I shall turn around and leave, and you can explain to Chief Hogan why you have made an interplanetary incident about this. Or you can give me a receipt, check my weapon, and damn well have it here for me when I come back out.”

  “I’m not authorized to do that, ma’am.”

  “Then get authorized, or get spaced!”

  He wasn’t rude, he was simply following orders. No doubt there were others in the fort who would have enjoyed giving me grief, but this man did not. He winced, and then he tapped his comm and stepped away to talk in private. When he came back, he said, “Chief Hogan assures me that your sidearm is to be properly stored and returned to you. Here’s a receipt.” He pushed the receipt to my comp.

  I nodded, checked the receipt, and then unfastened my uniform belt to slip off the holster.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the guard said as he accepted it. “I’m sorry. Orders are orders.”

  “It is handled, Spacer,” I answered. “We shall speak no more of it. Now where do I go?”

  “You need to go to the stockade, ma’am. I can summon you an escort.”

  I shook my head. “Only if you have orders to keep an eye on me. I know my way around Fort Hudson.”

  “Oh,” he answered. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know.” He looked as his comm. “You have unescorted clearance except in marked secure areas. I assume you recognize those?” I nodded. “Then you are cleared to enter Fort Hudson, Ms. Morais.” He stepped back and thumbed a switch by the door. It slid open, and the other two guards parted to let me through.

  “I will see you on the way out,” I said, trying to smooth some feathers there. Then I stepped through the doors to Fort Hudson.

  It was a transition. Not just in place, but almost in time. It was my first time in the fort since inspection tours when I had been stationed on orbit; and yet little had changed. Underground facilities—and like Maxwell City, most of Fort Hudson was underground—do not change as quickly as surface facilities do. It is not as easy to just tear down walls and put up others, because walls might support a structure of the facility itself. So the layout tends to be unchanging; and that means the operations also change slowly.

  But it was more than that. There was a neatness, an orderliness that I had forgotten after years of living in unplanned chaos. Maxwell City had a planned layout, four circular layers with radial symmetry; but within the broad outlines of that layout, side tunnels and chambers were arranged to suit the needs of thousands of different families and groups. In Fort Hudson, by contrast, things were rigidly planned, ordered, and clean. That is how you keep young spacers busy and attentive: you make them clean until it becomes second nature. Not that Maxwell City was dirty. It is never a good idea in space to let dirt get ahead of you. It can be bad for safety and your health. But even though cleaning got done in Maxwell City, it was casual. As needed. Order and discipline were not the job at Maxwell City, not the way they are on a military base. People had a lot of other work to do, and they fit in cleaning where they could. Here it was an ordered part of everyday routine.

  Immediately beyond the big doors was what had been dubbed the Highway: a long stretch of high-speed slidewalks that could deliver troops in force to the gate. I remembered from my days in the Admiralty the reasoning behind these. There had never been a case of insurrection on Mars—not like some of the bad times on Luna—but the Admiralty had prepared for it. The Loonies had caught the Admiralty by surprise once, and they were not going to let that happen again.

  So rapid delivery of force was part of the design. And not just force, of course, relief as well. Nine years back, there had been a major air system failure, an actual leak to Martian atmosphere from a processing plant out through a tunnel collapse. The Rapid Response Team had rushed out, both on the surface and through the tunnels, to render aid. The Realists still cited that case as an example. They said Maxwell City would not have survived without the Initiative that day.

  They might have had a point. I was serving on Earth orbit by then, and I had not gone through the reports to see just how dire things had been and how much of a difference the RRT had made. Certainly, the troops drilled for that sort of emergency. But so did the locals.

  The Highway was quiet now, with only two slides running each way, and none of the big cargo slides. I took a slide to the next checkpoint, where another trooper checked my ID and confirmed that I belonged there. She passed me through quickly, and I entered the crossroads, where smaller tunnels could take me to every part of the fort. I took a tube across and to the right, heading down in a spiral to the lower level where the stockade was.

  At the bottom level, I stepped off the last slide, and I approached another guard.

  “Ms. Morais,” he said, as I approached, “right this way.” After checking my badge yet again, he pressed the button on the wall, and a panel opened up. He leaned in for a retinal scan, then gestured for me to do the same. “If you please, ma’am.”

  I blinked several times, and then I stepped up for the scan, staring forward until the red flash had passed. A computer voice from the panel said, “Acknowledging Police Chief Rosalia Morais. Entrance granted. Proceed for security briefing.” A door panel slid open, and I walked through.

  Another guard stood on the other side, a young, solidly built woman in armor, but with her helmet off. “Hello, ma’am,” she said. “I’m here to give you your security briefing.” She grinned. “It’s only fair. You gave it to me once.”

  I smiled back. “I am sorry, Spacer”—I checked her badge—“Powers. I briefed a lot of people in my time.”

  “I understand,” she said. “It was ordinary for you, but my first day here. You happened to be down for some meeting or other, I think. I’m not sure what had you down here, but you gave me the briefing. Pretty much unchanged today. But you know . . .”

  “You must go through the procedure,” I said. “That is part of the briefing.”

  “It is.” Then she got to work, reading off the regulations to me, showing me the video and still examples, quizzing me in all the right places to make sure I understood, and finally getting my signature that I had been briefed and was responsible for following the briefing. When I had signed, she took back the pad, and she said, “Thank you, ma’am. I . . .” She lowered her voice. “I never believed the things they said about you.”

  “Thank you, Powers.” Her faith was touching. I wanted to tell her she was right, that I had not done th
e things I was accused of. That I had taken the blame to protect Nick, which was actually a bigger offense than what I was accused of, falsifying the record like that in a potential mutiny case. Rockford had not been wrong about that. But it was not something I could admit. On the record, I had to be guilty, to protect Aldrin City’s independence. In a few years, maybe, Aldrin City would be secure, and no one would dare disrupt the arrangement. But we were not there yet.

  The stockade, of course, was a high-security area. Unauthorized personnel could not wander around unescorted. So Powers summoned an escort—putting her helmet back on before the other spacer arrived, and winking at me over the slight infraction—and I followed the escort through the tight corridors of the facility. He led me to an interrogation room, where the door stood ajar so guards could look in. That indicated no interrogation was in progress, and they did not want any chance someone could hide in there.

  But someone was in there. Nick sat in one chair beside the lone table under an overhead dome light. He sat erect, as he usually did in public. Relaxing did not come easily to him.

  I stepped inside. “Mr. Aames,” I said. I was not hostile, just formal.

  Nick looked back at the door, which remained open with the escort standing just outside. Then he turned to me, and he rose. “Ma’am,” he answered. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his way of keeping himself from making any revealing gestures—taking my hand, hugging me, shaking me; I was unsure what his mood was.

  I did not want to have a fight, certainly not here in a public place with an Initiative spacer listening in. Nick and I did not get into it often; but when we did, I could be . . . fiery, and I knew how to push his buttons to get him angry too. And once angry, we might say things that just should not be said where others could hear. Things damaging to the case. Or to us.