Last Life (Lifers Book 1)

by Thomas,Michael G.

  The deputy stuttered and tried to pull free. Guzman punched him in the belly, an iron blow that left him choking for air, and shoved him aside. He tripped and fell to the floor, gasping for air. Muttering, “Asshole.”

  Vos didn’t intervene. Hartmann stalked out, and the MPs were watching him closely. He went to Bowen and helped him up. “You okay, Mark?”

  “Sure, sure. I shouldn’t have asked. I guess it’s a military thing.”

  No, it isn’t. We’re peace officers. They should tell us what we’re up against. I want Noah Cage alive, if possible. I want to see him on trial, spell out his side.

  A hundred thoughts raced through his mind.

  How the hell did he go from war hero to war criminal, and where does General Hartmann fit in? How can I prevent the MPs gunning him down the moment they see him? I wish I knew. What I do know is the families of those dead cops need to hear it from his lips, before he goes down for life.

  Laszlo’s granting of free access to the tower gave the hunters a perfect site from which to monitor traffic on the Red Planet. Viewports allowed a three sixty-degree view of the bustling spaceport a mere few kilometers away. The facility was so big it was easily visible, even from this distance.

  The array of CCTV monitors meant little could escape their gaze. They displayed the long spokes of scores of pressurized walkways. Part of a web that connected ships to the main terminal, itself the size of a small city, and protected by yet another of the numerous domes. The sprawling spaceport occupied a site of a hundred square kilometers, and formed part of the outlying district of the city, nestled between the mountain ranges. Vehicles rushed around the site, fast, electric vehicles with pressure-suited security or maintenance personnel on board; like worker ants bustling around the nest, building and protecting their home.

  Bowen brushed off Guzman’s violence, and he resembled a wide-eyed kid with a new toy. The deputy spent most of his time staring through the viewports, commenting on newfound wonders. “Sheriff, would you look at that. All those secondary hubs, there must be a hundred of them, and a loads of ships landing at each one. Why can’t they build this kind of stuff Earthside?”

  He grunted, “They used to,” and continued scrolling through the CCTV recordings.

  “Sheriff, how we gonna keep our eyes on all this? It’s so…big!”

  “We’ll manage, Deputy.” He’d glanced at the soldiers, chatting to a RedCorp security supervisor, “Don’t forget Hartmann’s men. They’re keeping an eye out.”

  He’d brought a small platoon to Mars, twenty men. Although so far, they’d spent most of their time in murmured conversations with RedCorp security. No prizes for guessing what they were cooking up. Vos wanted that bastard Cage, after the deaths of his deputies, but he wanted him alive if he would surrender without a fight. The MPs made it clear they were out for a single outcome. Most days they laughed and joked about it. Cage was going down.

  Bowen didn’t exaggerate about the vast size of the facility. They’d given them the grand tour when they arrived, and if the Martians had intended to impress the lawmen from Earth, they’d succeeded. Their guide, a young woman named Alicia Laszlo, was all efficiency. She was well placed in the RedCorp organization, and Vos wondered about the name, Laszlo, the same as the Director of Spaceport Security. When she arrived at a workstation or traffic control center, they were all smiles beneath the palpable tension.

  She’d waved at an electronic display covering an entire wall. “This represents a map of the main terminal. We have an underground terminus below, one of the biggest communications networks ever built. The subterranean pneumatic transports connect every outer hub to the main terminal.”

  “You look as if you’re busy, Ma’am.”

  Bowen was staring at her through eyes that conveyed the degree of his enchantment with the pretty girl.

  She threw him a smile, but Vos noted it didn’t reach her eyes. Come to that, the Martians were all the same from what he could see, expressions that looked suspiciously like they were hiding something behind the polite gaze.

  “We’re always busy. Ships land and take off at frequent intervals, thanks to the precision of our space traffic system, the largest ever designed. You wouldn’t believe they could handle such a quantity and variety of craft, but they do.”

  “That’s very interesting,” the deputy grinned.

  She ignored him and pointed at the display. “This shows all passenger flights and freighters landing from or taking off to every planet in the Solar System. Local traffic to the moons is displayed here…and shuttles and transports can dock with interplanetary Cycler ships here.”

  He stared at the long elliptical paths taken by the many different ships. The math meant little to him, but clearly Mars was now the center of a booming trade network that spanned much further than just Phobos and Deimos, the planet’s two moons.

  “I don’t see any military flights,” Vos couldn’t help pointing out.

  Another broad smile. “Military flights like the one you arrived on are rare. Mars is a peaceful planet; we have no need of them.”

  Then why are there so many paramilitaries? This place is ringed with guards, and every one of them has the stamp of a military vet. Men who fought for Mars during the three Wars, and all of them armed with enough weaponry to slug it out with an army.

  She pointed out a fleet of incoming mining vessels from the Belt, as well as craft shuttles from an orbiting heavy hauler returning from distant Jupiter, where they plied its depths for the prized Helium-3.

  “We offer the most modern facilities, and we attract some of the biggest corporations to trade with Mars. In terms of trading import export volumes…”

  Yeah, we know lady. You’re the biggest.

  She waved her hand at another vast display, which showed a wide area view of the entire area. “From the tower, you’ll have noticed the nearby landing platforms and strips are all clear of dust and debris. In the early days it was done by hand, but RedCorp engineers dealt with many of these problems by using large groups of autonomous cleaner vehicles. Now they head out every hour, checking for signs of dust or damage.

  "We pride ourselves on being open for business all the time, apart from the storms, of course."

  Vos smiled and tried to hide his smirk. For all the problems suffered on Earth, they had nothing like the dreaded Martian storms. He knew from what he'd learned at school that the storms could develop in a matter of hours. Even the hundreds of meteorological satellites proved unsuccessful in guessing their arrival. Worse was that they could spread to the entire planet in a short time, and then take days or even weeks to fully dissipate. It served as a reminder that Mars still had a few surprises left for the all-conquering colonizers.

  “What would you like to see next?”

  Even Hartmann had had enough, and they put a premature end to the tour. The ‘peaceful’ planet wasn’t always peaceful. The day before, sirens had sounded, and security troops raced into the tower to lock down the building. Men in RedCorp logoed pressure suits raced across the field in open, jeep-like vehicles. They were heading for a remote spot close to where a ship had just landed. The operation was as slick as it was puzzling.

  A straggling group of six people appeared, clad in a variety of different colored pressure suits, patched and repaired. Two were short, like midgets. They raced from the ship, heading for a maintenance hatch two hundred meters away. They carried aluminum cartons or containers, and although the lower gravity of Mars made them less unwieldy, they were too slow.

  RedCorp paramilitaries opened fire from a distance with their sophisticated weaponry. A storm of gunfire tore into the fleeing group. If they carried weapons to defend themselves, the Westbank cops didn’t see them. Inside of a minute, six bodies lay dead or gasping out their last breaths inside the remains of their ruined suits.

  A security supervisor was watching the drama unfold, and Vos asked him about it. “What just happened down there? What were they up to?”

&
nbsp; He got a one-word reply. “Thieves.” The man walked away, and he looked back across the field. The bodies still lay there, like abandoned garbage.

  Bowen was beside him, also watching. “Rough justice. They opened fire without warning. I guess they had no choice.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes there’s no other way to deal with fugitives. Keep watching. Cage could choose this kind of thing to slip past us.”

  But Bowen wasn’t finished. “Sheriff, I magnified the video feed that caught it all. Two of them were young.”

  “So?”

  “I mean, nine, ten years-old. Children.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “Yeah. They were also unarmed.”

  “The kids?

  “All of ‘em. Not a single weapon between them, and the stuff they stole, it was cases of food.”

  He didn’t have time to formulate a reply. The elevator doors opened abruptly, and Vos watched the Director of Security, Vladimir Laszlo march out into the tower. Surrounded by acolytes, he was every inch the soldier, born to command and lead men in the field. He was a hero of the Second Martian War, and had led the defense of the landing grounds against the overwhelming PanAm invasion. He was one of the most feared men on both planets and had a reputation for never losing. Martians would line up to fight for him, and PanAm battalions would withdraw rather than face him in the field. His legend stated that he’d won every battle he’d ever fought in, helped by an instinct for combining the most advanced technical equipment with a legendary grasp of tactical skills. Whether that was true or not, people on both worlds believed it.

  When he stepped down from the military, RedCorp slotted him into his current post. A multi-millionaire, the man was an enigma. A man who lived like a monk in the fortified mansion, built onto the gentle slopes of the Tharsis Plateau. An exclusive, sealed dome, like many others, and this one was the equivalent of an Earthside gated community. He didn’t resemble their tour guide, Alicia Laszlo, apart from the name. And a certain slippery turn of phrase, as if both Laszlos attended the same spin doctoring class.

  The spaceport security staff leapt to attention. Vladimir Laszlo was that kind of man, a leader who commanded instant respect, or fear, Vos wasn’t sure which. Hartmann eagerly shook his hand.

  “Director Laszlo, this is a pleasure.”

  He didn’t reply at first but glanced out of the windows, examining the security monitors in one expert sweep of his cold, dark eyes. Laszlo wasn’t as fit as he once would have been during the glory days, leading his men to victory over Earth. His paunch was that of a man with less success fighting the march of age than he had had against his enemies. The paramilitary uniform almost concealed his flaws, and he carried himself with the upright, erect bearing of a senior military man. Yet there was just so much a tailor could do.

  “General, I don’t have much time. I’m about to fly out to Valles Marineris. There’s a little difficulty I need to deal with. I came to give you a heads up, there’s an operation about to go down.”

  Vos waved toward the forlorn bodies, torn apart and lying like bundles of discarded rags. “Anything to do with this?”

  It looked like a half-sneer. “That rabble? Not on your life, just petty criminals, come here to steal. This is something different, much bigger. We picked up a whisper about a rebel raid. They’re coming in tomorrow at first light. You’ll find it valuable to get here early, see how we do things.”

  “A raid? Is Cage involved?”

  “No, we haven’t got wind of him on planet, not yet. I’m talking about a sizeable group of outcasts, the usual rabble-rousers and drifters. They’re always looking to steal food, and anything they can lay their hands on. This time they intend to loot an entire supply ship. They’re planning a major incursion. We expect at least a dozen of these criminals to attack, and we’ll be waiting for them.” His thin, tight lips relaxed in anticipation of another success to pencil into his career jacket, “This is our chance to hit these bastards hard. If we can take a prisoner, we may force the location of all their bases out of them. One way or the other, we can roll up this rebellion at a stroke.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Enough. We estimate as many as fifty, spread across the planet. Maybe a hundred, I doubt there’s any more.” A smile, “There’ll be a whole lot less when we’re done. I won’t be here when it goes down, but I’ll be watching on the comms circuit. I’ll talk to you when I get back. Maybe your man will have arrived by then. Enjoy the action.”

  He wheeled away, leaving Hartmann asking some vague question that would remain forever unanswered. His entourage followed him into the elevator, and he was gone. The security tower that seconds ago had crackled with tension, relaxed. The General looked at Vos.

  “Well, that should be something. See the way they handle these scum.”

  He nodded. “It could be interesting.” He thought about the two dead youngsters, killed for stealing food.

  Okay, Earth has its problems, and life can be tough. Here on Mars, it’s very different. No air, food grown under tight control, and the water supply owned by RedCorp. A paradise?

  “Sir, these rebels, what kind of people are they? I mean, if it’s so good on Mars, why are they fighting?”

  A snort. “Why does anyone fight against lawful authority? I’d guess they’re people who lost their jobs, for one reason or another. Some would be former soldiers, men who can’t find alternative work, so they set out to destroy everything that’s good and decent. This planet is a paradise, for those who want to work at it.”

  “Why can’t they find jobs?”

  “Who gives a shit? You can’t expect the government to feed them if they don’t work.”

  “So what do they do? Die?”

  “I heard they have a scheme to relocate the unemployed.”

  “Relocate them where?”

  “No idea. But I saw the passenger manifests when we were looking for Cage’s flight, empty relocation flights coming back.”

  “Coming back from where? Do they take them back to Earth?”

  He scowled. “No idea, and I don’t care.” He turned away and went to talk to his men.

  A day after, the bodies had gone, the blood cleaned away, and the ship departed. Vos continued to scrutinize the teams of maintenance personnel working on the ground. Each wore a lightweight pressure suit, emblazoned with an identical symbol. The red circle, with a flashy ‘R’ picked out in bright yellow, the logo of RedCorp, owners of much of Mars, including the spaceport itself. A small group of maintenance personnel attracted his attention. They were working to clear a puddle of some mysterious fluid that had spilled from a recently landed ship.

  Vos decided they weren’t their targets, after a swift glance at the staff schedule on the monitor. These people were accounted for. They were expected. He was looking for the unexpected, something not right. Besides, even if Cage and his pals tried to sneak in, they could hardly arrange for the loan of pressure suits, and a convenient spill as a disguise. The most likely scenario was they’d travel under fake papers, in which case the immigration guards at the arrival gates should pick them up. Yet so far they hadn’t, and Hartmann was getting nervous.

  “How long’s it been, Vos?”

  The Sheriff had the answer ready. He’d answered the same question every day for the past three weeks, and then some. “Twenty-six days, General.”

  “I know that, dammit!” his expression darkened, “I meant since we took off from Washington Spaceport.”

  “Well, Sir, there was the first part of the journey, the military priority lighter, which boosted us into outer space for the rendezvous with the Mars Cycler.”

  His thoughts turned to the massive, ageing, but essential ships that plied the same route, month after month, year after year. Millions of kilometers, a vast, elliptical course, and they never slowed down, traveling outside of the planetary orbits, never to land, never to slow down. Like some kind of godlike entity wandering the stars. Both sides pr
otected them as though they were the most precious things ever built, and nobody would dare turn on their owners. To do so would be to risk everything. They were the key to safe, cheap, and reliable interplanetary travel.

  Lighters rendezvoused with them at precise intervals as they neared the planet of departure or arrival. The launch had to be timed to the second, and the docking maneuver was fraught with tension. The slightest problem, an equipment malfunction, could wreck the maneuver. Even a passing asteroid could affect the delicate instruments, and the docking would be abandoned. At worst…they’d warned them about the worst, and made them sign liability waivers.

  “Three days in the lighter, General. One hundred and forty-seven days in the Cycler, and two days to dock and land.”

  “One hundred and fifty-two days. Twenty-six days since we arrived here, and what have we got? Sitting on our asses in this building, watching and waiting, and we have nothing. Nix, Nada, damn all, why the hell did we come?”

  You know why we came, General Hartmann. We came because you said you had intelligence that was adamant Cage would travel to Mars, to evade capture. You said he was a traitor. I thought it was bullshit then, and I still do. He’s an escaped murderer, that’s all. What’s your agenda, if it isn’t bringing him to trial?

  When they’d insisted he join the MPs in the pursuit, he’d given them a firm ‘no.’ Until Dawson Public’s Director of Operations, Rodrigo Estevez, visited him at his office in Westbank. He looked too young to hold such dizzying power. A rugged body and the build of an Olympic athlete, Estevez looked tough, with a hard belly, bulging muscles, and a barely hidden strength that warned those who met him to be cautious. All packaged behind a designer haircut and artificial tan. The suit was immaculate, the pinnacle of the tailor’s art, and he radiated power and confidence. And something more, ruthlessness barely concealed beneath the urbane exterior.