China Mike

by P. A. Piatt

  Fortis sat up with a groan. “You’d know more about being a private than I would.”

  The corporal chuckled as he added fat plates to both sides of the bars. “Slide out of the way and let this two-time private show you how it’s done.”

  * * *

  Chive rode next to Dolph. “That kid is becoming a pain in my ass,” he told the driver. “He’s asking a lot of questions. Did he say anything to you?”

  Dolph’s shoulder itched where he had a tattoo of DINLI, the unofficial Space Marine mascot, removed. He got it as a cherry private during his first liberty run on Terra Earth. He had it removed two years later, after he was dishonorably discharged and joined the Kuiper Knights.

  “He didn’t say much at all,” Dolph replied. “He’s like every other second lieutenant I’ve ever known. Long on enthusiasm and short on smarts.”

  “I hope he can curb his enthusiasm for a while longer. Baird and Root have gotten us a lot closer to Finkle.” He gestured to the converted ore car where the rest of his men were riding with their new captive. “There’s no telling what Choon can do for us.”

  “Do we really need Finkle? I mean, once your plan starts to roll, the resistance will become a loose end, won’t it?”

  “Loose ends have a bad way of becoming snags, Dolph. My plan, and this place, are too important to the Knights for us to leave anything to chance. The arrival of the Space Marines was a fortuitous turn of events, and I believe we are best served by using them to pursue the resistance. The colonists and the resistance both have to believe the UNT sent them to support the GRC, which will drive the wedge between them and Governor Czrk a little deeper.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Lieutenant Fortis found Chief Shultz in his office. The portly cop waved him into a chair and offered the Space Marine a steaming cup of coffee.

  “What brings you here this morning, Lieutenant? Besides the best coffee on Eros-28, I mean.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the loan of weapons and gear for our training with the Security Directorate,” Fortis replied. “I meant no offense when we talked about weapons earlier; it never occurred to me that you don’t need much to maintain law and order here.” He gave a self-conscious grin. “This is the first time I’ve been somewhere like the Eros Cluster.”

  Schultz smiled in return. “We’re in a unique situation here, and I didn’t take any offense. We’re able to keep the peace here with community engagement; we don’t need an arsenal. We stay close to the people and they appreciate that.”

  Fortis nodded while the two men sipped their coffee in silence.

  Finally, Fortis said, “What can you tell me about China Mike, Chief? Marx and Landis got mixed up with it, but I still don’t know much about it.”

  Schultz considered him for a long second before he responded.

  “China Mike is a synthetic stimulant, originally developed by a deep-space mining company contracted to the Senegalese government on Terra Earth. That was before your time, back when individual countries still competed for resources out here. Workers used China Mike to work double shifts, which made the companies happy. The workers got eight hours of regular time and eight hours of overtime for every day worked, which made them happy come payday.”

  “If the workers take it voluntarily and everybody is happy, what’s the problem?”

  “For starters, China Mike is highly addictive. Chronic users need frequent boosts to maintain their high and it’s easy to overdose. The effects of the drug are cumulative, as well. The higher users go, the farther they crash.

  “If they don’t kick the habit, they spend all their overtime pay on the drug and work even more hours so they can earn more overtime pay. Eventually, most addicts lose their jobs and turn to crime to pay for the drug. Not too long ago there was a group of asteroid wranglers who murdered their GRC project foreman and hijacked the company transport to go to Eros-69 in search of more China Mike.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They were tried, convicted, and purged from an airlock.”

  “Damn.”

  Schultz shrugged. “It’s a vicious cycle that usually ends in tragedy. Some users experience psychological effects that result in aggressive behavior. If they are predisposed to violence, China Mike makes it worse. Some colonies don’t care about the health and safety of their workers; we do.”

  “If China Mike is that bad, why not outlaw it?”

  Chief Schultz chuckled.

  “Lieutenant, this isn’t Terra Earth, with a government to enact laws and the law enforcement to see to it that those laws are obeyed. This isn’t a deep-space asteroid grab, where the crews know they’re going home rich in three or four years. The people who work here are out here for decades, sometimes for life. They’ve all got their reasons for living this lifestyle, but they’re not typically the kind of people you can just order around.”

  “So you let it go.”

  Schultz’s smile became a scowl.

  “No, we don’t just let it go. We rely on the workforce to self-regulate. The governor granted their request to add an automatic, voluntary four-hour overtime work period to every shift. The workers don’t feel the need to get amped up to make it through a twelve-hour shift like they would for a sixteen-hour shift. In return, shop supervisors agreed to keep their coworkers in line. It’s not perfect, but it worked for a long time.”

  “What happened?”

  “China Mike happened.”

  Fortis couldn’t disguise his confusion at the chief’s answer. Schultz picked up on it immediately.

  “Look, there was always a little bit of it around. Some people use it recreationally, but they keep it under control We get all kinds of crews through here and there’s always someone willing to supply it. It came and went, but it wasn’t a big problem. Then we had a series of strikes and vandalism and the GRC sent Chive and his men here to deal with the labor unrest, which they call ‘the resistance.’” The chief made air quotes. “Suddenly the drug was everywhere, and the price was so low nobody could resist.” He gestured to the ceiling. “Corporate claims the workers manufacture it to finance some kind of half-assed resistance.”

  “They don’t?”

  Schultz snorted. “There’s no resistance here. What the hell do they have to revolt about? The work is hard, but the pay is the best in the industry, and the working conditions are good. The only real complaint is the lack of family housing, and that’s a budgetary issue. Governor Czrk just sent a plan to corporate to make some modifications to existing dormitories to allow familial living inside Fenway, but the wheels turn slow at headquarters.

  “Meanwhile, Chive built a compound for himself and his guys out in the desert, doing whatever it is they do out there. I haven’t seen much of them around here since they cracked down on the workers after the entire facility went on strike. Czrk put them on a leash, and they don’t appear to do much anymore. Except train with Space Marines.”

  Fortis grinned self-consciously. “Chief, you know as well as anyone that we’re not training.”

  The chief nodded. “At least you’re man enough to admit it.”

  Fortis had an urge to confide in the corpulent cop.

  “If I had a choice, we wouldn’t be involved in this,” replied Fortis. “But the governor didn’t give me any good options. I can’t leave here without Marx and Landis.”

  “I understand. Even though the colonial circuit judge will probably dismiss the case, you can’t take the chance, can you?”

  Before Fortis could respond, Officer Upham appeared in the door.

  “Chief, we’ve got trouble. Chick Root—” He stopped when he recognized Fortis.

  “What it is, Upham?”

  “Uh, well…the morning patrol just found him. Dead. OD’d.”

  “Damnit!” Chief Schultz jumped up and grabbed his hat. “Sorry, Lieutenant, duty calls.”

  Fortis struggled to conceal his surprise at the news as he followed the chief int
o the corridor. “Mind if I ride along, Chief?”

  Schultz paused for a second, considered Fortis through narrowed eyes, then nodded.

  “Sure. Come on.”

  * * *

  Mandel Spears turned the torque wrench until he felt it click and then straightened up. His back protested, but he felt a surge of satisfaction. After five shifts digging and cleaning the equipment buried by Raisa’s attack on Garage Number Seven, he was finally back to the work he loved.

  Raisa.

  He wiped his hands and fought back the emotions that welled up in his chest.

  As the excavation of Garage Seven proceeded, his mood soared as each shovelful of dirt failed to uncover her body. Then he plunged into deep despair when he realized that if she wasn’t buried in the garage, she was in the hands of the Colonial Police or worse, the Security Directorate.

  Even though their marriage was essentially over, they had remained bonded by their son. Her disappearance had hit Mandel hard, and he hadn’t figured out how to tell his son that his mommy wasn’t coming home. He saw Raisa in his son’s face, and it was so painful that he had sent his son to live with friends until her disappearance was solved.

  “Spears!”

  Mandel turned to his shift manager and he saw two men in black uniforms standing at the shop door. The manager waved at him, and Spears walked across the shop on wooden legs.

  “The director of security wants to talk to you,” said one of the uniforms. They escorted him into the passageway.

  “What’s this about?” asked Spears as the two men propelled him along. “Is this about my wife?”

  They remained silent, and Spears began to panic. By the time he worked up the courage to fight them off and run away, they had stopped at a door in the passageway.

  B-Level Utilities B-149A6

  Authorized Personnel Only

  They shoved Spears inside, and he ended up face to face with the fearsome mercenary Chive.

  “What do you want? What’s this about?”

  Chive showed Spears a photograph, and the mechanic’s heart stopped.

  “This is your son,” Chive told him. “I know where he is. I have a man watching over him.”

  “M-my son.” Spears lunged forward, and his face twisted with rage. “Leave him alone, you bastard!”

  Chive sidestepped the clumsy attack and slapped the mechanic across the face.

  “He’s safe, as long as you do what you’re told,” he told the stunned man.

  Spears rubbed his stinging cheek and glared at the mercenary.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Set up a meeting with Dask Finkle.”

  “Dask Finkle? I don’t know a Dask Finkle.”

  Chive sighed and backhanded the mechanic on the other side of his face. Spears staggered back, and Chive’s men grabbed his arms.

  “Don’t lie to me, Spears. Don’t ever lie to me. You’re the leader of a resistance cell and you know Dask Finkle.”

  Defeated, Spears could only hang his head.

  “You’re going to set up a meeting with Dask Finkle for tonight. You will go to that meeting, and my men will arrest you and Finkle, but you’ll be released.”

  “What do you want with Finkle?”

  Chive poked him in the chest. “That’s not your concern. Your concern is your son, who will remain safe as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do. Do you understand?”

  He nodded slowly.

  Chive shoved him toward the door. “Your shift is over. Go set up the meeting.”

  Spears left Fenway and trudged along the dirt street toward his house. He didn’t know what excuse he could use for a face-to-face meeting with Finkle, but the image of Chive holding a picture of his son drove him forward.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jandahl paused by the door to Fenway and looked around. The streets of Boston were deserted, and the only sounds came from a group of Space Marines training on a flat spot beyond the wall. Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, Jandahl slipped inside.

  He went down the corridor to the utility room where he’d met Chive before, stopped to collect himself, and entered the room. He wiped his hands on his coveralls and wished his palms would stop sweating. What Jandahl had witnessed at the Kuiper Knight compound had shocked him. Now that he was back inside the safety of Fenway, his shock had transformed into righteous anger.

  The doorknob clicked as the door closed behind him, and he saw Chive and two of his men waiting.

  “What do you want, Jandahl?”

  Chive’s dismissive attitude infuriated Jandahl further, and he grabbed the bigger man by the front of his uniform.

  “You son of a bitch! You murdered Chick Root, and you’re manufacturing China Mike at the site!” he hissed.

  Chive stumbled back a couple steps before he caught himself. He gripped Jandahl’s wrists and twisted so Jandahl was forced to let go as pain shot up his arms.

  “You’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with, Jandahl.” He shoved the intelligence agent away, and Jandahl slammed into the wall behind him. “I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong.”

  “I was at the site, you bastard. I saw your men stuff Root into the crawler after you killed him, and I heard Baird screaming.”

  Chive flinched. Jandahl continued.

  “I looked inside a couple of your other buildings, too, and I saw your lab. You’re manufacturing China Mike and using your position as security director to eliminate your competition under the guise of prosecuting the resistance. When the governor hears what I have to tell him, you’re finished.”

  Suddenly, Jandahl looked around for an escape route, but Chive was looming over him. He rushed past the mercenary and headed for the door.

  Too late, he sensed Chive behind him. A fist hammered the back of his neck and stars exploded in his head. His legs gave out.

  Chive caught him before he collapsed onto the deck.

  “Wrong, little man,” the mercenary leader said as he tucked Jandahl’s head under the crook of his arm. “I’m taking over the entire colony.”

  The last thing Jandahl heard was a crack.

  * * *

  Corporal Ystremski watched Jandahl lurking near the door to Fenway before he disappeared inside. Something about the intelligence operative’s furtive actions piqued Ystremski’s curiosity, so he turned the training session over to Heisen. He trotted to the door, cracked it, and followed Jandahl inside.

  Ystremski glimpsed Jandahl as he disappeared around the corner at the end of the corridor. He hurried after the man. He chanced a look and saw Jandahl glance around before entering a room halfway down the corridor.

  Damn it! Did he see me?

  He waited several seconds before he crouched and risked another glimpse, but the corridor stayed empty.

  Ystremski didn’t know where the door led, but his curiosity rooted him in his spot. He wanted to take a look, but he would be completely exposed if the GRC operative came out. Instead, he watched and waited.

  After several long minutes, the door opened again, and Ystremski ducked behind the corner. He strained his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps, but when he didn’t hear any he checked around the corner in time to see Security Director Chive and two of his men moving away from him down the corridor.

  What the hell?

  Ystremski couldn’t wait any longer. Once the three men were out of sight, he went to the door, stopping to read the sign.

  B-Level Utilities B-149A6

  Authorized Personnel Only

  He turned the doorknob and entered.

  The utility room was a maze of pipes and wiring runs. Mechanical equipment hummed and lights flashed on control panels. At first glance the space appeared to be empty, so he quickly stepped into the room and closed the door. Finally, he saw Jandahl sprawled on the deck. Jandahl’s head was twisted at an impossible angle and his tongue protruded from between purple-blue lips. Ystremski knew at first glanc
e that the other man was dead.

  He had seen plenty of death in his ISMC career, but this discovery rattled him. There was no question Chive murdered Jandahl, and the callous way he left the body told the corporal that he didn’t care if or when the body was discovered.

  The corporal cracked the door, looked up and down the corridor, and jogged toward the exit to rejoin the platoon. Lieutenant Fortis was somewhere with Chief Schultz, and, until he talked to his platoon leader, Ystremski wasn’t sure who to trust with his discovery.

  * * *

  There wasn’t much to the crime scene where Chick Root’s body was dumped. The dead man was flat on his back with his arms spread wide, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. His shoes and shirt were missing, and Fortis saw distinct bruises across his ribs. Old surgical scars crisscrossed his chest. A syringe in his arm looked like a lazy and cynical attempt to make his death look like an overdose.

  Chief Schultz and his team processed what little evidence they could find. No one had witnessed the body dump, and the ground around the body was too hard to obtain useable shoe impressions. From what Fortis could tell, there was no reason why a China Mike user would choose that particular alley to shoot up.

  After the body was zipped in a body bag and placed on one of the police carts, Schultz turned to Fortis.

  “Have you seen enough, Lieutenant?”

  Fortis cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I certainly have.” He felt shocked and guilty at the pitiable sight of Root’s body and his unwitting role in his death.

  The two men climbed back into the chief’s cart and rode in silence back to Fenway. Finally, Fortis couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Chief, I have a confession to make. We took Chick Root into custody two nights ago and turned him over to Security Director Chive and his men.”

  Chief Schultz stabbed the brakes, and the cart skidded to a stop. He turned sideways in his seat, and Fortis saw his face was dark and twisted.