Moonwar gt-7

by Ben Bova

  “You’re not allowed here,” Tamara said, louder, in English.

  The man came closer and smiled maliciously at her. With a sudden cold hand clutching his heart, Doug recognized Jack Killifer.

  “Tamara, stay away from him,” he said, grabbing for her arm.

  “Why…”

  “I know him,” Doug said. “He almost killed me, once.”

  Bonai’s eyes went wide. She turned from Doug to Killifer, close enough now almost to reach her, and back to Doug again.

  “Keep away from him!” Doug urged. “Call for help!”

  Bonai raised her arm to speak into her wristphone. But before she could, Killifer lunged at her.

  She looked weird to Jack Killifer, covered from neck to feet in some kind of scuba suit. Then he realized that she was wearing a virtual reality full-body sensor suit. She’s out here on this empty little island making out with somebody in VR, Killifer said to himself. Hot little tramp.

  He grinned at her. No helmet, though. Probably got contact lenses instead.

  He grasped her by the wrist and pulled her toward him.

  “Don’t give me any trouble, doll,” he said.

  Doug reached for Killifer but it was useless. The man was real and solid, Doug was nothing more than an electronic ghost. He started shouting for the technicians to call the police in Kiribati.

  Tamara clawed at Killifer’s face with her free hand, but he blocked it, then knocked her to the sand with a backhand slap across her face.

  Doug howled and leaped at Killifer but went right through him onto the sand.

  “Doug!” Tamara screamed as Killifer dropped to his knees beside her.

  “Doug?” he growled. “Is that who you’re screwing with? Little Douggie, on the Moon? Getting laid in VR?” Killifer laughed and started ripping the sensor suit off Bonai.

  She struggled and kicked, but he cuffed her hard enough to draw blood from her mouth and peeled the rubbery suit down off her shoulders.

  “Nothing underneath,” he said, grinning down at her. “Makes it easy.”

  Doug was screaming for somebody to alert the Kiribati police, but he knew there was no time to help Tamara. He pounded his fists in helpless fury on the virtual sand as Killifer stripped the suit off her struggling body. He punched her once in the midsection hard enough to double her up. Her struggles stopped.

  “You killed her, you sonofabitch!” Doug raged.

  Killifer did not hear him.

  But Tamara wasn’t dead. Not yet. Doug watched helplessly as Killifer spread her naked legs apart and raped her, his hands squeezing her windpipe as his body covered hers.

  Killifer watched the light in her eyes fade. He fucked her good, pumping years of hate and fury into her as he slowly, slowly cut off her air. Then he stopped and pulled away from her limp body.

  “Come on, kid, you’re not finished yet,” he said. “And neither am I.”

  He grinned as her eyelids fluttered and she coughed.

  Doug was raving like a lunatic when the electronics technicians burst into the VR chamber. It took four of them to get him down on the floor and peel the sensor suit off him.

  The last thing they took off were the contact lenses, so Doug was able to see Killifer sitting on Tamara’s chest, pinning her arms to the sand, slapping her to full consciousness as he came erect once again.

  “She’s dead,” Jinny Anson told Doug. “The Kiribati police found her on the island. She was pretty badly beaten up. Neck broken.”

  Despite the tranquilizer the medics had given him, Doug was quivering like a knife thrown into a wall.

  “I couldn’t do a thing to stop him,” he chattered. “I couldn’t do anything.”

  Edith was sitting on the edge of his bunk. Anson and one of the medics crowded next to them. Bam Gordette stood by the partition, watching silently with brooding eyes.

  “It’s not your fault,” Edith said gently. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

  “I should’ve killed him years ago, when he murdered Foster Brennart. When he tried to kill me. I should’ve killed him then. Executed him. Then this wouldn’t have happened. Then Tamara would still be alive.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Edith repeated.

  “It’s all my fault,” Doug snapped. “All of this mess is my doing. If I hadn’t… if I’d just let Faure…” His voice sank to an exhausted moan.

  Looking uncomfortable, Anson said, “Speaking of Faure -just who the hell is Killifer working for?”

  “What do you mean?” Edith asked.

  “You don’t think he went all the way out to Kiribati and murdered their chief of state all on his own, do you? Who’s pulling his strings?”

  “The police will find out when they catch him,” Edith said.

  Anson shook her head. “He’s already left Kiribati. Never went back to his hotel. Chartered a plane and took off at first light.”

  “Interpol will find him,” Edith said confidently.

  Anson was not so certain. “Interpol works for the U.N. now, doesn’t it? Besides, what evidence do they have that he murdered Bonai?”

  “An eyewitness,” Doug said from his bunk.

  “In virtual reality,” Anson countered. “I wonder if Interpol or anybody else is gonna take that seriously.”

  Sinking back on his pillows, Doug admitted, “You’re probably right. The Kiribati police certainly took their sweet time getting out to the islet to find her body.”

  Edith looked intrigued. “An eyewitness in VR. That’s a helluva story.”

  “They won’t accept my testimony,” Doug said weakly. “I won’t even be able to testify against him. It’s totally useless. I’m totally useless.”

  Edith sat on the edge of the bunk. “Don’t think that for a minute, Doug. We’ll get him, you’ll see.”

  Doug closed his eyes. “Let me sleep for a while. I just want… I need to sleep.”

  “The tranquilizers are hitting him,” the medic said.

  “About time,” said Anson.

  “Come on, let him get some rest,” Edith said, shooing them out of the bedroom.

  The others left, all except Gordette.

  I’ll wait outside,” he said to Edith. “If you need to go someplace, I’ll stay with him.”

  DAY FORTY-TWO

  Edith worked through the night at the computer in Doug’s living room, splicing together a coherent story about the rape and murder of a national leader that was witnessed by a man from four hundred thousand kilometers away. She called down to Global News headquarters in Atlanta a dozen times, rousting researchers and fact-checkers until she had the whole thing pieced together.

  Once she squirted the basic bits through to Atlanta she looked in on Doug, who was still asleep in his bunk. Afraid of disturbing him, she took the sling chair in the living room and leaned back to catch a few winks. Her sleep was interrupted almost immediately by the phone chime.

  It was Manny, her programming chief in Atlanta, bouncing in his chair with excitement.

  “Edie, cheez, this is terrific! The assassination on Tarawa was witnessed by a guy on the Moon! Absolutely fantastic!”

  “And it’s our exclusive,” Edith pointed out.

  Manny hadn’t stopped talking. “Legal says we can’t name the killer; can’t make any accusations until the guy’s arrested and charged. But, cheez, the story’s tremendous!’

  Edith smiled at the screen, but for the first time in her career she realized that behind the story she was filing there were human beings in pain. A dead woman. Doug, sick with frustration and responsibilities that no one could take off his shoulders. And a murderer somewhere on Earth who would probably never be arrested, let alone brought to justice.

  “Yeah,” she said wearily to her boss. “Tremendous is the word for it, all right.”

  Manny eyed her questioningly. “You don’t look so hot, kid.”

  “I’m kinda tired,” she admitted.

  “Pull yourself together. We missed the evening news sl
ot but the suits upstairs want your personal report in the system in time for our affiliates’ eleven o’clock.”

  Edith had been on the Moon long enough to make a quick mental calculation. She had a little less than three hours to show up at Moonbase’s studio looking bright and perky for a live broadcast.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let me get a little nap.”

  “And some makeup.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, knowing that it might be a problem. She had been borrowing makeup from the supply that Joanna Brudnoy had left behind, but she had always scrupulously asked Doug’s permission to raid his mother’s quarters. Now Doug was sleeping, tranquilized, and she didn’t want to wake him.

  She stretched out again on the sling chair, this time using the desk chair to rest her feet upon. She set her wristwatch’s alarm for one hour. Maybe Doug’ll be awake by then, she thought. She fell asleep almost at once, a trick she had learned years ago. News reporters had to grab their sleep when they could, like soldiers.

  The wrist alarm beeped softly. Edith woke as instantly as she had gone to sleep, alert and feeling refreshed.

  She tiptoed to the partition and looked in on Doug. He was tossing restlessly, the sheet twisted around his legs. Edith went in and straightened the sheet, kissed him lightly on the forehead, then tiptoed out again.

  I’ll have to go over to Mrs Brudnoy’s place without asking him, she thought. Yet she hesitated, not wanting to leave Doug alone. If he wakes up, I ought to be here. Or somebody oughtta be here, at least.

  Who to call? Then she remembered that Bam Gordette had offered to watch Doug. The man acted like a bodyguard anyway, Edith told herself. She phoned him, but there was no answer at his quarters.

  It’s past two in the morning, she saw, glancing at the digital clock set next to the computer screen. He couldn’t be still waiting out in the corridor, could he?

  She pushed the door open, and Gordette was sitting on the floor, his back against the opposite wall, his eyes wide open and focused squarely on her.

  “You’ve been out here all night?” Edith asked, incredulous.

  Getting to his feet, Gordette nodded. “I can sleep anyplace,” he said, by way of explanation.

  Swiftly, almost whispering, Edith told him that she had to get to the studio and do a live broadcast.

  Gordette nodded solemnly. I’ll take care of Doug.”

  “Wonderful,” said Edith, suppressing an urge to kiss him on the cheek. Gordette did not seem like the kind of man to play the usual media kissy-face ritual.

  Gordette watched her hurry down the corridor. Silently he slid the door shut and walked to the partition that separated the two sections of Doug Stavenger’s quarters.

  Doug lay on his back, his eyelids flickering, his fists clenched.

  Not while he’s asleep, Gordette told himself, fingering the obsidian blade in his coverall pocket. That wouldn’t be right. You don’t slaughter a sleeping victim.

  The blade had drunk many victims’ blood, centuries ago. Gordette had found it in a crumbling Mayan temple deep in the jungle during the Yucatan uprising. A ceremonial killing knife, the anthropologist attached to his unit had told him. Used for slicing open the chest and taking out the still-beating heart.

  The anthropologist had been assigned to the army to help win the hearts and minds of the rebellious Yucatan villagers. Gordette had been a sniper then, sighting his victims in his telescopic sights and firing virus-soaked flechettes into their unsuspecting flesh. It felt like a mosquito bite, and the victim died of fever within two days. When all went well, the victim infected his entire village before he died.

  The anthropologist never won the villagers’ hearts and minds. He was killed in a vicious ambush. By the time Gordette and the survivors among his unit were flown out of the jungle, there were almost no villagers left alive.

  Gordette sat calmly next to Doug’s bunk and willed him to awake. It’s time, he said silently to his victim. Death has waited long enough.

  Doug opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice.

  “Bam,” he said.

  Gordette nodded solemnly. “Ms Elgin had to go to the studio to do a live broadcast.”

  “Oh.” Doug made a weak grin. “And you’re babysitting me.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  Without lifting his head from the pillow, Doug asked, “So how’s it going?”

  “How’s what going?”

  “Your investigation. The sabotage of my suit.”

  “Oh. That.” Gordette took the obsidian blade from his pocket. Its curved side fit into the palm of his hand perfectly, as if it had been made all those centuries ago expressly for him.

  “Well?” Doug asked.

  That’s not important now,” said Gordette.

  “What do you mean, not important?”

  “You’re defeated, Doug. You know that, don’t you?”

  Doug’s eyes had no fire in them, no zest. He merely stared at Gordette blankly.

  “Moonbase is lost. You can’t save it. You couldn’t even help Ms Bonai. You watched her being raped and murdered and couldn’t do a thing about it.”

  Doug opened his mouth but no words came out. He nodded dumbly.

  “Everything you want has been taken away from you,” Gordette said, speaking slowly, sonorously, like a priest at a sacrificial altar. “Even your life.”

  So swiftly that Doug could not even raise his arms, Gordette clamped his left hand over Doug’s mouth and nose, yanking his chin up, and with his right hand sliced the blade deeply across Doug’s throat, making certain to sever the carotid arteries behind each ear.

  Blood spurted high up the wall, gushed over Gordette’s green coveralls and into his face, making him blink and wince. Doug’s body shivered and twitched, then went still.

  His hands soaked in Doug’s blood, Gordette stalked out of the room and headed down the empty corridors of Moonbase, shadowy in their nighttime lighting, toward the garage and the main airlock.

  For the first time since he’d been a boy, there were tears in his eyes.

  “The last time I was on the Moon ended unpleasantly,” said Keiji Inoguchi.

  “So?” replied Zimmerman, coolly.

  Inoguchi was a full head taller than Zimmerman, and gracefully slim. He seemed to glide rather than walk, totally unperturbed by the low lunar gravity.

  “I worked at Nippon One eight years ago,” he told Zimmerman, “but I was sent back to Japan after being injured in an accident. Several of my ribs were broken.”

  Zimmerman nodded absently. Of the three U.N. inspectors sent up on the evacuation flight, Inoguchi seemed to be the only one who knew anything about nanotechnology. He claimed to be a professor of mechanical engineering at the University of Kyoto, but to Zimmerman he seemed too young for a full professorship—unless he was actually working in a new field, uncluttered by tenured old men, a field such as nanotechnology.

  For four days, since the evacuation flight had touched down at Moonbase, Inoguchi and the two other U.N. inspectors had been making their methodical way through the nanolabs. Kris Cardenas had personally conducted their inspection tour, showing them everything—except Zimmerman’s lab.

  Zimmerman stayed to himself behind locked doors, unwilling to allow U.N. spionin to poke through his work. From what Cardenas told him, Inoguchi was bright, inquisitive, polite and knowledgeable. The other two seemed to be out-and-out intelligence agents, ham-fisted and hard-eyed, looking for nanotech ‘weapons’ without understanding what they might be.

  The inevitable happened late in the evening of their fourth day at Moonbase. Cardenas phoned Zimmerman, still barricaded in his lab, and warned him that Inoguchi was heading his way. Alone.

  Zimmerman heard a polite tap at his door almost before he clicked off the phone. Muttering to himself, he went to the door, determined to tell the interfering Japanese upstart that he had no business bothering the great Professor Zimmerman and he should go away and stay away.

&nb
sp; Inoguchi bowed deeply as soon as Zimmerman slid the door open. “I am Keiji Inoguchi of the University of Kyoto,” he said, staring at his shoes, not daring to look at Zimmerman. “I know it’s an imposition, but I am required to ask you to allow me to inspect your laboratory.”

  Grudgingly, Zimmerman waved the younger man into his lab.

  “It is an honor beyond my greatest expectations to actually meet you,” Inoguchi said. His English was American-accented, and Zimmerman thought the man sounded sincere enough even though he kept his face almost totally expressionless and still avoided making eye contact.

  “Professor Cardenas tells me you appear quite knowledgeable,” Zimmerman said gruffly. “Are you engaged in nano-technology research at Kyoto?”

  Inoguchi hesitated the merest fraction of a second, then replied, “As you know, Professor, nanotechnology research is forbidden by law.”

  “Yah. Of course.”

  They stood just inside the doorway, Zimmerman blocking his visitor’s further access into the lab, and spoke of many things, from the quality of students to the obtuseness of deans, without again mentioning nanotechnology. Despite their verbal sparring, or perhaps because of it, Zimmerman found that he enjoyed the younger man’s company.

  “How long will you remain at Moonbase?” Zimmerman asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Inoguchi replied wistfully. “Our mission to Moonbase was arranged very hastily, and with the blockade in effect—”

  “Blockade?”

  “No flights to Moonbase have been permitted for six weeks now. Surely you were aware of that.”

  “Oh, that. Yah. I didn’t think of it as a blockade,” Zimmerman said.

  With a rueful gesture, Inoguchi said, “They told us back home before we left that they would try to arrange a mission from Nippon One to pick us up here and then bring us back to Copernicus. From there we can take a flight back to Earth. But I have no idea of how long that will take to negotiate or how long I must remain here.”

  “I see.”

  “One thing is certain, however. Even if there were a hundred ships ready to take me back to Kyoto, I could not leave until I had looked through your laboratory.”