by William Cray
He took one last look outside the shield. “Thank you all for coming and I look forward to our future work together. Perhaps this is the start of something more between us. I invite all of you to enjoy the hospitality of my terrace for as long as you like.”
Caleb bowed again then passed through the exclusion field and into the safety of the diplomatic complex. A flurry of his attendants took station around him. Caleb’s personal Idoan serviceman, Monticel, flanked him immediately on his right.
Ambrose wondered if Monticel would survive Caleb Barbaron’s last order. He decided to wait before taking any actions until Monticel was dismissed or more likely eliminated. He would watch for that event carefully as a signal to begin.
As they stood to leave, Carolous approached him. This cabal had no true allies except maybe Taylor and Caleb, but Carolous was the closest thing to an ally he had in the room.
“Any new information we discover on the networks will barely arrive before Triumphant Horizons appears in our orbit, Ambrose. It may not be enough time to react. If this is to be a long game as Caleb suggests, then we will have to look into John Braiselle’s past as our prime source of information. Perhaps all the way back to his origins.”
“Do we even know when that is?” Ambrose said. “We don’t even know his lineage.”
Carolous put a hand on Ambrose’s back. “You will find out for us. I trust your resourcefulness to find the information we need in time. You and I haven’t worked together much at this station, but my Prime has trusted your Prime for three century’s or more. A little thing like a god returning from the dead won’t change that.”
“John the Holder wasn’t a god.”
“Apparently there are men with guns on the way here who would disagree. But I think I know where we should start.”
CIRCUS MACABRE
285 P.F.C.
11 Years after the Liberation of Earth
New Meridian City, Mars
Habitation Dome 11
Radiation Exclusion Zone
“What have we got Floss?”
The detective handed over the victim’s credentials.
Elijah Cole took the small leather pouch, opening it, examining the ID and badge inside. “MCE? Do we know this guy?”
“Local office has never heard of him. We ran him through the database and came up with nothing. Garson said they will check with San Juan, but they don’t have anything on him, no idea why he’s here.”
“Is he legit?”
“Credentials check out, but that’s all.”
“Ok. What happened?”
“You should have a look sir. This is new.”
Elijah Cole obliterated the tracks of those preceding him as he trudged through the fine dust and contaminates with each mesh booted step. The filtered breaths he took saved him from the choking particulate, stirred up by the activity around the crime scene that penetrated every conceivable mechanism not sealed or sheltered from the residue of the past.
The emaciated flora of the south had given way to the lifeless desert long ago, and the raging dust storms paralyzed all but the most sadistic adventurers, even inside the dome. Cole had done his time in the Zone long ago, but as a perk of elevation in his chosen field he was still granted the responsibility for enduring all of the Zones subtle peculiarities. Before the week was over, he would most likely be back on another night like this one. They seemed to bring out the worst in people, himself included.
The late model red travelway car sat on the dark street between the abandoned factories towering above them. Power was down in this area. A squadron of police cars surrounded the scene illuminating it with powerful lights. Cole crossed the flashing barriers set up by P-Teks that secured the area around the victim and blinded the media’s camera drones with bright lights. The driver’s side door was open and Cole could already see the victim slumped forward inside the soiled interior of the freecar. The victim, this MCE Agent, had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. An infoboard sat next to him in the passenger seat.
“How long ago?” Cole asked.
“About an hour and a half. I’ll have an exact time of death in about fifteen minutes,” the detective replied.
“Anything on that?” Cole pointed to the infoboard.
“We think so. It was running when the first NMCPD units arrived. But it’s encrypted.”
“Witnesses?”
“No sir, just like the rest.”
“Not like the rest,” Cole said, examining the interior briefly before turning back to the dead man slumped in the car. The empty hole of an exit wound stared back at him. “What were you doing down here?”
“What do you make of it sir?”
Cole stood upright. “No idea. Make sure forensics scrubs everything. Also call Claire Nygen in on this.”
“Cyber?”
“Yes. She might have some insight. Atleast on what he is or was, maybe.”
Cole had been prone to excursions into the Zone over the last six weeks. It seemed when the dust outside the dome whipped to a howling gale, events that required his immediate attention became more and more frequent, although tonight was spared the macabre livery of previous victims.
Suicides in New Meridian were commonplace. Any metropolis of nine million had its unfair share of stress and misery that accompanied life where people interacted anonymously in great numbers. The city’s suicide rate per capita was the highest of any society in the Commonwealth. While suicides were sadly routine, now they seemed calculated, staggering in their self-inflicted brutality. This one was number twenty-eight in the current string, but the threads that tied it together with the others were ever so fragile. In fact, the only circumstance linking this particular suicide to the others was location, Habitation Dome 11, or the Zone. Normally he would have passed it off as a jilted lover or a failed business tycoon facing bankruptcy. But this man, this victim, had been a fellow law enforcement officer, and that, Cole thought, required his immediate and full attention when the factors of location and timing were applied.
Cole shielded his eyes against the traditional blue and red emergency strobe that bathed the area in exotic colors like a bizarre circus act. He headed back to the waiting unmarked cruiser that would take him back to his mid-town condominium where his stoic wife would be waiting. After thirty years of sobering calls in the middle of the night, she would have Jiri ready and an available ear, which he seldom inflicted his problems upon.
Kicking the hazardous particles off his booted feet, he stepped onto the static pad extending from the cruiser’s struts, repelling any dust that clung to his environmental suit before climbing in. The car greeted him with a stiff woosh of over-pressurization to further isolate the clinging sand from contaminating its interior. He glanced at the chrono, ignoring the exposure gauge. Damn, he thought, one hour and twenty-five minutes. He would have to write a report and sign a waiver to the Constabulary’s medical officer. He was the boss but even the boss had to follow procedure or the damned union would throw it in his face next negotiating session, fortunately, still over a year off.
With the sedan sealed, Cole pulled the filtration hood back, ending the fanatical reflection of circus colors outside, taking a deep safe breath. He retrieved a hand towel from a seat pocket and stabbed at the dew collecting on a shiny black forehead. The sensation was cleansing but fleeting.
The Zone always made him sweat. Hab-11’s twitchy environmental controls and broken scrubbers brutalized the cops in their poorly designed environmental suits, which filtered the gritty air and radiation, but they were stifling inside. Little has changed, he reminisced, not so fondly. But times had changed; changed a great deal since the weekly beats of his youth.
A camera pod shinned an intruding light into the safeguarded confines of his sedan. The windscreens polarized against the light but its slow nullification allowed the stilted camera to capture his image.
Long enough to make the breaking news feeds.
Although the press had been
kept well away from the eviscerated remains still in the car, that wouldn’t stop the local skyband tabloids from continuing their shamelessly hyped story, regardless of the accuracy of their facts. A brief image of the Commissioner at the scene way past his bedtime would only add to the credibility of whatever outlandish fiction they chose to fit into the sketchy circumstances. It wouldn’t matter if they got the info from paid informants or just plain irresponsible speculation, the morbid fascination of the public would be elevated to borderline hysteria if the identity of this victim were released. Steps would need to be taken before word got out.
The camera drone moved on. Cole stared back at the distant vehicle, still holding the remains of a dead Ministry of Codes and Enforcement Special Agent. The self-inflicted gunshot to the head was unremarkable, if such a thing could be, but what it revealed under seared flesh and shattered bone was shocking. The story the wound told changed many things, most of all the perception of an isolated incident. What it meant in relation to the other active cases wasn’t evident yet. It only blurred the threadbare theory’s his lead investigators had already put forth. Things were supposed to be getting easier at this point.
Cole took another deep breath, dabbing again at the streaming residue of sweat on his forehead. Tomorrow all this will make more sense, he said to himself.
4 Martian Days prior to NOVA Event
1
Martian Equatorial Rapid Transit System
Near the Hebes Chasma
In route to New Meridian City,
Focus on me. Release your thoughts.
Open your mind to me.
Rory Duran erupted from his couch, broaching the surface of consciousness, gasping in the fetid and corrupted air. His hands reached for the back of his head, feeling for the unnatural gap in his skull through blood soaked hair. His eyes would not focus, would not accept the blue flame reaching his face and searing his eyes shut forever. He squeezed them tight as if the thin shreds of flesh snapping shut would protect is eyes from the scorching fire. Horrible wounds were inflicted upon him as he gasped from pain and wept from fear. With another short eruption of air from his lungs he breathed out a moan of agony. With one hand, he reached for his chest, feeling the slick wetness of his own blood. The vicious hole in his torso exposed his vulnerable flesh to the outside vacuum. His heart pulsed out his life with each beat.
Others screamed for him, but in the chaos and shock of the damage he suffered, he couldn’t answer them. He could only submit. He wanted to give in to the voices. He tried hold back the onslaught. The commands resounded in his head, but hope was slipping away.
Hands gripped him and wrenched his arm, pulling him towards the hazy light. The voices and disjointed screams reverberated around him in confusion and pain. They buried the calming voice closest to him. The one trying to give him refuge from the death all around him.
Focus…Focus on me…. Goddamn it! Open your mind before it is too late sir, sir, are you ok, sir?
“Wake up sir, do you need help?”
With supreme effort, Duran’s eyes bolted open, facing the blue light piercing his eyes and knowing it would be the last thing he ever looked at with his own fragile orbs. His hand leapt to confront the pull on his arm, to face the beast in front of him, but as his hands made contact and began their bone crushing contraction, focus returned and the covey of the demons vanished.
A woman leaned over him, a blue penlight in her hands shining into his eyes. She yelped as his claw grip on her hand began to rend flesh, catching the flash of panic in her eyes as he began to torque. His mind cleared as the visions receded. Duran released his death grip on the woman and he bolted upright from the couch. She recoiled, dropping the light. The blue beam swirled down as it banged off the couch armrest and bashed on to the carpeted floor. She gripped her arm in shock.
Duran glared at her an instant longer, trying to assert order in the jumble of thoughts and images. He inspected his chest, expecting to the blood and carnage of the dream from the wetness on his shirt. There was no blood or burned and torn flesh, only a cold sweat. He ran his hand across his scalp, feeling the slickness of his short-cropped hair. He expected to find damage and gore, but there was no evidence of his injuries. His heart pounded in rapid convulsions until the panic subsided.
Duran focused again on the woman in the forest green dress, who looked on at him in terror and surprise. With a pitiful croak in his voice, the words ripped the back of his dry throat, “I’m sorry…”.
With painful effort he tried again. “I’m sorry…I…”, noticing her holding her arm he saw the imprint of a great reddened hand pressed into her soft flesh.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head, but the look of pain and a small amount of fear was still in her eyes. She turned, walking away, down the dimmed isle of forward seats.
Duran stood, stabilizing himself on the forward seat, then picked up the blue penlight still shining against the floor. The lights outside the train flashed again as the Lev slipped past another bank of malfunctioning illuminators, creating a moment of disorientation as the strobe of light and dark alternated as they passed down the tube. The woman disappeared in the flash, but reappeared further down the isle. Duran held his skull in his hand for a moment.
His voice a little stronger now, he called out to her. “Miss, your light. You dropped your light.”
She stopped and turned towards him, her forest green dress contrasted with the bright red of her hair. Her green eyes still smarted. Duran walked along the row of empty seats and reached a hand forward with the penlight. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I guess I was just having a nightmare.”
The woman suppressed her frown and smiled. “I’m not hurt…I don’t think so,” flexing her forearm and hand. A wince came across the smile but she buried it underneath politeness. She took the light from her uninjured hand and dropped it into a small bag slung across her waist. “Thank you…for returning the light.”
Duran nodded, “Thank you for waking me.” He turned to walk past the empty seats to return to his couch.
As he walked off, she spoke out again, a blurt really, “I think it was a seizure.”
He turned back.
With a more formal tone, like a doctor giving a diagnosis, she added, “You were awake just a moment before. I don’t think you were sleeping. You had a seizure…” She smiled again, “I think.”
She continued, “Now that I think about it, my brother used to have them. IRH is what his physician called it. He said it sometimes occurs in people who were on Earth…you know…when the Intruders were there. The survivors, that is.” She gave an embarrassed expression. “Were you there? Were you in the war?”
“No.” Duran lied. He gave a dismissive smile. “I’ll check it out though. Thank you again, for waking me. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m ok I think. Nothing broken. I’ve had worse.” She smiled again.
Turning away, he walked back along empty isles and took his seat in his sweat-slicked couch, resting back against the cushions as they closed around him. Looking up, the Samaritan woman was gone, probably in the forward seats. They had locked eyes for an instant as he boarded the Lev hours earlier. It was friendly and platonic, but he had sensed an invitation there, especially since they were the only two people in this car. In a chance encounter he had almost snapped off her arm, so no invitation no matter how platonic or welcoming could be accepted. Casual acquaintances for people in his condition were not wise.
The warm blood earlier had turned to cold sweat on his clothes and hair. The chair heated up against the colder body temperature, providing a comfortable bliss to recline in. Duran closed his eyes, wanted to sleep, but the images in his mind wouldn’t let him slip into the welcoming bliss. He couldn’t recall with clarity any of the frightening detail…only that there was suffering and torment…and a message. Two competing demands upon him for utter devotion, surrender. He had been on the cusp of committing, but the dream never
culminated.
Release your thoughts.
Open your mind to me.
IRH, she called it. Duran knew what it was. Induced Reflexive Hysteria. He had suffered from it for years, but it was under control with mild therapy. If the nightmare had been IRH, then the regimen was not suppressing his subconscious anxiety. It has been years since symptoms surfaced, Duran thought.
The Lev’s announcement system came on-line in the form of an attractive young brunette, with perfect lips and the precise alto that compelled you to obedience.
“Please take your seats at this time. We will begin slowing for our final arrival at New Meridian City in five minutes. During that time, your seats will hold you comfortably and safely as we slow to…”
Duran’s thoughts drifted away from the voice, as his seat took firmer hold of him. He looked skyward through the train’s transparent roofline. The Martian night was clear, and the stars beamed through the sky with a clarity only possible with the bright sun of Sol so distant and inconsequential. Racing through the night, the train split the thin Martian atmosphere with an easy rapidity. Duran could make out the edge of the trailing shockwave of dust and debris behind the trains levitation tracks. Domes of distant but abandoned Pre-Protectorate communities and stations were lit in the distance. Even from this low along the Martian Equator, he could make out the black form of Olympus Mons to the polar north. It was an imposing fortress, buttressing the stars from encroachment. He had stood there in victory from the dead volcano’s rim, peering hundreds of miles down its slopes upon the smallness of humanity below, like a god from antiquity. Moments lost a lifetime ago.
