Bones Burnt Black: Serial Killer in Space

by Stephen Euin Cobb

  “When you called me she was less than two minutes from death. A knowledgeable murderer could have timed it that closely.”

  “But I didn’t do it!”

  “I’m not saying you did; only that there is circumstantial evidence that supports the notion that you might have done it. If you are innocent I am sure there will be plenty of other evidence to support that fact. In the meantime, I must notify the captain. Her family must also be notified, but that task will probably fall to the captain.”

  Mike looked down and stared very intently at nothing. “Yeah.” He sounded dazed. “I guess so.”

  “And since this is a highly suspicious death, there will be a thorough investigation once we reach the City of Von Braun. So, if you will excuse me, by law I must begin a full autopsy.”

  All this had happened less than hour ago, back before the weird gees had kicked in. Now, in the upside-down hallway, Mike stepped over another fluorescent light fixture. Who could have killed her? That skinny Arabic guy with the big black mustache? He looks pretty slimy. Maybe even slimy enough to be a killer. Or that Russian woman with the bright red hair? She looks dangerous in a femme fatale kind of way. Mike frowned at his own stupidity. Looks don’t make you a killer; only killing can make you a killer; and that means it could be anyone.

  _____

  The pain behind Kim’s eyes now throbbed in time with her pulse. She wished she could reach in through her helmet and massage her temples with both hands.

  A length of nylon rope swung out slowly around the left side of her body. Its loose end waved in front of her like a slow motion whip. Striped in red and yellow, it looked to be about twelve feet long.

  Safety tether?

  She checked her belly ring—a three inch diameter stainless steel ring mounted on the front of her vacuum suit just below her belly button. Vacuum suits have a lifting harness of woven nylon strapping sewn into them. The belly ring is the nexus of this harness, and the sole anchor point for safety tethers.

  One end of a safety tether was clamped to her belly ring, but the tether stretched around her body so far to the right that its end was not visible.

  Grabbing the tether near the belly ring, she began pulling it in and coiling it on her left forearm. The whip-like tether dancing slowly in front of her suddenly jerked to the left, swung around her back and fluttered out on her right side. It was indeed, the one attached to her belly ring; but as she finished her coiling, she was surprised to learn it did not terminate with the usual metal clasp. Instead, the end was frayed.

  Broken?

  She felt certain this must be important—another mystery to add to her growing list of mysteries—but there were bigger, more immediate problems to solve. This one would have to wait.

  Turning her head to the left, she stretched her neck and pursed her lips. The white plastic feeding tube’s curved exterior felt sticky as it entered her mouth, so after sucking a few sips of the orange flavored syrup she licked all around it with her tongue until it felt clean.

  It’s dangerous, she thought. Awfully dangerous. She turned her head to the right and reached her lips for the water tube. It’s been tried before. Dozens of times. She drew a mouthful of water and swished it back and forth to rinse the thick syrup from her teeth. I think it even worked once.

  Reaching down again to the large pocket on her suit’s left thigh, she pulled open the Velcro closure and removed one of her suit’s two emergency patch-kits. She opened the kit and looked through its contents until she found a small lock-blade pocketknife.

  It doesn’t matter how risky it is. I don’t have any other options.

  Opening the knife, she carefully verified that its three-inch blade—factory sharpened and never before used—was in the locked position. Then, holding it with both hands, she pointed its tip at the center of her belly—just above the belly ring—as though about to perform the Japanese suicide ritual: Hara-Kiri.

  Pausing a moment, she considered the fact that she might actually be committing suicide. She searched her mind for something—anything—to comfort her in what might be her last few minutes of life. She was lucky; she found something.

  Calmness swept through her body as she subvocalized the ancient words. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. The words warmed her like a favorite blanket; or like a long parental hug. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul.

  Slowly, carefully, deliberately, Kim stabbed through the material of her suit. The blade pierced the outer covering without incident, and began its journey through the layer of fiberglass thermal insulation batting.

  He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

  The knife met resistance and slowed to a stop. Sharp as it was, strands of fiberglass had accumulated in an uncut mass against the knife’s tip. She wiggled the handle from side-to-side and in small circles to work the blade past those pesky little glass fibers.

  For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

  Her eyes widened when she felt the resilience of soft rubber. The knife had reached the layer that maintained the suit’s air pressure; the layer that prevented breathing air from escaping; the layer which was technically and unceremoniously referred to as ‘the bladder.’

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

  She jerked the knife straight in toward her intestines and heard the shrill hiss of precious air shooting out into the vacuum. A white mist sprayed furiously from the hole she’d made. It ricocheted off the knife handle and slapped at her hands and wrists as though trying to shove them away.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord…

  Forever.

  Chapter Three

  Ghost of Apollo

  Mike stopped in front of a white door with 5-B painted on it upside-down in black. He knocked but there was no response. He knocked again, harder.

  The door opened abruptly and a woman of exceptional beauty with shimmering gold hair—styled in one of the newer, more popular, zero-g cuts—and a southern accent that reminded Mike of Vivian Leigh’s characterization of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, said, “Who do you think you are, beating on my door like that?”

  Mike had seen her several times during the voyage but was still taken off-guard—partly because of her tone and partly because of the way she was dressed.

  She wore a luxurious sleeveless blouse of pure white with ruffles running all along the collar. The collar was open wide—almost off the shoulder—and featured a deep V-neckline that laced in front with a thin and rather frail looking white ribbon. The overall effect was softly feminine and openly sensual. The white ribbon spanned the gap between the two sides of the V-neck and drew them together. The two sides, however, did not touch and a narrow patch of skin peeked seductively through the gap, from her cleavage down past her navel.

  Mike tried not to look at this strip of exposed skin and immediately failed—twice. “The captain sent me,” he said, timing the statement to coincide with a moment when he was looking her in the eye. “He said we should go to the center of the ship.”

  “Why isn’t he answering my calls?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said, as he failed again. “Come on, we have to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I’m told what’s going on.”

  “But I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Aren’t you a member of the crew?”

  “No, I just build these things. I don’t fly ‘em.”

  “Well, then, why should I listen to you?”

  “Because…” he hesitated, trying to think of a reason that might make sense to a stranger. He failed at this too. “Because if you don’t I’m going to put you over my shoulder and carry you.”


  She slammed the door in his face.

  He stepped forward and opened his mouth to yell through the door but stopped and squinted. What was her name? He shook his head. Doesn’t matter. “Are you stupid or something?” he yelled, “Can’t you feel the ship spinning? The centrifugal effect is already over a gee on this deck and it’s getting stronger every minute. Are you going to stay in there and wait for three or four or five gees? Or just until you pass out?”

  She opened the door. “OK, I’m ready.” She had a small pea-green leather travel case in her hand. She pulled its long strap up over her shoulder. As it moved into position, the strap flipped part of her blouse’s collar upside-down and crushed the ruffles flat.

  Though startled at the abruptness of her turnabout, Mike didn’t dare question it for fear she’d reverse herself again. He gestured. “This way.”

  She stepped up onto her cabin door’s lintel, and then down onto the ceiling next to him. She pulled the door shut, then turned and followed him along the hallway, carefully stepping over light fixtures and other tripping hazards. Once she became familiar with the obstacles commonly found on a hallway ceiling, she moved more easily than he did in the high gravity. At the turn in the hall, she passed him. It was at this point that he noticed the rest of her clothing.

  Along with her white blouse, she wore white shorts and white shoes. Her belt was white, her bracelet was white, and her earrings were white. Only the frames of her eyeglasses deviated from this color scheme, apparently having been selected to match her eyes. They were blue.

  To Mike, the most surprising thing about her outfit was that it had no pockets. Not one—which raised the obvious question: Where does she keep her computer? One location—both convenient and erotic—popped into his mind. He dismissed it immediately. Her blouse left that delightful location exposed for the entire world to examine, and Mike had certainly seen no computer there.

  She reached one of the two vertical hallways, opened its door and grabbed hold of, and stepped onto, the rungs of a ladder.

  Corvus’s vertical hallways had ladders recessed into three of their four walls. The fourth wall was occupied by a column of doors—one for each deck. The ladders ran the length of the ship, but normally used only when the main engines were under thrust and the ship was accelerating at its maximum rate of one-tenth gee. In zero-g ladders were unnecessary; one good push was all it took to coast from one end of a vertical hallway to the other. A lot of things were easier in zero-g.

  Once she’d climbed up and out of his way, Mike also grabbed a couple of rungs and began climbing upward against the centrifugal force.

  As round and thick as broom handles, the rungs were as stiff as iron bars. Their roughly textured surface didn’t feel cold like bare metal, but warm like plastic. Mike knew their assembly was as simple as slipping a hollow plastic casing over a three-quarter inch diameter foamed steel rod smeared with adhesive.

  The walls of the vertical hallway, as well as the recessed ladders, were white; so were the closed doors located at each deck. On the wall next to each door, large black characters proclaimed that deck’s numerical name. At the moment these characters all appeared upside-down. Mike and the woman in white were having to climb up against the gravity-like force in order to travel down to deck ten.

  Can this woman be the killer? Mike wondered. How could she? She looks so delicate, so fragile, so helpless. And so incredibly gorgeous! Again, he frowned at himself. A killer isn’t a killer by looks. But to be safe, I’ll keep my eyes on her.

  He smiled, as he independently invented an ancient cliché, Sound’s like my kind of job, then laughed aloud, proud of his momentary cleverness.

  He glanced above to see if she was curious about his outburst, in which case he might have to make up an excuse to avoid sounding stupid. He then realized that almost any explanation he might make up would still have him sounding like an idiot.

  She looked down briefly but did not inquire as to what he found so funny.

  Freed of those thoughts, he thought of Kim. Feelings of guilt and then worry grew in him. I wish I knew where Kim is. Maybe she’s already on deck ten. Damn, I sure hope so.

  He thought back to a few hours ago when his biggest problem had been whether or not he should to ask Kim to marry him. She’s so much fun, he’d thought. And smart and sexy and beautiful. Should I ask her? He’d bit his lip and frowned. What if she says no? He’d stopped biting when the pain indicated he would soon draw blood. She might, after all, I’m a lot older than her. Twenty-nine from forty-one… that’s… Man, that’s twelve years! Besides, maybe it’s too soon. We’ve only known each other—what?—not quite three months?

  His doubts faded when he remembered how Kim looked at him: a deep earnest look that was far more than friendship, though not exactly a sensual passion. He smiled. She was such a straightforward unpretentious woman; one who remained attractive despite her peculiar habit of never wearing make-up.

  Mike’s mind returned to the present when he noticed he was getting lighter as he climbed toward the center of the ship. By the time he passed the door to deck eight the climbing was easy. When he reached deck ten he was almost in zero-g.

  Deck ten’s door was open wide. He closed it after stepping out onto its ceiling of bare foamed metal. The woman gazed around the large room as though surprised or impressed. Probably never been in an empty cargo deck before.

  The room was two feet taller than the passenger decks since it had no decorative drop-ceiling to hide the maze of pipes, ventilation ducts, electrical conduits and fiber-optic cables that wormed and twisted their way across every ceiling on every deck. The extra height was not what made this room large, however, it was its width. The room had no walls except the ship’s hull.

  Other than the room’s size there really wasn’t much to see. The floor plan was circular; the only windows were small, located on the cargo loading doors; and most surfaces were painted a light gray. In place of interior walls, there were row after row of vertical I-beams.

  The beams were stainless steel and had dozens of shiny metallic rings welded to them. The rings were intended for securing cargo with ropes, straps, and netting made of woven nylon. But since there was, on this deck at least, no cargo to secure, all the bright yellow nylon ropes, straps, and netting were rolled up and tied to their I-beams.

  The floor-to-ceiling shafts of the ship’s two vertical hallways looked like a pair of fat telephone booths with no windows. Their closed doors faced each other from across the room. They stood stark and alone; out of place in a sparse forest of yellow-decorated I-beams.

  Mike had no idea what the woman thought of the room, but it reminded him of the day his structural welding crews had turned Corvus over to all the other construction crafts: those whose job it was to build interior walls, install carpet, secure furniture, and provide all the other things that make a ship comfortable, not just habitable. On that day, every deck, even the passenger decks, had looked as empty as this.

  The woman pointed to the gray textured floor above their heads. “What’s that?”

  Mike looked up and saw large red irregularly-shaped spray-painted letters. Another poem?

  The ghost of Apollo

  walks this ship.

  In boiling blood

  his pen he will dip.

  Apollo? Mike remembered an incident almost twenty years ago; an incident he generally avoided talking or even thinking about; an incident he wished had never happened. He and his partner, Richard Tyer, had returned to the rough lunar mining town called Vengeance for supplies after prospecting near the Moon’s south pole. In Vengeance they accidentally stumbled across the Apollo 17 lunar roving vehicle hidden in the back of a mining equipment repair garage. The historic moon-buggy was a good two thousand miles from where it was supposed to have been, meaning it could only have been stolen.

  By international law, all the old Apollo landing sites were strictly off-limits. To leave so much as a footprint on one was considered the desecratio
n of a historical landmark, and some kind of crime against humanity. It seemed to be the universal assumption that someday each site would be properly protected by building a museum over and around it. But it followed that if someone had stolen a moon-buggy, they must have visited an Apollo site; in which case there was no telling how much damage they might have done, or what additional equipment they might have stolen.

  He and Richard had immediately notified the lunar authorities, and what turned out to be a gang of six thieves and four accomplices were rounded-up while still trying to arrange the sale and shipping of the precious moon-buggy to a ridiculously wealthy collector on Earth for seventy-two million dollars.

  Ghost of Apollo? Walks this ship? Could there be a connection? Mike read the poem repeatedly looking for something more than just the word Apollo that could be taken as a reference to the smuggling incident. He didn’t see anything.

  The woman looked at him. “What do you think it means?”

  Mike continued reading it, trying to unlock its secrets. Boiling blood? “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

  _____

  Even before Kim removed the knife from the hole she’d made, a squealing noise grew loud inside her helmet. It was the sound of fresh oxygen and nitrogen being added to her suit’s air from the tanks in her backpack. The gases squirted into her helmet—faster probably than its designers ever intended—from a pair of outlets almost touching her shirt collar, directly below her ears. She’d expected this. The suit’s lifesupport system was simply attempting to compensate for the air being lost to vacuum; and apparently it was doing this successfully: Kim’s ears felt as though they needed to pop, but the sensation was not yet painful.

  The new air felt cold and dry against her skin. It swirled around inside her helmet blowing her hair this way and that just enough to be annoying. She tried to ignore these little distractions while recalling with a certain level of accuracy the right ascension and declination of a few key constellations. The opposite side of the sky from Orion is Ophiuchus; which is Greek for “the Snake-holder.” Its brightest star is Rasalhague: Arabic for “Head of the Snake Man.”