Mars Prime

by William C. Dietz

  Paxton nodded. He'd done this sort of thing before. "We're doing everything we can to find the person or persons who killed Dr. Havlik. This man is not a suspect at the present time but will become one if the evidence warrants."

  It was a standard police-type response and meant nothing at all.

  Corvan shut the eye cam down. "Okay, off the record."

  Paxton shook his head. "Off the record I'd say no. I'll be surprised if this guy is anything more than he appears to be. Think about it—most of the colonists attended the ceremony. If he was there, people are bound to remember him, and he'll have an alibi. We'll check, but the odds aren't very good. How 'bout you?"

  Corvan shook his head grimly. "No, I don't think so either. But what about the medical records? What if the monster had some sort of relationship with Havlik?"

  Paxton was silent for a moment. "Tell me something, Corvan, what kind of relationship are you and I going to have? Friendly? As in reop and cop work together to keep the lid on? Or antagonistic? As in reop and cop go for each other's throats?"

  Corvan started to give Paxton a flip reply but stopped when he saw that the other man was serious. Here they were, the same old problems all over again. What was he anyway? Rex Corvan, PR man? Or Rex Corvan, journalist? The PR man would be happy to work hand in hand with security. The journalist would try to maintain his independence. But how independent could a reporter be when other people controlled the very air he breathed? Corvan produced a crooked smile.

  "Friendly, as in reop and cop work together to keep the lid on, providing it's for the greater good."

  Paxton grinned. "I think I'll take your statement at face value, although I'm sure that we could have a long and rather convoluted discussion about what 'the greater good' is.

  "In any case, here's the answer to your question about the medical records. It seems that the person or persons who killed Havlik forced him to scrub his rec-cords."

  "All of them?"

  "Every last one."

  Corvan gave a low whistle. "And you want me to sit on it?"

  Paxton nodded. "Yup. Why give people ideas? Besides, it's something only the killer knows and would come in handy if we got a confession."

  "Okay," Corvan replied. "I'll leave it out. But let me know what you find. A deal's a deal."

  Paxton grabbed a hand-line and pulled himself towards the corridor. "That's a roger. Stay in touch."

  Corvan hung around for a while, rolled on a couple of eyewitness accounts, then headed for the com center. There was work to do. Lots of it. Kim and he had agreed to produce a half-hour news show every day.

  The first fifteen minutes of the show would consist of reports from Earth. A predictable mix of religious riots, food rationing, birth quotas, plane crashes, atmospheric tinkering, and yes, news from the construction team on Mars.

  The second fifteen minutes would focus on the Outward Bound. Jopp had sent Corvan a list of what stories to run and what order to run them in. She thought the departure ceremony should come first, followed by a keep-up-the-good-work message from Fornos and a watered-down version of the murder.

  The message had taken the form of a suggestion, rather than an order, so Corvan had talked-Kim into some changes. The murder story would come first, followed by the departure ceremony, Fornos, and some human interest stuff mat Kim had gathered with a mini-cam. Footage of the departure ceremony, plus the murder, would be sent to Earth. Assuming that Fornos and Jopp approved, that is.

  The upshot of all this was that Corvan and Kim had a lot of writing, editing, and administrative work to do. Work that would normally be performed by a sizeable staff.

  So, by the time they had obtained the necessary approvals, and faded up from black, both of them were exhausted. Corvan jacked into the shipboard feed, allowed himself to free-float next to the editing console, and closed his eyes. First came the open, then the murder report.

  It was all there. The hard facts, the silly rumors, and the way people felt. The report wouldn't find the murderer, erase people's fears, or make the whole thing go away. But it would provide the colonists with what information was available, serve to reassure them, and kill some of the more outlandish speculation. And that, Corvan decided, was a job well done.

  As for reaction from Earth, well, that would have to wait twenty-four hours or so. Murder in space. The tabs would eat it up.

  He fell asleep ten seconds into the departure ceremony, and failed to notice when Kim removed the jack from the side of his head, pushed him into contact with a velcro strip, and kissed him on the lips.

  But Otis watched the rest of the show, as did Kathy, Susy, Morey, Norma, and Frank. And they enjoyed it, especially the part about the murder and the fight on F-deck.

  But there was some concern as well. This Corvan character could be a threat. Otis wanted to act, wanted to counter the danger, but the others weren't so sure.

  "Let's give it some time," Norma counseled. "There's no reason to panic."

  "And what if Corvan starts to close in on us?" Otis inquired. "What then?"

  "How about a warning?" Susy said brightly. "Something to scare him off."

  "It won't work," Otis said heavily. "This guy doesn't scare that easily."

  "Maybe, and maybe not," Frank put in. "But it's worth a try. Kathy, what do you think?"

  There was a long pause. When Kathy answered, her voice was cool and distant.

  "It's worth a try. I'll take care of it."

  Chapter Five

  The editing room was small and comforting. There was no illumination other than that provided by the glow of multitudinous indicator lights. Kim preferred it that way, like the inside of a cave, or a walk-in closet. If only she could smoke. Then things would be perfect.

  She had straight black hair, long once, but cut to pageboy length in deference to the requirements of shipboard life. It fanned out around her face as Kim swallowed the last of the breakfast biscuit, wondered what it was made of, and decided that she didn't really want to know. Given what she'd learned about recycling and hydroponics, the answer would probably amaze and disgust her. She gave the drink dispenser a squeeze and used the last squirt of coffee to wash whatever it was down.

  Kim had a natural affinity for all things technical, features that were slightly Asiatic, and a figure that turned heads. Taken together they made a formidable combination. Something Kim knew but didn't spend much time thinking about.

  Kim steeled herself against what she knew she would see, touched the in-ship com screen, and watched it come to life. She selected electronic mail, entered a password, and scrolled through the reams of electronic garbage that Jopp sent out every day. There were general orders, dos and don'ts of every kind, and endless notices. They made for hours of reading, or would have, except that nobody actually read them.

  But here and there, sprinkled in between the official boiler plate, were the personal messages that people actually cared about. These ran the gamut from, "Kim, how 'bout doing a story about the engineering section?" to, "Hey Kim, lose the one-eyed freak, and join me for some R & R." Useful at best, annoying at worst, but nothing to worry about.

  Not until a few hours ago when Kim had discovered a message that was different from all the rest. A message that sent a chill down her spine. And there it was, blinking on the screen, filling her with dread.

  TELL YOUR HUSBAND TO LEAVE US ALONE. TELL YOUR HUSBAND TO LEAVE US ALONE. TELL YOUR HUSBAND TO LEAVE US ALONE. WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. WE CAN KILL YOU. WE CAN KILL YOU. WE CAN KILL YOU.

  Kim took one last look at the words, marked them, and hit the delete key.

  "Delete text?" the computer inquired. "Y or N?"

  Kim touched "Y." She wanted a cigarette and popped a mint instead.

  The words disappeared but the fear remained. Who had sent the message? The most likely answer was Havlik's killer or killers, but that didn't make much sense, since Rex wasn't anywhere near discovering their identities. Or was he? The
re must be some reason for the warning. And what did the "we" part mean? Were a number of people involved? Or was that a ruse designed to throw the investigators off?

  Kim stared at the empty screen. Why hadn't she told Rex? It was the obvious thing to do. Because he'd go crazy, that's why. He'd react like a bloodhound on the scent, head straight for danger, and get himself killed. Then where would she be? On Mars, that's where, all by herself, minus the one person that she cared about. No, there had to be another way, a strategy that would allow her to defend against danger while avoiding her husband's self-destructive tendencies.

  And that brought her to the task at hand. Rex was away, off looking for the source of the mysterious booming sound, so this was the perfect time to bring Martin back to life. If a computer, even a sentient computer, can be said to "live."

  But Kim was a pragmatist and classified such questions as little more than academic constipation.

  Martin could acquire, reject, and process information. He could modify his actions based on past experience, he knew right from wrong, and he had feelings. Not the full range of emotions that humans experience, but feelings nonetheless, and all of those things taken together made Martin more than a machine.

  And it had been those emotions, loyalty in particular, that had brought the reop, video editor, and computer intelligence together.

  Martin had been the previous President's personal computer, communications center, and administrative assistant all rolled into one. Constructed to fit into an antique desk, the artificial intelligence, or A.I., had occupied a prominent place in the Oval office. And, when President Hawkins had been assassinated by his chief of staff, Martin had been the only witness. A witness the conspirators had never thought to silence. A witness that was determined to avenge the President's death.

  Working by himself at first, and then with Rex and Kim, the computer had played a significant role in foiling the computer coup and preventing Samuel Numalo from forming a single world government.

  But with the restoration of a legitimate government, and the long succession of hearings and trials that followed, Martin had been relieved of his duties at the White House and relegated to providing endless hours of testimony.

  Eventually, after the legal cases had come to an end, so did Martin's usefulness. He was an embarrassment, an unwelcome reminder that even the best security systems are fallible, as are the people that run them.

  And there were those, especially in the CIA, NSA, and Secret Service who wanted his memory scrubbed. They claimed Martin was a repository of classified information and a threat to national security.

  But Martin was a celebrity by then, having been the only machine to make the cover of Time magazine, and the public was outraged. Mind-wipe the patriotic computer who had helped defend the country's freedom? Never!

  Negotiations had ensued, and when Corvan suggested that Martin emigrate to Mars, the authorities had leaped at the chance to get rid of him.

  That explained why Martin was aboard the ship and resident in a battered suitcase.

  What it didn't explain was why Kim made her way to a storage cabinet, unlocked the door, and removed Martin's suitcase. By doing so she violated the agreement by which the A.I. had come aboard. The Outward Bound was a complicated and somewhat fragile environment. There was no room for random computer entities, crew members who did their own thing, or personal strategies that cut across the lines of authority.

  It was the sort of thing that Rex would do, the sort of thing that drove her crazy, and the sort of thing that led to trouble.

  Kim knew that, worried about it, and opened the suit case anyway. Martin might cause trouble, but he might prevent trouble too, and she would accept the risk.

  Martin wasn't much to look at. Just a gray metal box and a row of LED's. There were twelve altogether and one of them glowed green. Good. Martin's internal power supply was functioning, and so was he, though at a comparatively low level.

  Kim pushed the suitcase over to a small work bench and strapped it down. She looked for and found Martin's power port, plugged him into the ship-wide system, and flipped a switch.

  A humming noise came from inside Martin's casing. The second LED glowed green, then another, and another, until all twelve were lit up.

  Kim nodded her satisfaction, removed a patch cord from the wall clips above the bench, and plugged it into the panel located on the right side of Martin's box. The other end went into the side of her head.

  "Martin?"

  Music flooded her mind. It was big, orchestral, and reminiscent of the classical composers. The melody soared, and Kim soared with it, rising on wave after wave of pure emotion, until her throat grew tight and her breath came in shallow gasps. Then the sound broke like surf on a coral reef, crashed into a magnificent explosion of foam, and slid into a silent lagoon.

  Martin entered her mind as the last strains of the music died away. "Did you like it?"

  It took Kim a moment to gather her thoughts. "Like it? I loved it. Who wrote it? And where did it come from?"

  "I wrote it," Martin said proudly. "I used a Microsoft program called Composer 4.1 to synthesize the sounds. You really liked it? You sentients lie so well that it's hard to tell sometimes."

  Kim laughed. "No, I really liked it."

  "Good. Are we on Mars?"

  Having been locked up inside the suitcase, and having no external sensors, Martin had no way to keep track of where he was or what was happening.

  "Nope, the journey has just begun."

  "Then what's going on? I thought the big wigs wanted me under lock and key until we landed."

  "And they do," Kim agreed, "so this is our little secret."

  "Does Rex know?"

  The motion was invisible to Martin, but Kim shook her head. "No, and I don't plan to tell him. Not yet anyway."

  Kim felt concern ripple through the interface. "Such behavior is unusual for you, Kim. Are you all right?"

  "Yes . . . no . . . I'm not sure."

  "You have doubts."

  ''Yes, I have doubts. But I need your help anyway.''

  "Tell me about it."

  So Kim did. She told Martin about the murder, about the message, and about her fears.

  "So," she concluded, "I'm afraid that Rex would get all protective, go after the story, and get himself killed."

  "It has been my observation that Rex is hard to kill," Martin said thoughtfully, "still, I share your concern. What would you like me to do?"

  Kim ran her tongue over dry lips. This was it. The point where the whole thing crossed from the planning stage into the doing stage. The point of no return.

  "I want you to infiltrate the ship's computer systems. The message came by E-mail from one of the free access terminals on E-deck. Anyone could have used it."

  "So I lie in wait," Martin said, "identify the next message as it comes in, trace it to its source, and take a peek via one of the surveillance cameras."

  "Exactly," Kim replied, relieved that her plan sounded workable. "If you're willing, that is."

  Amusement filled the interface. "Of course I'm willing. Just try to stop me. Besides, anything's better than the inside of that suitcase."

  Kim smiled. "Wait until you’ve had a chance to sift through a hundred screens of E-mail. That could change your mind.''

  Corvan hit his head on a support beam, swore, and ducked underneath. An upright pressed in on him from the right. He wiggled through the opening.

  Dr. Bethany McKeen, better known as Dr. "B" to her friends, chuckled. There was no animosity in her laugh. Just the enjoyment that small people have when big people run into trouble.

  The geologist was little more than four and a half-feet tall, weighed eighty-eight pounds soaking wet, and was descended from the small-framed peoples that once lived in the African rain forests. She had reddish-brown skin, a roundish head, and a broad flat nose. Her eyes were bright with intelligence and danced with suppressed merriment. Like Corvan, Dr. B was dressed in a plain blue
ship-suit. She used a lateral support to hold herself in place.

  "What's the problem Corvan? Putting on a little weight?"

  That was the second such comment in two cycles. Corvan made a note to watch his caloric intake. A task made easier by the boring food. He growled a reply, pulled himself over the I-beam that blocked his way, and followed the geologist's girlish posterior even deeper into the bowels of G-deck.

  If A-deck was the topmost layer of the ship, then G-deck was the bottommost layer, and almost entirely given over to the ship's power plants, shielding, and associated equipment.

  And it was from that this region that many people, including Dr. B. thought the booming sound originated.

  Fornos and Jopp had grown weary of the complaints associated with the noise, not to mention the sometimes outlandish rumors that went along with them, and had authorized a two-person expedition.

  And, due to the fact that her skills as a geologist were not yet in demand, Dr. B had been chosen to lead it. Corvan had been an afterthought, a companion to provide aid in case of trouble, and a newsperson to document whatever she found.

  The crawl space twisted and turned ever downward, expanded and contracted according to the size and dimensions of the installations that it served, but made no concessions to the convenience of those who used it.

  There were light fixtures, but most were mounted high overhead, and the light they cast was broken into a maze of crisscrossing shadows.

  And, thanks to the presence of the ship's power plants, it was hot, as well. Everything was warm to the touch. Everything except the outside hull metal. That was cold, very cold, and water had a tendency to condense on its surface, form blobs, break away, and disappear into the maws of the multitudinous robots that wove their way in and out of the metal maze.

  Corvan ducked under an especially low beam, searched for a handhold, and pulled. The beam scraped the length of his body.

  Was it just his imagination? Or was the crawl space getting smaller? Maybe it had something to do with the curvature of the hull, with the way that the drive tubes came straight down along the ship's axis, or the fact that the people who had designed the damned thing were safely ensconced in their offices back on Earth. But whatever it was had started to bug him.