"Right. Then you probably noticed that the protector personality liked to immobilize his victims prior to killing them."
"And there was no sign of restraints around Ochoa."
"Exactly."
"So you conclude that someone else killed him," Scheeler said tiredly. "Sorry, Corvan. It's too damned thin. He could've been bored. He could've been in a hurry. He could’ve been anything. Hell, the guy was a fruitcake for God's sake."
"But what about the way Ochoa died?" Corvan insisted. "Paxton used his fists on the first two victims. Why not the third? Ochoa was thrown into the walls and ceiling. Not only that, he was a welder, a hefty guy. Wouldn't he struggle? Put up a fight? Get in some licks?"
Scheeler shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe Paxton cold-cocked him. Maybe anything. Sorry, Corvan. It just doesn't wash." She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What's the matter? Running out of news?"
Corvan got up to leave. "No danger of that. How's the labor situation going?"
Scheeler smiled. "Surprisingly well. Things have improved during the last week or so."
Corvan raised an eyebrow. "Really? And why's that?"
The security chief aimed her pen at him. "More people, more supplies, and more time off."
Corvan nodded. Things did seem a bit better, although he wasn't sure why. Was it the influx of people and supplies from the Outward Bound as Scheeler supposed? Or something a little less obvious? Most of the underlying problems, like the unremitting hard work and lack of entertainment, were still unresolved. So why were the workers increasingly happy? It didn't make a lot of sense.
But Corvan knew that the last thing that Scheeler wanted to hear was some more of his crackpot theories. He decided to let the matter drop. Kim would be proud of his good judgement.
Corvan took one last look at Scheeler's dynamite legs, thanked her for hearing him out, and headed for the door. Once outside he glanced at his watch. It was about 16:30. Time to meet Father Simmons.
The padre had asked for the meeting the day before and been very secretive about it. A sure-fire way to capture a reporter's attention.
Corvan sent out a mental call for the robo cam. It left the ledge where it had been perched, glided down, and landed on his shoulder. Robots were common enough that passersby didn't even turn to look.
Thus equipped the reop set off in the direction of the motor pool which, for reasons known only to him, was where the priest had insisted that they meet. It was a good ten-minute walk through the heart of Mars Prime, and the reop used it to gauge morale.
Almost all of the Outward Bound's colonists were dirtside by now, which meant that they outnumbered the firsties and were putting more pressure on the habitat's already strained facilities. And would continue to do so until the second half of Mars Prime had been completed. The result was crowded corridors, increased activity, and more noise. The kind of conditions that should lead to trouble.
But the mood verged on upbeat. Corvan even saw one firstie smile at a newbie and provide some directions. It was nice but puzzling. Whatever had happened to the "me firstie, you garbage" routine? Things couldn't change that quickly. Could they?
The corridor emptied into an open area. It swarmed with people, robots and machinery. The shift was about to change and people were getting ready. An arm reached out of the crowd and grabbed Corvan's elbow.
"This way."
An access door hung open. The reop saw little more than the back of Simmons' head and a blue jump suit before he found himself inside a maintenance tunnel with the door closing behind him. There was a grating underfoot, cables draped along both walls, and dim red lights that marched away into the distance.
Corvan started to say something, but the other man put a finger to his lips and produced a little black box from one of his pockets. He pressed a button, waited for a row of green lights to come on, and nodded his approval.
"Good. The immediate area is clean. For the moment anyway. They have bug-equipped microbots, you know. Homemade but effective nonetheless. An area can be clean one moment and contaminated the next."
Corvan frowned. Clean? Contaminated? What the hell was the padre talking about? Everyone was familiar with the habitat's surveillance system. SIS ran it under Scheeler's supervision. The vid cams were standard units, visible everywhere, and no more threatening than a doorknob.
After all, which would you rather have, a monitored hallway or one where people could lay in wait for you? Any concern that people might have had for their privacy had been left back towards the turn of the century when the crime rate had soared completely out of control.
Still, there were laws against infiltrating audio-video devices into private homes, or allowing them to roam public places.
'' SIS uses bug-equipped microbots?''
Simmons frowned as if Corvan was being unnecessarily thick. "Not SIS, them."
"Them?"
"Yes, them. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sharma and his so-called monitors. I assumed you knew."
"Sharma as in 'walk around in the wastelands for days and show up unharmed' Sharma?"
"The same."
"What about him? I interviewed the guy, even did a story on him, but didn't take the whole thing too seriously."
Simmons nodded. "And neither did anyone else. They still don't. But that will change after tonight."
"It will?"
"Of course. Once the executive council sees proof of what Sharma's up to they'll put a stop to it."
" 'Sees proof?"
"Yes," the priest said earnestly. "That's where you come in. I produce the proof and you take the pictures."
"Swell. Tell me something . . . how come Sharma is free to do whatever he wants instead of breaking rocks?"
Simmons shrugged. "He sold Fornos and Jopp some line of bull about 'seeing the light,' 'giving up drugs forever,' and 'teaching others to lead a better life.' "
Corvan shook his head in amazement. "Okay, Father. Just supposing I went along . . . what would I see?"
Simmons shook his head stubbornly. "Sorry, Corvan. No previews. I suggest that you come, look, and draw your own conclusions."
Corvan considered pressing his case, saw the padre's intransigent expression, and gave in. Simmons seemed like a level-headed sort, and whatever had gotten under his skin would probably be worth taking a look at.
"Okay, Father. I'm in. What's next?"
Simmons smiled. It was easy to see what he'd looked like as a little boy. "Great! Follow me."
The priest turned and headed down-corridor. The reop followed.
Corvan opened the interface and ran a check on the robo cam. All systems were green. He switched to Kim.
"Anyone home?"
There was a short pause followed by one of Kim's typical answers. "Of course. Somebody's got to do the real work while you run around and have a good time."
"Yeah, hanging out with Scheeler's a lot of fun."
"Did she buy your theory?"
"Hell, no."
"She has nice legs."
"Really? I didn't notice."
"Where are you anyway?"
"You won't believe it. Here, take a look at this."
Corvan activated his eye cam. Kim saw the same thing he did: the back of the priest's head, and the dimly lit corridor beyond.
"Where is he taking you?"
"Beats the heck out of me. The padre says he has a hot story . . . but insists that I see whatever it is for myself."
"Be careful."
"I will."
"Check in from time to time."
"If I can."
"Love you."
"Love you, too."
The interface faded and she was gone.
Simmons paused, forced Corvan to do likewise, and opened an airtight access door. Just a crack at first, then more, until a rectangle of white light passed through the opening and hit the opposite side of the corridor.
"Follow me."
Corvan did as he was told and followed the priest through the
open door. The reop found himself in what he recognized as an emergency lock. Unlike the rest of the locks it was spotlessly clean, free of graffiti, and well-lit. There were a number of such locks located around the circumference of the habitat and the rules were very strict: Do not use an emergency lock unless it is an actual emergency or a properly authorized drill. He looked at the padre.
"We must have set off every alarm in the place by now."
Simmons shook his head and pointed toward the interior hatch. "Nope, and we won't either. Not unless we mess around with that one. The alarm on the access door was disconnected some time ago."
Corvan wondered how the priest knew but didn't get a chance to ask. Simmons crossed the room, palmed the front of a locker, and pulled it open. Two hard suits stood inside, one had the name "Simmons" stenciled across the upper left-hand side of the chest plate, and the other said "Corvan."
"Wait a minute," Corvan said, "how did you do that? I left my suit back at the com center."
Simmons grinned. "Sneaky huh? That's your backup, fresh out of storage and ready to go."
Corvan looked again. The priest was correct. This suit was brand new. It even smelled new when he stepped inside.
"How do you manage all this stuff anyway?"
Simmons grinned. "There are never as many faithful as one might wish . . . but more than one might fear."
It took five minutes to suit up. They touched helmets. Corvan was the first to speak. "Did someone disconnect the alarm on the exterior hatch, too?"
Simmons shook his head inside the helmet. "No, that would endanger the entire habitat. But they did install a cutout switch. We flick it on prior to going out and flick it off the moment we get outside."
So saying, the padre went over to a junction box, fumbled around one side of it, found what he was looking for and nodded his satisfaction.
After that it was a simple matter to pump the air out of the lock, step out onto the surface, and close the hatch. It was dark outside, though less so thanks to the light provided by carefully spaced spotlights and reflected by the planet's twin moons.
Father Simmons found the second switch hidden down under the door flange, flipped it, and reactivated the alarm. If the lock blew, the command center would know and take to steps to seal the area off.
Corvan memorized the lock number just in case and adjusted the robo cam on his shoulder. He hadn't made much use of it outside of the habitat yet. Tonight might be different.
Father Simmons opened a pocket and withdrew two wads of black cloth. Then he shook them out and offered one to Corvan. Their helmets touched.
"Here. Pull that on over your helmet. Make sure it hangs down over your name."
Corvan shook it out. The cloth had been fashioned into a hood.
"You've got to be kidding."
"Nope. Put it on."
Corvan did as instructed and found that he could look out through a rectangular opening. Another matched his mouth. Or where his mouth would be if his helmet were open. The only problem was the fact that the robo cam got in the way.
Simmons looked at it and shook his head. They touched helmets.
"I should have thought of it earlier. The robo cam is a dead giveaway. Not only that, but it pulls your hood up off your chest as well."
Corvan looked down and realized the other man was right. His name was showing. He activated the interface, launched the robo cam, and watched it disappear in the darkness above. As soon as the device reached an altitude of two hundred feet, he ordered it to circle. The odds of anyone seeing it were extremely slim. The problem was fuel. The robo cam could stay aloft for about two hours. If the outing took longer than that, he'd have to order the device to land then retrieve it later.
He checked the hood. It hung halfway to his waist.
Their helmets touched.
"Good. Now we wait. A crawler will come by in ten minutes or so. The moment that the hatch opens climb aboard. Sit down and keep your lip zipped. Questions?"
"Only the ones that you refuse to answer."
The other man laughed. "Fair enough. You won't have those for very much longer."
The next five minutes passed rather slowly. Corvan felt silly standing around in the Martian desert wearing a black hood. What if the whole thing was some sort of practical joke? Or worse, what if Simmons had gone space crazy and was several prayers short of a complete mass? What then?
But the minutes passed, and outside of pacing back and forth, the padre did nothing more suspicious than look at his suit's chronometer from time to time.
The outside temperature was still falling and ice crystals were forming on the surface of their suits. They glittered like pixie dust and reminded Corvan how cold it was. He turned his heater up a notch and felt the priest's helmet touch his.
"Look."
Corvan looked in the direction of a pointing finger and saw quad headlights coming their way. And not from the direction of Mars Prime, as he would have thought, but from the wastelands beyond.
The headlights tilted up as the crawler climbed a rise, then down as it descended the other side, and disappeared entirely as it entered a gully. However, not more than a minute had passed before it reemerged and came their way.
Simmons reestablished contact with Corvan's helmet. "Switch your radio to frequency fifteen, keep the power low, and take your cues from me."
"Roger."
Corvan did as he was told. The crawler, one of the large crew-sized models, was almost there. It came straight at them like some sort of huge four-eyed monster. The headlights were extremely bright but Simmons stood his ground. Finally, just as the reop was getting ready to run, the machine stopped.
A voice, female from the sound of it, came over channel fifteen. "Peace ..."
"... finds those who seek it," Simmons finished.
"There are two of you, but I hear only one."
"I bring Brother Sharma a seeker of truth, that he might be warmed by the eternal flame of knowledge and thus enriched."
"The brother will be pleased. You may enter."
A hatch opened and light speared the night. Steps unfolded to touch the ground. Simmons climbed aboard. Corvan followed.
The inside of the crawler was dimly lit. There were no windows and the control compartment was invisible behind closed doors. Bench seats ran the length of both bulkheads. They were half-filled with a scattering of bulky space-suited figures. Corvan imagined that they were looking at him but couldn't be sure. Black hoods hid their helmets and upper bodies while black rectangles marked where their eyes should be. It was spooky and more than a little disconcerting. This was not a practical joke, that was for sure.
So what were they up to? Simmons had hinted at some sort of conspiracy, complete with "monitors" and robotic listening devices. And it seemed increasingly likely. It could be something less ominous though, a fraternal organization or a club of some sort. Time would tell.
Simmons chose a seat along the port side, nodded affably to those around him, and remained silent. Corvan did likewise.
The crawler jerked into motion, tilted right as the left track mounted a rock formation, then leveled out as it crashed to the ground. The bench seats had no give and Corvan's head hit the side of his helmet. There was padding but it still hurt. He found himself hoping that the trip would be an extremely short one.
It was. The crawler jerked to a halt three more times, boarded seven additional passengers, and took off cross-country. The vehicle came to a stop fifteen minutes later. The same voice he'd heard before ordered them to disembark. Corvan estimated that they had traveled no more than ten or fifteen miles. A real pain on foot, but doable in a pinch, and something to keep in mind if things got sticky. His suit included all sorts of electronic gadgetry so navigation would be a snap. Assuming he had sufficient air to make it worthwhile, that is.
Simmons rose, shuffled along behind the person in front of him, and the reporter did likewise.
There were a number of momentary pauses as pe
ople descended the short ladder and moved away from the crawler.
Corvan's turn came eventually and was somewhat anticlimactic. He saw Phobos and Deimos, the star-scattered night sky, and the now abandoned dome known as "Zone One."
The name stemmed from the fact that the first survey team had put down there and set up housekeeping. The resulting habitat had been used for a number of years then abandoned when the first half of Mars Prime was completed. That's the way it was supposed to be anyway, but the line of space-suited bodies passing through the dome's main lock made it clear that the habitat was still in use.
Corvan checked to make sure the robo cam was still airborne, found that it was, and positioned it for a wide shot. Though not designed for night work, it still managed to provide an acceptable shot.
With that accomplished he gave the device permission to land half a mile away, placed it on standby to conserve fuel, and opened a channel to Kim. Nothing. His implant lacked the power to reach across the intervening distance on its own, and while they were supposed to have a com sat, the technoids had yet to provide one. Like everything else he wanted, the satellite was rather low on the executive council's list of priorities. The robo cam had the capacity to act as a line-of-sight relay, but that would mean launching it again and burning a lot of fuel. He let the idea slide and followed Simmons into the dome.
The lock was almost entirely dark but still operational. Corvan found himself jammed shoulder to shoulder with ten or twelve others, staring directly into a face he couldn't see. What was the other person thinking anyway? There was no way to tell.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only five minutes, the lock cycled open. Corvan saw Simmons and followed him into the dome. It too was dark with nothing but some smoky torches to light the way. Torches? On Mars? In a modern if somewhat neglected habitat. It was ludicrous but strangely effective nonetheless. The orange-red glow, the flickering light, all added to the feeling of mystery. It was part of a calculated effort to create a certain kind of mood. Why?
Simmons made contact with his helmet.
"You can vent your suit. Keep the helmet on, though. They have leaks from time to time."
Mars Prime Page 15
