The Orion Conspiracy (Max Mars Book 1)

by Tripp Ellis

  Her complete background history should have been available within a matter of minutes. But much to Officer Murphy’s surprise, the database returned no results. In all of his 16 years on the job, he had never processed a suspect with no result. His face twisted up perplexed. “Who the hell are you?"

  Max continued to exercise her constitutional right to silence.

  "Have it your way. But I guarantee you this, we will make you talk," Murphy said.

  Max took it as a challenge. A slight smirk curled on her lips. She had already been to hell and back, and she knew there wasn't a damn thing that Officer Murphy, or anyone else in the OPD, could do to her that hadn't been done before.

  "Put her in Interrogation 2, and let Detective Reese know."

  Officer O'Reilly marched Max down corridors and shoved her into a spartan compartment. The hatch slammed shut behind her with a solid clank. He sneered at her for a moment through the polycarbonate viewport, then left.

  It was a typical interrogation room. A desk, two chairs, an overhead light, and a two-way mirror. There was smooth easy listening music playing over the loudspeakers, and Max figured they were probably pumping in subliminal messages to help aid compliance.

  Max took a seat and waited for the detective. This was turning out to be a crappy day, and sitting aboard a stuffy transport with a crying baby was starting to sound like a much better way of spending the afternoon.

  3

  “Sign this,” Detective Reese said. "It will make everyone's life easier.” He slid a smart glass tablet across the table, placing it in front of Max.

  Her eyes glanced to the screen and surveyed the prewritten statement. Her face tensed and her cheeks grew red. Rage boiled under the surface, but she tried to maintain her composure. It felt like the walls were closing in around her. She felt a thin mist of sweat form in the small of her back and in between her breasts. Her heartbeat elevated, and she could hear her pulse pounding in her temples. Max didn't like confined spaces, and if she signed this document she was going to be confined for a long, long time.

  “Place your thumbprint in the confirmation box.” Reese had a smug grin on his face. He knew he had his suspect nailed dead to rights. Reese was an average looking guy with brown hair and brown eyes. Mid 30s. Cheap suit. “It's an open and shut case. I've got a witness that places you at the scene. And the nature of the crime is going to lead to an exceptionally harsh punishment. Judge Abernathy doesn't look kindly on this type of thing. Take the deal. It's in your best interest."

  Max glared at the statement on the tablet for a moment. Then, with her fingertip, she wrote on the screen. She spun the device around and slid it back across the table to Reese.

  He tried to hold back a grin as he looked over the statement, preparing to gloat. He was a good detective, and he liked closing out cases quickly. But his grin faded when he read what Max had written. It wasn't a signature.

  Fuck you.

  Reese scowled at her. "So, you want to do this the hard way? Okay. We'll do it the hard way then. And I promise you, you'll regret not taking this offer.” He tapped his earbud. "Calhoun, do you want to step in here for a moment?"

  Reese eyed Max with his trademarked smug grin again. A few minutes later, Officer Calhoun stepped into the compartment. She was a good-looking blonde in her early 30s. She had a banging body, and the tight OPD uniform accentuated it. She glared at Max as she entered. Her blue eyes were red and puffy, like she'd been crying. She had a look of pure hatred in her eyes, and Max could tell she was just praying for a few moments alone. “Yep. That's her alright.”

  "Are you sure?" Reese asked.

  “Positive.”

  “Thank you, Officer Calhoun. That will be all.”

  Calhoun didn't leave. She continued to glare at Max. Her hand hovered precariously close to her sidearm. The look on her face said fuck her career. Fuck her pension. One moment of revenge would be worth it all. It was easy to see that this was personal for her.

  “I said that will be all, Officer Calhoun."

  “Yes, sir,” she stammered. Calhoun backed out of the compartment and closed the hatch.

  “She's lying," Max said.

  “Officer Calhoun is a respected member of the force. She has an outstanding reputation. No disciplinary actions. Who do you think a jury is going to believe? Her, or you?"

  Max was getting railroaded.

  “And who are you, anyway? We're going to find out."

  “I want to speak with my attorney."

  “One will be provided for you."

  “I don’t want a public defender. I want my attorney. Marc Gotro on Beta Epsilon 2.”

  "Sorry, princess, you’re getting a public defender.”

  “I have a constitutional right to choose my own attorney."

  “Seeing how you won't tell us who you are, and I have no way of verifying who you are, or if you're even a Federation citizen, you have no rights.” He flashed that smug grin again and leaned back in his chair. "As far as I'm concerned, you are an enemy combatant. You're lucky you're getting access to a public defender. Considering the nature of your crime, you're lucky you're still alive. Cops around here don't take too kindly to that sort of thing."

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Max contemplated her options. She wasn't handcuffed. She could easily lunge across the table and snap this jackass’s neck. Reese had been dumb enough to carry a weapon into the interrogation room with an unrestrained prisoner. She could snatch his pistol, take out the first few officers that stormed into the compartment. But that would probably just make her situation worse. Best to just let the things unfold and see where they led.

  Reese leaned in and spoke in a calming tone. "Look, the way I see it, I'm the only friend you've got around here. I'm a lot more levelheaded than some of the other guys. I'm offering you an opportunity for the best possible future. Trust me, you don't want to see this thing go to trial.” He paused a moment. “You're young. If you take this deal, you’ll be in minimum-security, you're out in 25 years. With the way modern medicine is, you could live to be 250, maybe 300 years old. You will still have plenty of life left. You'll be able to start over, and make something out of yourself.”

  Max glared at him. Fuck 25 years. That might as well have been an eternity. She probably wasn’t going to live near that long.

  “What's it going to be?" he asked.

  4

  Max didn't trust anyone, attorneys least of all. She certainly didn't trust the public defender provided by the same government that wanted to convict her of murder.

  “I am legal unit 1977-1138. Thomas H. Xavier. But you can call me Tommy, if you prefer."

  Max liked robots even less than she liked most people. And she found most people to be rather disappointing. She'd only met a few people in her lifetime that she could truly trust. People that had her back. People that would do anything for her. People who would sacrifice. Unfortunately, the majority of them were dead.

  Tommy was made of composite materials and had a humanoid skeletal framework. Hard surface panels covered his intricate machinery and gave shape to his form. Robots, androids, and other forms of artificial intelligence were highly regulated. Though synthetic skin and bio-mechanical technology had been refined and perfected, it was illegal to produce an android that was indistinguishable from a human. But just because something was illegal doesn't mean people didn’t do it. The underworld was filled with humanoid pleasure bots that were identical to humans in every way. If you wanted to have an illicit fling with your favorite celebrity, you could do it with an identical pleasure bot. For the most part, law enforcement looked the other way, with the occasional crackdown here and there. But what they didn't want were humanoid androids running around polite society demanding equal rights, the ability to own property, and more importantly, the right to vote. It wouldn't be long before the robots could reproduce themselves in such sufficient quantity as to vote themselves into total and complete power. Robots, androids, and a
rtificial intelligence existed solely to serve to the benefit of mankind. Behavioral inhibitors kept them from acting in their own best interests. But it was probably only a matter of time before they were able to circumvent the hardcoded laws of robotics. When that happened, humanity would no longer be the dominant intelligence in the galaxy.

  “Everything I say to you is recorded, correct?" Max asked.

  “Yes. I keep detailed records. I am able to recall conversations and events with exact detail, unlike human attorneys. I am also able to instantly analyze conflicting statements, and determine truthfulness based on voice stress analysis. I have the entire history of recorded caselaw at my disposal, and I excel at exploring the nuances of the law for my client's benefit."

  “What’s to keep the prosecutor from getting access to your data?”

  “We have an attorney-client privilege. I will only disclose data to the prosecutor in accordance with the rules of disclosure."

  “And what if you get hacked?"

  “That would be impossible. My encryption algorithms would take 170 years to decrypt using the entire processing power in the known Federation."

  “And you expect me to trust you?"

  “I could lose my certification to practice law. I would most likely be decommissioned and scrapped. Synthetic attorneys are independently monitored by the IAAIA.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “I perform my functions with 99.997% accuracy. Judging by the evidence, the jurisdiction, the judge, and past outcomes in his court among similar cases, I was able to negotiate a deal for you which is an improvement upon the initial offer. 20 years, minimum security, eligible for parole in 15. It is my professional opinion that you take the plea agreement.”

  “Unacceptable. "

  “You're being charged with the murder of a police officer. Under the circumstances, I think this is a very good deal."

  “Not if you're innocent."

  “I am more than happy to enter a not guilty plea and defend you in court. But I cannot guarantee a positive outcome. They will ask for the death penalty, and the odds suggest that they will get it. I have run an analysis of every homicide of a police officer in this jurisdiction. In every case, a guilty verdict was rendered against the defendant."

  “Don't you find that a tad bit odd?”

  "Are you suggesting some type of corruption or collusion among the court system?” Tommy said it as if it were unfathomable.

  Max scoffed and shook her head. “Something is rotten in Denmark."

  “We are not in Denmark, and I'm not sure how that is relevant to the situation."

  “Their case is a complete fabrication. I don't even know this cop.”

  “Officer Chase Carter.”

  “You don't find it strange that I'm charged with the murder of a person that I've never met and have no connection to?"

  “It happens all the time. It is not for me to say why humans behave in the manner that they do. Despite my vast database, human behavior is still a mystery to me. You act in the most illogical of ways, at times."

  “Look, I'm telling you, I was aboard a transport to Proxima Minor 5. I stepped off to get a drink and that's it. I never set foot out of the terminal, or into the station proper, until I was arrested. Surely you can find some security camera footage of the transport or the bar that can prove I was nowhere near the scene of the crime at the time it occurred.”

  “The data from the security cameras seems to be corrupted at the moment.”

  “Figures.” Max was silent a moment. "How about you use that 99.997% accurate neural processor of yours and tell me what motive I would have for killing a cop on this station?”

  “Perhaps if you would be willing to identify yourself, there may be elements in your background that could speak to your character. It might help in your defense. As it stands, you are a transient drifter without a name.”

  Max glared at the talking appliance. "You tell the DA he can shove this bullshit case up his ass.”

  “Do you want me to use that exact phrasing?"

  5

  Another few seconds and Lucian was going to die. Any display of weakness in prison either resulted in death, or indentured servitude. It was a good thing Max wasn't ever one to display weakness.

  Max was escorted to a temporary holding pod which would become her new home until she completed the trial and faced sentencing. If she survived that long, she'd be sent to a super-max prison somewhere. Having turned down the minimum-security plea agreement, they’d hit her with everything they had, if she was convicted.

  There were several privately owned super-max slams throughout the Federation. Usually located in inhospitable environments, making escape impossible. Prisoners were often brutalized, malnourished, or sold into slavery. Once you found yourself in the correctional system, your life became meaningless. And it was damn near impossible to get out. And if you were fortunate enough to get out, a plethora of different agencies popped up requesting fines related to your offense. A simple OSCWI (operating a spacecraft while intoxicated) would run you afoul of multiple agencies. 25,000 credits to the Department of Space Vehicles. 22,000 credits to the Intergalactic Transportation Bureau. 15,000 credits to the Clean Space Initiative (interstellar space junk was becoming a serious problem). And 10,000 credits to the Galactic Space Council, which was a nonprofit organization that no one could seem to determine what their function was. For an offense like murder, the fines could range up to a million credits.

  But murder was an everyday occurrence in the holding pod. For the most part, the guards didn't seem to care what the inmates did to one another. The only reason they tended to break up fights was so they didn't escalate into full-scale riots. If the inmates wanted to kill each other, that was their business. And the guards stayed out of it. And no guard was going to rush in to save a suspected cop killer. There was no doubt, Max was going to have a tough time of it.

  Junk had his massive hands wrapped around Lucian's neck. The scrawny guy’s eyes look like they were going to pop out of their sockets. His face was red, and the veins in his forehead bulged. Lucian was practically turning blue.

  Junk was easily twice his size. He had earned the name from the female inmates who were quite enamored with the size of his package. He was carved out of solid muscle, and not somebody who's bad side you wanted to get on.

  The fight, if you could call it that, was going on in the common area. Junk had Lucian flat on a table top, choking the life out of him. It was so blatantly obvious, that the guards had to do something. A tactical response team rushed into the common area in full battle gear—weapons in the firing position. They surrounded the two combatants.

  “Release the inmate, now," the squad leader yelled.

  With the barrels of angry plasma rifles staring him in the face, Junk didn’t have much choice. He released his grip from Lucian's throat, then backed off with his hands in the air.

  “Put your hands against the bulkhead. You know the drill. Move. Now!" the squad leader commanded.

  Junk complied. He put his hands in the air, backed slowly to the nearest bulkhead, spun around and placed his hands against the cold steel.

  Then the correction officers rushed in and handcuffed Junk.

  Lucian gasped for breath and peeled himself from the table. He had to follow the same drill. Against the bulkhead, cuffed, questioned, then moved into segregation. Both of them would stay in solitary confinement for the next 24 hours. It was a cooling-off period, and also served as punishment. A lesson not to start shit.

  Junk glared at Max. As far as he was concerned, this was her fault. If she hadn't been arrested and ushered into the holding pod, the incident would have gone unnoticed. He was going to have to spend 24 hours in solitary confinement all because of Max. And that didn't sit well with him.

  Less than a minute in the pod, and Max had already made an enemy.

  The guards pushed her toward her new home—cell A-34. It was a small rectangle that looked like it migh
t be comfortable for a small guinea pig. But two inmates per cell made it overly crowded. There were two narrow bunks, and a toilet and sink in the corner.

  “Welcome to your new home, dirt bag,” one of the guard’s said. “Meet Spoons. I'm sure you two will become intimately acquainted before long." The guard had a devious grin, knowing what Spoons was capable of. He left Max to settle into the cell with her new roommate.

  Spoons was a thin, odd looking fellow, with big ears and a square head. He looked like a mix between Flovaxian and Vercan, but it was hard to tell. He had green skin and a tail that poked through his orange prison issue jumpsuit. He sat on the top bunk and blinked his eyes incessantly as he ogled Max.

  “Spoons, huh?” Max said. “How'd you get that name?"

  “That's all hearsay and speculation," Spoons said. “I didn't do nothing.”

  Max raised a curious eyebrow at him. "That seems to be a common story around here.”

  “You'll learn real quick, ain't nobody guilty in here.”

  “Right,” Max said skeptically.

  “We're all innocent, just like you." Spoons winked.

  It wasn't worth trying to explain to him that she really was innocent.

  “What are you charged with?"

  “Murder.”

  Spoons looked impressed. “Really? I figured you for a hooker myself.”

  “Keep dreaming."

  “What, did you off your husband?"

  "I don't have a husband."

  “Of course not. He's probably dead now.”

  Max glared at him.

  “So who did you allegedly kill?" Spoons asked, making air-quotes around the word allegedly.

  “A cop.”

  “Oh, high five,” Spoons said, holding his hand in the air, waiting for Max to smack his palm.

  Max didn't move. Her penetrating eyes stared the little alien down.