The Ares Weapon

by D. M. Pruden

  “We have acquired another vessel. It is being prepped as we speak. We only have one more specialist to acquire and we will be ready for launch.”

  The older man frowned and 324 felt a smug sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that some things remained secret.

  “What sort of specialist?”

  “We believe the released pathogen killed the crew. We need someone who can deal with the situation. More importantly, it must be someone we can... motivate.”

  “That is a very specific prospectus, given your timeline. Is there no such person already in our employ?”

  “Unfortunately, the only such person perished on the Helios.”

  “Such skills coupled with the required inclinations are difficult to cultivate.”

  “I understand your concerns, Dominus. My operative has identified a promising individual who he believes can be recruited.”

  “Very well, do as you will.” Mundi waved his hand in dismissal and turned his attention to the pad held by his assistant.

  ♢♢♢

  Any agent should have been terrified at the double-edged approval just granted. 324 experienced exhilaration. He knew Mundi enjoyed little choice than to allow him to continue with what he started. Mundi’s grand plan would be set back years if this project failed. Success would be well rewarded, but there existed no more room for error. While he wouldn’t be falling on a sword, he would not survive to report the failure in person. He could live with that motivating risk.

  With no further interest shown in his presence, Agent 324 marched out of the audience chamber. As he left, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the exacting craftsmanship Mundi employed to produce all of the replica furnishings.

  Mundi was certainly an oddball, but he was an obscenely wealthy oddball. His preoccupation with the ancient roman world was both amusing and disturbing. It amused because it was anachronistic and unique; it was always an education in history to visit Mundi. It disturbed because Mundi’s wealth allowed him to indulge his predilection and nobody dared to question the peculiarities of the business tycoon. No one knew where the fascination would end. 324 worried Mundi shared the ambitions of emperors he so admired.

  Outside, a sentry in the traditional uniform of a Roman centurion approached him with his personal belongings he relinquished on arrival. The guard was armed with a simple gladius sheathed at his hip. A second, similarly dressed companion warily eyed him from the other side of the doorway. Both men understood their role as bodyguards to be nothing more than showmanship. The real security officers who watched unseen from another room trained remotely controlled particle weapons on 324 from the moment he entered the building.

  Dressed in his own clothes once more, he exited the sprawling complex that served as the combined residence of Mundi and the corporate headquarters of the Rego Corporation. To his recollection, the constantly growing facility accounted for ten percent of the total size of Artemis. He suspected Mundi owned far more of the city than that.

  Artemis had been Mundi’s pet project for the past forty years. Everything about the metropolis, from its strategic location over the Moon’s largest water ice source to its final adoption as the capital of the recently liberated Lunar Republic, was planned and orchestrated in detail by Regis Mundi, making him the invisible, unelected ruler of Luna.

  Agent 324 sneered at the thought of the old man’s presumptions. He didn’t fancy himself a republican by any stretch of the imagination. He’d spent much effort to avoid military service, choosing to support the conflict with Terra in a more commercial capacity as an arms dealer in a previous life. He believed that rulers needed to be accountable to the people they governed, a belief he shared with the patriots who died in the rebellion. He wondered what their ghosts would think of the man who now effectively ruled as the secret emperor of the world they fought to liberate.

  He strode out of the palace into the central pedestrian mall known as the Forum. He stopped and looked up through the massive, transparent dome at the blue jewel of the erstwhile home world hanging in the black sky. Moments like this, when Terra appeared high above, he couldn’t help but be awed at the engineering feat of Mundi’s Artemis. The unobstructed view through the dome always gave him the impression that he walked, unprotected, under the lunar skies.

  His cortical implant alerted him to an incoming message. He smiled and signalled for the ground car to pick him up. By the time he’d exited the Forum, the requested vehicle with his personal assistant inside waited at the curb.

  He sat across from Kiri Mason as the robot car pulled into traffic and proceeded toward the connecting tunnel grid.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I explained in the message that I wasn’t. But he’s the closest thing we could find on such short notice.”

  He relaxed into the plush cushions and smiled. “You’re far too tense, Kiri.”

  She passed him a sealed envelope. He emptied the contents onto his lap. He picked up the passport and absorbed the details.

  “Hello, Erik Dunn. Nice to be you.”

  He returned the other items into the envelope and handed it back to her.

  “And the other arrangements?”

  She stared at him critically before replying, “They’re complete. But they cost more than we thought. I’m not sure we paid enough for their silence.”

  “After the launch, you can see to that.”

  She nodded, but her brow remained furrowed.

  “You worry too much, Kiri.”

  “He’s not even a close match.”

  “It will be fine.”

  She looked out the car window. The only things to be seen were the flashes of light from the passing cars in the tunnel.

  Dunn leaned toward her. “Kiri, I’ll be fine.”

  “Lucius used to say that all the time. He, at least, took a latin name. You practically flaunt your rebellion as if there were no consequences.”

  “Would you feel better if I took a permanent identity, like Lucius, and operated from the sidelines? He died because his agents betrayed him. It’s best to handle things personally. You know this.”

  Dunn frowned and pushed himself back into the seat cushions. He crossed his arms and joined her in looking out the window. Kiri was right to worry. There was more at stake here than Lucius ever tried to put into play. He hoped is assurances were not empty.

  Chapter 5

  I woke with a pounding headache to the screams of little Ahmed, next door, protesting his nap time. The chronometer insisted the time was early afternoon and I’d slept the day away. With a groan, I rolled onto my back and stared at the filthy ceiling, wondering how big spiders grew on the moon as I contemplated the cobwebs in the corner. I wanted to lie still for a little longer, but the pressure on my bladder convinced me otherwise. I sat on the edge of the bed and the pain of an ice pick stabbed behind my eyes. I fought to keep whatever remained in my stomach down. I swallowed around the coarse grit sandpaper in my throat and wrinkled my nose at something stinking up the room. I fell back and sniffed the sheets. The fresh scent of cheap detergent told me of my ‘guests’ consideration, so the foul odour defaulted to be my contribution.

  A trail of dirty clothes in my wake, I somehow located the toilet and gave my poor bladder some welcome relief. More comfortable, I stepped into the spotless shower stall. I marvelled at the cleanliness of the bathroom and resolved to learn who’d squatted here and invite them back.

  The allocated water ration ran out far too soon, and I keyed in an expensive top up for another five minutes of hot water. After what happened with Charlie, I decided to indulge myself. The shower helped the headache somewhat, but I would need some pharmaceutical support if I intended to be functional with what remained of my day.

  Wrapped in a fresh smelling towel, I padded into the tiny kitchen to find anything to eat. The odour of rotting food reminded me even the best of guests are not perfect. I located and disposed of the offending unidentifiable mouldy bio-m
atter. Aside from the one blemish on their record, my mystery squatters kept the kitchen in better shape than I did. Unfortunately, the cupboards were bare and my belly protested.

  While I massaged my temples, I made my way back to the water closet. I stopped in front of the mirror to view the horror. The morning after the night before is never a good time for self-appraisal, but it seemed I didn’t want to treat myself all that nicely.

  The person who stared back at me appeared worn out. If not for the generosity of the last few years of lunar gravity I shuddered to think how old I would appear. At least, there were no wrinkles or crows feet. My face seemed a bit puffy from the booze and the bloodshot whites of my eyes distracted from their pretty blue colour. I thought them to be pretty because they were the only feature my bitch mother ever complimented me on. I suspect she would have been disappointed to see them this morning.

  My bobbed hairstyle didn’t help my appearance at the moment, but I preferred to keep it short so it didn’t get in the way during space travel. It needed a trim, blow dry and a brushing, but no grey lurked among the auburn tresses, and that appealed to my vanity. I knew I presented better under normal circumstances, so I decided to give any further critical assessment a pass for the time being.

  A faded, twenty-year-old travel poster advertising the Martian cloud city, Olympia, hung in a frame over the toilet. The fresh start that everyone dreams of, but nobody gets. I wistfully regarded the picture and my thoughts wandered to a new life in the sky that surveyed the landscape being terraformed. I couldn’t remember how long it served as my idea of heaven, but I kept it as a reminder to continue dreaming. Olympia remained the reason I stuck out the lousy job. I would be much closer today if Chandler hadn’t gotten himself replaced.

  I removed the poster to reveal a high end safe. I put my hand on the identification pad and endured the discomfort of holding my eye wide open long enough for the iris scanner to confirm my identity.

  “Access code 468-987-Whiskey-Cocaine.” The anachronistic voice recognition security steps caught most unprepared thieves off guard, or so my associates assured me. The expensive, state of the art vault itself was a difficult item to procure. Its installation in these humble lodgings would have raised a few eyebrows if I’d acquired it via the normal commercial channels. Fortunately, there are people who can be discrete; for a price, of course.

  I stared into the safe at my depleted supply and sighed heavily. The latest trip did nothing to help me restock. I selected a potent pain killer and popped two pills. Back in the bedroom, I took off the towel and fell naked on my back onto the bed, eyes closed, and waited for the medication to act. I luxuriated in the cooling caresses of the air on my freshly scrubbed skin. For the first time in months, I enjoyed the freedom of being alone and I lay still, thinking of nothing. After a time, my mind tired of fighting the emptiness and I indulged myself with daydreams of a future life in the clouds over Mars.

  Every credit I could earn, hustle and con over the past eight years went towards the dream. If Tanza hadn’t been such pain in the ass the last trip would have given me almost enough to finance a Martian citizenship. One more run after that would have provided for the requisite apartment on Olympia and the funds to support me.

  The noises of the surrounding apartments invited me back to the present. At least, my head no longer pounded. My growling stomach suggested the need to find some food. I got up and quickly dressed in the cleanest dirty clothing in my rucksack.

  I took one last survey of the face in the mirror before I headed to the door. The poor thing needed a touch of makeup and some new clothes but was presentable enough. I went out the door to forage for something to eat and think about my next move.

  ♢♢♢

  I wanted to indulge in a traditional, multi-course, welcome home feast at Chianti’s in the central hub, but I was far too hungry to go anywhere but the main commissary in the residence complex. The fast service offsets the basic quality of the food. Being inexpensive also helped make the meal taste better, but only marginally. This late in the day the cafeteria teamed with people coming off shift and going to work. I spotted a familiar face and sat down beside a sullen Vijay Zaoui.

  “Hello, Vijay. How is Devika making out?”

  He made a great effort to smile at me. “Oh, hello Doc. Thanks for asking, but not so good.”

  “Do you need another refill? I still have some, but I’m afraid the price is higher than last time.”

  He tried to maintain the goofy grin he always sported, but it vanished under the weight of his trouble. His words spilled out in a rush that his Indian accent made hard for me to understand. “No, I’m told we are beyond what the medicine can do for her. She is in the hospital and they say she will die soon.”

  “What happened? She responded so well to the meds.”

  “Yes, she did. But while you were away, she developed complications with her liver. They say it is a side effect of the medicines.”

  My food turned into a lump of lead in my stomach. Two years before, doctors diagnosed Devika with Carson-Epburg disease, a degenerative condition of the skeletal connective tissues common to those who lived in low gravity environments. It was prevalent among residents born and raised on Luna. Most of the time a simple genetic treatment administered a birth prevented it from developing. Devika’s family, like many of the working poor, could not afford the injections and so played biological roulette in the hope that she would not develop the disease.

  When they diagnosed her, she did not qualify to receive the expensive drugs that could offset the advance of Carson-Epburg because her family didn’t treat her at infancy. Even when Vijay offered to pay for the treatment out of his own pocket, the Lunar Medical Authority refused to sell him the drug. With nowhere else to turn, he sought me out through the black net and I became his supplier. At the time, I had been delighted since the drugs he needed, while relatively easy for me to acquire, commanded an obscene price and netted me a tidy profit.

  “Why can’t they just clone her a new liver?” I suspected I knew the answer but hoped I was wrong.

  “For the same reason, they would not give her treatment for the C-E,” tears flowed from Vijay’s eyes. “And I have not enough for it.” He broke down and wept openly.

  I held the grief-stricken man as he sobbed into my shoulder. A husband and three beautiful children were soon to lose a wife and mother and I was now overwhelmed with the realization that it was all because of me. Selling black market drugs to the rich and powerful is one thing. They can well afford to deal with the consequences of their decisions. But people like Vijay and Devika? What chance did they have when vultures like me preyed upon their circumstances? I felt sick to my stomach.

  Giving it only a few seconds of consideration, I resolved to right the situation. Perhaps we could still save her, and, in the process, redeem a portion of my own soul. I accessed one of my bank accounts with my CI. Before I could change my mind, I transferred every credit Vijay had ever paid me back into his account.

  He thanked me repeatedly, promising to repay everything, but I refused to hear of it and told him it was a gift. I took some satisfaction from the joy on Vijay’s face as he rushed away to tell his family.

  Watching him, I briefly felt proud of myself for the first time in forever. Then, with growing panic, I gradually appreciated the consequences of my generosity. Not only had Vijay been a regular, desperate customer, willing to pay whatever it took to save his wife, he was also one of my best cash cows and my spontaneous act of kindness had just cost me significantly.

  The untouched meal on my tray no longer appealed to me and I pushed it away. Now I had to work that much harder to get out of this hell hole. Of course, there was Charlie’s offer to consider. Even though I had summarily dismissed him in a pique of anger, what he was offering was worth even more now that I was apparently the Mother Theresa of Armstrong. Perhaps I could crawl back to him and apologize; ask for another shot at the job. I shook my head and gulped down
the cold coffee. No, some bridges needed to be burned and people like me just didn’t deserve to be redeemed once, let alone a second time. Cinderella’s ball had ended long ago and there were no more chances of living in the castle.

  Other resources remained to me. It would take some time, but I would rebuild my cash reserve and get to Mars on my own, even if it took another year or two.

  ♢♢♢

  The Tank, as the locals called it, was part of the oldest infrastructure of Armstrong, all built underground. There were no apartments, only shallow niches carved into the rotting concrete of the warren of abandoned tunnels. The unfortunates who found themselves here enjoyed no plumbing, only a bucket in the corner of their hovels. The really well off ones owned a separate one to wash in. For heat and communal cooking, discarded fuel barrels burned whatever refuse that could not be put to another purpose. My eyes stung from the smoke and the stench of sewage.

  Of late this place had seen an influx of immigrants from some of the bigger cities, like Artemis. The socio-political mandate for the newly independent Luna boasted of the elimination of poverty, much of that accomplished by flushing the human refuse into places like this when their waste bins became full.

  If the Tank served as hell’s waiting room, then Oscar Vostok held the position of Satan’s receptionist. He ruled supreme over everything and to cross him meant expulsion. Few crossed Oscar Vostok.

  I’d only met him twice before. On the first occasion, he’d sought me out up top. I’d been referred to him as a good source for medicines that his people needed. We did business, and while I didn’t make a huge profit, I got some feel good points for helping out.

  That, of course, led to our second meeting, this time, initiated by me. I visited him here and offered him a partnership opportunity to transport some popular recreational drugs via his network to the most affluent assholes on the surface. Today I intended to collect from him on that deal.

  I found him holding court in his office, as he called it. It consisted of a raised platform that overlooked the large central cavern where everyone could observe their king dispense justice. Instead of a throne, he sat on a high backed chair behind an ornate antique desk. Standing to either side of him, awaiting his whims were two of his lieutenants. They, like Vostok, were ex-Lunar militia, loyal soldiers whose meagre military pensions could not support the habits they’d acquired while serving their homeland.