Seasons of Murder: In the Shadow of This Red Rock

by John Wiltshire

  Table of Contents

  IN THE SHADOW OF THIS RED ROCK

  Blurb

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  MLR PRESS AUTHORS

  IN THE SHADOW OF THIS RED ROCK

  JOHN WILTSHIRE

  mlrpress

  www.mlrpress.com

  It isn’t easy being the head of security on an inter-planetary transport ship between Earth and Titan. Lieutenant Cal Hartland is not impressed when he’s tasked to oversee the reintegration to Earth of mind readers who have been banished to a colony on Mars. Despite the fitting of cortical inhibitors, Cal is suspicious that the Minders are still dangerous, a fear that becomes personal when he has a startling emotional reaction to the leader of the small group, Commander Zero. Just as Cal is struggling to accept his feelings for the Martian, a mutilated body is discovered in the bowels of the ship. Why does Zero appear to know more about this terrible murder than any neutralised mind reader should? Trapped in the endless darkness of space and with the body count growing, can Cal trust anything about the enigmatic and beautiful Zero?

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 by John Wiltshire

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by

  MLR Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

  www.mlrpress.com

  Cover Art by Molly Anon

  Editing by Christie Nelson

  ebook format

  Issued 2016

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Come in under the shadow of this red rock,

  And I will show you something different from either

  I will show you fear in a handful of dust

  TS Elliot

  This was Cal’s favourite time of the artificial day: artificial dawn. He woke a few hours before he needed to be on duty and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. He’d only been back on board a few days, and the simulated gravity still seemed slightly off. However hard Inter-Sol Corp worked to persuade their personnel that the gravity on the ships was exactly the same as on Earth, 1g, few people believed them. But as some claimed it was more, and some less, and some that it fluctuated daily, their complaints were put down to one more of the endless space legends that had taken the place of Old-Earth urban ones. No one told stories now about vanishing hitchhikers; now it was members of a crew mysteriously disappearing in deep space…

  So, the gravity issue had passed into space folklore, and everyone enjoyed grumbling about it; the ship continued to rotate on its set speed and gravity was science, not myth. Cal usually acclimatised to being back in space after a few hours, but this time he’d been on a six-week intensive course back on Earth, and it was taking him longer to adjust.

  He put on his training kit and made his way down the dim corridors to the gym. It was one of his favourite places; it was his only home. When he’d joined his first ship, fresh from the Wars, he’d assumed that he’d be surrounded by like-minded military guys. It hadn’t been quite like that. Most Inter-Sol Corp officers, he’d discovered, were administrators first, soldiers second—or never. A business attitude of profit and exploitation prevailed over the kind he had been used to—discipline, obedience, and physical excellence. Cal had been something of an anomaly on board his first ship; he was just a soldier who wanted to do his duty. He’d been surprised, therefore, to be given a promotion within six months, within a year to be transferred to a much larger vessel, at the end of that tour to be picked for officer training, and now, only a few years later, to be head of security on a Class 1, inter-planetary transport ship with five men and women working for him.

  He began his regime with light repetitions, his mind elsewhere, thinking through his tasks for the day. Tomorrow was the first of October, the first official day of Inter-Sol Autumn, and the décor would need to be changed in accordance with Inter-Sol Corp directives. Cal knew from experience that this would be little more than a load of hassle and extra work for his team.

  In the early days of inter-planetary travel, most large shipping companies had gone their own way with establishing routines on board ships. A few had paid lip service to Earth’s timetables, running to the Gregorian or Hijri calendars. Most, however, had been entirely independent: it was space travel. But human beings, it was quickly discovered, had evolved over millions of years to obey natural cycles, and when these rhythms were absent, or interfered with—as with the gravity fluctuations—morale tended to deteriorate very quickly.

  Investigations into unfortunate incidents reported during the six-year inter-planetary journeys had concluded that severe and prolonged Seasonal Affective Disorder, SAD, was sending people mad—which was how the laymen in the companies had interpreted the official and often incomprehensible language used by the psychologists drafting the reports. Lack of natural sunlight and its replacement by artificial lighting was driving crews insane. Only when conditions had worsened on board the ships, despite daily does of UV being mandatory, had a radical proposition been put forward by a psychologist working for Inter-Sol Corp—one of the few companies that had adhered to Earth-time from the outset.

  Dr Eugene Hathaway had done some research into the impact on the human brain of relocating between Earth’s hemispheres: people suffering from the inability to accept spring in October and winter in August. The disorders some settlers had reported were clearly, in his opinion, psychological rather than physiological—after all, if the individuals concerned had been unaware they’d been moved from one hemisphere to another; if they were allowed to celebrate their festivals and rituals according to the natural calendar instead of the one forced upon them, they would be none the wiser, he’d argued.

  He had then made the logical leap from Earth’s hemispheres to space and proposed that the depression and paranoia which were plaguing the inter-planetary crews were symptoms of humans being removed not just from sunlight, but from the rhythms of nature: the seasons. He’d coined the term SAND—Seasonal Affective Neural Disorder. Inter-planetary travel, he’d claimed, produced SAND in men.

  It wasn’t long before sufferers became termed the Sandmen.

  In accordance with Sandman protocols, gravity, time, daily routines, and seasons had all been recreated on board the transport vessels. The northern hemispher
e calendar was chosen for alignment, and so that morning, Cal had autumn to plan. It was the last thing he needed.

  Cal also had Minders on the way.

  He decided to put both issues on the backburner and concentrate on his workout.

  As he increased the weights and began on the really hard work, he let his thoughts drift free, the burn in his muscles the only thing he focused on. When he was done, he moved to one of the running machines and set it for a five-mile course. By the halfway point, he was running steadily uphill. His breathing was good, his heart beating strong and regular, his mind clear. He sometimes wondered if his fellow officers ever gained this kind of clarity of reasoning and purpose from their scientific manuals and profit and loss calculations. He doubted it. Not only did he feel powerful and in control, he fitted his uniform to perfection. He grinned ruefully to himself as he hit the final mile. He didn’t like being considered the best-looking officer in Inter-Sol Corp, or that this was openly rumoured to have been instrumental in his rapid rise to his current position, but there was little he could do about it. He reasoned other guys capitalised on their assets—their brains, their superb educations, their wealth, their family connections—he might as well exploit his.

  He climbed off the machines and set the room’s sterilization mode to run after he’d exited, grabbed his towel and headed back to his cabin. Suddenly the gravity felt very low, but he knew he was floating on endorphins rather than space myth.

  He had a briefing with the captain at 0800 hours and wanted to check the equipment he’d brought back from Earth with him first. He showered rapidly and pulled on his uniform: standard black shirt, pants, and boots. The only colour was the flash of rank insignia on his shoulders—two stars for full lieutenant. He paused before leaving his cabin to check himself in the mirror.

  Since being put in command of his own section, he’d been even more rigorous with his personal standard of dress. He knew he wasn’t liked much and that was good: far better to be feared and respected, than to think his subordinates had to be his friends. Respect had to be earned, and he made sure every day that his turnout was superior to that which he expected from his guys. He was fitter and stronger, worked harder, and made no allowances for weakness in himself or others. He was twenty-nine years old, and sometimes he reckoned he could reverse those figures. The self-discipline and effort took their toll. But if he felt old inside, he decided his reflection told a different story. His jet-black hair was regulation length at back and sides, but he left it slightly longer on top so it flopped over rather than stuck up like he’d been electrocuted. He was well over six feet tall, which was often a disadvantage in cramped space conditions.

  He smiled once more, a private grin he rarely showed anyone else. It softened his face to the extent that the professional military mien morphed into an almost androgynous beauty with bright, inquisitive, wide-set eyes. Dark eyelashes framed blue eyes in a pale face; a rare combination that women always remarked on. Not only had his flawless features apparently advanced his career—he’d been selected to be the recruiting poster boy for two years running—they, more importantly as far as Cal was concerned, led people to misjudge him, to dismiss him as nothing more than a pretty boy. It was a mistake they didn’t make twice. Satisfied that his personal shields were in place, he made his way down to security store Alpha. He let himself in with his authorisation swipe card and regarded the crate before him.

  §§§

  The ship, the ISC Elon Musk, currently had a crew of just over a hundred and fifty, and they were carrying another fifty or so scientists, miners, and associated colonists for their current resupply mission to the Titan colony. But his assignment now, since his sojourn on Earth, was separate and distinct from his usual duties as head of security for the two hundred souls on board. He opened the crate and regarded the neatly stacked boxes. He’d spent the last six weeks learning how to use this equipment and studying its likely effects on crew morale.

  He didn’t underestimate the difficult task ahead of him.

  §§§

  Captain Laskar was a small, lean man who had come up through the ranks via one forlorn outpost mission after another. He was jaded, serving out his time, and planning his retirement. Pension plans were his favourite topic of conversation. He wasn’t a bad commander; Cal just questioned how the man would perform if put under stress. Commanding the largest and fastest supply ship in the fleet between Earth and Titan shouldn’t be done by an old man nearing retirement, in Cal’s opinion. However, Cal had learnt early on in his stellar career to keep his opinions to himself—which was probably why, he reflected, his career had been so successful. At precisely 0800 hours, he presented himself on the bridge, standing smartly to attention until noticed. Captain Laskar nodded to him and led the way to a small briefing room at the rear. They sat opposite each other, and the captain fired up his computer and stared at the screen for a while. He waved Cal to the coffee, but Cal declined.

  “Good course, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nice to have you back.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good timing. First day of fall tomorrow. We all set?”

  “The temperature will go down tonight. Winter uniforms will be mandated as of 0700 hours. We’ll shorten daylight hours today in preparation and dawn will be half an hour later tomorrow. But I thought the menus could become seasonally adjusted more gradually this year.”

  “That because you favour salads yourself, Lieutenant?”

  Cal only blinked and the captain let it drop with a wry smile. “I’m not having damn leaves scattered on my bridge, fake or not.”

  “No, sir. I’ll make a note to let the décor team know. Hot roasted chestnuts to give the bridge a miss, too?”

  Laskar chuckled. “I think my navigator would lynch me. No, let the chestnuts make their way up.” He sat back, regarding Cal then sighed. “Are we gonna skirt around the elephant in the room, discussing pumpkin pie, or are you gonna tell me why the hell I just lost my head of security for six weeks?”

  “Yes, sir, I have authority to give you full disclosure, and I have uploaded the files which were given to me. I will forward access codes to you after the briefing.”

  The captain looked weary already and got up to fetch himself some coffee. Regardless of Cal’s earlier refusal, he poured him one too, and put them both down on the table. “Fire away.”

  Cal ignored the coffee. “Sir, what do you know about the Mars Minder colony?”

  The captain’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not telling me this is going to be something about Minders?”

  Cal kept silent and waited patiently.

  The captain was clearly annoyed but picked up his coffee to cover his irritation and answered the question he’d been asked. “Probably only what everyone knows. After the Wars, the Minders demanded a separate homeland. They couldn’t stay on Earth, obviously, so they were given the Mars colony. Other than unmanned supply runs, they’ve been autonomous ever since. Why?”

  “Do you know why they were granted such a costly, off-world home?”

  “Is this going to be a briefing, Lieutenant, or a series of questions, and I brief myself?”

  Cal let the sarcasm slide. “They were granted the colony because they couldn’t mix with humans. At all. Not even in a separate country on Earth. I believe at one time it was seriously being considered that they should be settled in New Zealand. It was thought that their mind-reading abilities would be safe enough in such a remote location.”

  “Christ. What about the damn people already there?”

  “The plan was to move them all to new countries to help repopulate places that were decimated in the Wars. It was shelved as an option because there was no way to keep the Minders contained. If they’d wanted to leave, it was thought they could build ships. Although the enforced drug programmes that were introduced at the end of the War were successful on individuals in the POW camps, drug compliance couldn’t be monitored once the
y were released as part of the peace initiative. It was widely believed that the Minders avoided taking the Caripenidone whenever possible because of the catastrophic side effects. That was why they had to go to Mars.”

  The captain sipped his coffee. “I have a feeling this is where I’m going to start really not liking this briefing.”

  Cal nodded. “I share your concerns, sir. For what it’s worth, everyone on my course did. However, regardless of how we feel about it, Minders have now been granted rights to leave the colony, and we have been selected to oversee their integration back into the human world, and eventually to Earth. A small, representative cadre of fifteen has been chosen, and we are to transport them to the Titan colony where they will stay under strict control and be monitored until they are deemed…”

  The other man laughed. “Good one, Cal. What’s the punchline?”

  Cal just continued to stare at him, his gaze even. Laskar licked his lips. “You have got to be joking. Explain.”

  Cal reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the small devices he had retrieved from the secure stores. “This is a cortical inhibitor, sir. It is the result of decades of research following on from those early drug trials. It’s been produced in a collaborative effort between our scientists and theirs. Basically, it overcomes the limitations of control by drugs, because it is permanent and irreversible and has no adverse side effects. Apparently, the Minders are as keen to be able to mix again with humans and come back to Earth as we are to support their reintegration.”

  “Lieutenant, I don’t know one single damn human who gives a fuck about the mind readers other than to know that they’re either safely tucked away on Mars or dead. Preferably the latter.”

  Cal nodded. “I know. I only repeat the prop—information I was given. I don’t comment upon it.”

  “So what does this damn thing do?” Laskar stretched out his hand, and Cal dutifully handed over the small metal disk.

  “All Minders on the trial, and later the entire Minder population, will be fitted with implants here.” He tapped his temple. “This—you can see the two slots—fits onto the implanted rods. When activated, it disrupts the areas of the brain that they use for mind reading. I’m not a scientist, sir. I only know it works.”