Penumbra

by Eric Brown

  ‘There,’ Mackendrick said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It could be some kind of village or settlement,’ Bennett ventured. ‘It certainly looks too ordered to be an accidental collection of rocks or boulders.’

  ‘Ten Lee?’

  She inclined her head. ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘They certainly look like constructed artefacts.’

  ‘This is the only glimpse we get of such features,’ Mackendrick said. ‘The signal was lost soon after, probably due to storm damage. When I saw this I realised that I had to investigate. Not just send some of my men along, but actually go myself.’ He stared from Ten Lee to Bennett. ‘You do realise what this might mean, I hope?’

  Bennett said, ‘Sentient extraterrestrial life. Only, what, the second or third discovered?’

  ‘It depends whether you class the cetaceans of Sirius VI as intelligent,’ Mackendrick replied. ‘I think the jury’s still out on that one. So, if they are what I think they are, the work of intelligent beings, and if they’re not extinct, then we might have ourselves some discovery here.’

  ‘That’s a lot of ifs,’ Ten Lee pointed out.

  Mackendrick shrugged. ‘I’m willing to take the risk. Are you willing to join me?’

  Bennett looked at Ten Lee. Her expression evinced no sign of having witnessed footage that might go down as significant in the history of stellar exploration.

  At last she blinked and asked, ‘How far is Penumbra from Earth?’

  ‘Almost two thousand light years.’

  ‘So it will take us three, four months to reach?’

  Mackendrick nodded. ‘About that. Of course, the ship is equipped with suspension units. By subjective elapsed time it’ll take us no more than a day or two.’

  Ten Lee blinked up at Mackendrick. ‘May I ask another question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What I fail to understand,’ she said, ‘is why you don’t send a fully equipped exploration team.’

  Mackendrick nodded. ‘Valid point, but an exploration ship and team takes months, sometimes over a year, to equip and crew, especially for a haul as far as this.’

  ‘No one’s likely to discover Penumbra in that time,’ Bennett pointed out, reasonably.

  ‘No, but then I haven’t got a year.’ Mackendrick paused, then went on. ‘Five years ago when I fell ill my doctors gave me four, five years at best. I’m living on borrowed time. I’ll be lucky to last another year. I want to discover intelligent life on Penumbra more than anything else, even if it’s the last thing I do. I need to assemble a small crew on a ship I have ready and waiting, and get there as fast as possible. Does that answer your question?’

  Ten Lee inclined her head minimally. ‘My Rimpoche forecast an outward journey. I will come with you.’

  ‘Bennett?’

  ‘Union rates?’ Bennett asked, watching Mackendrick.

  The tycoon smiled. ‘Damn union rates - a hundred thousand a month. How does that sound?’

  Bennett stared at the stilled image of what might have been an alien settlement. ‘Count me in.’

  Mackendrick switched off the com-screen and slid from the edge of the desk. ‘We’ll be lighting out on the twenty-sixth, three days from now. Until then we’ll meet every day and go through the usual systems checks and routine maintenance. Any questions?’

  The twenty-sixth, Bennett thought. My father’s funeral. The townspeople of Mojave were going to think him crass and insensitive for not attending. Twenty years ago he had missed Ella’s funeral, too - and he tasted again the bitter tang of guilt at the thought. He tried to push the feeling to the back of his mind.

  ‘Right,’ Mackendrick was saying. ‘Let’s call it a day. I need my rest. I’ll see you here at ten tomorrow.’

  Bennett stepped out into the bright sunlight with a sense of having entered a new chapter of his life. He thought of his father, of Julia ... At last he was doing something to take himself away from a way of life he had wanted to escape for such a long time, but had been too craven to attempt. He never liked to look too far ahead, or to dream, but at least now he told himself that he just might be able to stop looking back and regretting.

  He followed Ten Lee up the steps out of the pit. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Ten?’

  ‘Thank you, but I prefer to walk.’

  He shrugged. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

  He gave a wave and was heading towards the parking lot when Ten Lee called to him.

  ‘Joshua . . .’

  He returned to where Ten Lee stood, watching him.

  ‘Joshua, I’ve been thinking over what Mackendrick told us.’

  ‘And?’

  She blinked. ‘Why do you think he chose you and me for this mission? He has many good pilots and analysts he might have selected.’

  Bennett shrugged. ‘Like he said, he thought we were the best. We were available at short notice.’

  ‘Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that this is a dangerous mission. Penumbra is a stormy world.’

  ‘Perhaps. Who knows? I can handle those weather conditions.’ He smiled. ‘Hey, don’t worry, Ten.’

  Ten Lee regarded him blankly. ‘I’m not worrying, Joshua - just wondering.’

  ‘Whatever you say. Sure I can’t offer you a lift?’

  But she had turned and was walking off towards the terminal building, a tiny barefoot figure with her rucksack secured on both shoulders.

  Over the next couple of days Bennett, Mackendrick and Ten Lee worked on the Cobra, running maintenance checks and systems analyses. On the eve of departure Bennett recorded a short message of resignation and sent it off to Redwood Station. He expected an immediate reply - Matheson threatening him with legal action for breach of contract. When his com-screen chimed five minutes later, he touched secrecy. It was not Matheson, but Julia. He elected not to reply.

  Just before sunset he steered his car from the garage and drove across the desert. He parked outside the dome where he had grown up and walked around the decrepit habitat to the memorial garden. He thought about summoning Ella’s image and talking to her, telling her about the latest turn of events, but he had a better idea. He crossed to the mock-timber bench, knelt and lifted the lid of the seat. Secreted inside was the simulated identity hologram’s memory circuit. He lifted it out and moved around the garden collecting the miniature projectors and receivers. Rather than leave Ella here and be without her company for who knows how long, he would take her with him, allow her to share the experience.

  When he returned to this dome, he found that Julia had left a recorded message.

  ‘Joshua . . .’ She stared out at him, biting her lip. ‘I’ve only just heard about your father. I’m sorry. You should have told me when we met the other day. Look, about what I said. I don’t know . . . perhaps I was too harsh.’ She paused, considering her words. ‘I was wondering . . . can we meet sometime? Perhaps after the funeral?’

  Bennett stopped the recording before she finished, wiped the memory and deactivated the screen. Then he sat for a long time in silence and stared out across the darkening desert.

  * * * *

  8

  Seven days into her new job Rana Rao was still familiarising herself with the ways of the Homicide Division.

  For the first five days she had worked noon till ten, going through standard practice and routine with Varma Patel, a sergeant in her fifties who had been in the department for ten years and knew the answer to everything. Varma seemed content to be office-bound, doing her investigations via powerful computer networks and her com-screen. After three days of Varma’s company in the stuffy offices, Rana had had a waking nightmare: this would be her in another ten years, gone to fat and happy to see out the rest of her police life working in the claustrophobic confines of the eighth floor. Varma had laughed when Rana admitted that she would find just one year of this kind of work more than enough. ‘Don’t worry,’ the sergeant had confided. ‘Vishwanath has you marked out for better things. Investigatio
ns, so I’m told.’

  ‘He has? Does that mean I’ll get out of this prison some day?’

  ‘Be patient. Learning the ropes takes time. You need to walk before you can fly.’

  It seemed that some of her desk-bound colleagues on the eighth floor had hard about Vishwanath’s plans for her; either that or they resented her because she was a woman.

  A couple of officers made it known that they found her attractive. One afternoon Varma had nudged her and said, ‘What do you think of Naz over there? I think you’d make a fine couple, and I’m not the only one. Naz thinks you’re the best thing to happen to the department in years.’

  Rana had sighed. ‘I’m not interested in anyone at the moment. I’m too young to think of anything like that. I need to concentrate on my work.’

  A couple of days later Naz had found an excuse to talk to her. It wasn’t long before he asked her out to dinner. He was sneering and arrogant even before she refused his offer. ‘So it is true what the boys in the computer room say. You really are the virgin queen. Or perhaps you prefer women, ah-cha? What a waste!’

  The best course of action, she knew from the past, was to ignore him. She had concentrated on the new computer systems she had to learn, the system of filing and cross-referencing she had had no need for in her old job. Indeed, the more she learned of her new posting, the more she realised it had nothing at all in common with her previous police work. In Child Welfare she had been left alone to get on with her own projects; she had been her own boss with no one constantly looking over her shoulder to check if she was following orders. Here, it seemed that she had to have her every breath okayed by her colleagues. She could not open a file without being briefed by the officer working on the case. It was daunting to have her every idea and initiative stifled by authority. She felt like a schoolchild who would never be allowed out into the real world.

  She had spent her third day in the shooting range beneath the police headquarters, learning how to use a handgun on a variety of targets, stationary and moving. At the end of the day she had been handed a body-holster that fitted beneath her jacket, and a small pistol. Despite its size, the gun felt bulky next to her ribs. She had never carried a weapon in Child Welfare, and the thought of actually using it filled her with dread.

  On the morning of the sixth day she had attended a seminar on interview technique on the tenth floor. She’d sat through a fascinating two-hour talk on how to go about extracting information from a murder suspect. In the afternoon she’d been ordered down to the fifth floor where a technician was giving a demonstration on what he called the ‘crawler’, the latest model of forensic robot which investigating officers took with them to the scenes of crime. She’d been picked out to recite what she had learned and to demonstrate the new model, and after initial apprehension she had performed reasonably well. Rana felt that at last she was getting somewhere.

  Halfway through her shift on the seventh day, Investigating Officer Vishwanath emerged from his office, made straight for her desk and pulled up a chair.

  He was a tall, imposing figure in his sixties, with an eagle’s beak of a nose, thin lips that seemed cynical and eyes that had seen everything. He was feared by Rana’s colleagues on the eighth floor, and something of their trepidation when in his presence - though Rana had yet to speak to him - had rubbed off on her.

  She felt her mouth go dry and her face burn as he regarded her.

  ‘Lieutenant, you come highly recommended from Commissioner Singh. I hope you accord to expectations. How are things at the moment? Settling in?’

  She managed barely a nod and a meek ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Things a bit different from Child Welfare, no doubt.’

  ‘Very different. Of course the work here is more pressing, but I’m learning.’

  ‘Very good. Oh, and if Naz and his cohorts bother you again, tell them that I’ll have them back in the basement quick sharp, ah-cha?’

  She nodded, suppressing a smile of delight.

  ‘Have security checked your apartment yet, Lieutenant?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know they had to—’

  Vishwanath waved. ‘Routine procedure. I have the premises of all my staff swept every few months. We’re dealing with killers here, don’t forget that. In the past, criminals have been known to bug the homes of investigating officers. The next security sweep will be in about a month’s time, so your apartment will be searched then, ah-cha?’

  Rana nodded.

  Vishwanath slapped the desk and stood. ‘Oh, and one more thing. There are a few files I’m too busy to look over at the moment, concerning cases I think might be connected. Could you go through them, correlate likely significant factors, and download the files and your report to my terminal before ten?’

  ‘Ah-cha, sir. Right away.’

  Vishwanath called over to Naz to send the files to Rana’s terminal, nodded at her and strode away. Rana watched him go, aware of the flutter of her heart. Now if someone as mature and polite as Vishwanath were to ask her to dinner . . . She dismissed the thought. She was being stupid, indulging her fantasy of being swept away by a surrogate-father figure.

  She glanced across the room at Naz, who looked as if he’d just bitten into a rotten mango.

  For the rest of the shift she concentrated on the files describing the investigations, in minute and stomach-turning detail, of eight murders committed within the city limits over the past ten years. In each case the murder victim had been lasered in the head at point-blank range. On the cheek of each victim had been scored a crucifix. The dead were all businessmen - in one case a minor politician - who had been investigated on suspicion of corruption, bribery and drug trafficking.

  Rana pored over the reports, downloading data on the dead men from outside sources for factual corroboration, and made her report two hours later. ‘Though it would seem at first glance that these cases are obviously linked,’ she began, ‘there is the very real possibility that because the second murder was reported in great detail - i.e. the cruciform cutting was mentioned - the third and following murders might very well fall into the category of copy-cat crimes. However, examination of the case material suggests that all the murders are connected . . .’ She went on to list her reasons, and only when she completed, signed and downloaded the report to Vishwanath did she wonder if she had come down too vehemently in favour of the single-killer hypothesis.

  That night she was unable to sleep for worrying that Vishwanath had found her report shallow and facile. It occurred to her that the notes were old cases presented to her as an initiative test.

  The following day she began a new shift pattern: from eight in the evening through to six the following morning. To her dismay there was a message from Vishwanath flashing on her screen when she began work that night. She accepted it with a heavy heart, expecting a reprimand. She read, with relief: ‘Excellent report re. the crucifix killer, Lieutenant. We must discuss the details when I have the time.’

  It was a quiet shift. The office was all but empty, only Rana and one other officer working at the files. Midnight came and went and Rana experienced the strange isolation of working the night shift. Beyond the long windows of the eighth floor a vast ad-screen floated by, exhorting night-workers and insomniacs to try an ice-cold bottle of Blue Mountain beer.

  She worked through the files that had built up over the past few days, assigning them to various desks. For the past week she had promised herself that she would slip down to Howrah bridge after work and look in on Vandita and the others, see how they were keeping and how Private Khosla was getting on with his new posting. But always at the end of every shift she had gone home and slept - or, in the case of last night, not slept - too exhausted to brave the crush and look for her friends. Tomorrow, she told herself. In the morning I’ll leave here, keep myself awake with a strong coffee, and go see the kids.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the main door crashing open and Vishwanath running across to his office. He emerged
seconds later carrying a com-board and speaking hurriedly to forensic, head cocked to one side, for all the world as if he were talking to himself. He paused long enough to gesture impatiently at Rana. ‘Ah-cha, you, Lieutenant. Come with me!’

  Rana stood and crossed the room, then dashed back to her desk for her com-board, grabbed it and gave chase, disbelieving. She hurried down the corridor and joined Vishwanath, Naz and the forensic team in the elevator.

  Vishwanath nodded at her from a great height. ‘Pleased you could make it, Lieutenant,’ he said, but his acerbity was sweetened by a smile.