Gestapo Mars

by Victor Gischler

  I spent most of the nine-hour trip to Mars in the accelerated gym, working the kinks out of my muscles and getting my reflexes back. An hour at the gun range with slug-throwers and laser weapons confirmed that my hand–eye coordination was in order. I injured three troopers in a hand-to-hand refresher. No problems.

  I dressed myself in a new gray suit for my briefing with Armand, a small, tasteful swastika pin on the lapel. Reluctantly, I wore a thin black tie with red glitter down the middle.

  When in Rome.

  Except Rome had been nuked to shit decades ago.

  The door to the formal dining parlor spiraled open, and I entered. Armand sat at the far end of a highly polished wooden table, a crystal goblet at his elbow, a plate of something leafy in front of him. Behind him a huge red banner with a swastika in the middle hung floor to ceiling.

  “You’re doing well, I take it?” he asked.

  “I’m better. The effects of being in deep freeze so long were pretty severe. I don’t plan on going back in that long again. Or ever,” I growled.

  “You might change your mind if you do any traveling. They use cryo-sleep for journeys into deep space,” Armand said. “It takes three or four years at maximum translight to reach some of the outer colonies. We’ve been discovering wormholes, and those take us really far really fast, but there are still sectors of space where a long translight flight is the only option.”

  I shrugged. Humanity hadn’t made it that far out into the galaxy when I was put into stasis. I’d cross that bridge if I ever came to it.

  Armand gestured for me to take a seat next to him, and I did. He held up a packet in a thin, hard plastic container and slid it across the table to me. The flap was sealed with hardened red wax, the imperial seal imprinted in it, a complicated combination of the swastika and an eagle clutching swords with stars in the background. It all looked a little too busy to me.

  I put a hand on the packet. “What’s this?”

  “Your brief,” Armand said. “Don’t open it here. You’re scheduled to take a commercial shuttle to St. Armstrong on Luna, where you’ll catch a deep-space flight out of the system. The rest comes from higher up the food chain, and is for your eyes only.”

  “Why can’t I take a direct flight from Mars?”

  “Anything directly from Mars will be suspicious to the rebels,” he explained. “St. Armstrong became an independent city-state just after the big war, and nobody was strong enough to keep it from happening. As it turns out, it’s useful to have some neutral ground in the system. The rebels think their agents have you secure. In order to maintain that illusion, we need to ship you out from the moon.”

  “Right.” I stood, tucked the packet under my arm. “Guess I’d better dig into this and orient myself.”

  “One last word of caution,” Armand said. “Using an operative of your type and caliber is more than simply a matter of convenience. Once you’re out there, you’re on your own. We’ll be able to support you at the right time, but for the most part you’ll be dependent upon your own cunning and resources. So stay sharp.”

  “Sharp is my middle name.”

  I flipped Armand a salute and made my way back to my cabin. The ship would dock at the orbiting terminal around Mars soon, and once there I’d only have twenty-eight minutes to make my connection back to Luna. Not time enough to get a solid fix on the packet’s contents, but I opened it anyway to at least get a first impression.

  There was a digi-reader loaded with data. Tucked into the inside flap of the packet were three passports. One identified me as Carter Sloan, the other two alternate identities. There was a short, typed note tucked into one of the alternate passports.

  You will travel in disguise to Luna. Find your clothing in the closet.

  I opened the closet and saw the Catholic priest’s outfit hanging there, new and perfectly pressed. I put it on, and it fit perfectly. Black pants and shirt, black jacket, even the white collar. At least I didn’t have to wear some bullshit glitter tie. Sitting on the floor was a light bag with a change of clothes and various sundries.

  There was a slight bump, and the captain announced over the loudspeaker that the Rommel had docked. I slung the bag over my shoulder, grabbed the brief packet, and left my cabin. Nobody wished me well or even looked at me as I disembarked. I was the nowhere man, the human nothing. I never existed. Blink and I’m gone.

  Such is the life of an undercover operative.

  I caught a glimpse of Mars as I passed an observation lounge. Clusters of city lights blinked in sprawling patches, connected by crisscrossing rail lines. A thriving modern world. It would have been nice to visit, but duty called.

  I made the PanGalactic Spaceways flight with three minutes to spare and a stewardess with Heidi etched on her name tag showed me to my seat. She was blonde and big in that athletic way that made me ache a little. I hadn’t been laid in a quarter of a millennium.

  I pushed those thoughts away, to be dealt with later.

  The digi-reader hummed to life after two thumbprints, a retinal scan, and voice recognition. It was interactive, which meant I could ask it questions, but that necessitated some privacy. Fortunately, the empire had sprung for a first-class seat, which meant I could fold myself into a privacy bubble. I was sure there was elaborate eavesdropping equipment that could penetrate the casual security any commercial spaceliner could offer, but the digi-reader assured me it would shut down automatically if it detected spying.

  There was a list of both rebel and imperial contacts on St. Armstrong and elsewhere, which explained the high security. I literally held the lives of a dozen people in the palm of my hand.

  Then I sat back and let the briefing wash over me. The players, the stakes, the details that filled in the gaps. I asked pertinent questions and got good answers. This reader was state of the art.

  The new information needed to be sorted and absorbed. I told my brain to sleep, so I could let my subconscious step in. You don’t toss and turn when you’re an operative like me. You tell your brain to sleep and it happens. You wake up when you tell your brain that it’s time. This sort of thing is achieved through advanced bio-engineering, tempered with a good dose of strict mental discipline. The logic centers of the brain could perform miracles of analysis if I stepped back and let my subconscious do the heavy lifting.

  * * *

  Six hours later my eyes popped open with no additional insight that was relevant to the mission. It was apparently as simple and straightforward as it seemed, so there was no good reason to complicate things.

  It all boiled down to whether or not I was supposed to kill the girl.

  FOUR

  She was known as the daughter of the Brass Dragon.

  When the Reich originally settled Mars, the planet was divided into three sectors, each ruled by one of the emperor’s marshals. The three marshals tamed the new world, reshaped it according to the desires of the emperor. The marshals brooked no impediment to the building of the new Reich home world. The emperor granted them recognition for this accomplishment and dubbed them the Three Dragons. These became hereditary titles, handed down through generations—the Gold Dragon, the Silver Dragon, and the Diamond Dragon.

  There was another man without whom the Reich would never have tamed Mars. The head of Reich Gestapo, Joseph Heintz, ordered the deaths of more than a thousand men in a three-year period.

  Since that time, labor problems corrected themselves immediately when his name was mentioned. Opposing political factions vanished mysteriously. Joseph Heintz made problems go away in the fastest, most direct possible way. The machinery which built the Reich home world was oiled with the blood he’d spilled. The emperor dubbed Heintz “the Brass Dragon.”

  A century later, Heintz’s descendants would lead a bloody rebellion against the Reich.

  “Why am I disguised as a priest?” I asked the digi-reader.

  “Most of the major galactic factions respect Vatican Five’s diplomatic credentials,” the reader said. �
��As a Jesuit Corps operative, you will likely be allowed more extensive security clearances, and more leeway with local law enforcement.”

  Jesuit Corps. Vatican secret police. The empire thought of everything, and the Vatican home world was far enough away that nobody would really have time to check me out. As a Jesuit I could claim to be rounding up runaway clergy. Suddenly I knew what was in the packet’s other flap.

  I opened it and found the little beamer. It wasn’t much of a gun, but about the only thing that would fit in the packet. I stashed it in my coat pocket.

  The spaceliner was docking with the orbital terminal, and they’d be letting us off soon to catch shuttles to St. Armstrong. I moved to fold up the packet but paused, allowed myself one more look at the image of the girl that came with the dossier.

  She was beautiful, of course—twenty-five years old, a vaguely Asian appearance, proof of mixed blood which the Reich used to detest, but which I found exotic and attractive. Hair black and glossy, soft green eyes, and a quirky smile that held some secret. The secret to the universe? The secret to my heart? Who could say? The daughter of somebody important.

  The daughter of the Brass Dragon.

  Find her. Get her. Save her. Kill her. That simple.

  Not simple at all.

  I boarded the shuttle to the lunar surface.

  * * *

  The bulky shuttle touched down hard on the starport landing pad at St. Armstrong. The hydraulics kicked in, lowered both the pad and the ship below Luna’s surface, docked, and spilled the passengers into the customs area.

  I tripped the alarm walking through the security tunnel, and a squad of heavily armored guards with stun-gloves met me on the other side. Beyond them, six more guards looked on, automatic rifles cocked and ready.

  Another man stepped forward, no armor but an officer’s badge pinned to his lapel.

  “I’m sorry, Father, but we’ll need to search you.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, and I showed the captain the little beamer then dropped it back in my jacket pocket. “I have the appropriate paperwork.”

  “I’ll need to see,” the captain said.

  I handed over the passport and diplomatic credentials showing that I was a special envoy from Vatican. The captain looked from the papers to my face and back. “These are registered electronically with St. Armstrong Central?”

  “Yes.”

  The captain eyed my white collar, dark suit, the special silver ring on my right hand.

  “Jesuit?”

  “Yes.”

  The captain nodded. “These credentials give you forty-eight hours, Father Argus. You’ll need to register your weapon again with central if you take longer.”

  I nodded, and took my credentials back from the captain. “The gravity seems heavier than I remember.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “We went to .9 Earth normal about thirty years ago. The tourists were vomiting too much. How long since you’ve been in system?”

  “When I was a kid.” I kept forgetting how long I’d been in stasis. Fumbling tidbits of common knowledge would fuck my cover fast.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder and started to head for the transport bays.

  “Father?”

  I glanced at the captain over my shoulder.

  “Let’s keep it peaceful, okay?” He seemed sincere. “We respect that you want to police your own people, but the tourism board has done a lot to clean up our little moon the last few years. We limit most of the wave junkies and thugs to the basement levels. The prostitution district has been tightly regulated and disease-free since the Social Entertainment Health Act of 2209. Please respect our tranquility.”

  I shrugged.

  “The Lord willing.”

  * * *

  I checked into a hotel three levels down.

  Once I was in my room, I poured myself a drink from the honor bar and paged through the visitor’s information provided by the Luna Board of Tourism. It revealed that St. Armstrong consisted of a large domed park with moon-natural gravity topside, as well as eighty-five levels that went deep below the moon’s surface. The bottom five levels were restricted. It didn’t say why in the brochures, but I knew it was because the basement levels teemed with St. Armstrong’s criminal element. Not even the police went down to the no-go zones.

  I sipped my drink. It was only mildly alcoholic. Citrus. Something new or old news? Settlements this close to Earth were always inundated with the latest trends. Only products with staying power made it out to the far frontiers.

  Having finished the drink, I sank deep into the easy chair and opened the digi-reader again. I needed to get all I could from the instrument, because sooner or later I’d have to ditch it.

  “Suggestions?” I asked the reader. I already had a game plan, but it never hurt to get a second opinion.

  “You’ll need to make contact with one of the rebel agents in order to secure your out-system passage,” it intoned. “You should also make contact with one of the local imperial agents to determine if there is any up-to-date intelligence which might have a bearing on your mission.”

  “Probably a good idea not to get those two meetings mixed up.”

  “Such an action would likely endanger the mission and cost you your life,” the reader agreed.

  “It was a joke, you electronic shit pile.”

  “I am not programmed for humor.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’d already decided on that exact plan anyway. Bring up the list of contacts again. I’ll pick out a couple of likely suspects.”

  * * *

  In twenty minutes I had my pigeons picked out, but I wouldn’t be able to contact either of them until morning. It was getting past dinnertime, so I went to the lobby, asked where I could get a meal without wandering too far. The hotel had a fancy bistro, but I could eat at the bar if I felt like keeping it casual.

  I went into the bar, climbed onto a stool. Only the best places and the lousiest places had human bartenders. It was more economical for the in-between joints to use a bar-bot. This place was high end, and the bartender followed his little bowtie over to my stool. I ordered synthetic potato soup and a processed meat sandwich. I ate it and ordered a scotch rocks, nursed that, wondering how I’d waste the evening when the answer presented itself at the next stool.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello back at you.”

  “This seat taken?”

  “It’s all yours.”

  She smiled, put a cigarette in her mouth, and it self-lit on the first puff.

  “Buy me a drink.”

  “Sure.”

  The bartender seemed to know what she wanted without asking. I had an unlimited imperial expense account, so the whole place could swill champagne for all I cared. I supposed if I started buying luxury yachts somebody might come asking, but I wasn’t planning on it.

  The girl must have been pretty gung-ho to approach me in the priest getup. I didn’t mind gung-ho at all.

  She had a big pile of red hair flowing down past her shoulders. Blue eyes, skin so white it looked like she’d maybe never been above ground in her life. Not sickly white. Glowing and milky. You couldn’t help but wonder what her red nipples would look like in contrast to all that. She had matching green pastel eye makeup and lipstick. A flimsy dress that went with the color scheme of her makeup, plunging low in the back and showing a lot more skin.

  When she shifted on her stool, her impressive breasts moved around freely under the silky material. It was a dizzying effect, and I felt myself getting warm behind the ears.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Argus,” I lied. “You?”

  “I’m Cassandra,” she said. “Where are you from?”

  “Vatican home world.”

  “That’s so interesting.” She leaned forward as she said it, put a soft hand on my arm. “What’s it like?”

  “Same as anywhere.”

  “Wow, that’s great. What do you do for a living?”<
br />
  “I’m a Jesuit priest.”

  “That’s so interesting.”

  “Yeah, it’s interesting as hell.” I motioned for the bartender to bring two more drinks.

  “So what are you doing at this hotel?” I asked.

  “Oh, I come here a lot,” she said.

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  “Scotch.”

  “That’s so interesting. Men who drink scotch are interesting.”

  “You seem easily impressed.”

  “I’m just really enjoying talking to you.” She’d somehow scooted closer without my noticing, her thigh touching mine.

  I eyed her suspiciously for a moment then said, “After I murder everyone in this room, I plan to eat them cannibal style and use their bones to build a scale model of a Viking longboat.”

  “That’s so interesting.”

  “I’ll be damned.” I turned away, shaking my head. “A fucking FuckBot. For crying out loud. Does the hotel own you?”

  She said, “I am the property of Luna Sheraton LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of—”

  “Okay, I got it. Shut up.”

  It bothered me that I had talked to her for that long, and not realized she was a synthetic. What a putz.

  “Are you emitting pheromones?”

  Her voice and expression went flat. “This entertainment model is in full compliance with all local codes governing—”

  “Can the lawyer mode,” I said. “I’m not making a complaint. I just want to know.”

  “Yes, I emit pheromones to better enhance—”

  “That’s enough.”

  She shut up.

  The pheromones would explain it. I was still a little upset my judgment could be clouded so easily, but I had to admit to myself I still wasn’t back up to full speed. It would take time.

  “Clients charge your service to the room?”

  “That is one of several payment options,” she said.

  “How is it listed on the bill?”

  “In-room services.”

  “Let’s go.”

  A quick ride up the elevator, and a short walk to my room. She was already letting the silky dress drop to the floor as I closed the door behind me. She pushed against me, enormous soft mammaries pressing into my chest as she tilted her head up for a kiss. So I kissed her. Hard.