"Those damn engineers, Junior, that's what happened!" His voice rose in anger. "Didn't I always say we couldn't trust those damn pencil pushers who'd never set boot off-planet?"
"You did say that," Stanton agreed.
"They fucked up the food supply ratio calculations," Ferguson explained.
"The what?" Gold asked. When both Stanton and Ferguson looked at her disapprovingly, she defended, "I was a last minute addition to the crew. Sorry I don't know all the lingo."
"The food ratio calculations," Stanton repeated. "The engineers had to figure out how much food the colony would need, then make sure that they could grow enough food to feed everyone for eighteen months."
"It's not like we could run to the store or order a pizza," Ferguson grimaced.
"So they messed up?" Stanton asked.
"Yes, damn them," Ferguson shouted. "Damn them straight to hell. We should have made one of them come with us, then I bet there would have been enough food."
"You ran out of food?" Gold asked.
"Not exactly," Ferguson replied. "It was worse. After about nine months we could tell we were going to run out before the relief crew—you—could arrive."
Stanton understood the ramifications. It was something he'd wondered about, but he knew it would be okay because Ferguson's crew would have already proved the food supply would be adequate. Maybe Ferguson was right about him, that he wasn't really pioneer material.
"So what did you do?" Stanton asked.
"Well, what could we do, Junior?" Ferguson barked back. "We couldn't increase supply so we had to reduce demand."
Gold winced. "Reduce demand?"
Ferguson shrugged. "'Fraid so. I did the calculations myself. With seven crew members, we'd all starve at about ten months. With only six crew members, we'd starve at twelve months. We needed to get down to four crew members to make it until your team arrived."
"So you murdered three of your own crew?" Gold was aghast.
"Of course not, young lady," boomed Ferguson. "I double checked my figures, presented them to the crew, and solicited input on how we would decide who should survive and who not."
"How'd they take that?" Stanton asked, figuring he knew the answer.
"They mutinied," Ferguson replied flatly. "So I killed them. All of them."
Gold blinked at the nonchalant revelation. "You murdered six people?"
Ferguson scowled at her. "Murdered? Not at all. I am the captain of this station. They mutinied. Mutiny is a capital offense—or at least it was. Well, it should be anyway. So no, I didn't murder anyone. I executed mutineers."
"And there was more than enough food for one person," Stanton pointed out.
"Exactly," agreed Ferguson. "So I set out to build my crew a proper burial ground—"
"The catacomb," Gold realized.
"—and a memorial," Ferguson finished.
"The standing stones," said Stanton.
"Of course," Ferguson flashed a disturbing grin. "They may have been traitorous bastards, but they were also brave astronauts and pioneers. They deserved something to honor their service. Besides I needed something to do with my time."
"So when we didn't leave right away," asked Stanton, "you attacked my crew?"
Ferguson frowned at his school mate. "Attacked, Junior? That's a pretty strong word. No, I just tried to convince you to leave. I booby trapped the station door. Then I transmitted an image across the control glass to make you think the station might be haunted by the crew's ghosts. But that didn't work either."
"It kind of worked," Gold murmured. "Petrov believed it."
"Yes, but you didn't leave," answered Ferguson. "So then I had to get more aggressive. So I put out my old spacesuit, the one I'd worn to dig out that mausoleum for my crew. It was ready to give out any minute." He allowed himself a satisfied smile. "And sure enough it did."
"You murdered Dekker!" Gold snarled and took a step toward Ferguson, but he raised the gun slightly and Stanton pulled her back.
"I didn't murder anyone," Ferguson replied. "It was an accident. And anyway, I gave him a decent burial in the mausoleum alongside the others who have died here."
Now they knew what happened to Dekker's body.
"But you still didn't leave," Ferguson lamented. "So I also replaced Commander Mtumbe's antibiotics with vitamin supplements."
Stanton tensed up in anger but he knew not to try anything just yet.
"If you were going to stay we'd need to eliminate four of your crew. Lieutenant Dekker was one, Commander Mtumbe would be two."
"And Petrov and Rusakova made four," Gold calculated.
"So why did you murder Lin?" Stanton demanded.
"Because she caught me," Ferguson laughed. "She was examining the video and spotted me in the background. I was watching her when I realized what she'd found. She was about to comm you so I had to stop her."
Stanton was numb in disbelief.
"We're down to three now," Ferguson observed. "So there's enough food. I don't suppose you'd be willing to stay here under my command?"
Stanton shook his head. "Afraid not, Ferguson."
"Go to hell!" Gold spat.
Ferguson shrugged and let out a deep sigh. "Yes, I suspect I will."
Then he raised the gun and pointed it directly at Stanton's chest.
"Goodbye, Junior," he said and fired.
Chapter 65
Gold leapt in front of her captain and took the bullet to her shoulder.
Then, before Ferguson could realize he needed to fire another round, Mtumbe shoved aside a second wall panel and jumped Ferguson from behind.
Stanton was still stunned by not being dead. He bent down to check on Gold while Mtumbe and Ferguson smashed into the corner of the comm center, struggling over the gun.
"I'm okay," croaked Gold. "Help Daniel."
Mtumbe was obviously not dead, but he was also still very weak. Once Ferguson overcame the initial shock of being attacked, he regained his wits and raised a foot to Mtumbe's stomach as they struggled. He kicked Mtumbe away, sending him tumbling to the floor. As Mtumbe pushed himself onto all fours, Ferguson stepped up next to him and pressed the gun against his head.
"Goodbye, Commander. I'll bury your body with proper honors."
The sound of a gunshot echoed through the comm center. Ferguson turned and glared at Stanton. He opened his mouth to say something, then collapsed to the floor—dead.
Gold's shot had pierced his heart.
Stanton looked at his dead mentor, then at his living friend. "Are you all right, Daniel?"
He flashed that smile of his. "I'm fine, Captain. That antibiotic shot worked. When the lights went out, I felt better enough to try to help. I went to turn the emergency lights on in the control room, but accidentally found an opening to Ferguson's lair. I finally figured out what was going on so I stayed hidden to see what happened next."
"Hello?" Gold called out from the floor. "Gunshot wound here."
"Oh right," Stanton hurried over and helped her sit up. "You okay, Gold?"
She looked at him disapprovingly. He looked uncomfortably at Mtumbe, then relaxed. "You okay, Cassie?"
"I'm okay, John," she answered. Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Let's go home."
THE END
PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE - Preview
Here's a preview of Stephen Penner's legal thriller, Presumption of Innocence, available now!
Chapter 1
'Don't go inside. Call 911 and wait for the police.'
Brunelle examined the note taped to the front door of the Montgomery's audacious suburban home. Its neatly penned letters were bathed in the red and blue strobe of the half dozen cop cars the neighbors never thought they'd see in their subdivision.
"The parents went inside, didn't they?" Brunelle asked without taking his eyes from the warning.
"Of course they did," answered Detective Chen. "The dumb bastards. Now they'll never get that sight out of their heads."
Brunelle turned away from the note. "That's too bad. You and I get paid to forget, at least once the case is over. Forget and move on to the next one."
Chen put a hand on Brunelle's shoulder. "You're gonna have trouble forgetting this one, Dave."
Brunelle frowned. He was an assistant D.A. with the King County Prosecutor's Office in Seattle. He'd been there nearly twenty years, working his way up from shoplifting, through drug possession and burglary, to robberies and assaults, and finally homicides. He'd tried over a hundred cases and handled literally thousands more. He had to forget the details of each, at least a little bit, to be able to prosecute the next. He didn't want to get his facts mixed up in front of a jury.
But Larry Chen had been a Seattle Police officer for going on thirty years. He'd worked his way up from beat cop, to sergeant, to detective. From property crimes, through drugs and vice, to special assaults, and finally major crimes and homicides. Brunelle only saw the cases the cops could solve, but Chen saw them all. If Chen thought it was bad, it was bad.
Brunelle pushed the door open.
It was worse.
Hanging from the balcony railing at the top of the sweeping staircase that framed the palatial foyer, blocking what would otherwise have been, as designed, a breathtaking view of the perfectly decorated and immaculately clean home, was the upside-down and very dead body of thirteen year old Emily Montgomery.
"Fuck," exhaled Brunelle, the girl's lifeless eyes swinging grotesquely only a few feet from his own.
"Exactly," agreed Chen.
"Okay!" called out a woman from the other side of the entryway. "You can let her down now."
Brunelle looked up as two patrol officers slowly began to release the rope that was holding the victim aloft by her ankles. The woman who had called out to the officers stepped over to guide the body to the floor with latex-gloved hands.
Brunelle had never seen her before.
"Dave Brunelle, assistant district attorney," Chen commenced the introductions. "This is Kat Anderson, our new assistant medical examiner."
Anderson was already kneeling next to the body, checking for signs of rigor. She looked up long enough to offer the quickest of hellos, then set back to examination.
"Uh, nice to meet you," Brunelle stammered. He wondered how someone so pretty had ended up choosing cadaver-carving as a career. "I'm David."
Anderson looked up smiled. "Got it," she winked. "I was here when he said it."
Brunelle fought back a blush. "So, uh, what did she die of?"
"Well, David Brunelle, assistant district attorney," Anderson said while palpating the tissue around the girl's neck, "my thirty-second diagnosis is cardiac arrest brought on by acute loss of blood."
"She bled out?" Brunelle asked doubtfully. He waved a hand around the home's entryway. "There's not a drop of blood in here."
Anderson stuck a gloved finger into the linear wound in the girl's purple-white neck. "There's not a drop of blood in here either."
* * *
Presumption of Innocence
About the Author
Stephen Penner is an author and artist living in the Seattle area. He writes a broad variety of fiction, including thrillers, science fiction, and children's books. In addition, he enjoys drawing and painting.
For information on his latest books, visit his website: www.stephenpenner.com
www.ringoffirebooks.com
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