by David Ryker
Moozana had known from the second he’d ordered Ward to be brought in that he was putting him on the case. He hadn’t even been bashful about the reasons, either. He wanted to get this solved and more investigators would do that faster. And like Moozana said, if the AIA were in this somehow, then it would put Ward in a position where he’d have to choose. The bastard really was smart.
Ward sat on a bench under a streetlight arch and started leafing through the photographs. The pole to his left stretched into the air, lined with LEDs, and arced over the roadway, touching down on the other side. There was another one about twenty meters down. From a distance, it looked like a long tunnel of light. But the level of illumination was undeniable.
The glossed surfaces of the photos shimmered as he held them between his fingers, studying each in turn. Sadler would have been forty-three, and her face still had that youthful determination he’d noticed every time she walked into a room. She was attractive, but her features were hard and unforgiving. She was one of the smartest people Ward had met. She had a real eye for detail, a superb sense of anticipation — she could look at an object, a room, a situation, and know its ins and outs, how it was threaded, and how she could take it apart, analyze it, exploit it. In the year that they’d worked together, he’d never seen her once make a mistake. Not a hint of a slip-up. She was in full control of everything she did. She wouldn’t have it any other way. Everything had to be checked twice, and then again. There was no margin for error with her.
If she was lying face down in the middle of the Martian capital, it was for one reason, and one reason only. Because that’s exactly where she’d wanted to be.
Ward closed the file and checked his watch. It was after eight, but the coroner would still be working. They’d be doing a post mortem right now, probably. No time to waste on that front.
That would be his first stop. He needed to see her, to look her in the eyes and see what the hell was going on.
He stood up and looked left and right. There wasn’t a car or taxi in sight and his bike was a way aways. He sighed and kicked a little rock off the curb. It skitted across the solar cell-laden roadway and into the brush on the other side.
At least the night was balmy, and he didn’t mind the walk. It’d give him time to read, either way.
He took off at a steady pace, already plotting his route through the investigation.
The toxicology report wasn’t in the file, only the preliminary assessment, that Anna Sadler had been killed by a single bullet, put right between her collarbones. It had severed her left common carotid artery, and she’d bled out in just under a minute. They hadn’t analyzed the bullet yet, and nor was there any more information on it. The coroner would extract it and by the time he got there, hopefully, there’d be some news.
Ward crossed the empty road and picked up the pace. There was a lot to do before the night was done, and he was a long way from knowing the first thing about this case. All he knew was that it wasn’t going to be straightforward. Things like this never were, and yet, this one felt special. Sadler was a good person. He’d known her well. Very well. For her to go off the grid like that, and turn up here? It was almost too much to process. He needed to get out of his head, distance himself from it. She’s just another body, he thought. She’s just a body in the street, and this is just like any other investigation. But what he couldn’t have anticipated then was that that couldn’t haven’t been further from the truth.
It was nearly an hour later by the time Ward rounded the corner and approached his bike.
Eudaimonia might have been one of the safest cities in the OCA, but there was still a wealth divide. The pursuit of a utopia didn’t come with communism attached. Eighty percent of the people in the low-income bracket were Humans, and most of them lived in the Human Quarter.
Solar cycles were Martian tech and they weren’t cheap. It was no surprise then that three kids were trying to hotwire it. Eudaimonia public schools were great, but they didn’t teach grand theft auto, luckily. The security system was, like everything else the Martians built, top quality.
Ward approached slowly, letting his heart settle. The walk had been brisk. He took in a couple of deep breaths and wrapped his fingers around the grip of the M2.0. He hoped he wouldn’t have to pull it. Discharging a weapon came with paperwork and Ward hated paperwork.
“Hey,” he called from a distance, stopping and scratching at the thick carpet of stubble on his chin. He held out his free hand in a universal halt signal, fingers spread, and surveyed the three of them. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen apiece. The one on the right looked about fifteen.
They were wearing jeans and hooded sweatshirts pulled up to hide their faces from the magic eyes roaming the streets. Their profiles would still be logged if they were seen, but the magic eyes would have to get close to register that their faces were hidden, and then scan bare skin. Incidentally, it was illegal to have your face covered and no skin showing for that very reason. Not that they gave much of a shit about what was legal and what wasn’t considering they were trying to lift a spook’s bike. Technically he wasn’t an SB spook, but it was splitting hairs. His title was ‘special consultant’, but it was sort of tomato-tomato.
They all looked up like vultures at a carcass, heads snapping to attention as Ward called out, but they didn’t bolt. That was their first mistake.
“Piss off, old man,” said the one at the front, the ringleader with a round face and a sprinkling of hair and pimples on his top lip.
Ward cracked a smile, stepping forward. “Want to try that again?”
He gave Ward the finger. “Screw you. We’re working here. Unless you want me to snap you in two?”
He probably had about fifteen kilograms on Ward, an extra ten centimeters in height. But it wasn’t hard-packed muscle, and there was no combat training available in Eudaimonia, not for civilians. No martial arts classes. No boxing. No violent sports, even. Unless you counted tennis as violence. There was no need for them in Eudaimonian society. The Martians thought Humans were practically savages for wanting to beat the shit out of each other for fun. But it meant that the three kids staring Ward down might have been tough shit in their neighborhood, but that was against limp-fisted thugs. The only fighting they knew was from watching bootleg streams coming in from Earth. Illegal broadcasts or downloads of UFC or jujitsu at the Olympics. But watching someone get kicked in the head wasn’t the same as being taught. And Ward had been taught. Very well.
It was almost unfair, and he didn’t like violence. Especially needless violence. But if they weren’t going to run, then he didn’t have another choice. The coroner’s office was too far to walk and he was on the clock.
“I’m giving you one more chance,” Ward said slowly. He didn’t have time to screw around. “I’m SB,” he announced. “And that’s my bike. I’ve got my hand on an M2.0 Custom, and I’m licensed to use it. You’ve got five seconds to step away from the bike and get the hell out of here. One.”
They looked at each other and then started laughing. “You’re going to shoot some kids, just like that?” the one with the bristly lip spat. “See, I don’t think so. How will your SB puppeteers feel about you executing some kids just checking out a solar cycle on the street? I mean, this thing costs more than my ma makes in a year. It’s a sight to see.” He grinned at Ward, oozing sleaze.
Ward hardened, his fingers flexing around the grip. It didn’t look like they were going to be scared off that easily. And with him there — and his biometric profile synched to the bike, well, that was their ticket. If they could get hold of him, unlock the immobilizer, they could just start up the bike and ride away. And like they said, it was worth more than their parents’ annual income. Which meant that they weren’t leaving. Not without a fight. And mustache was right, Ward wasn’t about to execute three kids.
He sighed and let go of the grip, pulling his hands into loose fists instead. He cracked his neck and stepped forward. “Come on, then,
let’s get this over with.”
Ward wasn’t big, but he wasn’t small either, and he knew how to throw a punch. Hell, he’d thrown enough of them.
The tall kid came forward, smiling, lolloping side to side with his hands low and sloppy, hanging his chin out to dry like a prizefighter. Maybe he’d gotten into a few scraps around the neighborhood, but he’d clearly never been hit in the face. If he had, he’d know to keep his guard up.
Ward watched him come, the symmetrical gait too easy to read. A step left, a step right, turning half on, swinging the right hand low and balling it, ready to come up with a cross.
Ward raised his hands, protecting his face, squared up a little and then lowered them, exposing his cheek. He watched the kid home in on it and dragged his left foot back, moving into a southpaw stance. He wasn’t a leftie, but it would throw the kid off a little. Ward’s primary fighting style wasn’t boxing, more like a militant mixture of Krav Maga and Aikido with a little kickboxing thrown in for extra damage. But he didn’t want to break the kid or really hurt him. There was no need.
Ward wound up with his left, dipping his rear shoulder. The kid lunged, coming high and wide with his right instead, his attention focused on Ward’s face and cocked left fist — which was why he wasn’t looking where he should have been.
Ward lifted his right foot and sank into his left, kicking out with enough force to buckle the kid’s knee. He twisted inside a little, angling out, ducking under the hook and parrying with his loaded left while the balls of his foot connected with the inside of the knee joint.
The kid’s ankle turned over and his leg splayed, and with an awkward squeal like a kicked pig, he crumpled.
That blow alone would have been enough but there were two options presenting themselves to Ward in that split second where the kid’s eyes widened and he began to go down. First, he could let him go down and then deal with the others much in the same way. They probably hadn’t even seen what happened. Not registered how dangerous Ward was in close quarters. They’d probably think that two on one was still good odds.
The second option was to make a statement and save himself a third hit.
Ward chose option number two.
As the kid fell, Ward dropped and balled his right fist, driving it up into the soft patch of flesh above the belly button.
The kid’s feet left the ground and he hung in the air for a second, letting out a long squeezed-out whine like someone was pinching the nozzle of a deflating balloon.
He’d be fine, if not winded and sore for a few days. But the message was received loud and clear.
The kid folded up onto Ward’s arm, scrabbling at his stomach and hips for balance as every shred of brain power he had told him to fall down and curl into a ball.
Ward stared at the other two kids, still next to his bike, eyes like holes in the night sky, and shoved the big kid into the street with pure indifference.
He took two awkward steps and then collapsed in on himself, whimpering and gasping for breath.
The two remaining kids looked at each other and then held their hands up, backing slowly away. One bolted and then the other followed, leaving their friend right where he was.
Ward mounted up, cranked the ignition and then tore off toward the coroner's office, file still under his jacket and not a bead of sweat on his forehead.
He drove past the prostrate form of the boy with the scabby mustache and wondered who he’d go and pummel to get his rocks off, regain his status as king of the shit-pile.
On any other day, Ward might have gone back and whispered some scary shit in his ear — about how he’d come and find him if he did take out all that misplaced anger on some helpless kids. But it wasn’t Ward’s fight and there were bigger fish to fry. He just made a mental note to hit him harder if they crossed paths again and he wanted a rematch.
It wasn’t like Ward to pull his punches usually, but he also wasn’t cruel. Not unless the situation called for it, that was.
Maybe he was just saving it up, feeling deep down that he was going to need it for later.
And he was right. He was.
4
Ward streaked beneath the lit arches, the warm summer air pulling at his eyes and making them water.
The smooth surface of the road might have looked slick, but when combined with the rubberized polymer of the tires on his bike, it made for a high friction coefficient. It would have killed the fuel efficiency if the electromagnetic induction wasn’t powering him along. But what it did mean was that riding was safer in Eudaimonia than anywhere else in the OCA. Easing off the throttle was the equivalent to hitting the breaks anywhere else, and the second he let his hand off it, the bike slowed dramatically, the tires sucking on the roadway.
He had to keep his wits about him coming down off the mesa, but in the city, riding was a cinch. That and he found helmets restrictive. Couldn’t hear much, narrowed field of vision. Sure, there were the smart-tech clear foam ones that molded onto your head, and hardened only on impact, but they looked damn ridiculous. It wasn’t like the roads were that busy in Eudaimonia, anyway. Their public transport system was glorious, with overland maglev monorails zipping around the city ten times an hour. You were never more than a short walk from a station and never more than a few minutes from the next arrival. The city was meticulously designed like that and ran on clockwork.
As such, Ward had no trouble getting the hammer down and bringing the bike up to a speed that was nearly blinding. The truth of it was that very few people in Eudaimonia even had bikes. He hadn’t seen another one for months, but he’d never liked cars much. His father had raised him on bikes on the days he was fit to ride and he’d spent a lot of time on them growing up. He felt comfortable in the saddle, maybe even a little nostalgic, if that was even possible with a childhood like his. It was easy to forget where you came from when you were this far from home, and it kept him connected to whatever parts of his upbringing he could stand to remember. He hadn’t spoken to his mother since he’d arrived on Mars. It was part of his contract. No contact with Earth — potential security risk that he might reach out to the AIA. If they only knew.
The Martians and Humans had a solid agreement in place for the free exchange of information and resources so long as the Thessaly Treaty was in effect. But there was having faith in the other party, and then there was just being lax. The SB kept to themselves on Mars, and the AIA did whatever they wanted on Earth. Space was a free-for-all and had a much more synergetic air to it. That didn’t extend to Eudaimonia, though.
Ward eased the bike up to triple digits, weaved around an articulated automated triple-trailered food transport heading into downtown, and looked for his turn-off.
The coroner’s office was cool and clinical.
He stepped off the street, a pleasant, albeit dusty, Martian breeze blowing between the buildings, and took a deep breath.
Outside the street cleaning robots hummed, sweeping up the red sand collecting against the curbs, and compacting them into little cubes. At the end of the night, they’d trundle out to the dust depo and drop them off, ready to be mulched with the Gods-Moss and turned into alcrete ready for more construction work.
Ward approached the front desk and waited. The office looked deserted.
He checked his watch. It was nearly ten by then. He sighed and reached for the bell. He dinged it and chuckled at the upbeat chime. Some things never changed. They just got to a point where they were perfectly functional, and couldn’t be improved. A mechanical bell was simple, reliable, perfect. A book, beautiful and wholesome. The M2.0 in the small of his back. Precise. Elegant. Effective.
The door behind the curved white desk opened with a quiet hiss and an older Martian man stepped out, his bald pate shining under the halogens, the tufts of curled gray hair above his drooping ears dancing gently in the wash of the air conditioning. He was wiping his hands clean with a disinfectant rag and had blood smeared on his plastic apron.
“Yes?” he said, hi
s wide eyes bagged and dark.
“You the coroner on duty tonight?”
“Bloodied apron gave it away?” he said glibly.
Ward smiled pleasantly, the image of the coroner getting socked in the teeth flashing in his mind. He fell down and cried and Ward’s grin widened. “I’m here about the body brought in this afternoon. Human. Female. Mid-forties. Single gunshot wound. Sadler.”
The coroner raised an eyebrow. “You’ll forgive me for asking to see some identification?”
Ward touched his shoulder, his badge fluttering in the air above his hand.
The coroner stared at it for longer than necessary and then nodded. “All right, come through.” He sighed. “You’re not the first, though — or the fourth — so I don’t know what you hope to find that the Martian investigators didn’t.”
Ward let the race jab slide. He took no offense. It wasn’t uncommon for Martians to look down their noses at Humans, especially when it came to sciences and anything else that benefited society in a meaningful way. The majority of the sciences and other academic fields were made up primarily of Martians. Inversely, nine in every ten scrubbers were Human. But the ratio was the same for comedians and entertainers in the city, too, so Ward wasn’t sure what to make of the statistics.
He shrugged. “No harm in looking.”
“Not to you maybe, but it’s hardly ideal working conditions for me when you SB agents are parading in and out of here all night long.”
Ward rolled his eyes and kept walking, following the coroner, who’d gone back through the doorway via the corridor at the side of the desk. He thought about Cootes’ unnamed contact who passed on the news of Sadler’s death and tried to assess the likelihood of this coroner being him. He doubted it, somehow. Just a gut feeling.
They met in the room beyond and headed for the autopsy lab.
Inside, Sadler was laid out on the table, her chest opened in a Y incision, her skin peeled back like the hems of a jacket. The cuts ran from the joints of her shoulders down under her breasts and then down her stomach to her pelvis.
