Red Planet Blues

  Lakshmi, though, was still alive. Juan’s aim was lousy; he’d merely hit the writer in the shoulder. Still, she was discombobulated enough that I was able to spring up from the floor, retrieve my gun, and then wrest hers from her. I then knocked her down and stood over her, my pistol aimed right between her breasts.

  Juan rushed over to Diana, in some desperate hope that she was only injured and not dead. I heard him making small sounds.

  Lakshmi looked like she was falling into shock from the gunshot wound. If I was going to get any additional information out of her, it would have to come soon. “Stick with me, sweetheart.”

  But she didn’t. Her eyes fluttered up into her skull.

  I didn’t want to plug Lakshmi if it wasn’t necessary, not because she didn’t deserve it but because it would result in too much of a hassle with the cops—not to mention the administrators of the writer-in-residence program. She could have been faking being in shock, but the ever-widening pool of blood behind her suggested she wasn’t. I shoved Lakshmi’s little gun into my waistband, then looked for something to tie her up with. I supposed I could use my belt, but I’d spent enough of this case running around naked; I didn’t want to end up in a big chase with my jeans around my ankles.

  Juan was still on bended knee in front of Diana, as if he couldn’t believe she were dead. “Cover Lakshmi,” I said to him. He seemed a bit shocky himself, but he nodded, rose, and lifted his weapon. I saw he wasn’t really pointing it at Lakshmi, but about a half meter from her; amateurs like Juan always found it hard to pull the trigger again after they’d seen up close the sort of damage a bullet could do.

  I stepped into the other room and found a white terry-cloth bathrobe hanging in the closet. I pulled the sash out of the loops, brought it to the living room, and used it to bind Lakshmi’s wrists. The cloth soaked up blood from the surrounding puddle, the red stark against the white fabric.

  Then, as it often does, fate took a hand. The doorbell sounded. A portion of the living-room wall changed to the view from the front-door camera. Standing on the stoop was none other than Sergeant Huxley of New Klondike’s Finest.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Imotioned for Juan to follow me, and we hustled into the back room of Shopatsky House. The doorbell sounded again as we climbed through the missing window. My first thought had been that the cops had pieced together Lakshmi’s involvement in all this, but then it occurred to me that Huxley was perhaps simply following up on the buggy joyride; Juan’s vehicle was still sitting on the fern-covered lawn.

  I didn’t have time for the cops right now. Yes, Lakshmi needed medical attention, but even Hux would have the good sense to walk around the house when no one answered, and he’d doubtless find the hole where the window had been and go in to investigate.

  Juan and I made our way along the edge of the dome, the alloquartz cool to the touch. I knew the clear wall next to me was curved, but from here it seemed completely flat. Juan kept saying, in a shaky voice, “My poor Diana.”

  We had gone a hundred meters or so counterclockwise along the edge of the dome. Outside, on our right, we could see rocks casting shadows beneath the yellow-brown sky. In the distance, a couple of Mars buggies were going along at low speed.

  To our left now was a warehouse, with cracked walls and a couple of boarded-up windows. Rent tended to be cheap out on the rim, despite it being the only place where you could get uninterrupted views of the vast Martian plain—people preferred to live near the center, if they could afford it, so that they could see something human instead of the vast unchanging monotony of the world that had crushed their dreams. “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing for Juan to pick up the pace. We headed down one wall of the warehouse and exited out onto the radial street.

  A horn sounded—not as loud as the one on Juan’s buggy, but still jarring; we’d come out onto the road in front of a tram. “Come on!” I said.

  We ran the short distance to the tram stop, passing a few other people as we did so: a dour middle-aged male prospector dragging a wagon that had nothing in it but mining tools; a teenage girl who glared belligerently at me, but then thought better of starting anything; and a thirty-something woman who was dressed like a banker or a lawyer—encounters with either of which usually spelled trouble for me.

  We got on the tram. There were five other biologicals onboard and one transfer. The biologicals were staring at little screens; the transfer was looking off into space—or, more precisely, I suspect, was watching a movie or something that only she could see. It was generally better not to sit on the filthy tram seats. Juan knew that, but he was so shaken he plunked himself down. We were soon passing the Windermere Medical Clinic.

  I managed to get Juan, who was still mostly out of it, to change trams at the appropriate point, and when that tram reached the stop closest to the shipyard, I tapped him on the shoulder. He got up, and we headed over. But Juan was still shaky, and he looked nauseous. “Take a few minutes,” I said. “There’s a kybo over there.” I pointed to the outhouse past Bertha’s shack. “Join me when you’re ready.”

  He nodded and headed over to the small structure. I hustled over to the descent stage and clambered back aboard the cylindrical vessel.

  “Can I be of assistance?” Mudge asked as soon as I was inside.

  “Yes,” I said, to Mudge, “you can be of assistance.”

  The computer sounded awfully pleased. “What can I do for you?”

  “Has anybody entered since I last left?”

  “No.”

  “Good. First things first, then: you flew here from the Alpha Deposit.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you must know the way back.”

  “Of course.”

  “Display written instructions for returning there, please.”

  “That information is locked.”

  “I’m sure it was locked. And I’m sure it isn’t anymore.”

  “Well, well, well,” said Mudge. “I’m surprised.”

  There were four monitors in a row along the curving outer wall. The far left one lit up with black text on a pale green background. If Mudge hadn’t been so old, there’d probably have been a way to transmit the instructions to my tablet computer, but I didn’t have time to fool around figuring out how. Instead, I just pulled out the tab and took a picture of the text, checked to make sure the photo was legible, then slipped the device back in my pocket.

  “Okay,” I said. “Now, erase that information—permanently.”

  “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

  “Yes. Wipe it. Use the strongest possible erasure method.”

  “Done.”

  I blew out air. “Good. Now to the matter I asked you about before. Denny O’Reilly was marooned here on Mars. Correct?”

  “Yes,” said Mudge.

  “Simon Weingarten took off without him. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “How long did O’Reilly survive after being marooned?”

  “He turned me off to conserve power for the life-support systems after seven days. I don’t know how much longer he lived after that.”

  “Why did Weingarten abandon O’Reilly?”

  I was leaning back against one of the walls of the wedge-shaped room. I’d expected the answer to be the prosaic one: “He wanted all the money for himself.” But what Mudge said surprised me. “The love affair between Simon and Denny had taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Love affair?” I repeated.

  “Yes.”

  I was down on the lower floor; I stepped into the central shaft and did a quick three-sixty: there was indeed no second bedroom down here.

  “What went wrong?” I asked.

  “Denny had promised to leave his wife when they returned to Earth, but Simon had discovered that Denny was involved with another woman on Earth, and that he had a young son by her and intended to take up with her upon his return.”

&nb
sp; “And who was the other woman?” I asked.

  “Katsuko Takahashi.”

  I nodded. Reiko’s grandmother. “Why didn’t O’Reilly blow the whistle on Weingarten?” I asked. “All he had to do was radio Earth and blab that he’d been left behind.”

  “Sending a radio signal to Earth is a tricky matter,” said Mudge, “and, as onboard computer, I was in charge of such things. Before he left, Simon programmed me to not allow Denny to send any such messages.”

  “Are you aware that this ship’s ascent stage was destroyed re-entering Earth’s atmosphere?”

  “No,” said Mudge. “But that explains why I have been unable to contact Currie.”

  “Who?”

  “My counterpart; the computer aboard the ascent stage.”

  “Simon Weingarten perished on re-entry, too,” I said.

  “Noted,” said the computer dispassionately.

  A thought occurred to me. “Mudge, did you arrange the transmitting of Denny O’Reilly’s diary back to Earth?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Three hours before Simon departed in the ascent stage.”

  “So, Denny didn’t know he was going to be marooned at that point?”

  “I assume not.”

  “Then why did he send the diary?”

  “Space voyages are risky. There was always a chance the return trip might fail. And, of course, Denny believed that he and Simon were going to spend that voyage in hibernation. He was afraid he was about to go to sleep and never wake up.”

  “Who did you send the diary to?”

  “Katsuko Takahashi. It was encrypted; she alone had the decryption key.”

  “Did you—” I stopped and turned around. Juan was coming through the airlock. A little color had returned to his face. He nodded at me but didn’t say anything. I turned back to face Mudge’s console. “Did O’Reilly send copies to anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Not to his wife?”

  “No.”

  “Did you keep a copy of the diary?”

  “No. Denny ordered it wiped after it was sent. He was cognizant that someday this descent stage might be found.”

  I looked at Juan. “Could you recover it?”

  “How did you delete the file, Mudge?” Juan asked.

  “Blastron protocol 2.2b,” the computer replied.

  Juan shook his head. “It’s gone for good.”

  Which meant that I had the one and only copy in my pocket. It belonged, of course, to Reiko Takahashi, who was still my client. I’d return it to her—after making a copy for myself, of course.

  My phone played “Luck Be a Lady” from Guys and Dolls. The little screen showed Dougal McCrae’s face, the signal presumably making it in through the open airlock door. I was surprised it had taken this long for that shoe to drop. Huxley must have reported the shooting of Lakshmi Chatterjee, not to mention the discovery of Diana’s body, some time ago. I accepted the call. “Hello, Mac.”

  “Ah, Alex,” said the freckled face. “Just thought I’d touch base. Make sure you’re doing okay.”

  I tried not to look or sound puzzled. “Well as can be expected.”

  “Dr. Pickover’s body is at the station now, along with those of the other three transfers.” He paused. “I’m so sorry it turned out this way, Alex.”

  “Me, too.” I peered at him, waiting for him to go on, but he didn’t. “Um, Mac, did—has Sergeant Huxley called anything in?”

  “Since when?”

  “Last hour or so?”

  “No. After he’d finished out by the Kathryn Denning, he went home. His shift was over.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Um, he’s not a wannabe writer or poet, is he?”

  Mac laughed. “Huxley? God, no. I don’t think he even reads, let alone writes.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  But Mac’s eyes had narrowed. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Thanks for the call.” I shook off.

  The Windermere Medical Clinic was indeed near Shopatsky House; it seemed like a good bet, so I had my phone call it. Hot little pink-haired Gloria answered. “Hey, babe,” I said, “just calling to check up on Lakshmi Chatterjee. That was a nasty gunshot wound to the shoulder. She still there?”

  Pay dirt. “Oh, hi, sexy,” she replied in that breathy voice of hers. “Didn’t know she was a friend of yours. Might have sterilized the scalpel if we’d known that.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “We got her all cleaned up and sent her on her way.”

  “She was a bit shocky earlier.”

  “Oh, we took care of that, of course. She’s fine now.”

  “Thanks. Is the man who brought her in still there, by any chance?”

  “No. No, he left even before she did. Said he had some business to take care of.”

  “Thanks, angel.” I shook my wrist again, and the screen went dark.

  “Alex?” said Juan, looking at me. Of course, he’d overheard the conversations.

  “It looks like Lakshmi has a friend on the police force,” I said. “And I’d bet money that the business he had to take care of was . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to upset Juan.

  “Yes?” he said. “What?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time the NKPD had lost a body,” I said gently. “I bet Huxley went back to dispose of Diana’s.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Doubtless Huxley would have the body moved before I could make it back to Shopatsky House. And I was so tired, if I did run into him there, even he might get the jump on me. Yes, I wanted revenge—but I wouldn’t get it if I didn’t get some sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come easily, not in a bed I’d shared with Diana. I took some melatonin, which usually puts me out, but it didn’t work. Instead, I mostly lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling, which had a slowly rotating fan hanging from it.

  My gut was churning, and my head was whirling—it was an odd sensation; I think perhaps it was what they call feeling guilty. If I hadn’t sent Diana to see Lakshmi, she’d still be alive, still waiting tables, still writing poetry, still laughing and smiling and thinking about a better tomorrow.

  Even if Huxley was on the take, even if Diana’s body was now disposed of, I’d find some way to make Lakshmi Chatterjee pay—or, on the slim chance that she’d been telling the truth (I suppose there was a first time for everything), I’d make whoever had done it pay.

  I got up in the morning, showered, and was eating synthesized bacon and eggs when my phone started playing its ringtone. I looked at my wrist; the ID said “NewYou.” I accepted the call, and Horatio Fernandez’s face appeared. “Alex, I’m worried. Reiko was supposed to be here almost half an hour ago, so I headed over to her place, just to see if she was okay. She’s not there.”

  “She took something to help her sleep last night. Maybe she’s just out like a light.”

  “No, no. She’s gone. The door had been broken open, and the place was empty.”

  “Damn!” I’d assumed she was safe, what with Willem Van Dyke and all three meese dead. But—

  Christ. Lakshmi Chatterjee. I’d warned that bitch not to go back to the Alpha—but maybe she thought if she had my client as a hostage, she’d be able to get away with it. One good day raiding the beds there would make her insanely rich, after all; I wouldn’t be surprised if she was planning to head back on the Kathryn Denning with a steamer trunk full of fossil loot as soon as that ship was ready to go.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find her.” I said goodbye, then called Mac, who had just gotten into the police station.

  “Morning, Alex.”

  “Mac, Reiko Takahashi is missing again. Her place was broken into. I suspect she’s been taken outside the dome. Can you check for me?” There were only four airlock stations; Lakshmi had to have taken her through one of them. I could have hoofed it to each one, but that would have taken all morning, and the security guards didn’t have to take my bribes, but th
ey did have to answer Mac’s questions.

  “I’ll get Huxley to check,” Mac said.

  “No!” I said. Then, more calmly, “No. I’d take it as a personal favor, Mac, if you could make the inquiries yourself.”

  “What’s going on, Alex?”

  “Oh, you know me and Huxley.”

  Mac frowned dubiously.

  “Please, Mac. I’ll owe you one.”

  While I waited for Mac to call back, I got ready to go out the door. I was just doing up my shoelaces when my phone rang again.

  “She went out of the north airlock,” Mac said. “And she wasn’t alone. She was with that writer-in-residence woman, Ms. Chatterjee.”

  “Ah. Did they rent a Mars buggy, by any chance?”

  “No,” said Mac. I was relieved; that meant they couldn’t have gone far, and—

  “No,” Mac said again. “They drove up to the airlock in one, and they took it outside.”

  Oh, crap. “What color was it?”

  “The buggy? Jesus, Alex, I didn’t ask. What difference does that make?”

  “None. When did they leave?”

  “They logged out of the dome at 5:57 a.m.”

  I looked at my wall clock; four hours ago. And if they were outside the dome, they weren’t the NKPD’s concern.

  “Thanks, Mac. I’ll be in touch.” I shook the phone off. Shopatsky House was near the north airlock, and I’d bet solars to soy nuts that the Mars buggy Lakshmi had taken Reiko outside in was white with jade green pinstripes—the one I had conveniently left running on the front lawn of the writing retreat.

  If it had only been Lakshmi heading to the Alpha, I’d have been half tempted to just let her drive right on out there. The deposit was still guarded by a row of land mines, and I’d shed no tears if she was blown sky-high. But Reiko was my client, and I couldn’t take having another one of those die on my watch.