Marlowe and the Spacewoman (6 page)

“No.  I’d almost certainly be a lot healthier.  I wouldn’t have quite so many run-ins with Gwen and Artie, for starters.  You’d think being the brother of the Governor would afford me some slack in life.  But despite your comically haphazard attempts to pretend I’m not a relation, which fools only the most dimwitted and least threatening of your opponents, the bulk of your adversaries are under the mistaken impression you care about me.  They keep trying to hurt you through me.”

“I know.  I deliberately foster that belief so they don’t hurt the people I do care about.”

“Well, I certainly respect your honesty.”  Not, he mentally added.

“Listen, Gervase, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days, I need someone I can trust to handle a slight problem.  You forget to send me Xmas cards every year, I contemplate having you deported almost daily.  We have our issues.  But we both also have a common enemy.  Obedere.  A defeat for me is a winner-takes-all victory for him, and I know you’ll want to deny him that.  If not to save our lives, then just out of sheer spite.  And, as an added bonus, I pay very well.  Three hundred Cituros a day, plus expenses, plus the full backing and resources of the Office of the Governor if you’ll handle this.”

Three hundred a day got Marlowe’s attention.  “I’m listening.”

“Just over an hour ago, a craft of some type crashed into the Northeast Rural District One collective farm.  The crash completely wiped out the Brussels sprout crop and severely damaged the kale yield.”

“Go on,” said Marlowe.

“There was one survivor.  A woman.”

Marlowe shrugged.  “So what’s the problem here?  The law’s clear.  She damaged City food production, she’s facing a capital charge.  You’ve never had any qualms about executions before.”

“A news vid team managed to get on the scene and report the crash,” said the Governor.  “The people know that the Brussels sprout crop has been wiped out.  The quantum computers are already projecting eighty percent odds she’ll become a folk hero, and executing her could lead to a rebellion with her as the rallying cry.”

“So don’t execute her.  Give her a medal, make nice with her and ride the coattails of her popularity.”

The Governor shook his head.  “Not that easy.  Obedere was first on the scene.  He’s already arrested her, and if I had gotten wind of all this just two minutes later than I did, she’d have already been executed.”

“So Obedere wants to carry out the law.”

“Of course,” said the Governor, “and that’s the great irony.  He has every legal right to do it, but if I let him, it causes me no end of trouble.  There have been more whispers of discontent lately, and I don’t need that right now.”

“You never need it.  So where do I come in?”

“Ah, yes.  Here’s the twist.  This woman, she claims to be from outer space.”

Marlowe barked out loud with laughter.  The sofa tightened up a bit at the outburst.  “And I’m a Lost Martian!  Sounds like a candidate for the City Municipal Hospital for the Criminally Deranged, if you ask me.  Of course, you did want to seem tough on crime and repealed the insanity defense in capital cases a couple of years ago.  Not looking like such a bright idea now, is it?”

“Listen Marlowe.  I’m not so sure she isn’t from outer space.  Her craft, or what’s left of it, wasn’t a jet.  And when it showed up on our radar, it came from nowhere.  Nothing on the screens, and then a dot at supersonic speed that plowed into the Brussels sprouts field.  Like someone dropped it from above right into our air space.”

“Come on, you can’t be serious.”

“Listen to me.  Obedere’s been drooling for the Governorship ever since he made Chief Minister of Policing.  That’s where I was before I ascended to the throne.  It’s only natural to want to move up.  If he manages to get her executed, you can bet your bottom City scrip he’ll make sure I bear the brunt of popular discontent.”

“Well,” said Marlowe, “you did write that particular law calling for the death penalty-”

“You see, that’s exactly how it will play out on the street.  Whip up some public sentiment against me, have a few trusted and well-placed allies move in, and suddenly I’m dead, Obedere’s Governor, and you’re in the Ministry of Policing Maximum Security Detention Facility, wishing for death.”

“What can I possibly do?  The law’s the law.”

“Yes, it is.  And if you read the law carefully, you’ll find there is an exemption clause.  ’Outstanding circumstances beyond a reasonable individual’s control.’  If you can prove she’s really from outer space, I’ll invoke that clause, pardon her, and then throw a parade in her honor.”

“Prove she’s from outer space?!  But that’s preposterous!”

“Listen to me, Marlowe.  Your job is to prove she’s from outer space, whether or not she is.”

Marlowe closed his eyes so his brother couldn’t see him rolling them.  “And if I don’t take the case?”

“Then your car will be towed – to the impound lot.  If you know what I mean.”

“Where do I start?”

“You’re the detective.  You decide.  The woman is being held at the Ministry of Policing.  I did manage to arrange for a more comfortable cell for her, but I wouldn’t dawdle too long before taking her into your custody and out of Obedere’s.”

“Then I better get cracking.”

“If you visit her, and I’m assuming at some point you will, Obedere will be waiting.  He’s bound to interfere.  He’ll want you to fail.  But that’s not an option.”

“Brother, have I ever failed you before?”

“Yes, many times.  But in this particular instance, it’s your hide too.  You have an incentive to succeed.  Coochie, let him go.”

The sofa cushions relaxed and Marlowe was able to get up.  Artie and Gwen materialized out of nowhere and each latched onto an arm.

“OK, Marlowe, I’ll update your status on the CityNet.  You’ll have almost as much authority as Obedere now, and in some specific situations, more.  He’s bound to resent that, which is the primary reason I’m giving you this power.  Anyone gives you trouble, tell them to check on the net.

“Artie, Gwen, please be kind enough to take him back to his car.  Gently.  Oh, and Marlowe, before you go, one last thing I need to mention.  An added complication, as it were.”

Gwen and Artie crossed over the threshold of the office door and spun Marlowe around so he could face his brother for this final revelation.  The Governor paused for a moment, trying to sound repentant while clearly struggling not to burst into laughter.

“Dad isn’t dead, he’s alive, he’s escaped from the City Municipal Hospital for the Criminally Deranged, and when I secretly committed him to that hospital after the coup, I led him to believe you arranged for the commitment.  So watch your back.”

The door sliced shut, cutting Marlowe off from his brother.  Gwen and Artie dragged him, backwards and jaw gaping, all the way back to the street.  They derived so much mirth from the Governor’s final revelation and its effect on Marlowe that they didn’t even bother to beat him up before releasing him.  Well, not much, anyway.

CHAPTER 5

NEVER TRUST OLD FRIENDS OR SPACEWOMEN

Marlowe picked himself up from the foot of the City Hall steps where his escorts had tossed him and hailed his Studebaker, which was still circling around the block in quest of parking.  The car rumbled to a stop in the middle of the street, triggering a hail of horn blasts.  Marlowe dashed across the lanes and jumped into the already open driver’s side door.

“House, pipe in my favorite music.”

“I never deactivated the encryption.”

“You heard everything in my brother’s office?”

“Yes.”

“OK, then map me out the most efficient route to the following destinations: the three reconstitution shops Tray’s most likely to be at, the Ministry of Policing, and the crash site.”

“I’ve already taken the liberty of downloading them to the car.”

“Car, let’s go.  Where’s our first stop, House?”

“Ministry of Policing.”

“Nuts.  Why is it always the bad news first?”

“Are you really expecting any good news today?”

“I live in hope.”

A tone of playful mischief entered House’s voice.  “Don’t you want to ask me about the surprise?”

“No.  I know what you’ll say if I ask.  You’ll just bait me with vague hints and a refusal to spoil the surprise.”  Marlowe was in no mood to play this game with House.

“Yes, I suppose telling you outright would spoil it.  But I could give you a tiny hint if you’d like.”

“No, I’d rather be surprised,” said Marlowe, who felt exactly the opposite.

“By the way, I’ve finished the analysis of the mushrooms.  They contain psilocybin, the primary ingredient in the psychotomimetic drug known as Trippin’ Tabs.  If Gomer consumed any of them last night, I have no doubt he had very interesting dreams indeed.”

“Lucky him.  He goes on a trip, I get murdered.  Just goes to show how unfair life can be.”

The Studebaker whizzed along, racing northeast towards the outskirts of the city.  As the distance between the car and the heart of the City grew, the lanes dropped off, one by one, the buildings became squatter and grayer, and the number of Bucky Brews, a chain of ubiquitous coffee shops saturating the City, thinned out dramatically.  The wind picked up, rocking the aerodynamic-in-marketing-brochures-only Studebaker.  Normally, Marlowe would have enjoyed the rolling motion, found it relaxing.  But he was heading towards the Ministry of Policing, and there was nothing soothing about that.

With the wind came acid rain, pelting the car like a blizzard of ball bearings dropped from a cargo plane.  When he bought the Studebaker, the dealership had convinced him to buy a Teflar coating to protect the paint from the polluted rain water.  Every time it rained on the car, Marlowe was reminded of that expensive waste of scrip.  The cracked and peeling Teflar coating now actually trapped the acid rain, sandwiching the corrosive liquid directly against the paint.  Well, not so much paint now as primer and, in spots, bare metal.  Fortunately, aside from the eyeball on the hood, the car was painted rust red anyway, and from twenty meters away, while the car was moving at twenty kilometers per hour, it didn’t look half bad.

The business complexes thinned out, intermingled briefly with the industrial warehouses, and then abandoned the warehouses to their own devices.  The space between buildings grew with each passing kilometer, revealing flat plains of yellowed grass and mud.  The outskirts were approaching, and soon Marlowe would be matching wits with Obedere again.

The Ministry of Policing building was situated out in the middle of nowhere, with no buildings around to compete with it and easily defended, wide-open plains surrounding it.  The first overt sign he was getting closer was the Great Barrier, a three hundred meter tall giant ring of hardened ceramic and concrete encircling the complex.  The road ran straight up to the ring, and then stopped.  Only magnetic propulsion systems and airborne flitters could proceed beyond this point.  As a defense against ground traffic, this was an added feature.  The magnetic conduit under the road continued up just under the surface of the barrier, and Marlowe had to check in to make sure the Ministry of Policing Traffic Controller maintained magnetic resonance.  The Traffic Controller generated a cancellation field in the steel running up the steep slope of the barrier, effectively stopping all vehicles on the ground.  With the proper clearance, a driver could have this magnetic cancellation field inverted, allowing the car to climb the side of the barrier, albeit very, very slowly, given the angle.

Marlowe transmitted his clearance, which would also ensure that Obedere was informed of his imminent arrival.  The code was acknowledged and accepted, and Marlowe leaned back in his seat as the car reached the edge of the barrier and started up.  The slope was gentle at first, about ten degrees, but grew steadily steeper until peaking out at seventy degrees.  The inexorable tug of gravity pulled Marlowe into the back of his seat as he stared at the sky, and then shifted as they crested the barrier.  The ‘Service Magnetron’ light in the dash that had been flickering as they traversed the slope went dark as the car returned to a normal, parallel-to-the-ground orientation.  This sort of travel was very hard on the Studebaker.

The other side of the Great Barrier had a much gentler downward slope.  This allowed police ground traffic on the inside to move quickly to any point on the barrier where an unauthorized intruder was attempting to gain entry.  Not that they’d had anyone attempt such a suicidal endeavor in recent memory.  But there was a saying in the City.  “Coups happen.”

Crossing the Great Barrier meant they only had another twenty kilometers to go before reaching the complex proper.  But even at this distance, Marlowe involuntarily groaned with terror as the obsidian pyramid appeared on the horizon.  Thirty stories tall (and at least twice as deep), the black marble building stretched up into the sky like an inverted cone of death.  Tiny elevators moved up and down along the outside slopes, and at the entrance, a set of stairs ran up to the pinnacle.  Not that anyone ever used the stairs.  Well, occasionally prisoners were pushed down them, but no one ever used them in the other direction.

Jet black, unmarked police flitters with dark opaque windows zipped in and out of the complex, while in the parking lot that encircled the building like a calm, midnight sea of asphalt, a fleet of more waited to be boarded by jet black armor-clad drivers with jet black guns and jet black stun batons.  Marlowe felt a rush of fear as the car continued closer.  His hair stood on end, and his hands shook.  Memories of his last ‘visit’ to the Ministry left the taste of bile in his mouth.  The sudden spike in stress levels sent the nano probes surging out of their storage sack to the far corners of Marlowe’s circulatory system, sowing a freshly manufactured cocktail of Prozium, Valzac, and Nicodeine.  It helped.  Marlowe’s shaking stopped, and his sense of certain death faded into a mere apprehension of doom.  But the hair stayed at attention.

A couple of flitters soared overhead as Marlowe approached the entrance to the visitor’s lot.  They hung above him briefly as he turned into the lot, and the Studebaker’s passive sensors detected their probes sweeping over the car.  It was a rare sight indeed for an unescorted visitor to arrive at the Ministry of Policing.

The complex’s security system overrode the Studebaker’s controls as soon as he crossed through the first perimeter fence.  While Marlowe had never felt uncomfortable letting the car drive itself, he felt a distinct discomfort at having the Ministry of Policing behind the wheel.  Still, there was nothing he could do.  The security system guided the car to a dark, covered entrance not visible from the road.  Marlowe climbed out when the door popped open and after a moment’s hesitation, headed towards the entry.

In the shadows of the entrance, something moved.  Something large, something ominous.  Marlowe kicked on the low light filter and found himself staring down the infrared-haloed form of the Chief Minister of Policing.  Obedere.  His past and present nemesis.  CMP Obedere had a dark, malevolent glare emanating from deeply sunken eyes, the filter-enhanced green infrared reflections from his retinas only adding to the demonic aura that clung to him like stink to a bloated, overripe peach.  Well, non-GM peach, since the genetically modified ones never spoiled.  

Obedere was bald, the soft fuzzy pink flesh of his head bunching up in fatty layers that cascaded down to his cheeks, where they sagged into puffy jowls that swallowed up his neck.      Beady eyes set into a sagging, rotting peach festering on the fruit cart of his shoulders.  He wore the standard obsidian black City Constable’s uniform, but on the banded collar that rode up against his chin, jowls, and ears rested a small gold pin of a hammer pounded into an anvil, indicating his rank as Chief Minister of Policing.

Marlowe remembered the last time he was here.  The BondoRestraints holding his hands together, the shock sticks prodding him forward into the darkness, Obedere grinning gleefully.    Ministry of Policing Inquisitors had held him in a small room at first, glued to a Truth-Be-Told Table, asking him questions he couldn’t answer, urging him to confess to something he hadn’t done and knew nothing about.  After hours of intense, violent questioning, he’d been willing to confess to anything, but the Truth-Be-Told Table prevented him from lying.  Probably Obedere had expected such an outcome and had relished the irony.  But that particular memory wasn’t what haunted Marlowe now as he stood staring once again at Obedere in that dark doorway.

The Inquisitors had stopped asking questions.  They peeled him off the Truth-Be-Told Table, leaving a thick layer of his skin behind, and dragged him into the next circle of Hell.  Down halls, stairs, and into dimly lit elevators.  Until they reached the theater.  The operating theater.  All the way there, Obedere had walked alongside him, a spring of anticipation in his step and a grin of gleeful mirth splashed across his face.  When they arrived at the theater, Obedere slipped off, chuckling, as the medical techs strapped Marlowe to a gurney, legs together, arms spread apart.  

Technicians gowned in black smocks with black face masks and caps covering most of their heads crowded over him like a gaggle of grim reaper interns.  They remained silent, only their eyes visible, none looking directly at Marlowe.  And then, for a moment, he was alone, naked and cold but too spent to shiver, the icy metal steadily sucking the heat out of his body.  Obedere reappeared above him, taking a seat in the observation lounge and languidly watching the detective through the glass ceiling.

“Are you comfortable, Gervase?”

Marlowe had still been Gervase Fen at that point.

“You are about to become part of a most important project.  I want you to know this so you won’t feel your suffering is in vain.  Don’t worry, no questions.  No more questions.  We don’t need your answers any more.  We know all we need to know about that particular crime.  A convincing confession with the appropriate details has been manufactured despite your lack of…cooperation.  So concern yourself no more on that particular matter.  Besides, this is much more important.  What you are about to embark upon is a scientific endeavor.  A pet project of mine.  You will help us determine nothing less than the biological origins of sedition!”

Marlowe hadn’t fathomed exactly what was coming next.  He remembered the innocent confusion those words had sparked, the hope that maybe he wouldn’t die.

“After this latest attempt on the Governor’s life, he has authorized a study I have been advocating for years.  We are taking a sampling of the criminals guilty of sedition and treason, and studying and comparing them to see if there are any physical or genetic commonalities.  Imagine, if we could find that!  We could selectively breed out all rebellion and civic mischief, or design a retro-virus that removes the offending genetics from the human genome.  Peace, tranquility, and obedience, now and forever!

“Now I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, planning exactly what to look for and how to get it.  Alas, you will be the first participant of the study, so we may take a misstep here or there as we fine-tune the methodology.  But rest assured, your participation will only pave the way for future members of the study to have a…smoother experience.”

Icy fear had begun to seep into Marlowe as he listened, but it was nothing compared to the plummet into abject, helpless terror that the next words brought.

“We will be taking blood and tissue samples.  We will be removing organs for study.  We will dissect your brain to look for abnormalities.  We will begin now.”

Bright lights temporarily blinded Marlowe and the dark silhouettes of surgeons crowded over him.

“We’ve decided, in the initial draft of the protocol, that sedatives and anesthetics may cloud the results.  I hope you don’t mind.”

Something cold and smooth was placed against his abdomen.  A shock jolted through him, not entirely painful, but certainly not pleasant.

“And we can’t have your nano probes interfering, trying to undo our work.  That would only slow things down.  The shock you just received has neutralized them.  Gervase, though you may not enjoy this, remember that science and future generations salute you.”

After awhile, they tired of his screams and piercing shrieks, so they gagged him.  Then all Marlowe could do was whimper.  And with his head strapped in place, all he see was Obedere’s shadowy form above him, a cherubic angel of death.