Necropath (17 page)

He was due to arrest a colonist from Mahogany—a terrorist wanted for political killings on that planet—due in on a voidship from Mars. The woman’s description was downloaded into his handset, and Chandra had studied it until he was confident he could spot the woman in a crowd. He had boarded the ship with Vaughan and stationed himself in the disembarkation foyer, while Vaughan had gone on ahead to mix with the travellers. He would single out the woman and walk out of the ship behind her. Chandra would join him and acting together they would overpower and arrest the terrorist.

It should have been so simple, but Chandra had messed it up.

He saw the woman—or who he thought was
the
woman—with Vaughan separated from her by a couple of pushy tourists and unable to force his way through. As the travellers flowed down the ramp, Chandra had jockeyed himself into position beside the woman. They exited the ship, crossed the deck towards the terminal.

At the exact second that Chandra pulled the woman to the ground, drawing his pistol and shouting at her to freeze, Vaughan screamed: “What the hell!”

Chandra had rolled, the terrified woman in his grip, and looked back at Vaughan. A woman—
the
woman, Chandra now realised—had sprinted away from Vaughan and drawn a weapon, aiming at Chandra as he sprawled on the deck. She had fired, but Vaughan had leapt at her and knocked her off balance. Her shot hit the deck beside Chandra, ricocheting off with a dying whine. Vaughan wrestled the terrorist to the ground, disarming her and beating her across the head with the butt of her own weapon.

“What the fuck were you playing at, Chandra?” Vaughan screamed at him with a venom more shocking than the woman’s shot. “You could have got us both killed!”

Chandra had expected a reprimand from his commanding officer, at least—at worst, temporary suspension pending an official enquiry. Amazingly, Vaughan chose not to report the incident.

“It could have happened to anyone,” Vaughan said when Chandra brought the subject up later.

“Everyone deserves just one fuck up. That was yours.”

And Vaughan had never again mentioned the incident.

“I got to know Vaughan a little better after that,” Chandra told Sumita now. “But never very well. I can’t remember the number of times I thanked him. It must have been pathetic. I was young and naive.” Chandra smiled. “The strange thing was, Vaughan refused to acknowledge that he’d saved my life. It was as if he didn’t want me owing him anything. I came to realise later that in his personal dealings with his fellow man, Vaughan likes to keep a clean balance sheet.”

Sumita tapped her lips with an oval fingernail. “There are some people like that,” she said. “They don’t like people getting too close. They do everything they can to distance themselves.”

Chandra nodded. “That sounds like Vaughan.”

“Subconsciously, they don’t want people becoming too close for fear of losing these people. Having no one at all is a preferable state. Often, these people have lost people close to them in the past. Do you know if Vaughan has lost a loved one?”

He told her about Tiger.

“Interesting fellow,” Sumita said.

Chandra smiled. He was about to tell Sumita about Vaughan’s quest for the Chosen One when his handset chimed. Sumita raised her eyes to the stars.

“Chandra here,” he said.

Commander Sinton’s face appeared on the screen. “Chandra, I want you on duty in ten minutes.”

Chandra glanced at his watch. “At two in the morning, sir?”

“You heard what I said. There’s been another shooting. It bears many similarities to the Bhindra case.”

Sumita was looking at him, lips pursed in an attempt not to smile. He covered his handset. “I’m sorry, Sum.”

“Am I saying anything?” she smiled.

“Where is it, sir?” Chandra asked.

“Lieutenant Vishwanath’s already there. Ship Seven, on the Boulevard of Voidships. Report to me with the details before dawn, will you?”

Chandra cut the connection.

Sumita draped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. “Take care.”

* * * *

The Boulevard of Voidships had been a money-spinning venture developed by the director in charge of the ‘port before Weiss. Instead of having the old decommissioned ships towed off and scrapped, he came up with the idea of utilising them as accommodations for wealthy citizens willing to pay exorbitant rates for something a little different. A cantilevered shelf was added to the southern margin of the ‘port and two-dozen voidships were welded into position overlooking the ocean. The old, three-man voidships were transformed into single accommodation units, while the larger freighters were subdivided into individual apartments.

Ship Seven, a squat, three-man explorer dating back to the turn of the century, sat in a well-manicured lawn, its silver carapace gleaming in the light of the moon. It looked to Chandra, as he climbed from his flier on the boulevard, as if the explorer had just touched down in paradise.

The homicide scientists were filing down the ship’s ramp, their work done at this particular crime scene. The clean-up boys were kicking their heels on the lawn, waiting to be given the all-clear to go in and remove the corpse. Vishi met Chandra at the foot of the ramp.

“I don’t know if Sinton told you, sir, but it looks like the same killer shot both Bhindra and this victim, Marquez.”

“He mentioned there were similarities.”

Vishi ushered Chandra up the ramp, through the carpeted foyer of the ship, and into a spacious lounge that had once been the bridge. A long, curved viewscreen looked out over the ocean.

Vishi crossed to a red velvet Chesterfield and knelt behind it. Chandra stood behind him, staring at the dead man for longer than was wise. He was suddenly aware of the meal he’d consumed earlier.

Like Bhindra, Marquez had suffered the fate of having had his head blown away with the impact of the shot. The messy decapitation robbed the corpse of character and dignity; it might have been a shop mannequin lying face down on the thick pile carpet, up-flung arms parenthesising the puddle that had been its skull.

“Who was Marquez, Vishi?”

“Miguel Jose Marquez—a spacer with ESA, the European Space Agency, from the age of twenty-five until his retirement at fifty. The last twenty years he’s lived on the Station, first in New Mumbai and then here. It’s the ship he flew on his first exploration mission.”

Chandra glanced at him. “Which Agency did Bhindra work for?”

“The Asiatic Space Corporation.”

“So what are those similarities?”

Vishi proffered the screader. “These are the findings of the scientists, cross-related to those in the Bhindra case.”

Chandra accessed the screader. Vishi kept up a running commentary. “The projectiles in both cases were fired from the same rifle, a high-calibre Steiger repeater, a weapon favoured by assassins.”

Chandra nodded. “Very good, Vishi.”

“There’s more, sir. We have a witness to the arrival of a black Ferrari flier outside the ship two hours ago, minutes before Marquez was shot. The witness reported seeing an indistinct male, probably Indian, climb from the flier and enter the ship. The same witness saw the man leave a couple of minutes later and take off. The flier had a tail light malfunction, causing it to flicker. I’ve put the description out Station-wide.”

“Excellent.”

“As regards the Bhindra case, sir, witnesses also reported seeing a black Ferrari flier passing the apartment at the time Bhindra was shot. It looks like we’re looking for the same man in both cases.”

Lost in thought, Chandra walked around the lounge. On walls, shelves, and desks were the mementoes of a lifetime: graphics of ships, crews, landscapes of wonderful and exotic planets, a haphazard collection of extraterrestrial rocks. Like Bhindra, Marquez collected model spaceships—a touchingly juvenile hobby for grown men to indulge in after a lifetime among the stars.

He paused before a writing desk, the centrepiece of which was a signed photograph of three uniformed spacers, arms about each other’s shoulders. He stared at the man in the centre of the pix, then read the names of Bhindra, Marquez, and a spacer called Essex.

His pulse racing, he turned to Vishi. “I thought you said Bhindra worked for the ASC?”

“That’s right, sir, according to records.”

“Take a look at this.” Chandra indicated to the signed photograph. “They’re all wearing ESA uniforms, Vishi. Not only were Bhindra and Marquez both spacers, they worked together back then. Get to records. I want to know what missions they flew on together.”

Vishi nodded, walked to the viewscreen, and spoke hurriedly into his handset.

Chandra gazed around at the stacked possessions, the miniature spaceships, and the rocks, then back at the body. He wondered if someone so engrossed in the acquisition of possessions had ever thought about the inevitability of death, the possibility that it might all end like this.

Vishi turned from the viewscreen, consulting the text on his handset. “Bhindra was seconded to the European Space Agency for a year. He flew with Marquez on two exploration missions.”

“Do you know which planets they explored?”

Vishi nodded. “The first mission was to a planet designated L56b, Capella. It was found unsuitable for human habitation and never investigated further.”

“And the second?”

“A world designated M68a, Vega II—found to be Earth-norm, colonised and renamed Verkerk’s World.”

“Verkerk’s World...” Chandra echoed.

Vishi shrugged. “That’s what records say. Do you think it might mean anything?”

“It might, Vishi. Get back to records. I want to know the name of the third pilot on the Verkerk’s World mission, where he is, and what he’s doing now.”

While Vishi spoke into his handset, Chandra returned to the desk and stared at the photograph of the three handsome, laughing spacers, young and ambitious and with all their lives before them.

Verkerk’s World... The place was cropping up too frequently of late for it to be a mere quirk of coincidence. First the shielded container and the Chosen One from Verkerk’s, then the link with both the drug and the religion to the planet, and now this.

“The third pilot was a Brit by the name of Patrick Essex,” Vishi reported. “And... this is a bit of a coincidence—he now makes his home on Verkerk’s World. Must have liked the place.”

Chandra nodded. “He must indeed.” He picked up the photograph and stared at the tanned, laughing face of the British spacer, Essex.

“I think we’ve learnt all we can here, Vishi. Let’s get the clean-up boys in.”

They were walking down the ramp when Vishi’s handset chimed. He stopped, took the call, then looked up from the screen to Chandra. “That was control, sir. A patrol in the northern sector is trailing a flier answering to the description of our black Ferrari.”

Chandra felt his pulse quicken. It was a long time since he had experienced the visceral thrill of the chase. They jumped aboard the flier and Chandra engaged vertical thrusters, banked tightly into a crimson air-corridor and mach’d north.

As the lights of the Station scrolled by below, Vishi got through to the patrol pilot trailing the killer. “We’ve been following him for three minutes, lieutenant. He must know we’re on to him. But he hasn’t tried any evasive manoeuvres yet.” A hesitation. “Should we go in for him, pull him down?”

Vishi looked across at Chandra.

“We’ll be with you in two minutes,” Chandra said. “We’ll tell you when to move in, okay?”