The Jovian Run: Sol Space Book One (9 page)

              The potential for profit gave the other man’s eyes a glassy sheen, and he wrung his hands together unconsciously for a moment. “Oh, yes, yes. Yoo-lins are good. Lots of copper and gold in there. Are the lenses intact? You have specs?”

              Templeton produced his surface, typed in his pass code, and pulled up all of the data and pictures he had on the recovered satellite. Ping queued up his own surface, and Templeton flicked the file over to him with a gesture on the screen.

“Yes, yes, I think this will be good. You have it with you?”

              “Nah, it’s on the ship. I didn’t want to bring it out here if you didn’t want it, and no use declaring it if I can’t get a good price for it.”

              “I think we can work something out,” the man replied. “Just let me run up some numbers. Can you bring it by tomorrow?”

              “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

              Several minutes later, after their business was concluded and they had exchanged a few more pleasantries, Templeton left
Ping’s Garage
and walked back the way he had come. After twenty paces or so, he turned and walked into one of the shops he had previously passed.

              John and Charis walked through an entirely different part of Tranquility, and Gwen walked between them. She held her father’s hand, her other hand pointing at various sights and shops around them. The Martian Mall, as it was called, was a decidedly family friendly space for tourists, though the dimensions were roughly analogous to those of Beeftown. Gwen had been asking for a Martian tee shirt and a new pair of sneakers, and so they had decided to do some family shopping. Now they strolled from storefront to storefront, and the people milled about them, passing, entering, and leaving, punctuated by automatons that drew the young girl’s attention without fail.

              “What about that one?” Gwen pointed, not for the first time, at a child’s shirt on a mannequin in the front window of a small shop.

              “I thought you wanted a purple shirt, honey,” her father replied. Gwen had been obsessive about purple lately, and there was scant little of it on the ship.

              “I do, but that one’s really pretty. Maybe we can get that one
and
a purple one?”

              “Gwen, we talked about this.” Charis buttressed her husband’s defense. “If you want that one, then we can’t get shoes too, and you’ve nearly outgrown your sneakers.”

              “I know.” The girl was momentarily downcast, but then she spied another clothing shop two doors down, and she was dragging them both by the hands to go inside. The shop was cramped, like most of the stores on the planet, space being at a premium, but the clothing was well made. Gwen eventually settled on a purple tee shirt a half a size too large that said “The Red Planet” in orange lettering. The letters were surrounded by glitter that Charis could already picture on her pants after a load of laundry. She couldn’t decide whether the fact that there was no actual red on the shirt was ironic or simply inaccurate.

              Gwen was jumping up and down in excitement and enjoyment of the light Martian gravity as they approached the counter to pay. Before they could reach it, John turned to Charis. “Hey, can you handle the shoe shopping? Dinah asked me to pick up a few parts for the ship.”

              “Why can’t Dinah pick those up herself?” she asked inquisitively.

              John chuckled a bit. “You know her. I’m not even sure she plans to leave the ship while we’re here. Something about overhauling the reactor gauges.”

              Charis nodded, perhaps a bit reluctantly. “Yes, sure. I’ll meet you back on the ship?”

              “Sure, babe.” He kissed her quickly, and when they had paid and walked out, he gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek and strode away quickly.

              Clea Staples walked into a bar. It was one of the older watering holes in Tranquility, called
The God of War
, and it did its very best to imitate the hole-in-the-wall run down biker bars that wheezed through life in every small town in North America. In truth, there were very few bikers on Mars. The planet’s vehicle restrictions made the pastime impractical at best, but the throwback decor made for a familiar place for locals looking to spend some of their paycheck, people hoping to forget their lives for a time, and tourists on a budget. Grungy guitar music from some prior decade invaded the street outside, reminding passers-by that some things never change, regardless of the planet. Inside was a sparsely lit collection of garish beer-sign neon, cheap furniture, and video entertainment. Some wall-mounted surfaces displayed various broadcasts, and a holo-stage at the back was tuned to some sports match transmission from Earth.

              As her eyes adjusted to the light, Staples surveyed the room. It was just past noon, and only a few regulars sat on stools near the bar watching the game. A group of young men and women, probably tourists, were eating pub lunches and drinking overpriced imported beer. Some bars on the red planet purported to brew their own beers from grains grown on-planet, but
The God of War
was certainly not one of them. After another few seconds of scanning the room, she found the person she was looking for.

              The woman looked different than she had the last time Staples had seen her. Her eyes were blue now, her nose smaller and wider, and her mouth was more puckered. The hair was almost blue-black, now standing in short spikes on her head. There was an unmistakable look in the woman’s expression, however, that Staples felt she would have recognized anywhere. The woman raised a hand in greeting, and the captain walked over and took a seat opposite her at the remote table.

              “Clea.” Her voice was husky, deeper than her build and face would have suggested. “Long time.”

              “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

              The other woman smiled politely. “That is precisely the point, my friend. It’s Jordan now, by the way. Jordan Fecks. How long has it been?”

              Staples had no doubts that the other woman knew exactly how long it had been, but she answered anyway. “Nearly a year now. How are you adjusting to Mars? Keeping yourself busy?”

              The woman waved her hand airily. “Oh, the details of my personal life would bore you to tears, I’m sure, but I’m just peachy.” Staples expected that the details of “Jordan’s” personal life would actually terrify her, and she was glad that she hadn’t answered honestly, but she had expected as much. “How is that ship of yours? What brings you to Mars?”

              “
Gringolet’s
holding together quite nicely. Work brings us here. A transport job. I’m not supposed to talk about it. I signed a waiver and everything.” Her tone was ironically self-important.  The waitress lazily made way over to the table and took their orders. Staples ordered a mid-range import beer. Jordan asked for a refresh of her water. Once she had sauntered away, Jordan spoke.

              “Let me guess. You’re transporting two engineers to Saturn.” She studied her nails as she said it.

              Staples shook her head. “Should I even ask how you know that?”

              The woman called Jordan laughed a bit. “No, I don’t think so. No.” After another moment passed, she added, “I assume there is a reason you wanted to meet? I do love seeing you, darling, but I had to take two trains halfway around the planet to get to Tranquility. I do hope that this is more than a social visit.”

“I’d like to hire you. You are still a Private Investigator?” She raised her eyebrows.

              “Was I ever? You know, if I remember correctly, the last time you hired a Private Eye, it cost you your job.” Jordan continued to regard her nails with her blue eyes, picking lightly at her thumb with her index finger.

              “True,” Staples assented, “but it bought me my ship. I think I came out ahead.”

              Jordan shrugged. “If you say so. What’s the job?”

Staples sighed and looked around the room. The regulars hadn’t moved, the score hadn’t changed, and the vacationers were just ordering another round. With the music playing, no one was in earshot of them. “I’ve got two new crew members that I’d like more information on.” She produced a manila envelope from her flight jacket and set it on the table. “There’s something off about them. I don’t trust them.”

The blue eyes flashed up at her, the brows raised. “Then why did you hire them?”

“I was in a rush, and Don pushed for them.”

“Ah, Templeton. Still the softie. I know you like to keep someone on your right hand who actually likes people more than books, Clea, but don’t you think you would be better off with someone who displayed some guile? Some subtlety?”

“I’ve had enough of guile. If I wanted to be surrounded by backstabbing vipers, I would have stayed at my old job. Don is a friend, and even better, what you see is what you get with him.” She felt herself blush a little bit as she defended her first mate.

Jordan seemed unfazed by her response. “Suit yourself.” She took a sip of her water, and Staples drank several swallows of her beer, which was not nearly as cold as she would have liked. “So anyway, you and Don hired these new crew members, you don’t like them, and you want me to look into them. That should be easy enough.”

Staples pushed the envelope over to her friend. “Harrison Quinn and Dean Parsells. They were friends before the hire, came as a pair, and apparently they were security guards at a prison up until two months ago. Their résumés are in the envelope along with pictures and background check information. Their references are good and their records are clear.”

Jordan nearly spoke over her last word. “But you don’t like them. So fire them. What did you hire them for?”

“Security.”

“So fire them. Clea, there are plenty of security personnel on Mars hungry for work.” She sat back and smiled a bit. “I could even recommend a few.”

Staples smiled a bit nervously in response. “I don’t think I want to hire anyone who has worked with you.”

Her interlocutor feigned righteous indignation. “Why Clea Staples!  Are you implying that I keep unsavory company? I’ll remind you who I am sitting across from at the moment.”

“No offense,” Staples responded, not quite sure whether the woman was genuinely offended under her somewhat comic veneer. “Most of the people you’ve introduced me to have frightened me.”

The woman’s response was a thin-lipped grin. “I always thought you were smart, Clea. But you still haven’t answered the question. Why not just fire them?”

Staples leaned forward, her chin jutting out a bit. “Because they haven’t done anything wrong. Because I can hardly hire them on Earth and fire them on Mars. Because I could be wrong, and I don’t want to fire good men just because they rub me the wrong way.”

Jordan sighed through her small nose. “Oh Clea. That need to do the right thing is going to get you in trouble one of these days. Again.”

“I don’t doubt it. Anyway, please look into it. We’re leaving in two days.”

“It’s unlikely I can turn anything up by then. If I can’t, I’ll just transmit the report to you once you’re en route. Along with my bill, of course.”

Staples drained the last few sips of her beer. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Grand. Anything else?”

“Yes, actually. Have you ever found a paper bag with one hundred thousand dollars on the sidewalk in front of you?”

Jordan considered for a minute, as if perhaps the situation had come up a time or two. “I can’t say that I have. One does live in hope, however.”

“Neither have I. There’s a serial number off a satellite on a slip of paper in there. See what you can find out about it?”

“As you wish. If there’s nothing else, I need to get going. I have an appointment with a man I am dying to meet, and I don’t want to be late.”             

“No, that’s all. Thank you, Jordan.” She made herself say the name.

As she left the bar alone, Staples suppressed a shudder, wondering what sorry man had made himself deserving of the attentions of the woman now known as Jordan Fecks.

              In another bar in an entirely different part of Tranquility, a small man sat by himself. He was young, scarcely into his third decade, and he had greasy dark hair that fell uncombed and unkempt around his face. Several years of personal neglect and the low Martian gravity had left him thin and under-muscled, and though his appearance was disheveled, his eyes were sharp and bright. He wore a long black duster over his everyday street clothes, and he slouched in the dimmest corner of the darkest bar he could find. This establishment,
The
Redbar
, was not far from Beeftown, and no small part of its profits came from the sale of things that were not on the menu. However, the man was interested in the bar for its seclusion, not its illegal drug selection. There was no mid-afternoon rush, and people did not come here to eat.

              The man produced his surface, logged into a secure server using a password, thumb print, and retinal scan, and began to type.

             
Received your last update.
Gringolet
has arrived a day later than expected. It is set to depart in two days. Read over files of crew you provided. Tried contacting crew member you specified. Success. Crew member will meet me here at
Redbar
. Price is still to be negotiated, but if money is good, subject has agreed to our terms. I have the virus drive to give the subject as well as the ampoule if necessary. Wish me luck.