S Morden - One Way

NASA. Each one was stickered and sealed with vinyl labels with the NASA logo, a QR code, several serial numbers and a brief description of the contents. Science Experiment (Biology) 4B Part 2 of 7. Technical Equipment (Geology) 2F Part 1 of 3. Environmental Equipment (Atmosphere) 36G Part 1 of 1.

This was a regular delivery. At least some of the descents he’d seen, and heard, had been these. So why hadn’t he been dispatched to bring it back? Was it because it was deemed he was too busy working on the base, or because Brack was bored?

Brack had contributed nothing to the building or the running of the base. Why start now? Why go out, on his own, three—four, because that was surely what he was doing now—times, to collect cargo drops that weren’t logged on the system?

Because the cons weren’t supposed to know about them? Why would that be? There was nothing in the delivery Frank had opened to indicate any sort of contraband or dangerous chemicals or equipment that they might use to turn on each other. Certainly no more dangerous than the well-stocked pharmacy they already had.

Frank’s hand went to the pouch of patches, where the surgical instruments he’d taken sat. He patted them.

If XO were sending NASA packages, it could only mean that the astronauts were coming soon. Highly trained scientists and explorers and pilots would be stepping into an environment where there was almost certainly a murderer, and potentially two. Was that why Brack hadn’t told them, why Brack had kept all this secret? Why he was taking pills and sleeping in the ship? He didn’t know which of them was the killer. He’d seen his crew whittled down from seven to three, and XO were going to be riding his tail, demanding he take charge and find the culprits out.

They had billions of dollars riding on being able to provide a safe working environment for the NASA people. That had to bring its own, almost unimaginable, pressures.

Frank pushed the insulation back into place, and hauled down on the hatch to close it. He retightened the restraining bolts, and as an afterthought threw a double-handful of dust high over the cylinder to obscure his hand-marks. He wasn’t quite sure why he did that. He wasn’t really snooping: he was helping.

He drove back up to the Heights still not knowing what to do. If Declan and Zero had conspired together, or even if they hadn’t and were acting independently of each other, then they both needed to be stopped.

Stopped. There was only one way to stop them. Brack knew that, and it was about time Frank accepted it too. His buggy passed the ship, and began to close the distance to the base. Brack was still nowhere to be seen, but sunset was due in about two hours. There was going to be a confrontation, whatever time he showed up. Would Declan try and blame Zero, and vice versa, or would they gang up on Frank and pin everything on him?

Frank was pretty sure of his ground—he knew he wasn’t responsible—and he couldn’t have played any part in the deaths of either Zeus or Dee. Or Marcy or Alice, no matter what Declan said. Those were nothing to do with him. He didn’t want any of them dead. Even if that was what was going to happen in the end.

He saw the base in the distance, the white habs reflecting a paler pink from the red ground. Someone was outside, suit lights visible as glowing colored bars where the suit itself merged into the background.

Frank slowed to a stop, and took out the surgical pack from the pouch.

It was designed to be ripped open by fingers in latex gloves, not spacesuit gloves, but the clear plastic covering over the sterile instruments could be pierced by the pointier of the tools. He used the forceps to break a hole in the package, and widened it by flexing them back and forth until it had torn through half the width.

He pushed the scalpel, still with its plastic guard, along the backing foil and into his hand.

It had a tiny blade, no more than an inch long, but it was wickedly sharp. The handle was slim and ridged, but designed for downward pressure, not for stabbing. He took a slap-patch from the pouch and held it up against the knife. It would do. He carefully tore off the backing—something that was purposely made to be handled with spacesuit gloves—and adhered the handle to one end of the patch.

He rolled it up tightly, making a fat, flexible grip which wouldn’t slip through his hand, but which left the blade naked. It’d get blunt quickly, but he only needed it, if he did actually need it, to stay keen for a short while. He knew how to work a shank, in and out, fast and repeatedly, like a sewing machine needle.

The other two would have access to the kitchen knives and the medical supplies as well as the gardening snips and shears. He supposed that by now they were both armed. They’d probably guess he was too.

He made sure the blade guard was clipped on before he returned his knife to the bag. The rest of the surgical tools went in tucked underneath it, so he could just reach in and grab it.

He wasn’t a killer. He kept on telling himself that. He was just defending himself. He just wanted to stay alive long enough to go home.

Frank tabbed his suit controls and reactivated his microphone.

“Declan? Zero? I’m coming in. I think we need to talk.”

[Private diary of Bruno Tiller, entry under 3/22/2047, transcribed from paper-only copy]

Do you know what they’re calling them? Chimps. It’s extraordinary the way people will treat each other when they’re given permission.

And I have given them permission. It makes it easier. It always makes it easier.

They met around the kitchen table in the crew quarters. Declan was standing at one end, Zero in the middle on the far side, so that when Frank stepped into the hab, he had a natural place at the other end of the table.

He took the chair, pulled it slowly out, eyeing up the others. “I’ll sit if you will.”

“Sure, why not?” Declan nodded. “All we’re going to do is talk, right?”

Frank reached into his pocket, and saw where the others touched their overalls. They were all tooled up, for certain. Frank’s knife was in his other pocket: he could feel the hard mass of it through the fabric. He pulled out the blue latex glove and tossed it onto the table in front of him. It landed like a stranded jellyfish, limp and shapeless.

Then he sat, perched on the edge of his seat, ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Declan and Zero did the same.

“So who’s going first?” asked Frank.

“Why not you?” said Declan. “You’re the one playing cop. Isn’t that right?”

Zero’s gaze darted between the two older men. “What’s going on? What d’you mean, cop?”

“It’s a fair question, Frank. Why don’t you answer him?”

“Zeus… died. I thought it was my fault, something I had or hadn’t done. Some structural problem with the workshop. I had to check it out. That’s when I realized that the hab was perfectly sound. No leaks, no way that it could leak. Nothing that would have depressurized the whole thing quickly enough to catch Zeus out.”

“So you went worrying at it like a dog with a bone, right? Trying to prove you weren’t at fault.”

“And I discovered that there were a couple of ways you could do it, but both of them were deliberate sabotage. You had to really want to do it. Someone really wanted to kill Zeus.”

Declan placed both hands on the table between them. “You told Brack, of course.”

“I told him.”

“And what did you tell him, Frank?”

Zero bounced nervously in his seat. “Yeah, tell us, Frank. What did you say?”

Frank scratched at his chin. “I told him we had a murderer on the base.”

“Why didn’t you tell us too, Frank?” Declan’s voice went very quiet. “Didn’t you think we had a right to know?”