Brian Evenson - Dead Space - Martyr

“What happened after that, you don’t know for certain. When you asked the crew to prepare the craft for a dive, they informed you that it wasn’t there. When you tried to find Dantec and Hennessy, they were missing as well. You concluded that they had taken the submarine without authorization, perhaps to steal it. You looked for it, but to no avail: it was either out of sonar range or they had their engines off. You started a search, you tried to contact them repeatedly, but there was never any response.”

The Colonel’s lips curled back in a way that showed his teeth.

“The next evidence of them you had, you tell the press, was the transmission you intercepted. You don’t know what happened, but it’s clear that Hennessy came unhinged. You’ve managed to figure out the location of the sub: it’s buried deep within the rock in the crater. So now you’ve contacted the military, asking them for help retrieving the bathyscaphe. If they’re able to retrieve it, you say that you’re committed to letting the press know what happened inside in those last fatal hours.”

“The military,” said Tanner. “Is that wise?”

“It’s not only wise, it’s brilliant. It gives us an excuse to change the scale of the operation. We don’t have to work covertly anymore.”

“But who do we contact?” asked Tanner. “Won’t we end up losing the object to them?”

The Colonel gave another predatory smile. “You’ve already contacted them,” he said, and pointed both thumbs at his own chest. “You’re already working with them.”

Altman had just sat down at the desk when there was a knock at the door.

“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked Field.

Field shook his head. “Not that I know of. Do you want to get that or should I?”

“I don’t mind,” said Altman.

He started for the door, then doubled back to log off the secure site. The knock came again. “Just a minute,” he called. It came a third time just before he reached the door, louder and harder now.

Outside were two men that he didn’t recognize. Locals, he would guess. They were wearing ties, and dark shoes that had been polished to a shine. One was tall and thin, with dark skin and a bristly black mustache. The other was clean shaven, his skin lighter. He held a smoldering cigarette tight between his thumb and forefinger, like it was a joint. He was sucking hard on it when Altman opened the door.

“Yes?” Altman asked.

“We’re looking for someone,” said the man in Spanish. “Miguel Altman.”

“Michael,” said Altman. “Can I ask why?”

“You are him, perhaps?” said the taller man.

“Who’s asking?” asked Altman. “Who exactly are you?”

The second man sucked again on his cigarette, his cheeks shrinking in to make his face look cadaverous. “ We are asking,” he said. He reached into his pocket and removed a badge. “Police,” he said.

“Has something happened to Ada?” Altman asked, his heart thudding suddenly in his throat.

“May we come in?” asked the tall one.

Altman opened the door wider and they slid past him and inside. Field watched them curiously as they came in.

“Hello, Field,” said the smoker.

“Hello, Officer Ramos,” said Field. “Do you have business with me?”

“With your friend,” said Ramos. “Perhaps we could have privacy for a moment.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Field. “We just share a lab.” He stood and limped out the door.

The tall policeman pulled over Field’s chair and sat on it. Ramos leaned against the wall next to Altman’s desk.

“What’s happened?” asked Altman, his panic over Ada growing stronger and stronger. “Is she all right?”

“It’s nothing to do with your girlfriend. Do you know Charles Hammond?” the tall man asked. His voice was flat and uninflected. He pronounced Charles as if it had two full syllables: Char-less .

“The technician? I’ve met him.”

“He says he’s met him, Gallo,” said Ramos. “What do we think that means?”

The tall man, Gallo, ignored Ramos. “How well did you know him?” he asked Altman.

“Not very well,” said Altman. “We met once.”

“He says they only met once, Gallo,” said Ramos, and sucked on his cigarette again.

“What’s this all about?” asked Altman.

“What indeed,” said Ramos.

“Where did you meet him?” asked Gallo.

“In a bar,” said Altman.

“Why?”

Altman hesitated. “He had something he wanted to tell me.”

“Sounds suspicious to me, Gallo,” said Ramos. “Which bar?”

“How long where you there?” asked Gallo.

“Which of you is asking the questions?” asked Altman. “You’re confusing me.”

“Just answer my question,” said Gallo, same flat tone.

“And mine,” said Ramos.

“Wait,” said Altman. “I was, the bar was the one on the beach, near to here, and I—”

“The cantina, you mean,” said Ramos. “There’s a difference between a bar and a cantina, you know.”

“Cantina, then,” said Altman.

“How long were you there?” asked Gallo again.

“I was getting to that,” said Altman, his voice slightly higher now. “He called me and asked me to meet him. We must have been there, I don’t know, a few hours.”

“How many is a few?” asked Ramos.

“I don’t know,” said Altman. “Two, I guess.”

“The bartender says three,” said Gallo.

“Well, he’s probably right,” said Altman. “It probably was three.”

“And yet you said two,” said Ramos.

“It was just a guess,” said Altman. “How am I supposed to remember exactly? What’s this all about anyway? Can’t you get to the point?”

“No,” said Ramos, “we can’t.”

“The point is,” said Gallo, “you were the last one to see Hammond alive.”

“He’s dead?” said Altman.

“He’s dead,” said Gallo.

“What happened?” asked Altman.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Gallo.

“You don’t think I did it, do you?” said Altman. “You don’t think I killed him?”

“How did you know somebody killed him?” said Ramos.

“I didn’t know, but I’m beginning to suspect,” said Altman.

“He could have died of accidental or natural causes,” said Ramos, “but you jump to the conclusion that he’s been killed.”

“Where did you and he go after leaving the bar?” asked Gallo.

“The cantina,” said Ramos.

“After leaving the cantina,” corrected Gallo.

“We didn’t go anywhere. We shook hands on the street and I went home. I don’t know where he went.” Altman watched the two police officers look at each other, exchanging a significant glance. “What happened?” asked Altman. “How was he killed?”

“Was Hammond your lover?”

“What? No, of course not! Are you crazy?”

“Why do you say of course not?” asked Gallo.

“I have a girlfriend,” said Altman.

“What does that prove?” asked Ramos.

“Look,” said Altman. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

The two officers exchanged glances again.

“Was there anything unusual about Hammond’s behavior?” asked Gallo.

“How the hell should I know if there was anything usual about his behavior?” said Altman. “I only met him once. I don’t have anything to compare his behavior to.”

“No need to get upset,” said Ramos, “no need to get excited.”

“Throat,” said Gallo, and drew his finger across his own throat.

“What?” said Altman.

“You asked how he died,” said Gallo. “He had his throat cut.”

“He had a knife with him,” said Ramos. “Do you know whose prints were on it?”