The Killing Jar (30 page)

CPI-RQ2-06, NEW YORK

AUGUST 24, 2232

In the faint hours of morning, Dasia turned about Mable’s room for the thousandth time.

Mable’s sketches hung on the wall, a beautiful, exotic woman with flowing brown hair and big, bright eyes. A tall, thin man with dark hair and a muscular build. A girl with blonde hair and a warm smile

Dasia wondered if they were real people, or if Mable imagined them. If they were others she’d given her affections.

If she was just another conquest.

Then she heard the sound of rustling sheets. When she turned, Mable’s eyes were open.

“Hey,” Dasia offered with a smile.

“Hey,” Mable replied. “How long did I sleep?” She ran her fingers across her forehead.

“Not that long. Not even a day. You got here yesterday evening. Dr. Arrenstein brought you up around midnight and it’s not even dawn now.”

Mable’s eyes flashed about the room. “He got it out?”

“Said he did. You’re lucky.” Dasia pulled over the desk chair and sat down. “I’m supposed to take you home.”

Dasia could hardly blame her. If her own life weren’t such a steaming pile of shit, she would be tempted to go back as well.

Mable shook her head.

“He said you could. He said to take you to the shuttle dock whenever you were ready. Look.” Dasia pulled the metal bracelet from her pocket. “He gave me your transit badge. Coded to go anywhere you want.” Mable wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t pass it up.

Dasia was alone again.

She was happy for Mable, but sad for herself. A strange, mixed up sensation she couldn’t sort out.

“I want to stay.”

Dasia stared. Her mouth opened in disbelief. “But, you—, why would—” It didn’t make any sense.

Mable pushed up onto her elbows and then to sitting. “I’m not leaving. It’s personal now.”

“Really? You’re going to stay?” Dasia flew at her, wrapped her arms around Mable’s neck so hard they both fell back into the pillows. Only a moment later did she realize what she’d done. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Oh god. Does it hurt?”

Mable laughed but her hand was protective over the long scar across her head. “No, it feels fine actually.” She blinked in confusion.

Dasia lay her head on Mable’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around her chest. Mable ran her fingers through Dasia’s hair.

“He put you through a full cleaning while you were out. Said he was too tired to wait for the scar so you should go again before you leave.”

“Better than last time.” Mable laughed.

Dasia was in full-blown elation until she remembered it wasn’t Mable that called the shots around here. “Will he let you stay? Dr. Arrenstein, I mean. He was pretty set that I get you home.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

Dasia got a weird look from Mable she couldn’t ignore. “Oh no, do you guys have a thing? Like a—”

“Hell no!” Mable shouted with a smile that twisted a moment later. “Gross.”

“Then what?”

She only shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out. Did you really think I’d leave you here by yourself?”

Dasia squeezed her tight.

“Would you have been sad if I left?”

Dasia didn’t know why Mable would ask such a dumb question, but she answered anyway. “Yeah. I would have been really upset.”

Mable ran her hands over her face. “Do I look awful?”

“No worse than a mangy rat.”

“Wow, thanks.”

Dasia laughed. “He said you could take a shower. Just don’t get your incision wet. Not that you’d need to, seeing as how you don’t have any hair over there. It’s kind of a good look actually.”

“Somehow I’m not convinced.” They both laughed.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” Dasia finally asked.

“Yeah, the parts I remember anyway.” Dasia listened as Mable told her about the pharmaceutical complex, the cam that left big holes on the good side of her head, the Scholar woman who didn’t have any bugs, then the noise.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. I’m assuming a bug, seeing as how I was infected. Maybe there wasn’t really a sound, just the bug in my brain making me think I heard it.”

“That’s awful,” Dasia admitted. “You’re really going to go back out there? Not that I want you to leave, but how can you be around those things anymore? Maybe they’ll put you on an intel team.” Dasia didn’t mention how much she wanted to work with her.

Mable was adamant. “I’m going to get them. I’m going to find them. And I’m going to kill them.”

LRF-PS-101

AUGUST 24, 2232

Aida couldn’t remember ever being so nervous to talk to anyone. She was professional, intelligent, poised.

She had nothing to fear from anyone.

But that was before. Now she was a woman who violated the laws of her class. She was riding the last wave of success before her sudden and permanent plunge into the dismal filth on the bottom.

There was a sort of freedom in that.

Before her sat Calvin, the first and only man to ever touch her. He sat with features set like stone and eyes steady and calm, as if he’d planned this moment for a long time.

“Did you tell Sal?”

Aida shook her head. Somehow she couldn’t manage to form the words yet.

Calvin let out a sigh. “You can’t tell him. Ever. Do you understand?”

Why was he acting this way? Aida had never known him to be callous to her.

“I understand that you think you are responsible for that decision, but ultimately, what transpires between me and my husband is none of your business.”

In reality, she wouldn’t tell Sal. He didn’t care. Not about her or any of it. But she would never admit that to Calvin. Not after he treated her that way.

Calvin leaned his elbow on her desk. “Aida, listen.”

“Dr. Perkins, please.”

He looked as if she’d slapped him. His mouth hung open with the pain of it.

“Dr. Perkins, you are the leading expert in Planetary Systems. Not just in the LRF, but in science in general. No one is as qualified to find the exoplanet.”

Aida faked a laugh. “Don’t try to flatter me.”

“I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m telling you that falling on your sword won’t help anyone. We need you here.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t wrong. They both knew it. But she wasn’t sure she could pretend like nothing happened. She couldn’t pretend like it didn’t change everything.

She didn’t know what to do.

Calvin breathed a heavy sigh. “Can we just talk?”

“We are talking.”

“I mean, like we used to. Where you don’t pretend you’re not panicking and I don’t pretend to be mad about it.” When she looked up, his lips were curled into a half-cocked smile, an apology and a joke all rolled into one.

Aida smiled, too.

“I know this is a big deal for you.”

“For both of us,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but I’m not married. I’d be reassigned and that would be the end of it. For you—”

Neither bothered to put it to words. Aida rolled her fingers together in her lap. “I’m not going to tell him.”

“You’re not?” he asked. She could hear the thinly-veiled shock in his voice.

Aida shook her head. “I don’t think he would really care, one way or the other.” Despite herself, she let a tear roll down her cheek. She didn’t even know why.

Calvin’s arms wrapped around her in an instant, enveloping and warm.

Her heart hammered that he was so near, that he still wanted her.

Aida knew then, without a shred of uncertainty, that this was the way it was going to be. She had more confidence in the junior researcher than in her own husband, and no matter how wrong it might be, she couldn’t go back. Not anymore.

“What are we going to do now?” she asked against his shoulder.

“Get back to work.”

Aida nodded. Not the answer she was hoping for, but probably the appropriate one.

Calvin pulled back enough to kiss her cheek. “Then I’d like it if you would have dinner with me in my apartment.”

Relief filled her like wind in a sail.

Calvin stood and pulled her up with him. Without a shred of shame or apology, he kissed her, good and hard like she’d scarcely known was possible.

Then, without warning, he walked out.

Aida sat in her chair, the one still warm from his body, and tried to let her thoughts return to work. No sooner had she pulled up the files on 196 and set them to hover over her desk then Calvin returned with his tablet tucked under his arm.

“The aquatic images are back with some of the prelims. Would you mind if I join you while you look them over, Dr. Perkins?” A wide smile consumed his features. His emerald eyes blazed.

Aida stifled a laugh and said as evenly as she could, “I would be honored to have your professional opinion on such an important matter, Dr. Hill.”

He sank into the chair with the smile of a man who is satisfied in his secrets. Aida realized, she too, was satisfied.

LRF-AQ

AUGUST 24, 2232

“Ready to be impressed?” Abigail teased from the doorway. Her eyes glinted with victory. She wore a simple dress the color of coffee. Michael couldn’t help but marvel how it seemed to make her skin glow.

“You always impress, my dear.” It wasn’t a lie. “What do you have for me?”

“Oh, some files.”

His eyebrows shot up. “The digital autopsy reports?”

Abigail’s features twisted into a gloating smile. “Why yes, director. I have secured two autopsy reports.” With a wink, she added, “Just for you.”

What Michael wouldn’t give to be the person that occupied her thoughts from lights on to lights off, as she did for him.

He shook his head to clear it. The files were in. He needed to focus.

Michael would have much rather had all seven, even those before his appointment as director, but he could work with two. “How’d you get these?”

“I pulled some old strings. It wasn’t easy, but I’m very good.”

Now he was going to have to hear about it from her for weeks. Then again, he’d been asking her for weeks.

He sat up in his office chair and pulled in close to his desk, his hands already working to find to the files on the server. Then he saw it: Autopsy YGr42.

Yanna Grienke, the astrophysicist that died four months ago. She was young, late twenties, but one of their rising stars. Her research into orbital projections of interplanetary vehicles could have revolutionized interspace travel. Her death had been a blow to the field.

On the left side of the screen, a generic outline of the human form appeared in three dimensions. On the right, the autopsy report scrolled past.

Michael reread the entire file twice, but didn’t find anything related to a cause of death. On the human form, the red mark on the head was the only indication.

He searched the report again, this time focusing on anything related to the head, an injury, a preexisting condition. Nothing.

Abigail stood on the opposite side of his desk and watched as he pulled up the other file: JPa42.

While Michael had known Dr. Grienke and spoken to her more than a dozen times, he held Dr. Parr in an entirely different regard. He was one of their best. Dr. Parr had revolutionized the field of Planetary Systems after a major loss of data in some sort of freak accident. Without him, the study of planets for future colonization would never be where it is today. He was a great Scholar, a great man. Michael was privileged to have known him.

Michael’s esteem for the late Dr. Parr made him quite uncomfortable looking through the autopsy, as if he was a child peeking under the skirt of business woman. He didn’t want to see Dr. Parr so exposed.

He only continued because he knew it would be for the good of the LRF staff. If he could prevent even one more death, then it would be worth it.

Much to his disappointment, the file was largely the same. A red mark across his neck and no indication of any injury.

“What does this mark indicate?” he asked Abigail with his finger on the red patch.

“How should I know? A throat injury? Or is it somewhere else in the neck?”

“Why isn’t it listed in the report? If it caused his death, why didn’t they document that?”

“Maybe he choked? Was he eating when he died?” Scholars were immune to a whole host of medical and genetic ailments, but Dr. Parr wouldn’t be the first to die of a more lackluster cause.

There was only one person to ask.

TO: AIDA PERKINS, PLANETARY SYSTEMS

FROM: MICHAEL FILMORE, LRF DIRECTOR

MSG: WAS DR. PARR EATING AT THE TIME OF HIS DEATH?

Thirty seconds later,

TO: MICHAEL FILMORE, LRF DIRECTOR

FROM: AIDA PERKINS, PLANETARY SYSTEMS

MSG: NO.

Michael was less than surprised. Between the mysterious deaths, secret files, and forged documents, the picture was starting to clear.

“Get me the Vicereine. Now.”

“Why?” Abigail’s features twisted with concern.

“Just do it.”

Abigail returned to her corner desk and worked for several minutes. “She’s in meetings all day. She doesn’t have an opening for five days.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Michael, it’s not an emergency. You can’t just—”

“Get her on the line. Whatever it takes.” Abigail looked as if she wanted to argue it further, but like the intelligent woman she was, she thought better of it.

Another hour passed before Vicereine Masry’s face hovered in holograph over his desk. Her charcoal hair was slicked into a Scholar bun. Her face was like stone, her lips and jaw tight with stress or aggravation. She blinked at him as if he was a child showing her a flower. “This had better be good, Filmore.”

“Have you seen the autopsy files from the LRF?”

She sighed. “Not personally.”

“Who processed the reports?”

“They were sent to the facility in New York. Standard procedure for off-world cadavers. You know this.”

Michael held back his cringe at the use of the word ‘cadaver’. He would not, and could not, consider Dr. Parr that way.

“These autopsy reports are forged. There’s no cause of death and inconsistent data. Either someone got sloppy or made an attempt to keep the information out of the report.”

“This isn’t your concern, Director. Your primary objective is to keep the LRF operational.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. She was hiding something. He had to find a way to get her to crack. “My job is to maintain the LRF, including its personnel. If I don’t have clear insight into what is killing my Scholars, then I can’t be reasonably expected to keep them safe. This is data I need access to.”

Masry’s lips pursed even tighter. “I’m forwarding your comm to the facility in New York. The information is top-level security. Understood?”

Michael’s pulse raced. Now he was getting somewhere.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now I have to find the four minutes you’ve wasted. Don’t bother me with this again.” As if sucked into a black hole, Masry’s face disappeared. Only a flashing white icon at the top of his display indicated the call was live, though Michael didn’t know with who.

When a new face appeared, it was a mid-forties man with salt and pepper hair and a hint of smile. “Good morning, Director Filmore. I’m Silas Arrenstein. I understand you have some questions for me.”